As soon as the ceremony concluded, the guests were ushered to the rear hall for a lavish banquet.
Illyrio moved with light steps, leading the Targaryen siblings to Lo Quen's presence. He bowed deeply, his voice honeyed and smooth.
"Your Grace, I am Illyrio Mopatis, a merchant of Pentos. Your coronation was truly magnificent. I wonder if I might have the honor of introducing to you the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, His Grace Viserys Targaryen the Third."
Viserys drew a deep breath, forcing his frail chest to puff out as he tried to imitate a king's composure.
"King of Tyrosh," he began stiffly. "The Seven Kingdoms now suffer under the usurper's unlawful rule. He stole the throne that rightfully belongs to me and has sought to assassinate me. Given that we share the same enemy, we can unite against the usurper, Robert Baratheon. My sister bears the noble blood of House Targaryen—she shall be your Queen and bear you true dragon heirs."
He seized Daenerys by the arm and pulled her forward.
Daenerys had been in the middle of her meal, a half-chewed honey-glazed sausage still in her mouth, the oil glistening on her lips. Caught off guard as she was pushed before Lo Quen, her face flared scarlet.
Viserys's expression darkened instantly at the sight of the sausage in her hand. Snatching it away, he cursed inwardly.
Damn it. I forgot to warn her not to eat.
The entire scene unfolded clearly before the nearby envoys of the Seven Kingdoms, who were also feasting.
In an instant, several sharp gazes turned their way. Great Lord Eddard Stark fixed Viserys with a frigid stare.
Littlefinger took a leisurely sip of wine, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. His voice, just loud enough for several surrounding tables to hear, carried easily through the air.
"Look at that—a Targaryen seeking aid from an Eastern sorcerer. Now there's a bit of news His Grace won't be pleased to hear."
Lord Harmen, sipping his brandy nearby, shot Littlefinger a cold look.
"Lord Littlefinger, this isn't a brothel in King's Landing. Best lower your voice. If that Easterner takes offense, he could have you killed in an instant."
Littlefinger replied smoothly, "What's this? Lord Harmen feeling pity for the brother and sister? True, their begging is quite pitiful. But do not forget—their goal is the invasion of Westeros."
Harmen's face shifted slightly before he gave a derisive snort. "I'd rather not see you end up like Stafford."
The Dornishman retorted sharply, then fell silent.
Across the table, the members of the delegation exchanged uneasy glances. They all recalled the earlier standoff on the palace steps—the Dornishmen who hadn't drawn their blades, and the Reachmen who'd hesitated to act.
Great Lord Eddard's heart grew heavy.
The Baratheon dynasty had been founded on the alliance of stag, wolf, eagle, fish, and half a lion. Those five houses had once risen together against the Targaryens during the War of the Usurper.
But the Dornish were not like the Reachmen.
Eddard hadn't forgotten how Stannis had secluded himself when Robert chose Paxter as commander. Nor had he forgotten the bitter enmity between the Lannisters and Dorne.
He rubbed his temples, wishing the negotiations would move faster, that the captured nobles might soon be released so he could return to the North.
Before marching south, Maester Luwin had told him that Catelyn was pregnant. He wondered if, by the time he returned, he would be in time to see the child born.
...
Upon the throne, Lo Quen regarded Illyrio's round, fawning face with silent contempt.
So this cheese merchant truly meant to drag him into the mud—hoping to buy time for young Aegon to grow and bide his moment in the shadows.
But Lo Quen had no intention of letting him succeed.
"Prince," he said evenly, "I fear you misunderstand. We are in the midst of peace negotiations with the Seven Kingdoms. If I were to marry a Targaryen princess now, our newly founded realm would face considerable trouble."
His gaze flicked briefly toward Daenerys as he delivered his cold rejection.
Illyrio blinked in confusion.
What? That couldn't be right. Wasn't this Easterner planning to invade the Seven Kingdoms? If he married Daenerys, all he'd need to do was dispose of Viserys, and he'd hold a legitimate claim to the Iron Throne.
Such a perfect opportunity—and he refused it?
Daenerys's cheeks burned hotter at his words. She thought perhaps she lacked the beauty to capture the young king's interest, and a strange, fleeting disappointment stirred in her chest.
