The palace that once belonged to the former Archon of Tyrosh had been completely transformed into Lo Quen's temporary royal residence.
Before its grand gates, the streets were alive with noise and motion—carriages rattled, horses neighed, and voices rose in a constant, lively din.
Wealthy merchants and envoys from the Nine Free Cities, their attendants trailing behind them, crowded the entrance. Even nobles from the distant Summer Isles, their dark skin gleaming beneath elaborate feathered adornments, had come to witness the coronation of the mysterious Eastern conqueror. The air was thick with the mingling scents of expensive perfume, sweat, and horses.
The Targaryen siblings' palanquin came to a halt before the palace. As the three stepped down, they were immediately swallowed by the press of people and the thunderous chatter of the crowd.
Using his influence, Illyrio guided the uneasy Viserys and the skittish Daenerys through the layers of guarded inspection points and into the palace's front garden.
The garden was a testament to the former Archon's wealth and prestige. Wide lawns stretched in every direction, trimmed to perfection. Intricately designed waterways crossed between them, their crystal streams catching the sunlight as they flowed toward a massive alabaster fountain at the center.
A pavilion draped in cascading purple wisteria filled the air with a sweet, intoxicating fragrance. The surrounding flowerbeds bloomed with rare plants from every corner of the world, dazzling in color and variety.
Among the guests gathered there were merchants and nobles clad in splendid silk robes and dripping with jewels. Silver goblets in hand, they spoke in hushed tones, faces fixed in polite smiles while their eyes darted about, weighing and judging those around them.
Maidservants dressed in simple linen gowns moved gracefully between the guests like butterflies, balancing heavy silver trays laden with chilled wine, honey-glazed larks, and spiced seafood pies, offering them with practiced smiles.
At the center of the plaza, a famed troupe from Braavos performed with great enthusiasm. Several dwarves, clad in outlandish and colorful costumes, acted out a popular satirical farce, lampooning the follies of an arrogant Magister. Their exaggerated movements and biting lines drew waves of laughter from the crowd, easing the tension that hung over this gathering of power and ambition.
Illyrio, however, was focused on his goal. He led the Targaryen siblings through the sea of laughter and chatter, heading straight for the white marble staircase at the far end of the garden.
At the top stood a formation of guards in gleaming armor, their eyes sharp and disciplined. Surrounding them was a tall man with chestnut-brown curls and a neatly trimmed beard—Roro, one of Lo Quen's most trusted commanders, the man responsible for overseeing his core forces.
Illyrio put on his most ingratiating smile, bowing slightly as he spoke in a smooth and deferential tone. "Lord Roro, good day. Please forgive my unannounced arrival. I am Illyrio Mopatis, a humble merchant from Pentos, come to offer my congratulations on the coronation of His Grace, the great King of Tyrosh and the Stepstones."
He made sure to emphasize his role as a merchant, careful to present himself with utmost humility.
Roro's gaze swept over Illyrio and the two standing behind him. He smiled faintly and nodded but did not speak.
Illyrio quickly stepped aside and gestured toward his companions with a flourish. "Lord Roro, it is my great honor to introduce His Grace Viserys Targaryen III, the sole legitimate King of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and his royal sister, Princess Daenerys Targaryen, bearer of the purest Valyrian blood."
The smile on Roro's face twisted instantly into one of mocking disdain.
He looked Viserys up and down—the young man's back ramrod straight with nervous tension—and then glanced at Daenerys, who hid behind her brother, her small face pale as snow, her body trembling slightly. Suddenly, he burst into booming laughter.
"Hahaha! The rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms? We just crushed your so-called king, Robert Baratheon, and his fleet on the waters of the Stepstones! The man himself nearly became our prisoner. Boy, if you're truly a king, I'd advise you to tuck your tail between your legs and crawl back into your rat hole before we decide to throw you into a dungeon to keep your bannermen company!"
Viserys flared like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. He violently shook off Illyrio's restraining hand, his pale face flushing scarlet with rage as he shrieked,
"Robert Baratheon is a false king! A usurper! I, Viserys Targaryen, am the only rightful heir to the Iron Throne—the true and lawful King of the Seven Kingdoms!"
Roro was about to bark out a reprimand when a voice, laced with mocking amusement, suddenly cut through the air.
"A king without a kingdom!"
Everyone turned toward the sound.
From the direction of the fountain came a large group of people, led by Petyr Baelish, his face adorned with its usual mischievous smile.
Behind him walked Lord Eddard Stark, his expression calm and cold as steel, followed by the entire delegation of the Seven Kingdoms.
After more than a month of grueling negotiations, though the harsh conditions still fell far short of King's Landing's expectations, Littlefinger's silver tongue had managed to soften most of the terms, even cutting down the nobles' ransom.
Eddard Stark's gray eyes swept over the Targaryen siblings standing on the steps.
He looked at them, his voice low and heavy. "The Targaryen dynasty ended with the fall of King's Landing. The rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms is now His Grace, Robert Baratheon the First."
He drew in a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as he fought to suppress the fury boiling inside him. The memory of the Mad King Aerys burning his father and brother alive clawed at him like a nightmare.
If not for the sanctity of this occasion—if not for the fact that these Targaryen children bore no guilt for their forebears' crimes—his sword would already have been drawn.
"Clang!"
The sharp ring of steel split through the noise of the garden.
Stafford Lannister and several of his Westerlands retainers drew their blades almost simultaneously, their cold edges glinting in the sun as they leveled them at Viserys and Daenerys.
He roared, spittle flying. "Targaryen bastards! You dare show your faces here? Perfect—I'll take your heads back to King's Landing myself!"
His bellow was the spark to a powder keg.
