No.
There was more to it than that.
Having finished Lord Brynden’s letter, Quentyn had already sized up the situation almost at once.
Jaehaerys had genuinely brought peace and prosperity.
With the King’s Road running the length of the realm north to south, and the Rose Road, the Gold Road, and the Vale Road all connected one after another, the six kingdoms north of the Red Mountains had been woven together into a single whole.
Lands that had once bred rebellion had become fertile country crossed by merchants and rolling with wheat as far as the eye could see.
The Faith, stripped of its armed strength, no longer held the power to sway the realm’s politics, and true peace had, at last, come to this land.
But as Jaehaerys aged, silver and bread had indeed found their way into people’s pockets, yet there were more mouths to feed at home with each passing year, and friction, inevitably, had begun creeping in all the same.
Great conflicts no longer broke out, but small-scale brawls had become an everyday affair.
Over an irrigation ditch, a mill, a stretch of river, sometimes over nothing more than a single fruit tree, people still turned to blade and blood just as they had for centuries before.
But the nobility, by unspoken agreement, dressed such conflicts up as the same old, familiar squabbles that had always plagued the common folk, and quietly profited from them whenever the chance arose.
Quentyn’s first thought, on opening the letter, had been simple enough: this was probably just Lord Brynden’s own farmers rising up over his taxes, or over his dairy cattle encroaching on their farmland again.
This was a common enough method of protest in Westeros.
As a rule, once a lord met his farmers’ demands, the unrest would settle down again at once.
But once he’d read through the letter’s actual contents, Quentyn knew this was nothing so simple.
The rebels were flying the banner of the Poor Fellows, the Faith’s own armed movement, long since crushed, and their numbers weren’t small either.
One or two thousand might have been an exaggeration, but several hundred, at the very least, was certain.
More troubling still, among the rebels were armored, mounted knights turned brigand.
It was under their leadership that the rebels had swept through Lord Brynden’s lands without the slightest hesitation, catching everyone entirely off guard.
And Milkstone lay not far from Harrenhal, which itself lacked sufficient men to defend it properly.
If the rebels marched north toward Harrenhal…
Quentyn forced down the turmoil rising in his chest, and his face settled back into its usual composure at once.
Seeing Quentyn’s expression settle, Daemon, who had followed Grand Maester Elysar out, visibly relaxed.
Gael, though, still looked shaken, as though she hadn’t quite grasped what was happening yet.
“Grand Maester Elysar, thank you for bringing this to me so promptly.”
The Grand Maester nodded gently.
“No raven has yet arrived from Harrenhal itself, which suggests the rebels haven’t set their sights on it just yet.
Once His Grace wakes, this old man will inform him at once.
I have no doubt he’ll crush the rebellion swiftly.”
“Thank you.”
Quentyn folded the letter away.
“I left behind some notes from my time studying medicine at the Citadel.
They’re still in the Citadel’s great library.
If you’re ever interested, you’re welcome to have them pulled at any time.”
The Grand Maester’s eyes lit up.
“My apologies, Princess Gael, but I need to return to Harrenhal at once, to stand with my parents.” Quentyn said, full of apology, unfastening his brooch and pulling off his own splendid velvet mantle, draping it over Gael’s shoulders.
The little princess’s face flushed red again in an instant.
She opened her mouth, unsure what to say.
“Consider this an apology.
Once things are settled at Harrenhal, I’ll bring you something even better.”
“Quenny, I’ll head to the Dragonpit right now.” Daemon hopped over to Quentyn at once.
“Caraxes will make those rebels regret ever picking up a weapon.”
[No.]
Quentyn switched to High Valyrian at once.
[I can handle this myself.
All you need to do right now is let your leg heal properly.]
[But…]
Daemon’s face flushed red with frustration.
“I, I think Quentyn’s right…” Gael said weakly, tugging gently at her nephew’s sleeve.
“Daemon, healing properly is the most important thing for you right now.”
Gael’s own High Valyrian was far from good, but she could follow enough of the exchange between the two of them.
[Prince Daemon, my lord Quentyn is quite right.]
