Beneath a sky as clear as polished glass, the waves of the Narrow Sea pounded ceaselessly against the jagged cliffs, their deep rumble eternal.
Lo Quen stood on a high cliff overlooking the waters, the sea wind rushing against his face with the sharp tang of salt and freedom, tugging at his jet-black hair.
In his hand he held a finely crafted Myrish lens, studying the deep-water bay below with keen attention.
The bay curved around a stretch of sandy beach, its waters a rich blue-green. Beyond lay a sea scattered with reefs, the natural barrier guarding the southeastern Stepstones.
After a long silence, a steady smile tugged at his lips.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
Jaelena approached in full armor, the sea wind seeming to flow around her rather than dare disturb her immaculate bearing.
Her face showed the weariness of long campaigns, yet her bright eyes blazed with undiminished resolve. Behind her came a detachment of soldiers fresh from completing their takeover. Though dusty and travel-worn, they carried themselves with pride, their eyes shining with the sense of belonging and honor that came with claiming new lands.
In just half a month, Jaelena had secured Tyrosh's vast holdings in the Disputed Lands with astonishing efficiency.
The territory stretched roughly 150 kilometers eastward from the coast, covering fertile plains, rolling hills, and key coastal towns. Here, nobles and wealthy slave-owners ruled sprawling estates, worked by cheap labor bought from slavers across the world. They grew oats, barley, wheat, peas, and lucrative cash crops—most famously the golden autumn pears used for Tyroshi pear brandy.
When word spread of Tyrosh's fall, the estate lords offered barely any resistance. Even the border outpost between Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys—manned by two hundred soldiers—surrendered at once, raising the white flag.
With scarcely a fight, Jaelena brought the western Disputed Lands under Lo Quen's control.
Upon receiving her triumphant report, Lo Quen left the reorganizing Tyrosh behind and sailed south, landing on this new conquest.
Now, under Jaelena's lead, they rode east from the landing bay, covering some five kilometers before reaching a hill that rose sharply above the land.
The terrain changed suddenly here. Beneath them was a limestone ridge with a flat summit.
To the west lay the bay they had just landed upon, and beyond it the boundless expanse of the Narrow Sea, glittering beneath the sun until sea and sky seemed to merge.
To the east stretched a deep valley thick with ancient jungle. A river, some two hundred feet across and born of distant mountains, wound through the valley floor like a silver ribbon. At the foot of the hill it curved gracefully before flowing into the western sea.
The hill stood like a natural watchtower, a boundary between ocean and jungle.
"Lord, look there."
Jaelena drew her reins and pointed toward the summit.
At the hill's highest point stood a solitary oak, strange and awe-inspiring.
Lo Quen's eyes fixed upon it at once.
The trunk was monstrously thick—ten men could not have encircled it. Its bark was scorched black, as though struck countless times by lightning in ages past.
The crown was long gone, leaving only jagged, spear-like branches reaching skyward. Yet from the charred cracks, thin green shoots had forced their way out, clinging stubbornly to life.
From a distance, the remnants of its crown resembled a vast, twisted circlet of black wood, looming upon the hilltop like a shattered diadem.
More striking still were the roots. Massive and gnarled, they sprawled across the ground like the bone talons of ancient dragons, clutching desperately at the earth, a grim testament to the tree's fierce and tragic will to endure.
"This is the Tree of Crowns. Thirty years ago, the Ninepenny Kings swore their blood oath here, and from it their conquest was born."
Jaelena's voice carried on the wind.
Lo Quen fixed his gaze on the ancient "Blackwood Crown," a tide of thoughts surging in his chest.
The nine would-be kings had long since crumbled into dust, yet this tree—their witness, their symbol of ambition and oath—still endured, stubbornly alive, watching a new conqueror set foot upon its hill.
As he studied the tree, another question pressed into his mind.
Where should he build the capital of his kingdom?
Tyrosh seemed the most immediate choice.
But Tyrosh was poorly placed: perched at the northeastern edge of the Stepstones, exposed to both the Sea of Myrth and the Narrow Sea, with no defensive depth.
Its isolation on an island meant nearly all its food must be shipped from inland estates. Any campaign into the Disputed Lands would require crossing the sea, a dangerous gamble.
And Tyrosh itself was a trading city, not a fortress.
Lo Quen's eyes swept across the limestone hill beneath him, to the deep-water bay below, then around the rugged terrain, built by nature to be defended.
An idea sprang up within him, clear and strong.
Like Aegon the Conqueror, he would raise his fortress on the mainland—stone and fire to rule the Disputed Lands.
He unrolled the map of the Disputed Lands taken from the Archon's palace in Tyrosh.
His finger pressed down on the mark for this bay.
It lay some two hundred kilometers southeast of Tyrosh's main island.
The bay's entrance was hidden and treacherous. To sail on to the Torturer's Deep at the southeastern Stepstones, one would have to round a narrow peninsula—nearly two hundred kilometers of difficult navigation.
Better yet, to the west stretched the reef-choked Stepstones, a natural island maze guarding the bay like a ring of loyal sentries.
Any fleet attempting a direct assault would first have to pick its way through those traps of rock and shoal, all the while facing fire from Stepstones strongholds along the way.
By land, the east was barred by jungle valleys, the north and south by the Disputed Lands already firmly in his grasp.
It was a fortress site born from the earth itself.
Lo Quen studied it with growing satisfaction.
The Tree of Crowns' bay was strong by nature, hard to take, easy to hold.
Four or five kilometers away, beside the bay, lay the remnants of an abandoned wharf village, some forty or fifty households. The site was perfect for building a great harbor—the landing point of his future city.
His eyes returned to the crownless oak and the hill beneath his feet. The vision was already clear in his mind.
He pointed to the hill on the map and said to Jaelena, "Here. This is where we'll raise our castle. The main keep will stand atop the hill, the slope ringed with curtain walls and towers. A marble avenue will run down the hillside to the harbor. And if the harbor grows into a city, we'll build another wall around it..."
Lo Quen spoke with mounting excitement, laying out his design for the fortress to come.