Though Quentyn had steeled himself for the meeting, the moment he finally stood before the old king, the man history would remember as the Old King, the Conciliator, and the Peacemaker, he could not help but marvel at the merciless passage of time.
King Jaehaerys had reached his sixtieth year.
In Westeros, a man of sixty was already considered venerable.
His mother had always spoken of him as a handsome, vigorous young prince, a brother who shone as brightly as the sun in her eyes.
His grandmother remembered him as a clever, courteous young man whose wit and grace had won over all who met him.
Yet that young man was gone.
The softness of youth had long since been worn away, leaving only the composure forged by decades of hardship.
Time had carved deep lines into his face, turned his silver hair and flowing beard pure white, bent the broad back that had once stood straight and strong, and robbed him of both his powerful frame and the brilliant violet eyes of his youth.
The old man seated upon the Iron Throne still possessed all the dignity and wisdom befitting a king.
But what Quentyn saw was not the legendary ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.
He saw an old man, worn to the bone by the burdens of both crown and family.
Below the Iron Throne, the assembled lords, ladies, and courtiers exchanged puzzled glances.
Ordinarily, no court was held on the Day of Prayer.
Before long, every eye had turned toward Prince Baelon and Quentyn.
“So that’s the heir to Harrenhal?” a noblewoman dressed in the latest court fashion whispered behind a feathered fan to the lord standing beside her.
“Indeed,” replied Lord Bar Emmon, his neatly trimmed beard and impeccably tailored velvet robes lending him an air of quiet refinement.
“He’s Princess Vaella’s son.
I hear he was betrothed to Princess Gael from the day he was born.” “What a handsome young lord…” Lady Harrold sighed wistfully.
“If only I were still a maiden.
I’d dream of having him crown me Queen of Love and Beauty at a tourney.” “You’re dreaming.” The cold remark cut through her fantasy.
“Even if Lord Quentyn were to win the lists, the crown would only ever grace Princess Gael’s head.” Lady Harrold frowned and turned toward the speaker.
A dark-haired girl in practical riding leathers regarded her with open impatience.
She looked no older than twelve or thirteen, with a long face dusted in freckles and a thick black braid hanging down her back.
The ancient runes and cobblestone motifs embroidered onto her orange surcoat immediately revealed her identity.
Lady Rhea Royce.
A daughter of House Royce, one of the Vale’s most powerful noble families.
Lady Harrold immediately looked away, pretending the exchange had never happened.
Rhea herself had not expected the king to summon Quentyn so suddenly.
She had promised Lyra and Princess Gael that she would pass along any news of him as quickly as possible.
This won’t do.
She glanced around.
After publicly contradicting Lady Harrold, the nearby courtiers had instinctively distanced themselves from her.
Seizing the opportunity, Rhea quietly slipped into the shadows.
She needed to find Princess Gael immediately.
Meanwhile, Quentyn stepped forward, lowered himself onto one knee, and bowed his head in accordance with court protocol.
“Your Grace, my mother sends you her regards.
She prays daily for your health and asks that you drink less wine…
especially that you give up strong spirits altogether.” There was a brief silence before the old king spoke.
“Quentyn.
Raise your head.
Let your uncle have a proper look at you.” Quentyn obeyed.
King Jaehaerys wore a golden crown set with seven gemstones, each a different color.
His long white beard reached almost to his waist, and he narrowed his fading violet eyes as he carefully studied the boy before him.
“You’ve grown.” Those were the first words he spoke.
Then came another sentence Quentyn had heard many times before.
“You have Princess Vaella’s eyes.” At those words, Quentyn quietly relaxed.
It told him something important.
To the aging King Jaehaerys, family had become more precious with every passing year.
His youngest sister, who had nearly died in infancy, had become more than simply a sibling in his heart.
He had come to embody the daughters, sisters, and nieces he had already lost.
“Your Grace,” Quentyn said, striking his left fist against his chest, “I am thirteen years old now.
I am old enough to protect my mother.” Jaehaerys threw back his head with a hearty laugh.
“Look at him!
This is my nephew!” His voice carried proudly through the throne room as he gestured toward Quentyn.
“A fine lad.
A very fine lad.
Promise your uncle that you’ll always remember those words.” “I will,” Quentyn answered without hesitation.
“It is my duty.” With visible effort, King Jaehaerys rose from the Iron Throne.
“My nephew, Quentyn Qoherys,” he declared for the entire court to hear, “is not only his mother’s pride and protector.
He also preserved the bloodline of my heir by bringing about Prince Daemon’s miraculous recovery.
He is a hero of the realm.” Step by careful step, the old king descended from the Iron Throne and personally helped Quentyn to his feet.
Quentyn now stood a full head taller than his great-uncle.
Smiling warmly, Jaehaerys patted him on the shoulder before absentmindedly straightening his own cloak.
“Tell your uncle.
Tell your king.
What reward do you desire?” Quentyn shook his head.
“Your Grace, Daemon is my family.
My brother.
Saving him was simply what I ought to have done.
If I were to seek a reward for that…
then what worth would family have?
What worth would friendship have?” The king’s smile broadened until his eyes nearly disappeared beneath the wrinkles at their corners.
For a heartbeat, the throne room fell silent.
Then Lady Harrold began to applaud.
Lord Bar Emmon joined in.
One by one, the rest of the court followed, until the applause swelled into a thunderous roar that washed through the throne room and echoed across the halls of the Red Keep.
“A fine lad,” the old king murmured with unmistakable pride.
“A truly fine lad.” King Jaehaerys continued to heap praise upon Quentyn.
Yet instead of putting him at ease, it only made Quentyn more cautious.
That wariness remained until the king’s next words swept it away.
