QUENTYN
The throne Quentyn chose was the greatest pain he had known.
"I had the lot of this realm," he thought as his back ached again,'yet I chose this torture of a seat."
The chair had seemed glamorous at first; as glamorous as old throness that gathered dust for years could be. Smiths had fashioned it of a shimmering bronze that shone despite all its dustridden days. It had shone more gloriously than all the others he had seen.
Its backrest was a company of fearsome spears, each the sigil of House Martell. Each point was still sharp enough to draw blood. Quentyn counted eleven in all, including the tips that had broken in its time. One of the spear points lay in complete ruin, having been crushed into metal bits by some dark force long ago. Another was willowy and wild, twisting and growing so as to hide its graceful companions in its shadow. A third seemed to have been torched in some mad fury, and ashen specks still dotted its coat. A smith of later ages had reforged the point, and the new steel shone brighter than all the rest.
Quentyn had found a host of thrones from the Great Pyramid's many rulers. There were many others to choose from. A silken one bearing velvet cushions. A golden one as pale and handsome as the sun. A peculiar silver one with elaborate carvings of graceful flowers and naked maidens.
He chose the most formidable of them all, the one worthy of showing his might and that of his house.
Quentyn regretted that choice most wishfully. Whilst he could be resting on velvet cushions after a monotonous evening receiving messengers on the Council of the Octarchy. He could not rest his back at any moment for fear of the jagged spears that might pierce his cloak and flesh.
He cursed himself again for bringing that burden upon himself. Quentyn tightened his grip on the armrest and creased his brow. He was glad at least that the side of the chair was not also forged in prickly decoration. This torment would linger for only a moment more.
It appeared that these were the duties of kingship, duties that his brother would have borne. He himself would never have craved such, being content enough to serve at his brother's feet. Even as a petty lord, he would have made the reign prosperous. It was never his place to rule.
"Yet it is now," he reminded himself as the hard bronze pained his bottom, "For duty. For Dorne."
There had once been eight who sat the council that overlooked Meereen. The eight of the Octarchy ruled the city again in these days, overseeing the war and convening on ruling matters.
The audience atrium of the Great Pyramid served as their place of rule, where they would sit in the day and settle the demanding concerns of the day. Below their dais would assemble hundreds of the noblest in the city, who would make up their court and help the Octarchy deliberate.
They had chosen eight thrones to serve as their seats of power. King Hizdhar had chosen a simple golden one with a Harpy's wings sprouting from its flank as its single ornament. Master Zhak a glimmering complex of flowery carvings and dragonglass flecks on a luminous surface of pale marble. Master Ghazeen one of elegant wormwood with jewelled draperies. All a thousand times more comfortable than the throne Quentyn sat.
The council had only formed that very afternoon, and the only decisions they took were that of the war. Their scouts returned haphazardly, reporting on the battle outside, though it all soon became like tidings. No victor had emerged from the endless struggle on the beaches. The New Ghiscari watched as per their plan, waiting until a victor would rise.
Whoever won the battle would find themselves welcome to the city. Then, they would meet all the might of Meereen, New Ghis, and the Windblown set upon them, taking them by a swift stroke as they revel in their hard fought triumph. Quentyn judged that the battle would last well into the night. They needed to wait for hours more.
Six of the eight had left the atrium this day, having the leisure to rest from war's worry. Quentyn did not have that privilege, him being the only foreigner in their midst, and had to see the council through the evening. Only Master Pahl remained to accompany him, though it was perhaps to act as the spy of the others. They would not be fool enough to leave all to the design of Quentyn.
"Besides," Quentyn thought,"He was the only one of the virility to continue bearing the ever tiring reports."
They would break from the arduity when Ser Gerris returned in a short while.
Though demanding as this task on the throne was, Quentyn would trade a thousand days with calloused cheeks to banish those miserable hours in the cramped stocks of the Meadowlark. He winced as that memory pricked his mind. It had been the only place they could conceal themselves after that farce of a raid, for they knew that it was the only place his brother, the true Quentyn, would not wander. It had been the only chamber without the light of day.
