Pirates!

Jon wandered along the beach for the better part of an hour, searching for any hint of humanity only to be greeted with wreckage and ruin. The storm that had stranded him seemed to have utterly destroyed the ship and a pang of grief hit Jon as he surveyed the wreckage, considering all the men that had died by the simple fact of joining him on this gods forsaken journey. It was a fool’s errand, and one that had cost too many good men their lives.

Eventually he decided that his only hope was to venture inland, to try and find what food and fresh water he could and then formulate some way back to the mainland. His clothing was soaked, but thankfully his boots had remained and it was no real problem to trek through the thick jungle, and he had even managed to find a broken sword half buried amongst the sand. The growth was heavy, and birds of all sort called and chirped to each other from the treetops that seemed to blanket the jungle.

He pushed through onwards and onwards, occasionally using the broken sword to cut away at vines and ferns that obscured his way, until eventually he heard a sound he never thought he’d hear again; the voices of men. It was some derivation of bastard Valyrian, but Jon’s whole family had been intensely tutored on it as part of their upbringing. The voices, heavily accented in what Jon supposed was Tyroshi, argued over the gold.

Jon ventured closer until he spotted a small clearing in the jungle where three men, all garishly dressed and with garishly styled hair, stood in confrontation. An inherent distrust formed within Jon’s stomach, and he ducked down behind a fallen tree and watched them in obscurity. His eyes widened when he saw what had to be a dozen chained people kneeling down and looking utterly terrified.

“What was the point of raiding that pathetic island if this was all we could get?” One man, with bright green hair, was saying. “Look at them! These slaves aren’t strong enough for toil! How are we to fetch a good price?!”

A man with a long purple beard shook his head. “It doesn’t matter if they aren’t field workers,” he grabbed the chain of one young woman and pulled her forward violently, “there is some value in this lot. The pretty women will be useful as bed slaves, and the others can be sold off as house servants,” he waved to some of the children, “even they can be made useful, you know how much the Lyseni will pay for children they can train. It’s not a write off!”

“Enough of this,” growled a third man, standing taller than the others and with a big curving moustache that had been coloured a bright blue, “whatever the case, we need to return to port soon or else we’ll risk running into those bloody Ironborn. I don’t know about you two fools, but I’m not prepared to have all my goods stolen and my throat cut by those damned madmen.” He waved to the slaves at his feet, “take them back to the ship, get our crew to load them up and we’ll be gone by midday. Is that damned well clear enough?”

There was a murmur of agreement from the other two, obviously cowed by this leader. Jon felt a shiver of hope run through him. They had mentioned a port, which meant that despite the storm he had in fact landed on one of the Stepstones. There was still a chance for salvation if he could make his way there and find a friendly captain willing to give him passage.

His grey eyes returned to the sight before him, watching as the slaves were kicked and flogged in an attempt to get them on their feet. Women and children for the most part, but also weary old men who were bent with age. Jon did not consider himself to be Baelor the Blessed, but something still rankled within him watching the sight. His hand curled around the broken sword in his possession. Could he risk it? The slaves were not his problem, yet he might be able to help them if he could perhaps take out one or two of their captors. That said, he could also perhaps simply follow them back to port and take his chances with the other locals and avoid a fight altogether. Jon had a choice to make.