After the Small Council adjourned, the ministers bowed and withdrew from the council chamber, each carrying their assigned tasks.
Lo Quen returned to his private study.
It was much smaller than the council chamber, with detailed maps of parts of Westeros and Essos hanging on the walls. A desk carved from dark hardwood stood by the window, its surface neatly stacked with documents and letters awaiting review.
With the position of Hand of the King abolished, he could no longer rule from a distance. He had to personally handle the affairs of the realm.
He had just settled into the high-backed chair, preparing to organize his thoughts on the situation in the east, when a soft knock sounded at the door.
After permission was granted, the door opened, and the newly appointed Master of Ships, Ser Davos, stepped inside.
He closed the door behind him and bowed respectfully. His lips moved slightly, as if he were unsure how to begin.
Lo Quen set aside the small model he had been idly turning in his hand, one used to represent fleet movements, and looked at him with a gentle expression.
"What is it, Ser Davos? Trouble with the port site selection?"
He assumed Davos had come on official business.
Davos took a deep breath, his expression bordering on a plea.
"Your Grace, I'm not here about official matters. It's… about Lady Shireen and Lady Selyse."
Lo Quen folded his hands together on the desk.
"Them? Aren't they still staying at Storm's End? Ser Davos, this was your suggestion at the time. You said the mother and daughter had nowhere else to go and hoped I would allow them to remain at Storm's End for the time being, serving the Queens as a form of protection. Once the situation fully stabilized, they would be sent to Brightwater Keep to settle down. I agreed."
"I am no Mad King, nor am I Joffrey. For defenseless women and children who have committed no crimes, I am willing to offer mercy and a place to stay."
Davos's eyes flickered slightly as he hurried to respond.
"Your Grace, no one would ever doubt your mercy or magnanimity. I am not questioning your arrangements. I only… I wish to ask whether you might take a look at Lady Shireen's condition."
Lo Quen paused, clearly taken aback.
"You want me to… treat the scars Lady Shireen bears from grayscale?"
He truly had not expected Davos to make such a request.
Hope immediately filled Davos's face. He nodded hard, his voice growing urgent.
"Yes, Your Grace. Lady Shireen… though she was born into House Baratheon, she has never enjoyed the treatment or happiness befitting her station. Ever since childhood… that terrible illness left marks that can never be erased."
"Whether out of malice or idle curiosity, people's eyes always linger on those scars. She was just a child. These marks will follow her all her life, forcing her to live under strange looks and whispered gossip. It's far too cruel for her."
Lo Quen looked at Davos in silence for a long moment.
This knight, known for his pragmatism and loyalty, now spoke with such earnest concern for the daughter of a fallen king that it stirred something in him.
He gave a faint smile.
"Ser Davos, what you say makes sense. Lady Shireen's fate is indeed pitiable. But I am no maester. Since her grayscale has already been cured, it means King Stannis must have summoned the finest maesters in the Seven Kingdoms. If even they could not remove the scars, what could I possibly do?"
Davos, however, seemed to seize upon a final lifeline. He stepped forward.
"Your Grace, I believe Maester Qyburn will have a way. I… I've heard that his research into necromancy and forbidden knowledge far surpasses that of the rigid maesters of the old Citadel."
"He may be able to find a method to lessen, or even erase, those scars. I know this may be asking too much, but as long as there's even the slightest hope, I want to try for that child."
His eyes shone with something very close to a father's anxiety.
Lo Quen considered this in silence.
Treating the scars left by grayscale?
It was certainly a novel idea.
Qyburn, that scholar obsessed with probing the boundaries between life and death, might well find such a challenge intriguing.
Besides, for Lo Quen, it was no more than a small favor, a single word.
Using such a matter to bind a loyal minister more closely was a worthwhile exchange.
At last, he nodded.
"I've heard your request. I will inform Maester Qyburn and have him look into it, to see whether a feasible solution exists. But you must be patient. Since Lady Shireen's grayscale has already healed and no longer threatens her life, the matter of removing the scars can be considered slowly. There's no need to rush."
Davos's face instantly filled with overwhelming gratitude.
He bowed deeply.
