The next morning, the rising sun tore through the thin mist, revealing the bloody carnage left from the night before.
Lo Quen reined in his horse atop a gentle slope, his gaze sweeping across the ruins of the Lysene camp.
Broken spears, charred tents, congealed dark-red blood, and masterless horses pacing restlessly over scorched earth filled the scene before him. A smile curved Lo Quen's lips.
The previous night, with the Windblown Company of the Tattered Prince at his side, his ambush had gone perfectly. Lys Magister Tregar Ormollen, the Lys officers of the Slave Legion, and the leaders and core Sellswords of the Maiden's Men, the Ragged Standard Company, and the Long Lances—none had survived.
The thousands of captured Sellswords were driven to the construction site in Crown Town for Qyburn's use. But the twenty-five thousand dazed slave soldiers he kept for himself. They were herded aside and quickly broken up into auxiliary units, set to the hardest labor—hauling, digging, and wall-building.
Among the spoils, the most valuable were the horses. The Maiden's Men had left behind a thousand small, stocky Dwarf horses; the Ragged Standard had about seven hundred more. Yet none of these impressed him. Only the nearly two thousand heavy warhorses of the Long Lances truly caught his eye.
The Long Lances numbered only eight hundred, but each man had at least two mounts. Unlike the small, wiry horses of the other Companies, these were broad-shouldered, powerful beasts with sculpted muscles and plated armor, even eye-guards fixed over their faces.
These warhorses were reserved for his elite—eight hundred Dragon Soul Guards. Clad in Valyrian steel armor astride their massive steeds, man and horse seemed one, radiating a terrifying aura of strength.
It wasn't that Lo Quen didn't want every Dragon Soul Guard mounted, but the other horses simply couldn't bear their inhuman weight. And with only two thousand Long Lance warhorses in total, he limited each rider to two or three horses to preserve them as long as possible. Thus, only eight hundred of the Guards could be mounted.
The finest steeds taken from the Maiden's Men and the Ragged Standard were distributed to officers and scouts. The smaller, weaker horses were relegated to transport and supply work.
Over the next month, Lo Quen systematically absorbed Lys's wealth. Blankets, perfumes, and wine—the lifeblood of Lys's economy—all depended on the vast plantations of the Disputed Lands for their raw materials. Compared to Tyrosh, Lys had broader lands and lay farther south, blessed with more sunlight and heat—perfect for grapes. That was why Lys was famed for its wines, while Tyrosh was known for its pear brandy.
The estates of Lys's four Magisters across the Disputed Lands now belonged to him. He gained sprawling pastures, cotton fields, blanket workshops, perfume factories, and vineyards...
After devouring the Magisters' immense wealth, the lesser nobles trembled in fear, terrified they'd be next. But Lo Quen announced that as long as they hadn't openly opposed him, he would spare them—for now. It wasn't mercy that moved him, but the need to stabilize Lys.
Once he had drained Lys dry, his gaze turned to Myr. From the Lysene captives, he learned of a fragile alliance between Lys and Myr. Yet the foolish Tregar, too impatient to wait for his allied Sellswords, had rushed headlong at the watchtower—giving Lo Quen the opening he needed. Had Tregar held his men behind the vineyard defenses, Lo Quen's ambush might have failed.
But when word of Lys's fall reached Myr, they didn't panic or rush to avenge them. Instead, like frightened turtles, they withdrew deeper into the hard shell of their highland fortress. They scoured Myr's city and riverfront workshops and farms for slaves, driving them into the stone castle on the Central Highlands that guarded the vital pass.
Scouts sent by Lo Quen reported that over ten thousand soldiers had gathered inside the fortress. More troubling was their activity: by day, they poured out in full force, raising dense rows of wooden towers and earthen walls, digging a deep, seemingly bottomless moat—turning the fortress into a spiked iron hedgehog. The Lysene's crushing defeat had clearly taught them a bloody lesson.
Even while overseeing the estate takeovers, Lo Quen didn't rest. He drove his massive slave army to fell trees and assemble new catapults without pause. The old Lysene engines, along with the new ones he ordered built, were dragged onto the plain opposite the highland fortress. Thirty colossal siege engines now loomed within sight of the enemy, their dark arms raised toward the sky.
Slave soldiers still swarmed about, hauling timber as new catapult frames took shape amid clouds of dust.
Lo Quen made no move to attack. The high fortress stood atop the Central Highlands, surrounded by endless yellow grasslands scorched under the summer sun—offering no cover for a surprise assault. He resolved to fight a direct, open battle instead.
His strategy was clear and ruthless. First, he ordered his slave soldiers to build a crude yet sturdy rammed-earth fortress on the opposite side of the Highlands, facing the enemy across the plain.
Next, he dispatched cavalry units to invade and harass the heartland of Myr.
Dragon Soul Guards, scouts, and riders of the Windblown Company skirted the highland fortress, striking repeatedly into Myr's interior. They burned, killed, plundered, and razed farmlands and workshops, scattering slaves and setting the parched pastures ablaze...
Thick smoke rose ceaselessly, day and night, behind Myr's lines. Each day, the defenders hidden deep within the fortress could see cavalry columns laden with cattle, sheep, grain, and even captives, proudly crossing the open grasslands as they returned to their rammed-earth stronghold.
From the thick stone walls of the highland fortress, Myr's commander, Trombo, watched it all, feeling his nerves fray like grass blades scorched by fire, ready to snap at any moment. He gripped the Myr lens tightly, his knuckles whitening from the strain.
Through the lens, he saw clearly the northeastern plains where squads of cavalry returned from their raids. They drove vast herds of cattle and sheep seized from Myr's farms, their hooves churning up dust that stretched into long, smoke-like trails across the scorched yellow horizon.
Every time he saw the sight, Trombo's head throbbed painfully. It had been more than ten days!
He had received strict orders from the Myr Magister's Office: if the Sellsword Companies had not yet reached the Central Highlands, they were to remain inside the castle and under no circumstances venture out.
Trombo understood the Magister's fears. The swift fall of Lys had filled the Myr Magisters with dread—they did not wish to share Lys's fate.
But those damned Sellsword Companies? They were still dragging their feet on the march.
Myr had sent countless letters, urgent and pleading in tone, yet all went unanswered. Only when the Magister's Office clenched its teeth and nearly doubled the commission did those greedy Sellswords finally begin to move faster.
Trombo lowered the heavy lens and wiped the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand. As the view cleared, the ugly rammed-earth fortress a mile away and the rows of catapults before it came back into sight. Slave soldiers swarmed like ants around the engines, their skeletal frames still being assembled...
He turned to his adjutant, whose face was equally ashen, his voice hoarse with suppressed rage.
"Those damned Sellswords... how much longer before they get here?"
The adjutant's Adam's apple bobbed as he hesitated, eyes flickering aside. "Lord... according to the last scout report... perhaps... another four or five days..."
"Four or five days!"
Trombo drew a sharp breath, his voice cracking with despair. Four or five days—enough for those locust-like cavalry to strip the Myr heartlands bare, leaving nothing but scorched earth.
Trombo himself was a noble and estate owner of Myr. He could already smell the acrid stench of his vineyards burning, hear the anguished cries of livestock being slaughtered on his family's pastures. The foundation of his house's wealth was being consumed, piece by piece, in these cursed four or five days.
The crushing weight of it all made him dizzy, and he had to steady himself against the cold, rough stone of the parapet.