No.
It was far more than that.
Quentyn’s eyes scanned Lord Brynden Butterwell’s letter, the reality of the ink crystalizing in his mind.
King Jaehaerys I had indeed brought peace and prosperity to the realm.
With the completion of the Kingsroad bridging the north and south, and the subsequent links to the Rose Road, Gold Road, and High Road, the six kingdoms north of the Red Mountains were finally unified.
Lands that once bred rebellion now yielded heavy harvests.
Caravans crowded the highways, and fields of wheat bowed under the wind.
With the Faith Militant disarmed, a true peace had settled over the continent.
Yet, as King Jaehaerys aged, a silent conflict inevitably crept in.
The smallfolk found more silver stags and copper pennies in their pockets, but they also found more mouths to feed at their tables.
Vast armies no longer clashed, but localized skirmishes became the daily reality.
Blood still spilled in the dirt over irrigation ditches, mills, and river bends.
Sometimes, steel was drawn over a single fruit tree.
The lords turned a blind eye, treating these localized fights as peasant squabbles while quietly lining their own pockets.
When Quentyn first broke the wax seal, his initial thought had been simple: the peasants bristling under Lord Brynden’s taxes had finally snapped, or perhaps the Butterwell cattle had trampled their fields once too often.
Such armed petitions were commonplace in Westeros; typically, a lord offered a few minor concessions, and the scythes returned to the harvest.
But the contents of the letter told a different tale.
The rebels marched beneath the banners of the Poor Fellows, the eradicated militant arm of the Faith, and their ranks were swelling.
A host of one or two thousand might be a boast, but hundreds were certainly gathered.
Worse, armored robber knights rode among the rabble on warhorses.
Led by these rogue riders, the peasant host had swept through Lord Brynden’s lands, catching the Butterwell levies completely unprepared and meeting almost no resistance.
Furthermore, Milkstone stood dangerously close to Harrenhal, and House Qoherys lacked the garrison to withstand a proper siege.
If the rebel host marches north…
Quentyn’s knuckles went white against the parchment before he forced his grip to loosen.
He smoothed his features into a mask of polite composure.
“Grand Maester Elysar, you have my thanks for this timely news.” The old man dipped his head kindly.
“No raven has reached Harrenhal, which suggests the rebels have yet to turn their eyes upon the castle.
The moment the King wakes, I shall bring this to His Grace.
He will undoubtedly crush this uprising.” “Thank you.” Quentyn folded the letter and tucked it away.
“When I studied medicine at the Citadel, I left my notes behind.
They remain safely preserved in the grand library there.
Should you find yourself interested, you are welcome to review them anytime.” Grand Maester Elysar’s eyes brightened at the prospect.
“Princess Gael, forgive me, but I must return to Harrenhal at once to aid my parents,” Quentyn said softly.
He unfastened his silver brooch, letting his rich velvet cloak slide from his shoulders, and draped it gently over hers.
The young princess’s breath caught, a deep flush creeping up her neck and cheeks.
She parted her lips, her fingers clutching the velvet edge, but no words came.
“A token of my apology.
Once this trouble at Harrenhal is settled, I shall return with a proper gift.” “Quentyn, I’ll go to the Dragonpit right now,” Prince Daemon said, springing to his feet and stepping to his side.
“Caraxes will make these rebels regret ever lifting steel”.
“Daor.” Quentyn shifted effortlessly into the ancient tongue.
“Nyke koston bisa syt.
Aōha vōljes syt rēbagon gūrēñagon.”(I can handle this.
All you need to do is focus on healing your leg.) “Ynot…” (But…) Daemon clenched his jaw, the veins in his neck standing out.
“I…
I think Quentyn is right,” Gael murmured softly, her small hand tugging weakly at her nephew’s sleeve.
“Daemon, your healing must come first.” Though her own High Valyrian was faltering, she understood enough of their exchange.
“Dārilaros Daemon, Maester Quentyn issa ryptēs.” (Prince Daemon, Maester Quentyn is right.) Grand Maester Elysar stood quietly to the side, his own High Valyrian flowing smoothly.
