“Are you one of Lord Butterwell’s smallfolk?” Quentyn asked, draping Galwyn’s heavy cloak over the newcomer’s trembling shoulders.
“Y-yes…” The newcomer was barely fifteen or sixteen, his face still round with youth.
He wore nothing but a pair of dripping linen breeches.
“Lord Quentyn, you’ve truly returned.” The boy’s eyes grew glassy, his lower lip quivering, a stark contrast to the reckless lad who had just plunged into the dark river to haul himself aboard the Blue-Eyed Maiden.
Robb stepped smoothly in front of Quentyn, his hand dropping to the hilt of his dagger.
“Take your time.
Tell me everything.” Quentyn crouched patiently to meet the boy’s eye level.
House Qoherys maintained an excellent reputation within their own lands.
Lord Enys had dedicated his life to reversing the vile legacy left by Gargon the Guest.
By committing to postwar reconstruction and lowering taxes, he allowed the war-torn lands to heal.
Though these measures drained the house’s coffers, they successfully washed away the smallfolk’s lingering hatred for the Guest, replacing it with genuine affection for the young lord who had returned from Essos.
While other noble houses maintained a wary distance, this loyalty allowed House Qoherys to slowly rebuild its strength.
Lord Enys had even granted sanctuary to Queen Dowager Rhaena during her darkest hours of despair.
During her residence at Harrenhal, Queen Rhaena’s favored pastime had been providing hot meals and warm hearths for passing travelers.
Following her passing, Quentyn’s father, Lord Daeron, inherited this generous tradition.
Daeron was a gentle, pliable man, yet undeniably hospitable.
There is a very clear reason why House Qoherys is always short on coin.
However, this generosity bore fruit.
Even before Quentyn set foot on his own lands, the smallfolk were already volunteering vital intelligence.
The fisher boy was merely the first.
Sifting through the boy’s stammering account, Quentyn automatically discarded the wilder claims of a twelve-foot iron monster tearing their lord to pieces or a host numbering in the tens of thousands.
Instead, he pieced together a grounded picture of the conflict.
The bandit knights haunting the Milkwood had suddenly grown bold.
Initially, Lord Brynden Butterwell had paid them little mind.
By the time a local landed knight’s head was mounted on a spear and an unknown number of rebels poured out from the tree line, it was already too late.
Lord Brynden had only managed to rally a few dozen men before the rebel host shattered his lines, forcing him into a humiliating retreat back to Milkstone.
Fortunately, the uprising lacked siege engines, allowing the castle walls to hold.
The surrounding pastures and villages, however, had been brutally scoured.
The boy departed.
As the sun breached the horizon, an old fisherman who bore the scars of a veteran soldier delivered a second report.
House Strong had marshaled their forces.
Quentyn knew this house intimately.
And not just because of my past life’s memories regarding the scandalous affair between Ser Harwin Strong and Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, nor the brown-haired princes known as the ‘Strong’ boys.
It was because House Strong stood as the most powerful vassal to House Qoherys.
The blood of the First Men flowed through their veins; they were exceedingly wealthy and carried the quintessential arrogance of Riverlords.
Lord Osmund Strong and his eldest son, Lyonel Strong, had marched to Lord Brynden’s aid with sixteen knights, an equal number of mounted squires, and three hundred foot soldiers.
Yet, they had been decisively beaten in the Milkwood.
Suffering heavy losses, Lord Osmund was forced to make camp on the shores of the Gods Eye, not daring to advance anywhere near the northern borders of the Butterwell lands.
Crucially, the veteran fisherman provided precise numbers.
The rebel host numbered fewer than three hundred and severely lacked proper armor.
In a way, Lord Osmund has proven to be a remarkably incompetent ally.
He likely just gifted the rebels a massive haul of steel and chainmail.
The sun dipped slowly toward the west, casting the full, looming silhouette of the Gods Eye across the water.
“Lord Quentyn, I strongly advise we set a direct course for Lord Osmund’s encampment,” Galwyn urged, outlining his strategy with rapid hand gestures.
“Lord Osmund commands three hundred men.
Even with a minor setback, they cannot have suffered a fatal blow.
With you present, the local smallfolk will immediately rally to your banner.
You need only raise your arm and shout, and these rebels will instantly rout.” Instantly rout?
Quentyn found the notion almost comical.
