The Stepstones, on the lee side of an unnamed island.
Far from the main shipping lanes, the place bristled with jagged black reefs. Waves roared through the gaps in the rocks, throwing up stark white foam.
Beneath a natural hollow in the sea cliffs lay something that barely qualified as a dock.
A few crooked logs driven into the shallows supported a rickety platform, where several small galleys and fishing boats were moored, their hulls blackened and covered in patch upon patch.
Along the shore, the remains of several ships lay half-buried in the gravel. Stranded for who knew how many years, they had been eaten down to their skeletons by salt and sea wind.
A few shacks cobbled together from driftwood, torn sailcloth, and stones huddled against the rock face.
Rusty iron pots, stripped fish bones, and empty wine barrels littered the ground outside. The air reeked of fish and unwashed bodies.
It was a typical small pirate den: hidden, filthy, and never certain of surviving another day.
Now, however, a stronger smell hung over the crude camp-the scent of fresh blood.
Several corpses, clad in mismatched leather armor or bare-chested, lay between the shacks and beside the reefs. Their wounds gaped, and their blood had stained the sand dark brown.
Resistance had been crushed in moments.
Aegon stood beside the only reasonably intact rough wooden table in the center of camp. A yellowed chart of the Stepstones, its edges torn, lay spread across it.
He leaned forward slightly, moving his finger slowly over the map, his violet eyes studying the ink marks and symbols for reefs, currents, and islands.
He compared them with the information gleaned from Morgor's final words and the map, working out the best route to the hidden armor and the obstacles they might encounter.