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"Don't be afraid. I'm here to help you."
Logar studied the girl's short silver hair and violet eyes — features that mirrored his own exactly — and asked quietly, "You're a Targaryen, aren't you?"
The girl shook her head so hard it looked like it might fly off. She clutched the dagger tighter, knuckles bone-white, eyes locked on him with raw suspicion, barely breathing.
Logar shrugged, unbothered. She and the entire merchant fleet were already his. Plenty of time to learn exactly who she was.
Moments later Femon and the others stormed into the cabin. Logar stepped out onto the deck and gave his orders in a calm, iron voice.
"Round up every Driftmark crewman on the main deck. Treat them decently — no rough hands. For the attacking pirates: anyone who surrenders gets broken up and folded into our crews. Anyone who refuses… feed them to the fish."
Femon and the rest snapped to it. This fight had been a massive win. They hadn't just beaten the raiders — they'd captured one of the Sea Snake's own merchant ships and its people. Lord Corlys would pay through the nose to get them back.
The men moved with fresh energy, herding the merchants together.
Most of the rival pirates were already dead or swimming for their lives. The few who surrendered were quickly split up and absorbed into Logar's growing force.
Inside the cabin, Baela slowly calmed down. She realized these new men weren't working with the attackers.
Remembering how cleanly Logar had carved through the pirates, she gathered her courage, poked her head out the door, and asked softly, "Who are you? Did my grandfather send you to protect me?"
Logar ignored her. He walked to the rail, pulled a rough linen rag from his belt, and started wiping blood from his face.
Enemy blood had sprayed hard during the fight — some had gotten in his eyes. The rag came away dark red, streaking across his silver-white hair in sharp contrast.
When he still didn't answer, Baela frowned, impatient. She opened her mouth to speak again — then finally saw his face clearly.
Her breath caught.
She hadn't expected the man who had just slaughtered half a dozen pirates to be so young — barely older than her — and heartbreakingly handsome. Sharp cheekbones, fierce mouth, and those same violet eyes… though his carried a colder edge.
For a second she just stared. The annoyance she'd felt at being ignored quietly vanished.
Logar's own men often joked behind his back that their captain had a face prettier than most women's. None of them ever dared say it to his face.
He was long used to the reaction. While watching his crew sort prisoners and cargo, he answered without turning around.
"Princess, I'm not your grandfather's babysitter. But if he pays the right price… I might be willing to play the part."
"Hmph! Who wants you as a babysitter!" Baela snorted, then froze as the words sank in. She gripped the dagger tighter. "Wait — how do you know I'm a princess?"
Logar was calmly wiping blood off his sword. The blade gleamed cold and clean. He glanced at her and said flatly, "I didn't. Until you just confirmed it."
Baela's cheeks flushed pink. The silver-haired boy who looked so much like her had tricked her.
She squeezed the dagger harder, secretly cursing herself and wanting nothing more than to stab him a couple of times.
Logar paid her no more mind. Learning her handmaiden had died in the fighting, he called Femon over.
"Pick two quick-handed women from the merchant crew to serve the princess. Assign two guards to watch her at all times — keep her from wandering off. Grant any reasonable request."
The surviving merchants, realizing they weren't going to be harmed, breathed visible sighs of relief and obeyed without fuss.
Soon two women in plain wool dresses stepped forward, heads lowered, and gently helped Baela straighten her clothes and offered fresh water.
On deck, Logar's men finished clearing the last enemies. Bodies were shoved overboard with long poles, splashing into the sea and drawing circling seabirds.
The merchant cargo — mostly cloth, pottery, and common spices — wasn't worth much. Logar gave it one glance and lost interest.
Baela Targaryen alone — Lord Corlys's own granddaughter — was worth far more than any cargo. This haul had exceeded every expectation.
He gave the order. The fleet turned and headed for Driftmark.
During the voyage he gathered Femon and the inner circle in the main cabin for a quick meeting.
"Captain, we lost twenty-one men," Femon reported, barely hiding his excitement, "but we took in over seventy surrendering pirates. Total strength is now three hundred and fifty!"
He grinned wider. "Ships: we captured four of theirs after a few escaped. Added to our original five, we now have nine!"
Logar raised an eyebrow. In this bloody age, war truly was the fastest way to grow.
He kept the satisfaction from his voice and said firmly, "Break up every new pirate across all ships. Pair them with veterans. Two hours of drill every day. Enforce strict discipline. I want men who win battles, not cowards who fold at the first sign of steel."
He had always been generous with shares of every victory, but he demanded absolute loyalty and courage in return.
His ambitions reached far beyond the Stepstones — Westeros, Essos, even the lands beyond. Without a disciplined force he would never get far.
Femon straightened. "Understood. I'll promote a few standout veterans to keep the new blood in line. Anyone who slacks off gets punished by the rules."
"Good." Logar nodded. "And keep the men sharp. We're escorting these ships to Driftmark to 'do business' with the Sea Snake. That old man hates pirates with a passion. We don't know if he'll play nice — better safe than sorry."
The warning sobered everyone in the cabin. They all knew Logar's staged "rescue" carried real risk. But the die was cast — no turning back now.
Logar gave final orders on water and food rations and weapons inventory, then dismissed the meeting.
Out on the sea the morning mist slowly burned away. Sunlight broke through the clouds and bathed the blood-streaked decks.
Logar's nine warships, escorting the three Driftmark merchant vessels, sailed steadily toward Driftmark, leaving a long white wake behind them.
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