Daeron II
There was no time for grief, and no one to comfort him. His wife Myriah was with their three younger boys on Dragonstone, and even if she were by his side, she'd more likely offer grief than solace. All that remained in King's Landing of his family was Baelor, still recovering, and Daeron would burden his son with his own weakness. Baelor had become a strong young man, despite who his father was. Is, Daeron thought. I need not share my pain with anyone. Baelor was dealing with enough pain already.
Never had a Queen sacrificed so much for the realm as Naerys Targaryen. Her marriage was proof enough, suffering through all manner of indecency and scandal, remaining steadfast in her support of her brother and husband despite the near hatred she truly felt. Even through the accusation of her own infidelity, likely brought on by King Aegon, she remained as staunch and loving supporter of him to the public as anyone could be, for when she wasn't ill, she was present as the Queen of the Realm, doing whatever duty was asked of her to help rule alongside her treacherous and disloyal partner.
As she was laid to rest in accordance to the Seven, Daeron mourned her with wet but keen eyes. The Silent Sisters had prepared her to look as lively as she ever did, but she looked a corpse in life. In death, she was well suited, and it was no surprise to see her that way. Pale and thin. Meek and frail. She was so tiny atop the altar it was hard at times to imagine it was truly her. That she had truly passed.
But Daeron was holding her hands as she left this world. There was no denying his mother was gone.
When the Silent Sisters had placed her for display, they tilted her chin up. They crossed her hands on her lap in front of her, interlocking the fingers of each hand together. Her skin was so blank white, so withered and thin, her arms looked like bones extending from the puffed lace trim of her long red silken sleeves. Initially, her long white hair had been carefully spread around her neatly, but as the rites continued, gusts had blown in through the sept and spread her sparse locks into a wild mess of wayward strands that exposed bald patches of scalp and the effects of her illnesses.
To see what was left of her, one might assume she was much older, having led a full life. Queen Naerys Targaryen appeared to be close to her sixtieth year before passing. When he bid his last goodbye, bending down to kiss her pallid forehead, he stood back up to regard her final expression.
Her gaunt face was frozen in a slight scowl, as if even in death she would not find peace. Naerys Targaryen died at the age of four and forty.
Daeron hid his emotions. He had to. Much had happened despite his mother's death, and much more still needed to. Men of no import could afford the luxury of grief and mourning. The Prince of Dragonstone could not, at least Daeron couldn't, not with what he believed his father meant to try and do.
So, he saw the body as naught but a corpse and distanced himself from the sorrow. He had to. And the way she looked, as if she had been halfway gone for years, it became easier with each meaningless word the High Septon sermonized. Masked and disillusioned, numb to the stinging cold hole in his heart, he hardened, feigning apathy, and privately questioned her constitution. And his.
Was she strong or weak to have allowed my father's will to be done? Was her devotion an ornament or a blemish on her character?
She had always been a good mother to him, or as good as she could be as absent with illness as she always was. He loved her for that. He loved her for the proper nurture she raised him with, bringing him up to be good where his father had been bad, loyal where his father had been lewd, just where his father had been cruel.
But it was his father that had won, it seemed, in the end. She lay dead and gone, and the King barely appeared at the vigil to honor her, engrossed with the death of his mistress more than the death of his wife.
A babe had been born of the Lady Serenei, but as she birthed the girl they named Shiera, another bastard, she lost too much blood to hold onto her own life. She passed mere hours after Queen Naerys, and Aegon was only heard mourning his lover.
Daeron had never respected his father.
But he still could not have imagined the disrespect he must have had for his wife.
It had been two weeks since Baelor was ordered to rest by the maesters, and though Daeron would have rather left the capital with his wife to return to Dragonstone, he stayed, and used the opportunity to conduct business of his own, meeting with the key players that would help support his right to the throne. As much as his father was planning, he needed to plan that much more.
Daeron had taken care of all he needed to, spoken to every major player, and paid every open hand. There was almost nothing left but to board a ship and wave goodbye to the stinking city.
But he was still wary of new developments. As he approached the portcullis of the Red Keep, descending from the litter that brought him from his mother's ceremony, he heard a welcome alert from behind him. "Your Grace," a voice called.
When the Prince turned, he saw a group of Goldcloaks, led by Willem Wylde. "What is it, Willem?" he asked. Quickly scanning each face among them, he was at ease to see each were now his, and he smiled to think how easy their loyalty had come.
