Amid the roaring cheers of his crew, Logar sailed home at the head of a five-ship fleet, every hull riding low and heavy with loot.
The raid hadn't just pulled them back from the brink — it had lit a fire in his blood. Out here on the open sea, the fastest way to get rich was still the oldest: take it from someone else.
His purple eyes drifted across the choppy Narrow Sea toward the distant coast of Westeros. Word was the Targaryens were tearing each other apart. To a man like him, that kind of chaos smelled like pure opportunity.
Back at the camp, Logar kept his word and handed over eighty percent of everything they'd taken.
The pirates went wild. They dragged every barrel of wine and slab of meat into the center of camp, lit massive bonfires, and threw the kind of victory feast that would be talked about for years.
Logar drank a few cups with them, then slipped away to the captain's tent. He called in Femon and the rest of his inner circle to tally losses and gains.
Numbers first: they'd sailed out with eighty-six men. They returned with a hundred and fifty.
Eighteen of his originals had died in the assault. The sixty-eight who made it back were joined by eighty-two new faces — stray pirates from other islands who'd been won over by Logar's strength and his open-handed share of the spoils.
On the ship side, they now had five: the two big Dornish warships they'd captured plus the three original longships.
The fresh water and dried rations would feed a hundred and fifty men for a full month. The coin, though… after giving away eighty percent, the crew's war chest held just over three thousand silver stags — roughly ten gold dragons.
Logar frowned at the figure. Back in Westeros, a full set of quality plate and mail — breastplate, greaves, gorget, helmet — ran eight hundred silver stags. Four gold dragons. So his personal cut from the biggest score of his life would barely buy three and a half decent suits of armor.
Still, it was his choice. His power base was brand new. Right now, buying real loyalty mattered more than hoarding coin.
Besides, he still had the ships, the weapons, and the armor — hard assets that counted for far more than gold in the long run.
"Pick out the men who stood out in the fight," he told Femon, voice low in the flickering candlelight. "Give them first pick of the Dornish steel and plate. Rewards for the bold, and it'll help us grow faster."
Femon — now firmly his second-in-command — nodded without hesitation. He'd watched Logar turn a starving crew into a rich one in a single day. Whatever the captain said, Femon would carry out.
A moment later Femon asked, "So… what's next, Logar?"
Logar didn't answer right away. His finger traced the rough map of the Stepstones spread across the table. After a long silence he looked up.
"Next? We leave this place."
Femon's eyes widened. "Leave? We fought like dogs to hold this island. We can raid passing merchants, charge tolls — why walk away from a base?"
Logar's purple eyes turned cold. "Stay here and wait for Dorne to send an army big enough to wipe us out? Or starve slowly on this worthless rock? Pick your poison."
They'd won today by luck as much as skill. The Dornish had been cocky and still reeling from the earlier defeat. That wouldn't happen twice. Once Dorne regrouped, a hundred and fifty pirates wouldn't even slow them down.
"So where do we go?" Femon asked, still confused. For most pirates a fixed hideout was everything. Without one they were just drifting scum.
Logar understood their fear. He knew that after a big score most of these men wanted nothing more than to blow their coin on wine, whores, and warm beds. He wouldn't stop them — but first he had to show them a bigger prize.
"I hear the Targaryens across the Narrow Sea are at each other's throats," he said, voice low and steady. "The dragonlords have split — Blacks and Greens. Civil war's heating up. Whoever wins will rule the whole damn continent."
He let the words sink in, then leaned forward.
"We're pirates. A chance this big doesn't come twice. Both sides are desperate for ships and fighting men. If we pick the right horse and help them win… think about it. Not just gold — titles. Lands. Real lordships we can pass to our sons."
The tent went dead quiet. Then every man's eyes lit up like they'd just seen dragonfire.
For men who lived by the sword, wealth was good. But a noble title and land you could call your own? That was the kind of dream most pirates died without ever tasting.
"So which side do we back?" one man blurted, unable to hold back.
"Easy," Logar said, raising a hand for calm. He nodded toward the tent flap. "Bring in the shipwright I saved from the Dornish."
Moments later the lean man from Driftmark stepped inside — Kendel Waters — bowing low, eyes respectful.
"Captain."
"I hear you're from Driftmark," Logar said without preamble, "and you've worked on ships for Lord Corlys Velaryon himself."
"Yes, Captain. Kendel Waters. I served in the shipyards at Driftmark for years, repairing the Sea Snake's fleet."
Logar nodded slowly, memories of the Dance of the Dragons flashing through his mind.
Right now Corlys Velaryon — the Sea Snake — was Master of Ships for Queen Rhaenyra and the Blacks. War with King's Landing and the Greens was coming fast. Driftmark wasn't far from the Stepstones, and Corlys's trading fleets had been raided by pirates for years. The man probably hated every corsair in these waters.
Logar's eyes narrowed, voice dropping.
"Kendel, I need you to sail for Driftmark. I have a message that needs delivering… and some information I want you to bring back."
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