# The Harbor of New Ghis
The port town of New Ghis clung to the coastline like a barnacle that had learned ambition—small enough to avoid notice from the great powers, large enough to profit from their conflicts. Harry stood at the *Fawkes*' rail as they approached, watching the harbor resolve from suggestion to detail through his Omniocular.
"Twenty ships at anchor," he reported to Koro, who stood beside him with his own device. "Mix of merchants and fishing vessels. No Triarchy war galleys that I can see."
"Good," Koro said, tracking the harbor's defenses. "Two watchtowers, minimal garrison. This place survives by being beneath notice. They will not ask difficult questions about who we are or what we carry."
"And the prisoners?" Harry glanced back at the fifteen freed slaves scattered across the *Fawkes*' deck. Septa Sarya had spent the night tending them—treating injuries, offering comfort, and somehow producing enough food from their limited supplies that no one had gone to sleep hungry. They looked better now. Still hollow-eyed, still bearing the marks of captivity, but *better*.
"We find them passage home," Koro said firmly. "Or to wherever they wish to go. They are free—that means their choice, not ours."
Johanna Swann was approaching, moving with more confidence than she'd shown yesterday. She'd borrowed clothes from Jarla—leather trousers and a simple tunic that fit poorly but were infinitely better than the rags she'd been wearing. Her dark hair was tied back, and there was something in her expression that suggested the Lady was beginning to remember herself.
"Captain Potter," she said, and Harry noticed she'd claimed the title on his behalf before he could protest it. "Might I speak with you?"
"Of course." Harry stepped away from the rail, giving her space. "What do you need?"
"Clarity," Johanna said bluntly. "You've freed us. You've fed us. You've promised to take us to port. But you're also pirates—you said so yourself. So I need to know: what happens when we reach New Ghis? Are we prisoners of a different sort? Hostages for ransom? Cargo to be sold to someone with better manners than the last lot?"
Harry blinked. He'd expected gratitude, maybe fear, possibly that hollow acceptance that came with prolonged trauma. Not this direct challenge.
"You're free," he said simply. "No conditions. No ransom. When we dock, you can go wherever you want. Home, if you have a home worth returning to. Somewhere new, if you don't. We'll even give you coin for passage and supplies."
Johanna studied him with uncomfortable intensity. "Why?"
"Because slavery is obscene," Harry said, feeling the words emerge with more heat than he'd intended. "Because no one deserves to be property. Because I *can* help and therefore I *should* help. Is that not reason enough?"
"Most people require profit as motivation."
"We made profit," Harry pointed out. "Fifteen thousand gold dragons, give or take. That slaver ship was carrying a fortune. But that's separate from this. You're not cargo. You're people who deserved to be rescued."
Johanna's expression shifted—something complicated that might have been belief fighting with cynicism. "My uncle would say that's naive. That mercy is weakness. That the strong take what they can and the weak suffer what they must."
"Your uncle," Harry said quietly, "let you be sold to slavers rather than pay your ransom. So perhaps his philosophy is worth questioning."
She flinched like he'd struck her. For a moment, Harry thought he'd pushed too hard—that the wound was too fresh and he'd just driven the knife deeper.
But then Johanna laughed. Not the broken sound from yesterday, but something with genuine humor in it.
"You're right," she said. "Seven hells, you're absolutely right. My uncle is a coward and a fool and I've spent months trying to convince myself otherwise." She met Harry's eyes. "So. If I'm truly free to choose—what would you recommend?"
"What do you want?" Harry asked.
"I don't know anymore," Johanna admitted. "Before all this, I wanted a good marriage. A comfortable life. Children, maybe. The normal things noble girls want." Her expression darkened. "But that girl died in a slaver's hold. And the one who survived..." She gestured at herself. "I don't know what she wants yet. Except to not be helpless again."
Harry understood that feeling better than he wanted to admit. "Then figure it out," he said. "You have time now. Take it. Use it. And if you need help—coin, passage, references—we'll provide what we can."
"You're very strange for a pirate," Johanna observed.
"I'm very strange for most things," Harry agreed. "It's been mentioned."
