The signing ceremony began soon after.
Both sides took their seats at opposite ends of the broad table in the center of the grand hall.
Meizo Mahr presented a ceasefire treaty, transcribed on fine parchment with gilded edges.
According to the agreement, the Seven Kingdoms and Tyrosh would formally end their state of war upon signing, with the treaty remaining in effect for three years.
The envoys of the Seven Kingdoms—particularly Great Lord Eddard—read through the document line by line, their expressions grave as they compared every clause against their own copy.
Lo Quen regarded Stannis across the table with quiet curiosity. The man's dark, weathered skin and iron-hard features radiated the weight of deep resentment and wounded pride.
"Lord Stannis," Lo Quen said lightly, "I must admit, I didn't expect your king would send you to sign this treaty."
Stannis's jaw clenched even tighter, the storm in his blue-gray eyes flashing with barely contained fury. He longed to draw his sword and strike the smug Easterner down—but he knew that doing so would be nothing short of suicide. So he merely gave a curt nod.
Lo Quen continued casually, "The man who was defeated by Ser Jorah earlier—he was a Lannister, wasn't he? I recognized the white armor of the Kingsguard. That must have been Ser Jaime Lannister."
Sensing that Stannis was in no mood to answer, Ser Davos spoke up in his stead. "Your Grace, yes, that was Ser Jaime. He was overcome by grief over the loss of his kin and acted rashly. He meant no true disrespect."
Lo Quen lifted an eyebrow but said nothing further.
At last, the long review came to an end.
Great Lord Eddard looked up and exchanged a brief glance with Stannis, silently confirming that all was in order.
Expressionless, Stannis accepted the quill pen Meizo offered him. It felt as though it weighed a thousand pounds in his grasp.
He drew a deep breath, his eyes lingering for a moment on the final clause of the treaty—the most humiliating line of all.
Then, at the space reserved for the representative of the Seven Kingdoms, he signed his name: Stannis Baratheon.
The faint rasp of the quill on parchment sounded clear and sharp in the hushed hall.
Lo Quen then took up his own pen and signed in the place marked for the King of Tyrosh.
Across the delegation of the Seven Kingdoms, a quiet sigh of relief swept through the chamber. After months of tension, their nerves finally began to ease.
Next came the exchange of war reparations and ransom.
Crates sealed with the sigil of the Iron Throne were carried into the hall by soldiers from the Westerlands and the Reach.
When the lids were pried open, the chamber filled with the gleam of gold dragons piled high as hills, their cold, dazzling luster rippling in the light.
In addition to the 300,000 gold dragons in war reparations, each noble house was required to pay ransom according to the list Meizo provided.
More than three hundred nobles and knights were to be redeemed, the total sum reaching an astounding 500,000 gold dragons.
Naturally, this astronomical cost was far beyond what the debt-ridden Iron Throne could afford. The burden was distributed among the noble houses instead.
The Small Council promised to compensate them through various means—tax exemptions, trade privileges, and tariffs. House Redwyne, for instance, received a three-year exemption on wine duties.
As Eddard carefully examined the list, his brow furrowed deeply. "Your Grace, this document is missing several names—Domeric Bolton of the Dreadfort, Ser Harrold Hardyng of the Vale, and Ser Ryon Allyrion of Godsgrace."
Lo Quen turned to Meizo with a look of mild puzzlement.
Meizo's round face immediately filled with an expression of regret. "Your Grace, my deepest apologies. These three noble lords… alas, during the voyage from Bloodstone Isle to Tyrosh, they contracted a rare and virulent illness. Despite our best efforts, we could not save them. All three have perished."
"Perished?" Lord Eddard's voice carried open disbelief as his gray eyes fixed sharply on Meizo.
Meeting his gaze, Meizo merely shrugged. "It is the truth, my lord. The sickness struck swiftly and took them just as fast. It claimed not only those lords but several of our crew as well."
Eddard's heart sank.
Domeric Bolton—the heir to the Dreadfort—was barely twenty, gifted in riding and song, a youth much loved by Roose Bolton.
When word reached the North that he had died in the Stepstones, Eddard knew Roose would hold him responsible.
After all, it was under his command that Domeric had crossed the Narrow Sea.
But among the other envoys, few seemed concerned by the deaths of the three men.
Even Cletus Yronwood of Yronwood Castle only frowned briefly when he heard that Ser Ryon Allyrion was among the dead. His sister Ynys had been betrothed to Ryon, though the wedding had already been delayed for more than half a year.
Cletus thought quietly to himself that once he returned home with his father, Anders, he would find his sister another husband.
When the reparations and ransoms were finally tallied, the heavy air in the hall began to ease ever so slightly.
Garth Tyrell, steward of Highgarden, forced himself to step forward, wearing a smile more pained than a grimace.
"Your Grace," he began hesitantly, "we have one more humble request. Those common soldiers taken captive… might we be allowed to ransom them as well? Their families have been waiting anxiously for word."
Lo Quen smiled faintly. "Of course. Ten golden dragons per soldier."
"Ten golden dragons?!"
The words burst from Garth before he could stop them, his face draining of color.
It was an outrageous sum—astronomical, even.
A wave of murmurs swept through the Seven Kingdoms delegation, voices rising in hushed disbelief.
"Your Grace, this… this price seems rather…" Garth began, struggling to find his words.
Lo Quen lifted a hand gracefully, cutting him off mid-sentence. "The price is set. If your delegation wishes to redeem the soldiers, you may discuss the specifics with Lord Meizo. As we did with the treaty—item by item. I'm sure you'll come to an agreement."
Garth's eyes darted around the table, seeking support from the Reach lords, then from Eddard and Littlefinger.
But all he met were downcast gazes and uncomfortable silence.
Some houses had lost few men and saw no reason to waste more gold or time.
The Reach nobles, though bitter, seemed equally eager to leave this city behind as soon as possible.
Lo Quen took in their reactions with quiet satisfaction before rising to his feet. "My lords from across the Narrow Sea, since Tyrosh and the Seven Kingdoms have now reached peace, I invite you to stay and enjoy a meal in my palace."
No one objected.
Meizo led the Seven Kingdoms delegation to the rear hall, where a grand luncheon awaited them.
After the meal, the delegation formally took custody of the Westerosi noble captives.
By dawn, they planned to set sail homeward, returning at last to Westeros.
...
That night, the courtyard set aside for the Seven Kingdoms envoys lay still and silent.
Eddard Stark sat alone beneath the flickering lamplight, his quill scratching steadily across a sheet of parchment.
The dim glow of the candlelight cast long shadows across his weary yet resolute face.
He was writing a letter to Winterfell—one he planned to have the Grand Maester send by raven as soon as he returned to King's Landing. It would tell Catelyn he was safe, ask after her health, and ease her worry.
As he wrote, Eddard's thoughts wandered. His journey south had already dragged on for too long.
Would a message from Maester Luwin await him upon his return—bearing news that Catelyn had given birth?
The thought brought a quiet smile to his lips.