None of it came as a surprise to Quentyn.
King Jaehaerys had spoken at such length that, at times, he had almost seemed ready to compromise.
Perhaps it was the longing of an old man who had buried son after son and now cherished what little family remained.
Perhaps it was guilt over the strain between himself and Queen Alysanne.
Yet he was still the king who had ruled from the Iron Throne for forty-six years.
Every word he had spoken had served a single purpose.
To slowly lower Quentyn’s guard.
That was why the condition he finally offered was so generous it almost felt like a trap.
He asked only for Quentyn’s promise that, if the dragon egg ever hatched, the dragon born from it would never be turned against the Iron Throne.
Besides, there was still the question of whether the egg would ever hatch at all.
And even if it did, who would the dragon belong to, his mother, or himself?
Neither Queen Alysanne nor King Jaehaerys had ever given a clear answer.
If the egg survived its return to Harrenhal without turning to stone and eventually produced a dragon, Quentyn could not say whose dragon either of them would consider it to be.
There was only one phrase both of them had repeated over and over.
“Your mother’s dragon egg.” Quentyn quickly reached his conclusion.
He was merely a piece in the quiet struggle between the king and queen.
The dragon egg itself was never the true issue.
Alysanne wanted to test Jaehaerys’s stance, while Jaehaerys was wrestling with the prospect of dragons slipping beyond House Targaryen’s control.
He wanted his wife’s support, yet at the same time hoped to keep matters under control, or at least preserve a delicate balance.
“Of course, Your Grace.” Quentyn answered without the slightest hesitation.
“In the name of the Seven, I swear that whether the dragon egg hatches or not, Harrenhal will never raise a dragon against the rightful king upon the Iron Throne.
Moreover, the egg belongs to my mother.
Only she has the right to decide its fate.” After hearing Quentyn reaffirm his promise, King Jaehaerys drained the last of his bitter mint wine with visible satisfaction.
“Then I can entrust Harrenhal to you with peace of mind.” Only then did Quentyn quietly breathe a sigh of relief.
From everything he had seen during his dealings with the royal couple, neither of them truly objected to dragons remaining within the wider Targaryen bloodline.
Even regarding dragons passing into the hands of collateral branches, Quentyn could tell that Jaehaerys was not wholly opposed to members of his extended family possessing dragons.
That allowed him to discern the old king’s true bottom line.
What Jaehaerys could never accept was another Elissa Farman, someone carrying a dragon egg out of Westeros and creating a line of dragonlords beyond House Targaryen’s control.
Neither House Qoherys nor House Velaryon could truly exist apart from House Targaryen.
House Velaryon had grown fabulously wealthy through Lord Corlys Velaryon’s Nine Voyages and commanded the greatest fleet in the realm, but Driftmark itself was small, thinly populated, and lacked the strength to wage a great war on its own.
House Qoherys, meanwhile, held some of the richest lands in the Seven Kingdoms, yet Harrenhal was a monstrous burden to maintain.
The castle devoured gold at an astonishing rate, leaving the family’s treasury so empty that, as the saying went, a dragon could fly straight through it.
Though that was about to change.
By the time Quentyn left the corridor, his agreement with King Jaehaerys already settled, he knew exactly what had to come next.
“My position is my own, but it is also House Qoherys’s.
Every decision I make must serve my house.
Recovering the dragon egg serves House Qoherys’s interests…” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“And I can sense the life still lingering within the egg.
That means one of two things: either it can still hatch…
or I possess the means to make it hatch.” He closed his eyes.
“The greatest benefit lies in keeping the dragon in my own hands.” “As for the game the two of you are playing…” “You can play it without me.” A new plan immediately began to take shape in his mind.
One dragon alone would never be enough.
Viserys might not object to House Qoherys possessing a dragon, but Quentyn could not assume King Jaehaerys would never change his mind.
If Harrenhal wished to keep a dragon, it would need enough strength to ensure no one could ever take it away.
Land was not the problem.
Nor were peasants.
What House Qoherys lacked was gold.
Quentyn opened his eyes and straightened the cloak across his shoulders once more.
He was certain that his performance before the king had already spread beyond the royal court and into the circles of King’s Landing’s nobility.
Knowing the habits of the capital’s lords, ladies, and wealthy merchants, he doubted it would take more than three days before he became the talk of the city.
Soon enough, people would begin asking the same questions.
What had the heir to Harrenhal been wearing?
What sort of cloth had his garments been made from?
There could be no finer advertisement for the bolts of fabric he had brought with him.
Quentyn had every confidence that Galwyn Chambers would immediately recognize the opportunity.
Leaving the corridor behind, he passed through an iron gate into one of the Red Keep’s largest halls.
He quietly committed its location to memory.
Judging by its layout, this was the main thoroughfare linking the different sections of Maegor’s Holdfast.
The staircase leading upward would eventually reach the council chamber where the king conducted affairs of state.
As Quentyn was about to leave the hall, he suddenly felt someone watching him.
He turned at once toward the source of the gaze.
At the corner of the second-floor gallery, the hem of a black dress vanished behind a pillar.
Gael?
He had a fair idea who had been watching him, though it hardly mattered.
