“Lyra!” Gael’s face flushed as red as a ripe apple.
At that moment, she wished the floor would split open and swallow her whole so she could curl up inside it, hidden from the world.
“There now, my princess.” Septa Lyra sat beside her with a gentle smile.
She picked up the embroidery Gael had tossed aside and placed it back into her hands before lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“Lady Rhea of House Royce told me Lord Quentyn won’t present himself before the king until after the Day of Prayer.
That gives us several more days to prepare.
Lady Rhea has promised to keep watch and let us know whenever he comes to court.” Gael clutched the ball of yarn so tightly that her pale fingers slowly turned red.
“I…
I’m not sure.
I…
I mean…” “You needn’t worry.” Lyra turned, revealing the other young ladies waiting nearby.
Queen Alysanne had always doted on her youngest daughter.
Until Gael was ten, mother and daughter had shared the same bedchamber, and even now every maid assigned to the princess had been carefully chosen from noble families.
“We’ll make you the loveliest maiden in all King’s Landing.” Smiling, Lyra gently rubbed Gael’s reddened fingers until the color faded.
“I promise you, Lord Quentyn won’t be able to take his eyes off you.” The nights in King’s Landing were nothing like those at Harrenhal.
In Quentyn’s memory, the nights at Harrenhal were filled with the mournful cry of the wind, whispering through the shattered towers like witches trading secrets.
Damp air gnawed endlessly at ancient stone, and the ruins beneath his feet seemed forever alive with quiet, sorrowful lamentation.
Oddly enough, he had always slept soundly there.
Here, despite the silk mattress and feather pillows, sleep refused to come.
King’s Landing, however, offered distractions Harrenhal never could.
From the room next door came the unmistakable sounds of lovers, followed by a man’s contented sighs that carried on well into the night.
Robb knocked on the wall more than once in a futile attempt to quiet them.
The noise would stop for a few moments, only for thunderous snoring to erupt from another room instead.
Even the wealthy could do little to escape such inconveniences.
The walls of an inn could only be made so thick.
Quentyn hardly minded.
When he had first discovered the great gate within his mind, he had spent years searching for ways to open it.
His first success had come only after forcing himself through twenty sleepless nights in succession.
Just as he reached the limits of his endurance, the gate had stirred.
Beyond it stood the same towering tree that reached from earth to sky.
From one of its branches he had plucked a fruit called Night Owl.
Its gift allowed him to remain alert through the night, restoring all his strength with only a few hours of sleep.
Poor Robb had not been nearly so fortunate.
The boy spent breakfast pinching himself every few moments, terrified he might fall asleep at the table.
But he was only ten years old.
Exhaustion claimed him before long, and after Quentyn insisted, he obediently climbed into the smaller bed and was asleep within minutes.
After all, a boy who dreamed of becoming Quentyn’s sworn sword had never learned how to refuse him.
“A good knight must first learn to sleep well.” That single sentence had been enough.
Outside the window, distant music drifted through the morning air.
The procession for the Day of Prayer had departed from the Great Sept of King’s Landing.
Passing along Sisters’ Street and by the Alchemists’ Guildhall, it made its way toward the Dragonpit.
By long tradition, statues of all Seven gods would be carried through the city, allowing the smallfolk to offer their prayers as the procession passed.
Fragments of the septons’ chants reached Quentyn through the open window.
He recognized the verses praising King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, echoes of the seven great septons who had once traveled the realm defending the Doctrine of Exceptionalism.
It was they who had convinced the faithful that the marriages of House Targaryen were sanctified by the Seven themselves.
Those hymns soon gave way to others.
More and more voices joined in singing the praises of the Seven.
At first it was only the clergy.
Then came the nobles and wealthy merchants from Gold Dragon Lane and Hook Lane.
Craftsmen from the Street of Steel added their voices.
Even the whores of the Street of Silk joined the chorus.
One by one, the whole of King’s Landing began to sing.
Before long, the hymns to the Seven rang louder than those offered to the king.
Quentyn quietly closed the window, shutting out the swelling chorus.
Perhaps that’s one reason the Shepherd was able to rouse the city against the dragons.
Peace had brought prosperity.
Prosperity had left people searching for something more.
Faith had filled the void.
He glanced around the room.
Robb still slept soundly on the little bed, smacking his lips now and then as though he were dreaming of the roast mutton from breakfast.
The parchment upon the table was covered in lines of writing unlike any script in Westeros.
Only Quentyn could read it.
He had devised the cipher while studying at the Citadel, using it to conceal forbidden knowledge copied from restricted books.
Now he used the same script to record the abilities granted by the gate…
…and his own deductions about the future.
Returning to his chair, Quentyn dipped his quill into the ink and continued writing.
His voice was barely louder than a whisper.
“In our demesne, both Copperwood Village and Ewe Village should be suitable for growing mulberry trees.” He paused, unable to suppress a faint smile.
“Though why Ewe Village lies in the woods while Bigtree Village sits in open grassland…” Quentyn ran a hand through his hair.
His silver hair was unlike that of his mother, Princess Vaella.
Hers curled naturally, while his was soft and perfectly straight, just like his grandmother Agatha’s.
For a long time, he had suspected that Lady Agatha might be another transmigrator.
Her origins were mysterious, and she too possessed silver hair and violet eyes.
Yet after living under the same roof for thirteen years, Quentyn had come to one conclusion.
She was simply an old woman with a hearty appetite, a fondness for conversation, and a heart too kind for her own good.
She possessed no knowledge beyond her age, no extraordinary foresight.
Only the wisdom earned through a lifetime, a heart of gold, and boundless love for her family.
