Prince Baelon was in his thirties, tall and powerfully built.
Though he had grown a beard, it was still easy to see the handsome young man he had once been.
Quentyn knew him well.
Two years earlier, after the death of the king’s eldest son, Prince Aemon, King Jaehaerys Targaryen had bypassed Aemon’s daughter, Princess Rhaenys, the rider of Meleys, the Red Queen, and named Baelon his heir to the Iron Throne instead.
The decision created a deep rift between the king and Queen Alysanne, plunging the royal couple into a cold war.
Even now, they lived apart, and the gulf between the once inseparable pair had never truly been bridged.
“What happened?” Quentyn’s eyes fell on Daemon Targaryen, who had curled up in his father’s arms, stifling pained sobs.
The future Rogue Prince was still only a teenager, about Quentyn’s own age.
He possessed the otherworldly beauty typical of the blood of Old Valyria, yet still retained the softness and innocence of a boy his age.
Now, however, his eyes were tightly shut as he struggled to endure the pain.
Blood continued to gush from the wound in his lower leg, soaking through the bandages and staining Baelon’s black robes a dark crimson.
For all King Jaehaerys’ shortcomings as a father, he was undeniably a masterful politician.
Even now, House Qoherys occupied a unique position within the realm.
They were Valyrian nobles with close ties to the royal family, one of the Crown’s strongest supporters in the western Riverlands, while also serving to balance the power of the Riverlords and keep watch over the Vale on the Iron Throne’s behalf.
For that reason, Princes Aemon and Baelon often flew to Harrenhal under the pretext of visiting Princess Vaella.
It was through those visits that Quentyn naturally became acquainted with Princess Rhaenys, as well as Baelon’s two sons, Viserys and Daemon.
Perhaps it was because they were close in age.
Perhaps they simply shared similar interests.
Whatever the reason, Quentyn and Daemon had become very good friends.
“What happened?” Quentyn rushed down the stairs.
One look at Daemon’s injury was enough for him to realize how serious the situation was.
The boy had clearly fallen while taming or riding a dragon.
The broken bone had pierced deep through the flesh, and a blood vessel had most likely been severed, which explained the relentless bleeding.
“Prince Baelon, didn’t the maesters treat his wound?” Quentyn crouched down and examined the injury with a frown.
Just as he had expected, the tremendous impact had shattered the bone, and one of the fragments had torn through an artery, leaving behind a horrifying wound.
“Let me explain, Cousin.” Quentyn saw the panic hidden deep within Viserys’ violet eyes.
But as the eldest son and Daemon’s older brother, this was the one moment he couldn’t afford to panic.
“Daemon tried to claim Caraxes today…” Even mentioning the fierce crimson dragon, whose long body resembled that of a serpent, made Viserys’ voice tremble ever so slightly.
Quentyn immediately understood.
Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, had originally belonged to Prince Aemon.
Although dragons often passed from one Targaryen to another, the circumstances this time were rather unusual.
Daemon’s mother, Princess Alyssa, had ridden Meleys, the Red Queen.
Shortly after Alyssa died in childbirth, Meleys had been claimed by Princess Rhaenys, Prince Aemon’s daughter.
Now Daemon had sought to claim Caraxes.
Whether there was any deeper meaning behind that was anyone’s guess, but it had nothing to do with Quentyn.
“At first, everything went smoothly.
Caraxes accepted Daemon without any trouble.
But when he was landing…
Daemon wanted to…” Viserys hesitated, searching for the right words.
“That’s enough.
I need a clean room.” Quentyn cut him off without another question and immediately ordered the inn servants to clear out a clean bedroom.
Just then, another commotion erupted at the tavern entrance.
“Prince Baelon, Prince Daemon needs a maester’s treatment, not, ” An aged voice arrived before its owner did.
Grand Maester Elysar shuffled into the tavern, supported on either side by two assistant maesters.
The elderly man’s body trembled from the hurried journey.
Fortunately, the tavern was located near the Red Keep.
Otherwise, Quentyn doubted the old man would have made it here in time.
Westeros differed greatly from the medieval Europe Quentyn remembered from his previous life, and the institution of the maesters was one of its greatest differences.
Many Westerosi lords regarded scholarship as a sign of weakness.