"They are in the Small Council Chambers at present, your Grace. I will escort you if you so require."
"That will not be necessary. I have Ser Swann. Thank you for your diligence, Willem," Daeron said, extending a hand out to thank the City Watchmen, discretely passing a rolled stack of silvers to Wylde. "When I depart, I will make sure my men know when and where to find you for further compensation."
Wylde accepted the silver, nodded, and disappeared back into the city. In a short time, Willem had become very useful to the Prince. Daeron would not forget.
While Daeron walked through the Red Keep to the Small Council Chambers, he wondered what could be so important that the King would miss the conclusion of the Queen's rites. Ser Swann set a brisk pace, nearly running through the narrow halls of the inner quarters, slipping swiftly past the throne room as if it weren't for Daeron to see.
When they walked past, Daeron looked into it at the giant Iron Throne. Soon, he thought, though he didn't know how long.
Upon reaching the Small Council Chambers, Daeron felt uneasy before entering. Like as not they shut me out, and shun me from their schemes against me. But I must be strong. I must show strength. Power must be taken, and especially from the fat clutches of this man.
"Father," Daeron nodded, keeping his posture straight and his manner cordial, entering the chambers as if his presence had been requested. After addressing him, Daeron paid little heed to the King, keeping his eyes on the lickspittle Hightower, who was easier to stare down. He tried not to even think of his father. Sometimes, if left unbothered, like an obese bear, Aegon would leave Daeron alone. That was preferable.
"Son," he replied with contempt. Daeron feared the bear already poked. "What brings you to the council chambers this morning? Is the ceremony for my wife already concluded?"
Daeron fought to keep his composure. Though he wished to scream away his grief at his horrid father, he knew a show of madness would only help the fat man's cause. "It was lovely and cathartic. We all missed you there. I assumed only the matters of the highest import would keep you from honoring your loyal wife and partner in rule."
"There are matters of import, yes, however, they need not concern you in your time of grief. Allow yourself to mourn your mother and coddle your wounded son," Aegon replied, pleased with his stinging slights. "If you are needed, Prince Daeron, we will summon you immediately."
"Thank you for your consideration, father. Though, as my well-being is important to you, I fear my state of mind can only suffer without a worthwhile distraction. And what better way to honor my mother than by fulfilling my responsibility to the realm. If only as ears to hear, not a mouth to suggest, the Prince of Dragonstone should experience what it is to rule first hand, should he not?"
"My Lord," Grand Maester Larkin murmured, "his grace is in the finest health, I assure you."
"No, Grand Maester," Daeron replied, "I didn't mean anything like that. And surely, its 'Your Grace' to you. No. What I meant was, how am I to learn my duties if not by taking at least a passive part in them from time to time?"
Aegon replied to his son with some heat, "Rule and run your own household. I like what you've done with Baelor, he seems to be nothing like you. And I've heard the youngest shows as much promise. Maegor."
"It's Maekar, father. Your grandson's name is not Maegor."
"Pity. Maegor was a great man. Cruel, but if not for him, who else could have saved our House?"
"I will stay, father," Daeron said with heat of his own, "and I will rule."
Surprisingly, the King did not push back. "Very well," Aegon decided, his face warming from a reddened irritation to an unusually genial smile. "As ears to listen, you said. Remember that. In and out of these chambers."
Daeron nodded and sat in the open seat next to Ambrose Butterwell, the Master of Coin, and a recent acquaintance the Prince had made in his dealings of the week. Daeron turned to nod to him, as if they had never met, and Ambrose reciprocated, his own expression sheepishly uncomfortable with the proximity to the Targaryen family tensions.
Upon seating, Daeron looked across the room at Grand Maester Larkin. His close shorn beard mottled gray and white framed his gaunt face, and his nearly bald head shined where the sun hit bare skin. He sat next to the Master of Ships, Alezander Redwyne, his long chestnut hair brushed behind his ears and parted, his smart mouth and jaw ready for a reply, but seemingly as still as a pond with no breeze. At the far end of the table, across from King Aegon at the far head, was the Hand of the King Jon Hightower, whose plump and withered face looked on in an unsure hesitance, waiting for his King to grant him permission to continue.
"Go on, Jon. The boy needs to learn sometime. Go on with it."
"Yes, your Grace," his loose lips and bouncing jowls acknowledged before beginning. "There are a few matters of import, starting with the build in the Reach. Thanks to Lord Butterwell, a good number of our loans are paid off for the dragons, and with the interest we avoided, we have saved nearly four hundred thousand gold pieces."