Even now, his father, Lord Daeron, became almost childlike in her presence, while Princess Vaella remained the same innocent girl who had once hidden with her mother and siblings in Harrenhal’s labyrinthine cellars, fleeing from her uncle, King Maegor.
“The mulberry trees in Copperwood Village have been growing for thousands of years,” Quentyn murmured as he wrote.
“At least Harren the Black preferred oaks.
Otherwise I’d still be worrying over where to find mulberry seeds.” He paused to think.
“The Riverlands and the Reach lack silkworm eggs of sufficient quality.
Myr produces the finest silk in the known world, but the magisters of Myr guard their silkworms more jealously than their own mothers.
Lys…
perhaps.
A Lysene merchant would sell his own mother if the price were high enough.
Still, their silkworms can’t compare to those of Myr.” He tapped the quill against the parchment.
“If the world of ice and fire is a globe, then the climate of Myr and Pentos should be much closer to that of the Riverlands.
If I use silkworm eggs from Lys…” “Who goes there?” The door creaked open.
Quentyn was on his feet in an instant.
Still half asleep, Robb stumbled out of bed without even opening his eyes properly and threw himself in front of Quentyn.
“Quentyn.
It’s me.” A silver-haired boy hobbled into the room with the aid of a crutch.
Pulling back his hood, he revealed a familiar face.
“Daemon?” Quentyn stared at him.
“Have you lost your wits?” He knew exactly what Lifeweaving had accomplished.
If he had wished, he could have healed Daemon completely on the spot, or at least every external injury and the inflammation that accompanied it.
He couldn’t guarantee there wasn’t some unseen complication, but once the obvious wounds had been dealt with, the risk of infection had fallen dramatically.
Even so, to avoid alarming Grand Maester Elysar, Quentyn had deliberately left behind a few harmless aftereffects that would disappear on their own after several days of rest.
“I’m fine now.” Daemon tossed the crutch aside and stretched, only to wince.
“Gods, last night was miserable.
It itched so badly I thought I’d chew through the floor of Maegor’s Holdfast.” He started toward Quentyn.
His leg promptly refused to cooperate.
“Give me a hand, would you?” Robb glanced uncertainly at Quentyn.
Quentyn sighed.
“Robb, I truly think you should make him choose between those two nicknames before he spends every gold dragon we’ve got.” Only then did Robb cautiously move forward to support Daemon.
“No, your healing’s leagues beyond those old grey sheep.” Daemon practically bounced over once Robb steadied him.
“It itched all night, but when I woke this morning, apart from the leg feeling a little stiff, I was nearly good as new.” He laughed.
“Gods, you should’ve seen the look on that old grey sheep’s face yesterday.” “So?” Quentyn folded his arms.
“Does Baelon know you’re here?
Or has the fearless Prince Daemon slipped out behind his father’s back again?” “Of course.” Daemon spread his hands innocently.
“He wouldn’t let me leave my room, so I had to use a little ingenuity.” He grinned.
“I told you I meant to thank you properly.” “By blood, you ought to be calling me uncle.” Quentyn snorted.
“My advice is that you think up an excuse quickly, then get back into bed and resume groaning.
Prince Baelon may yet go easy on you.
And where’s Viserys?
Helping you with this?” “Of course not.” Daemon shook his head.
“Aemma ate something that disagreed with her yesterday.
Viserys is still with her.” He abruptly changed the subject.
“Enough of that.
Come on, brother.
Put this on.” Producing a dark cloak from somewhere, Daemon draped it over Quentyn’s silver hair before the latter could object.
“I’m taking you somewhere every man ought to see.” Without giving Quentyn any chance to refuse, he caught him by the arm, snatched up his discarded crutch with the other hand, and limped out of the room.
The tavern was nearly deserted during the day, especially on the Day of Prayer.
The common room stood empty save for a lone servant dozing behind the counter.
Quentyn looked back at Robb, whose bewildered expression said everything.
The black-haired boy understood immediately and made no move to stop them.
Together, the two slipped out into the streets, disappearing into the crowds gathered for the procession.
No one spared the pair a second glance.
The faithful continued singing as flower petals rained from the upper windows.
The streets rang with laughter, prayer, and celebration.
“What exactly are you planning?” Quentyn followed Daemon through the crowd for a short distance before the prince abruptly dragged him into a narrow alley.
He quickly ran through a map of King’s Landing in his mind.
Not the Street of Silk.
Thank the gods.
Watching Daemon limp ahead, Quentyn’s suspicion only deepened.
Where is he taking me…
Flea Bottom?
“This,” Daemon declared grandly, “is the finest thanks I know how to give.” He pushed open a weathered wooden gate and casually tossed a silver stag into the lap of the blind old man keeping watch beside it.
On the steps sat a weather-beaten soldier.
He was not old, but his equipment was little more than rust and scraps.
The sword at his hip was spotted with corrosion.
The moment he recognized Daemon, he froze.
Then he drew his sword and thrust it toward the sky.
“Long live the King of Flea Bottom!” The cry spread through the alley in an instant.
Voices answered from every direction.
Quentyn saw pockmarked veterans, weary prostitutes, ragged children, broad-shouldered washerwomen, gaunt young men…
The very people one might expect to be swept up in the fervor of the Day of Prayer had ignored the procession entirely.
Instead, they had gathered here, carrying on with their ordinary lives.
Now they all shouted as one.
“Long live the King of Flea Bottom!” Daemon turned toward Quentyn with a grin, spreading his arms wide.
Hands reached up around him from every side.
Beneath the shadows cast by the buildings, they overlapped above his head until they resembled a crown woven from light and darkness.
Quentyn folded his arms and narrowed his eyes.
Then, switching to High Valyrian, he asked dryly, “So…
have you decided you’d rather be known as Daemon, the Crippled King?”