Tyrosh.
The palace that once belonged to the Bluebeard Archon now had a new master.
The grand hall was still as splendid as ever, its towering marble columns holding aloft a dome painted with the legends of Tyrosh's three-headed god. Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, casting colorful beams across the floor.
Lo Quen sat upon the ornate high-backed chair that had once been the Archon's. Inlaid with ivory and gold, cushioned in deep violet velvet, it radiated authority. He wore a fitted dark robe with narrow sleeves, a black jade-inlaid belt cinched at his waist.
Below him stood two envoys.
One was from Myr, dressed in pale purple silk embroidered with elaborate patterns, his eyes flickering nervously. The other, from Lys, wore an even more ostentatious robe of gold and crimson silk, silver thread depicting entwined men and women—decadent, indulgent, unmistakably Lysene.
When word of Tyrosh's fall reached Lys and Myr, their ruling councils wasted no time in dispatching envoys to the city.
The Lys envoy was the first to step forward. He bowed with proper deference, though his words carried a careful note of probing. "Honorable Lord of the Stepstones, I come at the command of the Magister of Lys, seeking to clarify certain questions regarding the future order of these islands."
He paused, measuring his words, his eyes flicking over Lo Quen's impassive face.
"As you know, Salladhor Saan long safeguarded the routes of our Lysene merchant fleet across the Stepstones. But now that Salladhor is gone, it is you who commands these waters.
Lys is eager to build a cooperative relationship with you. If you would continue the mutually beneficial arrangements of the past, Lys would of course offer suitable and satisfying recompense."
Lo Quen's fingers tapped lightly on the smooth ivory armrest, the sound sharp in the silence.
"My rule of the Stepstones," he said evenly, "is founded on equal treatment. Every merchant vessel that sails the Narrow Sea enjoys free passage—so long as the required tolls are paid. Lys is no exception. Pay what is owed, and your ships will sail under the protection of my fleet."
The Lys envoy's face darkened, like a shadow passing over it. His circuitous words had all been circling this single issue—the tolls.
Since defeating Salladhor, Lo Quen had imposed levies far higher than those of his predecessor, without leaving room for negotiation. For Lys, a city built on sea trade, profits had been squeezed hard, and its merchants grumbled bitterly. The envoy's true mission was to press for a reduction in those fees.
But Lo Quen's words left no opening at all.
"My lord..." The Lysene strained to keep his voice respectful, though the stiffness in it was plain. "Surely we might at least discuss the amount? A fair trade environment benefits us both. As matters stand, the duties levied on Lysene merchants are somewhat excessive, discouraging their ventures."
"Excessive?"
A thin, cold smile curved Lo Quen's lips. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze bearing down on the envoy.
"When Lys furnished Salladhor Saan with ships and supplies, aiding his raids on merchantmen, helping him oppose me in the Stepstones—was that not excessive? I have yet to properly reckon that account with Lys.
The taxes I collect now are a mercy. You should be grateful, not haggling."
The Lys envoy went white. Cold sweat beaded instantly along his brow. The blunt threat, the unmasking of his city's dealings, had stripped away the last veil of dignity.
He had come not only to argue over levies but to take the measure of this new master of the Stepstones. And in a single exchange, Lo Quen had shown him the truth—power beyond dispute, iron resolve, and no tolerance for double-dealing.
Worse still, this was the man who had taken Tyrosh itself, seizing absolute control of the Stepstones, holding the very throat of Narrow Sea trade in his grip.
No wonder the rulers of Lys were unsettled.
As the Lys envoy reeled in silence, the eyes of the Myrish envoy suddenly gleamed.
He put on a polished, professional smile, stepped forward, and spoke in a voice that was calm yet clear. "Honored lord, forgive my interruption. On our way to Tyrosh, we heard some rather curious rumors—like monsoon winds, they came sweeping from the direction of Westeros."
He paused deliberately, watching Lo Quen's face. "Not long ago, the Seven Kingdoms sent a mighty fleet to invade the Stepstones. Yet that vast armada was utterly destroyed off Bloodstone Isle. The rumor goes that they did not fall to storm or sea battle... but to dragons.
It is also said that the noble lords of Westeros are now imprisoned deep in your dungeons. I wonder if these... fascinating tales contain even the faintest trace of truth?"
His tone was casual, but the intent was plain—a probe, testing Lo Quen's reaction to guide Myr's decisions.
Lo Quen sneered at once.
His gaze swept the two envoys, and he let out a sharp, mocking huff.
"Dragons? The Westerosi are only making excuses for their failure. They mustered their strength to launch a sneak attack on Bloodstone and marched straight into a storm. Their fleet was shattered by a hurricane roaming the Narrow Sea. To cover their shame, they wove this ridiculous tale of dragons. Laughable.
Look around Tyrosh—where do you see a dragon's shadow?"
The envoys of Lys and Myr exchanged a quick glance.
Hearing Lo Quen's firm denial, unease flickered between them. Could it be the fleet had truly been lost to the storm?
Lo Quen caught their shifting expressions and smiled. "Envoys, in two months I shall hold my coronation ceremony here in Tyrosh. I expect Lys and Myr to send representatives to witness it. That day will mark the establishment of a new order."
The coronation had long been delayed by the invasion from the Seven Kingdoms. Now that Tyrosh was his, Lo Quen would wait no longer.
The envoys of Lys and Myr stiffened at once.
A coronation!
This meant he no longer sought the title of pirate or warlord, but aimed to found a formal regime, with territory and legitimacy. It would reshape the political balance of the Narrow Sea and the western coast of Essos.
Both men bowed low, hiding their turmoil. "Rest assured, Lord. We will report this great event to the Magister without delay."
...
Once the envoys departed with heavy hearts and troubling news, silence fell over the palace once more.
Meizo Mahr entered through a side door, bowing deeply. "Lord, as ordered, we have seized all children within the city whose behavior seemed unusual or whose movements suspicious—especially those without parents, those who haunt the streets."
Lo Quen's first command after Tyrosh fell had not been to calm the populace or tally its wealth, but to round up every child who flitted through alleys, rooftops, and chimneys like spiders—above all, the orphans.
Meizo carried it out with ruthless efficiency. With the help of local collaborators, targets were swiftly identified. Under threats and bribes, some of the younger ones, unable to withstand the pressure, broke down.
They revealed not only their identities and tasks, but also the very nodes of Varys's intelligence network in Tyrosh.
Following the trail, Meizo struck hard, tearing out the roots of Varys's "little birds" in Tyrosh. The network's nodes were destroyed, its agents either seized or vanished.
A flicker of satisfaction crossed Lo Quen's face. He knew well the weight of intelligence in a world steeped in intrigue. Varys's web was a threat too dangerous to ignore.
"Excellent work, Meizo."
He gave his approval, then added calmly, "Those Little Birds who bent the knee to us—have them continue as before, passing our messages to their master. I want to see what tricks Varys thinks he can play."
It was a dangerous move, but a cunning one. Lo Quen would turn the spider's web into a snare of lies.
"Yes, Lord. I understand."
Meizo's eyes gleamed with excitement. For a spymaster, nothing was more thrilling than seizing control of the enemy's sources.
He bowed again, then withdrew from the palace.