The Summer Sea, the Lys Islands.
After seizing the main city of Lys, Lo Quen left a garrison of five hundred soldiers to hold it. Then he wrote to Hal on distant Bloodstone Island, ordering him to bring his forces to occupy Lys.
Bloodstone lay close to the Seven Kingdoms, but with the royal fleets all but destroyed and the island itself barren and worthless compared to Lys, there was no reason for Hal to remain there.
Next, Lo Quen commanded that the warehouses of the Magister's Council be emptied completely. Every last gold coin, bushel of grain, and weapon stored in the council's vaults was taken.
The Lysene merchants did not escape punishment either. For enforcing the Magister's Council's embargo and trade sanctions against Tyrosh, Lo Quen tried them all and confiscated their wealth. Perfumes, wines, tapestries, and fine fabrics from shops and warehouses were loaded aboard ships by his soldiers.
Of Lys's hundreds of thousands of inhabitants, three-quarters were slaves, most belonging to noble and merchant households. Lo Quen ordered that all slaves under thirty years of age—nearly one hundred thousand in total—be seized.
He had brought barely a hundred warships himself, but the ever-generous Lysene merchants had nearly a thousand trading vessels moored in the harbor. Those ships would carry all his spoils home.
As the fleet set sail, Lo Quen looked upon the mass of silver- and gold-haired Lysene slaves crowding the decks, his heart swelling with satisfaction. Once he landed in the Seven Kingdoms, he would resettle them across the Crownlands, restore their status as free folk, and make them landholding farmers. With targeted incentives to encourage childbirth, their numbers would grow into the millions.
Then, when the First Men and Andal lords one day rose in rebellion, they would have to reckon first with the descendants of Valyria.
Lo Quen and Jaelena returned heavily laden, landing at Crown Town.
Countless supplies and slaves were sent to Qyburn's construction sites. The sight of the Lysene slaves made Qyburn grin from ear to ear, though Lo Quen saw immediately what he was thinking.
He reminded him that experimental subjects must first come from the prisoners of the Seven Kingdoms—priority to the Westerlands, and among them, the Lannisters. The Lysene slaves, he said, were too valuable; they were to be used for breeding instead.
Qyburn understood at once. He had already discovered a remarkably effective way of managing captives. By promoting the most obedient among them, he created a hierarchy of privilege and resentment, turning prisoners against one another through jealousy and betrayal.
In this way, Qyburn had gathered a small army of loyal followers. Most were commoners from the Seven Kingdoms—once simple, humble folk, timid and easily cowed. But under Qyburn's system of rewards, their basest instincts were drawn to the surface. They began to oppress their fellow captives, taking pride in their cruelty.
Seeing this, Qyburn rewarded them further, encouraging others to imitate them. Soon, he rooted out several secret factions among the Westerosi captives and destroyed them before they could take shape.
Lo Quen was thoroughly pleased with his methods.
He then led his forces toward the Outpost Tower.
The outpost remained calm. The severed heads of Lys's three Magisters hung from its battlements.
While Lo Quen was away, Chai Yiq had been busy. She ordered the camp around the outpost expanded and oversaw the digging of a thirty-foot-deep trench lined with iron spikes near the slopes of the central highlands. The spikes proved highly effective in halting Lysene assaults.
"Your Grace," she reported, "the mercenary Companies and slave legions hired by the Lysenes are camped thirty li southeast of the outpost tower. In addition, we've detected movements from Myr—they're gathering slave legions at the Highland Fortress, more than ten thousand strong."
Lo Quen was not surprised by Myr's response. The fates of the three daughters were bound together.
If Lys fell, Myr would surely be next. The two cities were destined to unite.
Still, Lo Quen found himself mildly surprised by how swiftly the Lysenes had moved.
"Those slave soldiers haven't broken yet, even after seeing the heads of their three Magisters?"
Chai Yiq shook her head.
Lo Quen understood immediately. He guessed that Tregar Ormollen must have escaped Lys, reached the Disputed Lands, and managed to steady the soldiers' morale.
Still, with Lys firmly under his control and Tregar possessing so few ships, there was no way he could send those forces across the Summer Sea to the Lys Islands.
...
Far away in the Lysene encampment, Tregar Ormollen's face was dark with fury.
He had fled Lys in panic, and upon arriving in the Disputed Lands, discovered that the mercenary Companies hired by Lys had already gathered. He promptly called for a war council.
He glared at the officers of the Lysene slave legions, his voice low but burning with suppressed rage.
"Where were you when those damned Easterners struck Lys?! So many of their troops slipped right under your noses, and you noticed nothing?!"
The Lysene officers stood speechless, unable to respond.
The discipline of slave soldiers was abysmal; even nighttime patrols were sparse and half-hearted. How could they possibly notice troop movements from miles away?
Carson, captain of the Maiden's Men, ran a hand along the curve of his arakh, his lips twisting in a mocking smile. "Magister Tregar," he said coolly, "your fine city has fallen to the Easterners. So tell me—how exactly are we to be paid for our services?"
At once, the Tattered Prince of the Windblown, Gylo Rhegan of the Long Lances, and Webber of the Ragged Standard all turned their eyes toward Tregar.
Under their combined gaze, Tregar's face tightened with humiliation. He forced himself to reply, "Our estates still hold some stores. If that isn't enough, then perhaps we could—"
Carson cut him off sharply. "Let us plunder, then! The Maiden's Men don't fight for charity. If you refuse, we're gone."
Webber of the Ragged Standard added coldly, "Agreed. Sellswords don't risk their necks for an employer who can't pay. No gold, no battle—we march away."
Seeing their expressions—and the greedy gleam in the others' eyes—Tregar's heart sank. "Fine," he said through clenched teeth. "When the war is over, the slaves, cattle, sheep, brocades, perfumes—all of it—you may take as much as you wish."
The words had barely left his mouth before regret struck him. He saw the triumphant glint in Carson's and the others' eyes.
The fertile estates of Lys were bursting with riches. If he let them plunder freely, they would gain far more than any contract promised.
Damn them all!
Rage boiled in Tregar's chest. If not for that Easterner's surprise attack—if not for the loss of every ship—he'd be leading these mercenary Companies to retake Lys itself, not wasting time assaulting some wretched outpost tower.
Grinding his teeth, he asked, "Then, gentlemen, what brilliant ideas do you have for taking that outpost tower?"
Gylo Rhegan, commander of the Long Lances—a middle-aged man with a lisping voice—spoke up. "Simple. Have your slave soldiers charge through the arrows and fill the trenches. Once they're level, our men can advance right up to the walls."
Tregar's stomach turned. He wanted to cry.
That night in Lys, he had been drinking himself senseless in a brothel when word came that the Easterners were attacking. He had fled in terror, barely escaping with his life to the Disputed Lands—only to be met with humiliation from these mercenaries at every turn.
Without his city or its power, he was nothing more than a lamb before the butcher's knife in their eyes.
Then the Tattered Prince, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. "We could use what's around us—build catapults. That tower's too tall and too well-built. Filling the trenches won't do a damn thing."
Tregar latched onto the idea like a drowning man grabbing at a rope. He turned to the Tattered Prince and nodded quickly. "Yes. Yes, we'll build catapults."
He couldn't afford to lose more of his slave soldiers. They were property—each one dead was a coin torn from his own purse, and perhaps, in time, the noose around his neck.