Some of those rough-hewn nobles couldn’t even read or write their own letters without the assistance of a maester.
For thousands of years, the Citadel in Oldtown had remained politically neutral, dispatching trained maesters to castles throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
Each maester served as physician, tutor, steward, and advisor, dedicating his entire life to the castle he was assigned to.
The Grand Maester, meanwhile, served the king directly.
He sat on the Small Council and was considered the foremost among all maesters.
Before Quentyn could speak, Grand Maester Elysar caught sight of him.
The tension on the old man’s flushed face eased slightly.
One of the assistant maesters was about to object, only for Elysar to silence him with a wave of his hand.
“Quentyn Qoherys?
The son of Lord Daeron Qoherys of Harrenhal and Princess Vaella?
I remember you, the youngest student in the history of the Citadel to forge a silver and tin link.” “That’s right.” Quentyn nodded.
Without even turning around, he instructed Prince Baelon and Viserys to carry Daemon upstairs before signaling to Robb.
“Go fetch my tools.” Then he looked toward the innkeeper.
“Boil a kettle of clean water.
And bring me some strong spirits, the undiluted kind.” The servant hurried off toward the cellar.
By the time he returned, Baelon and Viserys had already laid Daemon on the bed, waiting for Quentyn to begin treatment.
Whether as a transmigrator or simply as Daemon’s friend, Quentyn had no intention of letting anything happen to him.
Seeing Quentyn ignore them entirely, one of the assistant maesters finally lost his temper.
“Grand Maester, even if he’s the heir to Harrenhal, he can’t simply disregard you!” “Exactly!
You’re the Grand Maester of the Seven Kingdoms.
How old is he?
How could someone his age possibly handle an injury this severe?” “I understand, Grand Maester.
We should, ” “What do you understand?” Grand Maester Elysar jabbed a finger against the assistant’s forehead.
“Gods, has your brain been eaten by whores?
Watch carefully.” He had already examined Prince Daemon’s injuries.
The situation was extremely difficult.
Had Maester Runeter, the Citadel’s foremost surgeon, been present immediately after Daemon’s accident, saving the prince’s leg would likely have been possible, though the recovery would have been long and agonizing.
The problem was that Runeter was in Oldtown.
Among the maesters currently in King’s Landing, Elysar was the most accomplished physician, but his expertise lay in herbal medicine.
Faced with trauma of this magnitude, even he had little confidence.
“My child, don’t rush into surgery,” Elysar said earnestly.
“Prince Daemon’s injuries are extremely serious.
My advice is to stop the bleeding first and wait until several maesters can examine him together.
I have an ointment that, ” “You want Daemon to bleed to death?” Quentyn accepted the medical kit from Robb, who was so nervous he had nearly twisted his ankle racing back.
“Or would you rather the newest dragonrider become a cripple?” Feeling Viserys’ increasingly hostile gaze, the Grand Maester let out a sigh, but he refused to back down.
He knew Quentyn had acquired considerable medical knowledge during his years at the Citadel, but he simply couldn’t risk letting a boy not yet fourteen years old perform such an operation.
“I know what’s at stake, child.
That’s precisely why I must advise against it.
For now, a styptic and milk of the poppy are safer than a hasty operation…
at least as far as the prince’s life is concerned.” Quentyn paid no attention to the old man’s incessant warnings.
Instead, he looked straight at Baelon.
The Brave Prince’s face was etched with anxiety.
It was an expression Quentyn knew all too well.
He had seen it in both his previous life and this one whenever his parents saw him fall or suffer an injury.
“Prince Baelon, if you trust me, let me operate on Daemon.
Grand Maester, I understand this is your duty.
But right now, I’m the only one who can save both Daemon’s life…
and his leg.” He said nothing more.
Baelon stood frozen for a moment, looking from his unconscious son to the Grand Maester.
Finally, he drew a deep breath and stepped forward, placing himself squarely between Grand Maester Elysar and the bedroom door.
Grand Maester Elysar shook his head, still wanting to protest.
But Quentyn had already entered the room with his medical kit.
A kettle of boiling water and a bottle of high-proof spirits had already been prepared.