“Sīr Maester Quentyno jēdar issa sōve, aōha vōljes syt rēbagon.” (Though Maester Quentyn’s healing is miraculous, we must still observe to ensure your leg is fully recovered.) Quentyn cast a sidelong glance at the old man.
High Valyrian was a staple of the Citadel’s curriculum; he already knew Grand Maester Elysar was fluent in the language.
Elysar was a shrewd man.
By stepping into their private exchange with the language of Old Valyria, he was offering a subtle pledge: his loyalty lay firmly with House Targaryen.
Excellent.
Quentyn preferred dealing with clever men; a single nudge was all they needed to see the shape of the board.
Yet, it only deepened the underlying wariness that had long taken root in Quentyn’s mind.
He had never fully trusted the Citadel, remembering the scattered texts from his past life regarding Archmaester Marwyn’s claims about the maesters’ quiet war against magic.
Even during his own youth forging his chain, he had watched the shadowed factional infighting beneath the Hightower.
The Citadel housed brilliant minds, certainly, but it bred far more mediocre schemers.
Furthermore, certain factions harbored a deep-seated rejection of dragon-blooded nobles like himself, a sentiment bordering on outright bullying, and Grand Maester Vaegon’s stance remained entirely ambiguous.
This contradiction had bred a habit of paranoia within him; he could never truly let his guard down, nor could he ignore the latent threats within the Citadel.
Prince Daemon pressed the issue a moment longer before yielding to their combined dissuasion.
He did, however, extract a promise: the moment Prince Baelon returned, Daemon would petition him to escort Quentyn upon dragonback, bringing the dragon egg along the way.
Quentyn Qoherys departed the Red Keep without delay, making straight for the tavern.
“Robb, pack your things.” Before the boy could move, Quentyn shoved the door open and swept his scattered manuscripts into a leather satchel, his eyes scanning the room.
“No, leave it.
We are going home.” “Yes, my lord.” Robb Rivers asked no questions; he merely hoisted his small bindle, secured his dagger, and fell into step behind Quentyn.
Scarcely had they stepped out of the tavern when the heavy-set frame of Galwyn Chambers appeared, riding toward them.
“Lord Quentyn.
I received a letter from Lakeport.” Galwyn wore riding leathers, flanked by two outriders.
They led packhorses by the reins, unarmored but with steel belted at their waists.
“Old Galwyn may be a merchant, but I am still a son of House Chambers, a wielder of the Flaming Skull.” The aging merchant dismounted, drew his longsword, and took a heavy knee on the cobblestones.
“My craven nephew foolishly chose to bar his gates rather than defend his liege and aid his peers.
My lord, he brings me shame.” Quentyn drew his own blade, tapping the flat of the steel gently against the old merchant’s shoulder.
He was no knight himself, lacking the right to confer such honors, but he was Galwyn’s liege lord.
“I accept your sword, Galwyn.” A wet sheen gathered in Galwyn’s eyes as he rose heavily to his feet.
“I have brought two skilled swordsmen.” He gestured to the riders at his back.
“This is Pate of Longleaf Village.
His spearwork and swordplay are both exceptional.” The rider on the left was barely more than a boy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, his cheeks pitted with acne.
Yet the thick calluses mapping his knuckles and palms marked him as a veteran of the yard.
Before Galwyn could speak again, the second rider dipped his chin.
“Billy Burley, my lord.
I hail from the North.
Truth be told, Lord Lothor, Commander of the Wall, is my great-uncle.” Billy Burley looked to be in his twenties, sporting a close-cropped black beard.
His fingers were unusually long, his forearms as thick as a grown man’s thighs.
Quentyn didn’t recognize either of them.
No memories surfaced regarding these names, but they sat their saddles with a quiet, reliable competence.
“You have my thanks, Galwyn.” “Billy is a dead-eye with a bow and an excellent rider,” Galwyn continued, waving off the gratitude.
“Lord Quentyn, it is my duty.” The greedy glint that had occupied the merchant’s eyes yesterday was gone; his posture was rigid and deferential.
“That shipment of cloth you brought, I’ve already arranged for it to be stored in the finest warehouses in King’s Landing.
