QUENTYN


Skahaz mo Kandaq's head lay on a plate of gold, finely dressed with jewels and gems.

"Too rich for a traitor," Master Zhak said,"My prince should have decreed that his head be fed to the dogs. Have the traitor suffer a traitor's end, and my prince shall show all Meereen your strength and justice."

"The dogs are already full from one," Modast zo Pahl said, his grey eyes glinting in the shadows of his burnt brown hair,"My master would not want to spoil them."

"Give them too much," Quentyn agreed,"and they will think it the norm."

"Right you are, Modast," Morghaz zo Loraq's booming shook his entire half of the procession,"Belwas was a good enough feast for them. It was the Tattered Prince that ran him through, and only a sellsword's prize is worth the dogs. Meanwhile, it was Arslan of the Noble House of Loraq that slew the terrible Kandaq, and a master's prize should be crowned in gold."

Quentyn listened, but did not speak. The Great Masters had been jovial ever since the fall of the Shavepate, yet he was not. They laid him in honours and named him the leader of the battle, but there was something missing. Something that told Quentyn that while he was called the valiant prince, the war was not over.

"It was the queen," Quentyn knew. The crown was nothing without her. The crown would be nothing if she returned and did not wish him there. He consoled himself in the fact that the dragon was an illusion, or perhaps even sent by the queen to scout Meereen before she returns at the head of a great host.

He shifted in the place he stood, at the top of the steps above all the Meereenese masters. It never felt very comfortable. The sun baked him overhead as he faced the open Harpy's Gate, waiting for what would be certain to be another flame that would sear his skin.

"The battle is not over," he reminded himself yet again even as he heard the marveling of the Great Masters over their victory,"This is the last part." In a few moments, the New Ghiscari would march through the gates, and soon after the queen.

"My prince," Harloz informed him,"The Noble Masters are coming."

"You have my thanks," Quentyn said to his guard and tried to look for the New Ghiscari beyond the gate.

Quentyn noticed old Master Hazkar giving him a glare, doubtless slighted that Quentyn did not employ the guards he offered. Given another chance, Quentyn still would not. They were too deep in another man's pockets, so he would need to use his own. Especially as Ser Gerris and Ser Archibald were still lost after the battle. The ones who defected from the Shavepate were a start, those that needed his protection. Yet those he knew not to trust fully, and he had also chosen guards from select Pyramids as well. "Almost all of them except the Red Pyramid." If worse came to worst, they would fight for the right to kill him until he escaped. It was the best course.

"One from the Pyramid of Swords was not enough to Lord Hazkar," Quentyn thought. It was either he needed to satisfy him in some other way, or… Lord Anders had warned him what to do if he could not please them with what he could give. Quentyn noticed Hazkar's son at the old master's side, wondering if he would be more pliable.

He put his thoughts to rest as he heard the first horn on the horizon and the whispers grow ever frantic. Banners began to emerge from the rising dawn in the east. Afterwards came the riders, in pairs of three coming down from the high hills and before Meereen's plain. There seemed to be an endless stream of them, each carrying a distinct banner common only in the gold.

By the second horn, great moving pavilions began to stir from the hills after the riders. "The masters," Quentyn knew. He counted two and three score by the time the third horn sounded and the greatest of the pavilions rose into view.

The first riders reached the gates when the sun could be seen in full on the eastern sky, their tall banners soaring above in all their glory. In the hands of the first three men there flew a great glyph framed by two griffins.

"Those damned griffins," Modast zo Pahl sniggered as he watched the riders pass down the open path before them,"The New Ghiscari cannot seem to get enough of them."

New Ghis's banners rode straight towards Quentyn and the procession of Great Masters, past the rows upon rows of Meereen's spears standing at ready. There were the garrisons of some of the larger Pyramids which some masters saw fit to spare, but most were the Windblown… and the Unsullied. The Unsullied captain had approached Quentyn the morning after the Shavepate's fall, pledging the command of the spears to him.

"Until the queen returns," the man said that his name was Grey Worm, and Quentyn knew then that all depended on the queen. The Unsullied spears stood along the path, frozen as the riders went past. A contingent of the spears, Grey Worm and his best, stood below Quentyn to act as his guard. They gave him some measure of comfort, if not for the knowledge that they might turn against him as soon as the queen returns.

As the first New Ghiscari riders approached the end of the path before Quentyn and the Great Masters, they bowed their heads, parted, and withdrew to the sides. The next row of riders came before him, these ones carrying the griffin banners but with a different glyph shining between them. Likewise, they parted, withdrew to the sides, and the next ones came forward. Quentyn counted two and three score rows of riders,"The same number as those great moving pavilions."