Viserys, meanwhile, was seething inside. He had expected the King of Tyrosh to be overjoyed by his offer, to welcome them as honored guests. Instead, he'd been met with cold, absolute rejection.
Illyrio hastily tried to recover.
"Your Grace, you may not be aware—these two Targaryens are the last true dragonblood heirs in the world. I hear you keep a dragon. After a dragon lays its eggs, it needs one of dragonblood to tame and ride it. You—"
Lo Quen cut him off sharply.
"I have no dragon. The so-called dragons are lies spread by the Seven Kingdoms. You need not say more. I have no interest in the Targaryen restoration. If you have no other business, you may take your leave."
He was firm in his denial—he had no dragon. After all, they would never find the golden one, and his three young hatchlings were still safe in the valley below Conquest Keep.
Watching Lo Quen's retreating figure, Illyrio wiped at the sweat beading on his forehead, a sinking feeling gnawing at his gut—his plan was slipping off course.
He hesitated. Three dragon egg fossils still lay treasured in his mansion, locked away for years. Perhaps... perhaps those could convince Lo Quen to agree to the marriage alliance.
The thought made his heart ache.
Ever since hearing rumors that the Easterner might possess a dragon, Illyrio had secretly gathered a group of sorcerers and pyromancers to hatch the eggs. But no dragon had emerged—only several of his courtyards burned to ash in the attempt.
Even so, the fiasco had only made him value the fossils more. There was no way he could simply give them away.
Yet, as Lo Quen was about to vanish through the side door, Illyrio ground his teeth and made up his mind.
To hell with it!
He hurried forward, nearly tripping over his own robes, and called out, "Your Grace! If you are willing to marry Princess Daenerys, I have a gift that is certain to please you!"
Seeing Illyrio's desperate persistence, Lo Quen immediately understood—the merchant meant to use the dragon eggs to buy his consent.
But Lo Quen already possessed several of his own. What need did he have for Illyrio's three?
He waved dismissively. "No need to say more."
Illyrio grew frantic. "Your Grace, the Targaryen prince and princess live here in Tyrosh, constantly hunted by assassins from the Iron Throne! Can you truly allow your own kingdom to be riddled with plots and killings? You saw the Seven Kingdoms' envoys in the garden—their hatred for the prince and princess!"
Lo Quen paused mid-step, reconsidered, and turned his gaze upon Illyrio's sweating, plump face.
"If you present this 'gift' first," he said evenly, "then we may discuss the matter further."
With that, he brushed past and departed.
Try to play him for a fool? Not a chance.
Once Illyrio brought the dragon eggs forward, it would be Lo Quen—and only Lo Quen—who decided whether or not a marriage alliance would happen.
...
That night, Lo Quen summoned Meizo and ordered him to keep the Targaryen siblings under strict surveillance.
They were to live—comfortably, if need be—but under no circumstances were they to leave Tyrosh. And above all, they must not die by Robert's assassins.
He knew the Iron Throne's coffers were nearly empty; they couldn't afford to hire the Faceless Men. At most, they would send ordinary killers. Meizo's skills would be more than enough to deal with those.
...
The next day, Tyrosh's capital witnessed a coronation procession unlike any seen before.
The royal parade—personally designed by Lo Quen—marched forth from the towering palace, surrounding the great banner that symbolized royal authority. The procession wound its way in grandeur through the city's streets, circling the entire capital.
Countless Tyroshi citizens, who had long harbored resentment toward the Eastern conqueror and nostalgia for the old Archon, were struck silent by the spectacle.
The thunderous cheers, the dazzling pageantry—it all washed away their lingering resistance.
As the golden-red dragon banner shimmered beneath the sun, some citizens even felt, for the first time, a spark of pride in this newborn kingdom.
This was precisely what Lo Quen had intended. Through ceremony and spectacle, he would forge the unity and identity of his new realm.
...
The echoes of the celebration had barely faded when a raven arrived from the construction site at Conquest Keep, bearing a message from Qyburn.
The year had come to an end—the 295th year since Aegon's Conquest was about to begin.
In this world of shifting seasons and fragile peace, even Lo Quen couldn't help but feel the swift passage of time.
...
On the tenth day of the new year, good news came from the Disputed Lands.
