Quentyn IV
That poor boy, Quentyn kept thinking with each deep gulp of the Darry's ale. That poor little man.
He watched from afar as the members of their party lined up to pay their respects to the little white-haired boy on the dais. Sitting at the end of the Darry's high table, the child looked upon each of them with a forced smile, nodding to their praise and tidings like a septon might his congregation. He was small, even for his age, but he sat with the poise of a seasoned Lord.
There's a little man, maybe even an old one, hidden in that pale suit of meat. He'll be a fine young man one day. He'll have to be, looking the way he does.
Each gulp of beer tasted better than the last, and before he realized, it was Daemon running over to the boy. It was only then Quentyn noticed the young Blackwood bastard smiling in earnest for the first time since he'd seen him, and Q began to relax.
It was time to drink.
Quentyn finished his mug, slammed it down on the table, and shouted to the nearest wench for more. When she reached him, he wrapped his arm, tanned by the sun and red with hair and freckles, around her waist and pulled her close enough to hear his order over the loudening hall, "And keep it coming, my love. Nothing would please a tired knight more." With his other hand, he dug down into his pocket for two silver stags. Handing them to her, Quentyn looked up with a dim but dashing grin. "Nothing except if it were only you that brings 'em to me."
The dark-haired woman grinned back, turning to sit on the table next to him, her legs dangling and swinging into him playfully. "Would it be two at a time or just the one?"
"Just the one," Q said smiling as he handed her the mug. "More chances to see you, my dear."
She took it and left, giggling.
Quentyn hated how he looked when he'd see his tomato face and head, dotted pink and red skin, and furry orange body, like a shaved fox. But women, especially serving ones, seemed to adore it.
Who am I to deny them?
"Of course, the chivalrous Ser Ball is ingratiating himself with the serving staff. And it always seems to be of the fairer ones, doesn't it Q?" Ser Bulwer shouted from across the table.
"Don't call me, Q, Bulwer, and you wouldn't know a thing about fairer things, would you?"
"We white knights of the Kingsguard forsake the fairer touch of a woman once we take our solemn vows," Uthor replied.
"You vow to father no children and hold no lands. The vows don't say you can't fuck a woman. You just can't. That's why you can't help from mocking me for my own opportunities. You wish you could have them yourself."
"You presume much, Ser Quentyn," Bulwer growled, sitting up in his seat, his fat wide hand clenching his tin mug until it nearly bent at the handle. "I am proud to be a Kingsguard, and would never wish to wear the sullied cloak about your shoulders. It is you, Q, that wishes to wear my white one, but I earned it well before your time. It is Caswell's you should covet. He's the one you sent your wife to the whorehouse for. Too bad she's there for you to just teach the whelps the sword."
The serving girl returned with a pitcher to fill their mugs. His face flush with the heat of his rage, Quentyn stared deeply into the dark, sunken eyes of his instigator. Uthor Bulwer was a bull if there ever was one of his house, and his wide arms, shoulders, and head would be fun to pummel with anything, especially with the hard knuckles of Quentyn's clenched, heavy fists.
When the mug was filled, Quentyn brought it to his lips and downed it, gulp after gulp until it was empty. The cool and foamy rush could normally calm the type of storm thundering inside his heart, but Bulwer had gone too far. There was no turning back from this.
Quentyn slammed the mug down until it crumpled almost flat. All around immediately stopped their own revelries, and silenced, all now focused on Q's intense stare of hateful rage.
Bulwer reached out his mug for the serving girl to fill, returning a gruff grimace right back at Q. There had always been a genuine dislike between them, but they would rarely ever cross paths long enough for that dislike to fester.
Nothing a feast and a few ales can't help but foster further fouler.
"Don't fill his cup, love. He's had more than enough," Quentyn said coldly.
"I've not, Ser, and please do, my lady," Uthor replied.
Their gazes never faltered, still fixed on the other.
"Ser Bulwer was just about to step outside to finish some business he began with me."