"Five hundred. Nearly five hundred, my Lord Hand," Butterwell corrected.
"Yes, nearly five hundred thousand, which is to say that it was wise to conclude that business with Braavos and begin the new contract with the Tyrells."
"And what terms are they offering? Better than the bank I presume," Aegon asked.
"Yes. They are only requiring a fee of a flat eight percent of the total, which only increases if we borrow more or fail to pay within the allotted time."
"Is this to our benefit, Butterwell, or theirs?"
"It can be beneficial to both. Indeed we will save on interest, and the terms are long enough for our monthly incomes to pay the Tyrells back on time, however, within that eight years, we will owe them, and I'm sure Lord Tyrell will press you for some other non-monetary boon or favor until then."
"Very well. So, Jon, the money lines up. What about the labor? What about the progress of the build?"
"The work force is mostly commuting Summer Islanders, which we've paid, but they begin to waffle in the wages promised. If the bulk of them choose to leave or not work until their wage requests are met, that will increase spending, obviously, but Ser Tarly insists he can persuade them or find others to work."
"What about Dorne?" Grand Maester Larkin asked.
"What about them?" Aegon replied.
"We can have men sent from Dorne. There's no work down the Boneway, that's why they're always raiding. Maybe we put them to work and they will cease their aggressions. Maybe we grant them a reprieve if they grant us aid," the Grand Maester surmised.
Aegon looked to his son and glared. It was as if he was warning him without as much as a word. "Dornish men will not be helpful in this endeavor for many reasons, Grand Maester. If the Summer Islanders require payment, pay them, Jon. They work hard and serve our purpose. If what they ask is more than fair, we'll find Marchermen. Lord Buckler is a man the crown can rely upon. We will task him with the job of employing his small folk and it will be seen as charity for the poor."
"I think the timing is more important than the labor," Butterwell interjected. "Paying any men any wage is one thing, paying them twice as long as expected will result in twice the bill."
"And where are we on timing, Jon? How much longer does a Targaryen King need to wait for these dragons?"
"Your Grace," Hightower whimpered back, looking through the parchments in front of them as if they had the answer. They didn't and even Daeron could see that, but the flustered Lord delayed until it felt he might fail to answer at all. Finally, his mouth uttered, "It is hard to discern as I am not in charge of the specifics of the build, just the funding and organization."
"Would the length of time we pay these people not factor into those figures, Lord Hand?" The King asked.
"They would, your Grace. Yes," Hightower mumbled. "I will send word to Ser Tarly and the timing will be made clear for you with haste."
"The initial estimates were two full years and it has already been thirteen months," Butterwell answered late, allowing the Hand to make a fool of himself. "If they are on target, approximately nine moons remain, however, Ser Tarly had mentioned in his latest correspondence that at least another full year of wages was needed to retain the Summer Islanders, and that was before they made complaints of their current wages."
"Jon," Aegon said calmly, looking to the Hand and speaking to him as if he were a child. "If you knew that he knew, why wouldn't you just say that?"
"Because he didn't know, your Grace," Butterwell responded. "He didn't ever ask about the progress or the timing."
"Thank you, Ambrose. Maybe we should have him take care of it, Jon?"
"I will continue, your Grace, as it is mine and my wife's houses' funding that is supporting it for the meanwhile. I trust all of us to each do what we are best at to ensure a successful conclusion to this endeavor."
"And what do you do best, Hightower? Spend coin?" Daeron asked, sparking a chuckle around the table. Aegon looked to his son, almost with pride, and smiled at his jest. His tone seemed to contradict his expression, though, scolding Daeron, "You were to be but ears, my son. Another interruption like that and I will politely request you leave and join us when you are in a better state."
"I apologize, father. I will say no more." Daeron couldn't tell if his father was taking him seriously or playing with him. It was the first time in as long as Daeron could remember that he didn't immediately sense disdain from the King. Is this part of his game?
"Now, I think we can conclude our discussions on the dragons. Unless someone else has anything more to add? No? Good. Butterwell, ensure the funding is properly taken care of, and Jon, try to pay more attention and insist that Ser Tarly finishes on time." Aegon commanded, his voice and posture in the meeting unfamiliar, as if this was the first time Daeron had seen his father look kingly. "What else, Jon?"
