Stepping onto the Stepstones again sent a fierce thrill through Logar's veins.
The last time he left these rocks he had just gutted a Dornish outpost on Grey Gallows and spent weeks dodging the Triarchy fleet, running like a hunted dog.
This time he swore he would sink his roots deep and never be driven out again.
Once the Sea Snake's fleet dropped anchor in the nearby waters, Logar led his own ships straight to the nameless island that had once been theirs. Longships sliced through the surf and slammed onto the pebble beach, scattering clouds of gulls from the rocks.
He scanned the shore. The same salt-stung wind whipped his face, carrying that familiar bone-deep chill. Nothing had changed.
Then scouts reported back: their old camp had been taken over by another pirate crew.
The moment Logar's force hit the beach, the squatters charged out screaming, weapons raised, without even bothering to count how many they faced.
"Follow me!" Logar bellowed.
His own home base stolen? His blood boiled. He ripped out his longsword and charged with his men.
The fight was over in moments. When the squatters saw the dozen warships beached behind Logar and the four hundred battle-hardened killers at his back, their courage vanished. Blades clattered to the stones as they dropped to their knees.
Logar's sword hadn't drawn a drop of blood.
"Throat-Cutter?! You're Logar the Throat-Cutter?!"
The moment the enemy captain realized who had returned — the infamous pirate whose name now echoed across the Narrow Sea — he slammed his forehead into the dirt, begging.
"Lord Throat-Cutter, we only came here hoping to join you! Please take us in!"
"Oh?" Logar saw the man's raw desperation and asked, "What's the situation across the Stepstones right now?"
"Ever since you raided the Dornish outpost on Grey Gallows, those bastards went insane, hunting every pirate crew in sight. The Three Whores on Bloodstone jumped in too, raiding our camps whenever they felt like it."
The captain's face twisted with misery. "Our alliance was always a mess anyway. We could only run and hide. They never found our main bands, but life turned into pure hell."
Looking at the ragged, hollow-eyed men, Logar smiled. He hadn't realized that after he left, both Dorne and the Triarchy had taken out all their rage on these smaller crews.
"In that case, you're with me now," Logar said, signaling his men to lower their blades. He raised his voice so every man could hear. "The Dornish on Grey Gallows and the bastards on Bloodstone dared bully you because I was gone. I'm back — and I swear they're going to pay. They're about to learn exactly how sharp our steel is!"
"Logar! Logar!"
His crew roared the chant. The cry rolled across the empty island, raw and hungry.
Logar didn't let the cheers go to his head. Even with the deal struck with the Sea Snake, his own strength was still thin.
The more men who joined him now, the stronger his foothold on these rocks would become.
He was about to lead everyone back to the old camp when a frantic horn blast sounded from the sea — the pirates' warning signal. Enemies!
Logar and his men sprinted to the highest point on the beach. Salt wind slapped their faces.
On the horizon, a black tide of sails surged forward like a breaking storm — every mast flying the banners of the Triarchy.
Ship after ship poured out from Bloodstone's direction — twenty hulls at least!
They came in tight formation, cutting through the waves with a low, menacing rumble that carried across the water like thunder.
Just as Logar's stomach tightened, the Velaryon fleet anchored nearby under Malentin Velaryon spotted the enemy too.
Instead of sailing to help, they immediately swung about and fled full sail, heading away from the islands without a backward glance.
"What the fuck? The Seahorse bastards just abandoned us?!"
"Fuck them! Gutless cowards!"
His men exploded in curses. Logar's hand clenched around his sword hilt until the knuckles whitened, rage burning hot in his chest.
That Malentin Velaryon was worse than useless — a perfect example of all talk and no balls. If Logar ever got the chance, he swore he would cut the coward down himself.
Anger changed nothing. He knew the truth: House Velaryon had always planned to use them as cheap spears to bleed the enemy.
If he wanted to stand firm on the Stepstones, he could rely only on himself.
"Everyone, weapons up! Fall back to the camp!"
The enemy had superior ships and numbers and had clearly come prepared. Fighting them at sea would be suicide.
Logar made the call instantly. He led his men back to the old camp, using the familiar ground and crude barricades to make their stand.
Perhaps the gods were smiling on him today. Sharako Lohar, the Triarchy commander, had focused all his attention on the larger Velaryon fleet from the start.
Compared to Logar's smaller, ragtag ships, the Velaryon force looked far more dangerous.
Sharako immediately split his fleet in two: he took the main force and chased the fleeing Velaryons. The rest — five or six hundred men — were sent straight to Logar's island to wipe out the pirates there.
Even split, the landing force was formidable. Their ships ground onto the pebble beach. Gangplanks slammed down, and hundreds of screaming soldiers poured ashore.
They wore scale armor glinting coldly in the sun, curved blades raised high, shields bearing Myr's sigil. Like a tidal wave they charged the camp.
Logar had already positioned his men. The camp's crude walls — rough timber, piled stones, tar-soaked ropes — looked pathetic but could hold for a while.
He had his veterans form a solid shield wall behind the barricade. Archers crouched behind them, arrows nocked and ready.
When the Triarchy soldiers were a hundred paces away, Logar slashed his hand down. "Loose!"
The archers released as one. Arrows shrieked through the air like black rain.
"AH—!"
The lead soldier never even raised his shield. An arrow punched straight through his eye socket and out the back of his skull. Blood poured down the shaft as he dropped dead.
More men fell — shoulders pierced, thighs transfixed. The wet thunk of arrows striking flesh filled the air. Blood pooled across the stones. The first volley tore bloody holes in the charge.
"Shields up! Keep advancing!" the Triarchy officer shouted. Instead of retreating, contempt flashed in his eyes.
In his view this ramshackle camp with no proper gate was nothing.
He drew his curved blade and charged at the front, scale armor flashing.
In an instant the rest surged forward. Shields locked, they smashed into the barricade like a breaking dam. The thunder of impacts, war cries, and clashing steel shook the island.
Logar ripped his longsword free. Sunlight flashed along the blade as he roared to his men:
"Those Three Whores have sat on the best island in the Stepstones for years, chasing us like stray dogs! Today we pay them back in blood!"
"KILL!"
The pirates inside the camp could no longer hold back. Weeks of bottled-up fury exploded.
They answered with a deafening roar, leaping over the barricade behind Logar, weapons raised, charging the enemy in a savage, fearless wave.
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