The storm reached King's Landing with the ship. The water around the docks was churning, waves pounding against the shore, but the experienced sailors of the Black Dragons had little trouble bringing the ship alongside one of the wooden wharves jutting out into the bay. A few men leapt down to the dock, trailing ropes in their hands, and swiftly tied the ship down. Others were busy raising the sails and lashing them in place against the poles of the masts. Two men lifted a long gangplank and set it between the deck of the ship and the dock below.

Darkfyre and Meraxes circled above the ship. Quentyn was pleased at the efficiency of his men; he expected no less from them, but it was still good to see the results of their rigorous training.

Darkfyre was handling the strong winds of the storm with ease; he had grown up flying in the harsh weather of Dragonstone, and this was a small squall compared to the hurricanes that sometimes came off the Narrow Sea. Meraxes, however, was having difficulties, and Aemond was struggling to keep control of the dragon. "I am returning to the Dragonpit!" Aemond shouted to Quentyn. "Meet me at the Keep; father wants us to dine with him tonight!"

"I shall! Fly safe!" Quentyn shouted back. Aemond pulled Meraxes's head about, and flew back towards the city.

"Darkfyre, land!" Quentyn shouted. The black dragon slowly descended to the shore next to the wharf, landing in the wet sand. Quentyn jumped from his back, barely keeping his feet.

Fifty of his men had left the ship, and were marching five abreast in perfect rows down onto the beach. They were clad in the garb of the Black Dragons: black leather covered them from neck to toe, unadorned and unmarked, save for the sigil of House Targaryen stitched in red thread over their right breast. Ser Daemon walked at the head of the column; as second-in-command, his uniform bore a silver hand stitched opposite the dragon.

Quentyn met the column at the edge of the dock. His men clapped a hand to their breasts and knelt in unison, bowing their heads. Quentyn clapped Daemon on the shoulder. "Rise!" he commanded. The Black Dragons stood, again in unison; Daemon rose as well, smiling at the prince. "What a welcome we received; two dragons escorting us into port!" the knight said. Quentyn laughed and gave his cousin a short embrace. "It is good to see you, ser," he said. "It feels like I have been away two years, not two days."

"It is good to see you as well, my prince. Dragonstone has been less interesting with you and Darkfyre gone," Daemon replied. "Your armor and clothing are on board the ship, as well as our horses and supplies. It will take some time to unload them."

"I must leave you to it, then; the king has requested my presence at dinner," Quentyn said with a slight frown. He did not like leaving his men to work in a storm, but he needed to make amends with his father, and ignoring a summons to dinner was not the best way to begin that process. "When you arrive at the Red Keep, tell the guards you are my men, and I want you stationed in the barracks in Maegor's Holdfast. You are to be brought as much food and drink as you require, your horses are to be stabled, and my items are to be delivered to my chambers."

"As you say, my prince," Daemon replied. "We shall want to rest once we have eaten; I will see you on the morrow. We need to train before the tournament, I think." He said the last with a wink. Quentyn smiled ruefully; the last time he and Daemon had sparred, Daemon had defeated him. It was only the fifth time it had happened, but the memory still stung slightly. "Certainly, cousin. I need to repay you for the bruises you left me last time." Daemon chuckled at that.

Quentyn clapped his cousin on the shoulder once more before turning and striding back towards Darkfyre. Behind him, he could hear Daemon issuing commands in the clipped voice he used on the battlefield.

The prince climbed onto Darkfyre's back and shouted, "The Red Keep!" Darkfyre swept into the sky and quickly crossed the city, settling down a few minutes later to the cobbles of the Keep. Quentyn climbed down carefully this time; a slip on the cobbles could mean broken bones. He walked along the dragon's neck; Darkfyre lowered his head, looking at the prince with one of his massive eyes. "Go find somewhere dry to roost," Quentyn told him, scratching the scales of the dragon's cheek. Darkfyre snorted and jumped back into the sky, circling higher before flying across the Keep towards the kingswood. Quentyn watched him go for a moment, before turning and walking towards Maegor's Holdfast.

Once inside the castle, Quentyn took a moment to smooth this hair and wipe the water from his leather clothes. They were waterproof, thankfully, and he was mostly dry by the time he reached the door to his father's solar at the top of the castle. He knocked twice, announcing his presence. "Ah, Quentyn! Come in!" King Viserys shouted. Quentyn pulled open the door and entered the solar.

