“But…
but…” Lord Daeron found the words dying in his throat.
He cast a desperate look toward Maester Swift, but the scholar from Dragonstone merely folded his arms across his robes and shook his head.
“Lord Daeron, I believe the young master is correct,” the Maester offered his judgment.
“House Qoherys secured its foothold in Harrenhal not solely due to your royal blood, but because the Crown forged your house to serve as a sharp spear and an unbreakable shield.” Quentyn pressed the advantage without hesitation.
“Father, do you recall what the four skulls upon our house sigil represent?” Lord Daeron stumbled backward, his hip colliding heavily with the Maester’s heavy wooden desk.
He pressed a hand to his side, his breath hitching.
“They…
they are the four mighty foes slain by our ancestors…” Quentyn walked to the stone wall, where an ancient kite shield hung in the shadows.
Flakes of rust clung to its steel rim, and its surface was a map of violence, cratered by morningstars, scarred by axes and swords, and marred by a massive fissure that nearly cleaved the heavy oak in two.
Only the sigil painted upon its face remained clear: a flaming skull set over a blazing saltire.
Quentyn traced his fingers over the battered surface, moving from the painted flames to the first skull.
“This was claimed by the founder of our house, the ‘Dragonless Warrior,’ King Jaehaerys Qoherys.
He personally slew the Rhoynish Prince Oberyn during the Second Spice War.” The boy’s hand drifted to the second skull.
“Three hundred and fifty years ago, amidst the chaos of the ‘Moonless Night,’ Garmon Qoherys severed the head of Dragonlord Vaelian of House Belaerys.
Though the Dragonlord was unmounted at the time, he remained one of the Freehold’s most renowned swordsmen.” Quentyn withdrew his hand and looked back at his father.
“The third belonged to Ulysses the ‘Skullcrusher,’ that ambitious fool who sought to splinter House Targaryen, only to meet his end at our ancestor’s hands.
The final skull belonged to the Pirate King Aerys, a trophy taken by my great-great-grandfather.
It was only after that victory that our house followed Aegon the Conqueror and forged this very sigil.
Father, do you understand now?” “Quentyn…
I…” Lord Daeron possessed an inherently indecisive nature.
Confronted by his son’s piercing conviction, he found himself utterly adrift, shifting his weight from one foot to the other until his deep paternal love finally anchored him.
“This is not a burden you should bear.” Lord Daeron ground his teeth together, the muscle in his jaw ticking.
“Princess Vaella, look after Quentyn.
Sebastian, muster every knight within these walls.
I shall ride out and crush this rebellion myself.” Quentyn’s eyes widened slightly, the breath catching in his throat.
He had never expected his soft-spoken father to volunteer for the vanguard.
“Father, your hands have never known the weight of a sword.” This time, it was Quentyn stepping forward to dissuade Lord Daeron.
Across two lifetimes, Quentyn had known the warmth of a true family.
The paternal void left by his past life had been filled a thousand times over by Lord Daeron.
Even when frustration gnawed at him over his father’s pliable nature, a deep, unshakeable affection rooted him to the man.
The boy caught his father’s sleeve.
“The destriers in the stables do not even know your scent, Father.
Do you intend to have the knights carry you to the battlefield in a palanquin?” Quentyn squared his shoulders, casting his gaze over the armed men gathering in the hall below.
“Father, I am the only logical choice.
It must be me.” Without waiting for a nod of concession, Quentyn pivoted toward the heavy plate resting on the floor.
“Robb.
Arm me.” It was a full suit of enameled black plate, originally forged for his grandfather, Lord Enys Qoherys.
Lord Daeron had gifted the steel to Quentyn on his twelfth nameday.
Robb shouted an eager confirmation, immediately falling to his knees to unbuckle the heavy greaves and couters from their leather straps.
“Wait.” Seeing that her husband could no longer bar their son’s path, Princess Vaella rushed to Quentyn’s side, her footsteps echoing sharply against the stone.
Robb froze, his hands hovering awkwardly over the heavy breastplate.
“You look so much like him…” Princess Vaella reached out, her cool fingertips grazing Quentyn’s cheek.
“I remember when King Jaehaerys would arm himself for war just like this.” “Mother, His Grace will bring us victory,” Quentyn answered with practiced grace.
“Of course.
Of course he will.
Little Robb, let me arm my son.” Robb stepped back, his hands falling limply to his sides, watching as Princess Vaella lifted the heavy mail hauberk.