Jon answered, anxious to move on from his blunder, "There is the issue of Lord Blackfyre." The name made Daeron nearly cringe.
"And what issue, Lord Hightower?" The King asked.
"With his legitimacy, there have been many potential suitors. The Tyrells have even hinted that they may encourage the couples of their house to birth a daughter and use their debt to leverage a betrothal."
"Is that what you wish for, Jon? To wed my son of pure Targaryen blood to upjumped servants of the Gardeners?" Aegon replied, his hot gaze intimidating from across the table.
Daeron felt the urge to join the conversation, his thoughts and feelings towards the bastard clear and uncompromising. To wed a bastard to a Tyrell was a boon for the bastard, not the House of the Lords Paramount of the Reach. For his father to jestfully question a match so prestigious for Daemon was potentially troublesome, especially for Daeron. Yet he remained silent, as his opinion and stating it was not near as important to his future than remaining present for the duration of the discussion. He bit down on his lip, forcing it closed.
"I wish for your will to be fulfilled, your Grace, especially when it comes to your children," Jon Hightower replied, playing the perfect servant for his King.
"Then, why is the issue of my son's hand even being brought up?"
"The display at the tournament is making its rounds about Court and the realm. It seems the boy and Princess Daenerys are an item of interest, at least within the circles of gossip and rumor, and having the boy betrothed would deter those rumors of the children being promised to each other."
"My daughter is eleven, Jon. She is no one's match to be made. And the boy is but twelve, despite his size and strength. My son is no one's match either. Not yet anyway. In the coming months and years, if something presents itself and the boy's hand can be used as a free token in a bargain, I want that choice. Promise neither child to anyone, and we can use them if need be."
"Very well, your Grace. The issue is no issue at all, it seems," Jon replied, his face and tone defeated.
While in the capital, Daeron had discovered Jon's desires in wedding his son, Hensen, who was seven and ten, to Daeron's sister Daenerys. The boy was present in the royal box at the tournament and was even seen by some speaking briefly with the Princess and her ladies. Daeron's sources informed him the boy was dismissed embarrassingly, but the failure in the Hightower boy's execution of the plan didn't change the Hand's intent.
Maybe Hightower can be used. One, the other, or both.
"Anything else, Lord Hand? I missed my wife's funeral rites for this meeting. Surely, something more important than finance and rumors brought us here today?"
"Yes, your Grace. I wanted to finish the easier things quickly. When you had sent for your bastards to come to Court, word reached Braavos, but we've not heard from the Black Pearl. We sent word to the Brackens, and the boy Aegor Rivers should arrive within a fortnight. But when we sent word to the Blackwoods they had issues with their birds, your Grace."
"Blackwoods' birds? Aren't they raven people? Why would they have issue with their birds and what does that have to do with me?"
Jon stammered through his response, "They had a disease run through them, and . . . the specifics aren't necessary. . . what is, . . .though, . . . is that the message took time for them to receive. The boy, Brynden, fell ill, and the two girls were sent out."
"And," the King asked, his cheeks reddening with each of Hightower's pauses.
"Word from Darry is they were attacked on the road. A band of brigands killed their whole party," Hightower blurted out.
"What of the children!" Aegon screamed, his face distraught and his shoulders slumped as he interrupted.
I've never seen him care.
"The children survived. Them and one serving woman. Thanks to the heroics of the Raventree Hall Master at Arms, they made their get-a-way, but not without the loss of all the things and people they were sent with. They're held up at Darry, waiting for word, as the girls are all too scared to travel alone, and the only one content enough to speak is the seven-year-old boy," Jon explained.
"Why didn't you start with this?" Aegon raged, his appearance far more familiar to Daeron than the Kingly face he'd just worn.
"My apologies, your Grace. There is much to discuss of this and I wanted the other issues out of the way."
"Horseshit!" the King replied, shooing away Jon's words as if they were gnats. His face shifted from angered to urgent, his fat brow furrowed and his wide face reddened. "What is there to discuss? We must send a party to escort them and another to find these brigands and bring them to justice."
"It will be done at once, your Grace, yet who should we send?" Jon asked, sheepish and hunched in fear of the King's further ire.
"I'd send the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard if he weren't preoccupied at present. Gods, with so many damn Targaryens dead, injured, or roaming the city streets, there's barely enough of the seven to go around. Send Ser Caswell and Ser Bulwer. Send Quentyn Ball. He'll gladly kill half the Riverlands if he has cause to, and send word to Ser Prestyn Merryweather of the Goldcloaks to send his finest column of riders. We'll flush out and murder any that would attack the blood of the king!"