The first pavilion, drawn by eight horses, passed the gate by the time the second-to-last row of riders came before Quentyn. The folds of the pavilion spread like a sunflower after it passed beneath the Harpy's wings. They revealed a fat man on a throne of onyx. Two slave soldiers stood behind him bearing shining spears with a white-robed herald. A dozen more serving slaves with leather collars scraped and attended to him. Two lines of horsemen followed the pavilion, their spears all bearing the same swirling banner that flew like phoenix's wings. "No," Quentyn observed,"They are in truth more like raven's."

Quentyn caught a whiff of the New Ghiscari's scented perfume when the last of the first riders drew away, as sour as an unripe lemon.

"To the Prince Quentyn of the Noble House of Martell," a white-robed herald declared,"Prince of Meereen. The Noble Master Grazar of the Noble House of Antigonius bears his greetings."

"The prince expresses deepest gratitude," Quentyn's herald Reznak mo Reznak answered,"that my master Antigonius may attend him in his city."

The fat man gave Quentyn a weary glance, which he gave back. It was clear that the fat man was sweating beneath the sun, and Quentyn nodded. Grateful, the fat man smiled and commanded his charioteer to pull the pavilion away from the path and into the shade.

Quentyn stood still in the sun, awaiting the next in line. The sun was scorching, but it was wiser to stand in the light than in the shadows. At least here, he could see the swords bared. He knew that it would be only when the queen returned could he truly pass from his doom. His skin now crawled with scorpions each time he spoke. Yet it always did well to speak, to measure every word. The seneschal speaking for him was irritating.

"I would rather not someone else hold the words I speak," though Quentyn knew better than to strike out any complaint in this moment of victory.

The victory march continued, with pavilion upon pavilion of New Ghiscari masters riding beneath the Harpy's crest and coming upon the paths of gold with lines of horsemen trailing behind. In the end, all stopped before Quentyn to greet the prince.

They exchanged many greetings. Some sought to inquire about the dragons. Others where King Hizdahr was, as last they heard Hizdahr zo Loraq was King of Meereen. Most held a curious stare at Quentyn, wondering how another Westerosi had risen above all of the Great Masters of Meereen. They never did ask openly, though, of why the Great Masters were willing to stand at Quentyn's feet.

There was only one answer that Reznak gave the lot of them, to all the questions spoken and unspoken, and Quentyn admitted that it was not too much a risk,"See Meereen, and my master shall know."

Time and again, Quentyn glanced to the skies hoping that the queen would follow the New Ghiscari host on that dragon of hers. He hoped that at least the dragon had returned from the west, and the queen was marching to Meereen at this very moment. He wanted her to relieve him of this duty where each moment felt like a knife hovering above him. He understood at last why his father was the way he always was, measured and wise and slow. There was no room in this world for rash princes.

"A prince, the gods have promised," Quentyn watched the twenty-ninth pavilion depart his sight,"In truth, the gods break the prince so that naught but destiny remains." Was it still his destiny to tame the dragons? Mayhaps, and in this case he never needed her. If the gods bade him be their hero, then had had no choice but to be their hero. If they did not, then he was not. Whatever their will, he was certain that he must plot it through like his father would have done. He could be a true prince, born of sun and spears and not just the false dragon the Green Grace wanted.

"No," he shot away those wanderings and looked to the skies where the sun boiled his skin ,"I must not seek danger and death, not again." Ser Gerris and Ser Archibald, the last of his men, chose the wrong side in their courage to save them. They had been lost for so long that Quentyn thought them as good as dead. Quentyn would not die, not like them.

A dozen trumpets blared as the last and greatest of the golden pavilions entered the city. Pulled forward by twelve horses, the tent itself was as wide as the gate. Only when beneath the Harpy did four lines of riders be able to emerge behind it.

The rider leading the first line was a bald man with a scar on his cheek, in his hand a spear bearing one of the banners not crested in gold. Quentyn counted himself not surprised that the banner was black, bearing a three-headed dragon that shone red,"Everything is done in the name of the queen."

As Quentyn's eyes fell upon the second line, he almost choked. Above a boy Quentyn's own age who bore heavy golden steel, there flew a field of blood on which stood a prancing golden lion.

"Lannisters," Quentyn remembered how they had murdered Aunt Elia and her babes in King's Landing,"Why are they here?"

"For the queen's dragons," he figured as the carriage slowly drew closer. The Lannisters sought to hold the power of the queen to further their rule in the Seven Kingdoms. He did not know if they knew of his father's pact, but he would not take the chance that they did not. For all he knew, they came to prevent him from winning the queen for Dorne as they knew the dragons would be used against them.

