(Bronn’s POV)

As he moved forward slowly, making sure to push aside branches and avoid causing anything underfoot to crack and give away his position, Bronn wondered how the fuck he had ended up here. Well, he knew how, but that so much had changed in the last year still took him by surprise, but finding himself leading men through a forest in the Stepstones, intending to attack another port controlled by pirates wasn’t how he saw the year going.

Running into those drunk fools in the Vale, and learning of their arrangement to bring a boy to Sunspear for seventy-five Dragons, had seemed like an easy payday. The boy delivered to the Dornish city was the bastard son of Roose Bolton, but Bronn didn’t care. He had no interest in ever going to the North – too fucking cold – nor in dealing with a bloody lord. Still, the boy had done something to anger Cregan, as after leaving with his pay, Bronn never heard nor saw the Bolton bastard again.

What had been unexpected was Cregan, though he had not learnt the name, had asked Bronn to remain in Sunspear for a while as he might have more work for him. Bronn, with the pouch full of Dragons in his hand, had agreed. He hadn’t expected that to lead anywhere, but the chance to make more coin had been all the convincing Bronn needed to remain. Especially as Cregan didn’t give the impression he planned to silence Bronn to protect the death of the Bolton bastard.

Yet, after he had enjoyed his share of wine and women in the Shadow City, Bronn had met Cregan again, this time learning who Cregan was. The idea to attack an island in the Stepstones, under orders of Prince Doran no less, had intrigued Bronn. The promise of good pay serving to convince him to sign on.

Learning that he’d be working for the young man – no one who got that much pussy could be called a boy – was not something Bronn had been sure of, but seeing the plans Cregan had for Dustspear, and his willingness to fight dirty to win offered encouragement. Yet, after Dustspear was taken, and they’d gained a small fortune in the process, Cregan had revealed an intent to carve out an empire in the Steps for himself and those willing to follow.

Bronn was not one to care about politics. He cared only for coin, pussy, and battle: The latter only preferred if the chances of him dying were low. Still, Cregan had been true to his word in Sunspear, and again on Dustspear when he’d talked of raiding The Whores, and he paid very well. Certainly, better than any company Bronn had served with in Essos during his travels there. Though Bronn knew in those he’d been a fucking grunt expected to die in the first battle, with Cregan he was an officer; a Captain no less.

Bronn liked the new rank, mainly for the increased pay it brought, but he disliked having to lead men. or at least men as fucking undisciplined and unskilled as those who had knelt before Cregan. Bronn knew these men, and calling them that was a fucking disgrace, were nothing more than bodies for Cregan to throw into battle, but Bronn now had to lead them. Which meant ensuring they didn’t do anything stupid that resulted in Bronn’s death.

The slightest hint of movement ahead of him caused Bronn to tense. The shift in the shadows that caught his eye grew larger, revealing the form of the massive fucking direwolf that followed Cregan around. How such a beast could move so silently to sneak up on him and others, Bronn didn’t know, but he was glad whatever gods had created such a monster that it was on his side.

“Fuck!” a man a few steps behind Bronn hissed out. “That fucking thing almost stopped my heart.”

“Just be glad he’s on our side,” Bronn whispered back, keeping his voice low because of where they were, and to remind the idiot to mind his tongue.

“Aye. Heard what it can do. Not seen it though.”

Bronn turned back to Ymir, the beast’s eyes locking onto his as if knowing it was being talked about. Which, given its intelligence, it might well could. “Not sure you want to,” Bronn remembered vividly seeing the direwolf rip limbs from men as if snapping kindling for a fire and had no interest in experiencing that firsthand.

That Cregan had such beasts had not come as a surprise to Bronn. Many nobles, and even some bastards, kept rare and unusual animals for amusing the dumb fucks that hung around them. What had confused Bronn for a long time was how close Cregan was with them. Letting a viper known to kill men with a single bite coil around your neck was normally the mark of a very stupid man. Bronn had understood quickly that Cregan was brave but far from stupid, though it was only in the last few moons that Bronn had learnt the truth. Hells, he was still at times finding it hard to believe, even with having seen small displays of magic and trickery in Essos.