He remembered that day when he made his farce, when he parted with his brother. He had told himself then that they would meet again in Meereen, when he would offer in his brother's service the hand of a queen and a cheering host bearing banners of suns and dragons. His brother would forgive him for his then, forgiving him for the needless sorrow of his false death.
They would laugh together, him with the dragon queen at his west, sailing west and watching the sunset lower about the realm they would win. Watching the peace they would forge from the ashes of the ambitious lords that tore it to pieces. Vanquishing every king that rose, all the friends and kin of Robert Baratheon that fought over his corpse. Even when a dragon dies, crows would ravish over its remains, and lesser beasts even more so.
Destiny loves to play japes with the hearts of men. He met only his brother's corpse in Meereen, and watched only blackened burns curling about warm eyes that closed to him forever. The only foes he could vanquish were the pieces that the accursed left him to mend.
Yet that was what he bid himself when sought the plan the perfumed man instructed him to undertake.
"For the realm," the perfumed man had said,"All we do, for the realm." He knew that the perfumed man was much more than a merchant, perhaps a lord or prince in his own right, with hosts and coin at his command.
It had been dark in the stocks of the Meadowlark where the perfumed man's scheme bid him. Dark enough so that their deaths may have been true in the eyes of his brother, so that he could part his way. The captain, who had their coin and doubtlessly the perfumed man's threats, had stewards bring them meals. They had put out word that the captured corsairs from the raid were held in the stocks if someone were to chance upon them beneath the deck. They certainly looked the part after days. The raid had been of mummer's, though some thought it true, and all did not wish to languish in the company of pirates. He knew that his brother would not have wished to meet the likes of men who slew his friends, nor was the chamber bright enough for the man who took the sun as his sigil and bore it well.
They had crept from the hull the night they reached Volantis, as his brother and the men who had stayed with him would leave at dawn. His own company had waited for the princely boy the perfumed man told him to meet in the city, but he never came.
They saw a vast host of ships that the dockhands divulged were carrying the Golden Company west. Rumours told that they sailed to Westeros in the employ of either the king Stannis Baratheon, Joffrey Baratheon, or Robb Stark to fight in their wars. Ser Willam had suggested that they join the company, for their swords were more than worthy to enter their ranks. Seeing that they failed their task, all they could do was to return home with their heads bowed.
He had refused, for he would not claim the cause, even in name, of an unfit king. He had only one king to serve, and it soon became clear who the perfumed man truly meant. He had mistook the perfumed man's words, thought too much of what was certain to be a test, but the design was always what was plain.
There was one prince that he had a duty to serve. The prince that he had parted with. Their task was not yet done, so they sailed to Meereen alone. He could not return empty-handed to his father and sisters, nor was his will to not play his necessary role.
He did his part, and Meereen was his brother's. He should have told him before he became too desperate to seize that strength by his own hand.
"All the pieces were set," he thought, "yet your folly flipped the board."
The seat beneath him stung all the more. It was never his by rights. It was a dignified might far surpassing that of a lesser heir's own. It was the seat of a man worthy to rule the Seven Kingdoms. It was a duty that he scarcely dared to bear the suffering and the cursed glory. Yet he had to do it all the same, for that was his duty.
"There must always be a Prince," he thought.
"It is best if he thought you dead," he remembered the perfumed man's soft voice laced in steel, "Your prince gives all his heart to his mission. A parted friend drives not, for he may return even as he fails. The dead in his cause drive him to do all the more, to do what is needed."
He hid his scoff now at the perfumed man's words, soothing the lust for vengeance that rose. His brother did all the more, did more than what was needed.
His brother's bones lay in an unremarkable box by his orders. The Ghiscari who treated it had not been told whose bones it was. When they returned to Dorne, it would be buried in an ordinary tomb, as they could not reveal his death as they sought the admittance of Sunspear's crypts. It would have been the custom of a farmer or a merchant. The last he had seen his brother, he had been steward to his merchant. His brother would be that merchant's man in that tomb forever in his memory.
But only in his memory, for the tale of Quentyn Martell shall not be told as the boy who died in a folly, though courageous, to tame a dragon, but that of the prince who won his queen.