---
They docked at New Ghis under a merchant flag that Lysaro had produced from somewhere in the *Fawkes*' hold—three yellow flowers on a green field, the sigil of some minor house that probably didn't even exist. The harbormaster barely glanced at them before waving them through, more interested in collecting his docking fee than investigating their cargo.
"Twenty silver stags," Jarla muttered as they paid. "Robbery. This harbor's not even properly maintained."
"Small price for not being questioned," Koro pointed out.
They'd agreed on a story during the approach: they were merchants from Pentos, blown off course by storms, carrying rescued passengers from a wreck. Close enough to the truth that it wouldn't trip them up under casual scrutiny, vague enough that it discouraged deeper questions.
The town itself was a chaotic mix of cultures—Ghiscari brick mixing with Westerosi timber, street vendors shouting in three languages, and the pervasive smell of fish, spice, and desperation that characterized every port Harry had ever visited.
"Right," Harry said, gathering the crew and the freed prisoners on the dock. "Priorities: food, supplies, information. Jarla, you're in charge of provisions—get us proper stores, not just the slaver's wine and hardtack. Marro, Varos—see if you can find bronze for more cannons and better metalworking tools. Lysaro, Timoro, Varro—blend in, listen, find out what's happening in the Stepstones. I want to know if the Crabfeeder's noticed anything unusual."
"And the prisoners?" Septa Sarya asked.
"We help them however they need." Harry turned to the fifteen freed slaves, who were clustered together with the uncertain cohesion of people who'd survived trauma as a group. "You're free. Completely free. But this port is dangerous, so I'd recommend you stay together until you've figured out where you're going. We'll provide coin for passage—"
"How much?" Johanna interrupted.
Harry blinked. "What?"
"How much coin per person? I want to know what I'm worth to you. What we're all worth."
It was a test. Harry recognized it—she was still trying to figure out if this was real or just another trap wearing a friendlier face.
"Fifty gold dragons per person," Harry said without hesitation. "Enough for passage anywhere in the known world, with money left over for supplies and starting fresh." He pulled out a small chest from the slaver's treasure—one they'd set aside specifically for this. "Seven hundred fifty gold dragons total. Consider it reparations for what was done to you."
The prisoners stared at him like he'd just announced the sea was made of wine.
"That's..." Johanna's voice actually shook. "That's a fortune. That's more than most minor lords see in a year."
"That's what freedom costs when you have to buy it," Harry said. "And you shouldn't have to buy it at all, but the world's not fair." He set the chest down in front of them. "Split it however you want. Use it however you want. Just... be careful. A lot of people in ports like this would kill you for a single gold dragon, let alone fifty."
"We'll protect them," Septa Sarya said, her serene expression not quite hiding the steel beneath. "I have business in the town anyway—finding proper medicine supplies, speaking with the local faithful. I'll make sure they reach wherever they're going safely."
"Thank you," Johanna said, and this time it sounded like she meant it. She looked at Harry with an expression he couldn't quite read. "You're either the best liar I've ever met, or you actually mean this. I'm still not sure which."
"Time will tell," Harry said. "But for what it's worth—I hope you figure out what you want. And I hope you get it."
---
The crew dispersed into New Ghis with the practiced efficiency of people who'd learned to navigate hostile territory. Harry kept Koro with him—his second-in-command's presence was useful for intimidation, and the Summer Islander's knowledge of ports made him invaluable for gathering information.
They found a tavern called The Broken Oar that catered to sailors and asked no questions. The common room was dark, smoky, and filled with the kind of people who'd seen too much to be easily shocked. Perfect.
Harry ordered wine—terrible wine, but he'd developed a tolerance for it during their weeks on the island—and settled into a corner where he could watch the room. Koro took position beside him, his gold eyes tracking every person who entered or left.
"Information flows in places like this," Koro observed quietly. "Sailors talk. Merchants gossip. We just have to listen."
He was right. Within an hour, Harry had learned:
The Crabfeeder had increased patrols after an "incident" near his fortress—something about a ship going missing and soldiers reporting impossible magic. The Triarchy was offering bounties for information about "foreign mages operating in the Stepstones."
Lord Corlys Velaryon was losing patience with King Viserys' refusal to intervene. Rumors suggested he might act independently, possibly with Prince Daemon's support.
