He recalled that in the history of the Stepstones, more than one man had styled himself "King of the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones"—Daemon Targaryen, Racallio Ryndoon, and others.
But each of these so-called kings held power for only a fleeting moment.
After their fall, the Stepstones always slipped back into chaos—part pirate haven, part smugglers' paradise, part battleground where the Free Cities waged their shadow wars.
It struck him that their reigns had all been so brief for a simple reason: the Stepstones had never possessed the foundations of a true realm.
A nation needs people, land, food, and stable order.
The Stepstones had little of any. Only a handful of islands—Bloodstone, Grey Gallows, Broken Spear—held scattered fishing villages.
The land was barren. When Lo Quen first stepped onto Bloodstone, he found only the thinnest layer of soil, badly eroded, incapable of yielding barley, oats, or rye.
Thus, the pirates of the Stepstones fed themselves with imports from both shores of the Narrow Sea or lived on salted fish.
Worse still, the Stepstones had always been contested ground.
To the Iron Throne, the islands were a potential staging post for invasion—a threat that could not be ignored.
To the three daughters—Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys—they were territory within their own sphere of influence.
Now that Lo Quen had unified the islands, he knew all eyes on both shores of the Narrow Sea would turn toward him.
And that was exactly what he wanted.
If he was to build a kingdom, he would need land—real land, capable of sustaining people and armies.
Where could such land be found? The answer was obvious.
The question before him was no longer whether to call himself king, but whom to strike first: Westeros or the Free Cities.
...
Westeros?
No—not yet. Invading now would be meaningless.
Lo Quen knew the path of Westeros' future. He could turn that knowledge to his advantage.
Already, a plan had begun to take shape. He would not sit idle, waiting for the story to unfold. He would stir the waters, push events toward even greater turmoil than the tale had ever told—until the Seven Kingdoms tore themselves apart. Then he would claim the spoils.
But the Free Cities—those were a different matter.
Their strength was nothing compared to the Seven Kingdoms. While he maneuvered and sowed chaos in Westeros, he could strike eastward, breaking them one by one.
There was another reason behind his "east before west" strategy.
The Others. The army of the dead beyond the Wall.
Lo Quen had no certainty there. When he crossed into this world, the books had not yet ended. He had no way of knowing what the Others truly commanded. Did they march with ice spiders, mammoths, ghouls, demons—even ice dragons?
One day, he would go beyond the Wall himself, see with his own eyes, and decide.
And if the Others did have such monsters at their side, he would not sacrifice himself for the good of Westeros.
He was no savior. Let the followers of the Seven, of R'hllor, of the Old Gods, face them first. Let the so-called gods prove their strength.
...
With his course decided, Lo Quen's gaze hardened.
He turned to Roro and Hal.
"Salladhor styled himself 'prince' for holding two islands. I hold the Stepstones entire. I am owed a greater title. Not for glory alone—this is how we declare our presence and strength to both shores of the Narrow Sea. Roro, Hal, you will see to the coronation. It will be held here, on Bloodstone. Choose a fitting day. It must be grand. Let the world bear witness."
He went on, "But before the coronation, I must leave for several days—to Oldtown."
"Oldtown?"
At once, Jaelena stepped forward, her brows drawn tight, her face filled with concern. "My lord, that is one of Westeros' greatest strongholds. Must you go yourself? Could you not send a messenger instead..."
Lo Quen shook his head, his tone brooking no argument. "I must go in person. The man I seek is unlike any other—he is vital. He holds the key to the very foundation of our future."
He meant Archmaester Marwyn—the reclusive, arrogant "mage," obsessed with the higher mysteries.
Magic was the heart of Lo Quen's power, and the weapon he would need most when facing the unknown.
And Marwyn could not be won with letters or envoys. This, he had to do himself.
He turned to Jaelena and explained, "The war has only just ended. Every faction is still reeling from the shock, still digesting the news. This is a rare window of strategic respite. I must seize it. Once they recover, trouble will follow one wave after another."
Jaelena understood the urgency, but her concern lingered. "You mean the Free Cities will soon challenge us?"
"Not 'soon'—inevitably," Lo Quen replied firmly. "Controlling the Stepstones means seizing their purse strings. They won't forgive it. That's why, while I'm away, you will hold full authority over all affairs of the Stepstones."