"And what business is that, Ser Ball?"
"The lies you just spoke only lead down one road, and that road leads outside this hall."
"I will do no such thing. Anything you want to say to me, you can say here within the confines of these walls."
"I wish to say nothing more, you fucking swine. Pay the toll for those words of my wife."
"Former wife," Bulwer remarked with a grin. Quentyn tightened his fist and started to lunge across the table.
Daemon passed them on his way for more cake. "What's the matter Q?" he asked, as if he had any business butting in.
Dammit boy! Who am I to disgrace myself if it means disgracing you as well?
"Nothing. Ser Bulwer was saying he's not the sort of man to do what it was I was suggesting. Many men aren't. He will apologize for his words and we will leave it at that."
"What did he say?"
"Ser Bulwer?" Quentyn gestured, offering the Kingsguard to elaborate.
"It was nothing, Lord Daemon, just a bit too much to drink is all."
You are nothing, Bulwer. It is your cloak that saves you, not your skill.
"Very well then," Daemon responded. With an uncertain look, he walked back to his half-brother. The rest of the eyes on them began to wander back to their own musings, and the serving wench had left Quentyn's side long before he had realized.
"You all have a fine evening. I will prepare myself for the morrow," Quentyn announced, bowing to Bulwer with a vicious scowl. It was right not to reach over the table and attack the man right then, but that didn't make Q feel any better about it.
These damned courtesies. I was never meant for any of this. Just the sword and the man across from me.
Fuck Bulwer.
Quentyn searched the room for the dark-haired girl, but couldn't find her before he found the door out. He kept going.
She's no Jessalyn anyway.
As soon as he reached the soft bed of his guest chambers, Quentyn fell fast asleep instantly. The last mug of ale was enough to finish him off. He hadn't even removed his boots.
He woke suddenly with the urge to piss. Unfamiliar with his room and the castle, he fought through the dark of night to find a privy. His room didn't seem to have one, but he wouldn't disgrace the king and Daemon by filling any of the decorative vases either.
He rushed out into the hall of the guest apartments with the hopes he'd reach an appropriate place to relieve himself in time, but at this point, what would be would be.
Simple torches lit the hall on each side. The walls and walk forged of common stone were laid for function, not flash. Doors on each side mirrored his chambers, identical as he passed each. At the end of the hall was a door he hoped would prove the privy. He raced for it, the hard soles of his boots clapping at the stone floor so loudly he hoped he wouldn't wake any of the other guests.
But if I slow down now, I'll have to use a door as a pissing post.
Luckily, he was right about the door at the end of the hall, and he managed to successfully drain himself without issue.
But upon leaving the privy, he could hear something from one of the adjoining rooms. It was soft and sad, like someone crying into a pillow, but it was still loud enough to hear from down the hall.
Quentyn knew not which room the cries came from, or from whom for certain, yet something in him felt as if it had to be one of the king's children with Missy.
None else among them had earned the right for such tears.
Still groggy, but sober, he walked carefully back to his chambers, trying not to disturb whoever it was any further. As chivalrous as Quentyn wanted to be, consoling a young child in their bedchambers in the middle of the darkest part of night was not something he felt any comfort in doing.
Not even considering the lack of anything meaningful to say. Especially to the girls, if it were one of them.
Yet, as quiet as he tried to be, the still silence of the night betrayed his every move, and as softly as he tried to step, his toes and heels would clap the stone as loudly as when he was running.
When he passed the door, the crying stopped.
Good, he thought. They're too embarrassed to want me anyway. Quentyn tried to quickly walk by it.
"Is someone out there?" a soft voice called, muffled by quivers and shame.
"Yes, but just a knight that arrived today. Nothing to be frightened of," Quentyn called back. It sounded as if it were one of the girls.
The door creaked open and a little voice squeaked from the darkness inside, "I'm sorry to bother you, Ser, but could you help me?" A thin pale face peaked into the faint light from the hall. Her raven-black hair reminded Quentyn of her mother.