A Pentoshi merchant had lost three ships to the blockade in as many weeks. He was hiring sellsails—anyone willing to risk the Stepstones for double wages and a share of cargo.
And perhaps most interesting: there were whispers of a "ghost ship" that had appeared near the fortress, glowing with strange lights and moving impossibly fast.
"They're talking about us," Koro said, amused. "Already we are becoming legend."
"Legends attract attention," Harry said. "And attention attracts problems."
"Good," Koro said. "Let the Crabfeeder hear rumors. Let him wonder what comes for him. Fear is useful."
A woman approached their table—middle-aged, wearing the practical clothes of a merchant captain, with eyes that had seen too many disasters to fear one more. She carried herself with the authority of someone used to command.
"You're the ones who docked under the Pentoshi flower flag," she said without preamble. "But you're not Pentoshi. Wrong accent, wrong bearing. So who are you really?"
Harry studied her, reading the signs: calloused hands from working rigging, a sword worn with the ease of long practice, and most tellingly, a small pin on her collar showing three locked chains broken in the middle.
An abolitionist symbol. Rare in Essos, dangerous to wear openly.
"We're people who don't like slavers," Harry said carefully. "And who do something about it when we encounter them."
The woman's eyes sharpened. "I heard a slaver ship went missing two days ago. Jasper's *Mercy*—which was the least merciful name for a vessel I ever heard. Supposed to deliver cargo to Lys. Never arrived."
"Terrible shame," Koro said blandly. "The sea is dangerous."
"The sea is very dangerous," the woman agreed. "Especially for slavers operating near the Stepstones. Word is the *Mercy* wasn't just missing—she was destroyed. Cannons, some say. Magic, others claim. And her cargo..." She looked directly at Harry. "Her cargo showed up in New Ghis this morning with a fortune in gold and wild stories about pirates who free slaves instead of taking them."
Harry kept his expression neutral. "Sounds like an interesting story."
"Sounds like something I'd pay to know more about," the woman said. "My name is Captain Maris Thorne. I run a merchant company that specializes in... relocating people who don't want to be where they are. Former slaves seeking passage to free cities, mostly. It's dangerous work. Unprofitable. And the right thing to do."
"And you're telling us this why?" Harry asked.
"Because if there's someone out there with a ship fast enough to escape the Crabfeeder, powerful enough to take down slavers, and foolish enough to free prisoners instead of ransoming them..." Maris smiled. "Then that's someone I'd like to meet. Possibly work with. Possibly hire. Depending on their rates and their conscience."
Harry exchanged a glance with Koro. This could be a trap—some agent of the Triarchy fishing for information. Or it could be genuine. The pin suggested genuine, but the Triarchy was clever.
"Hypothetically," Harry said carefully, "if such a ship existed—what would you want it to do?"
"I have a problem," Maris said, settling into a chair without being invited. "Three weeks ago, I contracted to move forty refugees from a work camp near Volantis to Braavos. Former slaves who'd earned their freedom legally—rare, but it happens. I got them as far as the Stepstones, and then the Crabfeeder decided my ship was pirate and seized it. Took my crew, took my passengers, took everything I own."
"The Crabfeeder took legally freed slaves?" Koro's voice was very flat.
"The Crabfeeder doesn't care about legality. He cares about quotas. Staking one freedman out to drown sends the same message as staking a pirate—don't sail my waters without permission." Maris's expression was bleak. "My crew is dead. I watched them die. But the passengers—forty people who'd done nothing wrong except try to reach freedom—they're in his holding cells. And in two days, he's going to stake them out on his beach unless someone pays a ransom I can't possibly afford."
Harry felt something cold settle in his chest. The same feeling he'd had watching those prisoners emerge from the *Mercy's* hold. The feeling that had made him choose to be more than a weapon.
"Forty people," he said.
"Forty people," Maris confirmed. "Men, women, children. Their only crime was being in the wrong waters at the wrong time." She met his eyes. "I'm not asking you to do this for free. I can't pay what they're worth—I'm nearly broke after losing my ship. But I can pay something. And more importantly, I can provide information. I spent three days in the Crabfeeder's fortress before I managed to bribe my way out. I know his layout, his guard rotations, his weaknesses. That's worth something to someone planning to oppose him."
