“Gael doesn’t know you’ve arrived yet,” Baelon said quietly.
“But she soon will.
Her favorite boy, the true child of the dragon, the one born in the same winter as she was, has come to her father’s capital and saved her nephew.” He chuckled.
“I can almost picture her blushing while trying on dresses before finally hiding in Mother’s arms in embarrassment.” The Prince of Dragonstone’s expression softened, as though the image amused him.
“You’d best prepare yourself.
Mother’s spirits have been poor of late.
Aunt Vaella is one of the few relatives who can still bring her comfort.
If you and Gael can spend some time together, I believe it will ease her wounded heart.” Quentyn was taken aback.
He had expected Baelon to continue discussing the suspicious circumstances surrounding Daemon’s accident.
Instead, the prince had abruptly shifted the conversation to family matters.
Still, it wasn’t entirely unexpected.
Besides finding a market in King’s Landing for Harrenhal’s textile industry, another purpose of Quentyn’s visit was to fulfill a promise he’d made to his mother, to pay his respects to Queen Alysanne and visit his betrothed, Princess Gael Targaryen, the youngest daughter of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, known throughout the realm as the Child of Winter.
The king and queen still haven’t reconciled?
That was what Quentyn had heard from Princess Vaella.
This was already the second major falling-out between the royal couple.
Perhaps because Jaehaerys and Alysanne’s marriage had long been regarded as the very model of royal devotion, every quarrel between them inevitably became the talk of the Seven Kingdoms.
Naturally, Quentyn kept those thoughts to himself.
Baelon walked from the guest room back toward the tavern’s counter.
“My apologies.” The Prince of Dragonstone was as courteous as ever.
Although the barkeep was still trembling as though he’d just been pulled from an icy river, Baelon accepted the wooden tankard with a warm smile, the same warmth that had earned him the nickname the Spring Prince.
A pity, Quentyn mused as he followed after him and picked up a cup of his own.
I’m a child of winter.
He looked down into the wine.
Reflected on its surface was the face of a handsome youth with silver hair and deep violet eyes.
His expression remained calm and unreadable.
Only when ripples spread across the wine did the reflection distort, seeming to smile one moment and sink into contemplation the next.
“In the name of Baelon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, I offer my sincerest apologies for today’s disturbance.” Baelon’s voice rang throughout the tavern.
Raising his cup, he announced that he would personally pay for every customer’s food and drink.
The declaration was met with an eruption of cheers.
The tense silence that had gripped the tavern vanished in an instant.
Some praised the Spring Prince’s generosity.
Others extolled King Jaehaerys’ wisdom in naming him heir.
Still more shouted for another round of wine, especially Arbor vintages from the famed Redwyne vineyards.
The jubilant crowd quickly swallowed Grand Maester Elysar, who had just recovered enough to resume questioning Quentyn.
The old man was squeezed into a corner, while even his two assistant maesters forgot all about him, happily raising their own cups.
His furious protests disappeared beneath the roar of celebration.
Only when knights in white cloaks arrived was the Grand Maester finally rescued from the crowd by Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and several of his sworn brothers.
“To His Grace the King.” Baelon raised his cup and took a drink.
Then he turned toward Quentyn.
“And to Quentyn Qoherys of Harrenhal!” His voice carried to every corner of the tavern.
“The young man who saved my son!” A chorus of “To Quentyn!” immediately echoed through the room.
Quentyn himself, however, felt little at all.
This tavern stood in one of the safest districts of King’s Landing.
If he wanted to hear genuine praise, he would have to visit the open-air alehouses of Flea Bottom, where the stench of cheap ale mingled with mud and filth, or the brothels along the Street of Silk.
There, thieves, whores, and cutthroats who scraped out a living with blood and sweat would happily crown anyone willing to buy them a drink.
As it happened, Daemon was already one of their favorite “kings.” The tavern soon returned to its usual bustle, livelier than ever.
The dwarfs who had hidden themselves at the prince’s arrival now emerged once more, weaving between tables in hopes of earning a few coppers.
Vhagar had long since flown back to the Dragonpit.
Proud though House Targaryen might be, they would never allow a dragon to linger over a densely populated city for long.
Grand Maester Elysar, his face flushed crimson, continued arguing with Ser Ryam.
The Lord Commander merely replied that “His Grace requires your service more urgently,” before ordering his men to escort the old maester out of the tavern by force.
“Ser Ryam, I’ve heard much of your deeds.” Quentyn raised his cup in greeting.
He remembered that, two centuries later, even Ser Jaime Lannister would speak highly of the legendary knight.
Many considered Ryam Redwyne the greatest knight of his age.
“They’re nothing more than empty accolades.” The tall White Sword wore a neatly trimmed beard that only added to his handsome features.
He inclined his head modestly before stepping over to Baelon.
“Prince Baelon, I’ve arranged for Prince Daemon to be escorted back.
As for the Red Keep…” “I understand.” Baelon nodded.
He instinctively searched his person for something to offer before realizing he had come empty-handed.
Letting out a helpless sigh, he turned to Quentyn.
“My apologies, Quentyn.
I have nothing with me worthy of rewarding you today.
But rest assured, I won’t forget what you’ve done.” “That’s more than enough.” Your promise alone is worth far more.
Quentyn accepted Baelon’s gratitude with a smile.
The Prince of Dragonstone did not leave immediately.
Instead, he remained at the tavern for a while longer before finally departing alongside the guards who had come to escort Daemon back to the Red Keep.
The tavern remained lively, but once the Prince of Dragonstone departed, everyone visibly relaxed.
