At Lo Quen's command, Jaelena led five thousand well-drilled pirates in leather armor and four hundred Dragon Soul Guards in Valyrian steel onto twenty oared warships.
The blades of the oars bit into the leaden-gray sea, driving the ships forward as they surged toward Broken Spear Isle.
The jagged shoreline of the isle loomed through the morning mist.
Without meeting resistance, the warships ground roughly onto the pebble shoals outside Spearhandle Village.
The pirates poured over the gunwales like sharks scenting blood, shouting and shoving one another, heedless of the cold saltwater that reached their knees.
Jaelena was the first ashore, her stride steady, her cloak snapping in the damp sea wind.
Spearhandle Village was caught completely unawares.
The Tyrosh garrison numbered no more than four or five hundred, most still lost in the haze of wine or a whore's embrace from the night before.
The blare of horns, the pirates' savage roars, and the clash of steel tore them from their stupor.
A few half-dressed soldiers stumbled from barracks and watchtowers, clutching rusted spears that shook in their hands.
The fight erupted in a heartbeat and ended even quicker.
The Dragon Soul Guards advanced like a tide, cutting down scattered pockets of resistance with chilling efficiency.
Their movements were precise, pitiless. Valyrian steel blades traced arcs of death in the morning light, every stroke punctuated by the crunch of bone or the choking gasp of the dying.
The pirates were beasts unchained, storming the village's narrow lanes and low houses, battering doors open with fists and the flats of their blades, dragging panicked soldiers from their beds.
Cries, curses, and desperate pleas tangled with the screech of steel, shattering the village's fragile calm.
At the entrance stood Jaelena, her gaze hard as ice, surveying the chaos.
She watched a Tyrosh officer attempt to rally his men. He barely lifted his sword before a Dragon Soul Guard's blade punched through his throat, his blood spattering the mud.
"Surrender! Drop your weapons!"
The pirates' shouts rang out in every corner.
Those Tyrosh who lived, paralyzed by fear, flung down their weapons, raised their hands, and sank to their knees.
The few who fled toward the harbor or the woods were swiftly felled by arrows and axes, collapsing with strangled cries.
Within the hour, all was decided.
The air hung thick with blood and brine.
Hundreds of Tyrosh captives, faces ashen, were strung together with ropes like livestock bound for slaughter.
Spearhandle Village—this smugglers' nest turned black market hub—was stripped bare. Warehouses filled with silk and spice, storehouses crammed with grain and casks of wine, even the soldiers' own stashes of gold dragons and silver stags—none were spared.
Jaelena looked over the prisoners and the spoils, her violet eyes as calm and unyielding as stone.
Her first order was crisp and cold: "Bind the captives tight. Put them on the ships. Send them back to the dungeons of Bloodstone."
Then her gaze cut to the black market traders peering nervously from the shadows, their eyes darting. She raised her voice for all to hear: "Spearhandle Village is ours now."
...
At dawn on the fourth day, Lo Quen led three hundred Dragon Soul Guards ashore onto the cobbled beach of Spearhandle.
By then, Jaelena had already sent the prisoners back to Bloodstone and set her men to reorganizing the black market.
Order returned with startling speed.
The smugglers' den, once chaotic, thrummed with life again under her firm hand.
The black market of Spearhandle was built for smugglers, its stalls overflowing with contraband.
Furs and timber from the North, Dornish red wine, Myrish blankets—goods from every corner of the world lay in dazzling heaps.
With no taxmen to bleed them, the wares sold cheap.
Lo Quen stepped into Jaelena's temporary command post, a stone hut reeking of sea-salt and dust.
"Lord." Jaelena's voice was steady.
He nodded and looked to her. "Any movement from Tyrosh?"
Her violet eyes narrowed. "Patrol ships report dead silence around the main island. Only merchant sails in the harbor—no sign of warships gathering."
Lo Quen frowned. "We're striking right at their doorstep, yet the Tyroshi remain so patient?"
He had expected their fleet to swarm out like a disturbed hornet's nest. Instead, this silence was more unnerving than the beating of war drums.
