None of this came as any surprise to Quentyn.
All of Jaehaerys’s rambling, whether born of an old man’s hunger for family after losing child after child, or out of guilt toward his wife, seemed to be building toward something very close to giving in.
But he remained, all the same, the king who had ruled from the Iron Throne for forty-six years, and every bit of his rambling served exactly one purpose.
To gradually wear down Quentyn’s guard.
And so the terms Jaehaerys set out for Quentyn turned out to be remarkably lenient, almost suspiciously so, like something out of a trap.
All he asked was that Quentyn promise never to turn whatever dragon might hatch from that egg against the Iron Throne.
Setting aside whether the egg would ever actually hatch, even if it did, who would the egg truly belong to: his mother, or himself?
Neither Alysanne nor Jaehaerys had ever made that point clear.
He couldn’t say for certain, if the egg hadn’t fully turned to stone and actually did hatch once it reached Harrenhal, which of the two of them would end up claiming the dragon as theirs.
Quentyn latched onto the one phrase both Alysanne and Jaehaerys kept repeating, again and again.
Your mother’s dragon egg.
Quentyn drew his conclusion quickly enough: he was, in practice, nothing more than a piece on the board in this married couple’s own private contest.
The egg itself hardly mattered.
What mattered was that Alysanne wanted to see how Jaehaerys would respond, and Jaehaerys, for his part, had no real answer for the problem of dragons slipping outside the family’s control.
He wanted his wife’s support, but he also wanted to keep the situation in check, or at the very least strike some kind of balance.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Quentyn made his promise with real firmness.
“In the name of the Seven, I swear to you, whether the egg hatches or not, Harrenhal will never turn against the true king of the Iron Throne.
And besides, this is my mother’s egg.
Only she has the right to decide its future.”
Satisfied with Quentyn’s repeated assurances, Jaehaerys drained the last of his bitter mint wine in one swallow.
“With Harrenhal in your hands, I can rest easy.”
Quentyn let out a breath of relief.
Judging by his exchange with the two of them, neither Alysanne nor Jaehaerys was quite as troubled by the prospect of dragon blood spreading outside the family as he’d once assumed.
Even where dragons leaving the family’s grip was concerned, Quentyn could tell that even Jaehaerys himself wasn’t nearly so opposed to a Targaryen relation by blood holding one.
Having settled that much, Quentyn worked out roughly where Jaehaerys’s true line was drawn: what he couldn’t accept was something like Lady Elissa Farman’s theft, an egg carried entirely out of Westeros, giving rise to some dragonlord house wholly beyond Targaryen control.
And neither House Qoherys nor House Velaryon, in practice, could ever truly exist apart from House Targaryen.
House Velaryon, for all the vast wealth the Sea Snake, Corlys Velaryon, had amassed through his nine great voyages, and for all the great fleet it commanded, held only a narrow strip of land, thinly peopled, with next to no real potential for war.
House Qoherys, for its part, held land as rich as any in the Seven Kingdoms, but Harrenhal’s upkeep was crushing, and the family coffers were empty enough that a dragon could fly clean through them without touching the sides.
Still, that was about to change…
Having come to an understanding with Jaehaerys, Quentyn had already settled on exactly what he needed to do by the time he left the gallery.
My own position is my own, and House Qoherys’s.
What I need to weigh is House Qoherys’s own interest, and getting my hands on that egg serves House Qoherys’s interest just fine…
and besides, the fact that I can see the life still in it means either it can hatch on its own, or there’s some way to hatch it hidden behind that door in my head.
Quentyn said this to himself, in a voice only he could hear.
Holding a dragon in my own hands serves my interests best.
As for whatever game the two of you are playing…
Quentyn closed his eyes.
You can go on playing it without me.
A blueprint for what came next took shape at once in the boy’s mind.
A dragon alone wasn’t enough.
King Viserys I, whenever the time came, wouldn’t mind him holding a dragon, but he couldn’t guarantee Jaehaerys himself wouldn’t have a change of heart before then.
So Harrenhal needed real, hard strength of its own to hold onto whatever dragon it gained as well.
Land and farmers, Harrenhal had no shortage of either.
What he lacked most right now was simply enough gold.
Quentyn opened his eyes and straightened the drape of his mantle once more.
By now, he was fairly certain, word of his performance at court had already spread through the courtiers and into noble circles at large.
Given what he knew of King’s Landing’s lords and wealthy men, within three days at the very most, he’d be the talk of the entire noble set.
They’d be asking around everywhere: what was the heir of Harrenhal wearing?
What was the fabric like?
That alone would be the finest advertisement he could hope for, for the cloth he’d brought with him.
Knowing Garwyn Chambers’s own sharp instincts, Quentyn was confident the man would grasp at once exactly what to do with that.
Leaving the gallery and passing through an iron door brought him into one of the Red Keep’s largest halls.
Quentyn quietly noted the layout as he went.
From the look of it, this hall served as a junction connecting different sections of Maegor’s Holdfast, and the stairs leading up from here would bring one to the long table hall where the king conducted state business.
Just as Quentyn was about to step out of the hall, he suddenly felt a gaze settle on him.
Quentyn turned at once toward where it had come from.
Up on the second floor, in a corner behind the railing, a flash of dark skirts vanished from sight.
“Gael?”
Quentyn could guess well enough who’d been watching him, though it hardly mattered.
He already knew how Gael felt about him.
The two of them had met in person only a handful of times, but they’d become close correspondents through letters.
