Meanwhile, along the banks of the Myr River a thousand miles away, the midsummer sun poured its golden warmth across the fertile lands.
Lo Quen's army, like a precise and unstoppable machine of harvest, swept through the southern bank of the Myr River with crushing momentum after seizing the last stubborn fortress on the highlands.
The hastily assembled slave guards of Myr, upon seeing Lo Quen's forces tear down the Highland Fortress and advance toward the city's heartlands, had already lost all will to fight. Even when they attempted to resist on the open plains—relying on the river and hastily built rammed-earth defenses—they were as fragile as paper before Lo Quen's legions and the blazing wildfires.
In less than a month, the vast and bountiful lands south of the Myr River had all fallen under Lo Quen's control. Only after taking stock of the Myrish wealth did he realize the spoils exceeded all expectations.
Now, Lo Quen resided within a luxurious estate situated by the Myr River Bay, one that had been fully secured. Once a summer retreat for a Myrish noble, the estate combined Myr's signature elegance and refinement—white stone columns encircled a central fountain, and the gardens flourished with exotic flowers and rare plants from distant lands.
Seated on a terrace bench carved from a single block of rosewood, Lo Quen toyed with a recent prize from the estate's workshop—a piece of Myrish lace.
This lace was among the most exquisite jewels of Myr's famed craftsmanship. Thinner than a cicada's wing, lighter than mist, it was woven from the finest lambswool using ancient techniques long thought nearly lost. The pattern was a marvel of precision and grace—tiny blossoms and vines outlined in silver thread adorned the delicate mesh, shimmering with a pearlescent glow beneath the sunlight. Its texture was impossibly soft, as smooth as flowing silk.
Such lace was the envy of noblewomen across Westeros and Essos alike. Some daring courtesans even made entire gowns from it, the faint transparency revealing more than it concealed, teasing the eye with artful allure.
Lo Quen's long fingers brushed lightly over the priceless fabric, a faint smile tugging at his lips. His thoughts drifted to Lynesse Hightower—the precious jewel of Oldtown he had hidden away in his golden chambers.
He imagined this dreamlike lace draped over her snow-white, voluptuous body. The image alone was enough to stir his heart. The glory of conquest and the tenderness of beauty mingled within him like a sweet, intoxicating summer wine.
Just then, light yet hesitant footsteps echoed across the terrace.
Chai Yiq appeared beneath the arched doorway. She had shed her armor, now dressed in a finely tailored light-blue silk gown that accentuated her tall, graceful figure. Her gaze first fell upon Lo Quen before drifting to the white lace in his hand.
A faint flush colored her cheeks before she quickly turned her eyes away. Ever since Lady Lynesse of House Hightower had arrived at the front lines—and been assigned to a villa unusually close to His Grace's own chambers—Chai Yiq, with her perceptive nature, had sensed the unmistakable intimacy between them.
His Grace was still so young, yet already so powerful. And still, he had no Queen by his side.
In the ancient traditions of Yi Ti, the Celestial Emperor took a hundred wives, all sharing in his divine glory.
Then what of His Grace?
An audacious thought surfaced unbidden. If she could become one of his wives, perhaps she could wield that supreme power to restore the Yellow Dynasty—perhaps their child could one day reign as the God-Emperor of Yi Ti.
The notion sent her heartbeat fluttering, her cheeks warming further. She quickly suppressed the thought, forcing herself back to the matter at hand. Bowing slightly, she spoke, her voice carrying an unusual tension.
"Your Grace, the estate's reception and the initial inventory have been completed. The artisans in the workshops remain calm and compliant. When shall we march on Myr?"
Lo Quen, unaware of the turbulent emotions hidden behind her composure, looked at her and said,
"Issue orders to the entire army. We rest here for three days—take stock of supplies, prepare the equipment. After three days, we cross the river and march on Myr."
Chai Yiq straightened her back and answered firmly,
"As you command, Your Grace."
...
King's Landing, the Hand of the King's Tournament Camp.
The air was thick with the aroma of roasted meat, the musk of horses, and the stifling heat of a restless crowd. Colorful tents clustered like mushrooms after the rain around the tournament field. Knights' polished armor gleamed under the sunlight, attendants hurried to and fro, and noblewomen's skirts swayed lightly in the summer breeze.
Beneath the festive clamor, unseen undercurrents stirred.
Renly Baratheon's tent was among the grandest in the camp. The Baratheon stag banner fluttered proudly atop its canopy, while thick Myrish carpets covered the floor. Low tables overflowed with fresh fruit, roasted peacock, honey-drenched almond cakes, and fine golden wine from the Arbor.
Renly himself wore a perfectly tailored silver-gray velvet doublet, a golden rose pinned to his collar. Surrounded by young knights from the Stormlands and the Reach, he laughed and chatted easily, his handsome face alight with charm and confidence—as though the troubles of the realm were none of his concern.
A squire entered, bowing deeply. "My lord, Lord Petyr Baelish requests an audience."
Renly's smile faltered, a flicker of wary curiosity flashing in his eyes.
Littlefinger? At this hour?
He waved the young knights away. "Show Lord Baelish in."
Petyr Baelish slipped inside like an eel, his gray-green eyes darting around the now-empty tent before settling into a calculating smile.
"Good day, Lord Renly. Your tent truly is the most delightful oasis in this tournament—why, even the air seems perfumed with the scent of golden roses."
He bowed slightly, his manner smooth and practiced.
Renly motioned for him to sit and poured him a cup of wine himself. His tone remained light, though his eyes were sharp. "Petyr, what wind blows you to my little 'oasis'? Don't tell me losing those golden dragons to me this morning wasn't enough for you? Or is it that you've come bearing some... interesting news?"
Littlefinger accepted the cup, his fingers lazily tracing its rim as his smile deepened.
"Indeed," he said softly, lowering his voice. "I have come across certain... private thoughts of the Hand of the King. I thought you might find them worth hearing."
Renly leaned forward slightly, the easy smile fading from his face, replaced by a hint of alertness.
"About Eddard Stark? What thoughts of his could possibly bring you to me?"
Littlefinger took a slow sip of wine, as though savoring it—or perhaps weighing his words.
"Lord Renly, Lord Eddard suspects... no, he is almost certain that you murdered Lord Jon Arryn."
"What?!"
The goblet in Renly's hand jerked violently, and drops of golden wine splashed onto the costly Myrish carpet.