Time slipped by quietly amidst the tense preparations for war.
Since Salladhor's beheading, the Stepstones looked calm on the surface, but beneath the still waters, fierce currents churned.
The shipyards of Bloodstone, Jawbreak Isle, and Torturer's Deep rang day and night with the clamor of hammers and saws, the air heavy with the pungent reek of tung oil.
Each day, several repaired warships returned to service, swelling the fleet's ranks.
On this day, the silence finally broke.
Roro and Hal all but kicked open Lo Quen's study door, their faces burning with outrage.
"Lord, trouble! Spearhandle Village has seized three of our grain ships. The Tyroshi... they've struck."
In the hall, Jaelena and Chai Yi had hurried back from Torturer's Deep upon hearing the news and now stood present.
Jaelena wore full battle armor, her long hair bound behind her.
Chai Yi stood silently at her side.
At the report, Lo Quen did not rage—he laughed, like a hunter who had waited patiently for his prey to stumble into the snare.
"So, they couldn't restrain themselves any longer. Good! Since the Tyroshi were the first to tear off their mask, they cannot fault us for showing no mercy."
He rose, his voice sharp as unsheathed steel.
"Jaelena."
"Here!" The knight stepped forward, her voice ringing firm and strong.
"I order you to take the fleet at once against Broken Spear Isle. Drive every last Tyroshi cur squatting there into the sea to feed the fish."
His command was absolute.
"At once!" Jaelena's eyes blazed with battle fire as she accepted without hesitation.
Then Lo Quen's gaze turned to Roro and Hal, his words heavy with killing intent.
"Roro. Hal. Carry my orders. From this moment, the waters of the Stepstones are under total blockade. From Bloodstone to Grey Gallows to Torturer's Deep, every major channel, every hidden passage—patrolled day and night.
Any merchant flying the Tyroshi banner—attack without warning. All seized goods and ships: half divided among the fighting brothers, half turned over to the treasury."
"Half?!"
Roro's eyes gleamed instantly, greed and excitement almost spilling out. "Rest easy, Lord. I swear not a single Tyroshi vessel will slip through our blockade."
Plunder—this was the hunger bred into every pirate's bones.
Hal said nothing, but the iron hook he bore glinted coldly in the candlelight, and a cruel smile tugged at his lips.
Since Lo Quen had seized the Stepstones, he had forbidden large-scale raiding, demanding only tolls to keep the trade lanes steady and avoid needless enemies. These hardened pirates had long itched for blood.
Now, with war against Tyrosh upon them, their instincts at last could be unleashed.
...
Meanwhile, on the Isle of Tyrosh, within the Grand Lord's palace.
Petyr Baelish, envoy from King's Landing, was taking in the famed splendor of the Tyroshi Lord's seat with evident interest.
Pearls and mother-of-pearl inlaid into the stone walls shimmered with dreamlike brilliance under the lamps. Gold and colored glass formed intricate patterns, and the air was thick with exotic spices.
His gray-green eyes seemed to admire it all like those of a dazzled traveler, yet deep within them lay only a cold, calculating gleam.
"Great and noble Archon..."
Littlefinger turned around, his face brimming with sincere admiration, utterly devoid of any pretense: "The splendor and exquisite craftsmanship of your palace are truly unparalleled in the world. When I first stepped into this Hall of Glory, its dazzling radiance nearly made me believe I had stumbled into the paradise of the gods' revelry..." ..."
His flattery was perfectly measured—neither excessively obsequious nor overly indulgent of his host's vanity.
Perched upon a throne inlaid with ivory and jewels, the Bluebeard Archon sat like a giant barrel stuffed with cushions, his massive frame sunk deep into the seat.
His fat fingers roamed unabashedly over the voluptuous, scantily clad paramour beside him, eliciting exaggerated sighs of pleasure.
At Littlefinger's flattery, a smug grin spread across his face, thick blue beard framing it. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by a cold voice beside him.
"Lord Beric..."
The green-bearded man seated below the Archon's throne spoke with icy impatience: "Spare me the flattery. As an envoy of the Seven Kingdoms' royal house, you crossed the Narrow Sea to Tyrosh. Surely your purpose extends beyond admiring our palace. State your business."
A flicker of sharpness passed through Petyr Baelish's eyes.
His smile remained unchanged as he turned to the green-bearded man, his tone shifting to one of solemn concern:
"My lord, I come at the behest of King Robert Baratheon and Lord Jon Arryn, Lord Paramount, bearing the Iron Throne's most sincere goodwill. We seek an alliance with mighty Tyrosh to mount a joint campaign against the Eastern sorcerers who have made their nest in the Stepstones, becoming a grave threat to our very heartland."
"An alliance? To eliminate a mere pirate chieftain?"
Greenbeard emitted a short, contemptuous snort: "Our Tyrosh fleet dominates the Narrow Sea, invincible in every campaign. To deal with a single pirate, must we join forces with your Seven Kingdoms and share the spoils?"
His words brimmed with suspicion toward the Iron Throne's ambitions to lay claim to the Stepstones.
Littlefinger's smile remained flawless, as if oblivious to the sarcasm:
"Lord, perhaps your knowledge of this 'pirate chieftain' is insufficient.
According to our confirmed intelligence, that Eastern sorcerer commands a truly terrifying army—a legion of genuine, magically reanimated corpses. They wear indestructible Valyrian steel armor, wield Valyrian steel weapons that cleave through iron like butter, know no fatigue, fear no death, and possess combat prowess far surpassing ordinary soldiers.
Greenbeard's scorn froze on his face, his pupils tightening slightly as the shocking revelation visibly unsettled him.
