Over ten days and nights had passed since Lo Quen's iron-fisted assault on Jawbreak Island.
The salty sea breeze still swept across the rugged isle. The air no longer carried the clamor and stench of pirates but instead the fresh scent of timber, the sharp tang of tung oil, and the steady rhythm of hammers striking ship planks.
Roro and Ser Jorah Mormont had returned from Spearhandle Village with rich spoils. A dozen heavily laden flat-bottomed barges, their hulls sunk deep into the water, slowly entered the crude dockyard on Jawbreak Island's western shore—a natural bay only slightly reshaped for the task.
Supplies piled high as mountains: sturdy oak and pine beams, barrels of pungent tung oil, coils of tough flax rope, thick rolls of linen sailcloth, and dozens of Tyrosh shipwrights.
Lo Quen stood on a towering reef at the dock's edge, overlooking the busy scene below. Sunlight broke through thin clouds, scattering glittering reflections across the sea that lit his calm, water-still face.
He had merged the costly Tyrosh craftsmen with Jawbreak Island's original pirate shipwrights. Under Roro's coordination, they worked ceaselessly, day and night, to repair the warships battered in the naval battle. In the shipyard, the craftsmen toiled like ants—stripping broken planks, replacing rotted ribs of the keel, hammering in red-hot nails, and sealing seams with hemp soaked in tung oil.
Lo Quen knew Sarado Saan could descend upon them at any moment. Every ship repaired was another stake in his claim to survive the stormy sea.
As for Weeping Reef Island, the looted pirate lair, Lo Quen did not dismiss it. He ordered Hal to select a hundred elite men, led by several seasoned former pirate captains of Jawbreak. With ample supplies and crossbows, they fortified themselves in the island's stout watchtower. Their mission was clear: to watch the surrounding waters, act as the forward eyes for the Grey Gallows Archipelago and the eastern approaches of Bloodstone, and to keep stray pirates from seizing it for Salladhor's use.
Only days ago, through the well-informed Tyrosh merchants of Spearhandle Village, Lo Quen learned that Sarado Saan was frantically rallying the Stepstones' scattered pirate remnants. The "Prince of the Narrow Sea" was clearly enraged by the meteoric rise of Lo Quen, the "Eastern Sorcerer," and felt threatened as never before. He was determined to risk everything in one decisive battle.
In preparation, Lo Quen had long since ordered Roro and Hal to send swift longboats and oared skiffs to scout like ghosts through the broken seas east of the Grey Gallows and Bloodstone, where reefs and shoals shattered the waters into a maze.
Yet strangely, the dreaded swarm of pirate ships never appeared. The waters held only ordinary merchantmen and scattered pirate skiffs. Salladhor's vast fleet seemed to have vanished into thin air.
The silence was unnatural, like the suffocating pressure before a storm. It tightened Lo Quen's nerves with each passing day, suspicion quietly gnawing at him. He refused to believe Salladhor would simply abandon the fight. This stillness felt like nothing but the calm before the tempest.
He dispatched his most trusted men, disguised as merchants, time and again into Spearhandle Village to gather news. Finally, they returned with a key piece of intelligence reeking of conspiracy.
"The Lysene?"
Lo Quen's brows furrowed into a deep scowl. He fixed his gaze on Roro, who had come to report, and spoke in a low, cutting tone. "You mean Lys has directly stepped in—sponsoring Salladhor's warships? How many?"
Roro shook his head, his expression grave. "Lord, the Tyrosh in Spearhandle are tight-lipped. They reveal nothing about the exact numbers or ship types. They only let slip this much: Lys has invested heavily. Their goal is clear—using Salladhor as their blade to cut you down, the 'unstable factor,' and seize absolute control over the trade routes across the western and central Stepstones."
Lo Quen paced in silence as the damp sea wind whipped across his face, tugging at the black hair on his brow.
He murmured the names "Lys" and "Tyrosh," and a cold, knowing smile curved his lips. "Interesting. These two 'daughters' wage their open and hidden wars, yet see me as nothing but a pawn."
