Watching his men devour the very last scraps of food and the final drops of wine left in camp, Logar felt a sharp stab of regret.
This was everything. Their last water, their last rations. Once this meal was gone, they'd have nothing. This raid wasn't just a gamble — it was back-to-the-wall, win-or-die.
His face turned stone-cold. He gave the order in a low, iron voice:
"Rest while you can. Sleep if you're able. We sail at first light and hit the Dornish before they even know we're coming."
The Narrow Sea before dawn was swallowed by thick grey fog, dense as ink. It wrapped the ships so completely that even the iron rams at the bows were almost invisible.
Waves slapped the hulls with dull thuds, perfectly hiding the soft splash of oars.
Logar led his three longships straight toward Grey Gallows, the largest island in the Stepstones.
On the island, the Dornish commander was snoring like a drunk, arms wrapped around two whores, drool leaking from the corner of his mouth.
Yesterday's defeat had crushed their morale. Supplies were running low, homesickness was eating the men alive, and the watch had grown dangerously sloppy.
Only a few sleepy sentries stood in the towers, leaning on spears and dozing. They never saw the ships gliding out of the mist.
In their eyes, only the Triarchy could challenge them here. No filthy pirate crew would ever dare strike first.
Before the sky even began to lighten, Logar's three ships ghosted silently onto the shallow beach of Grey Gallows.
Behind them in the fog, several smaller pirate vessels hovered like shadows. They stayed well back — opportunistic crews drawn by the scent of easy plunder, waiting like hyenas to see if the feast was worth joining.
If Logar won, they'd swarm in for their share. If he lost, they'd vanish faster than smoke.
Logar ignored the scavengers. This fight was his to win.
"Listen up!" he called from the prow, half-armored and longsword ready, silver hair slick with mist. "Just like I said — the Dornish are sleeping like fat pigs. They never dreamed we'd come to them!"
He raised his voice, each word cutting sharp:
"For this raid, I — your captain — take only two shares out of every ten. The rest is yours!"
The promise hit like wildfire. The pirates growled low and savage, veins bulging on hands that gripped weapons tight.
"Charge!"
The second the hulls scraped sand, Logar leaped into the shallows. Icy water rose to his ankles. The watchtower loomed ahead. The drowsy sentries were still rubbing their eyes when Logar and his men slammed into them.
A few panicked arrows whistled down — most thudding uselessly into mud.
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!" one sentry screamed, voice cracking.
The instant the pirates overran the tower, the entire Dornish outpost on Grey Gallows woke in total panic. These men were used to bullying pirates — never the other way around.
"Fucking pirate scum! I'll feed every last one of you to the fish!"
The Dornish commander jolted awake, cursing furiously. He threw on his armor half-fastened, grabbed his curved blade, and stormed out.
But it was already too late.
Logar's men had torn through the outer defenses. Most Dornish were still half-asleep. Some were cut down the moment they opened their tents. Others ran out wearing nothing but smallclothes and died like dogs. Blood soaked the ground in seconds.
The smaller pirate crews watching from the fog saw the watchtower burn and the perimeter break. They surged forward like blood-mad sharks, roaring as they poured into the camp, looting and slaughtering with pure greedy fury.
With the extra numbers, the weak Dornish defense collapsed completely. Logar led Femon and his inner circle straight into the heart of the outpost.
A Dornish spearman lunged. Logar sidestepped, flipped his wrist, and slid his sword up the shaft, driving it clean through the man's throat. Hot blood sprayed across his face.
Deeper in, besides the desperate defenders, there were slaves the Dornish had captured — huddled in corners, trembling as they watched the slaughter, terrified they'd be next.
"Pirate filth! You're signing your own death warrant!"
The Dornish commander charged forward with his personal guards, curved blade pointed straight at Logar, murder burning in his eyes.
Logar signaled his men into a loose circle to hold off the rest, then strode toward the commander like a hunting leopard.
Clang!
Steel crashed. Sparks flew. The commander's eyes widened in shock — this young bastard hit harder than any man he'd faced. His hand went numb. He waved his guards forward.
Two elites attacked at once. Logar blocked one strike with his chainmail arm, then swept his sword across, slicing the first man's throat. He spun and drove the blade straight into the second guard's heart.
More guards rushed him. Logar fought like a demon, face and body drenched in blood. Bodies piled at his feet.
Finally, seeing every guard dead, the Dornish commander's legs gave out. He pissed himself, dropped to his knees, and begged:
"Mercy! I'll give you everything! All my treasure! Please!"
Logar's purple eyes stayed ice-cold. Without a word he stepped forward and drove his sword through the man's heart. Then, following pirate custom, he hacked off the head and tossed it to Femon.
"Throw this out there. Tell the rest to surrender."
The outpost was now a slaughterhouse — corpses everywhere, blood running in rivers. The only ones still breathing were the unarmed slaves, shaking in terror.
Logar ignored them and let his men loot freely. He headed straight for the grandest tent — the commander's private quarters.
"Lord! Please don't let them kill me! I'll serve you loyally!"
Halfway there, a man locked in an iron cage shouted desperately. Unlike the other slaves, he didn't cower. He grabbed the chance.
Logar frowned, ready to walk past, when the man cried out:
"I'm from Driftmark! I'm the best shipwright alive! I can repair ships, build them — I'm useful to you!"
From Driftmark?
Logar stopped. After a beat, he raised his sword and cut the chains. He snatched a long axe from a dead Dornish soldier and tossed it over.
"Take this. Follow me. Don't slow us down."
Inside the luxurious tent, the sounds of slaughter faded. Thick carpets covered the floor. Two whores huddled on the huge bed, faces white with fear.
Beside the bed stood an open chest overflowing with gold, silver, gemstones, pearl necklaces, and heavy sacks of silver stags. The dazzling wealth nearly blinded them.
The pirates who followed Logar inside froze, breathing hard. Even Logar's eyes widened a fraction.
After being dirt-poor for so long… they had finally struck it fucking rich.
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