Lo Quen ignored the clamor filling the hall, leaving all matters to Meizo, Roro, and Chai Yiq—now in the guise of "Jorah"—while he turned his attention to the coronation preparations.
Time passed slowly.
By the time noon approached, all the guests from the gardens had been ushered into the palace—its walls inlaid with jewels and mother-of-pearl, gleaming like a fallen star.
Inside, the air was rich with the fragrance of precious incense. Guests stood in silent anticipation, lined neatly along both sides of the pathway laid with deep crimson Myrish carpets.
Illyrio led the still-shaken Targaryen siblings into the hall.
Daenerys stared in quiet awe at the magnificence before her. Towering stone windows framed panels of stained glass, casting cascades of colored light that rippled across the floor like a dreamlike sea.
On both sides, massive tapestries woven by Myr's most skilled artisans hung from the stone walls—deep blue and violet like the night sky, red and green burning like gemstones.
Above, the gilded reliefs across the vaulted ceiling glimmered with a soft, sacred glow under carefully arranged light.
At the end of the crimson carpet, the focus of every gaze, stood a throne so breathtaking it seemed to still the air around it.
It was carved from a single piece of flawless white marble. Every inch of its surface was set with countless brilliant gems and round pearls that refracted light into dazzling rainbows.
Behind the throne hung a great golden banner embroidered with a blood-red dragon, wings spread wide in a roar.
This was the royal and family sigil designed personally by Lo Quen—gold symbolizing his own transformation into the golden dragon, and red representing his future mount, the crimson dragon.
Daenerys's eyes wandered across the splendor, filled with wonder and a trace of awe only a young girl could feel.
Then, suddenly—
A grand, celestial symphony erupted through the hall.
The music was vast and solemn, so powerful that the very floor seemed to vibrate beneath their feet.
It was no melody of mortal creation, but the voice of gods whispering from the heavens, seizing every soul within the palace in an instant.
Daenerys turned sharply toward the sound, her heart pounding wildly.
Beside her, Viserys and Illyrio stood frozen, mouths slightly open, faces etched with disbelief and awe.
Members of the Seven Kingdoms' delegation blanched, their pupils wide with shock. The proud court music of Westeros now seemed nothing more than a rustic tune in the presence of this divine harmony.
The music's grandeur was so overwhelming that it nearly compelled them to fall to their knees in reverence.
Yet what terrified them even more was that, despite the music filling every corner of the vast hall, there were no instruments in sight.
Then, from the shadows of the second-floor gallery, rows of Tyrosh singers emerged, standing tall and solemn.
In High Valyrian, the Common Tongue of Westeros, and the language of Yi Ti, they began to sing the hymn Lo Quen himself had composed and adapted:
"Long live our great King... May his realm endure... Forever and ever..."
Their voices rose deep and powerful, reverent and sacred, merging seamlessly with the ocean of music.
Together, the two forces became one, lifting the atmosphere of the entire hall to its zenith.
The melody was Lo Quen's adaptation of the British anthem "God Save the King" from his previous life—stripped of divine-right verses and rewritten into pure praise for the monarch.
Where once the line had been "God save the king," he had changed it to "Long live the king."
To achieve such grandeur, he had ordered one hundred thousand precision-crafted metal pipes embedded along the palace walls, creating a massive pipe organ unlike anything seen in the world of Westeros.
The organ's resonant waves carried a divine majesty that made even the proudest nobles bow their heads unconsciously, their knees weakening beneath the sheer weight of its sacred sound.
Just as the swelling music reached its thundering peak, the great palace doors, inlaid with gold and jade, began to open slowly.
A figure, bathed in a blaze of white sunlight, emerged into view.
Lo Quen was draped in a magnificent, floor-length cloak of pure white. The outer garment was made from white sable fur, its silver-tipped hairs gleaming faintly as they caught the light, intricately sewn together with fine silk. Beneath the cloak, he wore a robe of golden silk. Delicate golden ribbons, embroidered with exquisite precision, circled his shoulders, and the sash around his waist was woven from gold-threaded fabric, fastened by a massive dragon-head clasp of solid gold—a symbol of supreme majesty.
But what truly left the hall breathless was the crown upon his head—a masterpiece of deep, royal purple splendor. It was nothing like the crude metal circlets worn by the kings of the Seven Kingdoms. Its structure was formed from a solid gold ring and four arching ribs that curved inward to meet at the crown's apex, where a ruby the size of a man's fist rested in a golden cradle.
Between each arch, and all around the circlet's rim, more than a thousand gemstones had been set close together, casting a prismatic blaze of light that dazzled the eye. A band of silver fox fur lined its base, giving it the stately look of a coronation cap rather than a mere crown.
Under the stunned gazes of all present, Lo Quen advanced slowly. In his left hand he held a golden scepter; his right rested steadily upon the hilt of the sword at his waist. His expression was calm and solemn as he strode step by measured step across the deep red Myrish carpet toward the throne of white gems—the seat of ultimate power.
Behind him, the trailing hem of his nearly twenty-foot-long white mink cloak was borne aloft by several attendants, gliding across the marble floor as he entered the hall.
This attire and crown were modeled after the coronation regalia of a British monarch from Lo Quen's previous life, wholly distinct from any royal vestments known in the Seven Kingdoms.
The envoys of Westeros could no longer contain the storm within their hearts. Their eyes met across the aisle, flickering with disbelief and unease. The sight before them shattered generations of noble pride.
For the first time, they felt like peasants from the hinterlands. Beside this Easterner's majesty, their own ceremonious splendor seemed hollow and crude. That snow-white ermine cloak and radiant crown etched themselves deep into their memories.
Across the hall, Viserys Targaryen stood motionless, his soul half-adrift. His eyes were wide, fixed upon the crown atop Lo Quen's head and the gleaming robes upon his shoulders. His lips moved soundlessly.
Only one image filled his mind—he, Viserys Targaryen the Third, wearing that sacred, untouchable regalia, that priceless crown upon his brow, walking toward the Iron Throne amid the worship and adoration of the world.
Jealousy—feral and consuming—gnawed at his heart. His hands trembled; his nails bit deep into his palms. The force of his longing was enough to make him sway on his feet.
Finally, Lo Quen reached the resplendent throne of white gems. He turned with unhurried poise, his piercing gaze sweeping across the hall.
Then, slowly and with absolute composure, he seated himself upon the gem-studded throne.
At his side stood Meizo Mahr, robed in attire no less splendid. His voice rang clear, proclaiming in High Valyrian, the Common Tongue, and YiTish:
"In the sight of all witnesses, I declare Lo Quen of Yi Ti crowned King of Tyrosh, the Narrow Sea, and the Stepstones. May his reign endure forever!"
The echoes of his proclamation rolled beneath the gilded dome, and, whether out of reverence or fear, the entire hall responded in one resounding voice:
"May his reign endure forever!"
The coronation was complete.
A new king had risen.