The truth came to him at once: the Tyrosh had leaked this intelligence deliberately. Not out of goodwill, but as a clear ploy to set tigers against each other. They wanted him and Salladhor, backed by Lys, to clash.
At least Lys had put real coin into Salladhor's hands. But Tyrosh? They sat on a mighty fleet and vaults of gold, yet confined themselves to selling timber and tung oil in Spearhandle Village. They watched from the mountain as the beasts fought, waiting for him and Salladhor to bleed each other dry before swooping in to claim the spoils of the sea.
"Hmph." Lo Quen let out a quiet, unreadable chuckle, his fingers tapping lightly against the cold stone windowsill. "Seems I underestimated Tyrosh. The waters of the Stepstones run deeper than I thought."
His tone carried no trace of anger or admiration—only a deep and wary vigilance.
Roro spoke with deep concern, interrupting his thoughts.
"Lord, the issue now is that regardless of how many warships Lys has provided, Salladhor's fleet has already grown significantly stronger. If we choose to meet them head-on in open waters..."
He hesitated, his words turning unusually cautious, even tinged with a faint bitterness. "...our chances of victory are not promising."
Behind those simple words lay the near-hopeless gap in strength. The pirates already knew these treacherous waters better than anyone. Now, with Lys lending them formidable naval power, Lo Quen's few newly repaired paddle-sail ships and hastily commandeered merchant vessels would be like eggs thrown against stone before an enemy both superior in numbers and equipment.
Lo Quen turned, his deep eyes steady, showing no hint of panic—only a cold gleam of clarity. "Who says we must clash head-on in open waters? Roro, you and I both know our true strength lies in the Dragon Soul Guards. In heavy armor, blades in hand, they are an unbreakable wall on land, sweeping aside armies. But on a cramped, rocking ship?"
Through repeated battles—most of all the brutal night fight at the Tidal Reefs—Lo Quen had come to fully grasp the Guards' strengths and their fatal weaknesses.
These silent warriors had unmatched defense and strength beyond ordinary men. In close-quarters boarding combat, a single Dragon Soul Guard could suppress ten pirates. Yet the harsh reality of naval warfare shackled their power. The narrow decks left them little room to fight, and the flimsy gangplanks during boarding allowed only a few to cross at a time, robbing them of their overwhelming advantage in formation.
If that were the only problem, it might be managed. But worse was how the cunning pirates had adapted.
No longer would they foolishly rush to fight these armored warriors hand-to-hand. They had learned.
Caggo's tactics had proven it. At the Tidal Reefs, the pirates of Jawbreak Island used their swift ships to ram the exposed flanks of Lo Quen's vessels, splintering keels and hurling men into the icy sea. Then, from a safe distance, they rained down heavy bolts and even stones from catapults.
The Guards' famed armor turned against them under such relentless fire. Once overboard, they became helpless—sinking targets stripped of all combat power. If the waters that night hadn't been shallow enough for rescue, the losses would have been devastating.
"Unless..." Lo Quen's gaze moved from Roro to Hal, who had been listening in silence. "Unless we can drag the fight off the open sea—where they hold absolute dominance—and into ground where the Dragon Soul Guards can truly shine. Islands. Beaches. Or a trap where they have no choice but to meet us blade to blade, stripped of their ranged advantage."
Roro's hand stroked the stubble on his chin as he thought, then his eyes lit with sudden clarity. "Lord, do you remember Caggo's ships? They all had bronze rams on their prows. If we could..."
"A ram?"
Lo Quen's mind flared to life, racing ahead on Roro's thought. "Mount them on merchantmen, use their bulk and inertia to strike? But merchant ships are too slow, too clumsy. With the wind at their back, maybe. But against the wind, they'd be little more than targets. And even if they struck true, they'd only smash the enemy's sides and decks. To shatter a keel in one blow? Unlikely..."
He paced, words spilling faster, as if locked in a storm of thought with himself.
Then, like lightning splitting the night, a word flashed through his mind—fire.