Time slipped by in the shipyard of Torturer's Deep, where the air reeked of tung oil, rust, and tension.
Craftsmen toiled day and night, their hammering never ceasing.
A month later, the fleet stood renewed.
The Abyssal Stranglehold, once battered and broken, now loomed proudly in the main berth. Its fractured keel had been braced with ironwood and clamped with massive bronze plates. Rotten ribs and planks were replaced with fresh oak, fitted tight as if grown in place.
The hull was sheathed in layers of tung-oil-soaked linen, forming a tough, waterproof skin. The deck had been relaid and polished smooth, sails swapped for heavy new canvas, and every rope replaced, taut and strong.
Seven newly captured galleys had been added to the ranks, their prows tipped with polished bronze rams gleaming with cold menace beneath the torchlight. The repaired ships, their scars hidden beneath careful patchwork, looked ready to kill.
Night descended like spilled ink, draping Torturer's Deep in shadow.
The shipyard did not quiet—it roared louder, driving toward its final push.
Torch-bearing craftsmen rushed about with last inspections and reinforcements, while sailors hauled barrels of fresh water, salted meat, hardtack, bundles of arrows, crossbow bolts, and stone shot aboard. The air rang with the clang of steel, the thud of boots, and the bark of harsh orders.
Excitement and dread thickened the night, the kind of heavy stillness that always came before battle.
In that darkness, Roro Uhoris led his decoy fleet out first, their sails vanishing into the horizon with a clamor meant to be heard.
As their noise faded, Torturer's Deep Harbor fell into brief silence.
But it was not the silence of calm—it was the last held breath before the storm broke.
Shrouded in the midnight mist rising from the sea, Lo Quen led the true fleet from the harbor in silence. With Jorah Mormont at his side, he guided the warships toward the hidden shipyard on Jawbreak Island's western shore.
...
Jawbreak Island, Main Harbor.
A weary sentry rubbed his bloodshot eyes, squinting at the pale horizon.
The wind off the sea carried salt—and a chill of foreboding.
He had been freezing on that cursed watchtower all night, cold gnawing into his bones.
Since Caggo had returned, maimed and raving, his temper was like a dog with its teeth ripped out and tail trampled—violent, unhinged. He had ordered the lookouts to watch without rest. Torturer's Deep could strike at any moment.
"Damn it... that Torturer's Deep bastard gives me the creeps..."
He spat phlegm over the railing, muttering bitterly.
Stories of Lo Quen, the new master of Torturer's Deep, spread like plague through the harbor. Survivors of the Tidal Reefs battle told them in lurid detail—flaming swords, a great bow that fired burning arrows, and silent soldiers clad in steel, moving like towers of iron.
The thought alone chilled the blood.
Then his drowsy eyes flew wide.
On the horizon, sails swelled, growing larger by the heartbeat.
"Enemy attack!!!"
His scream tore the silence apart, his hoarse voice sharp as broken glass.
He hammered the rusted bronze bell beside him, sending its clangor through the harbor.
"Clang! Clang! Clang—!!!"
The shrill alarm shattered Jawbreak Island's night.
The docks exploded into chaos.
Pirates stumbled half-dressed from their shacks, still reeking of drink, shouting curses as they scrambled for weapons.
Caggo's lieutenant came running, still tugging up his trousers, and snatched the spyglass from the lookout's hands.
Through the lens, a fleet surged straight toward the harbor.
On the lead ship's sail, clear in the torchlight, was the familiar figure of Roro Uhoris.
That wily old fox brandished a curved blade, pointing toward the docks, with ranks of armed pirates thronging behind him, blades gleaming as they roared.
"It's Roro—the main force of Torturer's Deep! They're attacking!"
The commander's voice carried the faintest tremor as he spun on his heel, roaring at his panicked men.
"Sound the highest alarm! Ready the ballistae! Move, damn you, move!"
Jawbreak Island's main harbor erupted like a hornet's nest struck with a stick.
Pirates swarmed the defenses in chaos. Heavy ballistae were shoved onto the battlements, while archers scrambled clumsily up the low walls.
Far out at sea, Roro stood on the stern deck of his medium galley, squinting at the mounting chaos in the harbor and the shrill clang of alarm bells. A sly, satisfied grin spread across his face.
He leaned toward his first mate. "Pass the order—every ship, make some noise! Beat those drums, blow those horns, wave every bloody flag you've got! Closer now, just a little closer—stay right on the edge of their range!"
"Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!"
"Wooo—wooo—wooo—!"
The deep thrum of war drums and the piercing cry of horns carried across the sea as the banners of Torturer's Deep whipped and snapped on every ship.
Roro's fleet pressed toward the main harbor with threatening force, yet cunningly held just within the edge of the enemy's heavy ballistae range. They shifted formation again and again, posturing as though ready to charge at any moment.
At Roro's command, his loudest sailors stood at the bows, hurling insults at the shore.
"Caggo, you one-armed cur! Come out and die!"
"Scum of Jawbreak Island! We've come to collect your worthless hides!"
"Lord Lo Quen will drink from Caggo's shark head!"
The curses, riding the beat of drums and horns, carried clearly to the walls. Pirates howled in fury, but fear kept them crouched behind their fortifications.
A few ballista bolts shrieked through the air, splashing harmlessly into the sea well short of Roro's ships.
"Hah! That's it! Keep at it—curse 'em out!" Roro slapped his thigh in delight.
...
Unlike the uproar of the main harbor, the bay sheltering the shipyard lay quiet beneath its shroud of mist.
Hidden from the main channel, this was Caggo's last hope.
The alarm from the harbor had clearly reached them—several war galleys cast off from the docks and rowed hard toward the commotion.
The rest, battered and crippled, lay beached in the crude yard where yawning craftsmen worked by lamplight, hammering sluggishly.
On the outskirts, two weathered patrol boats kept watch.
In the cramped cabin of one, the captain gnawed a piece of rock-hard salted meat, chasing it with sour wine. He'd lost badly at dice the night before, and his mood was foul.
"Captain, s-something's happening..."
The shout came trembling from the masthead lookout, thick with disbelief and fear.
"Damn it, quit your screaming." The captain cursed and dragged himself out, eyes bleary as he followed the sailor's pointing finger.
His pupils shrank to pinpricks.
It wasn't a trick of the mist. It was the dark wall of a fleet, their sails filling the horizon.
"Torturer's Deep's fleet? But... they're supposed to be at the harbor!" His voice cracked into a shriek, the meat falling from his hand unnoticed.
He remembered the tales whispered about Torturer's Deep's new master—
The flaming sword. The fire-tipped arrow that had torn off Caggo's arm...
"Turn it about! Gods damn it, turn it around! Back to the shipyard—warn them!"
His voice broke as he bellowed. "Signal the alarm! Enemy attack! Torturer's Deep! We've been fooled! Their target isn't the harbor—it's the shipyard!"
The two patrol boats bolted like startled hares. Oarsmen, driven by blind terror, strained until their veins bulged, trying to wheel the ships around.
Up the masts, sailors scrambled to raise the black danger pennant and light the beacon fire.
But it was already too late.