After breakfast, Lo Quen immediately issued his orders.
The Swan Fleet anchored in the fan-shaped bay received the command, and the Dragon Soul Guards began methodically loading everything from the Torturer's Deep onto the ships—Valyrian ancient texts, precision instruments, ghost grass, and the mysterious black stones pulsing with unknown power.
This isolated fortress, perched far out at sea, would now serve as a crucial military stronghold in the southern waters of the Stepstones, guarding the realm's southern gateway.
The swan ships' elegant white sails filled with wind, cutting through the azure waves as they set course for the coast of the Disputed Lands.
Inside the cabin, Lo Quen placed three pieces of fresh, blood-streaked raw meat before the young dragons.
Blooddancer immediately asserted its dominance as the alpha. With a powerful step forward, it unceremoniously shoved Duskshadow and Silverfall aside with its body. Raising its head, its crimson eyes locked onto the meat, a low, rasping growl of excitement rumbling from its throat.
Then, with a sudden snap of its small yet already fierce jaws, a slender stream of pale red flame shot forth—hot enough to sear the air itself. The fire licked at the raw meat, producing a sharp sizzle as a rich, roasted aroma quickly filled the cabin.
Within mere breaths, the meat was perfectly charred. Blooddancer lowered its head and devoured the meal in one gulp, letting out a soft, satisfied hum.
Duskshadow and Silverfall followed its lead. Duskshadow exhaled a magnificent pale violet flame that instantly wrapped around its meal, while Silverfall released a silver-white Dragonfire that shimmered like molten moonlight before biting into the cooked flesh.
The fact that each hatchling's Dragonfire matched the exact color of its scales left the onlookers astonished.
Janice crouched nearby, watching with amused fascination as the young dragons ate—awkwardly yet earnestly. Occasionally, she reached out a finger to lightly stroke Duskshadow's back, running it over the fine, glossy purple scales. Duskshadow wriggled in response, letting out a playful, affectionate hiss.
Lo Quen watched the three hatchlings devour their meals with distinct personalities, a teasing smile curving his lips. "Janice," he said, "tell me... are these three male or female?"
Janice gave him a playful glare before covering her mouth with a light laugh. "Dragons transcend mortal genders," she explained softly. "They are hermaphroditic, ever-changing beings. However, those capable of conceiving and laying eggs are generally considered 'female dragons.'"
At that moment, Archmaester Marwyn approached, his gaze fixed on the feeding hatchlings. "Indeed," he added, "records from House Targaryen tell us that some dragons never laid eggs throughout their entire lives. Others... such as the last dragon from Aegon the Third's reign—a frail green female, small-bodied with withered wings and stunted growth—surprised everyone.
That seemingly dying creature, incapable of continuing her line, miraculously laid a clutch of dragon eggs at the end of her life. The act drained the last of her strength, and after fulfilling that solemn duty, she died soon after."
Lo Quen speculated that it must have been caused by a waning of Magic at the time.
...
After several days at sea, the swan ships finally sailed into the harbor of Crown Town.
The sight before him was completely transformed from when he had last departed. Across the wide coastal plain, tents had sprung up like mushrooms after rain, forming a sprawling encampment that stretched far into the horizon.
Countless prisoners from the Seven Kingdoms, dressed in tattered prison garb and bearing expressions of numbness or despair, toiled like worker ants under the sharp eyes and raised spears of the soldiers overseeing them.
The once-deserted fishing port had been completely remade. Nine vast, newly constructed piers stretched boldly into the sea like the arms of a giant, solid and unmoving amid the surf.
A circular stone tower of rough-hewn rock had already taken shape at the port's edge—it would one day serve as the fortress of the tax collector, who would control the harbor's lifeblood.
Lo Quen's gaze shifted farther inland. The hills of the Tree of Crowns were alive with activity.
