Lord Daeron Qoherys was fifty-six years old.
Time had stripped away the handsome countenance of his youth, leaving behind a heavy beer belly and failing eyesight.
Only his short, silver-gray hair retained a faint whisper of its former luster.
In Quentyn’s eyes, his father had never been a brave man, nor could he truly be called a knight.
Beside swords, bows, and warhorses, Lord Daeron preferred books, rich delicacies, and quill pens, as well as inspecting the stonework of the Wailing Tower and the Widow’s Tower.
After marrying Princess Vaella, his father devoted himself entirely to his hearth and home.
Yet fortune was slow to smile upon them; Princess Vaella did not feel the stirrings of life in her womb until she reached the age of thirty-five.
Yet the child who should have been Quentyn’s elder sibling never saw the light of day.
A catastrophic fall on the stone stairs made Quentyn the eldest son.
Both Lord Daeron and Princess Vaella doted fiercely on this boy born to them in their forties, and that deep affection was the trump card Quentyn intended to play to push open the door before him.
“Lord Daeron, forgive my plain speaking,” Maester Swift sighed, tightly rolling the parchment.
“You are Lord Butterwell’s liege lord.
At the very least, you ought to send a vanguard of knights to sound the alarm.
Believe me, the moment your knights ride past the gates beneath your banner and the Princess’s sigil, every sellsword in the taverns and every youth in the wheat fields will seize steel and fall into line.
Before long, you will rally hundreds, if not thousands.
Even the hesitant landed knights will be drawn into the tide, and it will not cost your treasury a single copper penny.” “I know…” Lord Daeron pressed two thick fingers against his brow, trying to smooth away the deep furrows.
“But what if the rabble marches directly on Harrenhal?
You know as well as I that we truly command only two towers, and our garrison barely numbers four hundred men.
The Kingspyre Tower is secure enough, but if they creep in through the ruins of the Tower of Dread…
I must protect my mother and my wife.” In this regard, Ser Merrett of Merryton had miscalculated completely.
Even in such dire straits, House Qoherys still held twenty-five sworn knights and an equal number of mounted squires.
Together with two hundred veteran arbalesters trained by the late Lord Enys and one hundred and fifty heavy footmen gathered from the surrounding hamlets, the two occupied towers were an impregnable fortress.
“Mother and I are more than capable of protecting ourselves.” With measured steps, Princess Vaella descended the twisting black stone staircase.
She was a year younger than Lord Daeron, her striking silver hair swept up into an immaculate high bun, a slender sword of uncertain origin hanging from her belt.
“Lord Daeron, Maester Swift speaks sense,” she continued, resting her hand on her pommel.
“We can pull back our lines from the Widow’s Tower and consolidate our guard within the Wailing Tower.
That will free a full squadron of knights to take the field.” “No!” Lord Daeron’s voice rose sharply, his hands waving in the air.
“Princess Vaella, listen to me.
When my father faced the enemies swarming into the Wailing Tower, my mother was forced to wield a crossbow herself.
I will not have you placed in such peril.
So this time, listen to me.
His Grace will send dragons the moment he hears of this.
From King’s Landing to Harrenhal, a dragon needs only a few hours…” “Yet days have already bled away.” Princess Vaella stepped closer, framing her husband’s plump face in her hands, her thumbs tracing the deep lines around his eyes before falling limply back to her sides.
“My brother is sixty years old; perhaps he can no longer take to the skies on dragonback…
and my nephew…” Before she could finish, a sudden commotion erupted beyond the heavy oak doors.
Lord Daeron instantly shielded Princess Vaella behind his bulk, his hand shaking as he clawed at his sword hilt.
He yanked upward with all his strength, but whether from rust or disuse, the blade remained deadlocked inside its scabbard with a harsh metallic scrape.
“Father, I have returned.” The heavy doors swung wide, and Quentyn strode into the hall.
Robb Rivers, Galwyn, and his two armed retainers followed close behind.
“Quentyn!” Lord Daeron’s mouth hung open, his hand slipping helplessly from his stuck hilt.
“How did you get here?
Why did you return?” “For our house.” Quentyn set his heavy satchel onto the stone floor with a dull thud.
“Robb, fetch my armor.” The young heir looked his parents straight in the eye.
“Father, House Qoherys holds the lordship of Harrenhal.
If we stand idle while our sworn vassals are slaughtered, what will the lords of the Riverlands think of us?” “I care not a whit what they think!” Lord Daeron’s face flushed a deep crimson, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
“Robb, stay where you are!” He breathed heavily, forcing a stern glare as he slammed his palm against his hilt.
“Now that you are back inside these walls, you stay put.