Those were not the Prince of Dorne's bones that saw the plainest of funerals. His own were Quentyn's bones, the very same that would sit now upon this hardened throne. The very same that shall be Quentyn Martell's true legacy, the greatest Prince of them all. The Prince to lead a prosperous realm and leave a grateful one in his wake.
"Was this the perfumed man's scheme?" Quentyn wondered, "He had looked a spice merchant in all his guise and speech. This is a ghastly horror of a trade."
"Is he proud of this web he spun of our lives?" he thought, "Will he be glad that his plan saw fruit? That fleeting moment of triumph shall be the only thanks he shall receive of me. He shall do best to never show those despicable lips in my reign, those lips that spoke my brother to his grave. We were only his pieces, to be moved and discarded in his grand and fruitless quest. The gods smashed his plan all awry, yet it was my work that brought it fruit. The perfumed man's words were now as worthless and venomous as the sweet scent off his robes. That role he bid me had been my duty as my father told me, yet that duty is done. I will not suffer anymore as the servant of his will. I have my own game to make."
The motherly caress of the fading light shone in company with distant shadows of spiralling smoke, heralding the coming of Ser Gerris.
The Meereenese herald gave voice to the knight's arrival, "Master Gerris of the Noble House of Drinkwater."
Quentyn steeled his gaze as this new farce would begin.
The knight's eyes were downcast, gloomy with the day's war.
"He knew how to act a battered veteran," Quentyn thought, "Let the gods see that I know how to act a furious lord."
His knight had always been the most accomplished mummer, best suited for this task. He had been the only in the late Prince's company who had been consulted on their exploit on the Meadowlark. Even his cousin Arch had thought them dead, for he was too fond of wine and pleasure to risk their secret.
It was no idle feat to feign tears and deliver a passionate speech when one knows the bodies as a farce. The speech had been no lie after all, for Ser Gerris had no lasting love for sacks of flour. The other nine in their raid had been truly dead, no doubt by the perfumed man's design, so it was simpler to remove three bodies without arousing suspicion. Ser Gerris knew, but did as he was bid and remained silent of their truth. He remained loyal to their cause.
The knight knelt now below their dais. Chatter woke amongst their court of masters as they noted his presence.
He bowed his head and dropped his hand from his hilt.
"My Prince," he spoke with a lighthearted sting to his words. He turned to Master Pahl. "Lord Master," he greeted in a more cut tone.
"Ser," Quentyn began, "You must be wondering upon the reason of my summons. It has come to my attention that you have failed in your duties as Warden of the Gate of Gold. We had given express commands that none were to leave the city without my leave lest our plans to restore the city be known to the warmongering traitors Barristan Selmy and Grey Worm. Yet it has happened to my ear that twenty men have departed from your charge, riding from the city without the Octarchy's knowledge or consent. Is there any truth to this rumour?"
"There is, my prince," Ser Gerris replied, raising his head, "I was just about to come and ask of your permission when I received your summons."
Quentyn sniggered, "Perchance that I am daft, but I did not hear of your report before I heard that your men left the gate."
"We received a messenger," Ser Gerris explained, "from Barristan Selmy, and I thought to send my men as spies to report on his movements. I had not the time nor opportunity to speak to any of the council ere the man said that he must leave, so I thought to decide for myself the sensible choice. I thought that you would understand my urgency, and that you would approve of my choice if I reported to you afterwards when I had the chance to relieve myself."
"Fool," Quentyn sneered in disgust, his voice as low and gravelly as a septon's knell.
Quentyn rose from his throne, anger seething from his gaze.
"Fool," he bellowed, and a shocked master in the court dropped a coin he was fingering in stunned silence.
As his voice reverberated in the grand hall, all glances told that he had their utmost interest.
Quentyn almost laughed at this amusing sight, yet knew that ke needed to act his anger.
Master Pahl gave him a troubled glance, shaking his head. Quentyn paid him no heed.
"It might be prudent," Quentyn thought," if they think me a bull-headed and impulsive fool when matters do not go my way. A useful fool that can be used easily for their designs. They certainly see my age, so it is a small matter to console their assumption and make complacent their hearts."