The gentle slopes had been flattened, and heaps of precisely cut white marble blocks were stacked into small mountains. Nearby lay massive lime pits where clay and sand mixed with water, filling the air with an earthy tang.
Tyroshi architects, their leather aprons dusted white, clustered around a huge parchment blueprint, arguing heatedly while charcoal pencils scratched new lines onto the plan.
Overseers cracked their whips, shouting orders as waves of captive laborers hauled the quarried stone to designated locations.
The chants, hammer strikes, and grinding stone blended into a grand, rugged symphony of construction.
Ship after ship arrived from all directions across the Stepstones. Each landing brought more weary, downcast captives, adding to the relentless tide of labor fueling the great work.
Lo Quen was astonished. He had been away only a short while, yet the scale and efficiency of this place had grown beyond expectation.
Just then, a familiar figure emerged from the bustling site—Qyburn.
Though there was a trace of fatigue on his face, his expression carried a look of genuine respect and satisfaction.
"My lord, you have returned."
Qyburn bowed deeply, his voice calm and precise. "Since your departure, prisoners from the Seven Kingdoms have arrived in an unbroken stream. As of now, we have received and registered a total of thirty thousand captives. Lord Hal continues to organize ships to transfer the remaining ones.
When the Tyroshi craftsmen's team arrived, I immediately arranged their accommodations and established a designated craftsmen's district. Today marks the first official day of construction for the main fortress. The architectural team is finalizing the core structural design of the keep, while most of the prisoner laborers have been sent inland to high-quality quarries to extract the foundation stones required for the castle."
"Maester Qyburn, you've done exceedingly well—far beyond my expectations."
Lo Quen's praise was sincere, his eyes filled with approval. Qyburn's administrative precision and efficiency were in no way inferior to his mastery of forbidden studies. With him overseeing the project, the construction of this castle—symbol of both power and destiny—would surely be completed ahead of schedule.
Qyburn inclined his head slightly before continuing in his composed tone. "Considering that the main structure will take time to finish, you and your companions will need a more comfortable place to stay. I've had a temporary camp built behind the hills, deep in the fertile river valley. The wooden cabins are simple, but they provide good shelter from wind and rain—certainly better than tents."
Lo Quen smiled genuinely. "That's excellent news, Qyburn. I was already bracing myself for a few more nights in those drafty seaside tents. You've planned well."
Led by Qyburn, Lo Quen, Janice, and Marwyn made their way through the bustling construction site, followed closely by three young dragons secured in specially crafted ventilated wooden cages. Behind them, the silent Dragon Soul Guards carried the heavy black stones, ancient Valyrian tomes, bundles of ghost grass, and other supplies from Torturer's Deep with practiced steadiness.
The camp lay nestled deep within the river valley, beside a clear, fast-flowing stream. A solid fence of tightly packed logs, taller than two men, encircled the camp, providing firm protection. Inside, dozens of wooden cabins built from local hazel and cottonwood stood neatly in rows. Their roofs, layered with thick thatch or planks, looked rough but sturdy.
As the others busied themselves unloading supplies and preparing a secure spot for the three hatchlings, Qyburn quietly stepped closer to Lo Quen. Lowering his voice, he spoke with urgency. "My lord, the last batch of condemned prisoners transferred from Bloodstone... has been completely used up."
Lo Quen, watching soldiers carry a crate of ancient texts into the largest cabin, paused and turned to him. "How is the progress?"
For once, a trace of frustration and unease flickered across Qyburn's face. His brow furrowed. "The study of the soul remains too deep and forbidden. I've attempted every known method—and even several new theoretical approaches—but I still can't prevent the soul's complete dissipation once it leaves the body. So..."
Lo Quen raised an eyebrow. "So, you need more... 'experimental material'?"
Qyburn nodded silently.