"Your Grace," Larkin murmured. "Should we not ascertain the who of it before sending the King's Justice to deal out punishment? We've no acting Master of Laws. Sending swords could lead to the deaths of innocents, and without the proper guidance and oversight, I fear sending an armed force would do more harm than good."
"I, Grand Maester, am the only Master of Laws this realm needs! And if my sons and daughters are being attacked, I reserve the right to ask questions after I have exacted enough blood from my enemies first."
"Yet who are the enemies, your Grace," Ambrose Butterwell interjected. "I don't always agree with the Grand Maester, but before we rush a force out of the Dragon Gate, we should inform them of what we think might be at a minimum. Do we have enough time to appoint a new council member and hold trial? No. We must act quickly, but before discussing who to send, we surely have time enough to discuss who would do this and why? The Darrys are loyal Dragon Men, always have been. The children are safe for the moment, if just to discuss a bit more."
"If you didn't always seem like you were angling at something, Butterwell, I'd heed good words like those even truer," Aegon replied, his composure fighting his emotions, quite like Daeron was. "So, who would do this?"
"If an attack was sent upon House Blackwood," Larkin said, raising his hand as he spoke as if begging permission, "the first suspects should be of their mortal enemies and rivals the Brackens, no?"
"The Bracken's grudge against the Blackwoods will never end, but they are not as stupid as that," Aegon replied. "Are they?"
"They would have known of the summons for your children," Hightower limped in softly. "And mayhaps they were responsible for the delay in the message to prepare."
"The Brackens lack the funds to employ a full complement of staff for their keep," Butterwell responded. "They would not be able to raise a force strong or loyal enough to pull something like this. Not in my opinion."
"But who would dare come upon the party then? Who would have a quarrel with bastard children?" Hightower questioned.
Anyone that had issue with bastards, Daeron thought. Or wished to hurt the King. And that list is long, based on my father's deeds and deals.
"If not the Brackens, who I would agree with Butterwell likely didn't do it, then who?" The King asked. His heavy hands planted down onto the table, his meaty grip tense enough on its edge to nearly crack its chiseled edge. Aegon leaned into his council, looking around the table for someone brave enough to answer. His teeth nearly bared, out of breath and panting, enraged and engaged, desperate for advancement against his newest invisible foe, he grimaced at what Daeron saw to be his contempt for his council. His purple eyes burned between a squinting glare and bent brow. When they looked to the nearly smirking Master of Ships, the King snarled, "Have anything to fucking say, Zander? What the fuck do you sit here for if you have nothing to offer the realm but your handsome face and fine hair?"
"Your Grace," Redwyne replied slyly. "These are matters pertaining to the land. I know nothing of these families and their greeds and their grudges. So, as not to waste your time, I remain silent in matters beyond my grasp or mastery."
"Fuck!" the King yelled. "My children were nearly murdered and that smug shit is what I get from you?" Aegon's fat face trembled as he forced out his aggressive roar, only to smile. "But at least this fucking pirate only ever gives me the unfettered truth. Fuck the rest of you too!" The King's low voice grumbled like the growl of a beast.
Daeron raised his hand as if to speak, knowing if he wasn't granted permission what his enraged father might do in full view of his advisors. Aegon waved him away, struggling to hold his courtesy from slipping into uncivilized savagery.
"So, none of you know?" the King finished, beginning to calm, at least in what he showed them. Though he sat back down and relaxed his face, Daeron could still see the fury in his eyes. Aegon waited for a response. When none came, he decreed, "Very well. We've discussed it. Send forty men along with what I already discussed. Merryweather will bring however many he deems fit. That will be enough to ascertain the truth. And whoever is found to give food, trade with, or shelter these brigands, will be given swift justice as if among their number, for it is treason to support my children's assassins."
Daeron wanted to mention the Houses, Keeps, and Castles close enough to where the attack took place, as if to deduce by reasoning away who couldn't and wouldn't orchestrate the brigands to reduce the potential list of suspected parties. He wanted to further discuss who and why, as there could have been a collective effort to more logically puzzle out the answer.
But the King shooed him away.
That was his example in rule.
The meeting concluded and Daeron realized what more needed to be done before leaving the city. Although the thought of the creation of his bastard siblings disturbed him deeply, he harbored no ill will for the three children themselves. He too wanted justice brought to their attackers, and he also saw the value in earning the credit as well.
