Year 129 AC, Narrow Sea — The Stepstones.
The salty sea wind never rested on this nameless barren island. It carried the sharp bite of salt and crushed stone, lashing against Logar's surprisingly young face and carving rough marks into his skin.
He gripped a well-sharpened longsword, half a suit of scavenged chainmail hanging loose over his torso — loot from a Braavosi merchant ship they'd raided days earlier. The blade was nicked and the mail was falling apart, but it was better than nothing. It gave him a thin sliver of confidence in this godsforsaken place.
In the distance, three longships flying Dorne's red sun banner cut through the waves, heading straight for them.
The decks were crowded with Dornish warriors, spears and curved blades gleaming. Their wild battle cries sliced through the howling wind and crashing surf, loud enough to make your ears ring.
"Kill these Dornish dogs! Show them who owns these islands!"
Ahead of Logar, a burly pirate captain with a face full of scars raised his long axe and roared like a madman.
"Cut them all down!"
Caught in the middle of the frenzied crew, Logar's ears rang from the noise, but he stayed calm. His eyes never left the Dornishmen leaping onto the rocky shore.
It had been half a month since he woke up in this brutal world. From the first wave of panic to being dragged into this pirate crew, he'd already learned exactly how cruel the Stepstones could be.
These islands were nothing but rock and thorn bushes. Fresh water was precious, caught only from whatever rain fell. Yet they sat right on the critical sea route between Westeros and the east, turning them into a haven for pirates, smugglers, and every kind of desperate outlaw.
The Dornish had always wanted these waters for themselves and raided the pirate camps constantly, trying to claim the whole chain.
In just two weeks, Logar had already helped beat back more than a dozen of their attacks.
Today, something in his gut told him this fight would be different.
"Kill!"
A deafening roar erupted as the first wave of Dornish warriors charged up the rocks, steel flashing. The pirates surged forward to meet them head-on.
Logar was right in the thick of it.
He locked eyes with a tall, powerful Dornishman. The man grinned savagely and came straight at him, curved blade raised high.
The oddly shaped sword sliced down fast enough to split a man in two. At the last instant Logar twisted sharply, barely slipping past the killing blow.
The Dornishman blinked in surprise at the skinny youth's speed. Snarling, he swung again.
Logar dropped low, the blade whistling just over his scalp. In the same smooth motion he drove his own longsword straight into the man's chest.
Thud.
The Dornishman's eyes bulged. Blood bubbled from his mouth. He never saw it coming from a kid like this.
Logar kicked him off the blade and spun to the next enemy.
Moments later, several more Dornishmen lay dead at his feet.
The sight sent fear rippling through the enemy ranks — and raw respect through the pirates beside him.
"Logar!"
A young pirate barely older than him, fresh from killing a man, rushed to his side. "You crazy bastard! All that secret sword practice every spare minute is really paying off!"
It was Femon, one of the few he actually trusted. Logar gave him a quick nod.
"Stay sharp," he said, then thrust his sword through the throat of another Dornishman trying to stab Femon from behind.
Saved yet again, Femon looked at him with burning admiration. Breathing hard, he stuck close.
"I heard the captain sent word to Bloodstone asking for help. The Three Daughters might actually send men!"
"The Three Daughters?"
The name from his old life made Logar pause. He shook his head.
"Our captain has nothing they want except this worthless rock and a handful of cutthroats. Why would the Triarchy risk pissing off Dorne to save him?"
As if to prove him right, the pirate captain kept glancing desperately toward the far side of the island. When no sails appeared, his face twisted with fury.
"Those treacherous Three Whores! May the sea swallow every last one of them!"
While he cursed, the Dornish commander charged across the slippery rocks straight at him.
Steel clashed violently. Axe met curved blade in a shower of sparks.
But it didn't last. The captain tired fast and took a brutal cut across the arm. He screamed and collapsed.
"Fuck!"
The pirates froze. If the captain died here, the battle was lost.
The Dornish leader grinned savagely and raised his blade for the killing blow —
— when Logar exploded forward from the side. His sword rang out, perfectly blocking the strike meant for their leader.
"Your opponent is me."
"You?" The Dornish commander sneered at Logar's ragged gear. "A whelp like you?"
He attacked again, harder. The curved blade howled through the air, kicking up stones and blood spray that stung the face.
Logar felt the man's superior strength and didn't try to meet it head-on. He retreated smoothly, using every jagged rock for cover.
"Fight like a man, coward!" the Dornishman roared, pressing the assault.
Then his foot slipped on the wet stone.
Logar's eyes flashed. No hesitation.
His polished blade slid through a gap in the armor and sank deep into flesh.
"AAAAHHH—!"
With a bloodcurdling scream, the heavily armored Dornish leader crashed to the ground.
Logar ripped off the helmet, sliced through the neck in one clean stroke, and lifted the dripping head high.
"Your leader is dead!" he roared across the battlefield. "Remember the name — Logar killed him!"
The exhausted Dornish forces broke instantly. They abandoned their dead, seized one ship, and fled in panic.
The surviving pirates stared at Logar standing tall on the rocks, enemy head still in hand, chest heaving.
A thunderous cheer exploded:
"Logar! Logar won this for us!"
"Logar the Throat-Cutter! Logar the Throat-Cutter!"
Femon was the loudest of all. He dropped to one knee right there and started the chant. It spread like wildfire across the entire reef.
The pirates swarmed him — weapons thrown into the sky, hands slapping his back hard, his torn chainmail rattling with every hit.
Logar looked down at the bloody head in his grip, then at the roaring sea of faces around him. The sea wind blew straight into his face, thick with the stench of blood.
From this moment on, he knew his name would be carved into the rocks and crashing waves of the Stepstones forever.
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