“Gael doesn’t know you’re here yet.”
Baelon said quietly.
“But she’ll know soon enough.
Her favorite, the Skull-Son and true dragon’s child, the boy born the same winter she was, has come to her father’s own capital, and just saved her nephew besides.
Ha.
I can already picture her, red in the face, trying on one gown after another, before finally burying herself in her mother’s arms in tears.”
The Prince of Dragonstone’s expression softened, and some amusing thought crossed his mind, curling the corner of his mouth into a smile.
“You’d best get yourself properly prepared.
My mother’s spirits haven’t been good lately.
Aunt Valera is one of the very few kin who can still bring a real smile to her face, and if you and Gael manage a good visit together, I’m sure it would do a great deal to soothe her wounded heart.”
Quentyn blinked, caught off guard.
He’d expected Baelon to press on with the matter they’d just been discussing, not veer straight into family affairs, but it wasn’t entirely unexpected either.
This trip to King’s Landing wasn’t only about finding a market for Harrenhal’s cloth.
Just as important was a promise he’d made his mother: to call on Queen Alysanne, and on his own betrothed, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne’s youngest daughter, Gael Targaryen, “the Child of Winter.”
The rift between the king and queen still hadn’t healed, then?
It occurred to Quentyn that, from what his mother had told him, this was already the second time the king and queen had fallen out.
Perhaps it was precisely because the couple’s devotion to one another had left such a deep impression on the common folk that every quarrel between them likewise became fodder for gossip in every street and alley.
Of course, that was a thought Quentyn kept strictly to himself.
Baelon crossed from the doorway to the bar.
“If you would.”
The Prince of Dragonstone was, as ever, unfailingly courteous, even though the barmaid was still shaking as though she’d been dunked in ice water.
Baelon accepted a wooden tankard from her with the same easy grace, his smile warm, fitting the famous epithet he carried as neatly as ever: warm as spring itself.
Pity I’m a child of winter, Quentyn thought, following after him and taking a tankard of his own.
Quentyn studied his own reflection in the surface of his drink: a handsome boy with silver hair and violet eyes, his face expressionless, and only when the liquid rippled did his features seem to warp along with it, at once something like a smile and something like deep thought.
“In the name of Baelon of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, I offer my apologies for the trouble caused here today.”
Baelon’s voice carried through the room as he raised his tankard, announcing loudly to everyone in the tavern that he would cover the cost of the day’s food and drink for all of them.
He was answered, naturally, by a burst of cheering after a moment’s stunned silence.
Some praised the fair name of the Prince of Spring’s Dawn, others praised the king’s wisdom in choosing him as heir, and still others shouted for the barmaid to bring another round, Arbor wine this time.
Grand Maester Elysar, who had only just gathered himself to press his questions further, found himself jostled into a corner by the excited crowd.
Even his two assistants couldn’t help raising their own cups and forgetting their Grand Maester entirely, so that his furious sputtering was completely drowned out beneath the crowd’s cheering.
It wasn’t until a knight in a white cloak arrived that the Grand Maester was finally pulled free of the crowd, by men under the command of Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, himself.
“To His Grace the King.” Baelon raised his tankard and drank deep, then turned it toward Quentyn.
“And to Quentyn Qoherys of Harrenhal.” Baelon’s voice rang out.
“For saving my son!”
Listening to the tavern erupt again and again with “To Quentyn!” Quentyn himself felt strangely little about it.
This was a tavern in one of King’s Landing’s safest, best-kept districts.
If he wanted to hear praise that actually meant something, he’d have to go to Flea Bottom, the city’s slums, to one of those open-air taverns reeking of stale wine and mud, or to a brothel on Silk Street.
There, the thieves, whores, and cutpurses who bled for their next meal every single day would gladly crown any fool willing to open his purse for them.
As it happened, Daemon was one of the men they crowned rather often.
The tavern settled back into its usual bustle, or rather, grew livelier than usual.
The dwarf performers who had gone into hiding at the prince’s sudden arrival came pouring back out, weaving among the drinkers to beg for coin.
Vhagar had long since flown back to the Dragonpit.
Proud as the Targaryens were, they never let a dragon linger too long over a crowded city.
Grand Maester Elysar, red-faced, said something urgently to Ser Ryam, but Ser Ryam simply cited the excuse that “the King has greater need of your service,” and had him escorted firmly out of the tavern.
“Ser Ryam.
I’ve long heard of you.”
Quentyn raised his tankard.
He recalled that, two hundred years from now, Jaime Lannister would speak of this very legendary knight.
People of that later age would consider Ryam Redwyne the greatest knight of his time.
“Only some empty reputation, my lord.” The tall knight in white, sporting a handsome beard, inclined his head modestly, then strode quickly over to Baelon’s side.
“Prince Baelon, I’ve already arranged for men to collect Prince Daemon.
As for the Red Keep…”
“I understand.” Baelon nodded, and with an apologetic look, patted himself down, only to sigh when he found he had nothing on him.
“My apologies, Quentyn.
I have nothing on me to repay you with right now.
But rest assured, I won’t forget this debt.”
“It’s no trouble.”
That promise alone was enough.
Quentyn smiled and accepted the “debt” Baelon offered him.
The Prince of Dragonstone didn’t leave right away, though.
He lingered in the tavern a while longer before finally departing alongside the guardsmen who had come to collect Daemon.
The tavern remained lively, though everyone visibly relaxed once the Prince of Dragonstone had gone.
Still, no one dared approach Quentyn directly to ask about the heir of Harrenhal’s own circumstances.
Only then did Quentyn allow himself to relax, and he headed back upstairs to the room with Robb.
