"Charge!"
Logar thrust his longsword skyward, the blade flashing cold and bright.
His men formed up behind him in a crude wedge — iron swords and axes gripped tight, round shields reinforced with thick planks locked together.
Front rank braced hard, rear ranks shoved forward. The tip of the formation drove straight at the enemy like a blunt iron spike, slamming into the Triarchy soldiers without mercy.
The closest Triarchy fighter bared his teeth and swung at Logar's head.
Logar parried with a ringing clang, sparks exploding. His wrists went numb. In the same breath he reversed his sword and slashed across the man's throat. Blood jetted out in a hot fountain, soaking his chest. The soldier gave a wet grunt and dropped, his body instantly trampled by the charging tide behind him.
More enemies surged in. Spears stabbed like striking vipers at Logar's vitals, only to be smashed aside by the pirates' shields.
Thud-thud-thud. Spears bent and snapped against wood.
Fired by their captain fighting at the very front, these battle-hardened Stepstones pirates unleashed raw ferocity. Whenever a man in the shield wall fell, the next instantly stepped forward to fill the gap. Blood streamed through the cracks in the shields, carving red rivers across the stony ground.
In just over a month as leader, Logar had used generous rewards and brutal discipline to turn his once-scattered rabble into something that actually fought like soldiers.
They no longer battled as lone wolves but in tight squads, sharing victory and shame. The fact that this crude formation held so well proved every harsh lesson had been worth it.
Knowing they were badly outnumbered, Logar stayed at the absolute front, inspiring his men with every kill.
Using the camp's broken ground to his advantage, he became a living meat grinder. The crude timber barricade outside had already been smashed and splintered. Piles of corpses, shattered stone, and wood fragments now served as perfect cover.
The enemy quickly singled out Logar as the biggest threat. Archers hidden at the rear drew and loosed straight at him.
Two arrows whistled in — one struck his chest, another his shoulder. His armor held; the heads lodged in the plates without punching through, though the impacts left him momentarily winded.
"Captain, watch yourself!" Femon shouted, raising his own bow and dropping one of the hidden archers.
"Don't worry about me! Archers — hold formation and keep shooting!"
Logar wiped blood from his face. The world had gone red.
In a knife-fight like this, only the brave survived. His force was heavily outnumbered. Only a fight to the death gave them any chance at all.
His archers loosed again, but their quivers were nearly empty. After two or three more volleys they would have to drop their bows and grab fallen blades to join the slaughter.
The Triarchy soldiers kept losing men, yet they quickly reformed into a solid shield wall — shields locked like a moving iron barrier. At their officer's barked commands they advanced slowly over the blood-soaked ground, pressing forward with crushing weight.
"We can't let them push through! Follow me!"
Logar roared and charged out first. He twisted past a swinging shield and drove his sword through the gap into an enemy's gut. Blood poured down the blade.
The two sides crashed together in a storm of screams, clashing steel, and breaking bones.
In the chaos the enemy cursed in their thick accents. Logar didn't waste breath answering. He ducked low and hacked through an exposed shin, ripping a hole in their line.
The gap closed almost instantly. Two axes suddenly thrust out from behind the shield wall, chopping straight at his helmet.
Clang!
Logar's head rang, vision flashing black. On pure instinct he swept his sword sideways. Blood sprayed as the attacker clutched his throat and collapsed twitching.
The next moment a fresh volley of arrows rained down from behind the enemy shields. Several of his men screamed and fell.
Luckily Logar had equipped his vanguard with the best armor he could buy. Instead of breaking, his pirates grew even more savage, slamming into the Triarchy line and tearing it apart.
Led by their captain fighting in the thick of it, the pirates fought with growing fury. They ripped a massive breach in the enemy formation that could no longer be closed.
Many Triarchy soldiers had now seen the Throat-Cutter's terrifying bravery up close. With comrades falling all around them, their morale shattered. They began edging backward.
"Hold the line! Maintain formation!"
The Triarchy commander was furious. He was about to rally his men to surround Logar's force again.
At that exact instant, a stray arrow flew from nowhere and punched straight through his forehead. He stiffened, then toppled backward into the blood-soaked dirt. His command banner clattered to the ground beside him.
The Triarchy troops fell into instant chaos. As a patchwork army stitched together from three different cities, they had never been tightly knit. With their commander dead, they became leaderless and panicked, fleeing in total disorder.
"Their commander's dead! Grab your weapons and charge! Send every last one of them to hell!"
Logar seized the golden chance and roared the order.
Femon and the others had already emptied their quivers. They snatched up fallen blades and charged out of the camp behind Logar, chasing the broken enemy.
The Triarchy soldiers, now completely leaderless, collapsed entirely. They threw away shields, helmets, and weapons, desperately scrambling toward the ships beached on the shore.
The beach became a graveyard of discarded gear. Fleeing men shoved and trampled one another, their screams echoing across the island.
Though Logar's body ached and he was near exhaustion, he still gripped his blood-drenched sword and pursued with everything he had. This was the perfect moment to turn victory into slaughter. He could not let it slip.
The sounds of slaughter on the island soon reached the sea.
Sharako Lohar, leading the main fleet in pursuit of the Velaryon ships, glanced back. When he saw the landing force fleeing in total rout, he exploded with rage:
"Useless bastards! You can't even handle a bunch of fucking pirates?!"
"My lord, should we send reinforcements?" his second asked carefully.
Sharako narrowed his eyes, staring at the Velaryon fleet still within reach. Splitting his force again was risky.
But with years of battlefield experience, he quickly snorted. "Detach ten ships! Load them with soldiers and archers. I want every last pirate on that island butchered!"
He was confident the Velaryon fleet would only harass and never commit to a real fight. After years of stalemate in these waters, both sides knew each other's habits too well.
On the other side, Daemon Velaryon aboard the Seahorse fleet also noticed the Triarchy's movement.
He frowned and turned to Malentin. "Uncle, the Triarchy just split off ships toward that island. Those sellswords actually held them off?"
Malentin — Corlys's nephew whose tongue had been partially cut years ago for speaking against the Targaryens — still spoke clearly enough. "Who knows? If they can fight, good. They're just cannon fodder anyway."
"Uncle, the situation on the battlefield changes in an instant!"
Daemon immediately countered. "If Logar's company is wiped out, it will seriously damage our plans to control the Stepstones. It could affect the entire campaign!"
Malentin's sneer slowly faded. After a moment of hesitation, he spoke reluctantly, "Fine. For the greater good — turn the fleet around! The Three Whores have chased us long enough. Time to give them a taste of our steel."
Orders flew across the ships. The Velaryon fleet that had been retreating suddenly swung about. Sails billowed full, silver seahorse banners snapping wildly in the wind as they charged straight toward the Triarchy fleet.
A much larger naval battle was about to explode across the Narrow Sea.
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