"What is the matter, young one?" Quentyn replied, moved by her frail voice and desperate expression.
"It's my bed linens," she mumbled shyly. "The girl who usually helps me didn't come back to my chambers tonight." The girl stepped into full view, her posture hunched and awkward, as if she meant to stand apart from her loose nightgown.
"What's wrong with your bed linen- Oh," Quentyn said, catching himself too late. What an idiot. She doesn't want to say any more than she already has. Not even that much. With how terrible I am with these children it's a wonder these people keep entrusting me with them.
"Never mind," Quentyn continued, trying to save himself from his blunder. "Show me. I'll do what I can for you. Do you have a lamp?"
"I couldn't find it. I only found the door from the light in the hall."
Quentyn pulled one of the torches from the wall and went into the room. It smelled like one might expect it to, yet he made no remark and showed no hesitation. He looked around for a clean set to redress her bed and found none.
"It'll probably be easier if I just get the ones from my room."
"Please don't leave me here," she replied, near tears. Her arms wrapped around her as if to hide herself, and her head hung down with her chin tucked into her chest.
"I'll put the torch here," Quentyn replied, setting it down in a vase on the table in the center of the room, "so you can change into something . . dr- . . . else, and I'll wait for you at the door."
As he waited, he closed his eyes even though they were directed at the wall across the hall with the door shut behind him.
He wondered to himself if he should have just pissed his own bed and avoided all this.
The door opened and the young girl shuffled out behind him, whispering meekly, "Thanks, Ser. I'm sorry."
"No bother," Quentyn replied, turning to smile at her. "My chambers is just this way."
When they reached his room, he instructed her to wait outside and ordered her not to come in for any reason as sternly as he thought she could handle.
"Do you promise not to come inside for any reason?"
"Yes, Ser," she replied as clearly as she had spoken yet.
Quentyn ripped the linens from his own bed, and quickly scurried back to the door. The sooner we finish all this, the sooner I can go back to sleep.
Arriving back at her chambers, Quentyn noticed the girl had strewn all of her clothes about looking for something to change into after her nightwear had been soaked. She likely did this in frustration. She looks to be the eldest of them, Mya. She must be as ashamed as she is still haunted by the fear of that night.
He pulled off the linens from her mattress. It too was soaked underneath, and would not suit the girl. Quentyn tried flipping it, but the underside had also been soiled, and was still damp, likely from the previous nights. Poor little lass.
"This bed is no good. We'll fetch mine. I tested it out some already. I think it would do well enough. I'll leave yours outside my chambers and say I was drunk. No one cares what a knight like me does in the middle of the night, not unless it's dishonorable."
"Thank you, Ser," she said with the faintest hint of a smile. Missy's smile.
When they returned back to her chambers, he made the bed and turned to leave immediately. If she asks me to tuck her in, I'll say no and just keep walking. Hopefully that won't make her cry again.
"Excuse me, Ser? Can I ask you just one more thing before you go?"
"Sure, but I'm not tucking you in," he blurted out, hoping he didn't sound too harsh.
"No. No. Nothing like that." She paused for a moment.
"I meant it in jest, young one. My apologies. Ask me what you will."
"Are you one of the Kingsguard that will escort us to the capital?"
It almost hurt to hear her ask, yet it sounded as if he should have been flattered, thinking that based on his weak attempts at consoling her, he could pass for one. "No, child. I am not. But Ser Caswell is, and he will be joining you. It is his duty to keep you safe."
"Only one of them is coming with us? I thought they told me there were two of them here."
"There are," though Bulwer is barely a man, much less a worthy knight of the order. "But one will be riding out with the ones sent to bring justice to those that meant to hurt you."
"You couldn't come with us?"
"No, child," Quentyn replied, thinking of a better way to rid himself of Uthor Bulwer, "but I think I can convince the other Kingsguard to as long as you help in asking."
"I will. I heard Ser Caswell isn't worthy of the cloak. I would feel better with another knight, at least. One for me and one for my sister."