From that girl’s shy, delicate handwriting, Quentyn could sense clearly enough how deeply Gael cared for him.
But until they were married, he had no way to see her freely.
That was simply how things were done in this world’s “civilized” society, and it wasn’t a rule he could afford to break.
Still, if he really wanted to see Gael, it wouldn’t be terribly difficult.
Daemon would sort out everything for him.
Second floor.
Gael pressed a hand to her chest, drawing several deep breaths before she could bring her racing heart back under control.
He really is, he really is…
Gael had no idea just how red, how hot her own cheeks had turned.
All she knew was that the boy felt like something out of legend, an archer of unerring aim, and his arrow had struck her heart dead center.
For one moment, she felt as though she were Jonquil herself, laying eyes on her own Florian at last, utterly and completely conquered by Quentyn.
“See?
I told you Quenny wouldn’t disappoint.” Daemon said, leaning on his cane, thoroughly pleased with himself.
Baelon had already flown off toward Tarth to bring ruin down on the Myrish pirates.
With him gone, no one left in the Red Keep but Jaehaerys himself could keep Daemon in check.
And the king, right now, needed his rest.
And so the King of Flea Bottom, Daemon Targaryen, had risen once more.
“Thank you, Daemon.”
Gael said quietly, glancing carefully down at the skirts she’d chosen so carefully for the day, before turning in a soft murmur to her companion, Lady Lyza Bar Emmon, and to Rhea Royce, who stood nearby with her arms crossed, looking every bit as pleased with herself.
“Lyza, Rhea, do you, do you think, do you think he’ll like me?”
The girl stammered the question out, her eyes nearly brimming with tears.
“Of course he will.” Lyza hurried to reassure her.
“You’re his betrothed, and besides, the two of you are so perfectly matched, I honestly can’t picture you and my lord Quentyn in any scene other than your own wedding.”
“He already noticed you.” Rhea added, right on cue.
“But he didn’t say a word about it, which shows my lord Quentyn is courteous, knows his manners, and doesn’t at all mind you keeping an eye on him.”
Only then did Gael’s tears turn to laughter, her feelings settling somewhat.
Moments before, she’d felt certain her own heart was about to leap straight out of her chest.
“Why go through all this trouble.”
Daemon said, with some disdain, not even sparing the two ladies a glance.
“Why not just ask him yourself, face to face?”
“No buts about it.” Daemon tried to soften his tone a little.
“I can take you to see Quenny myself.
Don’t worry, Grandfather won’t find out about it…”
“Prince Daemon.” Rhea said coldly.
“Are you trying to talk the princess into some reckless scheme of yours?”
“And who do you think you are?” Daemon said impatiently.
“Since when does a horse get a say in dragon family business?”
Rhea took a sharp step forward, only for Lyza to grab hold of her and hold her back.
The Bar Emmon girl shot her friend a warning look: this was simply how Prince Daemon was, better not to provoke him.
“No, no, I couldn’t…” Gael said weakly.
“If Father found out, he’d be so angry…”
“I told you, he won’t find out.” Daemon shot Rhea a glare, then softened his voice for Gael.
“I’ll get Quenny out to our own secret spot.
Trust me, only the two of us know about it.
Once you’re there, you can ask him whatever you like…”
“My apologies, Prince Daemon, for interrupting your conversation.
Would you mind stepping aside for me?”
An old, creaky voice cut in abruptly.
Daemon’s whole body went stiff, and Gael very nearly burst into tears on the spot.
“Grand Maester Elysar.”
“Maester Elysar…
I, I wasn’t…”
Rhea shot Daemon one last glare, then stepped aside along with Lyza.
Grand Maester Elysar, his heavy maester’s chain hanging about his neck, regarded the children with a genial smile.
“Rest easy, my princess.
I have no reason to run and tell His Grace, and Septa Lyra won’t hear of it from me either.” Grand Maester Elysar’s eyes narrowed into thin slits.
It had been he and Septa Lyra, together, who had wrestled Gael back from the Stranger’s own grasp, that first year of her life.
“In fact, if you told her yourself that you wanted to see my lord Quentyn Qoherys, she’d cover for you gladly enough.
Just not right now.”
“Old grey sheep…” Daemon muttered under his breath.
“My prince, my princess, I’m afraid you’re both about to be disappointed.” Grand Maester Elysar looked no less disappointed himself.
“My lord Quentyn may need to return to Harrenhal at once.”
“Why?”
Daemon and Gael asked in the very same breath.
The cobblestone courtyard.
“What did you say?”
At the news Grand Maester Elysar brought him, the composure Quentyn had held onto all this while drained from his face at once.
Even Daemon and Gael, who had followed Grand Maester Elysar out to see what was happening, wore faces full of anxious worry.
Gael, for once, didn’t even notice that she’d forgotten her manners toward her own beloved Quenny.
“My lord, your father’s bannerman, Lord Brynden Butterwell of Milkstone, has had a rebellion break out on his lands…”
“Who started it?
How many men do they have?
Are they marching toward Harrenhal?” Quentyn steadied himself and asked, calm and precise, for the details.
“See for yourself.” Grand Maester Elysar sighed and produced a letter.
Quentyn broke the wax seal at once and tore through the letter’s contents in a matter of seconds.
“Lord Brynden saw the rebels flying the seven-pointed star.
By his own rough count, the rebel force numbers somewhere between one and two thousand men.
They’ve burned his ships and his dairy pastures, and sacked his villages, leaving him unable to muster enough men to defend his own lands…”