"What makes you think we're planning to oppose him?" Harry asked.
Maris smiled without humor. "Because you're here. Because you're asking questions. Because you attacked a slaver ship with cannons that shouldn't exist and magic that sounds like fairy tales. And because—" She tapped her broken chains pin. "Because people who actually care about slavery don't stop at saving one ship full of prisoners. They keep going until they run out of enemies or breath."
Koro laughed, genuine and delighted. "I like her, wave dancer. She sees clearly."
"Wave dancer?" Maris's eyebrow raised. "That's a Summer Islander term. You must be quite the crew."
Harry made a decision. Possibly a foolish one. Probably dangerous. But he'd already committed to being more than a weapon—might as well commit fully.
"The ship exists," he said. "And she's more impossible than rumors suggest. We're not ready to assault the Crabfeeder's fortress yet—we need more preparation, more supplies, more information. But..." He paused. "But forty people dying because no one would help them is unacceptable. So yes. We'll get your passengers back. In exchange for your information about the fortress and your help spreading word that slavers operating in the Stepstones are no longer safe."
Maris's expression shifted through several emotions before landing on something like relief mixed with disbelief. "You're serious."
"Completely serious. But we do this smart. I want every detail you remember about that fortress—maps if you can draw them, guard schedules, weak points, supply lines. Everything." Harry leaned forward. "And I want to know exactly where your passengers are being held and when this execution is supposed to happen."
"Two days from now," Maris said. "Dawn. The Crabfeeder likes dawn—says the crabs are hungriest then and the screaming carries better in the morning air." Her jaw tightened. "The prisoners are in cells on the north side of the fortress, near the beach he uses for his... work. Twenty guards normally, doubled on execution days."
"Doubled to forty guards," Koro mused. "Plus whatever garrison is in the fortress itself. Hundred men, maybe more."
"One hundred seventeen when I was there," Maris confirmed. "But they're not all soldiers. Clerks, stewards, slaves doing the actual work. Maybe eighty combat-capable men."
"Eighty versus nine," Harry said, doing the math. "Plus whatever crew is on the ships in harbor."
"The ships are the problem," Maris said. "The Crabfeeder keeps his fleet at anchor in the fortress harbor. Ten war galleys, fully crewed. If you go in loud, they'll be on you in minutes."
"Then we go in quiet," Harry said. "At least until we're not quiet anymore." He pulled out parchment and charcoal from his coat—the expanding pocket was endlessly useful. "Draw. Everything you remember. Start with the fortress layout and work outward."
Maris drew. She had the steady hand of someone who'd navigated by charts her whole life, and her memory was impressive. Within an hour, Harry had a rough but detailed map of the Crabfeeder's fortress, complete with guard stations, supply rooms, armories, and most importantly—the cells where forty people waited to die.
"This is good work," Harry said, studying the map. "This is... very good work."
"I spent three days planning my own escape," Maris said. "Turns out the same information is useful for planning someone else's rescue." She paused. "You're really going to do this. Storm the Crabfeeder's fortress. Free forty prisoners. And what—sail away before he can respond?"
"That's the plan," Harry confirmed. "More or less."
"You're either the bravest people I've ever met," Maris said slowly, "or the most suicidal."
"Both," Koro said cheerfully. "We contain multitudes."
---
They returned to the *Fawkes* to find the crew already assembled and waiting. Jarla had acquired three weeks' worth of proper provisions. Marro and Varos had found bronze stock and better metalworking tools. And Lysaro had gathered enough gossip and rumor to fill a book.
"The Crabfeeder's paranoid," Lysaro reported, his usual manic energy subdued by the seriousness of his news. "That missing slaver ship has him spooked. He's increased patrols, doubled harbor watch, and he's offering bounties for information about 'magical vessels with unusual capabilities.' So, you know. Subtle."
"Good," Harry said. "Let him be paranoid. Paranoid people make mistakes." He spread Maris's map across a crate. "Everyone gather round. We're going back to work sooner than planned."
He explained the situation—the forty prisoners, the scheduled execution, the opportunity and the danger. The crew listened with the focused attention of people who understood that their next decisions might be their last.
"Two days," Jarla said when he finished. "That's not much time to plan an assault on a fortress."