Lo Quen's gaze drifted beyond the camp, as though he could see through the wooden palisade to the distant hills, where the captives toiled like ants. He reached out and gave Qyburn's thin shoulder a light pat, his tone carrying quiet meaning. "If I recall correctly, many of those prisoners are from the Westerlands, aren't they? Castle construction is dangerous work—quarrying stone on cliffs, digging deep pits, hauling heavy blocks...
Accidents are bound to happen, especially in this wilderness. Wolves prowl at night. If a few disobedient or unlucky souls go missing—dragged off by starving beasts—well, that's hardly unusual, is it? And who would ever question it?"
Lo Quen's hatred for the Lannisters ran deep. Letting those Westerlanders live as long as they served a purpose was already generous—they would make perfect subjects for Qyburn's research.
Qyburn understood immediately. "As you command, my lord."
Lo Quen nodded, then shifted topics. "One more thing, Maester Qyburn. Near the castle's main complex, I want you to design and oversee the construction of a large armory. Its purpose will be to mass-produce standardized weapons and armor. For craftsmen, recruit experienced smiths from Tyrosh—offer them generous pay."
Among his forces, only the Dragon Soul Guards possessed Valyrian steel armor, far superior to the era's craft. Most other soldiers wore simple leather armor, offering little protection. Tyrosh, famed for its master armorers and weaponmakers, catered mainly to noble houses and wealthy knights—but Lo Quen intended to change that.
A magnificent full suit of plate armor could take a master craftsman months to complete—each piece painstakingly forged, polished, enameled, and even inlaid with gemstones. Such armor was as much a work of art as a symbol of wealth and status.
But Lo Quen had no need for such luxuries. What he required was a "war foundry," capable of swiftly equipping thousands of soldiers.
He had no intention of mass-producing costly full plate armor. It was prohibitively expensive, labor-intensive, and—without sufficient warhorses to field heavy cavalry—simply not worth the investment.
His focus was on two types of practical, easily mass-produced armor: plate coats and chainmail.
Plate coats, also known as jack plates, were made by layering multiple sheets of canvas or tough leather, within which rows of rectangular iron or steel plates were sewn into key sections. Lightweight and flexible, they offered excellent protection for their cost—far superior to plain leather armor—and were ideal for freeriders, hedge knights, and elite infantry alike.
Chainmail, crafted from countless interlocking, riveted iron rings, formed a second skin that provided outstanding defense against both slashing and piercing attacks. The technique was well-established, making it suitable for mass production.
With a steady supply of reliable armor and weapons, Lo Quen could finally raise and equip a formidable standing army.
However, the next problem soon arose—where would he find the men to wield them?
The Disputed Lands under the control of the Three Daughters were a place of twisted hierarchy. A few greedy slave masters and their merchant allies ruled from above, while the vast majority of the population were slaves, stripped of all rights and freedom.
True freemen were few, and like most citizens of the Free Cities, they considered themselves above military service. None had the will—or humility—to die on the battlefield.
Thus, the city-states relied heavily on sellsword companies to sustain their military might.
As for the prisoners from the Seven Kingdoms?
They consisted mostly of professional soldiers and peasants drawn from various regions of Westeros. The former served their lords year-round, bound by oath and loyalty; the latter were conscripted only during times of war, their hearts tethered to families and fields.
Both groups, Lo Quen knew, were unsuitable.
After much deliberation, only one viable source of manpower remained—the slave markets.
It was said that the bearded priests of Norvos defended their city with armies of slaves, while Qohor relied on the ruthless, disciplined Unsullied as the backbone of their defenses.
The thought of the Unsullied stirred something in Lo Quen.
Perhaps it was time to send someone to Astapor, in Slaver's Bay.
An army of elite infantry—utterly obedient and flawlessly trained—was exactly the foundation he needed most.
...
Five days later, a carrier pigeon from Tyrosh brought urgent news.
The Seven Kingdoms' peace delegation had arrived in the city, requesting a meeting with Lo Quen to negotiate a ceasefire—and the ransom of their prisoners.