XVII.

Jon's face was set in a grim line, his eyes on the horizon as the ship he was on – one of Velaryon's fleet – cut through the darkened waves of the Narrow Sea, heading south. He was on a decoy ship, having transferred from the flagship at Tarth, with only Barristan and Ethan Glover with him as his kingsguard – the others were spread across the fleet; a fleet of nearly two hundred ships in total, from the Ironborn, the Reach, the Crownlands, and minor contributions from Dorne, the North, the Vale, and Westerlands.

Jon had more than just the entirety of Westeros behind him: Oberyn was on another ship with Lady, whom Sansa ordered him to take for the fight; even Jaime and Arya, on a different ship, had Nymeria. From the North, both Brandon and Ned, and their direwolves Smudge and Blizzard, had joined the fight while Rickard remained in King's Landing as Jon's Hand and Benjen as the Stark in Winterfell. Ghost was Jon's steadfast companion, towering over the side of the ship when he sat back on his haunches, looking out at the water, too.

It had been over ten years since Jon had fought in any type of battle. He had kept his skills sharp with his kingsguard, with the spars he participated in when in the Dragonpit for the Watch, but the last major battle he had bloodied his sword in was at Winterfell, against an undead army and an unwinnable fight.

His hands clenched on the rail. Fighting men was a different kind of battle. "Your Grace?"

Jon turned to face his Master of Ships. "Lord Velaryon."

The tall, craggily but good-looking, man bowed shallowly. At the man's side was his bastard son, a near spitting image of his father, only three decades younger. Both had shoulder-length, loose pale blond hair, from their Targaryen heritage, and the same indigo-tinged eyes, although Velaryon's were darker and murkier from age and cataracts. "We'll be approaching Bloodstone by tomorrow evening."

"Good," replied Jon. "Let's look over the plan once more. If anyone can make it to the ship to join, even better."

"I'll send up a signal," offered Aurane, turning on his heel and striding across the deck, weaving between ship hands with ease and confidence of someone who grew up on the rocking decks of a

ship.

Jon and Velaryon, with Ghost at Jon's side, strode into the tiny captain's quarters and stopped at the map of the Stepstones spread across a table, held down at its corner with a book, a heavy candle, two empty mugs, and a knife piercing through the parchment. It was the most detailed map Jon had ever seen of an area he never thought much of in the past: grey, oddly shaped islands with three at the top close enough to be one large cluster – Bloodstone – and a few smaller ones at the bottom, barely spits of rock in the ocean known as the Grey Gallows.

The name of the two islands – although the Grey Gallows were about eight in total – were written in clear, precise hand. There were further scribbled marks and lines around the islands, noting places of worth, sea depth, and tide markers, but for Jon, he was more interested in the distance between the islands and how close they were to Tyrosh. Equal in size to Bloodstone, the island of Tyrosh was at the top right of the map, where Essos began; Jon placed a heavy marker down on top. Opposite and diagonal, at the bottom left, was the Arm of Dorne and the entire right side of the map had the barest hint of the Disputed Lands while the top left had a hint of Estermont from the Stormlands.

Jon's eyes drifted back to the Stepstones. Bloodstone was the largest island of the grouping, and had a formal seat, the ruined fortress known as Bleedingstone Castle, sat high on the rocky outcrops that overlooked the Bloody Lagoon, a north-facing crescent bay. Previous intel on the ruined fort was that it had only one access point – the south-facing slope that turned into a hazardous, man-made valley with jagged rocks and caverns above in steep cliffs. The fort itself was made and built into the rock that made up the mountainous terrain, giving it a well-fortified and defensible position, to whoever sat in it. The only reason it had been abandoned over the years was a lack of sufficient men to remain year-round, armed, and ready with supplies to maintain a presence. Jon was hoping to change that.

To Bloodstone's left, attached only to the largest island by shallow ponds, was Demon's Retreat, a swampy wetland with thick foliage and predators, and where pirates hid, creating a cozy and near impregnable den. There were fewer marks, the changing landscape making it difficult for accurate maps – and for the most part, it was the largest and most secretive of all the pirate dens, making it difficult for outsiders to find and document.

Jon's finger trailed over the Bloodstone islands southward to Grey Gallows, face serious as he read the names of other, much more well-known pirate dens, one for each island, even if some of them were barely any larger than Winterfell: Torturer's Deep, Skeleton Sanctuary, Gallow's Port, Crimson Isle...