"Thank you, Your Grace. No matter the outcome, I thank you on Lady Shireen's behalf for your kindness."
A heavy weight seemed to lift from his heart. After bowing once more, he left the study, his steps noticeably lighter.
Lo Quen did not dwell on Davos's well-intentioned request.
He immediately summoned the guard waiting outside the study and instructed him to pass Davos's request on to Maester Qyburn.
...
Several days later, a letter arrived from Meizo, accompanied by a "gift."
In the main hall of Storm's End, Lo Quen sat upright on his oak throne, looking down at the miserable figure being escorted forward by two soldiers, his body tightly bound with thick ropes.
Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos, once the famed "The Cheesemonger," was now thin and haggard.
His formerly well-fitted, luxurious brocade robes hung loosely from his frame, stained and filthy. The greasy sheen that once marked his face had been replaced by a dull, ashen pallor.
Lo Quen gazed down at him, a hint of complicated emotion crossing his face.
"Magister Illyrio, it's been some time. The last time we met must have been in Tyrosh, at my coronation. Back then, you were full of vigor, your wealth rivaling that of a kingdom. I never imagined that after all these years, you would change so much."
Illyrio lifted his head, his eyes filled with bitterness and hatred.
The moment he learned of Young Aegon's defeat and death, the pillar that supported his entire world had collapsed.
All his careful schemes, all his grand visions, had been reduced to nothing beneath dragonfire and steel.
Before he could even recover from that crushing blow, Pentos fell to the rapidly rising Tattered Prince. Illyrio was dragged off a ship that was about to set sail and flee, then thrown into a lightless dungeon for a long stretch of time. The torment had stripped away every trace of his former opulence.
At Lo Quen's words, Illyrio suddenly struggled violently and roared,
"Easterner! Spare me your false courtesy and mockery! You killed my hope. You killed the true hope of the Seven Kingdoms! You're a shameless, despicable thief who stole everything that never belonged to you!"
His roar echoed through the hall, loud enough that even the Dragon Soul Guards outside the doors turned their heads.
Lo Quen did not grow angry. Instead, he laughed.
He rose from the throne and slowly descended the steps, stopping in front of Illyrio and looking down at him from above.
"The hope of the Seven Kingdoms? What a grand claim, Illyrio. Tell me, what did your son actually do in the few short months after landing in Westeros? He let his troops run wild, plundering and slaughtering civilians. The number of innocents who died by his blade exceeds those the Mad King Aerys burned alive over twenty years. Is that what you call hope?"
Illyrio did not deny Lo Quen's use of the word "son."
His face flushed red with rage, veins standing out on his neck.
"It was all your plot! You were stirring things up from behind the scenes, you greatest of schemers! Robb Stark, Viserys Targaryen, and my Aegon… all of them were your pawns!
"Only now do I finally understand it. From the very beginning, you were the one arranging everything in the shadows. All of us were played in the palm of your hand! Aegon could have been a great king, greater than any Targaryen in history!
"We gave him the finest education. We nurtured his kindness and his wisdom! You destroyed him! The Iron Throne should have been his!"
Illyrio screamed hysterically, laying every failure at Lo Quen's feet.
Lo Quen was not surprised by this realization. At this point, he could not be bothered to maintain any pretense.
A cold smile spread across his face, his voice heavy with undisguised scorn.
"His? Illyrio, don't forget that your Aegon carried Blackfyre blood in his veins. What right does the descendant of a rebel house have to claim the Iron Throne? And besides, there has never been such a thing as a king born by right alone."
"Isn't the history of Westeros nothing more than a chronicle of kings conquering one another, where strength decides everything? Wasn't the Usurper's War the clearest proof of that? You, Illyrio Mopatis, a Magister of Pentos who clawed his way to power through opportunism, are yourself a consummate schemer. What right do you have to stand here and lecture me with such righteous fury?"
"And now you want to heap the sins of the Blackfyres and Jon Connington onto my head as well? I sent you the Dothraki, yet you unleashed them to ravage the realm, and now you turn around and blame me. Is that your twisted logic? By your reasoning, should every man slain by a sword go seek out the smith who forged the blade?"