If you dare set a single foot near that battlefield, I will break your legs myself.” “I mended Prince Daemon’s broken leg with my own hands,” Quentyn replied calmly, seeing right through his father’s clumsy threats to the fierce love beneath them.
“So strike as hard as you like.
Even if you break my legs today, I will stand up and march out all the same.” “No.” Princess Vaella shoved past her husband’s arm without a second thought, throwing her arms around her son in a tight embrace.
A deep warmth spread through Quentyn’s chest, though he now stood a full head taller than his mother.
She had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze.
“Quentyn, I will not allow you to risk your life.
The battlefield is no place for you.
You are still a child.
If…
if…
I am frightened…” Her voice cracked, tears shimmering in her violet eyes.
“I know, Mother,” Quentyn murmured, resting his hands gently on her shoulders before shifting his gaze directly to his father.
“But this cannot be avoided.
If House Qoherys cannot even shield the men who swore fealty to us, the realm will decide our tree has rotted to the roots.
The great houses will trample our honor, and our vassals will abandon us like the plague.
When that day comes, we will have nothing left.” “My answer is no, and that is final,” Lord Daeron said, his tone as hard as stone.
“I have only one son.
If anything happens to you, House Qoherys dies with you.
As for the rest of the realm, let them think what they please.” “Quentyn, be a good boy and listen to your father,” Princess Vaella pleaded, her fingers trembling against his sleeve.
She reached to clutch his arm, then pulled back as if fearing she might hurt him, settling instead for a desperate grip on his velvet cuff.
“Father, hear me out.
On the journey back, I gathered complete intelligence on these rebels.
Their host numbers fewer than three hundred men, with a mere four armored robber knights leading them.
Three of those four wear nothing more than rusted chainmail and ride workhorses.
They merely took advantage of chaos to plunder Lord Brynden’s lands, relying on thick woods and crude traps to catch Lord Osmund off guard.” Quentyn laid out the tactical reality with cold, razor-sharp precision: “Now, this rabble has grown so arrogant that they camp right outside Milkstone’s gates, dispersing their forces in small bands to raid surrounding hamlets.
Their minor victories have blinded them to the threat Harrenhal poses.
They have laid their necks across our chopping block.
We command knights in full plate, warhorses, and the finest steel in the Riverlands.
By circumventing the forest and striking from an unexpected angle, we will crush them into the mud.
Furthermore, we have a cog waiting at the docks; we can sail across the Gods Eye and hit their rear undetected.
Veterans along the shore who survived Maegor’s reign brought me this intelligence, and it is precise.
We cannot lose this day.” Quentyn knew his mother was easily swayed, but his father, for all his physical frailty, possessed the stubbornness of a grounded boulder.
Robb dragged Quentyn’s heavy plate armor into the hall, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
The old armory steward scurried closely behind the boy, his hands fluttering in the air as if unsure whether to shout or strike him, ultimately turning a pleading gaze toward Lord Daeron.
By now, the commotion had drawn a crowd.
Servants and knights alike pressed toward the heavy doors of the Raven Tower, their curious murmurs bleeding into the room.
“Sebastian, escort the young master to his chambers.” Lord Daeron barked the order the moment he spotted the castle’s master-at-arms at the bottom of the stairs.
“Do not let him leave without my express permission.” “Hogg, halt Master Sebastian.” Quentyn did not even turn his head, his purple eyes locked onto his father.
“Father, this is our chance to forge House Qoherys’s strength and secure our footing for the years to come.
Furthermore, I swear on my life I will return unharmed.” Quentyn stood tall, refusing to yield an inch.
“If an eagle wishes to grow, it must first shed its down and break its own beak against the rocks.
Nothing in this world comes without blood.
If we feast upon this rebel host, we will grow new talons and broader wings.” Ser Sebastian moved to ascend the steps, only to find his path blocked by a silver-haired youth.
The young man possessed a lean, whipcord frame, his silver hair cropped close to his scalp.
A feral glint burned in his violet eyes, and the smooth, corded muscles shifting beneath his bronze skin gave him the undeniable aura of a coiled viper.
Fourteen-year-old Hogg was Quentyn’s half-brother.
Beyond that blood tie, he was also the legacy of a Qohorik outrider of Valyrian descent, a man brought over as part of Quentyn’s grandmother Agatha’s dowry.
Unfortunately, the outrider had died when Hogg was born.
Hogg had been raised alongside Quentyn, and this taciturn youth lived by a single absolute rule: whatever Quentyn commanded, he executed.
“Child, a boy must grow into a man eventually.” As the stalemate dragged on, an ancient, raspy voice drifted up from the lower floor.
“I dreamt of a dragon woven from white bone, shattering the waves and leaping across a vast lake.
Its flesh burned like fire, its talons forged of steel.
