Quentyn kept his gaze perfectly steady on the prince seated upon the dragon’s back.
A low rumble vibrated the earth.
The behemoth beneath Baelon slowly lowered her head, her sagging dewlaps trembling slightly.
As the massive dragon fangs parted and closed, a wave of blistering heat rolled out from the depths of her throat.
Even from a distance, Quentyn felt the bronze-green monster’s scorching breath against his armor.
He felt the dragon’s heavy, ancient gaze settle upon him.
When Vhagar descended from the sky, almost all the warhorses Quentyn had brought lost their minds, rearing and kicking wildly.
Had the riders not been exceptionally skilled, they would have been thrown to the dirt.
Even the youths Robb and Hogg maintained an iron grip on their reins, while the less adept Galwyn Chambers required foot soldiers to steady his panicked mount.
Even so, the heavy cavalrymen who had just trampled an enemy camp and slaughtered ten times their number now shivered uncontrollably before the dragon.
Billy Burley’s hands shook so badly he could not hold his bow steady.
Only Quentyn stood his ground, his eyes locked unflinchingly on the beast that could swallow him and his horse whole.
Baelon studied Quentyn, the lines around his eyes tightening.
He had just flown back to King’s Landing, only to be intercepted by his anxious son outside the Dragonpit.
Hearing that House Butterwell’s lands were under siege by an armed religious uprising, he shook his head, the words refusing to take root in his mind.
It was not that he doubted Daemon.
Baelon knew his son was prone to wild antics, but he did not believe the boy would lie about something of this magnitude.
Rather, he could not fathom the Faith Militant rising from the ashes more than forty years after their eradication.
Nevertheless, Baelon secured the dragon egg originally intended for Quentyn and immediately took flight for Harrenhal.
He simply had not expected to land amidst such a scene.
The camp burned fiercely.
Standing amid a sea of blood and a mountain of corpses, a young boy leaned on a sharp sword, having just slain the bandit leader, returning the gaze of a monstrous dragon without a flinch.
In the distance, the host of House Strong lingered, their horses shifting restlessly, no man daring to advance.
“Seven Hells…” Ser Merrett of Merryton trembled visibly.
The dark birthmark on Ser Black Tom of Lockton’s face twisted grotesquely.
The two knights who had been spouting arrogant nonsense mere hours ago now shrank back among the infantry ranks, glancing desperately toward Lord Osmund Strong for direction.
Lord Osmund himself remained frozen, his grip tight on his reins.
Suddenly, Lyonel Strong spurred his horse, breaking away from the ranks.
His dark brown destrier snorted heavily, carrying the young heir of Stonedance a few paces toward Quentyn.
Two sworn knights of Harrenhal immediately tightened their grips on their reins, turning their destriers to face Lyonel Strong, their hands dropping to their hilts.
Lyonel pulled back on the reins, raising his empty hands to show he bore no weapons.
He dismounted, walked through the encirclement of cavalrymen, and dropped to one knee before Quentyn.
“House Strong pays its respects, Lord Quentyn.” Quentyn offered a slight nod.
He retained a vague impression of Lyonel Strong.
In the original timeline, this Lord Strong would rise to become Hand of the King, and a highly accomplished one at that.
His two sons, one who committed adultery with Rhaenyra Targaryen to sire three capable bastards, and another whose ambition and destructive reputation rivaled, or rather, vastly exceeded that of Littlefinger.
“Your academic brilliance at the Citadel shamed me, and your valor on the battlefield commands my deepest respect.” Lyonel Strong clenched his jaw, lowering his head.
“My father grew up in the summer and has never known the biting cold of winter.
Please forgive his failure on the battlefield.
House Strong is prepared to accept Harrenhal’s judgment for this.” On the other side, the colossal beast slowly lowered her bulk.
Baelon unhooked his riding chains, grabbed the rope ladder draped over the dragon’s flank, and vaulted down to the scorched earth.