The knights of the Vale drew their weapons without hesitation. The air froze—blades drawn, tempers ignited, the tension thick enough to choke on.
The performers by the fountain fell silent, the dwarves huddling together in fright. Guests shrieked and stumbled backward, the clatter of goblets and the crash of trays mixing with panicked cries.
All eyes turned to the small marble staircase where the confrontation raged.
Even within the Westerosi delegation, division erupted. The Dornish stood aloof, while the Tyrells and Redwynes of the Reach looked stricken, their hands hovering uncertainly near their hilts, caught between action and restraint.
Viserys had never imagined the Seven Kingdoms' envoys would attend the coronation.
At Stafford's roar and sudden flash of steel, he froze in terror. As more swords were drawn among the envoys—men eager to spill his blood—despair clenched his chest.
Daenerys stood motionless, paralyzed with fear.
Viserys grabbed Illyrio's sleeve, his voice breaking in panic. "Illyrio, stop them... stop them! When I reclaim my throne, I'll reward you with a castle—an entire castle!"
Nearby, Lord Eddard's face darkened, his voice cutting through the chaos like a whip. "Sheathe your weapons! This is a coronation ceremony!"
But the proud Lannister paid him no heed.
Standing on the steps, sword in hand, he aimed the gleaming blade directly at the terrified Daenerys—as though he meant to strike down the "dragon spawn" then and there.
And in that perilous instant—
Whoosh—thud!
A sharp, whistling crack tore through the air, followed by a sickening, heavy sound—like a ripe melon struck by a hammer.
Stafford Lannister's proud head was pierced clean through by an arrow before all eyes.
Red blood and white brain matter burst forth, splattering across the jeweled finery and horrified faces of nearby nobles.
His headless body swayed once, then toppled like a sack of rags, tumbling down the white marble steps and leaving behind a bright, gory trail.
"Ahhh—!!!"
For a moment, there was silence—then came the piercing screams of panic.
The garden dissolved into chaos, guests scattering in every direction.
Then, from beyond the courtyard walls, came the sound of heavy, synchronized footsteps—steady and thunderous, like distant rolling thunder.
From behind the ornamental stone arches lining both sides of the garden, two columns of Dragon Soul Guards clad in heavy armor emerged.
Their movements were swift as wind, and in an instant, they surrounded the steps—encircling not only the platform but every member of the Seven Kingdoms' delegation. The weapons in their hands gleamed under the sunlight, their dark, rippling Valyrian patterns flowing like waves across the blades.
Only then did the heavy palace doors slowly creak open.
Lo Quen stepped out, accompanied by "Jorah Mormont" and Meizo Mahr. He had not yet changed into his coronation robes; instead, he wore a deep blue silk tunic. His face was expressionless, and his gaze swept across the tense crowd on the steps—cold and still as a frozen lake.
In his hand was a recurve bow that still quivered faintly.
It had been his arrow that struck down Stafford Lannister, the man who dared draw his sword at a coronation.
The Targaryen siblings, still reeling from the shock, turned toward Lo Quen.
A flicker of astonishment lit Daenerys's deep violet eyes.
Was this the Easterner who was about to be crowned king? Was this the man she was to marry?
He didn't look like the demonic sorcerer whispered about by the Tyroshi—rather, he seemed like a youth only a few years older than herself.
Daenerys's gaze shifted to her brother. The memory of Viserys desperately clutching Illyrio's sleeve and begging for help was still fresh in her mind.
By comparison, the truth struck her suddenly and cruelly—her brother, the "prince" of House Targaryen, looked like nothing more than a clown before Lo Quen.
The envoys of the Seven Kingdoms stared at Lo Quen, momentarily stunned. This Easterner had actually slain a Lannister.
Yet none of them spoke. Stafford had brought his fate upon himself by raising a sword at another man's coronation.
Their gazes soon drifted to the middle-aged man in the green wool tunic standing behind Lo Quen, and their pupils contracted sharply.
Jorah Mormont.
Someone among the envoys gasped the name aloud.
During the earlier negotiations, they had never seen Jorah and had assumed the traitor of the Seven Kingdoms was being hidden by the Easterner.
"Jorah Mormont" gave Lo Quen a brief bow before stepping forward. His eyes swept over the shaken envoys below the steps, their faces streaked with blood, and his voice came cold and sharp with killing intent.
"Those who dare act with insolence at a coronation deserve death."
Great Lord Eddard forced down his shock, meeting "Jorah's" gaze with his steely gray eyes.
He stepped forward, his voice hoarse but steady. "Ser Jorah. I never thought I would see you again. I regret letting you escape the North. If your father saw what you've become, he would be filled with shame. You have brought disgrace upon the North and upon House Mormont."
"Jorah" laughed coldly, unmoved by the rebuke.
"Eddard Stark," he said, his tone laced with contempt, "spare me your hollow talk of honor. Now—order every man still holding a weapon to drop it."
His gaze hardened. Around him, the Dragon Soul Guards—silent as iron statues—stepped forward in perfect unison. The Valyrian steel swords in their hands lifted slightly, their edges flashing with deadly light.
Through the slits of their helmets, their eyes glowed with cold, inhuman focus, each gaze locking onto a member of the Seven Kingdoms' delegation.
Eddard's heart sank.
Valyrian steel.
And those empty, lifeless eyes beneath the armor...
So the rumors were true. This was the Eastern sorcerer's fabled "Army of the Dead."
Under the Dragon Soul Guards' unyielding stare, the men from the Vale hesitated, then slowly sheathed their blades.
The remaining men of the Westerlands glanced at the headless corpse sprawled across the steps, then at the ring of drawn swords around them. Fear and resentment warred in their eyes, but at last, trembling, they pushed their blades back into their scabbards with painful slowness.