Quentyn did not answer at once.
Before he had crossed into this world, he had been nothing more than an ordinary university student.
Still, he had read enough, and seen enough of the world, to know that in a negotiation, the first man to reveal his bottom line was usually the first to lose.
For any transmigrator, the world of A Song of Ice and Fire was a cruel place to be born.
Had he arrived in the age of the main story, he would have had to contend with the coming of the White Walkers and the Long Night, a doom whose hour no man yet knew.
Before that came the War of the Five Kings, King Joffrey and his formidable mother, the schemes of Euron Greyjoy, and the cursed Meereenese Knot across the Narrow Sea.
In this era, however, another calamity loomed in the distance, the Dance of the Dragons, when dragon would turn upon dragon and House Targaryen would tear itself apart.
Whatever the age, the conclusion was always the same.
If a man wished not merely to survive but to leave his mark upon history, he needed a dragon…
and power enough that his name would not fade when he was gone.
After realizing which point in history he had entered, Quentyn had quietly made a list of everything he needed to accomplish.
A dragon, at least, was not his most pressing concern.
Though he was not descended through the male line of House Targaryen, his mother was Princess Vaella, and barring unforeseen changes, his future wife would also be of the blood of the dragon.
Years from now, when King Jaehaerys convened the Great Council of 101 AC and excluded him from the succession, the old king would quietly permit Targaryen descendants through the female line to claim dragons of their own as a form of compensation.
The dragon problem could wait.
Coin could not.
Harrenhal was simply too vast.
Built by Harren the Black at the cost of countless lives from both the Riverlands and the Iron Islands, the greatest castle in the Seven Kingdoms had been raised on a scale bordering on madness.
Then Aegon the Conqueror’s dragonfire had melted its towers, leaving behind a monstrous ruin.
Though House Qoherys inhabited only Widow’s Tower and Wailing Tower, merely keeping those portions of the castle standing consumed a staggering sum each year.
The taxes collected from Harrenhal’s lands scarcely sufficed to maintain the household.
His father had little gift for governance, managing only to keep the family’s accounts from sinking entirely into ruin.
Fortunately, he knew the value of placing responsibility in capable hands.
Before Quentyn departed for the Citadel, he had entrusted him with broad authority over the family’s affairs.
Even so, their circumstances remained bleak.
Including Princess Vaella’s dowry, House Qoherys had never possessed more than three hundred gold dragons.
Now, after years of spending, the family coffers held only one hundred and thirty-two gold dragons, some seventy silver stags, and a scattering of copper pennies.
Quentyn himself carried another fifty gold dragons.
He had already reckoned the numbers more than once.
Harrenhal could raise three or four thousand men should war come, but after a single campaign, House Qoherys would likely find itself bankrupt.
That was a future he had no intention of accepting.
The moment he returned from the Citadel, he began pouring the family’s remaining wealth into rebuilding their lands, spending nearly half their fortune in the process.
Harrenhal’s greatest treasure had never been its castle.
It was the Gods Eye.
The vast lake yielded fish in abundance and freshwater pearls besides.
Its black swans were renowned throughout the Riverlands, while the Isle of Faces produced valuable pelts and fine weirwood timber.
Fed by the lake’s waters, the surrounding countryside was rich with fertile fields, broad pastures, and thick forests, making it one of the great breadbaskets of the Riverlands.
Only one thing was lacking.
Development.
For centuries, the shores of the Gods Eye had been home to a thriving weaving tradition.
Yet poor techniques, cheap cloth imported from the Free Cities, and the endless wars that plagued Westeros had steadily strangled the trade.
A hundred years earlier, Harren the Black’s tyranny had dealt it a final, devastating blow.
Quentyn would have wagered that the stones of Harrenhal itself still bore the blood of the master weavers who had perished raising its walls.
Now, thanks to his efforts, the clatter of looms could once again be heard along the shores of the Gods Eye.
But looms cost coin.
Skilled craftsmen cost coin.
New methods cost coin.
Everything cost coin.
And Quentyn needed more of it than House Qoherys possessed.
“I am sure you know as well as I,” Galwyn said, seeing Quentyn’s silence as an invitation to press his advantage, “that velvet has naught to do with swans.
Brand your cloth with Harrenhal’s black swans, and my fellow merchants will laugh behind your back.” The old merchant spread his hands.
“The finest velvet requires the finest silk and the finest weavers.
Dorne produces neither enough silk nor silk of sufficient quality, and Princess Deria Martell has no cause to sell it to us besides.
Lys and Myr hold the nearest silk markets firmly in their grasp.
To speak plainly, my lord, the wares of Harrenhal enjoy no advantage at all.
Even if I wished to aid you, the market would not forgive such a mistake.” Quentyn’s expression did not so much as flicker.
An old fox, he thought.
Greedy…
but seasoned.
Fortunately, the fox’s tail was already in his grasp.
The knights and lords of Westeros scorned merchants, yet none could do without them.
Quentyn saw matters differently.
He understood that commerce could enrich a house as surely as conquest, and a merchant with experience, connections, and loyalty was worth cultivating.
That was why, over the past several years, he had maintained a close relationship with the old fox seated across from him.
“What if our cloth sold for only half the price of its rivals?” Quentyn asked.
“Or seven-tenths?” He picked up a gold dragon from the table.
The coin was thick and heavy.
One face bore the likeness of King Jaehaerys, whose reign had endured for nearly fifty years.
The other displayed the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
Rolling the coin lightly across his knuckles, Quentyn met Galwyn’s gaze.
“While studying at the Citadel, I came upon plans for a new sort of loom.
Two skilled craftsmen can work a single machine and weave no fewer than three feet of velvet each day.
