He returned to the great hall and seated himself once more upon the throne.
Before long, six people were led inside.
At their head was a bald, broad-shouldered knight built like a bear, his round face set beneath the gleaming armor engraved with the sigil of House Yronwood. Beside him stood another knight with sharp, weathered features, followed by four women.
One of the young women drew the eye immediately. She was tall and slender, her golden hair flowing like sunlight, her blue eyes as clear as water from an oasis. Her skin was pale and smooth—a striking contrast to the warm, honeyed tones common among the Dornish. She wore a finely tailored gown of light blue, its cut accentuating her youthful figure, her chest rising and falling with each uneasy breath. With her head slightly bowed, she nervously twisted the hem of her skirt between her fingers as she stood behind the towering knight.
"Your Grace."
The bald knight, Ser Archibald Yronwood, stepped forward and bowed deeply. "By order of Lord Anders, Lord of Yronwood, I come before Your Grace. This is Ser William Wyls, and with me are Lord Anders's eldest daughter, Lady Ynys Yronwood, and her three maids."
He stepped aside as Ser William Wyls bowed with measured composure.
Lady Ynys curtsied a little too hastily, her long lashes trembling as she stole a brief glance at Lo Quen seated high upon the throne.
Archibald cleared his throat, his voice steady and loud enough to fill the hall. "Your Grace, Lord Anders seeks to forge a stronger bond with you. Lady Ynys's betrothed, Ser Ryon Allyrion, sadly took ill and perished after his capture. The young lady is now sixteen—an age when, in Dorne, marriage should no longer be delayed."
He paused, then met Lo Quen's gaze with an earnest expression. "Thus, Lord Anders wishes to offer Lady Ynys's hand to Your Grace. In return, House Yronwood pledges its absolute loyalty and service. When Your Grace marches upon Westeros, House Yronwood will serve as your vanguard, clearing your path. Furthermore, Lord Anders vows that from any children born of Your Grace and Lady Ynys, you may name whichever you wish as the rightful heir to Yronwood."
A hush fell over the hall.
Archibald's words took Lo Quen by surprise.
While women in Dorne could inherit, Lord Yronwood had long intended for his son, Cletus Yronwood, to succeed him—and to wed Ynys to the heir of Godsgrace. Even if that heir had disappeared, Ynys herself should have had no claim to inheritance.
Lo Quen's gaze lingered on the girl.
She was, without doubt, beautiful—noble, poised, and offered as a gift of considerable weight. Yet the title of queen was no mere trinket. It touched upon the foundation and balance of an empire yet to be born.
He drew clear lines between the women in his life.
Lynesse Hightower was nothing more than a piece in his design—a paramour, not a queen.
Ynys, if he accepted her in marriage, would bear that title in truth.
He was not bound by the laws of Westerosi faith; he could take as many wives as he pleased. But not every offer was worth taking. He would weigh this one carefully.
Sensing his hesitation, Archibald quickly spoke again. "Your Grace need not fear any question of succession. Lord Anders's heir, young Cletus, is now imprisoned in Sunspear by Prince Doran. Lord Anders will never entrust Yronwood's future to the Martells. The heirs of Lady Ynys will be—and must be—the future lords of Yronwood."
"Cletus was captured?" Lo Quen's brow rose. "How?"
Archibald sighed. "By Lord Anders's command, he went to Sunspear to... 'build relations.' Instead, he became entangled in Princess Arianne's mad scheme to kidnap Jon Snow. In the end, he was seized by Prince Doran's men at the docks of Planky Town."
As Archibald finished, a faint, knowing smile curved Lo Quen's lips.
Arianne's reckless gamble had cost her everything—her freedom, Cletus's loyalty, and had handed him the perfect reason for House Yronwood to pledge itself fully to his cause.
Lo Quen chuckled softly. He had not expected that "the Cersei of Dorne," Arianne Martell, would be so desperate—willing even to tarnish Princess Elia's memory if it meant forcing Dorne into war.
Yet one name caught his attention amid the tale: "Darkstar" Gerold Dayne.
In the tales of the realm, that man had long been suspected as Varys's agent—the same one who struck at Princess Myrcella when Arianne tried to crown her queen.
The purpose then, as now, was clear: to set Dorne and the Lannisters upon a collision course.
Unexpectedly, Gerold Dayne had acted so quickly.
It seemed Varys, too, had grown restless.
A thought struck Lo Quen. "At Yronwood Castle," he asked suddenly, "is there a knight named Gerris Drinkwater?"