"My prince," Ser Gerris flinched, then managed uneasily to speak,"I only wished to serve your will. I never meant ill manner towards your command. I had planned to do as you were told, and did not absolve myself of your orders."
"Yet you did,"Quentyn replied, "It did not matter what your intention, for they shall herald the direst end to justice. Barristan Selmy and Grey Worm may be able to flee their rightful due, perhaps even to deceive Her Radiance to their false and selfish ends should they seek her in the Dothraki Sea and the gods grant us the misfortune that they find her. We could have had peace, but with knowledge I am uncertain of whether Her Radiance could see truth from trickery. All because my Ser thought yourself worthy to dapple in the plans of better men. All because you disobeyed my direct command."
"My prince," he turned to find Master Pahl's hand resting on his shoulder
"What hate do you bear that old man?" he smirked whilst his eyes were ice, "I understand your distaste for the eunuch. Those leather rats served only as tyranny's whip. But that man your sunset kingdoms name an old knight? He seemed just and virtuous. A hard man, to be true, but that is the making and strength of all warriors. Why do you hate him so?"
"You do not the history of my realm," Quentyn said, "Her Radiance's kin had once ruled Westeros. She would have been a princess in a grand castle if fortune had turned in her house's favour. But twenty years ago, their kingdoms rose in turmoil, and those who were once royalty fled to the other end of the world. Her Radiance proved worthy to become another queen, but that was her rightful kingdom. Her reign lay in Westeros, where the rule of her fathers once came to a bitter end in treason and steel."
"Twenty years ago," he continued, "her father sat the throne of our realm, ushering a host of peaceful years. Yet that would not last, for a rebel lord named Robert Baratheon thought to depose the king. He rose in rebellion, plunging the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros in a bloody war that engulfed the lands in ruin. Aside him rose his following of traitorous lords seeking to unseat the Targaryens, the Houses Stark, Tully, Arryn, and Lannister. Her Radiance's brother, Crown Prince Rhaegar, had led the forces of the crown against the rebels. Their hosts met in a great battle that would decide the victor of the war. Barristan Selmy once served Her Radiance's father who was king at the time, and was a commander in the Crown Prince's host. Barristan Selmy turned his cloak to the rebel lord Robert Baratheon in the battle. Crown Prince Rhaegar was slain, and the war was soon lost. My father, the Prince of Dorne, had remained loyal to the crown in the war, and lost many men in the defeat. Robert Baratheon ascended to the throne of the Seven Kingdoms, and forced my father to bend the knee. My father had been planning for the rightful rulers of Westeros to conquer again their home from the moment he bowed before the usurper. He dispatched me to bring Her Radiance to her kingdoms, for the time is ripe. Yet I see this traitor who abandoned the dragons when treason proved more desirable. I see this traitor standing at Her Radiance's side and feeding her poisonous counsel. Can I not despise such a deceptive man who dares to call himself by the honour of a knight?"
"I spoke no falsehood," Quentyn thought, "I leave for him to discern his truth."
The smirk vanished on Maste Pahl's lips, and his eyes grew stormy and thoughtful, "I was simply curious. It's a pity that Her Radiance's kin suffered such treachery from men of the like of Barristan Selmy. I pray that naught of this shall ever befall the rule of Meereen. I shall leave you to your judgement. I have no part, for it is your man."
Quentyn turned to Ser Gerris, and thought to finish this farce.
"I should have your head for this," Quentyn said, "but for your valour in past battles and that this is your first offence, I shall be merciful. I shall forgive you with twenty lashes."
"Guards," he called. Two men clad in wavy bronze mail entered the hall and seized Ser Gerris by both arms. Those men were of the New Ghiscari, neither the Meereenese's men nor his. He had not wished them as the guards of the council, nor did he wish to allow them access to the Great Pyramid, but Quentyn had alliances to honour. They could not do anything while they still wished much of him, and the foe is still outside the walls. They listened to Quentyn's command at the moment, but he knew that it would not last beyond the war.
They carried the knight from the hall to the multitude of posts that lay in easy sight of much of the golden city's eyes. Of most of the Pyramids in which their keepers were certain to be watching.