What were these arrogant Tyroshi plotting?
No.
A sharp thought pierced his mind.
The Tyroshi had likely already struck a bargain with the Seven Kingdoms.
Jon Arryn, that old falcon of the Vale, was a master strategist. He would never act rashly without first testing his enemy's strength.
Gathering armies, moving supplies, readying ships—each required time. He would surely use that interval to court others on the far end of the Stepstones who also stood opposed to Lo Quen.
Tyrosh and Lys.
But Tyrosh and Lys had been at odds for decades over trade disputes. For them to reconcile and march together against him would be difficult.
That made it far more likely Jon Arryn had dispatched envoys to Tyrosh.
Tyrosh, being closest to the Stepstones, had the most urgent reason to crush him, and its merchants depended far more heavily than Lys on the trade routes that passed through these seas.
A joint pact between the Seven Kingdoms and Tyrosh was the most probable outcome.
And if so, it was exactly what Lo Quen wanted.
His voice rang with certainty. "Jaelena, hold Broken Spear Isle. Make a show of strength—enough for Tyrosh to believe we've stationed our main force here."
A flicker of confusion crossed her violet eyes, but she said nothing, answering simply, "As you command, my lord."
After giving his orders, Lo Quen returned to Bloodstone.
No sooner had he arrived than Roro, Hal, and Meizo came before him.
Meizo stepped forward, speaking calmly. "Lord, word from the Antler Men in King's Landing: the Hand has dispatched Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, to Tyrosh for secret negotiations with the Archon."
As expected, Lo Quen thought.
He nodded, his face unreadable. "How far along are preparations in the Seven Kingdoms?"
Meizo continued, "The realm is already in war mobilization. The King has just returned to King's Landing from the tournament at Duskendale. At the feast, he declared his intent to pacify the Stepstones—just as he did with House Targaryen and the Iron Islands."
"Let him come. He had better come. I can't think of anything more worth boasting of than capturing the King of the Seven Kingdoms..."
Roro spat, his eyes burning with old hatred.
Lo Quen's gaze sharpened. "And their fleet? How stands the muster? How many men?"
Meizo rattled it off without hesitation. "The Redwyne fleet is ready to sail. The royal fleet is under repair. And word is, the Hand has compelled the Iron Islands to contribute—thirty longships are being sent to war..."
Lo Quen frowned. "And why would the ironborn obey so easily?"
Meizo explained, "The Hand wrote threatening Balon directly. This war will see Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, bring with him his ward, Theon Greyjoy, to King's Landing..."
Lo Quen paused. He had nearly forgotten the little kraken.
Balon might bluster, but with his son held hostage, he dared not defy the Iron Throne now.
Not that it mattered much.
Any ship could burn. Any man thrown into the sea lost his strength to fight.
Watching Lo Quen's pensive expression, Meizo went on. "As for troop numbers, those are harder to confirm. Several versions of the report are circulating in King's Landing.
But overall, the Hand has called, in the King's name, upon the Wardens of the Four Quarters, as well as the lords of Dorne, the Stormlands, and the Riverlands.
How these lords will actually respond to this war, however—that remains to be seen."
Lo Quen was pleased. Truth be told, Meizo Mahr's skill at gathering intelligence had far exceeded his expectations.
The man's thinking was sharp too—embedding informants among the wealthy Antler Men of King's Landing.
Those merchants loved nothing more than gossiping about Red Keep affairs, especially talk of war.
After all, war struck directly at their purses.
Still, unlike Lo Quen, they knew little of the true intrigues between the great houses of Westeros.
From his vantage, the lords might answer the call, but they would not commit their full strength.
For he knew well how many ambitious souls lurked in that land of sunset.
Indeed, many would likely see this campaign in the Stepstones as a chance—a chance to break the fragile balance of power in the Seven Kingdoms and sow the seeds of chaos to come.
Lo Quen had no intention of being anyone's pawn.
This war would be his chance to lay the groundwork for his own bid for dominion over Westeros.