"It's enough time to plan a rescue," Harry corrected. "We're not trying to hold the fortress. We're not even trying to destroy it—not yet. We're just getting those prisoners out before they're murdered."
"Just," Marro muttered. "He says 'just' like it's a simple thing."
"It won't be simple," Harry admitted. "It'll be dangerous, probably chaotic, and we might not all survive it. So I'm not ordering anyone to come. This is volunteer only. If you want to sit this one out—"
"Are you joking?" Lysaro interrupted. "We're pirates now! Dashing pirates with a magic ship and questionable life choices! Of course we're going!"
"I want to see the cannons work in actual combat," Varos said, his eyes gleaming with manic enthusiasm. "Against a real target. With consequences."
"I want to hurt the Crabfeeder," Septa Sarya said with her characteristic serene violence. "This is the closest I've come. So yes."
"The ship wants to fight," Koro said simply. "I can feel it. She was built for this. As were we."
Marro held up his restored hand, flexing all five fingers. "You gave me these back. You made me whole. The least I can do is help you free people the Crabfeeder's trying to break."
Timoro and Varro simply nodded—their agreement given in that silent brother-language they shared.
And Jarla grinned, sharp and mercenary. "There's probably treasure in that fortress. Seems a shame to leave it."
Harry looked around at his crew—these broken, brilliant, slightly mad people who'd somehow become something more than the sum of their damage. And he felt something shift in his chest. Not quite the cold certainty of the Unspeakables' training. Something warmer. More human.
*Pride.*
"Right," he said. "Then here's the plan..."
---
They spent the next day and a half preparing with the manic focus of people who knew their lives depended on getting the details right.
Harry worked with Koro to plot their approach—how to use the *Fawkes*' speed and the darkness to get close without being spotted. They'd come in from the north, where Maris's map showed a small cove that the fortress's watchtowers couldn't observe. Beach the ship if necessary, go in on foot, extract the prisoners, and get back to the *Fawkes* before the alarm could fully mobilize the garrison.
Simple plan. Probably a terrible plan. But the best they had with limited time.
Varos and Marro worked on a new weapon—something Varos called a "breaching charge." Basically a concentrated explosive designed to blow through doors or walls. They'd need it to get into the cells quickly without wasting time picking locks.
"The beauty," Varos explained, eyes gleaming with dangerous enthusiasm, "is that it's *directional*. All the force goes one way—through the door—instead of exploding everywhere and killing us all. Probably. I'm like seventy percent sure."
"Seventy percent," Jarla repeated flatly. "Those are not encouraging odds, Varos."
"Would you prefer we pick the locks while guards shoot at us?" Varos countered. "Because that's the alternative. Breaching charges or certain death. I know which I prefer."
They tested the charge on an abandoned building at the edge of New Ghis, away from prying eyes. The door disintegrated in a directed blast that was shockingly precise for something invented by a madman with notebooks full of explosive calculations.
"SEVENTY PERCENT!" Varos screamed in triumph as debris settled. "I WAS BEING CONSERVATIVE! IT WORKED PERFECTLY!"
"Let's build four more," Harry decided. "One for the cell door, three for emergencies."
Septa Sarya prepared her own contribution—poisons and paralytics carefully measured and loaded into small darts that could be thrown or fired from a blowgun she'd acquired from somewhere. Non-lethal options for guards they needed to silence without killing.
"Not mercy," she clarified when Harry raised an eyebrow. "Practicality. Dead guards are obvious. Sleeping guards might not be noticed until we're long gone."
"I appreciate your practical spirituality," Harry said.
"The Seven teach many lessons," Sarya replied serenely. "One of them is that sometimes you need to poison your enemies just enough to facilitate escape without committing unnecessary murder."
"I don't think that's actually in the holy texts," Lysaro observed.
"Are you a septa?" Sarya asked sweetly.
"Fair point."
Jarla prepared supply packs—food, water, bandages, rope, everything they might need for forty prisoners in various states of injury and exhaustion. She worked with the merchant's precision that had probably kept her alive through years of smuggling.
And Harry... Harry prepared himself.
He sat in the *Fawkes*' cabin, his armor and mask laid out before him. Agent Reaper's tools. The Unspeakables' weapon.