Ymir being here allowed Cregan to remain aware of their movements, and while Bronn could not deny the benefits of that, it still unnerved him. He could never tell, even when made aware when Cregan was inside the beast, or when it was just Ymir looking back at him. Bronn would also never admit to anyone that the idea of seeing the world through the eyes of an eagle intrigued him.

He had stood at the top of several high places in Westeros and Essos and always marvelled at how those down below looked like ants. To see them from the clouds would be something else entirely. And yes, Bronn knew that many would call what Cregan – and maybe others with Stark blood – could do as evil, but those people were all dumb cunts. Seeing things from above, or through the eyes of a fucking direwolf, would offer advantages that anyone who understood war would kill for.

That was proven, again, when the fleet had once they had reached Redwater. Hearing Cregan detail Vaegon the Firetouched bases, manpower, ships, the location of watchtowers, and the path between the bases was impressive. And with them having already dispatched men to take out the southern watchtower, something they were actively using. Several of the men had asked how Bronn, Daemon, Cregan and others knew of the watchtowers, but the dumb fucks didn’t deserve to know the truth. Hells, many might not accept it. Cregan, the smart bugger that he was, lied his arse off well enough to cover things that Bronn would’ve believed Cregan if he'd not known the truth.

Movement to the far left drew Bronn’s focus, his hand settling over the hilt of his blade. However, it was Daemon Sand. The Bastard of Godsgrace, and Sworn Shield of Cregan’s princess, was the one in command of the men already on the island. While Daemon was far younger than Bronn, Bronn had no issues following the knight’s command. Compared to some of the stupid arseholes he’d had to fight for, Daemon was a genius in comparison, and while he wasn’t on Bronn’s level, the young knight had skill with a blade. Perhaps not with his tongue or cock though as he’d yet to bed the young pup he’d set his eyes upon.

That girl, who was pretty but far too nice and unseasoned for Bronn’s tastes, was a fun way to tease the Dornishman. And before they’d sailed for Redwater, Bronn had made sure the whore he’d hired from the small number in Northpoint spent the night being very vocal about their fucking. Both because Bronn had fucked her hard, and because Daemon was in the room nearby and needed to hear how you handled a woman.

Daemon made a few motions with his hand, and after deciphering the message, Bronn replied in kind. The commands were simple but effective. That Cregan, as with his crews, had created a set of commands for them and the officers to use that was both similar yet different from commands Bronn had encountered in sellsword companies was another mark in Cregan’s favour. Or at least Bronn’s interest in continuing to be paid to fight for the Bloody Wolf.

While some might feel Cregan was building a sellsword company to command, Bronn, like the other leaders who had been with him since before the taking of Dustspear, knew different. Cregan was planning to become Lord of the Stepstones or at least a large portion of it. It was a fucking ambitious plan, but so far Bronn hadn’t seen any signs Cregan wouldn’t manage to control a good portion of the islands. That, as much as it might surprise many who knew him, had him turning his thoughts to a longer-term view.

Bronn had never considered what his future might hold, but seeing what Cregan was creating in the Steps had him wondering about his place in that. Cregan was, to many in Northpoint, among the men, and back in Dorne, a Lord in name already. Yet he could not rule all the islands or even most of them. He’d need to place others in command of them.

Daemon was the obvious choice; the knight was close to Cregan and was courting his cousin, however, Bronn did wonder if perhaps, one day, he might gain command of an island. He knew he’d grow restless of staying in one place of dealing with the bullshit that Cregan dealt with in Northpoint, but the idea of having a location to return to, of men and fleets to command held appeal. Those ideas though were fleeting dreams of what might be, not what was.

Cregan would probably fail in his goals – Bronn expected it whenever the wolf moved against The Shrouded Isle or Bloodstone – so it was pointless to focus on the idea of becoming something more than a sellsword. It was safer, and wiser to continue serving for now and earning a large amount of coin. Then, when it looked Cregan would fail, or someone offered him more for his services, Bronn would leave. And with that coin, his blade wet with the blood of others, and his heart racing from the excitement of battle, Bronn would return to the Shadow City and find that lovely YiTish whore to enjoy a few more nights of pleasure from her skilful hands, mouth, and cunt.