As he perused the map, Velaryon quietly let in Jon's chosen council for the attack on the Stepstones – it was a necessary move before Tyrosh to establish a launching point for their attack on the Essosi city. It provided a firm holding position for trade, a supply chain if Tyrosh caused them to dig in with a siege, but even more importantly and permanently (if they didn't succeed against Tyrosh), control of the Stepstones meant control of the shipping trade, which could cripple the island city.

Ships had to pass through the Stepstones to reach Tyrosh, Myr, Pentos, Braavos, and the further north ports of Lorath and Ibben – if they were coming from the south. And any trade from those locations going southward to the Summer Isles, Lys, Volantis, and further, needed to move through the same narrow channels.

Oh, there would always be the Davos's of the seas, smugglers successfully running between the islands but if Jon could get forts and ports established – people living there – ships constantly

patrolling –

When he looked up, the room was filled. Oberyn and Jaime stood closest to him as his goodbrothers, but Arya was at his elbow, silent; Barristan and Ethan were on the other side to either man. Nearby were Brandon and Ned Stark, Velaryon and Aurane, Robert and Stannis Baratheon, Denys Arryn, Paxter Redwyne, Brynden Tully, Kevan Lannister, Davos, Rodrik Harlaw and Balon Greyjoy, and a few others.

"I'm afraid to say that this will be a long war, my lords," sighed Jon, jaw tight. "We need to take the Stepstones first to secure our advance, and that means going from island to island, rooting out the pirate dens, before we can think about moving on to Tyrosh."

"What's so difficult about it?" groused Balon Greyjoy, a bored glint in his eyes and a bored drawl on his lips. "The Ironborn take their ships and attack each island – bam bam bam bam bam – we slaughter the men, loot their bounties, and we'll be done by dinner."

Rodrik Hawlaw rolled his eyes upward, seeking help against the stupidity of his goodbrother.

"Do you know every single pirate den on the Stepstones, my Lord?" asked Jon patiently, eyebrow raised in challenge.

"They're pirates, not too hard to figure out," muttered Balon, eyes meeting Jon's petulantly before slipping away.

Oberyn scoffed. "Pirates or not, Greyjoy, these men know the islands better than any of us. We're lucky to have veterans of the Ninepenny War who fought here and might remember the lay of the land."

"It'll have changed," muttered Brynden, eyes roaming the map. "And most of the fight was split between those on the sea and those on land. I was only ever at Bloodstone."

"The war was fought and won with a hundred Ironborn longships," argued Balon hotly. "We won the war from the sea!"

"Aye, and a thousand knights and ten-thousand soldiers made their way from one island to the next," added Brandon Stark with an eye roll, and then he made a quick glance at Jon. "We've got an equal number to that."

Jon nodded, and said with a sigh, "Aye – and the Watch reserve adds to our numbers. They're trained for sea battles and land battles as well, but this will be their first blood. They're greenboys."

Jon dipped his chin in respect to Brynden when he spoke next. "Lord Tully did an excellent job training them with his captains, but until they're face-to-face with their enemy, we won't know how they'll do."

There were some mumbles around that.

"Davos," said Jon suddenly, catching the man's attention. He had done his best to hide behind the massive bulk of the other men and soldiers in the room, keeping to a dark corner and hoping he'd be forgotten.

Warily, Davos replied, "Your Grace?"

"Between you, Aurane, Lord Paxter, and the Ironborn, you're the most knowledgeable of the Stepstones, by rote of career," Jon said, looking at the suddenly shifty-looking man, especially as

everyone's eyes landed on him. "Where do you suggest we strike first?"

Davos inhaled, shocked in the trust placed in his hands, even as there were a few disgruntled mutters in the room – but a sharp glance from their king silenced the men. The smuggler stepped forward, tentatively, and looked at the map again. Although he couldn't read, he knew the shapes of the islands, knew what the colours meant. He pointed. "If you want, and can, do it fast and quick – then Demon's Retreat, Your Grace."

"Explain," ordered Jon.

Davos involuntarily straightened his back, aware of the scornful eyes on him. "Demon's Retreat is a swamp, that's true, but there's only one part of the island that is stable enough for permanent buildings – about two miles in from the west, facing Bloodstone. It's close to the coast as most of it is a sandbar – foot soldiers can make their way into Demon's Retreat from there. The tricky part is that the entrance to it is hidden through a waterfall – there's a large entrance at the back of it that leads into a pond and the sandbar. Everything else around it is swamp or cliffs and sharp rocks you can't scale over."