The torches were burning in their brackets along the walls of the solar. A merry fire crackled in the hearth; the room was quite warm. Viserys sat at the head of the table, in the same spot as the day before when Quentyn had intruded on the small council meeting. The seat to his right was empty; Aemond sat to his left. Daenerys sat next to the empty seat; she was smiling at her prince. He returned her smile before looking across the other faces at the table.

Quentyn's heart sped up when he recognized the other guests. Lord Jon Stark sat next to Aemond on the left of the table; next to him sat his son Tohrren. Brandon Stark sat across from Tohrren, to the right of Daenerys. Rhaenyra sat at the foot of the table, her back to her brother.

Katarina was not in the room; for that, Quentyn was thankful. Much as he longed to see her again, he knew it would only bring trouble. Harden your heart, he scolded himself. Go sit next to your betrothed, and comport yourself as a prince should.

Quentyn bowed low. "Father, Lord Jon. Greetings. I hope I have not kept you waiting; a ship arrived from Dragonstone, and I wanted to greet my men in person."

"It's nothing, my prince," Lord Jon replied. "We have been here but a moment, and it is a good commander who treats his men with respect." Quentyn nodded. "Thank you, my lord."

"Come, sit," Viserys said, waving to the seat next to him. Quentyn walked around the table and sat next to Daenerys.

"Lord Jon, will your daughter be joining us this evening?" the king asked. Quentyn's heart sped up again, but Daenerys laid her hand on his, reminding him to master himself. Even if she does come, I must not make a fool of myself.

"No, Your Grace. Katarina begs your pardon; the trip south has left her weary, and she wished to remain in her chambers and rest." Seven be praised.

Quentyn cleared his throat and turned to the king. "Father, I beg your pardon for my behavior yesterday. I acted as a fool, and I ask your forgiveness." Viserys just waved a hand, smiling. "It is forgotten," he said. "I have come to expect headstrong behaviors from my sons; Aegon is still being confined to his chambers, refusing to cease his ranting about inheritances and the future of the realm." Rhaenyra chuckled at this, lifting a goblet to her lips. Quentyn nodded. "Thank you." Aemond nodded at him across the table, a slight smile touching his lips.

Servants filed into the room, bearing plates of food. Quentyn stuck to meats and vegetables; there were richer delicacies at the table, but he still found them too cloying for his taste. The fare on Dragonstone was confined to what came from the sea, along with meat he hunted from Darkfyre's back as they flew over the coastal forests near the mouth of Blackwater Bay. Quentyn was an excellent shot with a bow, and kept his cellars stocked with venison and boar. When a servant brought a flagon of wine to fill the prince's cup, he waved it away, asking for water instead. He could see Aemond smile at that.

"So, Prince Quentyn," Lord Jon said, "His Grace was telling me earlier about your Black Dragons. He says they are the finest fighting force in the entire kingdom."

"My father is kind," Quentyn replied. "It is true my men are exceptionally trained, and have proven themselves a formidable foe."

"And where did they prove this? The kingdom has been at peace since the reign of King Jaehaerys; there have been no wars to fight for over a hundred years."

Viserys chuckled. "No wars in Westeros, you mean. We have had foreign enemies before, until they were dealt with."

"I should very much like to hear this story," Brandon Stark said. His brother Tohrren nodded in agreement. "Yes, please, Your Grace. All the war stories these days are stale."

Quentyn was growing tense. He did not like to think about the red wastes. "The details are a closely guarded secret, my lords. The only people who know of the war at all are my father, my men, and myself, and even my father has no knowledge of the details."

"Bah. I despise secrets," the king said. "Leave those to Lord Strong. The war is two years done; a few more people knowing of it will do no harm." Quentyn forced himself to nod. I do not like where this conversation is leading.

Viserys cleared his throat and sat forward in his chair. "Two years ago, Lord Strong received word of a large slave army massing in the far east, in Slaver's Bay. His spies in the cities told him they meant to march west, to sack Pentos, and then sail across the Narrow Sea to Westeros, to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. According to Lord Strong's intelligence, the army numbered in the hundreds of thousands; slaves, mind you, not soldiers, but if those numbers were true, we could not hope to stand against them if they reached Westeros.

"I had no desire to call our banners and send the majority of the men in the kingdom across the sea. It seemed folly to me; we had had peace for so long, I was not even certain we would be ready in time. I knew of only one standing army in the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms: the Black Dragons of Dragonstone. Unblooded, yes, but trained by my son here, who mastered the sword to a higher degree than anyone had seen at the tender age of twelve. I would have named him to my Kingsguard, had I been a crueler man."