He hadn't worn them since arriving in this world. Had deliberately kept them wrapped and hidden, trying to be someone other than what they'd made him.
But tomorrow night, he was going into combat against eighty soldiers in a fortified position, trying to extract forty prisoners without getting them killed. That required efficiency. Precision. The kind of cold focus he'd learned in timeless rooms.
That required Reaper.
Harry reached for the skull mask and stopped, his hand hovering over the bone-white surface.
*You don't have to be a weapon,* he thought. *You can be a person using weapons. There's a difference.*
Was there? Or was he just lying to himself?
A knock on the door interrupted his spiral. "Come in," he called.
Johanna Swann entered, moving with more confidence than she'd had even yesterday. She wore new clothes—proper clothes bought with her share of the gold—and carried herself like someone remembering what it meant to be Lady instead of cargo.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," she said without preamble. "Captain Thorne has agreed to give me passage to Braavos. From there, I'll find my way back to Westeros. Or not. I haven't decided yet."
"Good," Harry said. "I'm glad you're safe."
"I wanted to thank you before I left. Properly thank you." Johanna's expression was complicated. "You saved my life. You and your crew. And you asked nothing in return. I'm not used to that. Kindness without obligation."
"You don't owe me anything," Harry said.
"I disagree." Johanna pulled something from her pocket—a ring, silver with a black swan worked into the design. Her house ring, probably. "This was the only thing they didn't take from me. The only piece of who I was before all this. I want you to have it."
"Johanna—"
"Let me finish." Her voice was firm. "If you ever need anything from House Swann—information, safe harbor, assistance of any kind—show them this ring. Tell them Johanna Swann named you friend and ally. It won't mean much—my uncle disowned me when he refused the ransom—but some of the minor branches might honor it. And some debts can't be paid with gold."
Harry took the ring carefully. It was warm from her hand, worn from years of wear. "Thank you," he said quietly. "But you should know—I'm not doing this for gratitude or alliances. I'm doing it because it's right."
"I know," Johanna said. "That's why I trust you with this." She paused. "I heard you're planning to rescue more prisoners tomorrow. From the Crabfeeder himself."
"Word travels fast."
"Your crew talks. Maris talks. And I pay attention." Johanna's expression hardened. "I wish I could help. I wish I was strong enough, trained enough, brave enough to stand beside you. But I'm not. I'm just a former prisoner who's still learning how to be a person again."
"That's enough," Harry said. "Sometimes surviving is the bravest thing you can do. And figuring out who you want to be after trauma—that takes more courage than most people ever need."
Johanna was quiet for a moment. Then she said: "I'm going to figure it out. Who I want to be. What I want to do. And when I have..." She smiled, sharp and certain. "When I have, maybe I'll find you again. See if you're still saving people and fighting monsters."
"I hope you do," Harry said honestly. "The world needs more people choosing to fight instead of accepting cruelty as inevitable."
They clasped hands—the grip of allies, not savior and victim. Then Johanna left, taking her ring and her uncertain future with her.
Harry looked back at his armor and mask.
Tomorrow, he'd wear them. Tomorrow, he'd be Reaper again, at least for a few hours.
But tonight, he was still Harry Potter. Still choosing. Still trying to be more than what they'd made him.
The *Fawkes* creaked softly, her runes glowing in the darkness, patient and ready.
And somewhere across the water, forty people waited to die unless someone chose to save them.
Harry reached for his mask.
Not because he was a weapon.
But because sometimes, weapons were tools that people used to accomplish good things.
The difference mattered.
It had to matter.
The story was accelerating now, rolling toward violence and rescue and the moment when the Crabfeeder would learn that his waters were no longer safe.
That something impossible was coming for him.
Something that had learned to choose compassion and carry it with deadly efficiency.
—
Lord Corlys Velaryon stood on the balcony of High Tide, watching the sun set over Blackwater Bay, and tried not to think about how much gold the Triarchy's blockade was costing him per day.
The calculation came anyway—it always did. Three hundred dragons. That was how much his trading empire hemorrhaged every day the Stepstones remained under the Crabfeeder's control. Ships delayed, cargoes seized, merchants too terrified to sail, insurance rates climbing to levels that made honest trade unprofitable.