"So, no ships," mused aloud Jaime. "They won't fit."

Davos shook his head. "No, Ser. You could take smaller ships – dinghies and the like, I suppose, but that is what makes it a safe entrance for the Retreat."

"It also limits how many can get in there before being spotted," muttered Kevan Lannister, a frown on his face. He glanced at Davos. "Scouts? Lookouts?"

"None, but there is always a chance that someone is watching. Pirates aren't the most trustworthy sort," admitted Davos, who then, embarrassed, shook his head. "Demon's Retreat is an in-the- know only place. The entrance wouldn't be on any maps, neither. By telling you, I've betrayed quite a lot of trust placed in me that I built up over the years."

"Then we'd best make sure that trust isn't misplaced," replied Jon, warmly. His voice and eyes significantly cooled when he looked at the others around him. "And that means doing this war right."

"Your orders, Your Grace?" asked Paxter Pedwyne.

"Should there be scouts, we'd best turn their eyes away from the entrance," said Jon, glancing down at Arya, who looked back at him with an amused expression. Over the years, Jon had never outright confirmed anything to anyone regarding whether or not Sansa and Arya were siblings or close family (as all three had interchangeably used "sibling" and "cousin" when referencing one another); but his close relationships with them, and by extension their husbands, and his favour to the Starks who had married incredibly well, had most people in agreement that Sansa and Arya were equal to royalty and Princesses of the realm – and as such, no one batted an eyelash that Arya was on the ship, ready for war.

"I can do that," replied Arya with a bloodthirsty grin. Jaime heaved a mocking sigh in response. "Leave it to me."

"Excellent," said Jon, turning from her to the others at the table.

"I want Davos though," added Arya. At the man's alarmed glance, she clarified for the group, "His ship, I mean. I'd assume he comes with it."

Jon glanced at Davos, who looked a bit sickly, but nodded. "Jaime will be with me then."

"And you'll take the wolves," continued Arya cheerfully.

"Eh?" asked Jon, squinting at his sister.

He wasn't the only one confused; most of the men at the table were staring at her, bewildered. As she looked around the room, Arya rocked a bit on her heels and helpfully added, "For your sneak attack, Jon. You'll do what Robb did with the goat pass."

"Who is Robb?" someone muttered, even as understanding lit Jon's face.

Another asked, confusion dripping on every word, "What goat pass? What goat?"

A smile spread across Jon's mouth and his eyes landed on Barristan and Ethan. "Sers – lose the cloaks. The rest of us? We'll prepare for an attack tomorrow evening."

Davos couldn't help but send a wary glance at the King's sister, standing at the bow of his ship with her eyes on the sandy shoreline that she had selected for the distraction while the king and his chosen dozen were at the opposite end of the island.

Behind Davos's ship was a selection of the fleet; the rest were still at least a day away, keeping just out of sight of the Stepstones until they successfully took Demon's Retreat. Most of the fleet was from the Ironborn, meant mostly for quick ground assaults and then ship retreats. Arya had specifically asked for them, and Jon had granted it after a moment's hesitation.

The sky was bleeding a deep, bloody red-orange as the sun began to creep over the distant eastern sea, edging back to the star-lit black expanse above them, and yet Arya seemed content to just wait a bit longer... a bit longer...

"Now?" asked Davos, itchy with nerves.

"Not yet," she replied confidently.

He cleared his throat. "Are you sure this will work?"

"It's just a distraction," she answered with a shrug, her dark eyes glancing at him. "We're not meant to win against them. Just... get their attention and bother them a bit. That's what the Ironborn are for. Bothering the pirates, since they're so good at it."

At her other side, Rodrik Harlaw stared at her, entirely unimpressed. She ignored him, turning back to the thick swamp.

"Now?" stressed Davos, glancing eastward as the horizon lightened to a pinkish hue. Smoke began to stretch upward from somewhere near the sandy beach – they had been spotted.

Arya did not reply, and Davos glanced at her. He recoiled, taking a step back in shock. Her pupils were missing, her eyes completely whited out even as she stood straight and firm. Then she blinked, and the dark colour to her irises returned.