Quentyn shed his velvet doublet, slipping into a thick padded arming doublet, and raised his arms to let his mother slide the rings over his head.
The dark-haired river boy finally broke from his stupor.
“Princess…
Your Grace, please allow me.” He stubbornly lifted the heavy backplate, working in tandem with Princess Vaella to secure the steel breastplate against Quentyn’s chest.
Beside them, Lord Daeron silently reached out to assist.
“To think I would be eclipsed by my own son…” Lord Daeron murmured, his thick fingers fumbling with a leather strap.
“You have grown…” Quentyn stood in silence, cataloging the feeling of three distinct pairs of hands.
Robb’s fingers were long and calloused, moving with the rapid familiarity of a boy who had served him for years.
His mother’s touch was delicate and soft; though her movements were hesitant, she ensured every strap laid flat.
His father’s thick, clumsy fingers struggled with the iron buckles, slipping more than once, yet moving with a painstaking, trembling care.
The boy stood encased in heavy plate.
The polished breastplate was enameled in deep midnight black, centered around a snarling brass skull.
Intricate brass flames crawled outward from the skull like skeletal fingers, weaving across the steel before vanishing into the gilded death’s head upon his sword belt.
Twin skulls with hollow, staring sockets formed the heavy pauldrons guarding his shoulders.
Every piece of steel, the poleyns capping his knees, the gauntlets over his hands, and the round besagews protecting his armpits, bore the terrifying motif of the flaming skull.
Robb draped a heavy cloak of crimson and black velvet over Quentyn’s shoulders, while Lord Daeron fastened the thick brass chain across his chest to secure it.
Princess Vaella gently snapped the steel gorget shut around his throat.
“Good boy…” Lady Agatha watched the fully armored Quentyn from her weirwood chair.
For a fleeting moment, the ghost of the late Lord Enys Qoherys seemed to overlap with the boy before her.
“You have truly grown…” Quentyn secured the leather chin strap of his mail coif himself and lifted his greathelm.
Massive dragon wings flared from either side of the dark steel, crowned with a crest of crimson plumage that trembled in the draft.
“I was bound to grow eventually, Grandmother.” He marched down the stone steps.
Beyond the twisted iron gates, the sworn swords residing within Harrenhal’s walls had already assembled in the courtyard.
Alongside the master-at-arms, Ser Sebastian Mudd, stood twenty-four knights in heavy mail, joined by a lone freerider who had answered the call to arms.
Quentyn called out each knight by name, his voice cutting clearly through the morning mist.
When he reached the freerider bearing a winged chalice upon his shield, the man dropped to one knee.
“I am Ser Edmure of Pennytree.
Your father gave me a warm hearth, fresh bread, and good wine.
It is only right that I offer my steel in return.” “Excellent, Ser Edmure.” Quentyn tipped his chin in acknowledgment.
“You have my thanks.” He now commanded twenty-six armored knights, twenty-six heavy lances, and twenty-six destriers.
Adding Galwyn Chambers and his two skilled outriders, his vanguard was set.
Harrenhal also maintained twenty-five rigorously trained squires, fed and housed by the Qoherys coffers.
Eighteen of them were on the verge of earning their spurs.
Quentyn decided to mount them all, leaving only the footmen and arbalesters behind to garrison the walls.
Including himself and his two squires, he now led a host of fifty heavy horse.
Against a rabble of peasants, it would be more than enough.
“My lord, take us with you!” Robb pleaded, dragging Hogg forward by the elbow.
Though the silver-haired youth remained completely silent, the feral heat burning in his violet eyes betrayed a desperate hunger for the coming slaughter.
Both boys were starving for battle.
“Very well.” Though the Qoherys treasury was famously light, the armories of Harrenhal lacked for nothing.
The sprawling stables housed seventy massive destriers and twice as many riding palfreys.
Deep within the vaults rested five hundred complete suits of armor, perfectly maintained alongside racks of ash spears, longswords, and heavy crossbows.
“Arm yourselves, all of you.
Ser Edmure, I grant you leave to select any suit of plate from the vaults.” Ser Edmure blinked, staring at Quentyn in stunned disbelief.
“Once armed, we set sail immediately.” Quentyn’s gaze swept over the gathered steel.
“When the clouds swallow the moon tonight, we will teach those wretched bandits just how sharp our blades truly are.” “Set sail?” Ser Sebastian Mudd was the first to voice his objection, his brows knitting together.