The wealthy merchant standing before him seemed to have forgotten that this uprising marched beneath the banners of the Poor Fellows.
Decades ago, that very sigil had sparked a holy war that consumed everything south of the Neck.
Today, those banners would undoubtedly invite the devastating wrath of the Iron Throne and the Starry Sept.
Yet, before that hammer could fall, they had already broken a seasoned Strong host.
“The wolves have already incited a panic,” Quentyn said, calmly dismantling Galwyn’s proposal.
“Until a hunter slaughters the starving pack, Galwyn, sheep do not magically turn into hounds.” What Quentyn left unsaid was a matter of pure politics.
If he relied on the Strong forces to crush the rebellion and won, House Strong would proudly claim their steel had secured the victory, reducing the heir of Harrenhal to a mere tagalong.
If they lost, the failure would fall squarely on Quentyn’s shoulders as their liege lord.
Furthermore, House Strong leveraged their status as veteran Riverlords.
Rich, proud, and descending from the First Men, they frequently offered honeyed words of fealty while undermining House Qoherys in the shadows.
His own father, Lord Daeron, was a soft man, easily manipulated by anyone with a firm voice.
If the fighting dragged on until reinforcements arrived from the Iron Throne, whether it was an aging King Jaehaerys whose dragon-riding days were questionable, or a wrathful Prince Baelon, Quentyn’s reputation as a capable lord would be permanently scarred.
Fortunately, Quentyn could count on the deep well of goodwill his father and grandfather had cultivated among the local smallfolk.
Under the peace and prosperity forged by King Jaehaerys, well-fed peasants were far harder to incite, and the Faith itself had no desire to provoke dragon-riding lords.
Consequently, he was facing a localized threat of fewer than three hundred men, not a snowballing monstrosity.
During the Faith Militant uprising, tens of thousands of men in the Riverlands alone had raised rainbow banners and seven-pointed stars to declare war on the Iron Throne.
He had every confidence in winning this skirmish.
For a fleeting moment, Quentyn even considered House Strong’s defeat a blessing.
Breaking a noble host would make the rebel rabble arrogant and complacent.
They would lower their guard.
That will be my opening.
The moon crested the sky.
The Blue-Eyed Maiden breached the lake at least two hours ahead of schedule.
A perpetual mist clung to the surface of the Gods Eye.
Flocks of black swans glided like a string of dark pearls, circling a pale, blood-red heart at the center of the waters.
That was the Isle of Faces, one of the few places south of the Neck where weirwoods still grew in abundance.
Legends claimed the enigmatic Green Men stood guard over its shores.
Quentyn still remembered his grandmother’s tales.
Before he was born, the Green Men of the Isle had supposedly crossed the waters, seeking food from his father.
Lord Daeron had generously obliged, and since that day, the Isle of Faces sent small offerings of weirwood every year in return.
The moon reached its zenith.
On the shores of the Gods Eye, banners of red, green, and blue snapped in the night wind.
The Strong encampment was a crude affair, boasting only a single proper pavilion.
Foot soldiers slumped in the dirt or leaned against tree trunks, exhausted, while several iron pots bubbled over low fires.
Camp followers sat outside the pavilion, stitching torn garments by the firelight.
In this era, followers rarely held a single duty; most doubled as cooks and washerwomen, trading roles as needed.
“We cannot continue like this!” Lyonel Strong threw back the pavilion flap, slamming his longsword down onto the heavy wooden table.
The resounding crack startled the knights gathered inside.
“Twice!
We have been broken by a mob of bandits twice!” At sixteen, he was in the prime of his youthful arrogance, yet he had swallowed two bitter defeats in a row.
The first disaster struck the moment they entered the Milkwood, blundering blindly into a rebel ambush.
Only after losing two sworn swords and more than twenty foot soldiers did they manage to carve a bloody path of retreat.
Then came today.
Lyonel had personally led a charge to shatter the Milkwood blockade.
Initially, the maneuver worked flawlessly.
His heavy horse trampled through the rebels’ fragile infantry line.
The Strong footmen surged into the breach, driving the enemy into a panicked rout as the rabble abandoned their scavenged helms and armor in the mud.
That was how it was supposed to go.
But after repelling the enemy, his infantry immediately fell into chaos.
Everyone rushed forward to loot the treasures and armor left behind by the rebels, and even the knights joined the frenzied pillaging.
