Morning light filtered through the stained-glass windows of the Tyrosh Palace, scattering a mosaic of colors across Lo Quen's calm, unreadable face.
A faint smile played at his lips.
Last night, he had used the ruby's transformative power to assume the forms of both "Stannis" and "Eddard," revealing a different secret to each.
Now, with the Seven Kingdoms' delegation gone, he could already envision the intricate game of power soon to unfold within the Red Keep.
His tone remained composed. "Meizo, mobilize every network you have. Keep a close watch on King's Landing. I want immediate reports on the movements of Jon Arryn, Stannis, and Eddard Stark—as well as the reactions from House Lannister and House Tyrell. This performance is one we mustn't miss."
"As you command, Your Grace."
Meizo bowed deeply and withdrew.
Lo Quen turned toward the sprawling map of the Disputed Lands.
Qyburn's report on the shortage of pig iron had drawn his particular concern.
On the third day after the delegation's departure from Tyrosh, Lo Quen set out for the Disputed Lands with Chai Yiq.
His first stop, as always, was Crown Town, where he inspected the progress on the construction of Conquest Keep.
Under the blazing sun, waves of heat shimmered in the air as masons coated the rough stone walls with fresh mortar. The castle's rising silhouette had already begun to take shape.
He then traveled to the forested river valley behind the keep to check on the young dragons' growth.
For a dragonrider, constant companionship was essential—the only way to forge a bond that went beyond words.
Though Lo Quen had no doubt the dragons he'd hatched were born with the same absolute loyalty as the Flame Knight, he knew that even innate devotion needed time to mature.
As he stepped into the clearing deep in the woods—an open space carved out by the sweep of mighty wings—a low rumble of dragon roars greeted him, accompanied by a rush of wind and swirling dust.
Three young dragons, each distinct in color, were at play.
"Blooddancer," its scales a vivid crimson, was the most spirited. It skimmed close to the ground, the force of its wings ripping shrubs from their roots.
"Duskshadow" was more cautious, circling higher above, its dusky purple scales glimmering softly in the sun.
"Silverfall" perched gracefully atop a massive boulder, preening its silver-white scales with slow, deliberate care.
Each flap of their wings and each deep growl sent the forest birds scattering in alarm.
It was Chai Yiq's first time seeing the young dragons, and her face was filled with awe.
She had once witnessed Lo Quen in his golden dragon form, burning the fleets of seven nations to ash—but even that could not compare to the sight before her now. These dragons, already larger than warhorses yet still bearing traces of youthful innocence, radiated pure, unrestrained life.
Still, one question lingered—where had these young dragons come from?
A wild, almost absurd thought took shape in her mind.
She glanced at Lo Quen's profile, her eyes narrowing in disbelief.
Could these dragons have been hatched from eggs laid by His Grace himself?
Lo Quen, unaware of her wandering thoughts, turned his attention to the young girl tending the hatchlings. "Janice, you've done well."
At the sight of him, the fatigue on Janice's face melted into joy. She hurried forward, her voice bright. "Your Grace, it's such a relief to see you. While you were away, Blooddancer kept acting up—she'd vanish for days, hunting alone deep in the forest."
Her tone carried both fondness and exasperation.
Lo Quen approached the fiercest of the trio, the red dragon.
Blooddancer coiled its long, sinuous neck around his arm, nuzzling him affectionately. Its massive head pressed against him, and its slit-pupiled eyes stared up at its master with absolute trust.
Lo Quen gently patted the dragon's head, the scales hard and dark like congealed blood. His voice was calm, but firm. "No more mischief. Do you understand?"
Blooddancer let out a low, plaintive rumble and dipped its head, its golden eyes glinting with something like wounded pride.
Lo Quen chuckled softly, motioning for the Dragon Soul Guards to wheel in a cart piled high with freshly butchered lamb.
Though the young dragons often hunted in the forest, it was clear that the surrounding land could no longer sustain the appetites of these three "little tyrants."
The scent of raw meat instantly stirred their excitement.
Blooddancer gave a low, possessive growl, lunging forward to claim the choicest share. With a powerful shove, it knocked aside Duskshadow and Silverfall, baring its razor teeth in warning.
The smaller two dragons hesitated, then backed away reluctantly, watching longingly as their fiery sister tore into her meal.
"Is the food we've been sending not enough?" Lo Quen frowned.
Janice shook her head quickly. "Your Grace, there's plenty of food. But Blooddancer... she's always so domineering. She refuses to let Duskshadow and Silverfall eat with her. I've tried to persuade her so many times, but she just won't listen."
Lo Quen couldn't help a helpless smile.
He hadn't expected Blooddancer's possessiveness to be so intense—insisting even mealtime must follow some imagined order of dominance.
If he allowed her to continue this way, not only would Janice struggle to keep her in check, but such unchecked pride might harden into wildness. In battle, that would make her unpredictable—something he would never allow.
"Blooddancer, stop."
His voice was calm, but it carried a commanding weight.
The flames that had been building in Blooddancer's throat, ready to scorch the lamb, vanished at once.
The dragon turned its head toward him, great golden eyes filled with confusion, unable to understand why its master had stopped her.
Lo Quen laid his hand upon her head, feeling the pulse of life beneath the warm scales. "Let Duskshadow and Silverfall eat too. They are your kin."