… …

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… …

(Cregan’s POV)

I turned my head, using the Myrish Eye to scan the coast of Redwater from the foredeck of the Red Kraken. We were sailing around the southern edge of the island, bringing the watchtower there into view. I was pleased to see that while there were bodies there, none reacted to the emergence of my fleet into their sight range. That meant Daemon had secured the tower, but as intended left the men upright to project the idea the post was still manned if any spotted it at a distance. It was likely men would be sent to relieve the dead, but Daemon had orders to use about twenty men to move slowly along any path from the watchtower toward the southern port.

The rest of the men would move toward the hill that the track between Vaegon’s two ports banked around. That was the obvious weak point in the track and with the number of men I’d sent with Daemon and Bronn, along with Ymir so that I might stay in contact with them, ensuring the ports were cut off when the fleet attacked the southern port shouldn’t be an issue.

Only one other watchtower had been spotted on my recon flights, and that was placed along the coast from Vaegon’s northern port. From there, they could see the movement of ships in the bay if they tried to slip around the small island, or if anything sailed in the sea near Redwater. That watchtower was to be ignored for now, as taking that out would alert the northern port to a threat, and I wanted them to remain as unprepared as possible.

In Vaegon’s place, in addition to the watchtowers to the east of each port, I’d have placed men on the hill along the track between the ports, and if manageable, bells in each location and on the hill. That would allow the rapid transfer of warnings between the ports, and cause an attacker serious issues. That Vaegon hadn’t done that was something that was helping my plans, and suggested that attacks on either port were only ever intended to harass and not secure. Vaegon might have watchtowers to the west, designed to monitor movement by Rakakz which would explain why the eastern coast had so few monitoring stations, and the ports lacked a quick and easy way to warn of danger. However, until I had him, or one of his lieutenants, on their knees before me, it was unlikely I’d discover if that was the case.

Once Redwater was secure, manning, securing, and expanding the defences on the south of the island would be my priority. I didn’t have the manpower to secure the entire island from the get-go, but the place had more potential than Dustspear for supporting settlements. At a guess, I’d say with time and proper protection the island could comfortably provide for ten to twenty thousand, however, until I was able to examine the entirety of the island I couldn’t make anything more than a rough estimate of the island’s potential. Beyond the wider world issues that awaited Westeros in the next few years, the more obvious issue with developing Redwater was the other Pirate Lords. Specifically, Salladhor Saan, The Lotus Prince, and the lord of Stormwatch.

Those three controlled the islands to the west of Redwater, and could if they wanted, move to take the island. Of the three, only Saan had the forces to attack and hold the island, though if he did, The Lotus Prince would likely sail with him as an ally. The intel I had, which I admitted was spotty at best, suggested the pair had an alliance. They both focused on taxing vessels sailing near their islands and offering protection for the full journey. That did suggest the pair might be open to a peace treaty of sorts, but I’d only be dealing with them, and the lord of Stormwatch – who, it was claimed had ties to Lys – once Redwater was under my banner.

My gaze shifted, moving along the coast toward where the port lay. It was still too far away to be easily visible through the Eye, but because I knew where to look I could just pick out the faint haze of the port. “Scouts have secured the tower,” I said without lowering the Eye. “Signal the other vessels to form up.”

Behind me, Edric and Trystane stood. I heard one of them, Edric I suspected, turn. He should be signalling the other ships, alerting them that the path was clear. I’d had the pair learn the system of flag signals and positions I’d developed for me men, and Edric had picked it up quicker. While there were standard signals used by fleets in Westeros and Essos, I wanted something just for my men. That would, in theory, make it harder for anyone to capture one of my vessels and sail it into Northpoint or close to another ship without giving themselves away. The issue was that, because it was an entirely new system, I had to keep it simple and only have my officers, along with the various ship Captains and First Mates learn them. There were also a few gestures I’d created that wouldn’t stand out to others, but could help, in theory, signal that their vessel was carrying enemies and they had been captured.