Everyone at the table laughed at this; everyone but Quentyn, that is. "The Kingsguard would have been a kinder fate than what I endured overseas, Your Grace," he said, his voice hard. Viserys just chuckled. "Quentyn, why don't you tell us what occurred? I have been yearning to hear that tale ever since you sent word of your victory."

"I would rather not, Your Grace," Quentyn said. He had no wish to relive the months he had spent across the sea; living them once had been nightmare enough.

Viserys drank from his goblet, a thin stream of wine running down his chin. "Oh, bugger that!" the king said, laughing. "Regale our guests with your heroism; your king commands it!"

He's drunk, Quentyn realized, and it will be hell to pay if he does not get what he wants. Yet another distasteful task I must endure. Quentyn had a sour taste in his mouth; he waved over the servant he had dismissed before. The servant filled his cup with wine; he drank deeply. Aemond looked worried, but the prince was beyond caring.

"As you wish, Your Grace," he said. He sat back in his chair, folded his hands in front of him, and began to speak.

"I received a raven on Dragonstone from the king. It said a deserter of the Night's Watch was being sent by boat to Dragonstone, to deliver an important and very secret message. The letter gave no hint as to what this message was, but did inform me that I was expected to behead the deserter once the message had been delivered. I was nine-and-ten, and had never killed a man before; the prospect frightened me, but I was eager to hear this message my father deemed too important to share with anyone but me. I was young in mind, and a fool.

"True to the letter, two days later a ship made port on Dragonstone's shore. It stayed only long enough to throw the deserter onto the shore, bound in chains, before it departed. I had the man brought before me in my hall. He told me my father had received word of a massive army of slaves, bound for Westeros, and I was expected to take my Black Dragons across the Narrow Sea and defeat them before they could sail. When I asked the man how large the slave force was, he cackled at me like a madman. 'Thousands,' he told me, 'hundreds of thousands. You will die far from home, whelp.'

"I took the man outside and had him held down. I drew my sword and cut off his head. It was my first kill, but I found it felt good.

"I saw no reason to wait; I knew the king would not respond to any ravens I sent, and would be furious if I dared put this secret in writing. What he expected of me, I knew not, but I gathered my men and told them we were sailing to war across the sea. I had ten thousand sworn swords, the same as now, and just as well trained; they did not hesitate, but began preparing the Dragonfleet. We set sail with two hundred and fifty ships three days later. I flew above them on Darkfyre, who was large even then.

"We reached Pentos three days later. We were met on the shore by a magister, who's name I have forgotten. The man gave us more details; he told us the slaves were marching west from Astapor, towards Pentos. He told us if we marched quickly, we could meet them in a place he called the 'red wastes.' And he told us their forces numbered two hundred thousand strong.

"We despaired. Who would not, knowing ten thousand men were to face two hundred thousand? The odds seemed insurmountable; I thought my father had sent me away to die, alone and far from home. But we had a duty to do, and so we marched. Two weeks later, we arrived at the quite aptly named red wastes, and faced a gargantuan horde of slaves of all shapes and colors. Some wore patched armor, some wore only cloth between their legs, but all were armed, and all were howling for blood.

"Emissaries were sent from both sides. Both of us built fortifications around our camps; we dug trenches, and piled the dirt to make crude walls, and hammered stakes into the trenches. It was the best we could do in that barren waste. There was barely any water or food to be found, so it was fortunate we came well-provisioned from Pentos; I still have nightmares about what might have happened, had we not been so fully supplied.

"There was a mile between us and them. A mile of dead, empty, red dirt, baked to rock hardness by the sun. Our vanguards met in the center. I fought in the front of my army; Darkfyre was too prime a target for their archers, so he stayed back, only attacking to burn any attempt to take our flanks before retreating out of range.

"It was a bloodbath. They had overwhelming numbers, but they were slaves, not warriors; my vanguard and I went through them like a hot knife through butter. I cannot count how many men fell beneath Shadowrend's blade that day. We lost men, but for every Dragon felled, we took thirty slaves with him. All through the day we fought, until the battlefield was choked with their corpses. They retreated with the setting sun.

"Though we killed many on that first day, we made but a dent in their numbers. Every day, we met to fight; every day, we slaughtered them in droves. For the first week, it seemed victory was inevitable; no slave could stand before a Black Dragon. We were far superior in arms, we wore armor, and we fought as a unit, rotating fresh men when the ones on the front lines grew weary. Darkfyre protected our flanks with his fire. We lost few, and killed thousands. By night, I would ride Darkfyre over the battlefield, setting fire to the corpses and allowing him to feast on their flesh. It is the only time I have ever allowed this, Darkfyre only eats wild animals, but it terrified the slavers to see a dragon eating their dead.

