Beyond the towering windows stretched a bustling harbor, and farther still, a vast city rose from the earth.
"Petyr Baelish, under the command of Lord Tyrion, representing the Iron Throne, pays homage to Your Grace."
Littlefinger bowed with practiced elegance. His eyes flicked over the opulent hall and the grand view beyond the windows, and within him, waves of astonishment surged.
In less than two years.
The man before him had risen from nothing—building a magnificent castle and city in the contested lands of the Three Daughters.
Such speed... such power... it was almost inhuman.
But what unsettled him most was what he had seen on the way—women of obvious Yi Ti and Lys heritage, many visibly pregnant.
What did that mean?
It meant Lo Quen was not only building furiously—he was repopulating the land.
He was turning this barren corner of the world into his true foundation.
This Easterner's ambition clearly stretched far beyond control of the Narrow Sea.
"Lord Baelish, the Iron Throne didn't send you across the sea merely to admire my castle."
Lo Quen's calm voice pulled Littlefinger back from his thoughts.
He immediately put on a sincere smile. "Your Grace, your accomplishments are truly awe-inspiring. The splendor of this Conquest Keep makes even the Red Keep in King's Landing pale in comparison... The Seven Kingdoms are drowning in war. The capital overflows with people, yet the conflict has sent grain prices soaring. I have been sent here to humbly request Your Grace's aid. The Seven Kingdoms are prepared to pay thirty percent above market price to purchase large quantities of grain."
Lo Quen's smile didn't falter, though inwardly he sneered. As expected—grain.
"I see," he said mildly. "I have no shortage of grain. How much do you need?"
Littlefinger's heart leapt. He hadn't expected such an easy agreement.
Suppressing his excitement, he named the vast sum he had prepared in advance.
Lo Quen nodded. "Very well. Meizo, make the arrangements yourself. Fulfill Lord Baelish's request and have the shipments loaded as soon as possible."
Then he turned to Littlefinger. "You must be weary from the journey. A feast has been prepared in your honor."
Littlefinger bowed deeply. "Your Grace is most generous."
...
The banquet was held in a smaller yet equally splendid hall.
The tables were heavy with food—delicacies from the Narrow Sea and local specialties alike. Joining Lo Quen and Meizo were several trade officials, ship captains, and merchants from Crown Town.
The atmosphere was lively, filled with laughter and clinking cups.
Littlefinger moved easily among them, charming and smooth, drawing smiles wherever he went.
But his mind never strayed far from Lo Quen at the head of the table.
He could feel it clearly—the respect, almost fear, that every man at the feast held for Lo Quen.
It was the aura of someone who ruled absolutely.
Seizing the moment under the guise of a toast, Littlefinger leaned closer. "Your Grace, might I have a private word?"
Lo Quen set down his cup. "Oh? Has Lord Baelish some counsel for me?"
His tone was casual, but his glance toward Meizo carried quiet instruction.
Meizo caught it immediately, moving to "refill drinks" and drawing away a nearby merchant, leaving a brief pocket of privacy.
Littlefinger leaned in slightly, his voice low. "Your Grace, at such a young age, you already command the Three Daughters, the Narrow Sea—and the dragons once thought lost. Can it be that you are content to remain on the Eastern Continent? Have you no thoughts toward Westeros?"
Lo Quen regarded him silently. "And what exactly do you mean by that, Lord Baelish?"
Littlefinger's tone turned silken, persuasive. "The Seven Kingdoms are in chaos as never before. The Lannisters and Starks—and the Tullys—tear at each other. Renly builds his strength in the South, while Stannis waits on Dragonstone. If Your Grace harbors the ambition to march upon the Seven Kingdoms, I—who have long cultivated influence in King's Landing—would gladly serve as your eyes and ears in Westeros. I would pledge myself to you."
Lo Quen smiled faintly. "Then tell me, Lord Baelish—what is it that you want in return?"
Littlefinger's expression hardened into naked ambition. "Your Grace, House Baelish is humble in origin. My ancestors came from Braavos and gained only a small, barren holding in the Vale—barely enough to be called noble. My dream is to become a true Great Lord—to hold fertile lands, to command a grand castle worthy of my name, and to make all those who once mocked 'Littlefinger' kneel at my feet."
Lo Quen understood perfectly.
A smile spread across Lo Quen's face as he raised his goblet. "Excellent! Lord Baelish, here's to a prosperous partnership."
"Thank you, Your Grace!"
Littlefinger lifted his goblet eagerly, clinking it lightly against Lo Quen's before draining it in one smooth motion.
It was done.
By placing his bets on Lo Quen, the Lannisters, and Renly, he now had three paths open before him.
...
Conquest Keep, at sunset.
The great merchant vessel was loaded to the brim with grain.
Petyr Baelish stood at the bow, waving with graceful poise toward Lo Quen, who remained on the pier. A self-satisfied smile lingered on his face as he calculated the gains of this venture.
Lo Quen stood tall with his hands clasped behind his back, watching silently from the high dock as the ship drifted from the harbor. His gaze was deep and unreadable.
Meizo approached from behind, smiling. "Your Grace, as per your orders, we mixed sand into the grain. We've made a tidy fortune from it. Also, our rumors have already spread through King's Landing. Word is the royal family was attacked by a mob—reports say it was brutal. According to the plan, the Queen—"
He stopped short.
Lo Quen's lips curved into a faint smile, his eyes still following the departing ship.
Littlefinger... if you want to work with me, you'd better survive first.
"It's about time our pyromancers made their move. I believe Cersei will gladly take the blame for us."
Just as he turned to leave the pier, a messenger arrived, escorted by harbor guards. Dropping to one knee, he announced breathlessly, "Your Grace! Urgent news from Bloodstone Isle! Lord Morosh sent me by ship with word."
Lo Quen's brow tightened. "Speak."
The messenger's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Lord Morosh's patrol fleet intercepted a fast vessel west of Bloodstone Isle, attempting to bypass our patrol zone. Onboard were members of the Kingsguard from the Seven Kingdoms—and a young girl. By her age and appearance, she is most likely Princess Myrcella Lannister. The Kingsguard knight Arys Oakheart has been captured on Bloodstone Isle. Lord Morosh has already dispatched a swift ship to escort Princess Myrcella to Conquest Keep. It should be docking any moment now!"
A flicker of surprise crossed Lo Quen's face.
Myrcella?
Sure enough, a swift ship was gliding slowly into the harbor.
The golden light of the setting sun spilled across the deck, revealing a small figure surrounded by guards—a young girl with golden hair and bright green eyes.
The child looked frightened, her wide eyes filled with confusion and terror at the unfamiliar faces and grim surroundings.
Lo Quen watched her in silence. The surprise on his face melted into a slow, knowing smile.
An unexpected gift, indeed...