It was a risk to have former pirates and sellswords learn these commands, as it wouldn’t take much for most to reveal those commands under torture, but I felt it was a worthwhile idea to implement. As a bonus, it would help generate a sense of camaraderie between my senior warriors, making them loyal to each other and me.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

After ensuring that, as far as I could tell, there was no movement in the port, I lowered the Eye. Rian was high above the island, keeping watch of the comings and goings of men and ships from both ports, though he’d only alert me if something happened in the southern port.

As I slid the Eye back into the padded container it stayed in, I looked at the Kraken and the rest of the fleet. With about a hundred and fifty men on the island, it meant each ship was running light on crew. Since the wind was carrying us to the east, that hadn’t yet been an issue, but as we approached the port and had to row hard to rush them, it might well be. If the men in the port chose to stand and fight, then I’d need Daemon’s men to strike from the north as we beached our warships. That would be easy to communicate because of Ymir, but it was only one of three choices the pirates in the port could take. The other two, which were to sail forth and engage, or attempt to flee on their galleys, were more problematic.

A direct assault was unlikely, as I had the numerical advantage. Something that was further enhanced by the fact I had two war galleys, and every ship carried double the number of scorpions they had when I’d captured them. The ability to launch volleys of bolts at anything that neared us – each war galley had four forward-facing scorpions and two more along each side while the galleys had half that – would make a naval battle one-sided and hopefully convince those battling us to either turn and run or surrender. Given my lack of manpower on my ships, those were preferable to boarding actions, however, if the pirates turned and ran; even after getting close enough that my fleet to attack them with bolts, it would cause me issues.

Taking the port, and then moving overland to the other under Vaegon’s control, would be problematic if even two galleys remained at sea. They could either land along the coasts and attempt to harass those holding the port or after the majority left to take the other base, assault it. I couldn’t risk losing my fleet, nor being trapped between forces in both ports, however, I had a few plans to ensure the pirates that would soon see my fleet didn’t attempt an outright flee.

The first, and it was one the fleet was slowly shifting into, was a formation designed to hide my numbers. The two war galleys would take the lead, sailing close together without risking the oars becoming entangled. The galleys would slip in behind us, hiding as best they could from sight from the port. If there were men along the coast, then they’d see it was more than just two vessels approaching the port, but it was unlikely that was the case, and even if it were, they’d have to sprint to the port to arrive before we did.

The other plan was a more unusual one, and something that when I’d mentioned it to Daemon and the others, they’d looked at me as if I’d gone mad. However, I had faith in my plan and had the birds to pull it off.

… …

“Very well then,” I muttered about two hours later as I once more looked through the Myrish Eye at Vaegon’s southern port.

The ships there – only three of the four galleys I’d spotted during my aerial recon – were readying themselves to sally forth. Since they, hopefully, were only seeing two war galleys bearing down on them, they might well feel they had a chance to capture one or both vessels. Either that or they planned to sail to wherever the other galley was, and then, if we moved to take the port, attack us from the sea.

“Signal for attack formation,” I said without lowering the Eye as the first galley slid forward. Edric would ensure the signal was sent, and as the pirate vessels prepared to slip from the port, they’d find themselves facing six ships instead of two moving in a simple, but effective Flying-V formation.

At that point, the base commander would be more inclined to run than fight, either at sea or on land. He might, however, decide it wiser to abandon the port entirely and retreat to the northern one. That would be my least preferred option, but with one… no two galleys free of their lines, they’d be short on manpower. Enough that Daemon’s men should be able to ambush them and either force a surrender or hold them long enough that my men could rush out to strike the pirates from the rear.

If the last galley slipped its mooring, which looked likely, then I suspected they’d turn north. Through Rian I’d discovered two galleys sailing that way, seemingly having come from this port, toward a port further northward. They were either going to raid Rakakz’s port or sail close enough to it to draw men out. Either way, that meant a good percentage of Vaegon’s men in my targeted port were absent. They were far enough away that they shouldn’t be an issue for taking the port, but I didn’t want the other galleys and men aboard them linking up with those two.