A letter from Jaelena announced the completion of a vast waterworks project.
Across the entirety of the Disputed Lands under Lo Quen's rule, a sprawling network of irrigation canals had been fully connected.
Not only had she integrated the private water sources once belonging to the Archon and his inner circle into the public system, but she had also, through iron-fisted measures, forced the great lords and estate owners who monopolized the upper waterways to share portions of their supply with the smaller landholders and Free folk downstream.
The revitalized irrigation nourished the long-parched soil, and the Disputed Lands witnessed a harvest more bountiful than any in years.
According to the preliminary estimates from tax officials, Lo Quen's administration could now collect around thirty billion iron coins annually in taxes—land, agricultural, port, mineral, and trade—amounting to roughly three hundred thousand gold dragons in Westerosi currency.
And the wealth generated by Tyrosh's thriving capital was even greater.
Revenue from trade tariffs, port duties, minting fees, and guild and artisan taxes was projected to bring in as much as fifty billion iron coins a year—the equivalent of half a million golden dragons.
Moreover, Lo Quen's firm control over the Stepstones trade routes—where tolls were exacted from every passing vessel—brought in a steady annual revenue of roughly one hundred thousand golden dragons.
By that measure, the gross annual income of his young kingdom had already reached an astounding nine hundred thousand golden dragons.
It was clear proof that in a commercial chokepoint like the Narrow Sea, profits from trade far surpassed those of traditional agriculture.
Yet with great revenue came great expense.
The construction of Conquest Keep demanded continuous funding, while feeding and housing a massive number of captives devoured resources at an alarming rate. Maintaining a well-equipped standing army of twelve thousand men was a bottomless pit for gold.
And then there was the vast fleet he had seized after taking Tyrosh—two hundred and forty-three warships of every size. The maintenance, supplies, and wages required to keep such a navy operational were astronomical.
After calculating all expenditures, Lo Quen estimated that his actual net income for the year would be less than one-tenth of the gross revenue.
When compared to Westeros, the Seven Kingdoms might boast similar gross revenues—perhaps reaching into the millions of golden dragons—but their expenses were equally immense. During the height of the Targaryen dynasty, the realm's net surplus might have reached several hundred thousand golden dragons. Under Robert's wasteful rule, however, the treasury had long since fallen into crippling debt, its coffers nearly empty.
Fortunately, Lo Quen's earlier campaign against the Stepstones pirates had yielded the accumulated fortunes of several pirate lords, a trove of wealth amassed over years of plunder. Though much of it had already been spent repairing the fleet and covering state expenses, a healthy reserve of five hundred thousand golden dragons still remained.
He immediately summoned Luo Wen, a Carcosa native serving under Chai Yiq and well-versed in Eastern affairs, and issued his orders.
From the reserve, allocate one hundred thousand golden dragons to purchase Unsullied in Slaver's Bay.
Allocate another two hundred thousand to Yi Ti, to recruit displaced peasants who had lost their lands to war and famine.
The Unsullied were renowned for their unmatched discipline and combat prowess, but their price was steep—one hundred golden dragons apiece. Lo Quen ordered the purchase of one thousand, not solely for their strength, but to closely study their brutal methods of training, to adapt what he learned for his own army.
For his true foundation would rest on whether he could forge those recruited Yi Ti peasants into loyal and reliable soldiers.
He remembered well the lesson of Aegon the Conqueror.
Though Aegon had subdued the Seven Kingdoms with dragons, he never established a true core base of his own. He failed to consolidate his rule by encouraging immigration from culturally allied regions such as Lys and Volantis. In the end, the Targaryen dynasty was toppled by the deeply rooted power of the First Men and Andal noble houses.
That was why Lo Quen spared no expense in sending Luo Wen to recruit the displaced farmers of Yi Ti as settlers.
It was a long-term strategy—a "replacement of the birds in the cage."
First, he would allow these Eastern bloodlines to take root in the Disputed Lands and Tyrosh. If the day came when he ruled Westeros, he would begin large-scale migration, gradually replacing the rural populations surrounding the Crownlands and the central territories with his loyal subjects from the East.
As for the issue of land belonging to Westeros's native lords and peasants?
A cold light flickered in Lo Quen's eyes.
War, after all, was the most effective method of resetting the land.