"As the days wore by, however, weariness began to settle in. We started suffering more losses, as my mens' arms grew weary and the relentless sun took its toll. When the month ended, we had lost half our men, our supplies were dwindling, and the sun had taken the spirit out of those of us who were left. In thirty days, I had not left the front lines, and I was half mad with weariness. That evening at sundown, I prayed to the Seven for a respite; something, anything, to allow us to end this war.

"The Warrior must have heard my prayer; that night, a great storm blew in from the north, the first clouds we had seen since leaving Westeros. The clouds darkened the night to a pitch-black, and rain fell in torrents. It was the perfect opportunity.

"We attacked their camp in the dark. For the first time in the war I rode Darkfyre, and we rained black flame on them from above. Once their camp was ablaze, I joined my men on the ground and led the rout. A bare ten thousand remained of the slaves, with their masters hiding behind them. We slaughtered them all. No man was left alive.

"All of us were wounded. It took us another month to make our way back to Pentos. We rested there for a time, and sailed back to Dragonstone. The ships had to operate under half crew, and it was slow going, but we made it home without another loss. That is the story, Your Grace. That is the war you sent me to fight, against twenty to one odds. That is how me and mine slew every man of an army the likes of which Westeros has never seen. That is the story of my heroism. Does it please you?"

The room was silent. Everyone at the table was staring raptly at Quentyn. Aemond's mouth hung open; so did the king's. Finally, Viserys cleared his throat. "I had no idea," the king said. "I thought the estimates of their numbers had been overcounted. If I had known..."

Quentyn waved his hand. "It is done," he said, his voice flat. He swallowed the wine that was left in his glass, holding it out to be refilled. "Stay," he growled at the servant when his cup was full; he drained it, and held it out again.

"My prince, your feat is worthy of a thousand songs," Lord Jon said, awe in his voice. "I have never heard such a tale before in my life. Ten thousand against twenty times that number...your Black Dragons are indeed the most incredible force in Westeros. I commend you most highly on their training."

"Thank you, Lord Jon, you honor me," Quentyn replied, draining his glass yet again.

Daenerys put her arm through his, twining their fingers together. "You are truly a hero, my prince," she said, gazing up at him.

"I should like to try myself against one of your men sometime," Brandon stated, leaning forward. "They sound most formidable; it would be an honor to cross blades with a Black Dragon."

"You will likely get your chance, my lord," Quentyn told him. "Ser Daemon Targaryen, my second-in-command, and two of our finest swordsmen will be entering the tournament. And I myself, of course."

"It is said no man in Westeros can best you with a blade," Tohrren said.

Quentyn chuckled darkly. "Not quite true, I am afraid; Ser Daemon has defeated me a few times before. Now, if you will excuse me, my lords, I have suddenly found myself quite weary." He turned to the king. "With your leave, father, I wish to retire to my chambers."

"Of course," Viserys replied.

Quentyn rose and nodded to the guests, then pushed his chair back and strode out the door. Once outside, he broke into a jog, down the stairs and to his chambers. He threw the door wide and stalked across the room to the wall. Scowling deeply, he smashed a fist into the stone; he barely felt the skin on his knuckles split.

The prince whirled and walked back to the door, shouting for a servant. A young girl in a roughspun tunic ran up the hall to him. "Wine, Myrish, strong," he spat at her. "A small cask and a goblet. If it is not here in two minutes, I will put your head on a spike along the wall of the Red Keep." The girl turned and sprinted back down the hallway.

Quentyn pulled his door shut and sat down on the end of his bed. He pulled off his gloves and boots, tossing them in a corner; his split knuckles slowly dripped blood onto the carpet. Quentyn didn't care. He unclasped his cloak, tossing it aside; he unlaced his jerkin, throwing that too. He sat in naught but his pants and his swordbelt, staring at the blood falling from his hand, trying to get control of himself.

The serving girl entered a moment later, hurriedly setting the cask and goblet on Quentyn's table. She started to leave, but Quentyn called, "Wait." The girl looked back, clearly frightened. "I am sorry," Quentyn said, still staring at the floor. "I should not have threatened you. Pray, forgive me."

"Of course, my prince," the girl said, curtsying quickly before hurrying out the door. Quentyn got off the bed and crossed the room to the wine. He pulled off his swordbelt, hanging it on a peg, and uncorked the cask. He poured himself a cup, drained it, and poured another.