Daeron would never be martial himself, but he was smart, and could be considered cunning by the realm if his intelligence was what led to the capture and justice of the perpetrators, despite his frame and frailty. And maybe I could earn the respect of those I will one day rule, and others that would wish I never do.
Daeron needed to speak with his father.
Despite the well of his heart already full of hidden grief, he had to now hide his fear and confront the King as an ally. Fear was only the half of it. Contempt, loathing, resentment, and apathy made up the other, and his mask shivered, ready to shatter above his face. When the rest of the Lords exited, either alone or to talk amongst themselves, Butterwell snuck out first, while Hightower, Larkin, and Redwyne slowly followed, Redwyne out of sloth, and the others to speak as they left.
"Father," Daeron pleaded meekly. He coughed to clear his throat, and repeated himself as if he hadn't just failed. "Father," he said, this time with enough of his voice to be heard.
"What is it, Daeron," his father replied, looking up from his hands, his elbows planted firmly on the table, holding his head with his wide hands.
"May I offer some assistance in this? These are my siblings,"
"Half," he cut in sharply.
"My half siblings, and I have an idea of how to puzzle out who is responsible."
"Before I lose myself, as I too am in deep grief, please leave me, son." The way his father asked him was genuine. Though he clearly didn't respect his suggestion, which was certainly expected, the kindness in his dismissal was not.
When Daeron still lived within the Red Keep, his father would oft as not curse and belittle him as look in his direction, as if the sight of his son's face brought him indigestion. In this vulnerable moment, Daeron didn't even recognize him. Aegon looked tired. Though his face was fat, it had never drooped or sagged as much as it did looking up at Daeron from the table. The Prince had never seen the King's eyes as sullen, or his shoulders as hunched.
"As you wish. I will return to Dragonstone soon. Send for me if you need. When I depart, I will send word."
Aegon returned his head to his hands and sat silently as Daeron departed the chambers. He stood by the door for a moment, gesturing his hand as if to shush Ser Swann from speaking or moving. After a brief bit, the Prince could hear a muffled noise inside the Council Chambers.
The King was mourning.
"Take me to Baelor, Ser Swann," Daeron ordered quietly. "You will take over Ser Carron's shift."
"At once, your Grace." Swann was a dutiful Kingsguard, and all anyone could wish for in a knight and protector. Daeron needed business done, and he could trust the white knight to keep him safe.
But he needed to rid himself of Swann. As honorable as he was, and the man was as honorable a man could be, he was loyal to whoever was king.
Daeron wasn't king. He could only trust the man with so much.
"What's with all the mystery, your Grace?" Quentyn Ball asked Daeron as he stumbled into the manse's great hall which was draped with wavy yellow and green tapestries to cover the windows and stained glass. It was dark in the room, lit by only one candle, as if some dark magic were about to take place.
With Ser Caswell behind the Prince, Daeron gave a slight bow to the Red Keep's Master at Arms, and smiled. "What mystery? I needed only to speak with you."
Quentyn looked for a chair to sit, swaggering over to one and dumping all of his weight into it like he'd dropped himself off a cliff. After he slithered into a comfortable position, he looked up at Daeron and returned a grin of his own. "If it's all the same to you, a cup of wine couldn't hurt no one none."
Caswell had found him in a winesink in Flea Bottom. He nearly stole drink from the barkeep as little as he paid, and was half in his cups already by midday since there was no one to train in the yard on account of the Queen's funeral. It wasn't that difficult to find him with the Goldcloaks Daeron now at least partially controlled, but it wasn't easy to bring him to the manse on the edge of the city near the Iron Gate.
"About what?" Quentyn finally asked.
"You're being tasked with serving justice to the brigands near the Trident who attacked the King's children on the road." Daeron stated simply.
"What?" Quentyn asked, bewildered by the depth of the statement and all the information it contained. "When? Where? Are the children safe, or-?"
"The children are at Darry. All will be made clear soon, I'm sure. What I wanted to discuss with you is whom you should be looking for. Which is to say, no one knows yet, and that will be the more difficult task for you than killing them once you know."
The knight replied with his face in a stupor, "You think now's the best fucking time to try and tell me?"
Daeron did, though, and by the end of it, Quentyn was nearly sober.
Fear and loathing for children's sake tends to have that effect on honorable men.