"What of your brother, Brynden?"
"Apparently, he can take care of himself. I'm Mya Rivers, by the way. Thank you, Ser," she said, as if to urge him to give his own name.
"I'm Ser Quentyn Ball. Well met, Lady Rivers. Goodnight, now. I must return to what's left of my room."
Quentyn left, smiling. There's hope for that one left. Luckily, Bulwer will fall for her charm as easily as I just did.
"Out of the question," Bulwer sounded when Quentyn first asked him, packing their saddlebags and horses for the journey into the heart of the Riverlands. "The King has entrusted me to lead this expedition."
"The girl requested you by name, Uthor. Don't let our words at the feast cause this girl to suffer any more. You're sworn to guard the royal family, and those girls are as royal as Lord Daemon. The difference is they can't protect themselves," Quentyn said to Bulwer as the white knight packed his bed roll onto his white steed's saddle, unmoved by Ser Ball's argument. "You're just as likely to see fighting on the road back as we are," Q tried, appealing to the pent-up warrior inside the stout man. "And if there's no brigands left anywhere, at least you'll be back in the capital in less than a moon's turn. The young Lord and I are destined to comb these lands, likely fruitlessly, until the middle of next year."
"What chance does this ranging have if a knight of such low esteem is leading it?" Bulwer retorted, adding further ire for Quentyn to suppress.
For the girl, Quentyn thought to himself, swallowing his pride and anger. "Prince Daeron had some thoughts on where I should start, and I think the King would be glad to hear his son and heir taking initiative to lead in the capture of these fiends. Any glory I gain, you can give to the Prince instead of me." Bulwer would loathe to see Quentyn exalted for glory Uthor himself could have earned. It was important to belittle himself as much as he could to the Kingsguard to sway him.
"I've some thoughts on ways of getting the small folk to talk," Quentyn continued. "And I've not a reputation to uphold, allowing for whatever necessary to achieve those ends." Bulwer was beginning to turn. "A knight of such clean honor might not be able to be as effective as a knight of such low esteem as myself."
"That is convincing, but, no. The King put me in charge, and it is my duty to see it through."
"You must be Ser Bulwer," Mya Rivers said, meekly walking through the bustle of Goldcloaks and Darry men preparing their own horses for a journey one way or the other.
"I am, young lady. And you must be Mya Rivers, then. How can I be of service?"
"It's just," she started, looking down at her feet. Q noticed color back in her cheeks along with Missy's grin. "I was hoping you would escort my siblings and I. When we return to the capital, I'll tell my father it was my doing." She looked up, frowning, nearly pouting, and widening her doe eyes, pleading, "I don't feel safe. Not yet. I would feel safer with two Kingsguard, and one true one." Mya finished looking back down at her feet, and then back up again into Bulwer, sealing her words with an undeniable, "Please?"
Bulwer hesitated a moment, but as much of a coward and a bastard as he was to Q the previous night, he had a soft heart for the children. He only fought to stay with the ranging to ensure Daemon was safe.
"Fine, then. I'll return to the capital with you and your siblings. But you better tell the King like you said, or I'll be cross with you for a while." The gruff knight let a smirk slide across his lips.
"I promise, Ser Bulwer, and thank you. You must truly be an honorable knight."
Not truly honorable, but honorable enough, young lady.
"Lady Rivers," Quentyn called. "Where is your brother? I'd like to speak with him once more before we all set off."
"He's with the Lord Darry and his nephew Dickon. I believe they're still in the lord's solar."
"Thanks, and may the Seven bless you and your journey."
"We worship the Old Gods, but thank you, Ser Ball. Thank you very much."
Gods be good, I'm such an idiot.
The solar was simple, yet tastefully dressed with enough Targaryen art and lore to flatter even the most ornery of inbred Valyrian royalty. Deremond Darry was tall and broad, impressively built for a lord really. He had more of the stature of a formidable knight. His nephew was much like him, but thinner, and fairer, his bald face an easy marker of his youth in comparison to the well-kept beard of his uncle. They wore the black and brown of their house proudly, even as plain as the two colors were.
