Summer Sea, Basilisk Isles, Tear Island
The Basilisk Isles sat north of the Sothoryos Continent, a jagged archipelago that served as the final threshold before the Slaver's Bay. Unlike the Stepstones, this was a realm of pure, unadulterated lawlessness with a history of piracy as old as the Iron Islands. Centuries ago, Queen Nymeria had sought refuge here with her ten thousand ships; had the Pirate Kings not been so rapacious, the Rhoynar might have built a new empire in these sun-drenched coves.
Tear Island was the largest of the group, a grim hub where Pirate Kings warehoused their human cargo before shipping them to the markets of Astapor or Meereen.
Under Jon's "Project Dragon" mandate, Salladhor Saan had assembled a formidable fleet: 30 transport cogs and 20 heavy galleons. To minimize the threat of the continent's lethal plagues, Salladhor had recruited the Naathi—the "People of the Butterflies." Native to the nearby Isle of Naath, these peace-loving people had a natural resistance to the "Red Death" and other Sothoryos fevers. Though their pacifism was legendary—some joked they'd let a bird defecate on their heads rather than strike it—Salladhor knew they were far from foolish. Having been hunted for centuries by Valyrians and Ghiscari alike, those who remained were survivors, and under the "Chainbreaker" banner, they had finally found a protector.
Salladhor was pacing the deck of a two-story timber outpost on Tear Island. For three days, local pirates had circled his fleet like sharks, deterred only by the presence of Jon's elite "Classed" warriors.
SKREEE—!
The sharp, familiar cry of a falcon broke the tension. A Golden Eagle descended like a streak of amber lightning, perching on a nearby coconut tree. Salladhor hurried to offer the bird a choice cut of beef before retrieving the cylinder from its leg.
(Salladhor, I have secured a supply point at Pterodactyl Point. Follow the Eagle. It knows the way through the reefs. — Aegon)
Salladhor exhaled a long breath of relief. He wanted to leave this den of thieves. In Tyrosh, he was a lord, a man of status. Here, he was just another target. Jon had transformed him from a smuggler into a legend, and Salladhor intended to pay that debt with total efficiency.
"Signal the fleet!" Salladhor roared. "We sail for the Point! Our King has prepared the way!"
The Dead Port of Pterodactyl Point
Three days later, the fleet navigated the treacherous, jagged reefs of Pterodactyl Point, guided by the Eagle's aerial scouting. Jon had spent days telepathically mapping the currents through the local sea-life, creating a safe passage where none had existed.
The fleet dropped anchor in a cove known to sailors as "Mosquito Bay." The beach was marked by a massive, scorched "Chainbreaker" sigil. The outpost here had belonged to a Summer Isles pirate named San Cho, a former rival of Salladhor's.
Walking onto the pier an hour later, Salladhor found his old acquaintance.
"Tsk, tsk. San Cho," Salladhor said, looking at the figure standing near the wooden gate. "I told you years ago that staying in this hellhole would end badly. But look at you—you've finally stopped talking. Quite an improvement."
"Sir, stop playing with him," Vice-Captain Rayleigh sighed. "The man is a zombie. We have work to do."
The port was a silent city of the dead. Groups of "Zombies" wandered the docks with vacant eyes and grey skin—the result of Jon's "Staff of the Undead." In Sothoryos, tales of the "Zombie Plague" were a common horror, but these creatures were different. They were docile, bound to the magic of the staff.
Salladhor gripped the magical artifact Jon had left for him. With a rhythmic tap, he sent a mental command to San Cho's remains. The zombie turned and began hauling heavy crates toward the transports.
"A bit macabre, isn't it?" Salladhor joked. "But they don't complain about the overtime."
The Stone Harvest
"Sir! Sir! You need to see this!" a scout shouted, emerging from the dense jungle fringe. "We found the Prince's... cargo. But we don't know how to move it."
Salladhor and Rayleigh followed the scout into a clearing behind the pirate fortress. There, amidst the giant ferns and twisted vines, stood fifteen gargantuan statues.
Salladhor froze. He was a San En, born of a Pirate King's blood, and he knew the creatures of the Summer Sea. He had seen a stuffed Long-winged Dragon in his father's collection once—a beast the size of a calf. But these... these were monsters of a different scale.
They were perfect, down to the last scale and the glint in their eyes. But they were made of solid, unyielding stone.
Thunk. Thunk.
Salladhor rapped his knuckles against the Alpha's grey wing. The sound was heavy and resonant. "Stone," he whispered. "He turned them into stone to transport them. It's brilliant."
"Or terrifying," Rayleigh muttered, also tapping a statue. "How are we supposed to get these onto the ships? They must weigh as much as a siege engine."
"We use the zombies," Salladhor said, his eyes gleaming with a newfound fascination. "And we use the winches from the fortress. Aegon didn't send us here to be sculptors; he sent us to be harvesters."
SKREEE—!
An answering cry erupted from deep within the rainforest—sharp, rhythmic, and filled with a cold, predatory hunger. The statues in the clearing seemed to vibrate with the sound.
"Work fast," Salladhor commanded, his humor vanishing. "The rest of the family sounds like they want their brothers back."