The Stepstones, Cutthroat Isle
Shing—!
Jon initiated the strike, his movements light and predatory. The tip of his iron blade traced elegant, shimmering arcs through the torchlight as he probed for a gap in the pirate lord's guard.
"Skullcap" Bill met the assault with the stolid grace of a seasoned reaver. Though clearly surprised by the sheer physical power behind the boy's swing, the old pirate was a veteran of a hundred boarding actions. He steadied his breathing, his feet planting firmly on the blood-slicked stone.
Bill's heavy battle-axe carved thunderous paths through the air, each swing whistling with a lethal intent designed to cleave Jon in two.
Clang! Bam-bam!
The two figures blurred into a dance of steel and shadow. Sparks flew as the sword and axe collided, the metallic ring of their duel echoing through the rafters of the hall.
Bill's style was a product of the Iron Islands—vicious, close-quarters combat filled with deceptive feints. Jon, however, fought with an expansive, overwhelming force. Every strike was heavy, designed to stagger and drain the opponent's stamina.
Each time the weapons met, Bill attempted to use a master's leverage to deflect Jon's blade, but each time, he found his arms numbing from a preternatural vibration. What unsettled him most was the condition of the boy's weapon; despite several direct clashes against his hardened steel axe, Jon's sword showed not a single notch. His own axe—forged of the fine iron of his homeland—was beginning to show the wear.
"Damn you!"
Friction turned to frustration. Bill's composure frayed under the relentless pressure. Sensing a momentary opening near Jon's left shoulder, he committed to a massive overhead swing.
Jon pivoted with fluid grace, the heavy axe biting only empty air. In the same motion, his longsword swept upward in a shallow, diagonal arc, opening a crimson furrow beneath the pirate's armpit.
Pshhh—!
As the iron blade tasted flesh, Jon didn't hesitate. He drove the point forward, aiming for the center of Bill's mass. Distracted by the searing pain in his side, the pirate lord was a fraction of a second too slow.
The blade punched through his chest, piercing the heart with cold efficiency. A geyser of dark blood erupted from the wound. Bill's eyes went wide; he gasped, clawing at the air for a moment before his strength failed him. He collapsed into a heap of muscle and fur, as limp as a discarded sack of grain.
Jon withdrew the blade. He stepped back, wiping the blood from the flat of the sword against the leather of his vambrace. He looked out over the remaining pirates, his voice ringing with cold authority.
"Surrender, and you live!"
"Surrender and live!" the Chainbreakers echoed, their voices a deafening roar that made the pirates' hearts skip a beat.
Clatter... thud...
A symphony of discarded steel followed as the remaining reavers raised their hands. These were men who lived by the blade; they knew when the tide had turned. Jon had no desire to waste his limited manpower on a desperate last stand. By killing the head and offering life to the body, he had secured his prize with minimal loss.
"Bind them. Secure them in their own pits," Jon ordered.
With the stronghold secured, the Chainbreakers began the work of clearing the hall. The tainted wine was discarded, and the pirates' stores of salted meat and bread were brought out to feast the victors.
[Hidden Quest: 'Claimant of the Lawless Isles' Completed. Distributing rewards...]
[Stronghold Established. Integrating Quest Module...]
[Unknown Error detected...]
[Interference from unknown energy source. Gathering module data...]
Jon sat with the "Ring Guard," Narsas, and Garo, a mug of ale in hand, when the system's synthesized voice flooded his mind. The rush of excitement was quickly dampened by the familiar "Error" prompts.
The system had always been a cold, distant companion. He had hoped the establishment of a base would stabilize it, but it seemed the world itself—or perhaps some ancient power within it—was resisting the integration.
He tested his inventory. It still functioned. The ability to manifest his sword was intact. He realized that this "magic" was far more potent than the flamboyant tricks of the Red Priests. In a world starved for miracles, a boy who could summon steel from the void could easily be seen as the chosen of the Seven.
History remembered "Baelor the Blessed" as a holy man who held the realm together through faith alone. If a Targaryen king could rule through prayer, Jon knew he could build a dynasty on the back of his own "divine" status.
The system's silence lingered, leaving Jon in a somber mood for the rest of the night. When he woke the next morning, a lingering lethargy clouded his mind.
However, the fog was quickly dispelled by Narsas and Garo bursting into his quarters.
"Lord Jon! You... you need to see this. There are... well, it's best if you just come with us."
Seeing the look of profound awkwardness on Narsas's face, Jon's curiosity was piqued. He followed them to a secluded wing on the ground floor of the fortress.
Inside the room, a group of women in various states of undress huddled together, their eyes filled with a paralyzing terror. They were young, none over twenty. Beneath their eyes, Jon noticed small, delicate tattoos—inked lines that resembled permanent tear tracks.
He recalled Maester Luwin mentioning the "bed slaves" of Volantis. Such markings were used by the Triarchs to distinguish their "property" from common citizens.
"According to the captives, these... these girls were Bill's personal rewards," Garo explained. Usually a blunt man, he struggled to find a respectful term, avoiding the word "prostitutes."
"The old bastard would gift the most beautiful among them to his fiercest warriors."
Garo didn't find the practice unusual—every merchant cog in the Narrow Sea had its share of "camp followers"—but he wasn't sure how a man like Jon Snow would react. To Garo, Jon was an enigma: a prophet who spoke of gods one moment and a cold-blooded commander who ordered executions the next.
"Find them decent clothing," Jon said, his voice softening as he looked at the scars on their arms—marks of cruelty that no "gift" should ever bear. "Record their names and origins. Then, gather everyone in the Great Hall. I have an announcement."
Garo and Narsas moved quickly to obey. An hour later, the hall was packed with over three hundred souls—Chainbreakers, liberated slaves, and the newly freed women. The air was a thick, pungent soup of sweat, old blood, and unwashed bodies.
Jon, accustomed to the relative cleanliness of Winterfell, found the stench nearly unbearable. He made a silent vow that the first thing he would build on Cutthroat Isle would be a bathhouse.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Jon sat upon the stone throne of the pirate lord. Before him sat a long oaken table, currently holding only a cup of ale and a plate of local oysters. Lacking a gavel, he slammed his mug against the wood to command silence.
"Listen well!" Jon shouted, standing up. "By the grace of the Gods, Cutthroat Isle belongs to the Chainbreakers! You are no longer property! You are free!"
"Free! Free!"
The cry was taken up with fanatical intensity by those who had seen Narsas's "blessing."
"From this day forward, every soul on this island is a Chainbreaker," Jon continued, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. "Under the gaze of the Gods, we will liberate every believer from their bonds. The Gods are just; if you follow our law and aid one another, you too may one day be touched by their power!"
"Victory! Victory!"
As the fervor reached its peak, Jon gestured for the Volantine girls to be brought forward. He opened his mouth to introduce them, but a familiar chime echoed in his skull.
[Quest Module Update: Complete.]
[Dungeon Quest: 'The Echoes of Valyria'—Transmitting now...]