The dead were buried before sunset.
Stormlander custom did not leave bodies for gulls, nor did it grant ceremony to those who had come by sea to burn and steal. A trench was dug beyond the line of huts at Greenwater Cove, deep enough that the tide would not reclaim it on a restless night. The pirates were laid within it without banner or prayer.
The villagers were given more.
Orys stood apart from the small gathering as the septon murmured words over two fishermen and a boy who had tried to run for the boats and had not been quick enough. The wind carried the scent of brine and smoke, mingling them until neither could be separated from the other.
Robert remained closer to the shoreline.
He paced the sand as though the retreat of the ships had left something unfinished in him. The hammer hung at his side, dark with seawater where it had struck too near the surf.
"They ran too easily," Robert said when Orys approached.
"They came to run," Orys replied.
Robert frowned. "You think this was planned?"
"Yes."
Robert turned toward the horizon where the ships had vanished hours earlier. "Then we plan back."
Orys did not answer immediately.
The sea had gone calmer with evening, its earlier agitation settling into long, even pulls against the shore. It had given nothing away.
"They chose a narrow cove," Orys said. "They landed quickly. They withdrew in formation."
Robert shrugged. "Pirates fight."
"Not like that."
Robert studied him. "You're certain."
"I'm certain enough."
Robert's jaw tightened slightly, not in anger, but in thought.
Behind them, Lord Steffon finished speaking with the village elders and began issuing orders for patrols along the coast. Ships would be sent out before dawn. Riders would carry word south and north alike.
Orys turned from the shoreline and walked toward the rocks that bordered the eastern edge of the cove. The sand there gave way to jagged stone that rose unevenly, offering a vantage point over both village and sea.
He climbed carefully, boots scraping against rough surfaces until he reached a higher outcrop. From there, the pattern revealed itself more clearly.
The huts closest to the water had been struck first. Nets slashed, boats damaged, supplies taken. The two huts set aflame were positioned deliberately, their smoke obscuring visibility toward the far edge of the beach where the archers had taken position.
Distraction. Control. Withdrawal. This was not hunger...it was rehearsal.
Footsteps sounded below.
Stannis emerged from between two rocks, expression tight. "You see it," he said.
"Yes."
Stannis joined him on the higher stone, arms folded.
"Father thinks they were driven north by patrols in the Stepstones," he said.
"They may have been," Orys replied. "But someone is organizing them."
Stannis glanced toward the village. "You believe this is larger."
"Yes."
"Then we prepare for larger."
Orys's gaze returned to the water. "Not just with ships."
Stannis waited.
"They tested our speed," Orys continued. "How quickly we ride. How we form. How we press."
Stannis considered that. "And what did they learn?"
"That Robert will always charge the center."
Stannis did not smile. "And you?"
"That I will not."
The wind shifted slightly, carrying cooler air from the open water.
Below them, Robert shouted something to one of the knights and began wading into the shallows, as though daring the sea to answer him directly.
"He'll get himself killed one day," Stannis muttered.
Orys watched as Robert lifted the hammer high and brought it down against a half-submerged piece of driftwood, shattering it into fragments that scattered across the tide.
"No," Orys said quietly. "He won't."
Stannis looked at him. "He fights too openly."
"He fights too strongly."
"There's a difference."
"Yes," Orys agreed. "But men will follow strength longer than caution."
Stannis's eyes narrowed. "You mean to say they would follow him."
Orys did not respond at once.
The wind pressed against his cloak, tugging at its edge. "Men follow what feels certain," he said.
"And what feels certain?"
Orys looked down toward the village where knights moved among villagers, offering coin and reassurance. "The hammer," he said.
Stannis said nothing.
The burial trench had been filled by then, the earth flattened and tamped down. Smoke from the last extinguished hut drifted thinly upward, losing its density as the evening cooled.
Robert emerged from the water laughing, boots soaked, trousers clinging to his legs. He looked younger when he laughed like that, as though the weight of command had not yet settled upon his shoulders.
"Next time," he called up toward the rocks, "we chase them into open water."
Orys descended from the outcrop carefully.
"Next time," he said, "we meet them before they land."
Robert clapped him hard across the back. "Then we'll do both."
Night crept in slowly.
The patrol ships left before full dark, sails catching what little wind remained. Riders departed inland carrying word to other coastal settlements.
As the Stormlander force prepared to return to Storm's End, Orys cast one final look toward the sea.
It had withdrawn.
But only for now.
The tide always returned, and when it did, it would not come blindly.