What was that? he thought, heart pounding furiously. He resisted the urge to bring a hand to his chest to calm his racing heart.

"Now," she said.

Harlaw raised his arm in response, and from behind them, tilted at an angle, the short ballistae

cannons were prepped, and the tar-coated balls erupted out and passed through the carefully tended and watched braziers at their openings, lighting each projectile.

At the other ships, their ballistae erupted, the sound of a series of dull, low thuds echoing through the morning air. Grey smoke streamed across the calm waters and mingled with the dawn light until the projectile crashed into the swampy foliage.

"Up to you now, Jon," murmured Arya. Arya had no desire or care about burning the swamp to the ground – she was meant to be a nuisance, and she could easily do that with her projectiles until they were to send the Ironborn to the beach.

Her eyes slowly cut through the smoky clouds left behind to hover on the ships, focusing on one tall, leather-clad Ironborn and his silent crew. When they went to land, there was a chance that some would meet their Drowned God – although the plan was for most to survive.

Most, she reminded herself, fighting the urge to smile. Most.

In the predawn of the day, with only the shadowy moon as their light guiding them, Ghost was a bright beacon, his white fur reflecting the weak light of the moon from where his ears, eyes, and snout pushed up out of the calm waters.

Jon was closest to Ghost, at the bow of a tiny dinghy, in light armour. Behind him, shaking the boat with his bouncing knee, was Jon's squire – although Jon was certainly not going to ask Viserys to partake in the squiring tasks usually found on a battlefield. Instead, Viserys was to practically glue himself to Jon's side during their sneak attack.

Behind Viserys was Barristan Selmy, and then Denys Arryn, rounding their boat; both men were rowing, their oars cutting through the still waters and barely making a sound with their smooth movements.

In a V-formation, with Jon at the head, two boats crept slowly through the water at his side, with two direwolves mimicking Ghost by paddling through the water: Brandon's Smudge, only visible by his glowing yellow eyes leading Brandon Stark's boat with Willem Dustin, Ethan Glover, and Brynden Tully; and then on the other side, Ned's Blizzard, the light grey in the fur being a bit more visible for the man to focus on, with Robert Baratheon in his boat as well as Stannis and Yohn Royce.

The furthest from Jon and Ghost were the only other two direwolves he fully trusted, in Nymeria and Lady, each leading the rowboats on the outside of their formation. Oberyn and Jaime were in two separate boats, with Kevan Lannister on Jaime's, and Randyll Tarly grudgingly with Oberyn.

The boats moved slowly but steadily across the calm waters, having been dropped off by one of the fleet in the dark of the evening, which then left them to rendezvous with the rest of the attacking ships under Arya's command. The men on the rowboats traded off with rowing throughout the night, cutting through the water until they reached the rocky cliffs and narrow tunnel gap that gaped like a screaming mouth.

Jon's boat hovered for a moment, bobbing gently up and down as he peered into the dark recess ahead of them. Ghost's dark nose poked up and let out a loud snort, and the direwolf continued paddling forward, as though telling Jon to hurry up.

"Forward," he said quietly, aware of how loud his voice would be with nothing else around them to cover him.

Barristan and Denys rowed, and the boats quickly fell into line behind, four of them rising and falling steadily as the waters became choppier, the waves splashing against the rock walls on either side of the passage.

It was near pitch-black inside the tunnel passage, but Jon trusted Ghost to lead him properly, and with Nymeria and Lady, Blizzard and Smudge, on the outside of the boats to form a buffer between them and the rock walls, the boats managed to pass underneath several hanging vines through the tunnel without issue to a peaceful, enclosed lagoon. There was a rickety dock and two small boats already moored there but were not manned or watched.

"Let's go," said Jon, hopping out of the boat as Ghost and the other wolves made for the shoreline, shucking the saltwater off their fur, and sending droplets through the air. Jon's feet slid into the water, the gentle waves lapping up toward his knees as he waded through it toward his direwolf.

Behind him, the men copied his movements, sliding from the boats into the water to mask the sound of their arrival, with a few grunts or the tiniest of splashes creating further ripples in the lagoon.

Ghost looked back at the group at the edge of the swamp, where the forest grew thick and eerily dark. His red eyes were beacons and Jon's heart pounded in anticipation of the idea that the pirates would see the return of the so aptly named Demon's Retreat creatures – Ghost's eyes were demonic if one didn't know he was a direwolf.

