As despair and anger thickened the silence in the hall, Petyr Baelish stepped forward once more. He idly twirled the neatly trimmed goatee on his chin, that familiar sly smile once again playing on his lips. His voice was smooth as silk.
"Lord, your terms... are far too harsh. Even the gods above could not meet them. Our delegation comes here in good faith, seeking to build a long-term, mutually beneficial relationship with you."
Spreading his hands, he strolled gracefully across the vast hall, the soft sound of his shoes echoing against the cold stone floor.
"Perhaps we might each make a small concession? Some of the items on this list could be adjusted, and the figures are certainly open to discussion. After all..."
He stopped, fixing his burning gaze on Lo Quen seated upon the dais.
"A stable—and even friendly—Seven Kingdoms is vital to your grand ambitions..."
"Vital?"
Lo Quen drew out the word, his tone laced with open skepticism. "Tell me, in what way are you important to me?"
Littlefinger's smile widened. "We are your potential and most loyal allies, my lord."
"Allies?"
Lo Quen let out a low, cold laugh. "Allies? Since when do those who meet on the battlefield call each other that?"
Petyr's smile deepened. "Lord, if I may speak plainly—the Seven Kingdoms may have had... certain misunderstandings with you, but we are not your true enemies. Consider this: now that you've claimed the jewel of Tyrosh, who truly keeps you on edge, robbing you of sleep? Is it the nearby Free Cities—Pentos, Myr, Lys—your neighbors and kin in trade? Or the Seven Kingdoms across the Narrow Sea, too consumed by their own troubles to interfere?"
He paused, his voice carrying clearly through the hall. "My lord, as the Master of Coin of the Seven Kingdoms, I can say this with certainty: while our coffers may not overflow, our true strength lies in our war potential and military might—our formidable armies and superior war machines. The Free Cities, reliant on sellswords and merchant fleets, cannot compare."
He took a step closer. "When those Free Cities cast greedy eyes upon you, plotting to reclaim Tyrosh—or even dare to threaten your dragon with some... special weapon—would not a powerful ally be worth more than a horde of avaricious foes? Then, perhaps, the Seven Kingdoms could stand as your firmest support..."
"Special weapon?" Lo Quen narrowed his eyes at him. "What are you referring to?"
A sharp gleam flickered in Littlefinger's eyes as he spoke the name. "The Scorpion crossbow, my lord. The great engines capable of piercing dragon scales."
Lo Quen slowly leaned back in his seat, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest of his throne. Yet his eyes never left the Westerosi envoys below. The anticipation on their faces—and that faint trace of smugness—did not escape his notice.
Good. The fish has taken the bait.
The hall grew so silent that only the steady tapping of Lo Quen's fingers could be heard.
After what felt like an eternity—long enough that the Great Lord nearly believed he would end the meeting altogether—Lo Quen finally spoke.
"Very well. In that case... take these terms back with you and discuss them thoroughly. Tell me what price you can accept. Remember—my patience has its limits."
The words fell like an edict.
The delegation's tense expressions softened at once; a collective sigh rippled through the room. As long as there was room to negotiate, there was hope. The greedy Eastern lord still feared the dragon-slaying Scorpion crossbow.
The nobles of the Seven Kingdoms bowed quickly and departed, clutching the two parchments like burning coals. They would have to send ravens to King's Landing at once, relaying these exorbitant terms, and then rack their brains for ways to sate the Eastern sorcerer's hunger with the smallest possible cost in the next round of talks.
As the last envoy vanished through the doorway, the heavy oak doors closed with a thunderous boom, sealing off the clamor outside.
Meizo stepped forward and bowed slightly. "Lord, all went exactly as you foresaw. They truly tried to threaten you with the Scorpion crossbow."
A faintly mocking smile curved Lo Quen's lips.
"Let them threaten."
He leaned back lazily in his chair. "These negotiations with the Seven Kingdoms? The longer they drag on, the better. A year or two of talks would be ideal. I never intended to invade Westeros now, so there's no need to completely sever ties with the Seven Kingdoms just yet and fight to the death."
"That would only give the hyenas of Pentos, Lys, and Myr a chance to snicker behind our backs. Our true prey are those wealthy yet fragmented Free Cities.
"As for those Seven Kingdoms prisoners? They're sweating and bleeding under the scorching sun and the crack of whips at Crown Town, building our castle to guard the Disputed Lands. By the time the lords in King's Landing finally finish haggling and scrape together their ransom to claim their men... our castle will likely already stand tall and mighty."
A flicker of confusion crossed Meizo's eyes. "Lord, if we are not invading Westeros now, why did we use Jorah Mormont to lure the Seven Kingdoms' forces into raiding Bloodstone Isle?"
Lo Quen cut him off, his gaze deepening. "The Seven Kingdoms have always viewed any power unifying the Stepstones as a threat. Even if I hadn't used Jorah to lure them out, they would eventually see us as the Ninepenny Kings. Using Jorah to draw the snake from its hole serves to eliminate the Seven Kingdoms' fleet first, trapping them on the western continent. This makes dealing with the Free Cities far easier. Moreover, this would grant us near-total dominance over the Narrow Sea—save for Braavos's purple fleet."
Meizo's eyes widened in sudden understanding, yet new worry crept across his brow. "Lord, but... this remains a stopgap measure. The Seven Kingdoms span vast lands, rule millions of subjects, and possess deep-rooted foundations. Once they've licked their wounds, rebuilt their fleets, and regained their strength... do you not fear they'll return with vengeance? The humiliation they suffer today, they will never forget."
"Retaliation?"
Lo Quen let out a mocking chuckle. He rose slowly, walking to the tall stained-glass window. Turning his back to Meizo, he gazed out at the undulating rooftops of Tyrosh and the distant, shimmering Narrow Sea.
"Meizo, I've never feared their vengeance. My only hope is... that years from now, when they're tearing each other apart over that damned Iron Throne—in the North, the Riverlands, the Westerlands—when brothers fight brothers and fathers slay sons—they might still find the time to remember this 'minor' grievance across the Narrow Sea."
Meizo snapped his head up, staring in shock at Lo Quen's retreating figure. He couldn't comprehend why the Lord was so utterly certain Westeros would descend into civil war. That certainty sent an inexplicable chill through him.
How far into the future did the Lord truly see on the chessboard of the Game of Thrones?