Yet he quickly regained his composure, forcing skepticism through gritted teeth: "On the water, Valyria holds none of its land-based advantages. As for your so-called legion of the dead... Hmph! Utter nonsense! Only a fool would believe such ghost stories."
Littlefinger remained unflappable, now offering a more compelling proposition: "Lord, the Iron Throne seeks alliance not for the lands of the Stepstones, but out of concern that if this sorcerer grows unchecked, he may become a second 'Ninepenny Kings'—or even more dangerous.
Moreover, we have a crucial mole within the sorcerer's inner circle. All intelligence regarding the necromantic legions and the Valyria weapons was risked at great personal peril by this informant.
Lord, what if this intelligence proves accurate?
Can Tyrosh alone withstand an undead Valyria legion?
And what of..."
He shifted his tone:
"After the fall of Salladhor, have the Lysene not set their sights on the Stepstones? Might they too be secretly gathering strength, waiting to reap the spoils?"
The words "Lysene" struck Greenbeard like a sledgehammer.
The rivalry between Tyrosh and Lys over the Stepstones ran deep—an inescapable enmity.
Littlefinger had pinpointed Tyrosh's greatest external threat.
Greenbeard's face darkened completely. His brow furrowed as he fell into a prolonged silence.
He weighed the pros and cons, envisioning the horror of battling an undead army and the Lysene's potential opportunistic invasion.
Finally, he lifted his head, his gaze hardening with resolve. Turning to the Bluebeard Archon still kneading his Paramour upon the throne, he declared in a deep voice:
"Archon, I believe it is in Tyrosh interests to collaborate with the Iron Throne. We should jointly deploy forces to pacify the Stepstones and eliminate that Eastern sorcerer..."
"Great and noble Archon..."
Littlefinger turned, his face glowing with earnest admiration, not a hint of insincerity showing. "The splendor and craftsmanship of your palace are unmatched in all the world. When I first stepped into this hall of glory, its brilliance nearly made me think I had wandered into the gods' own feast..."
His flattery was perfectly measured—enough to please, but not so much as to reek of servility.
Upon a throne inlaid with ivory and gems sprawled the Bluebeard Archon, his massive frame sinking deep into the cushions like a barrel overstuffed with cloth.
His thick fingers wandered shamelessly over the curves of a scantily dressed mistress at his side, drawing from her a chorus of exaggerated moans.
At Littlefinger's praise, a smug grin spread beneath his dense blue beard. He was about to speak when a cold voice cut him off.
"Lord Baelish..."
The green-bearded man seated below the Archon's throne spoke with icy impatience. "Spare us the flattery. You crossed the Narrow Sea as envoy of the Seven Kingdoms—surely not merely to admire our palace. State your purpose."
A glimmer of sharpness flickered in Petyr Baelish's eyes.
His smile did not falter. Turning to Greenbeard, his tone shifted to one of solemn gravity.
"My lord, I come at the command of King Robert Baratheon and his Hand, Lord Jon Arryn. I bear the Iron Throne's most sincere goodwill. We seek alliance with mighty Tyrosh, to join forces in eradicating the Eastern sorcerer entrenched in the Stepstones—a growing danger at the very heart of the realm."
"Alliance? To put down a mere pirate?"
Greenbeard let out a short, scornful laugh. "The fleets of Tyrosh rule the Narrow Sea, undefeated. To deal with one pirate, must we share the spoils with your Seven Kingdoms?"
His words dripped with suspicion, wary of the Iron Throne's designs on the Stepstones.
Littlefinger's smile remained as flawless as ever, as though he had not noticed the scorn.
"My lord, perhaps your knowledge of this so-called 'pirate' is incomplete.
From our confirmed intelligence, this Eastern sorcerer commands a fearsome host—a legion of corpses, truly reanimated by sorcery. They are clad in unyielding Valyrian armor, wield Valyrian steel that cuts through iron as if it were butter. They do not tire, they do not fear death, and their strength in battle far surpasses that of mortal men."
The disdain on Greenbeard's face froze. His pupils contracted ever so slightly, betrayed by the shock of such a revelation.
But he forced his composure, clinging to skepticism. "At sea, Valyrian steel holds no advantage as it might on land. And this nonsense of an army of corpses... hah! Only a fool would believe such tales."
Littlefinger's expression did not waver. He pressed on, sweetening the lure.
"My lord, the Iron Throne seeks no land in the Stepstones. Our concern is that, unchecked, this sorcerer may rise to become another Ninepenny King—or worse.
And know this—we have placed within his ranks a most crucial agent. The reports of necromantic legions, of Valyrian weapons, all come from this man, who risked his very life to pass them on.
So I ask you—what if these reports are true?
Can Tyrosh alone stand against an undead Valyrian host?
And more than that..."
His tone sharpened.
"Since the fall of Salladhor, do you not think the Lyseni have cast covetous eyes on the Stepstones? Do you not think they too gather strength in secret, waiting for their moment to strike?"
The name "Lyseni" landed like a hammer blow on Greenbeard's heart.
The struggle between Tyrosh and Lys over the Stepstones was ancient, an enmity that could never be ignored.
Littlefinger had touched the rawest nerve.
Greenbeard's expression darkened, his brows drawn tight. Silence stretched as he weighed the horrors of facing an army of the dead against the threat of Lys seizing the spoils.
At last, he lifted his head. His eyes held the weight of decision. Turning to the Bluebeard Archon—still pawing at his mistress on the throne—he said in a deep, deliberate voice:
"Archon, I believe it is in Tyrosh's interest to ally with the Iron Throne. Together we must strike the Stepstones and rid ourselves of this Eastern sorcerer."