Rain had fallen through the night at Griffin's Roost, soft at first, then hard enough to drum against stone and slate until sleep became a thing made of broken pieces.
By morning, the castle yard was all mud, puddles, and grey light.
Quentyn Martell stood beneath the shelter of a covered walkway and watched Prince Aegon Targaryen strike at a man twice his breadth.
The boy moved well.
That much could not be denied.
Aegon wore no crown, only a plain doublet beneath boiled leather, his hair dyed blue though pale white showed at the roots, tied back from his face and darkened by rain.
In the yard below, he circled with a blunted sword in hand while Ser Rolly Duckfield came at him again, shield raised, boots splashing through mud. Duck was no lordling's courtly partner.
He was broad, ugly, solid as a gatehouse, and he pressed the prince hard enough that Quentyn could hear the crack of practice steel from where he stood.
Aegon yielded ground, then took it back. Too quick for Duck's heavier blows, though not so quick that he could afford carelessness. Once, Duck's shield caught him in the shoulder and sent him stumbling.
The Golden Company men watching from the far side of the yard laughed and shouted encouragement.
"Again!" one called.
Aegon spat rain from his mouth and smiled.
He came on again.
Quentyn folded his hands before him and said nothing.
He had been at Griffin's Roost long enough now to know that nothing here was simple. Every meal was a council. Every courtesy was a test. Every smile from Jon Connington had a hook hidden beneath it, and every word spoken by the boy who called himself Aegon carried the same silent plea.
Look at me.
Believe me.
Carry word of me home to Dorne.
Quentyn wished, not for the first time, that Arianne were here in his place.
His sister would have known how to smile through such things. She would have turned every glance back upon the watchers, made a game of their game, and left them wondering whether they had won her favor or merely earned her amusement.
Quentyn only watched.
It was what his father had sent him to do.
Watch. Listen. Weigh.
Promise nothing.
Lord Yronwood had taught him that a man who promised too soon was either a fool or already beaten. His father had taught him that silence often served better than speech. Between the two of them, Quentyn had learned to keep his mouth shut even when every man in the room tried to pry it open.
"Well struck, Your Grace."
Your Grace.
The words still sounded strange to Quentyn's ears.
Not because the boy was not princely… He was.
Aegon had the look of old Valyria about him, the silver hair, the purple eyes, the fine bones, the high bearing drilled into him by years of tutors and guardians. He spoke well. He sat a horse well. He knew names, histories, sigils, grievances.
He knew when to speak softly of Elia Martell and when to let silence do the work grief could do better than any speech.
That was the trouble.
Aegon might be false.
He might also be true… And if he was true, then Dorne had been presented with a ghost from its own wound.
Elia's son.
Rhaegar's son.
A prince thought dead in blood and ruin.
Quentyn had looked upon him at dinner the night before while candles burned low and rain lashed the shutters. Aegon had spoken of justice, of homecoming, of the debts owed to Dorne. He had not shouted, nor boasted overmuch. He had listened when Quentyn spoke, and when he answered, his words had been careful.
Too careful, perhaps.
Or perhaps that was only what kings were taught.
"Prince Quentyn."
Jon Connington's voice came from beside him.
Quentyn turned. The Lord of Griffin's Roost stood beneath the same shelter, his red hair damp at the temples, his face thinner than it ought to have been and harder than any courtesy could soften. He had the look of a man who had waited too long for one thing, and would not suffer it to be delayed again.
"My lord," Quentyn said.
Connington's eyes were on the yard. "He improves every day."
"He fights well."
"He was well taught."
"So I see."
"And not only with swords." Connington glanced at him then.
"His Grace was raised for rule. He knows the histories of the Seven Kingdoms better than many maesters. He speaks several tongues. He has studied laws, ledgers, songs, and sieges. He has been prepared for the burden that was stolen from him."
Quentyn heard the word beneath the words.
Dorne.
Everything returned to Dorne.
"He is fortunate to have had loyal men about him," Quentyn said.
Connington's mouth tightened, though whether in pride or pain, Quentyn could not say. "Loyalty is rarer than gold."
"In Dorne we value both, though not always in that order."
That won him the faintest smile.
Below, Aegon parried Duck's blow and struck back too quickly. Duck's sword flew from his hand and landed in the mud. For half a heartbeat, the yard was silent.
Then the Golden Company cheered.
Aegon lowered his blade, breathing hard, rain shining in his hair. He offered Duck a hand. Duck took it and rose, laughing as though being thrown in the mud by a prince were some honor.
Aegon looked toward the covered walkway.
Toward Quentyn.
Their eyes met.
Aegon smiled and lifted his sword in salute.
Men cheered louder.
Quentyn inclined his head.
Aegon's smile slipped, just a little.
Jon Connington saw it. Quentyn knew he had. The man's gaze sharpened, then cooled into courtesy.
"His Grace values your judgment," Connington said.
"My father values caution."
"A wise prince may have both."
"My father would be pleased to hear it."
"Would he?" Connington asked.
Quentyn shrugged. Rain dripped from the edge of the roof and splashed his sleeve. "He says many things."
For a moment, the rain filled the silence between them.
Then Connington's face eased. "Forgive me. I meant no offense."
