He valued little Aegon's life above all else.
But Jon Connington's face twisted into madness. "Then go ask that damned Easterner for troops! The price you paid the House of Black and White and hired the Faceless Men to kill him would be enough to hire a hundred thousand Dothraki from that Easterner! Wouldn't a hundred thousand Dothraki horsemen, combined with the elite of the Golden Company, be enough to tear apart both the Lannister golden lion banner and the Baratheon crowned stag banner?!"
Illyrio stumbled back half a step, his face alternating between crimson and ashen. He knew Connington was serious this time—laying all his cards on the table. If he delayed any longer, the Golden Company might truly be taken from him by force. Then the plan they had spent over a decade building could collapse entirely, and Young Griff might meet an untimely death in the chaos after landing.
He had to make a decision.
Illyrio sighed deeply. "Very well, Griff... you're right. Perhaps I've been overly cautious. I'll send an envoy to that Easterner. But how much he'll give is another matter entirely. That Easterner craves beautiful women and gold—he may not agree to our terms."
Jon Connington spoke with unwavering conviction. "He will give it. The Easterner possesses a dragon. He must hold the secrets to hatching and controlling dragons. He must be utterly obsessed with them. Just present that thing!"
Illyrio gazed into Griff's eyes, seeing that reckless light, and finally nodded heavily. "I'll do my best. The envoy departs today."
His mind had already begun to calculate. Perhaps only that thing could sway that greedy Easterner?
...
Days later, at Conquest Keep, in the King's Hall.
Lo Quen sat upon the throne, his gaze calm as he observed the Pentos envoy standing in the hall.
"Your Grace..."
The envoy bowed deeply. "I bring the highest regards from Lord Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos."
Behind him, a dozen burly slaves carried several heavy wooden crates, setting them down carefully with a dull thud.
Lo Quen's gaze swept indifferently over the crates without lingering. His eyes returned to the envoy's face as he said coldly, "Speak. What does Illyrio send you to demand?"
The envoy hastily wiped his brow, forcing composure. "Your Grace, the Dothraki warriors under your command are unmatched in valor. The Magister earnestly requests that you lend him a portion of these valiant horsemen to aid us in restoring justice and the ancient order across Westeros."
A faint smile touched Lo Quen's lips. So that fat Illyrio couldn't hold back any longer? He'd waited far too long for this day.
Yet Lo Quen had no intention of granting Illyrio's request so easily. After all, years ago, that cunning cheese peddler had promised him something of great value.
Lo Quen looked at the envoy and smiled faintly. "That depends on the sincerity of your offering."
The envoy, as if granted a pardon, hastily signaled the slaves to open the largest chest.
The heavy lid was lifted, and in that instant, a dazzling burst of golden light erupted. Inside, the chest was neatly stacked to the brim with gold and exquisite artifacts inlaid with precious gems. Bathed in sunlight, the gold shimmered brilliantly, nearly blinding the eye.
It was a fortune vast enough to tempt any king.
Yet Lo Quen's gaze remained utterly unmoved. His eyes grew icy as he fixed them on the envoy. "Is this what you intend to dismiss me with?"
Cold sweat beaded more heavily on the envoy's forehead. He hastily waved for the slaves to open the second chest.
This smallest chest was crafted entirely from thick ebony wood. Its surface bore no ornamentation, featuring only sturdy bronze locks and handles.
The box was placed carefully before Lo Quen.
The envoy took a deep breath, stepped forward, and with trembling hands retrieved the key to unlock the latch. The lid lifted slowly.
No golden glow, no glittering jewels.
The interior was lined with thick velvet padding. At its center lay a black-and-red dragon egg fossil, resting silently.
This was...
Lo Quen's eyes finally stirred with emotion. He recognized the egg. It was one of the three dragon eggs Magister Illyrio had gifted to Daenerys in the original story—the very one that had ultimately hatched into the black dragon, Drogon.
Illyrio had sent it now as a "gift"? Then where were the other two dragon eggs?
Lo Quen sneered inwardly. That damned Illyrio—so shrewd he sent only one egg as a token gesture. What he didn't know was that the other two dragon eggs had long since been traded away to others.
Lo Quen pondered. Though there was only one egg, it hardly mattered to him now. He had plenty of such things. The question was—how many men should he give Illyrio?
The number had to be large enough to plunge Westeros into chaos, paving the way for his final act.
At last, Lo Quen raised his head, his gaze settling on the envoy's expectant face.
"I agree. This gold, these jewels, and this dragon egg will earn you fifty thousand Dothraki."
The envoy could scarcely believe his ears.
"Fifty thousand?!"
He had thought borrowing ten or twenty thousand would already be a miracle—yet this king had offered fifty thousand outright. Fifty thousand roaring Dothraki horsemen—a force powerful enough to sweep across Westeros!
The Easterner was astoundingly generous. Could that dragon egg truly be worth so much?
What the envoy didn't know was that even without the egg, Lo Quen would have found a way to grant young Aegon an army. How else could he save the people of the Seven Kingdoms from the endless wars unless Aegon clashed to the death with the Lannisters and Baratheons?
As for whether those fifty thousand soldiers might one day threaten Lo Quen himself—the answer was clear.
First, many of them would die in battle. Second, no army could withstand Dragonfire.
Lo Quen's gaze fell once more upon the black-and-red dragon egg, a trace of complexity flickering in his eyes. He owned a black-and-red dragon egg of his own, nearly identical to this one.
Two years ago, he had spent tens of thousands of Magic trying to awaken that egg, yet it had never hatched. Why?
Neither Qyburn nor Marwyn could explain it.
Lo Quen wondered if this new black-and-red egg might hold a clue to solving that mystery.
Moments later, he dismissed the Pentos envoy, who still stood frozen in shock.
Overwhelmed with excitement, the envoy scrambled from the hall under Meizo's guidance, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to organize the fifty thousand Dothraki who would soon set sail to reshape Westeros' fate.
Lo Quen remained alone beside the dragon egg, his fingers lightly tracing the rough shell. Sunlight fell across its interwoven black and red patterns, reflecting a faint, ghostly glow.
...
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