"They will see a man," Quentyn thought, "good and well-intentioned, disgraced of his honour by a pampered and pompous prince who thought he knew of war. They will see a man resentful of his service to an unjust prince, seeking his vengeance. They will see a man who will be welcome to the plots and schemes of those wishing to overthrow the prince he now hates. Some may guess, and be clever enough to spurn him. But some will welcome him, and I will see."
Quentyn and his company had discussed what may conspire should Ser Barristan send a man to the city. It would prove a most enticing opportunity, and the best to send their men with the old knight's. Ser Willam had volunteered himself for the mission, and Quentyn had bid him find as much of the state of Ser Barristan's host so that they may prepare. Once they were gone, Quentyn proposed this farce of a judgement, and Ser Gerris agreed.
Ser Willam would have reached whatever remained of Ser Barristan's host now. He dearly hoped that his steel and mind would lend him the strength to accomplish his task.
"And to do whatever it takes," Quentyn thought, "should Ser Barristan decide not to enter the city."
Ser Willam was there to shield the old knight. To protect him and counsel him to enter the welcoming city on the beats of triumph so the masters would know his fortitude and that it was he who slew their foe. But if that could not be done, then Quentyn trusted that he knew what he must do.
Quentyn raised his eyes and met Master Pahl's honeyed smile that returned to his conniving features.
"I am done with this court and this chair," he thought, "There is still much to do, matters that require only the lone light of our voices."
"Master Pahl," Quentyn said, turning to him," I seek to retire to my other duties. But there must always be an Octarch in the Harpy's Hall, as the old saying goes. I hope that you would not mind bearing the resin of the war alone for the first hour of the night. I am sorry that I shall have to leave this to you alone as I deal with other matters that demand my attention. Master Zhak should relieve you in an hour as we arranged. We have another council on the morrow with all the Octarchy, and I have numerous matters of strategy with our men to absolve before then. Would this arrangement be satisfactory?"
"Of course, my prince," Master Pahl waved his hand indifferently, "I have no objection. You have my leave."
Quentyn nodded, and gazed again amidst the silent crowd.
"Master Hazkar," he pronounced. The master withdrew from the throng and bowed before him, "My prince."
"I should like you to join me in my quarters," Quentyn said, "We have important matters to discuss regarding the city's rule."
"Of course, my prince," Master Hazkar answered quickly.
"Wine, Master Hazkar," Quentyn asked once they settled in plush cushions in Quentyn's quarters.
His chambers are just beneath the apex, below the queen's lofty chamber in the Great Pyramid. He had not wished to use hers, as he did not wish to sleep in the bed that his brother had died in. This was the best of all the others, with a view to the city and comfortable lodgings. He had almost forgotten the taste of a homely chamber in his travels. It was the closest of all the foreign hearths that he would dare name akin to home.
"No, my prince," Master Hazkar answered, "I prefer to keep a level head in times such as these, for every minute may demand our attention. If you would forgive my impudence, I should like you to speak as to why I am here. Revels and banters could be saved for after our victory."
Master Hazkar was all befitting a soldier's son, hardset and curt.
"Cruel too, I might wager," Quentyn thought, "and ambitious as well."
It was to be expected of a man whose father was the captain of the newly formed City Guard, and had been for the last decades.
"His father is certainly deep in the counsels of the masters of Meereen," he thought, "else they would not unanimously nominate him for that hand that would hold the city's strength."
It was something Quentyn could not allow. He held the city and his life by the thread that the masters needed him to take the queen away. For that, he required might. Once that might is gone, he and all his plans were nothing. The Windblown and the New Ghiscari are naught to be trusted. He had made a foe of the queen's former men. If the City Guard slips from his fingers, all will turn to dust. He needed his own men, even if it is only a passing hand, lest he is too weak to stand and match the strength of all the foes around him. Lest he be too weak to be worthy of the queen's honour. Lest he be too weak to do his duty to his father and Dorne.
"You are right," Quentyn said. He waved a hand at his cupbearer, "Leave us then."
The boy he had chosen for the duty to serve him was one of the House of Loraq. He had returned many of the queen's hostages to the Green Grace, but some he kept to shield his own cloak.