"Mayhaps," he considered,"They may even succeed in swaying her with the promise of the Iron Throne."

Quentyn grimaced within the heat,"How may I deal with a lion?"

He knew that he needed to rise above the Lannisters if there was any chance of winning the dragon queen when she returns. This was no longer a mummer's careful plot, but the game of kings his father and Lord Anders warned so often about. "In the end," Quentyn remembered,"all that matters is wisdom. The wise man knows not to play, but he knows still how to play." He knew what path this time called for. The dragon must come to Dorne.

Polished silver mail adorned the armour of the two other lines on the pavilion's flank, their reflections burning Quentyn's eyes as he looked to them. One bore in his hand the rearing form of a great black stallion, its mouth open in a whinny. The other was the griffin again, except this one bore a glyph within its open beak.

"The Hall of the Griffin King will be sated tonight," Modast's sneering voice sounded blow,"What with all these birds the New Ghiscari have brought in."

"Do you think there were griffins in the days of old?" Arslan zo Loraq shifted his tall form as turned to ask Modast.

"There are dragons in our world, even dragons that we can see," Modast pointed at Quentyn,"so I doubt that griffins are mere tales."

"The Hall of the Griffin King," Quentyn pondered upon those words,"Why did they mention it?" The hall lay in the Red Pyramid, the seat of the House of Loraq. King Hizdahr had refused to come, not wishing to be seen standing as equals with a foreign prince. Yet Hizdahr's cousin Morghaz and Morghaz's sons Arslan and Medit were in Quentyn's company. Quentyn figured that Morghaz hoped to stand with the prince and eventually supplant Hizdahr as Master of the Red Pyramid. Quentyn would have no part in this battle, as it was not his fight. His fight lay with the golden lion that swayed now in the skies above Meereen.

His brow burned ever fiercer beneath the scorch of the sun above, and he felt sweat gather in his palm as he clenched it tight. He looked up to see that it was noon, and his eyes burned. He dared not let his eyes linger for long. There was no solace in the sun, and he turned his gaze to the golden lion whom he saw upon the earth. This was the fight he was meant to give, so that in the end he would win his bidden place by the queen's.

He knew his father's will. He knew own will,"For the queen and her dragons."

One of the drivers of the great pavilion put a horn to his lips and blew two long blasts. Quentyn braced himself for the storm of sound, and found that it was not as painful as he had feared.

"In the name of the Lord Magistrate and the Noble Council of New Ghis," a herald emerged from within the pavilion to declare,"The Noble Masters are proud to present the flower of their spears, Lord Commander Crion of the most venerable House of Flinias from the line of Junipas Who Raised the Isle, Lord Commander of the Ninety Golden Legions, Grand Captain of the Wander's Fleet, Captain of Guards at the Pyramid of Steel, and Shield of the Gods of Ghis who are Most Eminent."

The herald paused to allow for the storm of cheers that erupted amongst the Great Masters that accompanied the thumping of spears of the soldiers below. Quentyn was silent, his hands tightening further than he ever thought possible. "Should I join them?" he wondered, then forgoed the thought in an instant. It was always wise to stand and watch, to know what was happening. "No one is like to remember," he reasoned,"who cheered and who did not." No one even looked at him.

"The Noble Masters of New Ghis are also proud to present," the herald declared,"from the Sunset Kingdoms, Lord Tyrion of the most illustrious House of Lannister from the line of Lann the Clever, Lord of Casterly Rock and the Westerlands, Shield of Lannisport, and Light of the West."

"Tyrion Lannister," Quentyn considered ,"The second son and heir of Lord Tywin Lannister." Lord Tywin had made an apt choice in the man he sent to the queen. The Old Lion very clearly could not come himself. His daughter Cersei was the Queen Mother of Joffrey Baratheon. His eldest son Jaime lay in Robb Stark's dungeon, and it would have been an ill choice to send the Kingslayer to the daughter of the king he slew. All the other Lannisters, Lord Tywin's brother and cousins and nephews, would be too removed in the line for the Old Lion to trust them in this immense task. His son and heir Tyrion would be the only choice.

"The lion has gained New Ghis's ear," Quentyn observed,"Lord Tywin's choice was proven right."

