Quentyn Qoherys knew from his previous life that Daemon had spent much of his youth in Flea Bottom and was a frequent visitor to the Street of Silk.
But only now, seeing it with his own eyes, did he truly understand the weight behind the title “King of Flea Bottom.” No wonder that, in the original timeline, Daemon had been able to rally a force capable of influencing the fate of King’s Landing both before and after his brother took the Iron Throne, maintaining that influence for years to come.
Hearing Quentyn’s sarcastic remark, Daemon gave an irritated snort.
“You really won’t stop trying to make me into a cripple.” “Then let us give thanks to Quentyn Qoherys of Harrenhal!” Daemon suddenly raised his voice.
“Thank him for making sure you can eat salted pork today, tomorrow, and the day after.
Thank him for making sure no ragged hedge knight will bleed you of your last copper ever again!” In an instant, the cheers that had been directed toward Daemon turned toward Quentyn.
A skinny little girl ran up and stuffed a smooth black stone into Quentyn’s satchel.
An elderly beggar with snow-white hair knelt trembling to kiss the ground where he had walked.
An old woman missing half her teeth traced the sign of the Seven over her chest and whispered, “May the Seven bless you, kind child.” A blacksmith at the roadside lifted his hammer in salute, while the young soldier who had hailed Daemon moments earlier bowed deeply to Quentyn instead.
“What exactly have you done?” Quentyn asked, grabbing Daemon by the collar.
“There are tens of thousands of people in Flea Bottom, and you…” “Nothing much.” Daemon wore the same irreverent grin as ever, though pride shone plainly through it.
“I simply told the merchants who made children fight beasts for coin that if the grandmother of the white-haired boy standing beside me ever found out people in her husband’s capital treated lives so cheaply, they’d wish they could run farther from me than the Wall.” Quentyn gave him a flat look.
“I’d wager you had Red Keep guards standing behind you and a dragon circling overhead when you said that.” Daemon actually looked a little embarrassed.
“Details.” He shrugged.
“The important thing is that the people around here no longer have to put up with those mangy curs in the City Watch, nor risk their lives just to earn a crust of bread.” He slung an arm over Quentyn’s shoulder as they continued through the bustling alley.
“I can’t change their lives,” he admitted after a moment.
“I can only make them a little easier.” Then he tapped the corner of one eye.
“The thieves, gamblers, and whores of Flea Bottom are my eyes.” “There isn’t a thing that happens in King’s Landing without me hearing of it.” “Only the things I choose not to know.” Quentyn lowered his voice.
“Then have your eyes discovered why you twisted your ankle on that rock?” “No.” Daemon’s expression darkened.
“If I find out someone arranged that…” He stopped mid-sentence.
“…Wait.
How did you know about that?” His eyes widened.
“So it was you who convinced Father to send me back to Dragonstone?” Quentyn smiled faintly without answering.
Daemon’s expression became wonderfully complicated.
Even the cheers of the girls nearby no longer seemed capable of distracting him.
“I still think you should remain on Dragonstone until you’ve recovered completely,” Quentyn said in High Valyrian.
“If your accident wasn’t an accident…” His voice grew quieter still.
“…if it was the bite of a venomous snake lurking in the dark, striking at a true dragon…” “Then this is far more dangerous than a broken leg.” Daemon fell silent.
The alley stretched on for quite some distance.
Doors of every shape and size lined both sides.
In one particularly absurd building, six or seven separate doorways had been crammed into what should have been a single house.
Ladders, stairways, and ropes intertwined beneath filthy blankets.
Quentyn guessed the landlord had hollowed the place out, added several illegal stories, and squeezed every last inch of space into rentable rooms.
At the alley’s end lay a small square.
A weathered marble fountain trickled cloudy water while several women struggled beneath heavy wooden buckets.
Seeing Daemon approach, each lowered her head respectfully.
It was also the only place in the alley where the sunlight reached the ground.
Suddenly, an immense shadow swept across the square.
Daemon’s face changed instantly.
“Silverwing?” “How…
Why would Grandmother’s dragon be here?” Quentyn looked up as well.
Graceful and majestic, the great she-dragon soared overhead.
Her head was slender, her neck long, and her broad silver wings cast an elegant shadow across the city below.
“Impossible…” Daemon stared upward.
Ever since Queen Alysanne had quarreled with King Jaehaerys over the succession two years earlier, she had flown to Dragonstone on Silverwing.
She had not spoken to the king since.
Nor had Jaehaerys, out of equal stubbornness, ever gone to Dragonstone to see her.
Daemon knew something else as well.
Since a flight the previous year, his grandmother’s spirits had steadily declined.
She had not mounted Silverwing again until now.
“Nothing is impossible,” Quentyn murmured.
At present, perhaps only three people could truly lift Queen Alysanne’s spirits again.
Her daughter, Septa Maegelle, in Oldtown.
Her youngest daughter, Princess Gael.
And Quentyn’s own mother, Princess Vaella.
She has probably come for Mother.
“I suggest you return to the Red Keep at once, ” Before he could finish, Daemon was already hopping toward the alley entrance as fast as his healing leg would allow.
Quentyn had expected exactly that.
Daemon was reckless, but he was no fool.
Ordinarily, slipping out for a walk on the Day of Prayer was the sort of mischief Prince Baelon would likely forgive, especially while Daemon was recovering.
