Roro scratched his head awkwardly. "My lord, I handed that task to one of my men. He's much better at it than I am—his connections are… unconventional."
"Oh? And who might that be?" Lo Quen raised a brow.
"Do you remember Meizo Mahr? Salladhor's round-faced eunuch."
Roro explained, "He used to follow Salladhor and knew all sorts—smugglers, bandit chiefs, merchants… His network is vast. I put him in charge of it, and truth be told, he's been getting results."
A flicker of approval passed through Lo Quen's eyes.
For a brute like Roro to spot and use talent was an unexpected surprise.
He immediately had Meizo Mahr summoned.
The former confidant of Salladhor now stood before Lo Quen with exaggerated deference—and a faint trace of fear.
His plump face was creased in a humble smile, his posture slightly bowed. "My lord, you sent for me?"
"Meizo, any fresh word from King's Landing?" Lo Quen asked without preamble.
Meizo cleared his throat, then reported in an orderly manner: "My lord, I've bought the loyalty of several informants in King's Landing and Dragonstone. At present, there's no sign of major movement in the royal fleet itself. However, according to the deployment our men uncovered..."
He paused, his expression turning oddly strained. "The royal fleet is officially listed at two hundred and ten ships. Of those, only fifty remain stationed at King's Landing. The other one hundred and sixty are all anchored at Dragonstone.
And among those two hundred and ten, just eighty are true oared warships. The rest are sailing transports. Worse still, those eighty warships are said to be so poorly maintained, most can't even put to sea."
His tone carried open disbelief at the state of the Iron Throne's navy.
Lo Quen rubbed his chin unconsciously.
So the royal fleet had fallen into such a sorry state? The ratio of warships so low—and even those barely seaworthy?
He looked back at Meizo. "And where has the Iron Throne been focusing its energy of late?"
A small smile touched Meizo's lips. "According to our source among the Antler Men, His Grace has grown quite taken with a grand tourney soon to be held at Duskendale. He's announced he will attend in person. Because of this, the Hand and the Master of Coin are in a frenzy, scrambling to raise the funds to cover the enormous costs of the King's progress."
The Antler Men—wealthy merchants of King's Landing—were often privy to whispers from within the Red Keep.
Lo Quen let out a dry laugh.
No wonder.
With Robert pouring the treasury into his pleasures, how could there be coin left to keep warships afloat?
He pressed further. "So, in the short term, they're not planning to march against the Stepstones?"
Meizo shook his head cautiously. "Not necessarily, my lord. The Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn, has been convening frequent councils in King's Landing. One of the chief topics is the situation in the Stepstones after Salladhor's fall, and how the Iron Throne should respond.
It's said the Hand has taken a firm line—he believes your expansion must be checked. He even had Pycelle petition the Citadel for expertise in necromancy, specifically to devise a counter against your so-called 'Army of the Dead.'"
A glint flashed in Lo Quen's eyes.
So, the word had already reached the top of King's Landing.
Fortunately, he had acted first, luring Qyburn to his side.
Leaking knowledge of the Dragon Soul Guards was meant to spark panic at the Iron Throne—enough to drive them to act rashly and sail their fleet straight into his hands.
"Anything else?"
"Yes, my lord," Meizo continued. "The Hand has also summoned Lord Redwyne of the Arbor to King's Landing. They appear to be discussing countermeasures."
Lo Quen's tone turned amused. "With the royal fleet a wreck, they're banking on the Arbor fleet? And what of Balon Greyjoy? Do they not fear he'll seize the moment?"
Meizo reasoned, "My lord, compared to Balon's possible raids, the Iron Throne clearly fears far more the prospect of you seizing the Narrow Sea. That passage carries the bulk of trade between the Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities. Should you choke it off entirely, their customs revenues will collapse, and the nobles will lose their flow of luxuries. The impact would be devastating. Thus, they would rather risk the Ironborn for now and strike at you first."
Lo Quen nodded. That was exactly what he had hoped for.
The Iron Throne's logic was falling neatly into place.
If they gathered their fleets and sailed to war, he would finally have the chance to play the trump card he had carried since leaving the ruins of Valyria—one decisive blow to wipe out the naval strength of the Seven Kingdoms.
His magic was limited; he could not hunt down their fleets piecemeal. But if they came together, he could annihilate them all at once.
And once both the royal fleet and the Arbor's main strength were gone, Westeros would be stripped of any chance to rebuild a navy for years.
Shipbuilding was no peasant's craft—it demanded skilled shipwrights, rich timber reserves, and immense gold.
Even Braavos, famed across the world for its shipyards, could not launch ships like loaves from an oven; at most, they built one warship per day.
Lo Quen had gathered four to five hundred seasoned shipwrights taken from Salladhor and Tyrosh and managed to repair more than a hundred warships. Yet even now, they had not produced a single new vessel.
He knew well how hard it was to raise a navy from nothing.
And with the Iron Throne drowning in debt, once its fleets were broken, it would not rise again for years.
Years—enough for him to accomplish much.
"The strength of House Redwyne is indeed formidable."
Meizo added smoothly, "According to reliable reports, they command two hundred purpose-built oared warships, and five times that number in merchant galleys—altogether a fleet of more than twelve hundred vessels."
Even though Lo Quen had braced himself, the sheer wealth behind such numbers left him momentarily astonished.
The Arbor's wine truly did flow with gold.
But he quickly steadied himself. "The Redwynes can't possibly commit their entire fleet. Most of their merchants are out on distant trade runs, keeping their lifeblood flowing. At most, they'll bring those two hundred warships."
"Just so, my lord."
Meizo nodded. "Their merchant ships are scattered across countless routes. They cannot be gathered quickly for war."
"Good." Lo Quen's tone carried approval. "Expand your web further. Every major port in the Seven Kingdoms, Tyrosh, Lys, even Pentos and Volantis—I want them all covered. Whatever it costs in golden dragons, Bloodstone's coffers will pay. I want to know every move, every whisper."
"As you command, my lord!"
Meizo bowed deeply, and in his eyes gleamed the thrill of a man newly trusted with real power.
Lo Quen turned on Roro and Hal, his voice hard as iron. "You two. Drive the work on Salladhor's captured ships at full pace. At the same time, keep our own fleet in top condition. I want every vessel ready for battle at a moment's notice."
"Yes, my lord!" the two answered in unison.
Lo Quen paced to the heavy stone window, gazing out at the endless blue sweep of the Narrow Sea.
Since walking free of cursed Valyria, he had barely drawn on his true magic—apart from the Dragonbone Bow—building his hold over the Stepstones one step at a time.
Not because he lacked the will, but because his magic was as precious as a desert spring. He would not waste a drop on pirates.
But this time would be different.
If the fleets of the Seven Kingdoms truly dared to sail against him, then he would make them feel for themselves the fury of a true dragon.