The envoys exchanged stunned looks, scarcely believing their own ears.
Littlefinger's smile froze for half a heartbeat, a glint of sharp calculation flickering in his eyes.
So easily?
Lo Quen caught every subtle reaction, the corners of his lips curling into a teasing smile. "I haven't finished speaking yet."
A chill rippled through the delegation.
He inclined his head slightly.
Meizo, standing at his side, drew a thick parchment scroll from the wide sleeve of his robe and, without a word, handed it down the steps.
Great Lord Eddard stepped forward, his sword-calloused hand reaching out to receive it.
The parchment felt cold against his skin.
He untied the cord and slowly unfurled it, the dry rasp of the parchment filling the hall.
His eyes skimmed the densely written lines, black ink blotting the surface in heavy strokes. After reading only a few, the stern lines of his long face drained of color.
His muscles tightened; his hands trembled as his knuckles whitened around the scroll.
"...The Seven Kingdoms shall pay one million golden dragons as compensation for the unprovoked assault on Bloodstone Isle."
"...The Seven Kingdoms shall cede the Isles of Estermont and Tarth, along with their surrounding waters."
"...The Seven Kingdoms shall exempt all Stepstones trade from customs duties for thirty years."
...
Clause after clause—over a hundred in total.
Every line demanded gold, land, or trade privileges.
This was no peace treaty.
It was a document of humiliation—a surrender written in the ink of defeat.
"Accept these terms," Lo Quen's languid voice drifted down from the dais, "and the dawn of peace may yet come."
At that, Eddard's pallor hardened into iron.
He raised his gray-blue eyes, cold as the northern frost, locking them upon the man seated high above on the ornate chair.
Rage boiled within him, so sharp and fierce it nearly broke through his restraint.
This wasn't negotiation.
This was vivisection—the slow flaying of the Seven Kingdoms alive.
Petyr Baelish slid closer, smooth as an eel. His gray-green eyes darted over the key lines on the parchment.
That trademark sly smile still lingered on his lips, but a faint twitch at his cheek betrayed the strain beneath.
Behind the mask of amusement, his mind raced, calculating outcomes and costs in the blink of an eye.
The heavy scroll passed from hand to hand among the envoys, like a brand fresh from the forge, searing whoever held it.
"Sss—"
"Gods above!"
"This is extortion! Barefaced extortion!"
"A million golden dragons? Does he think gold grows on trees?"
"Cede the islands? If we agree to that, His Grace will have our heads before we set foot home!"
Gasps, growls, and angry murmurs rippled through the hall, thick with outrage.
Stafford Lannister of the Westerlands stood grim-faced, fingers brushing the hilt at his waist.
Horace and Hobber Redwyne of the Arbor exchanged frightened looks.
Harmen Uller of Dorne narrowed his serpent-like eyes, a venomous gleam in his stare.
Eddard drew a deep breath—the air itself seemed heavy with the taste of rust and humiliation.
It took every ounce of his discipline and honor to quell the instinct to draw his blade. Forcing calm into his voice, he spoke, the edge of fury rasping through his words.
"Sorcerer..."
He used the title again, his tone as cold and cutting as a northern gale. "These terms... the Seven Kingdoms will never accept them! Even if Aegon the Conqueror himself rose from the grave, faced with demands such as these, he would answer only with steel!"
He stood tall, his back straight as a drawn blade.
Lo Quen merely shrugged, unconcerned. He had never expected them to agree in the first place.
"Then there's no deal."
Lo Quen's gaze swept over the faces below—each one a mix of shock and anger. "I imagine King's Landing's fleet doesn't have many seaworthy ships left, does it? If the Seven Kingdoms are too stingy to meet my terms peacefully… then I'll simply go to Westeros's shores myself and claim what is rightfully ours."
Great Lord Eddard's heart sank.
Dragons.
And that fleet prowling the Stepstones.
The Seven Kingdoms might still hold their ground on land, relying on their vast territories and the heavy crossbows mounted atop their walls. But on the Narrow Sea, facing dragons that breathed fire, they stood no chance.
A suffocating sense of helplessness gripped him.
Just then, a smooth, rounded voice broke the tense silence.
A stout man in a dark green velvet robe embroidered with golden roses squeezed through the crowd. His round, well-groomed face was arranged into a polite smile, though behind it flickered both shrewdness and unease.
He bowed slightly, the flesh around his belly quivering beneath his tight-fitting doublet. "Your Lordship, I am Garth Tyrell, Steward of Highgarden. By order of the Lord of Highgarden, I have come to humbly request your permission to ransom the unfortunate nobles of The Reach who were captured."
He was the uncle of Lord Mace Tyrell—"Fat" Garth—known throughout The Reach for his skill in negotiation and keen sense for numbers.
This time, he had come accompanied by representatives from House Hightower and House Redwyne, with one primary goal: to secure the safe return of the captured Reach nobles, each one worth a small fortune.
Lo Quen smiled. "Of course. Nobles and knights of the Seven Kingdoms—any who wish to buy back their freedom may do so, provided they pay the ransom."
"However," he continued, "the price will be set by me."
The delegation's hearts, which had just begun to lift, dropped again like stones.
Surely not…
Meizo reached once more into his wide sleeve and drew out another thick parchment scroll, handing it to Garth Tyrell's trembling hands.
Garth unrolled it. After reading only two lines, the smile on his face melted like snow under the sun, replaced by a look of deathly despair.
The list of names and the figures beside them were nothing short of daylight robbery—an open plundering of The Reach's wealth.
The ransom for an ordinary knight stood at an outrageous thousand golden dragons.
For even a minor noble's son, the price leapt to two or three thousand.
And when his eyes fell on the words "Garlan Tyrell – ransom: ten thousand golden dragons," the world seemed to darken before him. His hand clutched the parchment so tightly it trembled uncontrollably.
He regretted taking this mission the moment he saw it. Lady Olenna and Lord Mace had sent him—their uncle and steward—to bring back every noble tied closely to House Tyrell.
But his brother, Moryn Tyrell, was already dead. And now Garlan's ransom alone stood at ten thousand golden dragons.
The others would cost even more.
And that wasn't counting the soldiers of The Reach.
Highgarden was wealthy, but not even its golden fields could bear this kind of bleeding dry.
Worse still, the man before him radiated calm confidence—an absolute refusal to bargain—that made any attempt at negotiation feel utterly pointless.
Garth could already imagine Lady Olenna's cold, cutting gaze fixed upon him.