Then, there was no “then”.
This time, the defeat was far more brutal.
Ser Alan of White Willow, Ser Hathor of Old Willow, and their squires fell where they stood.
Ser Addam of Little Willow lost an arm, only to die screaming shortly after being dragged back to camp.
Lyonel had left more than forty corpses in the mud before securing a retreat.
“Master Lyonel, this is not the outcome we desired either.” The speaker was Ser Black Tom of Lockton; the dark birthmark covering half his face twisted gruesomely as he spoke.
“But the rebels know every stone and root of this terrain.
By the Seven, what did that old Butterwell cow do?
Only the most grizzled hunters could lay traps that cunning.” “Perhaps the robber knights among them know the land.” Lord Osmund Strong quietly signaled with two fingers, dismissing the retainers hovering at the back of the pavilion.
He adjusted his heavy sword belt.
“Lyonel, where did you go?” “Scouting.” Lyonel leaned back against his chair, his jaw set in a hard, rigid line.
He snatched a goblet from the long wooden table and took a massive swallow of barley ale.
“Cough…
cough.” Choking on the bitter foam, Lyonel’s face flushed a deep, mottled red.
“Father, two victories have made the rebel rabble sloppy.
I watched two or three bands of them wandering off toward Great Cow Valley and Honeytree Village.
Their main encampment must be practically empty right now, we could easily…” “Enough.” Lord Osmund exhaled a long, heavy breath.
“I marched three hundred lads out of our gates, and only two hundred and thirty-one draw breath today.
If we lose one more, the widows will tear Stonedance apart with their bare hands.” “Then what are we to do?” Lyonel kicked his chair back and stood, planting his hands heavily on the table.
“Just tuck our tails and retreat?
Let the entire realm see that House Strong cannot handle a few hundred ragged peasants?” “Master Lyonel, why the haste?” Ser Black Tom drawled lazily, picking at his nails with a dagger.
“The ones who should be sweating are the old cow, the bookworm of Harrenhal, and the Silver Princess.” “I doubt Harrenhal can even scrape together three hundred men to march.” Ser Merrett of Merryton chuckled softly.
“As long as the bookworm lord can keep himself and the Silver Princess breathing, that is enough.
Lord Osmund, to my mind, we only need to put on a grand show here.
When the Faith Militant raises enough hell, the King will intervene, even if we just hold our ground.
Besides, the Silver Princess resides at Harrenhal, does she not?
His Grace will surely act to protect his own blood.” “Aye, exactly.” Ser Black Tom nodded slowly, his scarred cheek pulling tight.
“We simply hold this camp.
The King will see that it is us, not the Qoherys bookworm, who marshaled swords to defend the realm.” “We haven’t held anything yet.” Lyonel’s voice dropped, his knuckles turning white against the timber.
“What if Harrenhal actually mobilizes?” As the words left his mouth, the phantom image of a young boy forced its way into Lyonel’s mind.
Silver hair, piercing purple eyes, and a face beautiful enough to draw poison from women’s tongues.
And an intellect that made even the graybeards of the Citadel bow their heads in quiet shame.
When Lyonel studied at the Citadel, Quentyn had been his greatest rival.
Or, more accurately, Quentyn had never once looked his way.
Quentyn forged thirteen links, shattering records as the youngest acolyte to achieve such mastery, while Lyonel managed to scrape together a mere six before returning to Stonedance with a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth.
Upon Lyonel’s return, he was greeted by the muffled snickers of his father’s knights; even Lord Osmund hadn’t entirely hidden his amused smirk.
Mobilize?
Who in the Riverlands didn’t know that Lord Daeron was a pliable, weak-willed scholar, and Princess Vaella was merely a woman?
As for Quentyn Qoherys, what could a thirteen-year-old boy possibly accomplish?
The Blue-Eyed Maiden exhausted the strength of every oarsman aboard, finally scraping against the stone docks of Harrenhal just before the sun broke the horizon.
At this very moment, the castle was in utter disarray.
Servants sprinted across the courtyards carrying mismatched steel, shouting over the braying of panicked horses.
“Maester Swift, write to Quentyn.
Tell him he must not return!” Lord Daeron Qoherys stood rigidly as he watched the castle’s maester ink the final word onto the parchment, releasing a long, trembling breath.