Rest easy, you shall suffer no loss on my account.” Business settled, Galwyn rubbed his calloused hands together, lifting his chin.
“The moment the news reached me, I had a captain ready his ship.
We cast off the second we hit the docks.” Quentyn gave a firm nod.
I have never appreciated the rigid structures of this era more than I do today.
Even a prosperous merchant like Galwyn would wager everything for his liege lord’s interests, or, more accurately, for the distant hope of a knighthood and a restoration of noble status.
The man had handled the logistics before Quentyn even needed to ask.
“Excellent.
We move now.” The small party rode hard across the Kingsroad , arriving at the Blackwater ferry.
They boarded the waiting vessel and immediately set a northward course.
By the time the moon crested the horizon, they had left the Blackwater Rush behind, steering steadily toward the Gods Eye.
Though they sailed against the current, the waters of the Gods Eye River were sluggish.
With a taut sail and the steady rhythm of the oars, Quentyn judged they would breach the lake before the moon rose a second time.
Please let us not be too late.
Milkstone Ravens swarmed the bloated, rotting cattle carcasses outside the walls, their harsh caws cutting the air as they gorged on the spoiled meat.
A stone’s throw away lay a scattering of human corpses, stripped bare of their armor and smallclothes.
Banners of blue, red, and green smoldered silently in the ash.
One corpse stared blankly at the overcast sky until a raven swooped down, its beak sinking into the hollow socket.
The seven-pointed star rippled on banners above the encampment, mingling with the heavy, greasy scent of roasting meat.
The prized herds that had once lined the coffers of House Butterwell were now little more than a feast for the Poor Fellows.
“Take this!
And this!
And this!” Tears leaked silently from a young girl’s vacant eyes while a feral, grotesque knight drove his spear downward in relentless, brutal thrusts.
“Cursed dragon-spawned monster, begone from this poor child!” he roared.
“In the name of the Warrior, take this!” The girl had no strength left to scream; her limbs jumped like a broken ragdoll with every heavy blow.
Two or three ragged soldiers sat around the grotesque knight, barking out cruel laughter.
Undeterred, the knight shamelessly proclaimed he was merely exorcising a demon from a wretched girl who had forsaken the Seven to worship dragon-whores.
“Animals!
I’ll kill you!” In a corner of the camp, dozens of smallfolk huddled under armed guard.
One man lunged violently toward the grotesque knight, his teeth bared and his nostrils flaring.
Thud.
The man’s severed head rolled to a stop at the knight’s boots.
Sneering in disgust, he kicked it away.
The battered girl opened her mouth, a thick stream of scarlet spilling silently over her chin.
“A pity, child.
Your soul is already tainted by the wyrm.” The knight’s eyes crinkled in a grotesque imitation of sorrow as he flicked his spear, tossing the lifeless girl aside into the dirt.
“May the Stranger wash away your sins…” “Enough of that, Mouth Morn.” A rat-faced knight stepped forward, tearing a strip of cloth from the girl’s ruined dress to wipe the fresh blood from his sword.
“Since when did you become so bloody pious?” “Ever since I discovered just how mighty the Moon Brother’s spear can be…” Mouth Morn smiled, looking thoroughly satisfied.
“This is only the beginning, Flea Perkin.” He turned his gaze northward.
In the far distance, the five melted towers of Harrenhal loomed through the cloud cover, thrusting into the sky like the scorched fingers of a dead god, magnificent and terrifying.
“Next, we take that heathen fortress and drag the dragonspawn out by their silver hair!” The grotesque knight licked his lips.
“Such bewitching demons are begging to be purified by the devout Ser Morn!” The rogue knight’s proclamation drew a raucous cheer from the rabble.
As the sun sank lower, his shadow stretched long and thin across the dirt, until the jagged edge of a broken flagpole seemed to pierce its head.
The last light bled from the horizon, giving way to the pale moon.
The flat-bottomed cog Blue-Eyed Maiden cut through the dark waters of the Gods Eye River, fighting the northern current.
As the cog glided past a quiet river port, a small skiff shot out from the reeds, slicing into the water to pull alongside the Maiden.
“Is this the vessel of Lord Quentyn Qoherys?”