I’d already alerted Daemon and Bronn that we were nearing the port when I’d last spoken to them via Ymir. While Bronn had found it funny watching Daemon speak to the direwolf, at least until I growled at him, they were ready for runners heading to alert the northern port, at least if they travelled via the track. While it was unlikely the commander of this port would do so, seeing ships approaching from the west, and not having been alerted by the watchtower, I’d send men through the forest to the north, flanking the track on the chance there were men there ready to attack the port. There was a chance I was overthinking things, but I felt safer assuming my opposite number was smart as I was less likely to be surprised by them doing something than if I assumed they were nothing more than dumb pirates.

The last galley slipped from the dock, and I smiled. “Warn the men to prepare for attack speed.” The sound of footsteps meant Trystane had left the foredeck. He’d pass the orders along to the captain and officers of the Kraken. Regardless of the pirate galleys turned to attack or run, we’d be hunting them down.

A small, possibly vicious smile crept onto my face as I continued to watch the galleys. Part of me hoped they’d turn and run. Not only would it save me from committing men to a sea battle, but I’d also get the chance to test out my newest offensive tactic. One that I felt had never been seen in these seas, if not anywhere on the planet. Not since magic had run rampant, and skinchanging was more accepted and encouraged.

… …

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… …

(Pirate POV)

The commander looked back from the quarterdeck of his galley. Curses rattled around his head, aimed at whoever led the fleet chasing them, which was responsible for driving them from the port. The sails of all four ships bore a sigil he’d never seen before. The only thing that stood out about it, bar the black wolf’s head that dominated the mark, was that it bore more similarity to something from Westeros than Essos.

He had hoped the fleet would let them slip away and sail straight into the port, but the man commanding that fleet was smarter than that. While two of the fleet, simply galleys akin to his, had sailed into the port, the rest had turned to pursue. While the commander feared the war galleys might row them down, it seemed they were slower than his ships, probably because they’d rowed hard to reach the port in the hope of trapping him, his ships, and his men there.

While he had been forced to abandon the port, something Vaegon would understand when he explained it to him, it angered the commander to do so. He’d worked from that port for ten years, commanding it for the last four. It was his home, and allowing anyone else in, even for a morning, was too long. Still, Vaegon would soon receive the runners the Commander had sent and be preparing a force to retake the port.

While that was going on, and with it adding two new ships to their fleet, the commander intended to draw those chasing him away. His two other galleys were to the north, watching the movements of Rakakz’s men and seeing if there might be a lone trade vessel to attack. Meeting up with those ships would give the commander the numbers to turn and engage his pursuers, the trick was to ensure the chasing fleet remained close enough to want to pursue, but not close enough that the scorpions – the commander had seen three possibly four on the foredeck of the lead war galley – could attempt to damage his galleys.

Shouts of confusion had the commander turn, and as he looked at the deck, he saw several men near the main mast had stopped rowing. A few had even stood, pulling back from two locations. “The fuck are they doing,” he snarled, marching past the helmsman toward the confusion. “The fuck is going on?” He shouted as he leapt down the small set of steps to the main deck.

Most of the men who’d abandoned their post quickly shifted to return to them, not wanting to anger the commander. Others, particularly those who’d moved away, didn’t though, with several pointing at the mast. Looking up, the commander cursed when he saw a small hole in the centre of the sail. A grunt of annoyance slipped from him a moment later when the hole tore wider.

“Row harder, you fuckers!” he shouted, wanting the men to pick up the slack because of the damaged sail. Yet, as he focused on the tear, watching it widen some more, he wondered how it had happened. Sails didn’t suddenly rip, and certainly not in their centre where they were strongest. It was possible one of the slaves had fucked up when repairing the sail, but that idea was dismissed as he knew the sail had last been repaired half a moon ago, with the galley having gone to sea a half dozen times since then.

The commander’s attention shifted to the two small groups of men who hadn’t resumed rowing. Their faces – names if he could remember them – went in his memory, the lot due for a flogging for their fucking actions unless they had good reason to abandon their posts. He moved to the closest group first, seeing one of the pair picking up a seagull.

A glance back at the sail, and the commander understood the bird had flown into the sail. Why it would do such a thing, he couldn’t say, nor did he care. All that mattered was the dead thing had ripped the sail, costing them speed. A problem that was going to grow worse. “Toss it overboard and then back to your oars or you gonna join it!” The commander snarled. Turning from them, he looked at the crew not manning the oars. “Trim the sail as best you can. I do not want that tear widening and costing us speed,” He said, thrusting an arm toward the damaged main sail.