Silently, the direwolf turned on soft paws and loped into the woods, Jon pressing in after him with Viserys at his heel, Barristan, and Ethan behind. There was a tiny, thin path to follow with leaves constantly obscured their vision from thickly pressing branches and vines that created a dark blanket between them and the rest of the world, with Ghost as their guide – the other wolves darted in and out of the lower-hanging branches and bushes, often startling everyone but the Starks.

The cries of loud, tropical birds; the screams of lizards; the worrisome growls of creatures stalking them through the swampy foliage kept the men tense, especially as they could barely see their hands in front of their faces in the all-encompassing darkness. Jon, however, and the other Starks kept their footing and confidence through their connections with the wolves, and the others trusted them enough to follow single file.

At one point, Ned had sidled up to Jon, at his right elbow, when they took a short break in a small clearing that opened and revealed an inky expanse of black sky and a splatter of bright stars. Mosquitos buzzed around them, the air was thick and humid, a heavy, dense press of air against them that plastered their hair to their sweating foreheads and ensured their wet boots never dried.

"I don't like this," Ned murmured, looking around.

"What don't you like?" asked Jon in return, glancing at him, curiosity pulsing through him. The chance to get to know the man who raised him as equals was something he never thought he would have and it was bizarre to him that, at thirty-four, he was nearly the age his father had been when he died the first time around. But the twenty-eight-year-old in front of him was never going to be that man.

Ned looked around, his mouth a hard-pressed line. "This. Sneaking in, attacking from behind enemy lines. We should meet them head-on. They should know we're coming."

Flabbergasted, Jon asked, "Why?"

"Why what?" asked Ned, brows furrowed in confusion. "Shouldn't we maintain our honour and

our reputation as Westerosi compared to Essosi sellswords and pirates?"

"This isn't some honourable, glorious battle on the Trident, Ned, or a duel between two men fighting for a cause or someone's favour," replied Jon, slowly, blinking in shock. "This isn't the time and place for honour and worrying about our reputation. It's war."

Ned's frown deepened. "I've never thought war would look like this."

"It wears different faces," replied Jon, looking away, swallowing thickly at the memories of all the battles he fought, in a different time and place. He glanced back. "Let me ask you: why are you so worried about honour and reputation?"

"Because they're what makes a man," Ned promptly responded. "A man without honour is no Lord, and a man's reputation is how others respect and act toward him."

Jon wanted to smack himself in the face at the response. "Bloody hell, Ned, who told you that?" Affronted, Ned replied stiffly, "Jon Arryn."

"Who is As High as Honour," muttered Jon. His eyes roved over the men, looking for a specific man. When he found him, speaking in low whispers to Stannis Baratheon, Jon psst at him between his teeth and when Denys looked up, he waved him over.

"Your Grace?" the tall blond man asked, looking curiously between him and Ned.

"Denys," began Jon, reaching up and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I need you to speak to Ned about your family's words."

Denys blinked. "Er, As High as Honour, you mean?" "Aye."

"Er... alright, Your Grace." The man's confusion was palpable. Denys turned to Ned, whose ears were a dark red, the flush of embarrassment spreading to the back of his neck.

"And Denys?" continued Jon, removing his hand from his face. Denys' face was shifting between polite inquiry and utter confusion. "Stick by Ned's side when we attack the pirates, would you? Less he does something stupid that he thinks is honourable and gets himself killed. I don't want to explain that to his wife."

Oberyn, who had been listening nearby while leaning on his staff, snorted. "Ashara would likely resurrect him and then kill him, herself."

Ned's flush had migrated from his ears and neck to turning his entire face a red even as he shot Oberyn a nasty look for speaking of his wife – ignoring that she, Elia, and Oberyn likely grew up together at the Water Garden in Dorne.

Jon sighed. "Enough of a break, men – let's be in position before dawn and before my sister decides to just launch her own invasion and crown herself Queen of the Stepstones."

"Is that possible?" he heard someone ask as he turned his back on the group and led them further down the dirt path.

There was a snort, and then Jaime said: "With Arya, anything is possible. She's rather scary like that." There was a pause, and then he finished, "That's probably why my father likes her, actually."