In one bite, it swallowed the rabid wolf that preyed upon the cattle.
I also dreamt of a moon-silver dragon resting within the deep woods, pale scales woven with blood-red, wearing a crown forged of bone.” “Mother!” The blood drained entirely from Lord Daeron’s face.
He lunged toward the Raven Tower’s entrance, but Hogg remained planted on the narrow stairwell.
Holding the high ground, the youth left Harrenhal’s master-at-arms, Sebastian Mudd, with no easy path forward.
The throng of servants parted like the tide.
Old Nan, Quentyn’s wet nurse, pushed a heavy weirwood wheelchair into the center of the hall, emerging slowly beneath the reverent gazes of the household.
“Hah, I am but a foolish old woman.
How could I possibly use a hazy dream to guide my sweet little Quentyn?” Lady Agatha offered a self-deprecating chuckle.
Quentyn’s grandmother was a fiercely sharp woman.
Her graying hair was styled in the high, elaborate bun favored by the noblewomen of Westeros.
She wore no jewelry, clad only in a heavy gown patterned in black and crimson, a thick woolen blanket draped across her lap.
Though she neared her eightieth nameday, her deep wrinkles only seemed to carve wisdom into her features.
Her amethyst eyes held none of the cloudiness of age; she appeared even more vibrant and alert than the sixty-year-old King Jaehaerys.
“Mother, why have you come down?” Lord Daeron tried to shove past Hogg to reach her, but the youth stood like an iron post driven deep into the stairs.
Lord Daeron’s heavy shoves failed to move him a single inch.
Quentyn held his silence, his gaze fixed intensely on his grandmother.
The dream Lady Agatha had just recounted sent a sudden jolt through his chest, and an absurd thought quickly took root in his mind.
Is my grandmother a Dreamer?
No, according to the lore he remembered, prophetic dreams stemmed from only two distinct sources.
The first was the true dragon blood of House Targaryen, which occasionally produced seers gifted with dragon dreams.
The most famous was Daenys the Dreamer, who foresaw the Doom of Valyria.
Later in the histories, Daeron the Drunken and Daenerys Targaryen would also display this gift.
The second source was the greensight of the greenseers, tied to the Old Gods, as seen more than two centuries later in the young crannogman Jojen Reed and the slowly awakening Bran Stark.
His grandmother had only ever displayed vast, encyclopedic knowledge during his childhood, but she had never once claimed to possess prophetic dreams.
Regardless, I will file this away for now.
Quentyn made a silent note of this startling anomaly.
“I came to see exactly how my foolish son intends to squander the legacy his father bled to build.” Agatha glared at Lord Daeron before shifting her gaze to the master-at-arms.
“Little Mudd, come give me a hand.” “At once, my lady.” Ser Sebastian Mudd stepped back down to the floor, joining Old Nan to carefully lift Lady Agatha’s wheelchair.
“Alright, child, step aside.” Lady Agatha looked up at Hogg, her eyes crinkling.
As the eldest resident of Harrenhal, every soul within the ruined walls had grown up under her watchful eye.
Hogg glanced back over his shoulder at Quentyn.
At a subtle nod from Quentyn, the youth immediately relieved Old Nan, taking hold of the heavy weirwood chair to help Ser Sebastian carry Lady Agatha up into the Raven Tower.
Their arrival made the already tight confines of the Raven Tower feel completely suffocating.
“Quentyn, tell your foolish father exactly what he needs to do.” Lady Agatha looked at her yielding son, jabbing a knobby finger against his forehead in a gesture of profound disappointment, before reaching both hands lovingly toward her grandson.
Quentyn stepped forward instantly, dropping to one knee to allow his grandmother to cup his face in her wrinkled palms.
“We are the lords of the Gods Eye, and it is our sworn duty to dispatch our swords to protect our vassals.
But that is merely the surface,” Quentyn said, remaining still as her thumbs traced his cheekbones, before rising to his feet once more.
“Father, the Conqueror granted Harrenhal to our house so that we might serve as the Crown’s western bulwark, balancing the power between the Crownlands and the Riverlands.
More importantly, we possess Valyrian blood.
We are kin to the royal house.
In the eyes of the realm, we represent the Crown’s interests.” Knowing his father was merely paralyzed by indecision and protective fear, Quentyn deliberately magnified the political stakes.
“Furthermore, it should have been House Qoherys marching to save House Butterwell.
Instead, it was House Strong who answered the call.
What will the other great houses think?
What will House Strong think?
Do not forget, Father, the Strongs offer us only hollow words of fealty while sharpening their daggers in the shadows.” Quentyn’s tone dropped to a chilling whisper.
“You do not want to see our ancestral lands partitioned and devoured, do you?”