The Stepstones, Bloodstone Isle
Toot—Toot—!
The waters surrounding Bloodstone Isle were choked with a forest of masts. Amidst the mournful blaring of war-horns, a massive flotilla had gathered—a chaotic tapestry of merchant cogs, sleek galleys, and heavily armed privateers flying a hundred different banners.
For years, Tyrosh and Lys had been locked in a cold war over the Disputed Lands, but the tide had shifted. The Stepstones were vibrating with a single name: The Chainbreakers. After the Seventh Fleet's disastrous attempt to seize Bloodstone, the "invincibility" of the Three Daughters had begun to crack. Bloodstone, the largest island in the archipelago and a sacred site for generations of corsairs, was now the beating heart of a revolution.
To the Magisters of the Free Cities, the stories of Jon Snow and his "dragons" were still punchlines for drunken sailors—myths on par with krakens and merfolk. But in the grand hall of the Fortress of Torture's Deep, the reality was far more sober.
Jon sat upon a massive stone throne, the white direwolf Ghost resting like a silent, snowy mountain at his feet. Below him, the hall was filled with the clamor of the "Alliance." Merchants, Chancellors, and the leaders of mercenary companies feasted at long tables, their laughter echoing off the damp stone walls.
This was the final staging point. Bloodstone offered a strategic leap to Tyrosh and a perfect resupply node. Most of Jon's allies were men of gold, not steel; they couldn't field their own armies, so they provided what they had in abundance: ships and sellswords.
In the Free Cities, standing armies were rare. Most relied on the Unsullied or mercenary contracts. Among the reinforcements sent to Jon were 2,000 Unsullied—bought collectively by a syndicate of Lysene merchants. The bronze scepter of the Harpy—the token of their absolute obedience—was currently tucked into Jon's belt. To the merchants, they were expensive property; to Jon, they were a disciplined foundation that rivaled his "System" professionals.
"I hear the women of Tyrosh are as colorful as their dyes. I can't wait to sack the place!" "Hahaha! I want to see the look on the Archon's face when his precious walls crumble." "Tyrosh hasn't fallen in a thousand years, you fool. Remember the Volantene defeat?" "Volantis didn't have a dragon! What is a wall to a beast that breathes sunfire?" "Daemon Targaryen tried it once. He failed." "Daemon didn't have this many ships..."
Jon watched the mercenaries with a detached, clinical eye. Sellswords were like weeds—plentiful, hardy, but lacking deep roots. He needed to identify the few among them who could actually lead a charge without looking for an exit strategy. He had avoided the Golden Company or the Second Sons for this very reason; their independence made them far too difficult to leash.
The Tyroshis, meanwhile, remained arrogant. They sat behind their legendary walls, secure in the knowledge that even the might of Volantis had broken against them. They had forgotten that they won those wars through the help of others—a help that was now joining Jon's side.
CREAK—
The heavy iron-bound doors of the hall swung open. A figure in obsidian-black plate and a pristine white cloak stepped into the light. The rowdy mercenaries fell silent as the veteran knight strode past them, his gaze landing briefly on the "rabble" before he bowed to Jon.
"Ser Barristan," Jon said, his voice carrying over the hall. "How do you find your new strength?"
Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, was a man transformed. After swearing his oath, the System had processed his vast experience, bypassing the "Apprentice" ranks and immediately class-shifting him into a Level 1 Paladin.
To complement his new role, Jon had commissioned a specialized Steel Greatsword. While not Valyrian steel, its weight had been magically reduced through System refinement, allowing the old knight to wield it with the speed of a youth while retaining the stopping power of a heavy mace.
"Lord Jon," Barristan whispered, leaning in as he reached the throne. He gestured vaguely toward the feasting mercenaries. "These men remind me of monkeys in a circus. I fear they will be more of a hindrance than a help when the steel meets the bone."
"We don't need them for the heavy lifting, Ser," Jon replied softly. "They are here to harass the flanks and create chaos. Sellswords excel at scavenging and sowing panic. That is all I ask of them."
Jon stood up, his cloak sweeping over the stone. "Enough feasting. It is time for the sand."
Under Jon's command, his soldiers wheeled a massive war-table into the center of the hall. Frodo and the others began placing markers—carved ships and miniature banners—onto a landscape of blue sand and grey stone.
"Before you is Tyrosh," Jon declared. "Most of you know the city by its dyes and its harbor. Now, look at it as a fortress."
The mercenaries crowded around the sand-table. It was a masterpiece of intelligence-gathering.
"The entire island is a bastion. The Fused Black Stone walls protect the perimeter—fifteen meters high on average, rising to twenty at the towers."
A few mercenary captains paled. Those were suicide walls.
"But no wall is unconquerable," Jon continued, his voice hardening. "Every foundation has a flaw. I do not care how thick the stone is; when the earth beneath it fails, the castle falls."
Jon caught Kapo's eye. The Ironborn took out a ledger, silently noting which captains had flinched. Those men would be assigned to the "feint" squads.
"The fleet will split into five divisions," Jon explained, pointing to the compass points on the map. "Divisions East, West, and South will engage the wall defenses and siege engines. The other two will provide diversions."
"And who takes the main gate?" Janos Snow, commander of the Wolf Pack mercenaries, asked. "Are you sending us to die against the Black Walls, or will your own 'blessed' boys take the lead?"
Jon looked him in the eye, a cold smile touching his lips. "My boys don't just take gates, Captain. They take worlds."