Demon's Retreat, located in the heart of the swampy island, was a series of interconnected mounds of dirt – manmade most likely – with thick, rope bridges and rotting wooden panels that matched the lopsided and ramshackle-style of one-room wooden buildings that rose from the dirty, swampy water on stilts. There were a few hanging lamps, in front of doors and dripping low over the water from angled roofs, and raucous laughter emerging sporadically from the largest of the wooden buildings, in the middle of the islands.

It was the longest and largest, with a second floor and a balcony that tilted to the left and front, with lazy pirates leaning against pillars – one was asleep, his hat covering his face, while the other was smoking, the wisps floating up to disappear in the thick branches that provided a second roof for the island buildings.

A wooden boardwalk connected a few of the buildings; the rest were lonely islands of their own, with docks and rowboats crowding together and banging up against one another with gentle thuds and bumps as the waves hit stilts, shores, and partially collapsed buildings.

From where Jon watched, hidden behind a thick tree's downward sweeping branches and leaves, three men stumbled out of the largest building in the centre of the cluster, supporting the man in the middle as he heaved and vomited into the water.

"Lovely," muttered Stannis, nose wrinkling up.

Jon's eyes skipped to the other pirates he saw. A few seemed diligent in their patrols, but most were drunk, coming out of the buildings to piss into the swamp, or to throw up; occasionally, a man – or a few – would emerge with a heavily-made up woman and disappeared into the smaller buildings. Most of the majority were in the largest building.

"Is the plan still the same, Your Grace?" asked Barristan quietly.

Jon considered. "We'll spread out and take the men from the furthest and work our way in – aye, that's still the plan." He paused, looking at the building. "That will be marginally more difficult."

"If only we could smoke them out, they'd be easy pickings then, drunk as they are," muttered Jaime with a heavy sigh.

Jon stared at his brother-in-law, who caught the look when he glanced around and then asked, defensively, "What?"

"Ser Jaime, what an excellent idea," praised Jon, a grin tugging at his lips. "What?" asked Jaime again, looking around. "What did I say?"

Kevan Lannister murmured, "Well done, Jaime," even as Jon turned to the others. "Lord Willam, Lord Brandon – would you like the honours?"

Brandon's grin was rather wide and devilish, a look he then shared with Willam Dustin, who looked only the slightest bit less enthusiastic. "It would be our pleasure."

"Excellent," said Jon. "The rest of us will spread out – Jaime, you and Lord Kevan take Nymeria and Ser Ethan to the west, and Lord Denys? You, Ned, and Lord Baratheon to the eastern side of this Gods-forsaken swamp." Jon finished that with a punctuated smack to his neck, where he flattened a mosquito.

"Oberyn, can you lead Lord Tarly and Lord Stannis from the south?"

Oberyn's answering grin was all Jon needed.

"And I, along with Viserys, Ser Barristan, will take the north," finished Jon. "Be in position and then sit quietly—" he did this with a glance at Robert, who huffed "—and, most importantly: no rape. We're here to kill pirates, men, so let's do that. There's bound to be prisoners, so unless the women go after you with a thought to kill, keep your swords clean. Understood?"

"Yes, Your Grace," chorused the men.

Jon gave them all a long, hard stare, but then nodded. "Take the patrols down, and we'll hit the rest hard at the dawn signal, then."

The men began to slink away, the wolves associated with each Stark going in the direction Jon wanted even as Ghost remained at his side, watching the others with his bright red eyes.

They waited, Jon partially crouched in the murky swamp water, desperately trying to think of anything other than what was in the water with him. While he and Barristan waited quietly, eyes keenly forward. Viserys, sixteen, fidgeted the tiniest amount but when Jon glanced at him, he looked abash and then stilled himself with a deep breath.

The party inside the largest building wound down, the laughter tapering off as the tiniest prickles of light managed to pierce through the heavy canopy. Then—

A massive boom erupted far away, and a few pirates let out startled shouts and yells, even as one raced by them, screaming, "WE'RE UNDER ATTACK AT THE NORTHERN SHORE!"

There was a mad scramble as men, wearing layers of leather and linen, hastily pulled on boots or pulled up their trousers; a few strapped knives to their arms while most brandished poorly- maintained steel as the majority of the men – those awake and sober enough to fight, that is – thundered down the wooden boardwalks and then disappeared into the swamp, following the only dirt path that kept them from falling into the swamp around them.

There were several more muffled, booms, and for a moment, Jon had to wonder what Arya got her hands on to do that – and had his fingers crossed it wasn't wildfire.