Jaelena nodded with solemn resolve. "Yes, my lord."
Lo Quen's tone shifted. "But you cannot remain on Bloodstone."
A flicker of confusion crossed her face. "Not on Bloodstone?"
"Correct. I need you to command from Torturer's Deep, because Janice will be coming with me to Oldtown."
He had originally planned to go alone, but considering Archmaester Marwyn's eccentric nature and the likelihood of scholarly exchanges, he had changed his mind.
Since fleeing the ruins of Valyria, Janice had made considerable progress in her study of blood magic. Her knowledge might well be the key to swaying Marwyn.
But if Janice left, Lo Quen needed a Flame Knight of absolute loyalty to guard Torturer's Deep. Otherwise, he would not rest easy.
"Chai Yiq will accompany you to Torturer's Deep," Lo Quen continued. "Bloodstone will remain under Roro and Hal. You will hold the east with Chai Yiq, guarding the gateway to Essos. Roro and Hal will hold the west from Bloodstone, watching Westeros. Together, east and west will reinforce each other, enough to keep the Narrow Sea in check and withstand any initial upheavals."
...
Five days later, at Bloodstone Harbor.
The first light of dawn touched the sea breeze, carrying both the ease of victory and the promise of departure.
A medium-sized galley had just docked, arriving from Torturer's Deep.
This natural harbor—named "Prince's Port" by Salladhor—was vastly larger than Jawbreak Island's meager dock.
Lo Quen stood at the quay, watching the bustle before him.
Shipwrights worked on damaged warships, soldiers drilled, and surrendered pirates hauled supplies under the stern eyes of Dragon Soul Guards.
A surge of satisfaction welled within him—a sense of absolute control.
Just days ago, this had been Salladhor's den. Now, it was his.
Light footsteps approached.
Janice descended the gangplank, travel-worn yet radiant.
It had been some time since they last met, and Lo Quen immediately noticed the change in her.
Her face had shed much of its youthful softness, her frame seemed taller, and her violet eyes now held the focus and sharp light of one who had immersed herself in arcane study. Yet beneath it all, the unquenchable energy of youth still burned.
Perhaps the relentless strain of war had made him overlook how much she'd grown.
For the journey, she wore a fitted hunting outfit tailored in a man's cut. A velvet coat of purple draped her shoulders, while black trousers clung to her long, powerful legs.
Her silver hair, no longer left loose, was neatly tied back.
At her waist hung a sharp sword, lending her a striking air of confidence and poise.
"My lord."
Her voice carried the joy of reunion and the thrill of what lay ahead. "We're truly going to Oldtown, in Westeros?"
Her eyes sparkled with anticipation.
Lo Quen studied the vibrant young woman before him, and for the first time in days, the weight of slaughter eased from his heart. He smiled and nodded. "Yes, Janice. This will be our first step on Westerosi soil. Time is short—we must depart quickly."
Janice nearly leapt with excitement, her silver hair catching the sun in rippling waves. "Marvelous! I've heard Oldtown is the most splendid of cities, with towers piercing the clouds and the Citadel holding all the world's wisdom. I long to see those legendary buildings and libraries with my own eyes!"
Her childlike excitement drew a smile from him. He teased, the words touched with the irony of one who had seen more. "Believe me, Janice. After you've seen Valyria's ruins—the spires etched with runes, stabbing into the heavens—every so-called wonder in this world will pale in comparison."
Valyria's glory had long surpassed mortal craft. Its towers were born of magic and power. Against them, even the Citadel was but a shadow.
...
Their movements were a tightly held secret.
Apart from Roro and Hal, who were busy preparing the coronation, no one else knew the truth. Even Jorah Mormont believed Lo Quen had gone with Jaelena's host to Torturer's Deep.
There were no ceremonies, no farewells.
Lo Quen and Janice boarded the warship.
The sailors loosed the mooring lines, oars dipped into the deep-blue sea in unison.
With the command, the sails unfurled, swelling with wind.
The ship glided from Prince's Port—once Salladhor's pride—and cut across the calm waters, striking southwest into the Summer Sea.
Toward the southern tip of Westeros they sailed, bound for Oldtown, the city of wisdom and the great beacon of the Hightower.