His cupbearer was a nephew to the former King of Meereen. He was a dutiful boy, obedient and able. Quentyn sometimes regretted having to use him for a game he was yet too young to know.
After the boy left their chamber, Quentyn turned to his guest.
"It's a pity that all that can rest our minds," he started, "must wait until this war's end. But that is the nature of our battle,"
"The nature of all battles," Master Hazkar replied, "Not just this one. The masters who gave battle to your queen when she came to Meereen stood awake for days on end, tirelessly and fruitlessly planning an inevitable defeat."
"War brings out our greatest disappointments," Master Hazkar continued, "such as that debacle in the hall just then. I could easily see that you did not wish to punish a man who was clearly your longtime companion and friend. You did not wish to strain a deep bond and provoke his resentment of your friendship. Yet he disobeyed your command, and these are times of war. And the law must be held."
"And the law must be held," Quentyn agreed in a sombre tone.
"How fares the law in the city?" Quentyn asked, "How well does your honoured sire think of the duty the council set him?"
"Well enough," the master replied with a hint of annoyance, "He is a hardened soldier under all the wings of the Harpy. These years of pampered luxury of his Pyramid have deeply saddened him, but he is as glad as he was in his youth now that he can hold steel and lead men again."
"I trusted in the council that he would suit this position," Quentyn said, "as I knew little of who is best suited for these martial tasks. Yet I sometimes ponder on the fact that he is simply too…"
He hesitated, unknowing yet of how his son may think of it.
"Old," Master Hazkar suggested, "You need not honey your words with me. Speak the truth, for I certainly know it after watching my father's hair whiten year after year."
Quentyn smiled inside, for he knew that there was an opportunity in this man's tone.
Quentyn nodded, "He should not need to shoulder the burdens meant for younger men. He has already done his duty for this city."
"Alas," Master hazkar sighed, "He has the respect of almost every Noble House in Meereen, and no man would willingly suggest another to take his place. It would be seen as an ambitious and unjust offense to usurp a worthy man's place."
"It is regrettable that the old would linger in such positions of honour, deserved as they may be," Quentyn said,"whilst the young have no place to show their ability."
"Yet what can we do?" Master Hazkar gave him a questioning gaze, "My father will not die of his own accord to have another take his place. And who is to say who would be worthy to succeed him?"
"I will," Quentyn replied, "I can say who succeeds your father as the Captain of the City Guard, a position of both the utmost honour and power. But only if that master proves his sure conviction, and the position becomes vacant. The former Captain has served a long fulfilling life, and the gods should be pleased to receive him."
Master Hazkar leaned forward, and his face was as solemn as a cliffside, "You speak of a heinous crime in the sights of gods and men."
"I speak of opportunity," Quentyn continued evenly, "You can leave this chamber willing the memory of my proposal, as empty-handed and powerless as you were before. Or you could leave these chambers a mighty man , the captain of the city's host and a judge of its future with also the unwavering favour of a prince. What men cannot see they would not hold against you, and gods? You would be doing him a boon in the gods' sight. Rather than let the Captain languish in the suffering of the mortal realm, he may bathe now in the eternal bliss of the high heavens. They shall be glad to receive his soul. What is pious is what you believe, and what is prosperous is also what you believe. I give you this choice as to what best suits your will."
Quentyn leaned back in his seat against the soft pillow of silk, "I am not to be Octarch forever. When the dragon queen returns, I shall depart with her to our kingdoms. It is my duty then to name a successor to my position. When that time comes I shall need to name a man of worth, a man of dutiful heart, to receive the sceptre from my hands. Would he prove worthy of my favour?"
Master Hazkar stood with his same stony face, "He would prove worthy."
"That is all," Quentyn waved his hand,"You may leave. I am most assured of the City Guard's capability after your report. I bid you good fortune, and farewell."
"Farewell," the master answered curtly.
"Lavanir," Quentyn called, and his cupbearer opened the door.
"Please escort Master Hazkar to the Great Hall," Quentyn commanded.
His cupbearer nodded, and held the door for Master hazkar. The master took one last sweeping look at Quentyn's chamber, then departed through the doorway and his cupbearer's courtesy.