Deremond was showing the young bastard the crown jewel of their collection. "And this, young Brynden, is said to be a shard of a bone from the dragon, Vhagar. The Lord Darry at the time traveled to the God's Eye, witnessed the great battle between Vhagar and Caraxes, and was there when the beast's body was dragged from the lake with Aemond One Eye's charred corpse still chained into the saddle."
Lord Deremond held the shard up. The black splinter was the size of a dagger. Its edges looked sharp, and its surface rippled, almost as if it were Valyrian steel. Quentyn knew not if it were the truth or just another story Lords told to sound important, but the young boy was fascinated.
"I hate to interrupt, but I wanted to talk to the boy before he left, if it's all the same to you two?" Quentyn asked as courteously as he could.
"I don't see the harm in that. There will be plenty of time to speak on the journey there," Lord Darry replied. "Ser Quentyn Ball, this is my nephew, Dickon Darry. Dickon, Ser Quentyn may be the finest knight in the realm. He trained young Daemon to be as good as he is, and there's no doubt the boy must have learned from the very best."
"You are too kind, my Lord. Thank you. And," Please don't laugh. I hate when people name their sons, "Dickon. . . . it is a pleasure to meet you." Quentyn kept a straight face and felt it was the hardest he'd fought in years.
"Well met, Ser Ball. I look forward to joining the ranging."
Quentyn paused at that. This boy might be older than Daemon, but he's just as green and smaller. This is no place for a warrior as fine as my former squire, much less the lordling before me. "Yes," was all Q could say in reply. "Lord Darry, a moment as well, if you could spare one, once I'm done with the boy."
"As you wish, Ser Ball. Brynden," Lord Darry said, nodding to the Blackwood bastard on his way out of the solar.
"Good day, Ser Ball," the boy said, cheerily. His red eyes seemed clearer with a smile on his face.
"So it is, Master Rivers." Quentyn knelt down, his voice easier than he'd usually speak. "I came to see if you were doing well, but it seems you're right as rain."
"You were right, yesterday, about the things that happened," the boy replied, avoiding calling it what it was. "I will try to keep going."
"When I return, if you please, we can begin your training. I hope you're up to it. It would be my honor to train a hero such as yourself." The boy didn't cringe at the word any longer. "Just remember the true meaning of that word, young man. You were a hero because you did what was needed, not because you killed. And just because you had to kill, does not make what you did any less heroic. For now, though, just be a child." Quentyn laid his heavy hand on the boy's head and mussed his thin white hair. "Bring some of the joy from your half-brother Daemon into your sister's hearts. Before we set off, you should introduce them. If anyone can cheer up your sisters, it's that lunk."
"He amused even me," the boy replied, his tone more like an aged man than the boy he was. "If anyone can cheer up Gwen, it's likely he."
"Aye. Now good luck on your journey. I'll see you upon my return," Quentyn said, ushering the boy off.
He ran off with more energy than Q remembered him having when they'd met. The knight was worried the boy was feigning at the feast. I guess he liked the cake.
When Quentyn found the Lord Darry, he brought up the comment from Dickon earlier. "My Lord, if you please."
"Very well. Dickon," he ordered to his nephew. "Ready my men. I'll be with you in a moment to see you off." Deremond turned to Quentyn, his face official and stern. "We might as well proceed back into the solar."
"Indeed."
Quentyn followed him past the rare books and letters signed by Kings, and towards the corner of the room where the lord's desk sat with benches on each side. "Would you like to sit, Ser Ball?" he asked with courtesy.
"No, my Lord. What I have to say will likely be brief," Quentyn responded, trying to keep with the elevated tone of the Lord. "It's about the ranging and the young Dickon," he nearly laughed. He broke. "There's no fucking way he's coming."
"I beg your pardon, Ser?"