“My lord, I strongly advise we wait until dawn to unfurl our banners.
We can rally the local smallfolk and landed knights, then march to link our host with Lord Osmund’s forces.
That is the only sound strategy.” “By doing so, we alert the rebels to our march.
They would simply lay fresh traps or scatter back into the woods to bleed us slowly.
Master Sebastian, would you invite a starving wolf to sleep at the foot of your bed?” Quentyn did not raise his voice to shout the veteran down.
“The hrakkar of the Dothraki Sea does not roar before it strikes; it waits until its prey lowers its head to graze, and then it tears out its throat.” Quentyn raised his steel-clad hand, the joints clicking softly.
“These rebels have broken Lord Osmund’s host twice.
They are drunk on their own arrogance.
And arrogance breeds complacency.” The boy curled his mailed fingers into a tight fist.
“We strike them when they are blind and fat with pride.
We will trample them into the mud while they sleep.
We will watch them turn their stolen blades upon each other in terror, and we will let them burn in their own chaotic ruin.” Before a single boot had even stepped onto a deck, Quentyn had already forged the iron will of his host.
Ser Sebastian closed his mouth, offering no further resistance.
The surrounding knights bowed their heads in grim unison, saluting the bloody glory Quentyn had painted for them.
The Blue-Eyed Maiden was far too conspicuous for a stealth assault.
Instead, Quentyn requisitioned the flat-bottomed skiffs and fishing vessels moored along the Harrenhal docks.
The local fishermen had erupted into cheers the moment they learned of Quentyn’s return.
Over twenty robust youths stepped forward, gripping heavy iron tridents and harpoons, begging to join the slaughter.
Quentyn granted their request.
Thus, twenty large fishing vessels, broad enough to ferry warhorses, slipped quietly into the dark waters under the thick veil of the lake mist.
Burdened with steel, horseflesh, and grim men, they vanished from the shore, trailing the desperate, silent prayers of Lord Daeron and Princess Vaella.
A tense focus settled over the boats.
Ser Sebastian rhythmically ran an oil cloth down the length of his longsword, while the freerider Ser Edmure continuously ran his hands over the smooth, flawless steel of his new plate, the price Quentyn had gladly paid for his sword.
The other riders either closed their eyes to conserve their strength or stood beside the young fishermen, calming the destriers as the hulls rocked.
Only Galwyn Chambers seemed incapable of stillness.
He shifted his weight relentlessly, a strange, feverish hunger gleaming in his eyes as he stared into the fog.
Quentyn stood near the prow of the largest vessel.
Hogg, clad in a slightly worn suit of half-plate, leaned heavily on a long ash spear, his eyes scanning the mist like a hunting hound.
Beside him, Robb carefully checked the string of his weirwood longbow.
It was a cherished gift from Quentyn, and the boy was so engrossed in maintaining the pale wood that he completely missed the heavy stare of Billy Burley.
“That’s a fine piece of wood, lad,” Billy grunted, a thick note of envy lacing his tone.
The northman gripped a sturdy yew bow of his own; though it was a masterfully crafted weapon, it could never match the mythical draw of pure weirwood.
Robb carefully lowered the bow, his chest puffing out with undeniable pride.
“Of course it is.
Lord Quentyn gifted it to me himself.” Billy opened his mouth to reply, only to snap his jaw shut as a flicker of orange pierced the fog near the shore.
“Care for a wager on your aim, lad?” Billy smoothly raised his yew bow.
Robb shot a quick glance at Quentyn.
The young lord slowly opened his purple eyes and gave a single, firm nod.
The dark-haired river boy rose smoothly to his feet, sliding a black-fletched arrow from his quiver and knocking it to the weirwood string.
Both he and Billy had spotted the rebel sentries huddled near the water’s edge.
The oblivious bandits had yet to notice the phantom fleet gliding through the thick mist, but they were seconds away from spotting the dark hulls cutting through the shallows.
Thwack.
An arrow vanished into the fog.
Billy instantly knocked his second shaft, the string humming violently beside Robb’s own rapid releases.
The two archers moved in a blur of motion, raining a dozen arrows into the darkness in the span of a few heartbeats.
In the blink of an eye, both quivers were completely empty.
The distant campfires flared and died in the gloom.
“It is time.” Quentyn lowered his greathelm over his face.
The jaws of the dragon snapped shut.