The Stepstones. Cutthroat Isle Archipelago.
CAW! CAW!
The relentless cries of gulls punctuated the air as a fierce sun beat down on the Main Island. Beneath that solar fire, the harbor of Cutthroat Isle hummed with a heat of its own—the heat of industry.
The docks, once a jagged ruin of pirate piers, were now swarming with merchants and laborers. Great heaps of cargo were being winched down from merchant cogs, creating mountains of timber, grain, and iron. The air was a dizzying cocktail of smells: the pungent, earthy musk of exotic Essosi spices mingling with the sharp, metallic tang of salt. For many of the "Chainbreaker" warriors, the sight was surreal; had they not known they were in the heart of the Stepstones, they might have mistaken the scene for the Great Harbor of a Free City.
Ships from across the known world bobbed in the turquoise waters. It was easy to distinguish the origins: the swan ships of the Summer Isles, manned by dark-skinned sailors in vibrant silks, stood in stark contrast to the sturdier Northern cogs flying the sigils of minor Westerosi houses.
On the docks, the Chainbreaker workforce—many of them former slaves—labored with a ferocity born of hope. Sweat turned their bronzed skin into polished obsidian as they heaved heavy crates and sacks. Despite the grueling pace, laughter often broke through the rhythmic chanting of the work gangs. They weren't working for a master's whip anymore; they were building their own home.
The single thoroughfare of the Dock Market was choked with goods. Elderly Chainbreakers and children ran stalls selling local seafood and crafts—a micro-economy Jon had established to provide for the "unfit" members of his faction. Jon had implemented a "70/30" revenue split: thirty percent to the organization for protection and infrastructure, seventy percent back to the families.
This explosion of trade was no accident. Jon had leveraged his victories over "Skullcap" Bill and "Blackfox" Letho to send out a clear signal to the merchant guilds of King's Landing, Dorne, and the Summer Isles: The Stepstones are open for business, and the Dragon protects the harbor.
However, Jon knew that raw trade wasn't enough. To hold a kingdom, he needed a fortress. To hold a harbor, he needed stone.
While the Chainbreakers had plenty of muscle, their technical skills were limited. Most were "apprentices" at best. To bridge the gap, Jon had outsourced the heavy lifting. He contacted the "Flame Wine" Guild of Dorne for harbor masonry and utilized Ser Rodrik's connections to pull in Northern shipwrights. He even sent word to the Summer Isles, whose merchants were famous for their audacity.
The result was a chaotic but effective construction boom. Dornish masons worked alongside Summer Islanders using expensive Nightwood—a timber so dark it looked like shadow—to build warehouses that could withstand any storm. Jon was spending a fortune, but between the hoards of two pirate kings and the treasures of Visenya's vault, his coffers were deep enough to sustain the dream.
"My, my... what a curious little place. If I closed my eyes, I'd swear I was back in Tyrosh!"
A flamboyant merchant cog had just docked, and from its gangplank stepped a man draped in sky-blue silk. He looked to be in his forties, sporting a silk turban pinned with a massive ruby. His face was handsome, his features sharpened by a meticulously groomed mustache.
"Hard to believe this was a pirate's nest a few months ago," the man mused, adjusting his rings as his servants followed him onto the pier. "Now, it's a city in the making."
The man looked around with a discerning eye. "Ah, the 'Flame Wine' Guild from Dorne? I see they've taken the contract for the seawalls. Bold choice. And wait—is that 'Rhino Horn' from the Summer Isles? Three-Headed God above, the master here is using Nightwood for common storage? The man has more gold than sense."
As the envoy's party moved through the crowded Dock Market, they were closely watched. When they attempted to move toward the central Pirate Fortress, a wall of spears barred their path.
The "Ring Guard," commanded by Frodo, stood in a disciplined line. Their armor was polished, their eyes cold and focused.
"Forgive me, honored sir," Frodo said, his voice level and devoid of warmth. "This is a restricted zone. Only authorized workers may pass beyond the market square."
The flamboyant man blinked, then offered a shallow, graceful bow.
"Ah, of course. Forgive my curiosity. I am an envoy from the Free City of Tyrosh, representing the interests of the Archon. I have come to seek an audience with the Lord Jon Snow."