Conquest Keep, the King's Hall.
Outside, the wind from the Narrow Sea carried its salty tang as it swept through the high vaulted chamber, setting the gold-and-red dragon banners swaying beneath the ceiling.
Lo Quen sat upon the throne, composed and unmoving.
Below him, Ser Wendel Manderly bowed low in formal salute. The northern envoy's frame showed the wear of a long and arduous journey, yet his eyes still burned with steadfast resolve.
"Your Grace," he began, "I come at the command of Robb Stark, King in the North. The North fights in the Riverlands against the Westerlands. The Lannisters' claws tear at our soldiers, while the ironborn's curved blades raid our coasts. King Robb has heard of the might of Your Grace's armies and humbly seeks your aid. The North will offer gold, trade privileges—even lasting friendship—in exchange for an army strong enough to turn the tide of war."
Lo Quen regarded him silently, his expression unreadable.
An envoy from the North. How interesting.
It seemed the discord he had sown between Stark and Baratheon had taken root. The North now stood isolated—no allies left to call upon. And so they came seeking help from a foreign conqueror.
He spoke at last, his tone calm. "King Robb is young, yet he has carved a name for himself across the Seven Kingdoms. Even beyond the Narrow Sea, I have heard of the 'Young Wolf.'"
He paused briefly, as though weighing his next words, then said evenly, "I will give you twenty thousand. Twenty thousand Unsullied, to aid the North."
Wendel's head snapped up, eyes wide with disbelief. "Your Grace…?"
"I will give you twenty thousand Unsullied warriors. They shall return with you to Westeros and fight for your King in the North."
Lo Quen repeated himself clearly, his face betraying no hint of jest.
Joy surged through Wendel like a wave.
Twenty thousand. And Unsullied.
It was beyond anything he had hoped for—beyond even King Robb's most optimistic expectations. He didn't stop to wonder whether twenty thousand Unsullied could even exist.
The son of the Lord of White Harbor nearly fell to his knees. "Thank you, Your Grace! The North shall never forget this aid!"
"No need to thank me yet."
Lo Quen raised a hand to still his outpouring of gratitude, a faint smile curving his lips. "The warriors are gathered outside the castle. Go and see if they please you."
...
Beyond Crown Town, on the open plains.
Once a training field for warhorses, it had been turned into a temporary mustering ground. The sea wind howled across the low grass.
Guided by the guards of Conquest Keep, Ser Wendel spurred his horse up a low ridge and looked out over the plain—then froze.
The joy drained from his face, replaced by sheer confusion.
Men.
Countless men, packed thick as a living tide, stretching far beyond sight.
Twenty thousand strong, dark-skinned figures stood in ranks beneath the gray sky.
Their heads were shaved smooth, glinting in the light like rows of polished eggs.
They wore matching uniforms—clearly modeled after the Unsullied's attire.
But the weapons in their hands told another story.
Instead of spears and short blades, they held gleaming Dothraki arakhs.
On their backs hung sinew-bound Dothraki bows, and at their sides were tethered horses—mixed-blood beasts, rough and scrappy, nothing like the proud steeds of a true khalasar.
This was no disciplined phalanx of silent eunuchs.
This was a Dothraki khalasar—forced into uniform and rebranded as "Unsullied."
Less Unsullied than defiled. Every one of them a scoundrel.
"Your… Your Grace…"
Wendel's throat went dry. He turned sharply toward Lo Quen, who sat astride a tall warhorse, calm and composed. "These—they aren't Unsullied! They're Dothraki horsemen!"
Lo Quen's lips curved faintly as his gaze swept over the defiant riders.
These were the captives he had taken when Khal Drogo's khalasar collapsed. Having defeated their khal, Lo Quen had become their new master—and thus, they were his khalasar now.
The time had come for these savages to prove useful.
Send them to Westeros. Whether they obeyed or not, they would spread only one thing across the Seven Kingdoms—chaos.
His tone was calm and unyielding. "Ser Wendel, what you see before you are my warriors. I say they are the Unsullied—therefore, they are the Unsullied."
"But... Your Grace!"
Wendel was nearly in tears. "They are savage horsemen—Dothraki! They obey only the strongest Khal, following the winds of the grasslands. How could they possibly obey orders like true Unsullied? How can they fight for a foreign North? Will they listen to His Grace Robb's commands? Will they even understand the code of knighthood?"
