As the morning sea mist was torn apart by the rising sun, a fleet so immense it seemed to swallow the horizon slowly came into view.
Masts stood thick as a forest, sails blotted out the sun, and their sheer number nearly covered the entire blue sweep of the bay. The signature figureheads of Qarth—painted in strange hues and inlaid with massive gemstones—gleamed under the light. The triangular sails of the Tourmaline Brotherhood mixed with the round-bellied merchant ships of the ancient Spice Guild, creating a spectacle both bizarre and magnificent.
The flagship docked and lowered its gangplank.
Luo Wen appeared at the rail, travel-worn and weary, but his eyes were sharp and bright. He strode down quickly, followed by columns of Unsullied marching in perfect formation.
They wore their iconic spiked helms, carrying long spears and round shields. Their eyes were hollow yet filled with iron discipline. A thousand strong, they moved as one, swiftly disembarking and forming ranks along the docks.
Behind them came an endless tide of humanity.
Men, women, and children—thin, ragged, their faces sallow and tired. Black hair and black eyes marked them all. Their gazes were empty with exhaustion and dulled by the uncertainty of exile.
They poured from the holds of the great ships, stepping heavily onto this strange new shore.
The harbor was soon a sea of heads. Low murmurs, the wailing of infants, and ragged coughing filled the air in a sorrowful chorus.
Lo Quen had already received reports from Torturer's Deep and came personally to meet them.
A year ago, soon after his coronation, he had sent the Carcosa man Luo Wen east—with gold—to Yi Ti and Slaver's Bay to gather refugees and purchase the Unsullied. Watching the vast crowd behind him now, Lo Quen knew Luo Wen had completed his mission beyond expectation.
Luo Wen passed through the silent ranks of Unsullied and the dazed throng, approaching Lo Quen waiting at the dock. Dropping to one knee, he declared, "Your Grace, I have fulfilled my promise. One thousand Unsullied, and three hundred thousand compatriots of Yi Ti—they have all arrived."
Lo Quen personally helped him to his feet, clapping him on the shoulder with visible pride. "You've done well, Luo Wen. Better than I ever hoped. You've earned your rest."
His gaze swept across the crowd of dark-haired, dark-eyed faces. A stirring welled in his chest—a deep, instinctive bond of shared blood.
These were his people.
They would be the roots of his power in the West, the foundation of his grand design to replace the old with the new.
"How fares Yi Ti now?" he asked.
Luo Wen's expression darkened, his voice thick with anger. "Your Grace, Yi Ti is in chaos. Countless warlords are fighting around the old capital of Tiqui. Among them is one they call Pol Qo—the 'Hammer of the Jogos Nhai.' He's crowned himself the God-Emperor of the Orange Dinasty and gathered an army of three hundred thousand. They ravage the northern hill cities, leaving scorched earth in their wake. Villages burned, fields barren—any who resist are slaughtered. Refugees wander the mountains like herds of driven sheep."
He clenched his fist. "I stayed in Asabhad, the city-state of the Helkron descendants, and did everything I could to gather the scattered people of Yi Ti. But it was a drop in the ocean. If not for the Tourmaline Brotherhood and the Spice Guild of Qarth—greedy enough for the vast shipping fees we offered—who risked lending us their idle fleets, fifteen hundred ships in all… we could never have moved so many."
"Pol Qo…" Lo Quen repeated quietly, a hard light flashing in his eyes as he carved the name into memory.
He turned to the refugees, speaking in the language of Yi Ti.
"My brothers and sisters of Yi Ti, you have left behind the smoke and sorrow of your homeland. You have crossed the Jade Sea and the Summer Sea to reach this shore. This is not the end of your exile—but the beginning of a new life. Look upon the land beneath your feet: fertile, vast, and waiting for your hands.
I, Lo Quen, King of the Three Daughters, of the Narrow Sea, and of the Stepstones, proclaim this: every commoner bearing the blood of Yi Ti may claim and till this soil. The land you cultivate shall be your own. You shall live free upon it, and your children, and their children after them, shall inherit it forever. You will owe only your taxes and your loyalty to me."
His words struck like thunder across three hundred thousand weary, hollow hearts.
They had lost everything—land, home, dignity—and crossed endless seas, certain they would be sold into chains.
But now, Lo Quen's words ignited something long buried: hope.
The murmurs swelled into a great commotion. Many stared at one another in disbelief, as if afraid to trust their ears.
Before they became refugees, most had been tenant farmers under warlords, sorcerers, bandits, or slave masters—never owners of the soil they worked.
Lo Quen's voice carried over the restless crowd.
"Those among you with skills—shipwrights who can build vessels, smiths who forge blades, builders who shape stone, merchants who know trade—step forward. Crown Town, this growing port city, needs your hands and your knowledge. Bring your families and your craft. You will become citizens of Crown Town, protected by its walls and blessed with its opportunities. Your skills will bring wealth to the realm, and in return, you will earn both respect and reward.
"As for the rest of you, I will send you to the woodlands of the Third Daughter to clear and cultivate the land. It is untouched soil—fertile and waiting. You will make your homes there. My men will distribute food and seed grain to you, and for the first three years, you will pay no taxes."
Then Lo Quen announced a birth incentive more generous even than that of the Lyseni, stirring an even greater uproar.
"Long live the God-Emperor!"
No one knew who shouted first—the voice was hoarse, yet filled with the ecstasy of deliverance.
"Free folk! Our land!"
"Long live the God-Emperor!"
The roar spread like a volcano finally breaking loose.
The voices of three hundred thousand people surged together, shaking the very air, scattering the last of the sea mist, and echoing off the white walls of Conquest Keep.
Many wept as they fell to their knees, kissing the ground that promised them freedom and a future.
Numb despair gave way to wild joy. The dark sea of humanity seemed to awaken all at once, shifting and surging like a living tide.
Lo Quen stood on the pier, watching the scene before him boil with life. Hearing their fevered cries, he allowed himself a faint smile.
They called him God-Emperor—a title once reserved for the rulers of Yi Ti.
The Unsullied phalanx remained silent, yet their eyes no longer looked so empty. Their straight backs seemed to carry a new purpose.
Jaelena, Janice, Chai Yiq, Ynys, and Lynesse—supported carefully by her maid—stood not far behind, their faces lit with awe as they watched the moment unfold.
Chai Yiq, hearing the people's cries of "God-Emperor," felt her lingering doubt harden into resolve.
...
Once the refugees had been settled, Lo Quen received Meizo's report.
Eddard Stark had been executed by Joffrey's own hand before the Great Sept of Baelor in King's Landing. Tyrion had arrived too late to stop it.
Lo Quen raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised—but the madder Joffrey became, the more it suited his designs.
He turned to Meizo, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. "It seems the time has come. Besides the pyromancers, we should prepare another gift for the Lannisters."