Nine thousand dragons a month. Over a hundred thousand a year.
And King Viserys sat in King's Landing playing with his model dragons and insisting that *peace* was more valuable than protecting Westerosi interests.
Peace. As if peace with the Free Cities mattered when Westerosi sailors were being staked out on beaches to drown screaming.
"My lord?" His steward, Ser Harrold, approached with the careful deference of a man who'd learned to read his master's moods. "The reports you requested."
Corlys took the scroll without turning from the view. "Summarize."
"Three more ships seized this week. The *Dancing Lady* out of Driftmark, the *Storm's End* from Sharp Point, and a merchant vessel from Oldtown whose name no one seems to remember. Crews executed. Cargoes confiscated. The usual."
"The usual," Corlys repeated bitterly. The word tasted like defeat. When had atrocity become *usual*? When had he become so numb to reports of Westerosi citizens murdered by foreign powers that he could discuss it like crop reports?
"There is one unusual item, my lord." Harrold's tone shifted—something that might have been curiosity. "A strange rumor from New Ghis. Several sailors reported it independently, which lends it some credibility."
"Go on."
"A ship. They say it appeared two days ago—attacked a slaver vessel near the Stepstones. Not with boarding action or conventional tactics, but with..." Harrold paused, checking his notes as if to confirm he'd written it correctly. "With cannons. Metal tubes that shoot projectiles using explosive powder. The slaver ship was destroyed utterly—rudder demolished, mast shattered, hull breached. Then this strange vessel boarded her, killed the crew, and freed the slaves."
Corlys turned from the view, his interest finally caught. "Cannons."
"That's what they're calling them. The descriptions vary—some say the ship glowed with magical light, others claim she moved without wind, a few insist her captain was a foreign sorcerer who commanded lightning. But all of them agree on the cannons." Harrold consulted his scroll again. "Bronze tubes that make sounds like thunder and throw iron balls with enough force to splinter oak at two hundred yards."
"That's impossible," Corlys said automatically. But even as he spoke, his mind was racing through the implications. If such weapons existed—if someone had actually developed artillery that could be mounted on ships—the entire nature of naval warfare would change overnight.
"Impossible, yes," Harrold agreed. "Yet sixteen independent witnesses describe the same weapon. And that slaver vessel, the *Mercy*—she's confirmed missing. Never made port in Lys. Her cargo—fifteen slaves—appeared in New Ghis with stories of rescue and enough gold to buy passage anywhere in the known world."
Corlys moved to his desk, where maps of the Stepstones lay spread across every surface. Charts he'd been studying for months, looking for weaknesses in the Crabfeeder's position. Looking for any advantage that might let him act without the king's support.
"What else do we know about this ship?"
"Very little, my lord. She flies no recognized flag. Her crew is small—maybe ten people. They speak multiple languages but with no identifiable accent. And the ship herself..." Harrold's expression suggested he was about to report something he didn't quite believe. "The sailors who saw her say she's unlike any vessel they've encountered. Fast enough to outrun war galleys. Maneuverable enough to turn like a fighting ship despite being merchant-sized. And covered in strange silver markings that glow in darkness."
"Runes," Corlys said quietly. "They're describing runic magic. The kind the First Men knew, before the Andals came. Before the Maesters convinced everyone that such knowledge was superstition."
"You believe this, my lord?"
Corlys thought about that. He was the Sea Snake—the greatest sailor in Westeros, perhaps in the world. He'd sailed to the Jade Sea and back, had traded with civilizations most Westerosi nobles couldn't find on a map. He'd seen things that the Maesters insisted were impossible: sea monsters in the depths of the Sunset Sea, storm sorcerers in Yi Ti who could call winds with gestures, and once, off the coast of Asshai, a ship that seemed to sail through solid rock.
The world was larger and stranger than the Citadel wanted to admit. Magic wasn't dead—it was just rare. Hidden. Forgotten by those who'd never looked beyond their own shores.
"I believe," Corlys said slowly, "that someone has built a weapon. Whether it's magic, advanced engineering, or something in between doesn't matter. What matters is that they're using it against slavers in the Stepstones. Against the Triarchy's interests."
"An ally, then?" Harrold suggested.
