After the assassin was dragged out of the hall, Lo Quen's smile remained as warm as ever.
Raising his wine cup, his voice steady, he declared, "A mere minor incident, gentlemen. Let us continue our feast. Fine wine should not be disturbed by intrigue."
Guests suppressed the storm raging within, forcing stiff smiles as they raised their cups in response. Yet the gaze they cast upon Lo Quen had utterly transformed, now tinged with deeper dread.
Breaking blades barehanded, withstanding a dagger's strike unscathed...
Was this even human?!
The Eastern Dragonlord's terror far surpassed their wildest imaginings.
The seven Queens immediately gathered around him, their delicate hands urgently searching his body. Their eyes, each a different hue, brimmed with lingering terror and concern.
"Your Grace! Are you truly unharmed?"
"That dagger... those poisoned needles..."
Daenerys' voice trembled with tears.
Ynys bit her lower lip.
A cold glint flashed in Jaelena's eyes, as if she wished to tear the assassin limb from limb.
Lo Quen took each of their hands in turn, soothing them gently: "Rest assured, such petty tricks cannot harm me."
He calmed the women, gradually easing their panicked hearts, though they remained tightly clustered around him, unwilling to stray far.
Before long, Master of Whisperers Meizo slipped discreetly through the crowd to Lo Quen's side. His face was so grim it seemed ready to drip with water. Lowering his voice, he reported, "Your Grace, the assassin... is dead. He bit down on the poison sac hidden in his teeth. Our men couldn't stop him."
Lo Quen showed no surprise, nodding lightly. "It matters not. I knew where he came from."
Meizo paused, a sharp gleam flashing in his eyes as if he'd grasped something. "Your Grace means..."
Lo Quen gave a cold laugh. "Merely a group of Faceless Men from Braavos."
The instant the assassin struck, Lo Quen had sensed the faint magical fluctuations cloaking him—a disguise. Combined with that bizarre, ever-shifting technique, designed for a single, lethal strike...
Across the known world, only the House of Black and White—the temple of the Many-Faced God—could train such a professional killer.
He turned to Meizo: "Draft a letter immediately to the Tattered Prince stationed in Myr. Inform him that the moment we land in Westeros is the moment he strikes. I want him to seize Pentos immediately after our departure and keep the other Free Cities in check—prevent them from harboring any other ambitions."
"As you command, Your Grace."
Meizo recorded the order before continuing his report: "Latest intelligence from Westeros: Young Aegon and Dorne have formally allied. One condition set by Prince Doran is that Arianne Martell become the future Queen. Additionally, our spies confirm an elite force of roughly fifteen thousand men from Norvos has embarked from Pentos. They are expected to land in Westeros shortly and join Young Aegon's ranks."
A flicker of amusement crossed Lo Quen's eyes. "The show is finally about to begin. We should make our move too—leak the news of Young Aegon's true identity and deliver our prepared 'gift' to Duskendale at the appointed time. I'm eager to see just how solid this hastily assembled alliance truly is."
His delay in acting had been precisely to wait for Dorne's entry. Once Young Aegon joined forces with Dorne, he would leak the news of Young Aegon's Blackfyre lineage, sowing seeds of distrust within their alliance.
Meizo nodded in understanding. "Understood, Your Grace. News has also arrived from The North."
He paused, then detailed how Ramsay Bolton had schemed to kill Jon Snow, ultimately leading to the collapse of the northern alliance.
Lo Quen raised an eyebrow at this.
Jon's death had indeed caught him off guard. Could twenty thousand men truly be defeated by the crippled North? Lo Quen felt a twinge of resignation.
Yet he harbored no real concern over Jon's demise. After all, in the original storyline, Jon also died—and would likely be resurrected. This world had already veered off course because of his arrival.
With Melisandre absent from the North, who would resurrect him?
Lo Quen pondered this, finding no answer. Yet he remained certain the Lord of Light would intervene. Jon was a figure of particular interest to the Lord of Light.
That "divinity" might not meddle much in worldly affairs, but surely He wouldn't truly abandon His chosen child of prophecy to complete oblivion?
A thought struck Lo Quen. He wanted to see just how urgent the Lord of Light really was.
His expression remained impassive as his gaze swept across the hall, settling on Waymar Royce, who sat alone in a corner, appearing somewhat stiff and silent.
"Go fetch Ser Waymar."
Ser Waymar quickly approached and bowed respectfully.
Lo Quen spoke, "Ser, after the banquet, I will assign you a military force. However, your primary task is not the Vale. You must first head north to assist the remnants of House Manderly in dealing with House Bolton. Once the matters in the North are settled, you will then turn south and enter the Vale. I will provide further support afterward; you need not worry about a lack of troops."
Waymar froze for a moment. The North?
This was not what he had expected—he had hoped to return directly to the Vale to exact his vengeance.
But hearing Lo Quen's promise of additional support, his face immediately lit up with joy. He knelt on one knee, declaring, "I will obey Your Grace's command. I will not fail Your Grace's trust!"
...
Late into the night, the grand wedding feast finally came to an end.
The guests, still reeling from the night's spectacle, slowly made their way out.
Lo Quen looked at the seven brides standing side by side before him. Bathed in the light of the candles, they were breathtakingly beautiful, their faces showing varying degrees of shyness and anticipation.
He smiled softly and moved toward the two youngest.
"Sansa, Myrcella."
His voice was unusually gentle. "You are still young. There is no need to rush tonight. There will be plenty of time in the days to come."
He gently ran his fingers through Sansa's soft, curly auburn hair and pinched Myrcella's delicate little cheek. "Go rest now."
Sansa and Myrcella's cheeks immediately turned a deep shade of red, like two ripe apples. Like frightened little birds, they lowered their heads and quietly agreed, then quickly followed the waiting maids to their lavishly decorated chambers.
The heavy gold-inlaid wooden doors of the bedchamber slowly closed, shutting out the world outside.
Inside the room, only Lo Quen and the remaining five brides remained.
Jaelena, Janice, Chai Yiq, Daenerys, and Ynys.
The air was thick with the scent of expensive incense. The massive bed was covered in the softest silk, and the flickering candlelight cast an intimate, almost hazy veil over everything.
The atmosphere grew sultry in an instant.
Even the boldest among them, Ynys, felt her fingers curl slightly.
Little did she know, her husband intended for all of them to serve him together on their wedding night.
Lo Quen watched them, noting their nervous yet forced composure. He couldn't help but chuckle softly.
He moved forward, saying nothing more.
The luxurious gowns slipped to the floor, their golden and silver threads unfurling like blooming flowers.
The candles flickered as waves of red light surged and receded.
And then, the soft strains of music began to drift intermittently through the door crack, causing the young maids waiting outside to blush, their legs unsteady, nearly unable to stand.