The knights unconsciously parted, opening a wide path.
Baelon strode to Quentyn’s side, clasping a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder without saying a word.
“Harrenhal remembers those who support Harrenhal.” Quentyn nodded to Baelon, his face an unreadable mask.
“But House Qoherys rewards merit and punishes folly.
House Strong took the initiative to marshal forces to rescue a peer, and that deserves a reward.
However, marching without your liege lord’s permission and suffering a humiliating defeat demands punishment.” The youth lifted his chin, casting his gaze toward Lord Osmund Strong in the distance.
The blood-soaked Ser Sebastian Mudd immediately spurred his horse forward, drawing a deep breath to bellow.
“Osmund Strong, when exactly did you pass your lordship to your son?
Drag yourself over here!” Quentyn could feel it.
Though a night raid with heavy cavalry against a sleeping camp was hardly the honorable conduct praised in knightly tales, this overwhelming, blood-drenched victory had ignited a fierce admiration in the eyes of his riders and the hastily armed fishermen.
The sworn knights who knew him well stared with newfound, unshakeable loyalty.
Only Ser Sebastian, who had watched him grow, maintained a look of deep, paternal pride.
Lord Osmund Strong jolted as if waking from a nightmare.
He scrambled awkwardly from his saddle and stumbled toward Quentyn.
The knights beside him, whether the half-black-faced Ser Black Tom or the bitter-tongued Ser Merrett, had no choice but to obediently dismount and drop to one knee in the mud.
Having run a considerable distance, Lord Osmund was gasping for air by the time he reached Quentyn.
“Lord Quentyn, Lyonel’s stance is my stance.” Lord Osmund pushed himself up slightly, remaining on one knee, his voice shaking.
“House Strong will forever remain the loyal hound of House Qoherys.” “Excellent.” Quentyn nodded slowly.
“In recognition of your valiant deployment, I shall order Lord Butterwell to compensate your fallen soldiers and make amends for House Strong’s losses.
I am certain he will gladly part with his gold for a neighbor so willing to shed blood for his rescue.
Lord Brynden, what say you?” Lord Brynden Butterwell, who had just thrown open his castle gates and rushed over with his knights, scrambled off his horse.
He cast a fleeting glance at Prince Baelon, but the prince merely narrowed his eyes, adopting a posture of utter unconcern.
He had no choice but to drop to one knee.
“House Butterwell will gladly pay three gold dragons for every fallen soldier…” Three gold dragons.
Quentyn rapidly calculated the exchange rate in his mind.
In the current Riverlands, three gold dragons could buy a fine horse or two fat cows.
It was a sum that could easily make a peasant family wealthy.
“…and pay a bounty of one hundred gold dragons to House Strong.
House Butterwell shall also offer three hundred gold dragons to Harrenhal…” Lord Brynden Butterwell’s face twitched as if struck.
Even with his deep roots and overflowing coffers, coughing up nearly five hundred gold dragons at once was a heavy blow.
The economic system of this world is truly baffling.
As his understanding of the currency deepened, Quentyn severely doubted the mathematics behind the fifty thousand gold dragon tournament prize from the main story.
As far as he knew, even the royal treasury’s annual income was only around two hundred thousand gold dragons.
After deducting seigniorage and tariffs, the direct taxes collected from regional lords and Crownlands nobles amounted to a mere fifty thousand.
Regardless, for House Qoherys, whose vaults were currently echoing with emptiness, the three hundred gold dragons offered by House Butterwell were a monumental boon.
Raising cattle is truly a lucrative business…
Quentyn sighed inwardly, but not a single muscle moved on his face.
He continued smoothly.
“Yet House Butterwell allowed bandits to run rampant across its lands, while House Strong underestimated the enemy, acted recklessly, and marched without their liege’s consent.
Your Grace, I recall neither of these offenses being trivial, correct?” Baelon raised an eyebrow.
“Indeed, they are not.” The blood drained instantly from Lord Osmund and Lord Brynden’s faces.
