Lord Paxter drew a heavy breath, as if summoning the last of his courage.
"The Small Council received intelligence from Ser Jorah. The report claimed that a new power rising in the Stepstones intended to one day invade Westeros itself. Thus, His Majesty the King and the council resolved to strike first, sending the fleet against the Stepstones."
Lo Quen turned his gaze to "Jorah," a trace of amusement tugging at his lips.
"Oh? Ser Jorah, is Lord Redwyne's account true?"
A perfectly measured, icy smile—tinged with self-satisfaction—spread across "Jorah's" face as he admitted bluntly:
"Yes, my lord. It was on your command that I spun that web of lies, deceiving the Iron Throne and luring their fleet here, so that you could crush them in a single stroke."
His words poured into the hall like boiling oil.
The nobles of the Seven Kingdoms seethed with even greater fury, teeth grinding audibly.
That brazen admission confirmed their worst fear.
The towering Jon Umber, Lord of the Last Hearth, could endure no more. He struggled upright, his voice booming like thunder:
"Jorah Mormont, you motherless bastard! By your treachery against the Seven Kingdoms, you've shamed the North, shamed your house, shamed your father!"
At this, "Jorah Mormont" did not show the slightest remorse. Instead, he snorted coldly, his voice dripping with bitter resentment.
"Shame? When that sanctimonious hypocrite Eddard Stark cast me out like a mongrel cur, I ceased to belong to the North, ceased to belong to the Seven Kingdoms. My loyalty belongs only to the Lord of the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones. And when the day comes that our armies land on Westeros..."
He paused deliberately, his gaze sweeping across the horrified Northern lords.
"I, Jorah Mormont, will become the new Warden of the North—and reclaim what was always rightfully mine!"
The words struck the hall like a thunderbolt.
The faces of the Northern lords turned white as parchment.
They had never imagined Jorah Mormont's ambition could swell to such heights—that he would dare seek to usurp House Stark.
Greatjon Umber shook with fury. A sudden memory struck him, and he roared:
"Jorah, you faithless cur! Do you even know? Your aunt, Lady Maege Mormont—she led men to rescue you from Bloodstone Isle. And she... she was burned alive at sea by your new master's dragon!"
Jorah's face showed no grief, no shock—only chilling indifference. A cruel curve tugged at his mouth.
"And what of it? The lordship of Bear Island was always mine by right. My dear aunt Maege only seized what belonged to me while I was in exile. She got what she deserved."
His words pierced the Northern lords' hearts like shards of ice.
The hall fell into dead silence. None could speak, stunned by Jorah's merciless cruelty.
Greatjon stared wide-eyed, struggling to reconcile the man before him with the Northman he once knew. That image was shattered beyond repair.
The other Northern lords felt a storm raging in their hearts.
What had Jorah Mormont endured?
What had twisted him into this ruthless, ambition-consumed devil?
If the North's lords were torn by grief and disbelief, the southern lords felt only burning hatred.
They had scarcely known Jorah. Yet learning that he had not only betrayed the allied host but also dreamed of overturning Westeros and replacing its Great Lords, their loathing burned like poison in their veins.
Kevan Lannister, forcing his voice past the agony of his wounds, demanded low but firm:
"Invade Westeros? Ser Jorah, are you utterly mad? To help a foreigner conquer the land that gave you birth—where is your knightly honor? Where is the gaze of the gods you swore before?"
Lo Quen cut in, his voice edged with mockery.
"A foreigner cannot rule Westeros? Then what of House Targaryen?"
Kevan shot back instantly, pride ringing in his voice.
"House Targaryen is extinct. The Iron Throne belongs now to the Baratheons."
Lo Quen gave a sharp, scornful laugh.
"Baratheons? Merely the bastard blood of House Targaryen.
Do you think I don't know your history? Your First Men, your Andals—every one of them crossed from the eastern continent. And what did they bring? Slaughter. Bloody conquest against one another.
You, descendants of invaders and butchers—what right have you to prattle of honor before me? Look at what you did to Westeros's first peoples. Look at the weirwoods you left forgotten. Every scrap of your so-called knightly honor rests on heaps of bones. Spare me your pretense of nobility."
Kevan was struck speechless by Lo Quen's merciless rebuke. His face flushed crimson with fury and shame.
For Lo Quen spoke the truth. Whether the First Men's migration or the Andal invasion, both had been built upon conquest and bloodshed. That history could never be called "noble."
On the other side, Lord Paxter Redwyne forced himself to hold onto the last shreds of dignity as he addressed Lo Quen with stern defiance.
"Even so, you shall not prevail. The Seven Kingdoms stretch vast, with countless hosts of elite soldiers. Even if we've lost our fleet, you could never hope to break our mighty alliance upon the land."
Lo Quen only let out a soft laugh, as though Paxter had just told him a jest.
"Oh? Is that so?"
The easy, confident smile on Lo Quen's face—as if victory were already his—made Paxter's stomach twist. In that instant he remembered the golden beast circling above, the monster that had turned the sea to fire. Whatever sliver of resolve he'd just scraped together crumbled at once. Gritting his teeth, he forced out:
"One… one dragon is not enough!"
Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne spoke up, his voice calm but cutting.
"Lord Paxter is right. House Targaryen conquered Westeros with three dragons. Even so, one of them—Meraxes—was brought down in Dorne. A single dragon cannot decide the fate of a realm."
Lo Quen's smile faded, and he gave no answer, as if silently conceding the point.
The gathered nobles misread his silence. Seeing his composure waver, they thought Oberyn's words had struck home. Eyes met across the hall, hope stirring that perhaps this Eastern man might yet abandon any dream of invading Westeros.
But inside, Lo Quen sneered.
He had no intention of telling them about the dragon eggs.
He had already seen enough: when their gazes fell on "Jorah Mormont," the hatred burning there had nearly boiled over. That alone meant his aim was accomplished.
In their minds, Jorah Mormont was now damned beyond redemption, a traitor to Westeros through and through, his stain unwashed even if he drowned in the Blackwater.
Lo Quen waved his hand dismissively.
"Enough. Roro, see our 'guests' back to their 'rooms' to rest."
Roro bowed low. "At once, my lord."
...
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