Even so, no one dared approach the heir to Harrenhal.
Only then did Quentyn finally breathe a sigh of relief and head back to his room with Robb.
As soon as he pushed open the door, he saw Galwyn pacing anxiously back and forth.
The merchant’s eyes lit up the instant he saw Quentyn, causing the latter’s expression to stiffen.
“Galwyn, my apologies.
I completely forgot about you.
You know how accidents have a way of happening when you least expect them.” “No, my lord, this wasn’t an accident.” Galwyn straightened his back, but Quentyn immediately caught the subtle change in his tone.
“You mean Daemon’s injury wasn’t accidental?” “Gods, no, Lord Quentyn!
I would never dare imply such a thing!” Galwyn paled, stumbling backward until he nearly fell onto the bed.
“I meant…
I meant…” “That Prince Baelon entrusted Prince Daemon to me because of my medical skills?” Quentyn sat back down.
Just then, Robb Rivers returned from downstairs carrying a tray of food.
Even the tray itself was finely carved wood, evidently the best the inn possessed.
The meal was generous.
Freshly toasted oat bread gave off a rich, inviting aroma that made the black-haired boy’s stomach rumble audibly.
Beside it lay a sizzling beefsteak glistening with thick gravy and garnished with chopped greens.
A hearty stew of pork, turnips, and beans completed the meal.
Quentyn picked up two slices of bread, cut off a piece of steak, tucked it between them, then handed the makeshift sandwich and the bowl of stew to Robb.
“My lord…
that’s your supper…” “I don’t care for stew.
Go ahead.” Only then did Robb accept the food with a grateful smile before retreating to a corner, where he quietly devoured it.
“So, Galwyn,” Quentyn said, tearing off another piece of bread and dipping it into the gravy.
“What exactly were you trying to say?” After nearly fourteen years in this world, Quentyn had discovered that Westerosi cuisine was far richer than he’d originally expected.
The cooking methods still left much to be desired, but at least there was no shortage of meat.
Perhaps when I return to Harrenhal, I can introduce a few new recipes.
“My lord, this is a golden opportunity!” Galwyn could barely contain his excitement.
“By tomorrow, the story of Prince Baelon riding his dragon to seek your help in saving Prince Daemon will have spread throughout every corner of King’s Landing.
There may even be singers composing new ballads in your honor!” He gestured animatedly as he spoke.
“If that happens, anything sold under your name will become highly sought after.
The price…
the price…” He swallowed hard.
“How about this?
I’ll buy the entire shipment you brought with you for one hundred and seventy, no, one hundred and eighty gold dragons.” “Don’t rush.” Quentyn immediately recognized both the merchant’s eagerness and the reverence mixed within it.
There was still room to negotiate.
He had no objection to Galwyn making a handsome profit.
Quentyn understood that the nobility of Westeros rarely involved themselves directly in commerce.
Even merchant houses such as House Redwyne, famed for its wines, or House Fossoway, which owned the largest apple orchards in the Seven Kingdoms, conducted business through cadet branches and affiliated merchants.
The lord of the house and his heir never personally handled trade.
That was precisely why Quentyn intended to cultivate Galwyn into a reliable business partner.
At least, for now.
“After the day of prayer, I’ll have an audience with His Grace.” He smiled faintly.
“We can discuss the price afterward.” This time, it was Quentyn who wasn’t in a hurry.
The moon slowly rose above the shimmering waters of Blackwater Bay, casting its pale light over the night sky of King’s Landing.
Moonlight filtered through the carved window lattice, breaking into strips of silver that fell across Quentyn’s hair, outlining it like a gleaming crown.
From the lighthouse overlooking the harbor to the towering Red Keep, lights flickered to life one by one, illuminating the capital against the night.
“Really?
He’s come to King’s Landing?” Gael Targaryen tossed aside the embroidery in her hands and clutched at her skirts in excitement.
The youngest daughter of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, Gael had been frail from the moment she was born.
Her difficult birth had further exhausted Queen Alysanne, who was already weakened by bearing children late in life.
Fearing that her youngest daughter might die young like several of her elder siblings, the queen had ordered Grand Maester Elysar and Septa Lyra to care for the infant day and night.
Even so, Gael had nearly failed to survive her first year.
Now, however, she had grown into a graceful young maiden.
Unlike her elder sister Viserra, whose striking beauty had been matched by a headstrong temperament before she died in a fall from her horse while attempting to flee, Gael possessed a softer, gentler charm.
Her wavy silver hair flowed all the way to her ankles.
She was petite, her figure not yet fully matured, but her large violet eyes always seemed to glisten with tears, stirring an instinctive desire to protect her.
“It’s true.” Gael’s companion, Lyra Bar Emmon, looked utterly captivated.
“Prince Baelon said it himself.
If Lord Quentyn Qoherys hadn’t been there today, Prince Daemon might have spent the rest of his life limping around…” She paused dramatically before adding, “…like a duck.” Lyra immediately began waddling around the room in exaggerated imitation of one.
“Lyra, please don’t make fun of Daemon.” Gael’s eyes immediately filled with tears.
“He fell from a dragon’s wing.
He must have been in so much pain.” “Lord Quentyn is incredible.” Realizing she’d said the wrong thing, Lyra hurried to make amends.
“And I heard from Ser Ryam that Lord Quentyn is a courteous and remarkably handsome young gentleman.” She puffed out her cheeks in mock annoyance.
“What a pity I can’t find a husband like that.” Gael’s cheeks instantly flushed bright red.