The next morning, as the first light crept across the horizon,
Oldtown still lay shrouded in a thinning mist. The air was heavy with the damp breath of the Honeywine and the faint smoke rising from cookfires in the morning market.
Archmaester Marwyn trudged behind Lo Quen and Janice, dragging his battered leather trunk crammed with strange trinkets and curiosities.
When their small boat slipped free of the harbor and out into the wide, blue expanse of Whispering Sound, Lo Quen stood at the bow. The salt wind whipped against his face, and at last the corners of his lips curved into a faint, relieved smile.
His venture to Oldtown had yielded far more than he had dared to expect.
Marwyn leaned against the rail, staring past the glittering waves at the shrinking white silhouette of Oldtown's great beacon—the Hightower.
The flame at its pinnacle seemed less blinding in the morning light, yet it burned as stubbornly as ever.
Lo Quen stepped up beside him, following his gaze. Wreathed in dawn's haze, the towering spire looked at once sacred and faintly sinister.
"That Lord of Oldtown..."
Lo Quen broke the silence. "Shut away in that tower for more than ten years with his so-called mad daughter—what is it they've been studying all this time?"
Marwyn shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving the tower. "Ten years, and not once have they set foot beyond those walls. Only rumors drift through the streets—that they practice magic up there."
He paused, frowning. "But what kind? No one knows. The tower is too high, too sealed off. Its secrets are buried too deep."
Lo Quen's gaze lingered on the burning flame at the tower's peak, his thoughts running dark and quick.
...
Meanwhile, in the depths of the Citadel,
A raven with glossy black wings fluttered down onto a cluttered writing desk.
A young assistant maester hurried over, deftly untying the slim tube fastened to the bird's leg and drawing out the tightly rolled parchment within.
He unrolled the message, but after only a few lines, the color drained from his face, leaving behind naked disbelief and fear.
"Quickly—report to the Seneschal!"
He snapped his head up, calling to the other apprentices hunched over their work. "Urgent dispatch from King's Landing! That Eastern sorcerer on the Stepstones has utterly crushed the pirate lord Salladhor Saan.
The letter says he commands an army of the dead. Grand Maester Pycelle demands the Citadel send at once a maester versed in necromancy to King's Landing—they need a way to counter the sorcerer's legion of corpses!"
...
The seven-day voyage passed quietly.
When the ship finally slipped back into the familiar waters of Bloodstone and moored at Prince's Harbor, Lo Quen stepped ashore with Qyburn at his side.
Janice and Marwyn remained aboard, continuing on toward Torturer's Deep to study the secrets hidden within the ruins of Blackstone.
Lo Quen settled Qyburn in the depths of the fortress, setting aside several spacious and secure stone chambers, far removed from the bustle, for his use.
Keeping Qyburn on Bloodstone rather than sending him to Torturer's Deep was no accident.
The dungeons of Bloodstone still held many pirates fiercely loyal to Salladhor—hard-bitten men who would rather die than bend the knee.
They would serve as the most direct source of "material" for Qyburn's studies.
In a hastily arranged but well-equipped laboratory, Lo Quen caught the unmistakable gleam of excitement in the maester's gentle blue eyes and posed his first question.
"Maester Qyburn, what do you believe is the true essence of the force that makes corpses move again? What allows a lifeless shell to rise to its feet?"
At that, Qyburn's usual mild smile faded, replaced by a sharp, almost fanatical focus.
He fell silent for a moment, then spoke in the measured tones of a scholar:
"My lord, based on some ideas and experiments I pursued at the Citadel—ones not much favored by the mainstream—I believe the key lies in the soul.
When a man dies, the soul does not vanish instantly. Like embers, it clings briefly to the corpse.
But with time those embers cool, drift away, and finally dissolve into nothing.
This is the natural course of life's end—and the reason a corpse ultimately rots."
Lo Quen pressed, intrigued. "Then how might one stabilize those fading embers of the soul, even bend them to reanimate a body that has lost all life?"
"That is an immensely complex and forbidden problem, my lord."
A light flared in Qyburn's eyes, his words tumbling faster. "From what I know, certain ancient and potent magics can bind those fleeting fragments of the soul, delaying or even halting their dispersal.
In that way, the body can be sustained in a peculiar 'active' state—like a puppet on strings, able to carry out simple commands."
He hesitated, then added, "But this remains only a theory. The exact rites, the energy required, and the stability of the binding are tremendous challenges."
Lo Quen smiled knowingly, but said nothing. He simply clapped his hands once.
The heavy wooden door of the laboratory swung open without a sound.
A figure clad in Valyrian armor stepped inside.
Under Qyburn's stunned gaze, the corpse—once a pirate of Torturer's Deep, now turned into a Dragon Soul Guard—moved stiffly but with perfect obedience. It stripped off its armor and garments, then lay flat on the great stone table in the center of the room, like a specimen awaiting dissection.
The chill of the stone beneath its body mirrored the icy pallor of its skin, radiating a sense of eerie inhumanity.
"Maester Qyburn," Lo Quen said evenly, "This is a corpse reanimated through magic. We call them Dragon Soul Guards. It is yours now—for study."
The smile froze on Qyburn's face, giving way to a look of rapture, verging on madness.
He rushed to the table, his wrinkled hands trembling as he stroked the guard's cold, unyielding flesh. He pressed against dead muscles, tested the joints, probing with the fascination of a man handling a wonder.
A rough gasp broke from his throat.
"This is a miracle... this magic is beyond belief, my lord."
His voice rasped with excitement, his blue eyes blazing with the fire of insatiable curiosity.
Lo Quen watched him calmly and asked, "So then, Maester Qyburn—could you, with your knowledge and skill, recreate this magic?"
Qyburn snapped his head up, eyes tearing from the corpse. He nodded fiercely, his voice steadier and more fervent than ever.
"My lord, give me time, and I swear—I will not disappoint you."
Lo Quen felt his thoughts settle.
Qyburn's response confirmed his judgment.
This so-called madman, cast out of the Citadel, truly possessed the gift of reaching across the boundary between life and death.
If he mastered this necromantic art, then the forging of an army of tireless, deathless soldiers would no longer be fantasy.
Even the Others beyond the Wall might have cause to falter.
Pleased, Lo Quen left the corpse-stinking laboratory. Outside, Roro and Hal were waiting.
Roro stepped up at once, lowering his voice with a mix of pride and caution.
"My lord, while you were away, I followed your orders and took Ser Jorah to the black market at Spearhandle Village. He did indeed reconnect with those men."
Spearhandle Village, on Broken Spear Isle, was one of only two places in the Stepstones not yet under Lo Quen's control—the other being Tyrosh itself.
Both stood isolated in the archipelago's northeast corner, bordering the Myrish Sea, their positions highly sensitive.
Lo Quen was not surprised.
From the start, when he first sent Roro with Jorah to Spearhandle Village, he had known the disgraced Lord of Bear Island would use the chance to reach out to Varys, the "Spider," Master of Whisperers in King's Landing.
It was almost certainly Jorah's only hope of regaining his freedom—and Lynesse.
By sending him back again, Lo Quen had ensured that the carefully chosen fragments of "intelligence" he wished to leak would reach the Iron Throne.
He could picture the report already: Jorah painting him as a dire threat, warning of an undead host, all in the hope of earning Robert's pardon and spurring the Seven Kingdoms to crush the Stepstones and deliver Lynesse.
"Well done."
Lo Quen acknowledged Roro's work, then shifted the subject. "And the intelligence network I tasked you to lay across the Seven Kingdoms—how fares it?"