As the men moved to obey, the commander moved to the other group that was standing. Those were on the other side of the mast, and four men were stomping panickily at something on the deck. The men nearby were glancing at the actions but were smart enough to keep rowing.

“What the fuck is going on?” The commander snarled, making the men stop. One man, who’d stop with his leg reared up to stamp on the deck, stumbled back, landing on others who were busy rowing. “Watch what you fucking doing fool!”

His hand moved to his hilt, preparing to gut this idiot and toss the body into the sea only to pause as something on the deck caught his eye. Looking down, the commander gasped, wondering how the small section of rope had ended up on their deck, and why in the Gods’ names, was it burning. Under the flickers of flame, he saw the rope was darkened, which was even odder as rope didn’t do that unless it had burnt for a long time and this section looked to be otherwise in good condition.

“Toss it,” he ordered, his gaze turning to the men trying pathetically to stamp it out. The man stopped; confused or concerned by the order. “Do it or you be the one going over.” Grumbling, though not loud enough that the commander heard and had a reason to gut him, the man looked around frantically, seeing something to grasp the burning rope with. As he did, the commander knelt, examining the rope. He frowned when he caught the smell coming from the rope. “The fuck?” He muttered, wondering why the rope was soaked in tar. That was beyond fucking stupid and meant the men who’d been stamping on the rope would never put it out. Hells, even tossing it in the water might not extinguish the flames, but at least it would be off his ship.

The man ordered to remove it came closer, a bucket in hand. The commander stepped back, watching the man pathetically kick the rope into the bucket. Thick fumes rose for the bucket as it was lifted, and the commander turned, glad this stupidly odd moment was over.

“Sir!” The call came from one of the men not manning the oars. “The Fear’s ablaze!”

The commander spun, not believing the words, and when he looked at the galley that lay off their starboard, about half a length behind, he didn’t see any hint of fire. At least not until he glanced at the Fear’s main sail. It was a minor thing, unworthy of the suggestion the ship was ablaze, but the sail was on fire.

The commander’s eyes narrowed as, under the small but growing flames, he saw a hole in the sail. It was in roughly the same location as the one in the sails aboard his ship. That another ship had suffered damage to its sail in the same location was insanely fucking unlikely. Add in that the growing fire that would engulf the sail before the tear destroyed it, possibly if it grew strong enough, damage the main mast, and the commander understood they were under attack. The question was how it wa…

His eyes shifted, seeing the carcass of the recently tossed gull catch one of the Fear’s oars. “Fuck me sideways,” he muttered. His mind was putting the pieces together, and while they seemed impossible, it was the only explanation he could come up with.

“Archers!” He called, turning back to his men. “To the ready!” the men, archer or not, all turned to look at him; most of those manning the oars slowing or stopping their action. “NOW! GODS DAMNIT!” The commander roared, his hand grasping the hilt of his blade to make clear that disobeying wasn’t an option.

Since many of the archers were manning the sails, it meant they had to scramble from their benches. That the bows were stored at either end of the main deck added to the confusion, though as the commander turned, looking back at the Fear, he knew it was needed.

Somehow, someone was making birds – he couldn’t be sure a gull had attacked the Fear, but it seemed likely – attack their sails while carrying tar-soaked burning sections of rope. The majority of his mind was reeling, struggling to believe what he was seeing, but it was the only explanation, even as beyond insane as it sounded, that made any sense.

“Fuck!” The Commander cursed as the flames spread over the Fear’s sail, the cloth carrying the flames outward. While there was a chance the wind might extinguish the fire before it engulfed the entire sail, the Fear was already slowing, now nearly a full length behind his vessel.

He turned around, wanting to see if the Terror was under attack, yet as his eyes drifted westward he stopped. He swore he saw something in the air behind them. Pushing his way to the quarterdeck as the men rushed to ready bows and gather their quivers, he leapt up the short flight of stairs to stand next to the helmsman. The man tried to keep his eyes forward, but the commander could see the confusion in the man’s eyes; and the hints of fear that the commander was going insane.