He understood how Gael felt about him.
The two of them had met only a handful of times, yet they had become devoted correspondents.
Even through the girl’s shy, graceful handwriting, Quentyn could sense the affection she held for him.
Still, until they were married, propriety forbade them from meeting freely.
Such were the rules of civilized society.
Rules he had no intention of breaking.
Of course, if he truly wished to see Gael…
Daemon would find a way to arrange it.
On the second floor, Gael pressed a hand against her chest and drew several deep breaths before her racing heart finally began to settle.
So it really was true…
She had no idea how flushed her cheeks had become.
All she knew was that the young lord below had struck her heart as cleanly as one of Florian’s legendary arrows.
For a brief, dazzling moment, she felt as though she were Jonquil meeting Florian himself.
She had utterly fallen for Quentyn.
“Well?” Daemon said smugly, leaning on his cane.
“I told you Quentyn wouldn’t disappoint you.” Prince Baelon had already flown to Tarth upon his dragon to exterminate the Myrish pirates.
With him gone and King Jaehaerys resting, there was no one left in the Red Keep capable of keeping Daemon in line.
The King of Flea Bottom had returned.
“Thank you, Daemon,” Gael said softly.
She looked down, carefully smoothing the skirts she had spent so long choosing.
Then she turned to Lady Rhea and Lyra, who stood nearby with their arms folded, both wearing rather self-satisfied smiles.
“Lyra…
Rhea…” Her voice faltered.
“Do…
do you think…” “…do you think he’ll like me?” The words came out in a stammer, and tears already shimmered in her eyes.
“That’s only natural,” Lyra hurried to reassure her.
“You’re his betrothed.
You and Lord Quentyn are perfectly matched.
Honestly, I can’t picture the two of you standing together anywhere except at your own wedding.” “He noticed you,” Lady Rhea added at just the right moment.
“But he pretended not to.
That tells me Lord Quentyn is a gentleman.
He understands propriety and knows where the line is.
More importantly, he clearly wasn’t bothered that you were watching him.” Only then did Gael manage a tearful smile, her emotions finally settling.
A moment earlier, she had been certain her heart would leap straight out of her chest.
“Why make things so complicated?” Daemon sounded almost disdainful, not even bothering to glance at the two girls.
“Why not just ask him yourself?” “B-but…” “No arguments.” This time Daemon deliberately softened his tone.
“I can take you to see Quentyn.
Don’t worry, Grandfather will never know.” “Prince Daemon,” Lady Rhea said coolly, “are you encouraging the princess to disregard propriety?” Daemon frowned impatiently.
“And who are you?” “Since when does a horse get to concern herself with a dragon family’s affairs?” Lady Rhea immediately took an angry step forward, only for Lyra to catch her arm.
The young Lady Bar Emmon silently shook her head, warning her friend not to rise to the bait.
Everyone knew Prince Daemon’s temper.
“No…
I can’t…” Gael murmured weakly.
“Father would be angry if he found out…” “I told you, he won’t.” Daemon shot Lady Rhea a glare before turning back to Gael, his voice unexpectedly gentle.
“I’ll arrange for Quentyn to meet us at our secret place.
Trust me, no one else knows about it.
Once you’re there, you can ask him anything you want.” “My apologies for interrupting, Prince Daemon.” An elderly voice suddenly came from behind them.
Daemon froze.
Gael looked ready to burst into tears.
“Grand Maester Elysar…” “G-Grand Maester…
I…
I wasn’t…” Lady Rhea shot Daemon a triumphant look before stepping aside with Lyra.
Grand Maester Elysar, the heavy chain of his office draped across his shoulders, regarded the children with an indulgent smile.
“Your Highness, you needn’t worry.
I have no reason to report this to His Grace, nor will Septa Lyra hear a word of it.” His eyes narrowed kindly.
After all, it had been he and Septa Lyra who had rescued Gael from a stranger when she was an infant and cared for her throughout her first year of life.
“In fact,” he continued, “if you told the septa that you wished to see Lord Quentyn Qoherys, she would most likely help cover for you.” He paused for a beat.
“But not today.” “Old Grey Sheep…” Daemon muttered under his breath.
“I’m afraid the two of you may be disappointed,” Grand Maester Elysar said, his own expression turning grave.
“Lord Quentyn will likely have to return to Harrenhal at once.” “Why?” Daemon and Gael spoke in unison.
In the Cobblestone Court below, the color drained from Quentyn’s face the instant he heard the Grand Maester’s news.
Daemon and Gael, who had come down with Elysar, looked equally alarmed.
“One of your father’s bannermen, Lord Butterwell of Milkstone, reports that rebellion has broken out within his lands.” Quentyn forced himself to remain calm.
“Who has risen?
How many men do they have?
Are they marching on Harrenhal?” “See for yourself.” With a weary sigh, Grand Maester Elysar produced a letter and handed it over.
Quentyn broke the wax seal at once and scanned the contents.
Lord Butterwell reported that the rebels marched beneath banners bearing the seven-pointed star.
He estimated their strength at between one and two thousand men.
They had burned his ships and cattle farms, looted his villages, and left him unable to raise enough men to defend his own lands…