The Narrow Sea, The Stepstones
The evening sky hung overhead like a sheet of scorched amber. As the dying light bled across the undulating waves, the water shimmered with a thick, visceral crimson, resembling a sea of clotted gore that made the skin crawl.
Having weathered the storm's fury, the Sea Fox sat motionless upon the water, looking like a gargantuan beast that had spent every ounce of its vitality, waiting in silence for the shroud of night to fall.
Near Jon's cabin, a crowd of Northern recruits had already begun to congregate. Other passengers, sensing the shift in the air, watched with growing apprehension. A few of the more perceptive ones attempted to slip away toward the upper deck hatch, only to find their path barred by a group of determined-looking boys.
"My brothers," Jon's voice suddenly rang out from within his quarters, sharp and resonant. "It is my heavy duty to inform you that we have been betrayed."
The crowd turned as one. Jon stepped across the threshold, his face illuminated by the flickering, sickly yellow glow of an oil lamp. His features were a mask of controlled, righteous fury.
"This ship was never bound for Myr," Jon declared, stepping into the center of the throng. "Myr lies to the West. We have been sailing South for days."
"But... could the storm not have blown us off course?" a voice cried out from the middle of the pack.
"Is that truly possible?" "Surely not..." Murmurs of doubt began to ripple through the room.
"If this were a few days ago, I might have shared that hope," Jon countered, his words striking like a smith's hammer. "But by any reasonable measure, we should have reached the Myrish Sea five days ago. Instead, we drive further south into the heat. Does that sound like a simple mistake to you?"
The logic fell like a weight upon their hearts. The initial shock was rapidly being replaced by a hollow, gnawing dread.
"Then... what do we do?" the same voice rang out again. "Lord Jon, you are a Stark of Winterfell. you know the ways of the world better than us. Tell us, what is our path?"
Jon spared a satisfied glance toward the source of the shouting—a sharp-featured, golden-haired lad named Narsas. Though Frodo had warned him that the boy was a bit of a light-fingered rogue, Narsas possessed a quick-witted energy that the "Ring Guard" lacked. He was the perfect shill.
"These men are slavers from Tyrosh," Jon revealed, pitching his voice to carry. "Their 'recruitment' was a lie. They intend to sell every one of us in the slave markets of the Free Cities."
"Slavers?!" "I want to go home!" "The Seven have mercy!" "The Old Gods curse them!"
As panic began to bubble over, a thin, cold smile touched Jon's lips.
Awoooo—!
A piercing, guttural howl tore through the cabin, instantly silencing the clamor. Every eye snapped to the massive white shape beside Jon.
Ghost had grown at a terrifying rate over the past few weeks. He no longer resembled a dog in any capacity; he was a silent, crimson-eyed engine of slaughter. It was the presence of this beast that kept the hidden informants among the crew from drawing their knives just yet.
"My brothers! We were not born to wear chains!" Jon shouted, his voice rising over the silence. "We are men of the North, protected by the Old Gods and the New! We are free!"
"Free! Free!" Led by Frodo and the boys, the cry was taken up by the recruits until the very bulkheads seemed to vibrate with the chant.
"We shall go to the deck and demand the truth! And if they prove to be the vipers I know them to be, we shall deliver the judgment of the gods upon them!"
"Judgment! Judgment!"
The blood of the Andals and the First Men was up. These Westerosi commoners, once mere laborers, now looked like a battalion on the verge of a charge. Their eyes burned with a fierce, collective resolve.
Crr-ack! Boom!
The oaken hatch to the upper deck was stout, but it was no match for the combined weight of fifty desperate men. The rusted copper lock snapped like a twig.
The crew on deck scrambled to their feet, their faces haggard from the storm. They had neglected their watches, assuming the exhausted passengers were safely tucked away. The muffled shouting from below had been dismissed as the mere groaning of the ship or the song of distant whales.
Snap, crackle...
The night air was thick and salty, the rising wind whipping the flames of the torches held aloft by the recruits. Jon stood at the vanguard, dressed in dark leathers and heavy boots, a line of bruised and bound "informants" trailing behind him.
"What is the meaning of this?!"
A thunderous roar erupted from the bridge as Captain Gusta stepped into the torchlight. He was a barrel-chested man of fifty, his face a weathered map of scars and sea-salt, his beard splayed out like the spines of a sea urchin.
Behind him, a handful of sailors ducked into the arms locker, their movements frantic.
"Gusta!" Jon shouted back, his voice cutting through the wind. "Tell us truly—where is this ship headed?"
The recruits wavered for a moment, intimidated by the captain's bulk, but Jon stood like a pillar of stone.
"Oh? I should have known it was you," Gusta sneered, spotting Jon's face. "Jon Snow. My Lord, I am taking you to Myr, just as the high lords commanded. Why stir up trouble with this rabble?"
Perhaps out of respect for House Stark, or perhaps a lingering fear of the Manderlys, Gusta seemed hesitant to shed noble blood. But Jon had no such reservations. Behind him stood two hundred able-bodied men; if he saved them today, they would be his for life. This was the foundation of his future power. He could not flinch.
"The gods hear the prayers of the lowborn as clearly as the high," Jon declared, pitching his voice for every soul on deck. "We are all equal in our right to breathe free air. You seek to steal that freedom, and that is a debt that must be paid!"
"I am leading these men to hope, not to the block!"
"Hah! If it weren't for the name Stark, you'd be just another bastard in the mud," Gusta spat, his patience finally snapping. His men emerged from the locker, bristling with steel.
"If you want to die with these dogs, I'll be happy to oblige!"
Gusta's eyes turned cold. A slave was worth a fortune, but a mutinous slave was a liability he couldn't afford. Slaver's Bay had been ravaged by a plague the previous year, sent the price of human flesh skyrocketing across Essos. He and his fellow small-time traffickers had risked everything on this Westerosi haul; he couldn't allow word to get out.
"Kill the instigators!" Gusta roared. "The rest will fall in line! Get them!"
"You will find no such opportunity," Jon said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "The gods protect their own, and for those who prey upon them... there is only the sword."
"Hahaha! You don't even have a—"
Gusta's mockery died in his throat.
Before the eyes of every man on deck, Jon reached into the empty air. With a fluid, impossible motion, he drew a gleaming iron longsword from the void itself. The sheer impossibility of the act froze the sailors in their tracks.
Roar—!
As the blade manifested, Ghost blurred into motion.
The direwolf was a white streak against the dark wood of the deck. Before anyone could blink, he had lunged, his jaws snapping shut around Gusta's throat with surgical precision.
Simultaneously, the First Mate, Ode, lunged at Jon, only to be met by a savage diagonal slash. The force of Jon's enhanced strength sent the man sprawling, his chest a ruin of blood and leather. Jon stepped forward and delivered a final, mercifull thrust.
The "miracle" of the sword and the sudden, violent deaths of their leaders shattered the crew's morale. They stood paralyzed, looking from the bloody wolf to the boy with the silver blade.
"Surrender or die!" Jon barked, the bloody iron sword leveled at the remaining sailors.
"Long live Lord Jon!"
The four boys of the Ring Guard were the first to break the tension, charging the shell-shocked sailors with a roar. Seeing their leader victorious and the enemy broken, the Northerners surged forward like a tide, overwhelming the crew in a wave of vengeful fury.