His tone hardened. "And from this day forward, you will obey Janice's orders. If I return to find you defying her again... you'll go three days without food."
Blooddancer's massive body seemed to shrink slightly. A plaintive whimper escaped her throat, and she bowed her head, eyes showing both submission and fear.
Only then did Lo Quen motion for Duskshadow and Silverfall to approach.
The three young dragons finally gathered around the meal, spitting small jets of flame to roast the mutton before devouring it eagerly.
Lo Quen watched the scene with quiet satisfaction.
Before leaving the valley camp, he exchanged a few words with Archmaester Marwyn, who was still absorbed in his ancient scrolls of magic.
Then, carrying the fine Valyrian steel armor he had taken from Terys, he prepared to depart for the front lines.
Jaelena's army was already assembled at the forward encampment; he needed to join her without delay.
He asked Janice where the armor was being stored.
Following her directions, he made his way through the bustling camp to a tall wooden house deeper inside.
When he pushed open the door, a wave of warm, damp air met him—a mix of steam and the faint fragrance of wood. For a moment, he froze.
Had he come to the wrong place?
There was no sign of armor—only dim light and swirling mist, like a hot spring shrouded in fog.
At the center of the room stood a large oak bathtub.
And beside it, a naked blonde woman, bending slightly as she washed herself.
Droplets of water slid down her fair, smooth skin, glistening as they traced the elegant curves of her body.
The sight was stunning—her full hips, narrow waist, and the soft, rounded contours that came with every subtle movement.
The humid air seemed to still.
Lynesse Hightower, once Lady of Mormont, froze where she stood at the sound of the door opening.
She instinctively lifted the small towel in her hand to cover her chest. Her sapphire-blue eyes widened in shock, her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. The color drained from her face, leaving only embarrassment—and the faintest flicker of panic.
Lo Quen met her gaze without flinching. His eyes moved from her dripping golden hair to the rise and fall of her chest, then lower to her tense, pressed-together legs. He took her in completely, his expression unreadable.
A hint of amusement touched his lips. "Lady Mormont... it seems I've chosen an inconvenient time. Please—don't let me interrupt."
He turned slightly, as if to leave.
"My lord!"
Lynesse's voice broke the silence, breathless and trembling.
Lo Quen paused at the doorway, turning his head to look back at her with calm composure.
A flush rose high on Lynesse's cheeks. One hand clutched the small towel tightly against her chest, while the other moved awkwardly to shield her legs. The effort to cover herself only deepened the sense of vulnerability—and, unintentionally, made her even more enticing.
She drew a deep breath, gathering her courage. Her voice trembled with suppressed urgency and a faint note of sorrow.
"My lord… I… I only wish to know—how much longer do you intend to keep me imprisoned?"
Lo Quen understood at once. It seemed she still hadn't heard of his coronation.
He did not answer directly. Instead, his eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade. "Tell me, Lady—are you not concerned for your husband, Ser Jorah Mormont?"
At the mention of her husband's name, a flicker of discomfort crossed Lynesse's face, quickly masked beneath calm defiance.
She lifted her chin, her sapphire-blue eyes meeting his without wavering. "My lord, Jorah… his offense was his own. It has nothing to do with me. If you would only grant me my freedom…"
She took a small step forward. The mist from the bath clung to her skin, making it gleam pale and flawless beneath the dim light. Her voice softened into something almost pleading—seductive.
"I would do anything for you…"
She saw it—the brief, almost imperceptible hesitation that flickered in Lo Quen's eyes.
Hope sparked instantly within her, small but fierce. And in that instant, it burned away the last of her hesitation—and her shame.
The towel slipped from her fingers, falling soundlessly to the floor. Her body, mature and flawless, was bared completely beneath the hazy glow and swirling steam.
"My lord…" Her voice was sweet and breathy, laced with deliberate tremor. Barefoot on the cool wooden floor, she stepped toward him—slowly, deliberately.
Her freshly bathed body, warm and damp, pressed against him like smooth silk.
Her hands, soft and fever-hot, traced over his chest and back, their movement tender and deliberate, like fine fabric sliding across bare skin. It sent a faint shiver up his spine.
Her golden hair brushed his neck, leaving behind the faint scent of flowers and soap.
Lo Quen was no saint immune to desire—but neither was he a fool ruled by it.
Even with her soft warmth in his arms, his mind stayed clear, calculating her worth.
Lynesse Hightower was more than Jorah Mormont's lawful wife; she was a daughter of House Hightower of Oldtown—noble blood, with reach and influence.
Originally, he had kept her only as a pawn—to control Jorah, to sow unrest in the North.
But now, as he looked at the woman in his arms—at the power her name and beauty could wield—he realized this piece on his board could serve far greater purpose.
Perhaps she could open doors to far greater gains.
...
Some time later, the cabin door creaked open.
Lo Quen stepped out first, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. Damp patches darkened his tunic where it clung to his skin.
Lynesse followed soon after, her cheeks still flushed, her blue eyes languid yet bright with lingering warmth.
She cast him a long, unreadable look—part lingering, part wary—then pulled a cloak hastily around her shoulders and disappeared quickly into the depths of the camp.
Lo Quen's expression had already returned to calm.
He had not granted her the freedom she begged for.
Instead, he had given her a condition—one steep enough that she would pay any price to meet it.
And after only a brief moment of shock and hesitation, Lynesse had agreed.