[As remarkable as my lord Quentyn’s treatment has proven, we still need to watch carefully and make certain your leg heals completely.]
Quentyn glanced at the Grand Maester.
High Valyrian was an important part of the Citadel’s teaching, so of course he already knew Grand Maester Elysar was fluent in it.
Grand Maester Elysar was no fool.
By joining the exchange between Quentyn and Daemon in High Valyrian, he was, in effect, making a quiet promise to Quentyn: that his own loyalty lay with House Targaryen.
Good.
Quentyn much preferred dealing with clever men.
Give them the smallest hint, and they knew exactly what to do with it.
Still, this only deepened a suspicion Quentyn had carried for some time.
Even in his past life, reading the main series, Maester Marwyn’s boasting about the Citadel’s role in stamping out magic had left him deeply distrustful of the institution as a whole.
During his own years studying at the Citadel as a child, he’d seen its internal factional squabbles firsthand: there were men of genuine learning there, certainly, but far more who knew nothing and pretended otherwise.
What’s more, several of the Citadel’s factions had shown real hostility toward someone of his own dragon-blooded standing, bad enough in some cases to count as outright bullying, while Archmaester Vaegon, “the Dragonless,” kept his own attitude carefully ambiguous throughout.
This tension left him perpetually suspicious, never quite able to set his guard down, and never quite able to dismiss the idea that the Citadel itself might pose some real threat.
Daemon held out a little longer, but eventually gave in under the others’ combined persuasion.
He did extract a promise of his own, though: the moment Baelon returned, he’d ask him to fly to Quentyn’s aid at once, and bring the dragon egg along with him while he was at it.
Quentyn left the Red Keep at once and made his way back to the tavern.
“Robb, pack our things at once.
No, don’t bother packing.”
Quentyn pushed the door open, stuffed all his manuscripts into a leather satchel, and gave the room one last look over.
“We’re going home right now.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Robb didn’t ask a single question about what had happened.
He simply gathered up his small bundle, tucked his dagger away, and followed after Quentyn at once.
They’d only just left the tavern when Quentyn spotted portly Garwyn Chambers riding hard toward them.
“Good day, my lord Quentyn.
I’ve had word from Lakeport.”
Garwyn was dressed in riding gear, with two mounted men trailing behind him, leading a pair of pack horses.
Neither wore armor, but each carried a sword at his hip.
“Old Garwyn may be a merchant, but he’s still a son of House Chambers, and a blade sworn to the flame and skull.” The old merchant swung down from his horse, drew his longsword, and knelt on one knee before Quentyn.
“My cowardly nephew was foolish enough to bar his castle gates rather than defend his liege lord and aid his fellow bannermen.
My lord, I am ashamed to call him kin.”
Quentyn took the offered sword and gave the old merchant’s shoulder a gentle pat.
He wasn’t a knight himself yet, and had no right to knight another man, but he was Garwyn’s liege lord all the same.
“I accept your sword, Garwyn.”
At some point, old Garwyn’s face had become streaked with tears.
“I’ve brought two capable swordsmen with me.”
He rose to his feet and introduced the two riders he’d brought along.
“This is Pate, of Longleaf village.
His spear-work and swordsmanship are both quite something to see.”
The rider on the left was still a somewhat raw-looking boy, sixteen or seventeen by the look of him, his face covered in pimples, but the calluses on his hands told Quentyn this boy was already a seasoned fighter.
The other rider spoke up before Garwyn could get another word in.
“Billy Bralley, m’lord.
I’m from the North, and I won’t hide it from you, Lord Commander Roswell of the Wall’s my own great-uncle.”
Billy Bralley looked to be in his twenties, sporting a short black beard, with unusually long fingers and forearms as thick as a man’s thigh.
Never heard of him.
At least, Quentyn had no memory of either man from anything he knew.
Still, both looked capable enough.
“Thank you for all you’ve done, Garwyn.”
“Billy’s a fine hand with a bow too, and no slouch on horseback either.” Garwyn went on.