A knock came at the door. "Leave me be," Quentyn growled, draining his glass and pouring again. "It's me," Daenerys called through the door. "May I come in?"

Quentyn sighed. "Yes," he said. Daenerys eased the door open and slipped through, shutting it behind her. "Are you okay?" she asked him. She looked genuinely worried. "I'm fine," Quentyn replied, swaying on his feet.

Daenerys noticed the blood dripping from his fingertips. "You're hurt," she said, crossing the room quickly. She took his hand and inspected the knuckles. Then, surprising Quentyn, she bent down and tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her dress. She took his hand again and bound his knuckles, staunching the blood. "Thank you," Quentyn murmured.

Daenerys led him across the room to his bed. They sat together, his hand still in hers. "Telling that story upset you," she said to him, worry in her eyes. "Yes, it did," he replied. "It is an awful memory, and I relive it often in my dreams; I have no desire to visit it while waking as well."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "If I may ask, my prince...you said you took a wound in the war. Where were you wounded?" Quentyn chuckled slightly and stood, turning around. "There," he said, and he heard Daenerys gasp.

A long, ropy scar stretched from Quentyn's right shoulder to his left hip. It was thick and dark, the remnant of a vicious wound. "A slave got behind me, and slashed me across the back," Quentyn said. "I killed him for it. And I killed the man behind him, and the one after that. I fought on for three more hours, killing men, with hot blood flowing down my back all the while. One of my men heated his sword in Darkfyre's breath that night and laid it on the wound to clean it, then stitched me up. That was two weeks into the fighting."

"Gods above," Daenerys whispered as Quentyn sat again. "That's awful...I am so sorry, Quentyn. I shouldn't have asked."

Quentyn chuckled again. "You would have seen it anyway, at some point," he said sullenly. Daenerys did not reply, but turned his face towards her and kissed him, hard. Quentyn returned the kiss, pulling her face into his. She ran a hand down the front of his chest, reaching between his legs.

The prince pulled back. "I told you already, your Myrish woman's tricks must wait until we are wed," Quentyn told her.

Daenerys looked away, her cheeks reddening. "There is no Myrish woman," she said shyly. "I thought if I told you that, it would make me seem more desirable, and you might like me more. I am truly just an innocent maid."

Quentyn felt touched. She truly wants only for me to love her, he thought drunkenly to himself. He kissed the soft skin of her throat; Daenerys shivered slightly at the touch of his lips. "You are most desirable already, Daenerys," he whispered against her neck. He kissed her again, and again, up the side of her neck to her earlobe. Daenerys wound her fingers into his hair and pulled his mouth to hers.

They fell back onto the bed, their kisses growing hot. Quentyn ran a hand along Daenerys's leg to her hip; she unlaced the front of his breeches, reaching inside. The prince's other hand cupped one of her breasts; he brushed his thumb across her nipple, feeling it harden beneath his touch. She moaned softly into his mouth.

Daenerys tugged at his breeches, pulling them down to his knees. She took his manhood in her hand and stroked, making him groan. He moved his hand from her hip to the soft spot between her legs, massaging gently. He could feel her growing wet beneath his fingers. She moaned again, tugging at his hair, her tongue in his mouth. Quentyn moved her smallclothes aside and slid a finger inside her; she pushed her hips up to meet his hand, her stroking growing faster.

Daenerys bit down on his shoulder when she reached her climax, her teeth denting his skin. She released him and he rolled to his back; she lay her head on his chest, panting. "That...was amazing," she gasped. Quentyn did not reply; he was very drunk, and the ceiling was spinning above him. "I need...I need to sleep," he said, his words slurring.

Daenerys kissed him. "May I share your bed tonight, my prince?" she asked tentatively. He looked at her, frowning, and she chuckled. "Just to sleep, I promise. I am as tired as you are. I doubt that, he thought to himself, but he nodded.

Daenerys stood and removed her gown, stripping down to her shift. Quentyn remained on the bed, but pulled his breeches the rest of the way off and tossed them on the pile of clothes in the corner of his room. Together, they slid under the blankets; Daenerys snuggled her back against his chest, sighing contentedly.

Quentyn stroked her hair as he waited for sleep to claim him. Unbidden, his mind turned to Katarina; try as he might, he could not stop himself. He had missed her presence at the dinner; he thought about their time in the godswood that morning, the way her arm felt in his, the softness of her lips upon his cheek when she kissed him.

I wish this hair I was stroking were brown, and not silver, he thought as his eyes closed.