"Or an opportunity." Corlys studied his maps, mind already calculating. "If this ship is real—if these cannons exist—then suddenly the balance of power shifts. The Crabfeeder's fleet is his strength. Ten war galleys that can blockade the entire region. But war galleys are slow, packed with oarsmen, vulnerable to any weapon that can strike from distance." He tapped the map. "Cannons that outrange scorpions would make those galleys into floating coffins."
"You want to find this ship."
"I want to understand what it represents." Corlys moved to another table, where correspondence lay stacked in careful piles. Letters from Prince Daemon, increasingly urgent. Letters from merchant captains, increasingly desperate. Letters from King Viserys, increasingly irrelevant. "If the Triarchy can be challenged—if the Crabfeeder's control can be broken—then I can move. Act. Do what the king refuses to do."
"Some would call that treason, my lord."
"Some would call it protecting Westerosi interests when the Crown won't." Corlys's voice was hard. "I didn't build the greatest fleet in Westeros to watch it rot in harbor while foreign powers murder my people. If this mysterious ship is doing what we should be doing—fighting the Triarchy, freeing prisoners, disrupting their operations—then I want to know who commands her and what they want."
"How do you propose to find her? The Stepstones are vast, and if she can move as fast as reported—"
"We don't find her," Corlys interrupted. "We let her find us. Or rather—" He pulled out fresh parchment and began writing. "We create a situation she can't ignore."
"My lord?"
"This ship—whoever commands her—they freed slaves. They attacked a slaver vessel specifically. That suggests motivation beyond simple profit." Corlys wrote quickly, his hand moving with the certainty of a man who'd made a decision. "They're ideologically driven. Which means they'll respond to ideological bait."
He finished writing and sealed the letter with his personal seal—the silver seahorse of House Velaryon. "Send this to every port between here and Lys. Every tavern, every harbor master, every merchant captain we trust. Spread the word: Lord Corlys Velaryon is offering bounties for information about Triarchy operations. Not soldiers—information. Ships, movements, schedules. And he's offering asylum to any freed slave who reaches Driftmark."
"That will attract attention, my lord. The wrong kind of attention."
"Good. Let the Triarchy notice. Let them wonder what I'm planning." Corlys smiled without warmth. "And let whoever commands that impossible ship hear that there's a lord in Westeros who actually gives a damn about stopping slavers. If they're half as motivated as the reports suggest, they'll be curious. And curiosity leads to contact."
"And if they don't respond?"
"Then I proceed with my original plans—convince Daemon to stop brooding on Dragonstone and start burning Triarchy ships. We go in with dragons and overwhelming force and hope we don't start a war with the Free Cities that bankrupts the realm." Corlys's expression darkened. "But if this ship is real—if those cannons exist—then maybe, just maybe, we don't need dragons. Maybe we need whatever madman built weapons that can change naval warfare."
Harrold bowed and left to dispatch the messages. Corlys returned to his balcony, watching night fall over the bay.
Somewhere in the Stepstones, a ship with glowing runes and impossible weapons was hunting slavers. A ship commanded by someone who freed prisoners instead of ransoming them, who fought cruelty without apparent profit motive, who'd built something that shouldn't exist and used it for something resembling justice.
Corlys Velaryon had spent his life understanding power—how to accumulate it, how to wield it, how to turn it into gold and influence and legacy. But this was different. This was someone with power using it not for wealth or territory, but simply because they could. Because it was right.
Either that, or it was an elaborate trap laid by the Triarchy to draw him into overextending his position.
Only one way to find out.
The Sea Snake smiled in the darkness, feeling the first stirrings of something he hadn't felt in months: hope.
The game was changing. The board was being disrupted by a piece no one had accounted for.
And Corlys Velaryon had always been best at exploiting chaos.
"Find them," he murmured to the night wind. "Find them and let's see if they're brave or just suicidal."
The waves crashed against High Tide's foundations, carrying whispers from distant waters. Somewhere beyond the horizon, an impossible ship sailed toward an impossible mission.
And the story—already accelerating toward violence and liberation—gained another player. One with dragons in his family, gold in his vaults, and the patience of someone who'd sailed to the end of the world and back.
The Crabfeeder's days were numbered.
He just didn't know it yet.
---
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