"Excuse me, my Lord, but we're heading into woods and hills with brigands potentially around every corner. No squires are among those chosen to go, and even Ser Bulwer of the Kingsguard has left our ranks at the request of the young Lady Mya. Many of the men are but City Watchmen, and aren't trained well enough to save themselves, not to mention a young unseasoned lordling like your nephew. I'm not sure what he's capable of, but he's too young to face death. If it weren't for the King's order, I wouldn't even have brought young Lord Blackfyre."
"I see," was all the Lord said for a while. After deep thought, he replied, "Keeping him safe would add liability that could potentially hinder the mission. Yet he is not so green as to keep in this castle without providing a service to his King."
"What do you propose?" Quentyn asked.
"I will join you, Ser Ball. I will take my nephew's place, and he mine. I was going to lead a small host to escort the children to the capital. I was intending to see my daughter, Martha, who is one of Princess Daenerys' ladies at court, but I can understand why you wouldn't want some green boy. Yet, I've lived long enough to take care of myself, and I wish to aid in any way house Darry can."
"Very well, Lord Darry. We'll be happy to have you among our ranks."
"I must leave you now then, Ser Ball, to finalize my preparations and inform the boy. It will be a great honor to lead our men. He will be thankful of the opportunity."
Quentyn didn't know what to say or do. Leaving conversations as lordly as this one was hard to do without seeming foolish. "Indeed," he said again. Hopefully that'll pass.
The Lord bowed slightly and walked out. "Feel free to peruse the library and displays. There's some impressive missives and volumes. A fellow dragon man like yourself might enjoy some of them."
There's no dragon man like yourself, Lord Darry.
Quentyn's horse was readied, though and most of the party he'd leave with was still making their beds. Bulwer had already hitched his things to one of the carriages leaving for the capital, and Daemon was off fooling around with the Blackwood bastards. I guess I've time for a drink, if I can find one.
Most of the attending staff was seeing the Lord Darry or the young Dickon off, including much of the serving staff, kitchen staff, and stables. There weren't many people really even within the walls or halls of the keep, as if the Castle Darry was nearly empty inside.
Quentyn thought of where to go. Where to look.
The kitchens always have something to scrounge through, and even if Lord Darry sees me, what would he object to? I'm just looking to stock up for the journey like the good ol' dragon man I am. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I took anything shy his wife or daughter with me.
He waved to the men that recognized him, though he knew not a one of them. As he crossed the inner yard past the stables toward the dining hall, a light fog of dirt from all the commotion, he saw the faces of the men returning back to King's Landing. They were all delighted. Many men, even armored ones, only played when it came to the actual fighting. It was impressive to speak about how they craved combat, but the actual threat of death was something they would never willingly volunteer to be a part of.
Many Goldcloaks were just small men that wished to seem bigger.
The kitchens were close enough to reach quickly, and as he looked about, hoping to find a cellar that led to racks and racks of wine barrels, he found a pitcher from the night before.
Should I? He asked himself, already well aware of what he was about to do.
It was piss warm, and mostly foam, but it was ale, and it would do.
"So thirsty for drink you couldn't find someone to pour you something fresher, Ser?" A voice from behind him called, startling Quentyn as he was gulping down the ale, forcing it out of his nose and choking him.
When he turned, it was the girl from the night before. Her dark hair was down, brushed over one shoulder. Her serving smock was unbuttoned at the top, and her apron was untied and folded over her legs. "I heard what you did for the girl, last night."
"What do you mean?" Quentyn said, catching his breath. "I pissed my bed is all."
"My sister's the one who was serving the girl, Mya, and the girl told her about last night." She stepped closer. No one seemed to be around at all.
Quentyn blushed. He hoped that no one would find out his goodness.
"You paid me those two silvers, and I was only able to give you that one mug of ale. A shame you had to leave so early last night. Is there anything else I can give you for your coin, Ser? Is there anything at all you need before you depart?"
Quentyn thought for a moment.
"Well, my lady," Quentyn answered. "There is one thing you might be able to help me with."