As the door swung to a close behind him, Quentyn plucked an empty goblet off the ornate table.
"Would he betray my words?" Quentyn thought whilst running his fingers on the smooth golden surface of the rim, "I would be a fool to trust anything of a man, even his ambition."
His father always said that a man's ambition is the most uncertain, for one could never tell when he holds to his honour and when he does not.
"All men lie," he thought, putting the cup down, "and it is all too likely of the men who fear a foreigner as their lord. They need me for the queen, so they will know that I tell the truth when it is my word against his."
"What could he use?" Quentyn thought, "He would be wise to use something that is not particularly strong. Just enough to ease his passing and not potent enough to appear unnatural."
He unclasped the brass collar of his breastplate and withdrew the vial within. It glowed a sickly yellow in the dying light of the day, gleaned from the fangs of a Red Mountain rattlesnake.
The poison the master may use would perhaps not even need be as strong as the one he held in his hand.
He twisted the vial in his palm, running his fingers down the polished glass.
Quentyn wondered whether he would need to use it again. It had served its purpose, and it only remained to be a danger if found upon him.
The locusts had only been a second resort, if the queen had not thought to drink the wine, but it was the one they noticed. He had put only enough to sicken the queen to a bed for several days, though she would still have the strength to walk and speak. Only enough to break Meereen's peace so that he may heal it again by his own hands. They could not make peace on their own terms. They had to make it by his.
It was perhaps the cause of the queen's lingering stay in the Dothraki Sea. He was confident though that she would heal, and it was time enough for him to put Meereen in order.
A familiar sense of fear suddenly rose in him as he saw that he was alone in the room.
"Not alone," he thought. He felt the presence of a formless soul, of the dread before a girl's just vengeance. He felt warm brown eyes locked upon him, searing his skin.
Quentyn ran to the balcony, where the sun cast all the dark away. For how much longer he did not know. The sun would dip below the horizon to the west in at most two hours, yet that was two hours he could spend in peace. He did not yet know how he may face the night.
Something drew his eyes suddenly as he looked beyond the walls. He saw a sea flame that began to blossom on the beaches, its soaring conjurer breathing fire and blood.
"The battle is over," he thought,"The dragon has won."
"A victor has emerged in the fire," Quentyn realized, "perhaps even one to have mastered the beast for it to do so." The notion did not frighten him as much as he thought it would. They would die as any other when they entered Meereen's welcoming gates.
"I must join the others," he thought, "and plan the next course of our plan. The New Ghiscari should send their messengers now that the chief battle is over."
Quentyn willed himself to move, but found his senses mesmerized by the dancing fires. He stared transfixed at the astounding sight before him. The dragon dove into the flames and disappeared.
An hour perhaps passed as he lingered on the balcony, as the sun sunk into the west and the skies darkened.
A knock broke his trance.
"Come in," Quentyn answered.
He then realized that he still held the vial in his hand, and he curled his fist about it. He briefly thought of letting it shatter forgotten into the streets below, but he decided to wait until he had met his visitor.
His cupbearer entered his chamber and bowed, "My prince."
"What do you wish of me, Lavanir?" Quentyn asked.
"Master Pahl has dispatched a messenger to find you," his cupbearer answered, "I carry his message. He asks the grace of your presence to greet our guests who entered from the Gate of the Crimson Victor. The New Ghiscari have sent their envoys."
"They have come at last," Quentyn thought.
"Tell Master Pahl that I shall join him as soon as I am of leisure."
"My prince," his cupbearer continued, "There are also two Westerosi amongst their number."
"Who?"Quentyn asked him, wondering who from his realm would come to this city.
"One is a Westerosi knight, Jorah of the Noble House of Mormont."
"The knight the queen exiled," Quentyn thought,"desperate to reclaim her trust and favour. I may be able to win him to my side if I promise him my favour to win him a place again in the queen's men."
His cupbearer's next words piqued his interest,"The other, a Westerosi lord. Tyrion, of the Noble House of Lannister."
Quentyn's hand tightened around the vial, and he set it beneath his cloak.