The commander ignored it, not least as he was still struggling to accept what he felt was happening and moved to the stern, gazing at the chasing fleet. He cursed his luck that, in the haste to rush to attack the galleys he’d forgotten his Myrish Eye. He’d not thought they’d need it as the two war galleys had been sailing straight for the port suggesting they wanted battle. He understood the larger ships had simply been covering for those behind them, and he respected whoever was commanding the fleet for forcing him to turn and run, but it still didn’t excuse his failure to not bring the Eye.

His gaze shifted, catching again the speck in the sky. Hints of red or orange against the dull blue sky made the object stand out. The commander watched as the flickers grew larger, and when the flaps of wings became visible, he had his proof of what was happening. He still struggled to believe it, but dwelling on the how and why could wait until after the attack was ended.

“Motherfucker!” he shouted, knowing that someone on the chasing fleet was behind this, even as he watched the bird, and its burning cargo, drifted away from his vessel. “Signal the Terror!” He shouted. “Tell them to shoot that bird!” He added, pointing at the offending creature.

“Sir?”

At the confused response from his First Mate, he turned, his arm staying up and in the rough direction of the bird. “DO IT! NOW!” the First Mate nodded, before turning and relaying the order to the signalman. Yet even as that man lifted the flags, the commander knew it was too little, too late. The Terror’s captain wouldn’t understand the order, and that delay, along with getting his archers ready, would mean the bird would crash into the Terror’s sails. Just as one had for his ship and the Fear.

The commander watched the bird as it turned, angling toward its target, totally unconcerned by the fact flames were brushing against its feather. His mind returned to the gull that had landed on his deck. The feathers on the bird’s underside had been darkened, but the commander had ignored it, believing it was just a trick of the light or an unusual pattern. Now though he understood, however reluctantly, that the bird had been burnt by the burning rope as it carried it toward him.

Nothing about that made sense, as no animal willingly held something that harmed them, nor ignored the pain burning skin and flesh caused. Yet this was the third bird that had done so. And, as he watched it dive toward the Terror, he knew it was doing it intentionally.

Nothing, absolutely nothing about this made any sense. Not unless someone on the chasing fleet was some twisted sorcerer. The commander had heard the stories of what men did in the Far East; rumours of the dark arts practised in Qarth, YiTi, and Asshai, but he’d never believed them. Or more accurately, that what the stories said was fully true. Yet, as the bird slammed into the Terror’s main sail, he accepted that perhaps there was more than just a hint of truth to those stories.

He also knew what had happened with his vessel. The bird attacking them had come in at too sharp an angle. The bird had pierced the sails, but the speed had carried it and the flaming rope through the sail before the cloth could catch alight. Again, even though he knew that was what had happened, he struggled to accept it, even as the crew of the Terror reacted in panic to the flames that appeared on their sail.

The commander turned back to the chasing fleet, watching as their sails extended, the war galleys pushing ahead of their escorts, confirming this was all their doing. “Damn you!” The commander snarled, shaking an impotent fist at their pursuers. “Damn, you all straight to the gates of Hell!”

The war galleys didn’t respond, at least beyond continuing to close on his small fleet. A few moments later, as the Terror started to slow, and the Fear continued to fall back, the commander saw another bird rise from the lead war galley. Or more accurately, he caught the flicker of flame from the bird’s dangerous cargo.

“Fuck!” He snarled as the flicker rose higher and then another moment later the war galley launched bolts at the Fear. Only one struck, but it was luck and caught the mizzen sail, removing the last chance the galley had of using the wind to outrun the larger vessels bearing down on it.

“Fuck!” He cursed again, knowing what he had to do. Turning, he moved toward the main deck. “Archers, to your oars!” Many of the crew looked at him as if he’d lost his mind again, yet he didn’t care. The bird in the air was heading for them, and their only real chance was to attempt to outrun it while those chasing them captured or sunk the Fear and Terror. Vaegon might well string him alive for losing the port and two of his galleys, but for now all the commander cared about was surviving to fight another day, and escaping the evil that was chasing him. “NOW!”