Lo Quen's figure vanished into the shadows of the corridor.
Without pausing, he walked straight toward a chamber on the far side of the castle.
It was a guest room, smaller than Sansa's but furnished with the same comfortable care. A faint scent of incense lingered in the air.
Roslin Frey sat in a high-backed chair by the window, her fingers nervously twisting the fine lace of her skirt. She wore a pale lavender silk gown that highlighted her slender frame and youthful, gentle beauty. But the face that should have glowed with a bride's happiness now held only fear.
Her eyes flicked uneasily over the unfamiliar furnishings—the heavy tapestries, carved wooden cabinet, and cold stone walls. Everything reminded her she was far from home, her fate uncertain.
Since being taken from The Twins by that mysterious figure and carried across half the world to this distant Eastern stronghold, her heart had been lodged in her throat.
Lord Edmure... what had become of him?
And that dreadful Eastern King... what would he do to her?
The door opened without a sound.
Roslin flinched like a startled rabbit.
A tall man stepped inside, his face almost unreal in its handsomeness, though his dark, deep-set eyes—cold as a still pond—radiated an undeniable power. From the words of her captor, she knew this could only be the renowned Eastern King himself.
"Your... Your Grace!"
Roslin dropped into a hurried curtsy, unable to look up, her gaze fixed on the carpet at her feet.
Lo Quen didn't answer immediately. His eyes lingered on her, studying her quietly.
After a long moment, he finally spoke.
"Lady, there is no need for formality. You may relax here. I trust you already know what happened at the wedding feast in The Twins?"
Roslin's body trembled violently, her face draining of color.
She remembered the stranger's account—the betrayal, the slaughter of the King in the North. Robb Stark stabbed to death, Lady Catelyn's throat slit... Even hearing of it secondhand had been enough to haunt her dreams.
"Yes... yes, Your Grace."
Her voice wavered with pain and disbelief. Shame burned in her chest, choking her words.
She had grown up in The Twins—overlooked, perhaps, but still a noble daughter who had always clung to her family's honor. Guest right was the oldest and most sacred law of the Seven Kingdoms. That her father had violated it... it was a stain House Frey would never wash away, a filth that tainted even her newly forged marriage.
Lo Quen nodded slowly.
"To betray guest right—to turn a wedding feast into a slaughterhouse—House Frey has set itself against every noble house in the Seven Kingdoms. Do you understand what that means, my lady?"
He stepped forward, and the invisible weight of his presence made it hard for her to breathe.
"It means... House Frey... will be the target of everyone's wrath..."
Roslin forced the words out through trembling lips, tears gathering in her eyes. Of course she understood. It meant her family name would forever be spoken with shame.
Lo Quen corrected her evenly.
"Not merely a target. Annihilation. If the Lannisters fall—or if any other power rises to settle old debts—House Frey will be the first lamb led to the slaughter. Your father, your brothers, your sisters... all will be doomed. And you, Lady Roslin, as the daughter of House Frey and the widow of Edmure Tully—what future do you think awaits you?"
Roslin jerked her head up as if struck by lightning.
"W... widow? Lord Edmure... he..."
Then she remembered the moment she'd been taken away.
"Your Grace, your people—they knocked us unconscious. Did they not bring Lord Edmure as well?"
A flicker of regret crossed Lo Quen's face.
"Lady Roslin, I had but one subordinate there. In that chaos, with soldiers hunting her, she took immense risk to bring you out safely. She could hardly have saved another. The Frey men seized Edmure at once and locked him in their dungeon. Tell me, after what your father did—do you truly believe Lord Walder Frey would let the heir of House Tully live unharmed?"
"No—!"
Roslin's cry broke through the air, raw and desperate. Her body wavered, nearly collapsing.
Edmure... the man who had smiled shyly at her across the feast table... dead?
Killed in her father's dungeon—for marrying her?
A wave of guilt and despair crushed her, drowning her completely.
She was still so young, and had not even truly become a wife. Yet now she was cursed to bear both titles—traitor's daughter and widow—alone, walking into a future as cold and gray as the stone walls around her.
"What... should I do..."
She murmured blankly as tears finally burst forth.
Lo Quen watched her fall apart and knew the time had come. The "grief" on his face quickly vanished. He stepped closer, closing the space between them, his presence heavy with quiet dominance that seemed to surround Roslin.
"Lady, do not despair. Fate has not denied you a way to set things right."
Roslin's tearful eyes snapped up.
"Your... Your Grace?"
Lo Quen met her hopeful gaze.
"You need only bear a child."
"A child?"
Roslin froze, momentarily unable to comprehend. Edmure was dead—how could she possibly have a child now? With whom?
She stammered, "But Your Grace... I never had the chance... with Lord Edmure..."
Her words stopped abruptly, her face burning crimson as realization dawned.
She understood.
At last, she grasped the true meaning behind the words of this handsome yet fearsome Eastern king. Her face tightened with hesitation and inner conflict.
Lo Quen watched the scene unfold and gave a soft cough, his tone calm yet coaxing.
"My lady, as long as you keep this secret, who would ever know the child isn't Edmure's? The wedding was witnessed by the Seven Gods and every guest. To the world, you are Edmure Tully's lawful wife. Newly wed, your husband tragically killed, leaving you with a posthumous child—what story could be more natural or sympathetic?"
He leaned in slightly.
"My lady, believe me, this is no attempt to take advantage of your grief. I simply cannot bear to see someone so young and beautiful fade away under the stain of betrayal and the loneliness of widowhood. Rather than let your father use you as a pawn, marrying you off to some destitute noble forced to accept you for the sake of House Frey's influence, why not take hold of this chance?
With the name of House Tully and the status of a posthumous heir, you could become the true mistress of Riverrun. Your child could one day be the Lord of Riverrun. Isn't that far better than remaining an overlooked daughter of the Freys—or a widow abandoned at her father's whim?"
"My lady, you wouldn't want House Tully's line to end, would you?"
Each word struck Roslin's fragile defenses like a hammer.
Power. Status. Freedom from the Freys' stain. A "bloodline" left for Edmure. The protection of a strong, handsome young king… The temptation hit her like a storm.
She looked up at the face so close to hers, feeling the commanding presence that seemed to radiate from him. Reason told her this was madness, dangerous beyond measure—but emotion urged her on.
Yes. He was right.
This was her only way out, perhaps even a path to a station she had never dared to imagine. Surely Lord Edmure would not want to see House Tully's line end here.
The resistance and shame in her eyes faded under Lo Quen's smooth, persuasive voice.
Lo Quen understood the look she gave him.
He hesitated no longer and reached out, his hand brushing against Roslin's cool, smooth cheek. His fingertips, roughened by faint calluses, glided over her skin, drawing a trembling shiver from her.
Roslin's body tensed sharply, but she did not pull away. She even closed her eyes without thinking, her long lashes trembling.
A rush of heat—part fear, part something she could not name—spread from his touch through her entire body.
Soon, only their heavy breathing and the soft rustle of slipping fabric filled the room.