He opened the door to find Garwyn pacing the room, his eyes lighting up the instant he spotted Quentyn.
Quentyn’s face went stern at once.
“Garwyn, my apologies.
I’d nearly forgotten you were here.
You see how misfortune has a way of arriving when we least expect it.”
“No, my lord, that wasn’t misfortune at all.” Garwyn straightened his back, though Quentyn could hear, in his tone, a clear shift in attitude.
“You mean to say Daemon’s injury wasn’t an accident?”
“Seven hells, my lord Quentyn, I meant nothing of the sort, how would I dare suggest such a thing, what I meant to say was…
what I meant to say was…”
Garwyn, thoroughly startled, stumbled and nearly toppled onto the bed.
“Yes, what I meant was, it’s precisely because of your remarkable skill in medicine that Prince Baelon entrusted Prince Daemon’s care to you.”
Quentyn sat back down.
Robb Rivers came up from downstairs carrying a platter of food, resting on a carved wooden plate, clearly the tavern’s finest.
The meal was generous: slices of oat bread baked soft and warm, their rich smell setting the dark-haired boy’s stomach growling continuously.
A sizzling, dripping cut of meat was drenched in thick gravy, garnished with chopped greens on the side.
The accompaniment was a stew of pork, turnips, and beans.
Quentyn took two slices of bread, cut off a piece of the gravy-soaked meat and tucked it between them, and handed the sandwich to Robb along with the stew.
“My lord, this is your supper…”
“I don’t much care for stew.
Go on and eat it.”
Only then did Robb take the food, delighted, and slip quietly off to a corner to devour it.
“So, Garwyn, what did you want to say?”
Quentyn picked up a piece of bread, dipped it in the gravy, and took a bite.
He’d been living in this world for nearly fourteen years now, and Westerosi food turned out to be far more varied than he’d expected, even if the cooking methods themselves still took some getting used to.
At least there was plenty of meat.
Once he got back to Harrenhal this time, he figured he might manage to introduce a few new dishes of his own.
“My lord, this is a splendid opportunity.” Garwyn said hurriedly.
“By tomorrow, word that Prince Baelon flew his dragon here to have you save his son will have reached every corner of King’s Landing.
There may even be singers composing new songs about you.”
He waved his arms about excitedly.
“If that happens, goods sold under your name are certain to be sought after.
The price…
the price…
very well, my lord Quentyn, I’ll offer a hundred and seventy, no, a hundred and eighty gold dragons for the whole lot you’ve brought with you.”
“No hurry.”
Quentyn could read the merchant’s eagerness plainly, laced now with a fresh dose of awe.
This was exactly the moment to push the price up further.
He wasn’t bothered by the idea of Garwyn turning a profit from all this.
Quentyn understood that Westerosi nobles never involved themselves directly in trade.
Even the great merchant houses, like House Redwyne with its wine business, or House Fossoway with the largest apple orchards in the Seven Kingdoms, ran their commercial affairs through family members without any claim to inheritance, and through affiliated merchants of their own.
A lord or his heir simply never sold goods himself.
For that reason, Quentyn hoped Garwyn could become his own glove in matters of trade.
At least for now.
“I’ll have an audience with the king after the Day of Prayer.
Let’s discuss the price again after that.”
For now, it was Quentyn who was in no hurry.
The moon slowly climbed out of the glittering waters of Blackwater Bay and up into King’s Landing’s sky.
Its cold light, cut into pale fragments by the carved lattice of the window, fell across Quentyn’s silver hair, tracing out something like a crown of silver.
From the lighthouse at the harbor to the towering Red Keep itself, lights kindled one by one, slowly lighting up the capital’s night sky.
“Truly?
He’s come to King’s Landing?”
Gael Targaryen dropped her needlework in delighted surprise, clutching nervously at the hem of her skirt.
As the youngest daughter of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, Gael had been sickly and frail from birth, and her arrival had left the queen, already weakened from bearing a child so late in life, utterly exhausted.
Terrified that her youngest daughter would follow her brothers into an early grave, the queen had sent Grand Maester Elysar and Septa Lyra to watch over the newborn day and night without rest.
Even so, Gael had very nearly failed to survive her first year of life.
But she had since grown into a lovely young girl.
Unlike her sister Viserra, who had died falling from a horse while fleeing to elope, Gael’s beauty had none of that same sharp edge; hers was a softer, sweeter kind of loveliness.
Her long, wavy hair shone like pure silver, falling loose down her back all the way to her ankles.
She was still short for her age, not yet grown into womanhood, but her violet eyes, always faintly bright with unshed tears, never failed to stir tenderness in anyone who looked at her.
“It’s true.”
Lyza Bar Emmon, the princess’s companion, spoke with open admiration in her eyes.
“Prince Baelon said so himself.
If my lord Quentyn Qoherys hadn’t stepped in today, Prince Daemon might have spent the rest of his life walking with a limp, like, like a duck!” Lyza put on an exaggerated waddle, hobbling a few steps in front of the princess in imitation.
“Lyza, please don’t speak of Daemon that way.”
A shimmer of tears rose in Gael’s eyes.
“Daemon fell from his dragon’s wing.
He must have been in terrible pain.”
“Which just goes to show how skilled my lord Quentyn truly is.” Lady Lyza, realizing she’d misspoken, hurried to recover.
“And besides, I heard from Ser Ryam that my lord Quentyn is a courteous and very handsome young man.”
Lyza pouted, seeming genuinely put out that she herself hadn’t found a suitor half so fine.
Gael’s face flushed scarlet in an instant.