A thought struck Lo Quen. "At Yronwood Castle," he asked suddenly, "is there a knight named Gerris Drinkwater?"
Archibald and William Wyls both froze, clearly caught off guard by the question. Gerris was hardly a prominent bannerman.
"Yes, Your Grace," Archibald replied cautiously. "House Drinkwater is a loyal vassal."
Lo Quen's gaze sharpened, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "Tell Lord Anders to keep a close watch on this Gerris Drinkwater—better yet, detain him at once. He is very likely a spy planted in Yronwood."
"What?!"
Both Archibald and William Wyls gasped, disbelief written across their faces.
Lo Quen lifted a hand to silence them. "Ask no questions. Simply deliver my words to Lord Anders as I've said. He will understand."
Gerris Drinkwater—Lo Quen remembered that name. In the tales of his past life, he was the knight who had accompanied Quentyn to Meereen to seek Daenerys's hand.
There had been a theory, Lo Quen recalled, that House Drinkwater descended from Quentyn Ball—the knight slain while drinking water during the Blackfyre Rebellion.
During the First Rebellion, Quentyn Ball had turned against the Targaryens after being denied the Kingsguard position they had promised him. He was killed at the Battle of the Redgrass Field—shot down by a common archer when he paused to drink.
"Drinkwater." The name itself was a clue.
Many had speculated that Gerris was indeed a descendant of Quentyn Ball—and perhaps one of Varys's informants.
It made sense. The alliance between Varys, Illyrio, and Prince Doran had always been one of mutual deceit. Varys would never rely solely on trust; he would have spies embedded across Dorne.
Archibald steadied himself and shifted the topic back. "Understood, Your Grace. We will deliver your command at once. As for Lady Ynys's marriage..."
Lo Quen's eyes turned once again to the anxious, golden-haired girl. She stood like a flower touched with dew, delicate yet ripe for the taking.
A faint smile touched his lips, carrying the calm majesty of an Eastern sovereign. "Of course. But you must know, I am of Yi Ti. I am not bound by Westerosi faith or its rule of one wife under the Seven Gods. Our ancestors once took a hundred wives..."
Archibald nodded eagerly, his voice trembling with enthusiasm. "Your Grace, you need not worry. Lord Anders fully understands and supports this. As long as you are willing to accept Lady Ynys and grant her the title and standing she deserves, House Yronwood will give everything—our men, our gold, our swords—to help you conquer the Seven Kingdoms."
Lo Quen was satisfied. This was the sincerity he expected in an alliance.
Anders had likely begun to suspect the truth about Quentyn's identity.
If this Quentyn was a fraud, then where was the real one?
Quentyn's mother was of Norvoshi nobility, and even Prince Doran's captain of guards hailed from Norvos.
If his guess was correct, the true Quentyn was hidden there, likely in league with Norvos's bearded priests—perhaps with authority to command their armies when the time came.
Lo Quen mused silently. Prince Doran's cunning ran deep. With so many contingencies in place, had he possessed a dragon, the Seven Kingdoms would have already knelt before him.
Such a schemer could not be trusted. The Martells would have to be eliminated.
That was precisely why Lo Quen intended to raise House Yronwood instead.
If the Martells remained Dorne's foremost family before and after his conquest, then what would his victory even mean?
To House Martell, whatever he gave would be considered their due. But for House Yronwood, his alliance was a gift beyond measure—a chance at power they could never seize alone.
"Very well," he said at last. "Lady Ynys and her handmaidens may stay at Conquest Keep. Before I march west, a wedding will be held, and she shall be wed to me in full ceremony."
It was a promise.
Ynys Yronwood would become one of his queens—a crucial wedge driven into Dorne's heart.
Of course, Jaelena, Janice, Chai Yiq, and Daenerys all remained part of his future plans.
Archibald and William Wyls bowed deeply, visibly relieved, their excitement barely contained as they withdrew.
Before leaving, Ynys cast a quick glance toward Lo Quen—eyes filled with a quiet mix of awe, hope, and shy anticipation.
She and her three maids were courteously escorted away to their prepared chambers.
Moments later, as the Yronwood party departed, the guards' call echoed again through the hall. "Your Grace, a lady requests an audience."
Lo Quen frowned. What was happening today? Had his hall turned into a marketplace?
Suppressing his irritation, he asked, "Did she give her name?"
The guard bowed. "She says she is called Melisandre, from the Red Temple of Asshai—a servant of R'hllor."