Add more looms and more hands, and the yield rises accordingly.” He closed his fingers around the coin, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
The maesters of the Citadel had indeed preserved treatises on such devices, but the loom he ultimately built owed as much to the knowledge of his former life as to anything found upon their shelves.
Whether those old memories were wholly accurate or not, the craftsmen of Harrenhal had helped him fashion the first working model.
The results had exceeded every expectation.
Galwyn fell silent.
Quentyn could almost see the calculations racing behind the old merchant’s eyes.
Galwyn had never imagined Harrenhal capable of producing cloth to rival the Free Cities.
The merchant in him smelled profit, while the sworn man in him balked at the thought of watching his lord squander what little wealth remained.
In the end, the merchant’s instincts began to gain the upper hand.
“We have ten such looms already,” Quentyn continued, his voice taking on an almost tempting note.
“Before long, there will be more.
His Grace levies customs only upon imported cloth.
Cloth woven in Westeros bears no such burden, which means our costs can be reduced even further.” He leaned forward slightly.
“Would it not be better to sell cloth of our own making?
Better still…
to sell it back to the Free Cities?” Galwyn hesitated.
Gods, what a sly young fox.
He knew better than to be persuaded so easily, yet every word Quentyn had spoken rang true.
More than forty years earlier, King Jaehaerys had appointed Rego Draz as Master of Coin.
The grasping Pentoshi had imposed heavy duties upon imported luxuries, yet decades of peace had filled the purses of both nobles and prosperous commons alike.
Despite their cost, the silks, wines, and fine goods of the Free Cities continued to dominate the markets of Westeros.
But if Westeros could produce luxuries to rival those of Lys or Myr, and if the realm accepted them…
The profits would be beyond imagining.
Galwyn sank into thought.
Across the table, Quentyn’s own mind was no less busy.
By Quentyn’s estimate, it would take at least ten thousand gold dragons to restore Widow’s Tower and Wailing Tower, the only parts of Harrenhal still inhabited by House Qoherys, and free them from being a constant burden on the family’s coffers.
As for restoring the whole of Harrenhal…
a hundred thousand gold dragons would scarcely make a dent.
The goods he had brought from Harrenhal would earn him around two hundred gold dragons if sold at the lowest price he had calculated, barely enough to recover his costs.
But if he could command a better price, he meant to wring every last coin from the market.
“My lord, the problem remains the same.” Galwyn weighed the matter for a long while before speaking.
“Cloth woven from wool and cotton alone will never claim much of the market.
If you could produce true velvet using fine silk bought at such a low price, then I would gladly give you my full support.” In the end, he shook his head.
“But King’s Landing is not so simple.
I’ve told you before, the nobles and wealthy merchants here spend lavishly on Meereenese lace and Lysene veils.
Those of middling means prefer Tyroshi cloth or Dornish silk.
The folk of Stag Alley and Three Dragon Alley buy cheaper wares from peddlers outside the Dragon Gate.
As for the poor in Flea Bottom…” He spread his hands helplessly.
“Most cannot afford to buy cloth at all.” In the end, Galwyn settled on a compromise between loyalty and profit.
“I’ll buy every bolt you’ve brought for one hundred and fifty gold dragons.
That’s the best offer Galwyn Chambers can make.” Quentyn frowned.
Before he could answer, a commotion erupted outside the window.
Robb Rivers was on his feet in an instant.
He rushed to the window, instinctively placing himself between Quentyn and the street below as he peered outside.
“My lord…” the black-haired boy said, his voice unsteady.
“Something’s happened at the Dragonpit.” The shouting from outside gradually became clear.
“…Dragon…” “…it’s flying this way…” “…Vhagar…” The cries were soon drowned beneath the roar of rushing wind and a deep, rumbling bellow that made the hairs on the back of Quentyn’s neck stand on end.
A dragon is coming this way?
His thoughts turned in an instant.
He rose from his chair and looked out the window.
King’s Landing stretched before him.
In the distance, the great dome of the Dragonpit crowned Rhaenys’s Hill.
A colossal green dragon had taken to the air, its immense wings beating against the sky as it flew straight toward the inn.
It drew closer with every heartbeat.
Quentyn could make out the loose folds beneath its throat, the short horns crowning its head…
…and the rider upon its back.
Prince Baelon Targaryen.
The Spring Prince.
The Brave.
Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne, Quentyn’s cousin…
and rider of Vhagar.
More than a hundred years had passed since the old she-dragon had carried Visenya Targaryen, sister and queen to Aegon the Conqueror, through the skies of Westeros.
Age had only made her more terrifying.
When Vhagar spread her wings, the streets below seemed to fall beneath a passing night.
Straight toward him?
Quentyn’s eyes narrowed.
The next instant, the ground shuddered beneath his feet.
A thunderous impact rolled through the building, as though an earthquake had struck King’s Landing itself.
Something has happened.
He made his decision without hesitation.
Glancing at Robb, who had already regained his balance, Quentyn gave a curt nod.
The black-haired boy understood at once and rushed to throw open the door.
The common room below had descended into chaos.
The serving boys huddled in corners, trembling.
A maid stood rooted to the spot, staring blankly at the enormous dragon’s head beyond the doorway.
The patrons who had been drinking only moments before now sat frozen, hardly daring to breathe.
“Quentyn!
Cousin!” Baelon burst into the tavern, panic written plainly across his face.
Cradled in his arms was a silver-haired boy drenched in blood.
Behind him came a broad-shouldered young man with silver-gold hair, his expression equally grim.
The Prince of Dragonstone looked up the moment he saw Quentyn, relief flashing across his face.
“Please,” he said, his voice tight with urgency.
“Save Daemon.”