“I regret what happened to your mother’s dragon egg.
It should be returned to its rightful owner.” The king spoke quietly, gave Quentyn an encouraging pat on the shoulder, and returned to the Iron Throne.
Quentyn withdrew to one side, replaying those words over and over in his mind.
What exactly did His Grace mean?
Had Jaehaerys accepted the olive branch Queen Alysanne had extended?
Was he tacitly approving her decision to return his mother’s dragon egg?
Or was there another meaning hidden beneath those simple words?
His thoughts lingered on the matter throughout the remainder of the audience.
He barely paid attention to the proceedings, only vaguely hearing that a raven had arrived from Tarth reporting that Myrish pirate ships had once again been sighted in the waters nearby.
Baelon flew into a rage upon hearing the news and immediately declared that he would mount his dragon and hunt the pirates down himself.
King Jaehaerys granted his request without hesitation.
Ever since Prince Aemon had fallen to a Myrish crossbowman’s bolt, the pirates of Myr had suffered nothing but misfortune.
Nearly every time they appeared in the Narrow Sea, they found themselves caught between the Velaryon fleet and the dragonfire of Vhagar.
“Lord Quentyn, if you’ll come with me.
His Grace wishes to speak with you again.” Ser Robin Shaw of the Kingsguard interrupted Quentyn’s thoughts with a respectful gesture.
Quentyn quickened his pace to catch up with the White Knight.
The knight’s snow-white cloak billowed softly behind him, matching the immaculate white of his armor.
They soon reached one of the Red Keep’s quieter corridors, where King Jaehaerys was waiting.
Ser Robin wisely stopped there.
Only the sixty-year-old king and the thirteen-year-old boy remained.
Without the Iron Throne beneath him, Jaehaerys no longer resembled the wise and commanding monarch who had presided over the court only moments before.
Now he looked exactly what he was, a weary old man.
His shoulders sagged with age, and there was a drowsiness about him that no crown could conceal.
He lifted a goblet of pale wine and took a slow sip.
Quentyn caught the faint scent of herbs.
“Bitter mint wine,” Jaehaerys said, his voice rough with age.
“Alyssa had it prepared for me.” “In the end, a man must accept that he has grown old.
I am no longer young.” “Your Grace remains the wisest king in the Seven Kingdoms.” “The Six Kingdoms,” Jaehaerys corrected with a faint smile.
“You little rascal.
It’s just the two of us here.
There are no spiders or rats hiding behind the walls, so you needn’t flatter your old uncle.” Quentyn scratched the back of his head awkwardly.
It was a perfectly natural gesture for a boy of thirteen.
For him, it came naturally for another reason as well.
In his previous life, he had been nothing more than an ordinary university student.
“Tell me,” Jaehaerys said without preamble.
“Alysanne has returned your mother’s dragon egg to you.
What do you think of it?” “The egg has gone cold,” the king continued, “but it has not yet turned completely to stone.
No one can say whether a dragon might still hatch from it.” “It was my mother’s dragon egg,” Quentyn replied without the slightest hesitation.
“Only my mother has the right to decide what becomes of it.” “A clever answer.” Jaehaerys nodded.
“Princess Vaella was never as clever as you.
In that regard, you’re very much like your grandmother, Lady Agatha.” He let out a long, weary sigh.
“Believe it or not, I loved every one of my children.
Aemon…
Baelon…
Vaegon…
Daenerys…
even Saera…” When he spoke Saera’s name, Quentyn could actually hear the old king grinding his teeth.
Whether it was anger, regret, or some emotion too complicated to name, something caused the old man to lose his composure for the briefest of moments.
“But dragons are different, Quentyn.” For the first time, the king addressed him by the shortened form of his name.
“Dragons are the most dangerous weapons in this world.
In the days of Old Valyria, we never had to worry about such things.
But the Forty Dragonlord Families are gone now.
Only House Targaryen remains.” He looked at Quentyn with tired eyes.
“House Qoherys is our kin.
You are my family.
I should not have to doubt you…
but I must answer for the Conqueror’s legacy.” His voice grew quieter with every word.
“By the time I realized matters had slipped beyond my control, it was already too late.
Rhaenys had claimed Meleys…
and married Lord Corlys Velaryon.” A faint smile crossed his face.
“Corlys Velaryon is a remarkable young man.
Even the seas seem to bow before him.” The smile faded just as quickly.
“But he is not a Targaryen.” Quentyn listened in silence, instinctively offering his arm to steady the aging king.
Jaehaerys accepted the gesture without objection.
“My boy…
forgive me,” the old king said with another sigh.
“Forgive an old man who’s forgotten his manners and burdened you with his rambling.” He fell silent for a moment before continuing.
“Quentyn, I know what Alysanne wants.
She wants dragons to become swords and shields for my sisters, my daughters, and my granddaughters.
She wants them to prove their worth, just as dragonriders did in Old Valyria, where women stood beside men as equals among the dragonlords.” He slowly shook his head.
“But this is Westeros.
That dream cannot become reality.” Quentyn said nothing, content to remain a patient listener.
Perhaps only in moments like these did the legendary Wise King reveal the man beneath the crown.
“Alysanne is too stubborn.
She refuses to consider what will happen if dragons pass beyond House Targaryen’s control.
Nor does she understand what my daughters, or Rhaenys, would have faced had I named either of them my heir.” He paused before continuing.
“But there is one thing she is right about.” “In these times, every drop of our blood is precious.” “So whether your mother’s dragon egg ever hatches or not, it will be returned to its rightful owner.” The old king drew a slow breath.
“However…” After all his wandering thoughts, he had finally reached the true purpose of this conversation.
“I want your promise, Quentyn.”