Images of Dothraki raiders burning and pillaging across Westeros flashed through his mind, sending a chill through his spine. This wasn't an army—it was twenty thousand wild horses set loose.
Lo Quen tilted his head slightly, his eyes locking on Wendel. "Are you questioning my judgment?"
His voice was quiet, but it carried an icy authority that made Wendel's body tremble.
He looked into Lo Quen's deep, unreadable eyes, then down at the twenty thousand pairs of fierce, animalistic eyes glaring back from below. Every word of protest died in his throat.
He understood. These were Lo Quen's "Unsullied." This was all the "aid" he would receive—and there was no room for negotiation.
A crushing bitterness welled up in Wendel's chest.
It's over... If I bring these savages back, what will His Grace Robb think? What will the Northern lords think?
The Starks were direwolves—how could they ever hope to tame these wild stallions of the steppe?
But another voice whispered in his mind.
Twenty thousand.
Twenty thousand battle-hardened warriors. Even if they were Dothraki, even if they were untamed beasts, they were still a force powerful enough to change the course of war.
The North was desperate—for men, for soldiers, for anyone who could raise a sword against the Lannisters. Something was better than nothing.
The weight of harsh reality and the fear for his homeland's survival finally crushed his hesitation.
Drawing a deep breath, Wendel forced down his turmoil and squeezed out a smile more painful than tears. Bowing low, he said through gritted teeth, "Yes, Your Grace. The North is deeply grateful for your generous aid. Twenty thousand 'Unsullied' warriors—The North shall not forget your kindness."
He almost choked on the word Unsullied.
Lo Quen seemed pleased by his compliance, nodding slightly. "Good. The ships are prepared—enough to carry these twenty thousand warriors and their horses. Depart quickly. The war in Westeros waits for no one."
"Yes, Your Grace!" Wendel replied quickly.
"However..."
Lo Quen's tone shifted. "My warriors will not bleed for free. The King in the North must offer something in return."
Wendel's chest tightened. "Your Grace, name your price. Whatever the North can provide…"
"It's simple."
Lo Quen's gaze seemed to pierce across the Narrow Sea, settling upon distant Westeros. "I want Lady Sansa of Winterfell as my wife."
"Lady Sansa?!"
The words burst from Wendel's lips before he could stop himself.
He had never imagined such a demand. The eldest daughter of House Stark—the jewel of the North.
Lo Quen's tone remained composed. "That is the price for these twenty thousand warriors' service."
He already held Lynesse and Myrcella, but it wasn't enough. If he could add a Stark to his side, the Northern game board would tilt decisively in his favor.
Sooner or later, the Seven Kingdoms—scarred by endless war—would lose countless male heirs. By securing the noble daughters, he would hold the fates of their houses in his hands.
A cold sweat trickled down Wendel's spine.
The thought of the Stark maiden being married off across the Narrow Sea to an Eastern conqueror was unthinkable.
Would King Robb agree? Would Lady Catelyn ever consent?
But he dared not refuse. Forcing himself to speak, he bowed again. "Yes, Your Grace. I shall convey your will faithfully to King Robb."
"Very good."
Lo Quen turned away, gesturing to a calm young man standing nearby—his features distinctly Eastern.
This was the man Chai Yiq had transformed from a ruby. He stepped forward and bowed deeply.
Lo Quen commanded, "You will accompany Ser Wendel to Westeros and serve as my envoy in negotiations with Robb Stark."
This mission, however, carried purposes beyond the North.
"As you command, Your Grace," Chai Yiq replied solemnly.
Lo Quen cast one last look over the ranks of his so-called Dothraki "Unsullied," then raised his hand in dismissal.
Led by their lesser chieftains, the horsemen began to move, leading their rough, ill-bred mounts toward the massive fleet of transport ships anchored in the harbor.
Ser Wendel sat astride his horse, watching the surreal spectacle unfold.
Twenty thousand barbarian warriors, dressed in Unsullied uniforms, marching onto ships bound for Westeros. The sight was both grand and absurd.
He glanced at Chai Yiq, whose expression remained calm and unreadable, then recalled Lo Quen's chilling demand for a Stark bride. The weight on his shoulders felt heavier than stone.
The sea wind roared, tugging at Wendel's cloak as he watched the last of the Dothraki warriors vanish into the ship holds.
He could not shake the unease in his chest.
This "reinforcement" of savages had finally set sail—bound for Westeros.