He wondered what it bade for him. Dorne and the Lannisters were still at peace for all the world to see, and his brother Trystane was due to marry the princess Myrcella. Yet he knew that his father had been plotting in the shadows, the peace a thin veil that was sure to shatter. The lion in the pavilion was sure to be thinking the same as Quentyn, how best to oust the other and place himself in the favoured place by the dragon queen. The lion had gained a lead in the New Ghiscari, and that was worrying. There must be some way to amed it. Fear threatened to consume him as he could not quite figure out how in the moment. He calmed himself, as he would find a way. He needed to watch, to listen, and he would see.

When the pavilion stopped before Quentyn, two silver-collared slaves stepped slowly outside to draw open the gold-threaded blinds. They revealed two men in the pavilion sitting upon jeweled oaken seats. One was an old man in a grey robe and piercing eyes, listening to the whispers of the other man.

Quentyn looked at the other man, unsure if he was truly a man. An impish face with no nose and a long jagged scar beneath a mop of hair so blond it looked almost white. His body was no larger than a child, and short, stubby limbs danged in front of his seat. Quentyn had heard that Tyrion Lannister was a dwarf, but he did not expect this sort.

"A monster," he heard men whisper below them,"New Ghis has struck with the demons of hell."

"It is not his face that is dangerous," Quentyn took a step forward,"It is the words that he whispers in Lord Crion's ear."

"The Great Masters of Meereen wish to present," Quentyn heard Reznak's voice declare,"Prince Quentyn of the Noble House of Martell, the Eleventh of that Noble Name, Prince Regent in Meereen who rules in the name of Queen Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, and Mother of Dragons."

"Your Grace," Tyrion Lannister smiled a grotesque smile at Quentyn,"How does it feel to be husband to the dragon queen?"

"King Hizdahr is Her Radiance's husband," Quentyn answered in a voice he tried to keep steade,"I only rule in her name."

"Where is Hizdahr zo Loraq?" the lion scoffed,"The truth is plain to see."

"My lord of Lannister," Quentyn searched carefully for the right words,"If I wished to be king, I would be."

"Peace, Prince Quentyn," Lord Crion said,"We are here as friends, to celebrate our victory."

"I have a gift for New Ghis," Quentyn plastered on a smile,"as a token of our friendship." He gestured for a slave to bring forward the plate bearing the Shavepate's head.

"The head of Shahaz mo Kandaq," Quentyn said,"The warmongering criminal who was the cause of enmity between New Ghis and the queen. He has paid the the price of treachery, and I give his head for justice to be seen."

"You have our thanks," Lord Crion answered,"and we also have a gift for my prince as per the Ghiscari custom. Three, in fact. Could my prince come to the pavilion?"

Quentyn wondered what the Lord Crion had to show in private, but he did not wish to place himself at his mercy. Particularly if a lion also sat within that pavilion, whispering in the Lord Commander's ear.

"I fear that the pavilion would not be able to hold so many men," Quentyn said, seeing the lion's smile widen,"If it is possible, could my master show it to me under the sun?"

"Ah," Lord Crion said,"Of course, Prince Quentyn. Keep in mind that your eyes will be the first after mine to see it." He waved his hand, and three slaves descended the carriage. After a moment's hesitation, the lion wobbled behind them. Quentyn could hear the Great Masters laugh at the dwarf, but Quentyn's eyes were fixed on the three exquisite boxes that the three slaves carried. The first two slaves wore iron collars, but the collar of the last was that of gold.

The slaves and Tyrion Lannister passed the Unsullied, weaving through the masters as they ascended the steps to Quentyn.

"Send all but your most trusted of guards away," Quentyn heard Lord Crion.

"They are here, under the sun," Quentyn thought,"and there is little chance that they could draw their swords before my men killed them, even if they were a foot below." He sent all his guards to join the masters below until at last he was alone at the heights.

"It is in truth a gift from the Dothraki," Lord Crion said, and the slaves stepped before Quentyn. The first two slaves opened their boxes to reveal the severed heads of two copper-skinned men, their braids lying at their sides.

"Jhogo and Rakharo," Quentyn knew ,"bloodriders of the queen." He wondered if that was Lord Crion's gift, of eliminating others who contest his place by the queen. "Yet there is one more," Quentyn looked at Tyrion Lannister ,"that he did not kill."

There was one more, and the gold-collared slave brought the third box up the steps. Tyrion Lannister saw it first, his face contorting. "Is this your work, my Prince of Martell?" Lannister demanded,"That was how you gained the queen's dragons."

Quentyn looked inside the box, to see an unmistakable, beautiful, half-rotted head. All he could feel was the thousands of eyes upon him, who followed him because he was the herald of the queen. He was grateful for being alone at the height. "They must not know."

"I must thank the Dothraki for slaying the Drunken Conqueror," Quentyn flipped the lid closed.