The next morning, the council chamber of Bloodstone Fortress was charged with the tension of war.
Jaelena, Chai Yi, Roro, Hal, and Spymaster Meizo Mahr gathered to hear Lo Quen's next orders. Their target this time was Tyrosh. Capturing the city would secure full control of the Stepstones and prepare the way for future campaigns into the Disputed Lands.
As for the Seven Kingdoms, barely a night had passed since the crushing defeat of their allied fleet. News had not yet spread, and the king had not even returned to the Red Keep. Even when Robert did return, it would take time to deliberate on a response to their losses in the Stepstones.
Lo Quen wasn't concerned about the Seven Kingdoms mounting an immediate counterattack—what worried him was the possibility of them passing word to Tyrosh. Their priority was clear: strike Tyrosh before anyone had time to react.
Roro stepped forward first, his dark face full of urgency.
"Lord, grant me command of the vanguard fleet to strike directly at Tyrosh's harbor. I know every reef there."
The others frowned at his words. Tyrosh's port was indeed a deep-water harbor that needed no smaller boats for landing, but the towering city walls rose almost directly behind the docks. Soldiers disembarking there would be left completely exposed to the archers, crossbowmen, and catapults manning the walls—little more than targets.
Hal hesitated, then spoke in a lowered voice.
"Lord, why not ride your dragon to burn the garrison on the walls first? That way, our landing will be as easy as walking across flat ground."
The suggestion lit a fire in Roro's and Meizo's eyes.
Ever since the golden dragon had scorched the seas and destroyed the fleet, a rumor had spread quietly through the ranks: that Lord Lo Quen, bearing the blood of the Valyrian dragonlords, was a true dragon of this age. The soldiers looked on him with a mix of awe, fervor, and restless excitement.
Lo Quen knew well where the rumor had begun, but he did nothing to quash it. He turned to Hal, his voice calm yet carrying a weight of command.
"Dragons are a final card to break mighty foes, not brooms to sweep aside rabble. If we rely on dragons for everything, how will soldiers harden their resolve? How will commanders sharpen their strategy? If this continues, the army will lose its spirit."
In truth, this was only an excuse. Lo Quen wasn't unwilling to transform into a dragon—he simply lacked the strength to do so.
In destroying the Seven Kingdoms' fleet, he had spent ten thousand points of Magic. Activating his Ultimate Skill had taken a thousand, sustaining it for nearly an hour had consumed another three thousand, and unleashing dragonfire to burn nearly four hundred ships had drained six thousand more. Out of his forty thousand, a quarter of his reserves were gone.
For Tyrosh, he had no intention of calling on his Ultimate Skill.
Though his words were not aimed directly at Roro or Hal, they struck deeply enough to make them both flush with embarrassment.
Roro's face showed a fleeting trace of shame before battle fervor quickly overtook it. He thumped his chest hard.
"You are right, my lord! Then let me, Roro, be your vanguard! I swear on my life, I will take Tyrosh for you!"
As a native of Tyrosh, Roro knew the city's terrain and defenses better than any other—he was the ideal choice for the charge.
Meizo Mahr stepped forward then, a cunning glint in his eyes.
"My lord, what if we raise the captured banners of the Seven Kingdoms fleet on Roro's ships? Perhaps we could trick Tyrosh into opening its gates."
Lo Quen's eyes lit up. A daring plan took form in an instant. He laughed, slamming his hand on the table.
"Let's do it!"
...
Tyrosh, Main Island — Harbor.
A grim, oppressive air hung over the port. Ever since pirates from the east had seized Spearhandle Village on Broken Spear Isle two months before, the city had been on high alert. The fleet patrolled the surrounding waters day and night, wary of attack.
Resentment smoldered among the officers. The Tyroshi navy boasted more than a hundred warships, strong enough to dominate the Stepstones, yet the Archon's strict orders forbade them from striking first. They could only huddle in defense.
"Lord! Look toward Broken Spear Isle!"
A lookout cried out in terror, pointing to the southwest sea.
The naval officer snatched up a Myrish lens and raised it to his eye. From the direction of Spearhandle Village, thick smoke rolled into the sky, flames raging higher and higher.
What made his blood run cold was the sight through the glass: countless soldiers in the standard armor of the Seven Kingdoms, advancing in perfect formation, were cutting down the poorly armed pirates with long swords.
Bright house banners snapped in the smoke-filled wind—a golden lion on crimson, a direwolf racing across white and gray, a golden rose upon green.
"It's the Seven Kingdoms' host!"
The officer gasped, his hands trembling on the lens.
"Quick! Report to the Archon at once—the Seven Kingdoms' army is at Spearhandle Village, wiping out those Eastern pirates!"
...
Palace of the Archon of Tyrosh.
Greenbeard paced restlessly across the gleaming marble floor, his boots clicking sharply with each step.
His brother, Archon Bluebeard, lay sprawled in comfort on a wide chaise piled with silk cushions, enjoying the massages of several concubines, utterly indifferent to Greenbeard's agitation.
The urgent shout of a soldier shattered the hall's languid air.
"Archon! Dire news from Broken Spear Isle! The armies of the Seven Kingdoms have landed at Spearhandle Village and are already purging the pirate remnants there. Our navy witnessed it firsthand!"
A grin split Bluebeard's plump face. He shoved aside the woman at his side and bellowed in delight,
"Excellent! Quickly, gather the fleet! We will join our allies of the Seven Kingdoms and strike the dogs while they're down!"
Greenbeard stormed down the steps, voice sharp and commanding.
"Hold! Archon! Our pact with the Seven Kingdoms was clear: after they captured Bloodstone, they would send word, and only then would we join forces against the Eastern host. How could they suddenly appear at Broken Spear Isle? It makes no sense!"
Bluebeard waved him off impatiently.
"What nonsense is that? Clearly the warriors of the Seven Kingdoms are unmatched! They must have swept through Bloodstone with ease, found the pirates weak and pitiful, and pressed the attack straight to Broken Spear Isle. The moment is ripe, brother—we must seize it!"
Greenbeard let out a bitter, incredulous laugh.
"With ease? The Easterners command undead legions clad in Valyrian steel! How could—"
Before he could finish, another soldier burst into the hall, his voice urgent and strained.
"Archon! Lord Paxter Redwyne, Earl of the Arbor—commander of the Seven Kingdoms' host and admiral of their fleet—is at the city gates. He requests audience with the Archon!"
They had long known Paxter held supreme command of the allied forces. For him to be here in person—it could not be false.
Bluebeard's face lit with joy. He slapped his thigh and shouted,
"Bring him in! Quickly, bring him in!"
But Greenbeard's face turned deathly pale, a chill running down his spine.
Paxter himself? So soon?
The thought struck him like a blade. His voice rose into a furious roar.
"This is a trap! We've been deceived! Those Seven Kingdoms bastards never meant to share anything—they put on the show of a pact, but all along they planned to seize the Valyrian steel and the Stepstones for themselves. They mean to leave us nothing!"
He turned to Bluebeard, his words low and seething with fury.
"Archon! Let Redwyne in! And if he cannot give us an explanation worth hearing—he will not leave Tyrosh alive!"