“But House Strong’s merits offset their faults, so they shall only face a fine.” Quentyn shifted his gaze back to Lord Osmund.
Lord Osmund let out a long, shuddering breath.
Unlike House Qoherys, severely stretched by the endless maintenance of Harrenhal and the development of their lands, House Strong possessed ancient lineage and vast wealth.
Gold was no object to them.
“House Strong will pay two hundred gold dragons and beg Lord Daeron’s forgiveness.” “My father will surely forgive you, Lord Osmund.” A faint smirk pulled at the corner of Quentyn’s mouth.
These ancient noble houses were far wealthier than House Qoherys, yet they always dragged their feet when it came to paying taxes.
Wringing coin from them was harder than forcing a Sphinx to speak plainly.
This time, squeezing out five hundred gold dragons in one stroke would significantly swell the Qoherys coffers.
It was enough coin to outfit fifty knights, provided they only needed a destrier.
This influx of wealth pushed House Qoherys, which had already restored the Wailing Tower and the Widow’s Tower and slashed expenses, one step closer to true prosperity.
“As for you, Lord Brynden, your duty is to scour the remaining bandits from your lands as swiftly as possible to atone for your negligence.
Do you understand?” “Understood.
I understand completely,” Lord Brynden said submissively.
Quentyn nodded in satisfaction.
Just as he turned to speak, a heavy hand gripped his shoulder.
“Quentyn Qoherys.” Quentyn looked at Baelon, his brow furrowing slightly, but he found only deep satisfaction and relief in the prince’s eyes.
“I recall you are not yet a knight, are you?” A knight?
A spark of realization flashed through Quentyn’s mind.
He immediately unfastened his greathelm, tossed it aside, and dropped to one knee.
“The time has not yet come, my prince.” “Your martial deeds are proof enough of your valor and fearlessness.
Quentyn Qoherys, do you wish to become a knight of the Seven Kingdoms?” Baelon drew the Valyrian steel blade, Dark Sister, the rippling dark metal resting lightly upon Quentyn’s right shoulder.
“I do.” Quentyn’s answer was crisp and resolute.
He had planned for this from the start.
He knew he would win this battle.
He knew Daemon would undoubtedly seek Baelon’s aid.
If King Jaehaerys did not come, Baelon certainly would.
And he could use this decisive victory to seize his knighthood.
To be anointed a knight by the Prince of Dragonstone was a glory worthy of the bards’ songs.
“Excellent.” The surrounding knights immediately dismounted, pulling off their helms in reverence.
Vhagar, sensing the shift in the air, slowly raised her massive head, a low, rumbling growl echoing in her throat.
“Quentyn Qoherys.
In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” Baelon tapped the flat of the blade against Quentyn’s right shoulder.
“In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.” The blade shifted to the left shoulder.
“In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent.” Baelon’s grip on the sword was rock-steady.
The battlefield was completely silent.
“In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women.” “In the name of the Smith, I charge you to lend your strength to those in need.” Dark Sister touched the left shoulder once more.
“In the name of the Crone, I charge you to bring her light where darkness reigns.” The blade grazed the right shoulder one final time.
The surrounding knights held their breath.
The unknighted squires watched with eyes burning with hunger and longing.
“In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to uphold these vows until your dying breath.” Baelon slid Dark Sister smoothly back into its scabbard, a faint smile breaking across his face as he concluded the sevenfold vow.
“The vows are spoken.
Arise, Ser Quentyn Qoherys, the youngest knight in the Seven Kingdoms.” Quentyn slowly rose to his feet.
The moment he straightened his back, every knight, squire, young fisherman, and foot soldier of Harrenhal and House Strong erupted into a deafening roar.
The cheers crashed over the scorched earth wave after wave, all carrying a single name.
“Quentyn!” As the roaring gradually subsided, Quentyn turned his gaze back to his own ranks.
“Galwyn Chambers.
Step forward.”