Conquest Keep, the King's Hall.
Lo Quen sat poised upon the throne, his gaze calm as he studied the uneasy figure standing at the center of the hall.
Waymar Royce—third son of Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone, barely eighteen years old.
He bore the hallmark frame of House Royce: tall, lean, and broad-shouldered. His face was striking, though his clothes—those of a Vale noble—were slightly worn despite being carefully pressed.
Yet at this moment, that handsome face was tight with nerves. His eyes darted toward Lo Quen on the throne, only to fall away almost immediately.
In the story that should have been, he would have gone north to the Wall to join the Night's Watch. But with the Vale on the brink of conflict, his fate had changed.
"Ser Waymar Royce."
Lo Quen's voice broke the silence. "It's good to see you again. The last time we met was two and a half years ago, when you came with your brother to ransom your father. Time does move quickly."
Waymar bowed low. "Your Grace, thank you for granting me audience. I come bearing my father's regards—Lord Yohn of Runestone. I have come, on behalf of my father and House Royce, to ask for your aid."
"Oh? Aid?"
Lo Quen arched a brow, leaning forward slightly, his tone laced with amusement. "Let me guess—you've come to borrow some Dothraki to strengthen the Vale's army?"
A faint smile curved his lips. "All the kings of the Seven Kingdoms—Robb Stark, Viserys Targaryen—have already borrowed their share from me. Does House Royce wish to try its luck as well?"
Waymar flushed red, lifting his head in embarrassment. "Your Grace, House Royce remembers the honor of our ancestors. We would never let those Dothraki savages—creatures who know only pillage and slaughter—defile the purity of the Vale. That is not why I came."
He paused, his tone softening into plea. "We seek Your Grace's permission to ransom the Vale soldiers captured over two years ago at the Battle of Bloodstone. King Robert's army fielded four thousand of our finest then. With the Vale now on the edge of open conflict, those loyal men are the strength we desperately need."
Lo Quen smiled faintly. "So, Ser Waymar, it seems your House Royce has found itself in some trouble?"
A flicker of hesitation passed across Waymar's face. He met the deep, unreadable darkness of the king's eyes and knew there was no point in hiding the truth.
Gritting his teeth, he spoke openly of the Vale's current unrest.
Petyr Baelish, sheltered by Lady Lysa Tully, now controlled the Vale. His father, Lord Yohn Royce, had united five of the Vale's great lords to form the Lords Declarant in defiance. His eldest brother and heir, Andar Royce, was held hostage in the Eyrie.
House Royce was desperate for men—desperate for strength—to prepare for the conflict to come.
When he finished, Lo Quen rose slowly from the throne, descending the marble steps until he stood before the young knight.
"Ser Waymar," he said evenly, "your two elder brothers—Andar held captive by Lady Lysa, Robar dead in King's Landing fighting for Renly—have you ever considered inheriting Runestone yourself?"
Waymar's head snapped up. He stared at Lo Quen in disbelief, his face draining of color until only shock remained.
Inherit Runestone?
Him? The third son?
Impossible.
Had the Seven Kingdoms not fallen into chaos, he would already be cloaked in black, serving his life out on the Wall. The thought had never once crossed his mind.
Yet Lo Quen's words struck deep, stirring something dangerous and long buried within him.
His breath quickened. A spark of hunger lit behind his eyes.
Lo Quen saw it—the flicker of hesitation, the flash of ambition. A knowing smile touched his lips.
He reached out and patted Waymar's stiff shoulder lightly.
"I can support you, Ser Waymar. Those captives from the Vale—I can allow you to ransom them back, and at a very reasonable price. But you must agree to one condition."
Waymar's heart leapt into his throat. "Your Grace… what condition?"
Lo Quen's smile deepened. "It's quite simple. When I set foot in Westeros, I will need Runestone. I will need the strength of House Royce. I will need you, Waymar Royce, to swear your allegiance to me."
"Land in Westeros?!"
Waymar gasped, stumbling back a step. His eyes went wide with disbelief and fear. "Your Grace… you intend to—"
He dared not finish the sentence. A cold shiver ran up his spine, from his heels to the crown of his head. The ambition of this Eastern king was far greater—and far more terrifying—than anyone had imagined.
"That is not the point, Ser Waymar."
Lo Quen's voice was calm, steady. "The point is, will you accept my terms?"
He tilted his head slightly, his tone shifting. "And, as a gesture of goodwill, I can share another piece of information with you—free of charge. That young Great Lord in the Eyrie, Robert Arryn, is not the trueborn son of Jon Arryn and Lysa Tully."
Waymar's mind went blank, buzzing as if struck by lightning.
This revelation stunned him even more than Lo Quen's plan to invade Westeros.
"That's impossible, Your Grace!" he blurted out. "This—"
"He is the bastard of Littlefinger, Petyr Baelish, and Lysa Tully."
Lo Quen cut him off smoothly. "I learned this through certain discreet channels. The noble bloodlines of Westeros…" He gave a low chuckle. "Heh, sometimes they're filthier than the sewers of King's Landing. You may choose not to believe it, but if you bring this news back to the Vale—and let it spread between the Eyrie and the Lords Declarant—tell me, how long do you think Lysa Tully's already-crumbling rule will last?
Without the Arryn bloodline as her banner, what can the Eyrie possibly use to stand against the united armies of the six great lords of the Vale? Otherwise, breaking the mountain fortress with your six houses alone would be next to impossible."
It was, of course, Lo Quen's conjecture—but such a scandal would spread like wildfire in the Seven Kingdoms.
After all, there was never a shortage of corrupt and gossip-hungry nobles.
A storm of emotion crossed Waymar Royce's face. He stood frozen, trembling faintly.
The temptation of inheriting Runestone. The weapon to destroy Lysa and Littlefinger. The peril of swearing fealty to this dangerous, ambitious king.
Time seemed to halt.
After a long silence, Waymar drew a deep breath. "Your Grace, I will carry this news of Robert Arryn's parentage back with me. As for your proposal… I will need time to consider."
Lo Quen's smile never wavered; he had expected this answer from the beginning.
He patted Waymar's shoulder once more. "Of course, Ser Waymar. Take your time. Think of Runestone's future—and your own. I trust you'll make the right choice."
With conflicted eyes and unsteady steps, Waymar bowed deeply, then turned and left the King's Hall.
The vast chamber fell silent, leaving only Lo Quen alone upon his throne.
...
If you'd like to support my work and unlock advanced chapters, you can follow me on P@treon.
[Upto 50 chapters ahead for now]
[email protected]/BlurryDream