The fire in the hearth burned brightly, while the innkeeper and his servants, having heard what had happened, huddled behind the counter, trembling too much to move.
Robb quietly closed the door behind them and took up his position outside like a loyal sentry.
Standing beside Daemon’s bed, Quentyn drew a slow breath and closed his eyes, sinking deep into his own consciousness.
The reason he was confident enough to accomplish what even the Grand Maester could not was simple.
As a transmigrator, he possessed a gift that belonged to him alone.
Deep within his mind stood a colossal gate.
It towered between heaven and earth.
One half was as black as the darkest night, while the other was as white as polished bone.
Intricate patterns were carved across both doors, meeting seamlessly in the center.
Ever since he was a child, Quentyn had known that whenever he accomplished certain feats, he could push open that gate and receive a corresponding reward.
No two rewards were ever the same.
The last time he had opened it was after reading more than three hundred hefty books.
Beyond the gate, he had found an endless star-filled sky, with streams of knowledge drifting through the cosmos like falling starlight.
That reward had granted him Photographic Memory, allowing him to recall perfectly everything he had ever seen.
Quentyn reached out and pushed against the massive gate.
As it slowly swung open, a rich fragrance instantly flooded his consciousness.
Rather than dulling his senses, however, it sharpened them until his mind had never felt clearer.
Beyond the gate stood a towering tree with a broad canopy laden with countless fruits.
As the gate opened, one of its branches slowly lowered before him, presenting a single fruit.
Reward: Lifeweaving Requirement: Heal one hundred people.
This was the reward he had earned after treating one hundred patients during his studies at the Citadel and returning to Harrenhal.
He had never used it.
Without hesitation, Quentyn plucked the fruit and swallowed it whole.
Warmth immediately flowed into his hands.
In that instant, he understood exactly what the gift represented.
As expected, it was a power intimately connected to healing and life itself.
His hands became incomparably nimble.
At the same time, an intricate understanding of the human body naturally surfaced in his mind as he rapidly absorbed everything the ability had to offer.
Simply put, Lifeweaving granted Quentyn the hands of a master surgeon.
Even in Westeros, a world whose medicine blended elements of the medieval and Renaissance eras, he could perform operations beyond the imagination of ordinary physicians, accomplishing feats others would mistake for magic.
He could numb pain.
Create a sterile field.
Perfectly stitch together torn flesh.
All of it as naturally as breathing.
Whew…
Quentyn let out a long breath.
He took a pair of forceps and a scalpel from his medical kit and sterilized them in the strong liquor.
For a brief moment, a faint glimmer seemed to flicker in the depths of his dark violet eyes.
Daemon’s injury became astonishingly clear.
Layers of flesh and muscle unfolded before his vision.
Bone and blood vessels appeared as though the skin itself had turned transparent, every structure laid bare before his eyes.
Working deftly, Quentyn removed the makeshift bandages.
Daemon’s lower leg was twisted at an unnatural angle.
Splintered bone protruded through torn flesh, making for a gruesome sight.
Fine strands of pale green light quietly emerged before Quentyn’s eyes.
They wove themselves into an invisible web over the wound, and tiny motes of light drifted into the torn flesh.
As they settled, Daemon’s agonizing pain rapidly faded, while unseen contaminants were quietly erased.
His ragged breathing gradually steadied.
“Good.
Hold the artery aside.
I need to remove the bone pieces and stop the bleeding.” The glowing threads responded to his will, gently drawing the damaged blood vessel out of the way.
Quentyn’s hands remained perfectly steady.
The forceps slipped precisely between flesh and artery, extracting each fragment of shattered bone one after another.
The glowing threads immediately followed behind, sealing the damaged vessel with astonishing speed.
Before long, the bleeding came under control.
Quentyn carefully treated the remaining wounds before grasping the fractured leg and firmly setting the bone back into place.
The pale green threads seeped into the fracture, slowly knitting the damaged bone together.
Once everything else had been dealt with, he used the silken threads conjured by Lifeweaving to close the largest wound.
“…Ah…” Daemon let out a muffled groan as his eyes slowly fluttered open.
The first thing he saw was Quentyn leaning over him, still tending to his injuries.
“Damn it, Quentyn…” Despite the pain, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“You saved my life…” “Gods, that hurts.”