Jon waited a few more moments, in case there were any stragglers, and was rewarded when a pirate wandered close to them; several feet elevated with the high ground as he passed on the wooden boardwalk between islands. As he passed their hiding spot, Jon pulled himself from the water, quietly, dripping water but silently moving behind the pirate until he approached from behind. One hand clamped over the man's mouth while the other slashed across the man's throat.

The pirate gave a wet gurgle before turning into dead weight, and Barristan was the one who helped Jon manoeuvre the pirate's body from the boardwalk and into the water, where Viserys dragged him further into the bush and swamp for predators to find.

Then, they crept forward. They couldn't hear the others from their locations, so Jon had to assume that they were doing their jobs correctly – and in truth, he had little worry for that with only one or two minor exceptions to be found in Ned and Robert. Instead, he, Barristan and Viserys worked down the northern side of the islands, going from one to the next, as quietly as Ghost. They encountered few patrols, but those they did meet with, between Barristan and Jon, they had subdued and then killed.

With most of the pirates either attacking Arya's diversion or being unconscious, taking Demon's Retreat was becoming rather easy. Jon, Barristan, and Viserys pressed against the edge of one of

the buildings, along its side.

"One, two..." breathed Jon, and then spun away from the wall and kicked in the door, sweeping his eyes across the dingy interior. Barristan and Viserys threw themselves into the room behind him, swords ready.

It was empty, with only a thin mattress on the floor and a few chests of treasure – mostly empty bottles.

"Disappointing," sighed Jon. "Well, on to the next."

"Are we keeping the treasure?" asked Viserys before they left, his eyes lingering on the chest of golden Iron Bank-stamped coins.

"Well, the pirates certainly aren't going to need it," mused aloud Jon with a grin sent Viserys' way. "I'm sure once it's tallied, we can share the spoils."

A wide grin spread across Viserys' face and there was a tiny skip to his steps as they moved to the next building.

They cleared three more of the shacks on the tiny islands by the time they could smell smoke and another one before the smoke was visible. By then, they had moved to the middle of the island, eyes on the larger house. Willam Dustin and Brandon Stark had done what he had asked – and lit a fire underneath one of the overhangs between where there were stilts holding the house up and where there was a beachy shore, giving them a small area to work with.

Someone shouted, and then shoved the door open to the ramshackle pirate den. A pirate flew out, cursing up a storm just as three others followed.

"Find the damn fire—" the first man snarled.

"It ain't my job—"

"Where are the patrols? Shouldn't they have noticed this?"

"It's probably Irren's fault—urk."

The three other pirates spun to face the man who had last spoken, staring in shock as a white blur dragged the pirate by his throat into the water and then the thick, leafy foliage around them.

"What the fuck was that?" whispered one, eyes wide.

"I don't have—ARGH!" another began, only to be cut off when Nymeria erupted from the water, sending a giant wave out even as she latched onto the man's arm and ripped it off. The man screamed, staring down at the torn limb, turning pale.

"ATTACK! WE'RE BEING ATT—"

Smudge darted out of the shadows and his giant paws, with his claws, dug into the man's chest. The pirate gurgled and coughed, dropping to the ground even as Smudge bounded off the man and disappeared between the buildings opposite. Then, Lady was there, dragged the bloodied pirate into the waters to drown.

Blizzard leapt at the one-armed pirate, sending the man to the ground face-forward, and then bit into him, savaging the man's neck.

This took only seconds, the coordinated attack by the wolves giving the humans enough time to make their way to the main den and prepare themselves, as more pirates exited – at least a dozen –, their swords ready and eyes wide in confusion at the bloodied, but corpse-less, mess at their front doors.

"What...?" began one, but then Robert Baratheon threw himself forward from behind a nearby building, roaring like a madman.

"For the God's Sake," muttered Jon, desperately wanting to roll his eyes; but the man had blown their cover, and now he had no choice – Jon was next to move, with Barristan quick on his heels and sword flashing as Jon neatly sliced through the nearest pirate, who didn't have time to do anything but blink in shock before his intestines spilled out.

It was a bloodbath – but a quick one. Jon lost himself in the rhythm of sweeping his sword – the good-quality steel not just biting into boiled leather, but also knicking and shattering the poorly made swords and daggers the pirates owned – even as his feet and hands and mind fell into the routine of killing.