But if Queen Alysanne discovered it…
That would be another matter entirely.
Just as Quentyn caught up with Daemon at the mouth of the alley, several figures stepped into their path.
“Daemon.” Baelon’s voice was calm.
“I believe you owe me an explanation.” Even so, Ser Robin Shaw of the Kingsguard and Viserys, standing beside him, instinctively took half a step backward.
“Father, I…” Daemon faltered.
His eyes darted helplessly from Viserys to Quentyn, silently begging for rescue.
Quentyn sighed.
“Baelon, even a hatchling is still a dragon.” He smiled faintly.
“And even a young dragon has its pride…
does it not?” Baelon glared at his son.
Then, almost as quickly, the anger left his eyes.
He reached over and ruffled Quentyn’s silver hair.
“A young dragon’s pride should never come at the expense of another young dragon’s efforts.” “Daemon deserves punishment.” “But not today.” Behind Ser Robin waited a carriage.
Beside it stood a magnificent silver-gray destrier, already saddled.
The white knight stepped forward, relieving Quentyn of his burden before helping the thoroughly dejected Daemon into the carriage.
“Wait, I can still ride!” “Your Highness,” Ser Robin replied expressionlessly as he shut the carriage door, “those are the Prince of Dragonstone’s orders.” He swung into the saddle without another word.
“Your mother has come to fetch you.” Baelon had already mounted his own black courser.
Watching Quentyn settle onto his horse, he added, “A raven arrived from Dragonstone.
The moment she heard you had saved Daemon, she decided to fly back to King’s Landing herself.” A shadow crossed his face.
“I haven’t seen Mother this happy in a very long time.” Quentyn gently pressed his heels against the horse’s flanks.
The well-trained mount started forward, carrying him steadily toward the Dragonpit.
“Won’t Her Grace first go to see His Grace?” Baelon was silent for a while.
“…Mother still cannot let it go.” Quentyn said nothing.
He looked toward the sky.
The afternoon sun hung above the Red Keep, bathing the great castle in crimson light until it looked as though someone had splashed it with blood.
At length, Baelon broke the silence.
“I’ve heard Father and Mother once lived at Harrenhal for a time.” “Fifty years ago.” Though Quentyn had heard the tale countless times from both his grandmother and his mother, it remained one of the greatest divergences from the history he remembered.
Apart from the survival of House Qoherys itself, nothing had changed the course of events more.
“Queen Dowager Visenya had just died.
Queen Dowager Alyssa realized it was finally time to escape Maegor’s control.” “So she fled Dragonstone with the young king, the queen, and my mother.” He continued, “There were very few castles in the Seven Kingdoms large enough to hide dragons.
Every great lord’s seat was watched by the Usurper, while Maegor’s agents knew Pentos inside and out.” Inside the carriage, Daemon had leaned halfway out of the window to listen.
Even Viserys edged closer.
Baelon naturally knew the story, but not in such detail.
“They first sought refuge on Driftmark,” Quentyn went on.
“But House Velaryon was under constant surveillance as well.
They couldn’t safely hide dragons there, so Queen Dowager Alyssa was forced to seek another sanctuary.” The Dragonpit stood only a short ride from Flea Bottom.
Before long, the great dome loomed above them.
From below, Maegor’s monument to Balerion the Black Dread was breathtaking.
Its towering spires echoed the architecture of ancient Valyria, while beneath the vast circular dome, half of Rhaenys’s Hill had been hollowed away to create a labyrinth fit for dragons.
“So my mother chose Harrenhal.” A gentle woman’s voice drifted down from above.
“Because it was large enough…
and because your grandfather, Lord Aenys Qoherys, offered widows and orphans bread, salt, and a warm hearth instead of cold prison cells.” “Quentyn.” “I still remember the taste of your grandmother Agatha’s bread.” Quentyn looked up and immediately dismounted.
“Good day, Aunt Alysanne.” He deliberately did not call her Your Grace.
At this moment, she needed family.
Not ceremony.
“Your Grace,” Baelon said, bound by duty.
Viserys followed his father’s example.
Only Daemon lowered his head in embarrassment before muttering, “Good day…
Grandmother.” Queen Alysanne was nearing sixty.
Time had left its mark upon the face that had once been famed throughout the realm for its beauty.
Fine lines framed her eyes, and gentle creases lingered at the corners of her smile.
Dust stirred by Silverwing’s landing clung lightly to her silver riding leathers, but it did nothing to diminish the warmth that seemed to radiate naturally from her.
Her once honey-blonde curls had long since turned silver-white, gathered neatly behind her head.
Only her deep blue eyes remained unchanged, calm as still water.
“Quentyn.” She held out her hand, unable to hide the joy shining in her eyes.
“Come here to your aunt.” Quentyn hurried forward.
Alysanne cupped his cheek with one hand.
“You’ve grown.” “The last time I saw you, you were nothing but a naked little boy sitting in your mother’s lap, pretending to read like a grown man.” She laughed softly.
“Aemon kept trying to make you look up, but you ignored him so completely that the poor child nearly burst into tears.” Her fingers gently brushed his cheek.
Tears shimmered in those clear blue eyes.
For a fleeting moment, Quentyn almost felt as though his own mother stood before him.
The same warmth.
The same tenderness.
His cheeks colored slightly.
“You have your mother’s eyes.”