“My lord Quentyn, this is simply my duty.”
There wasn’t a trace, just then, of the shrewd, calculating merchant Quentyn had met the day before.
Rest assured, I won’t let you come out the worse for it.”
With that settled, Garwyn rubbed his hands together, a note of pride in his voice.
“The moment I heard the news, I had my own ship’s captain start making the boat ready.
By the time we reach the river, we’ll be able to set off at once.”
Quentyn nodded.
He had never before felt so grateful for the age he now lived in.
Even a great merchant like Garwyn would give everything he had for his liege lord’s interests, or, put another way, for the chance to be knighted and reclaim a noble title of his own.
The man had even seen to everything before Quentyn had a chance to give a single order.
“Good.
Let’s set out at once.” Quentyn decided without hesitation.
Crossing the King’s Road and reaching the ferry crossing on the Blackwater, Quentyn’s party boarded the boat Garwyn had arranged and set off north at once.
By the time the moon rose, they had already left the Blackwater behind, sailing on toward the God’s Eye.
Though they traveled against the current, the God’s Eye River ran slow and calm, and with strong sails and banks of oars working together, Quentyn was confident they could reach the God’s Eye itself before the moon rose again.
He hoped it wouldn’t already be too late.
Milkstone.
Crows shrieked as they gathered to feast on the rotting carcasses of cattle outside the castle walls.
Not far off, scattered bodies lay stripped bare, and a banner of blue, red, and green burned silently among the ashes.
One corpse stared blankly up at the sky, until a crow swooped down and carried off its eyes.
The seven-pointed star flew over the camp, and alongside it drifted the rich smell of roasting meat: the very dairy cattle that had once brought House Butterwell its wealth, now feeding the rebels’ bellies instead.
“Take this!
Take this!
Take this!”
The girl’s hollow eyes wept without a sound as the wild, ugly knight loomed over her, merciless.
“Damned dragon-spawn, get out of this poor child’s body!”
“In the Warrior’s name!”
By the end, the girl had no strength left even to cry out.
Small clusters of rebels sat nearby, breaking now and then into laughter, while the knight went on shamelessly declaring that he was driving a demon out of a girl who had turned her back on the Seven to serve the dragon’s brood.
“You animal!
I’ll kill you!”
Several dozen plainly dressed captives were being held under guard in a corner of the camp.
One man among them, his eyes bloodshot, broke free and lunged desperately toward the knight.
Thud.
The man’s head rolled to a stop at the knight’s feet, kicked aside in disgust.
The girl, already broken beyond saving, parted her lips, and two dark red lines trickled silently down.
“Child, forgive me.
Your soul was already tainted by the dragon.” The knight tossed her now-still body aside, his eyes full of practiced sorrow.
“May the Stranger cleanse you of your sin…”
“That’s enough, Bigmouth Morn.” The rat-faced, leering knight beside him wiped the blood from his own sword.
“Since when did you get so pious?”
“Since I found out just how devout a man can be.” Morn wore a look of grim satisfaction.
“This is only the beginning, Flea Peckin.”
He looked north.
There, Harrenhal’s five ruined towers were just visible through the mist, like five fingers reaching up toward the sky, magnificent even in ruin.
“Next, we take the heretics’ castle, and drag out every last piece of dragon-spawn filth hiding inside it!” The ugly knight licked his lips without seeming to notice he’d done it.
“Devils who bewitch the hearts of men deserve nothing less than the devout Ser Morn’s own purification!”
The traitor knight won a round of cheers from his fellow traitors, his shadow stretching longer and longer in the light of the setting sun, until a broken banner-pole ran straight through the shadow’s own head.
The sun sank slowly below the horizon, and the moon climbed into the sky.
The flat-bottomed cargo ship Blue-Eyed Maiden cut through the waves of the God’s Eye River, racing upstream against the current toward Harrenhal.
Just as the cargo ship passed a small river harbor, a fishing boat suddenly cut in at an angle from ahead, pulling up alongside the Blue-Eyed Maiden.
“Is that my lord Quentyn Qoherys’s ship?”