It was routine – he had spent his formative years at the Wall and beyond, killing men and Wildlings, and then later the undead, and he never forgot that, even in the past, in a new time. He ducked under one pirate's wide-swinging cutlass, the man doing exactly what he always warned Viserys of – over-extending himself – and pivoted instead, slamming his shoulder into the man's gut and sending him to the ground on his knees, then bringing his sword down with a strong chopping motion. The pirate's head left his body.

Already he was moving onto the next; this pirate only had a dagger, but he was quick with his jabs and kept himself from Jon's reach, dancing around him with a stained- and gap-toothed leer. Jon sighed, tired of dealing with the man; he whistled.

The pirate stopped, eyeing him in confusion – that was his mistake. Ghost cut through the fray of men, between grunts and groans and Oberyn's cheerful ha HA's, his white muzzle strained pink and red, and toppled the pirate, making him shriek and drop his dagger as his hands tried to pry the giant direwolf off.

Instead, Jon leaned down, picked up the dagger, and, kneeling for balance, he plunged it into the man's neck and yanked it out. The man's shrieks stopped.

"Your Grace."

Jon looked up, spotting Tarly, a bit sweaty, standing before him. "Demon's Retreat is ours."

He suppressed his smile, but swiftly rose and took stock of the men around him; dying pirates – or dead ones – and his chosen men for the infiltration were still standing. Viserys looked a bit bloodied and dazed, but he wasn't swaying and had no visible wounds, which made Jon proud – the sixteen-year-old had proven himself no green boy.

But still – he turned to Robert Baratheon, whom Ned was standing next to with the tiniest of grimaces on his face when he realized Jon was looking their way. Baratheon was cheerfully, and loudly, telling Ned about his kills when Jon strode over.

"What part of sit quietly did you fail to understand, Baratheon?" he snapped. Robert turned to him, looking like a startled buck. "Er—"

"It's likely there are still men inside, and I wanted all of them to come out," continued Jon, his eyebrows drawn into an angry V. "Congratulations, you've just volunteered yourself to enter the building first, and should you survive that, latrine duty while we're on the island."

"Er..." tried Robert again, looking around wildly for help, but everyone ignored his eyes, except his brother, who looked halfway between resigned and apocalyptic.

"I believe the words you're looking for," continued Jon scathingly, "is yes, Your Grace."

"Yes, Your Grace," mumbled Robert, only vaguely abashed.

"Excellent," spat Jon, jabbing his forefinger toward the building. "Off you go, then. Do us proud."

Robert swallowed any retorts and picked up his war hammer, a bit moodily, and even scuffed the dirt before turning to the building. He took a deep breath, held the hammer aloft, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before kicking the door open so hard it flew off its rusted hinges and fell to the floor. He stepped into the room.

Jon waited a moment.

Then, there were high, feminine shrieks and cries of rage and terror; Robert shouted back "GOOD GODS, YOU HARPIES!" and there was a loud clang of something hollow and more shrieks and Robert's angry bellow in response.

Just as Jon was about to intervene, Robert Baratheon came stumbling out, backwards over his feet and tripping over them. He was covered in shit and dripping in liquid that had Stannis take a very hasty step backward and away when the stench hit him.

Oberyn started laughing, and Jon even spied Tarly's mouth twitch upward for a moment. Moodily, Robert snapped, "There's no men left. Just women. Fucking wenches."

"Did your infamous charm fail you, Baratheon?" jeered Oberyn, and Jaime openly grinned. "Did you fail to woo the fair ladies with your daring rescue?"

"They're fucking worse than the pirates," he groused in response, shaking his head, and sending droplets of urine everywhere. Only Ned seemed brave enough to linger nearby. "Give me pirates any day other than miserable wenches!"

Jon sighed. "My Lords, Sers, let's clear out this wretched hive of scum and villainy of anything worth taking. Ser Barristan? Perhaps you and I can calm the ladies down."

"Very good, Your Grace," murmured Barristan in reply, pressing his own lips together as his eyes danced away from Robert.

The men began to peel away, going in different directions to clear out the pirate den of their treasures and goods. For Jon, now that things were done, it was a weight off his chest – they had taken one island, and while there were more to go, they were one step closer to having dominion over the Stepstones.

And, he thought, eyes turning eastward, one step closer to Tyrosh.

I don't know why you decided to tug on this wolf's tail, Tyrosh, but... you're going to see what I can do when you do wake the dragon.

TBC...