"None taken."
It was easier to say that than anything else.
Aegon crossed the yard toward them, Ser Rolly behind him, both wet and muddied. A young squire hurried forward with a towel and cloak. Aegon waved the cloak off at first, then accepted it when the boy looked stricken.
He is kind in small ways, Quentyn thought.
That too could be true.
Or practiced.
"Prince Quentyn," Aegon said, stopping before him. His cheeks were flushed from exertion, his breath still uneven, but his smile was bright. "You have watched me be struck often enough. Will you give me the honor of striking me yourself?"
Quentyn blinked.
Duck laughed. "Careful, lad. Dornishmen have quick hands."
A few men chuckled.
Quentyn felt every eye turn toward him. There was the trap, smiling and mud-streaked.
To refuse would seem timid. To accept would become another show. If he fought poorly, Aegon looked stronger. If he fought too well, he insulted a king in the making before his own men.
Arianne would have found some clever third path.
Quentyn found none.
"I would not wish to tire Your Grace after your bout," he said.
Aegon's smile remained. "A prince who tires after one bout should never ask men to follow him into war."
There were murmurs of approval at that.
Quentyn could almost hear his father sigh.
He bowed his head. "As you wish."
A practice sword was found for him, along with a shield. Quentyn removed his cloak and handed it to Gerris Drinkwater, who watched him with a look that carried both amusement and warning.
"Try not to kill the king," Gerris murmured.
"He is not king yet," Quentyn said.
Gerris's smile faded by a fraction. "Careful."
Quentyn stepped into the rain.
Mud sucked at his boots. His fingers tightened around the hilt of the blunted sword. The weight was familiar enough, though not his own. He rolled his shoulder once and tried to ignore the men watching.
Archibald Yronwood stood near the edge of the yard, broad arms crossed, face unreadable. That comforted Quentyn more than he would have expected. Drink and jests were Gerris's armor. Silence was Arch's. Both had followed him farther than wiser men would have.
Aegon took his place across from him.
"No malice," the young prince said.
"None," Quentyn replied.
Their blades met. Aegon was quicker.
Quentyn learned that within the first three exchanges. The boy moved with a graceful sharpness, light on his feet despite the mud, his sword darting and withdrawing before Quentyn could punish the opening. He had been trained by men who knew how a prince ought to look with steel in hand. There was beauty in it.
Quentyn had not been taught beauty.
Lord Yronwood's master-at-arms had been a sour old man with one ear and no patience for flourishes. He had taught Quentyn to keep his shield high, his feet firm, his eyes open. A dead man with a pretty cut was still dead, he used to say, usually after knocking some boy into the dust.
So Quentyn gave ground slowly.
He let Aegon come.
The prince's first attack struck his shield hard enough to numb his arm. The second glanced from his shoulder. The third Quentyn caught on his blade and turned aside. Mud splashed between them as they circled.
Aegon smiled.
Quentyn did not.
The Golden Company men shouted for their prince. Someone called advice. Someone else laughed when Quentyn nearly slipped, though he recovered before Aegon could take advantage.
The boy presses too eagerly, Quentyn thought.
Aegon wanted to win. More than that, he wanted to be seen winning. It was not vanity exactly. It was hunger. A prince raised in secret must have spent his whole life being told that one day the world would know him. Now that the day had come, he could not help reaching for it with both hands.
Quentyn understood that more than he liked.
He too had been raised for a purpose whispered more than spoken.
Aegon feinted high, then cut low. Quentyn caught the blow on his shield and answered with a short strike that caught the prince against the thigh.
Aegon hissed.
The yard went quieter.
Quentyn stepped back at once. "Your Grace?"
Aegon looked down at the place where the blunted sword had struck, then up at Quentyn.
For a moment, something flashed in his eyes.
Then Aegon laughed.
"Good," he said. "Again."
This time he came harder.
Quentyn braced. Steel struck steel. The prince was faster, but Quentyn was stronger than he looked and harder to move than Aegon seemed to expect. The mud helped him when it did not hinder him. Pretty footwork suffered in muck. Solid feet suffered less.
For a few moments, he forgot the watchers. There was only rain, breath, shield, sword. Aegon's blade beat against him once, twice, thrice. Quentyn turned the first, took the second on his shield, let the third slide past, and drove forward.
Aegon stumbled.
A murmur rose.
Then the prince twisted with surprising speed, stepped inside Quentyn's guard, and hooked a foot behind his ankle.
Quentyn went down into the mud and the impact drove the breath from him. A practice blade stopped a hand's breadth from his throat.
Rain pattered against his face.
Aegon stood over him, chest heaving, hair plastered to his brow. For half a heartbeat, he looked triumphant. Then the expression vanished, replaced by courtesy.
He offered a hand.
"Well fought, Prince Quentyn."
Quentyn looked at the hand.
Then took it.
Aegon pulled him up. "You were well taught," the young prince said.
"So were you." Quentyn replied.
The Golden Company cheered. Duck clapped Aegon on the shoulder hard enough to make him sway. Jon Connington did not cheer. He only watched, eyes bright with something too fierce to be pride alone.
Quentyn wiped mud from his sleeve and felt foolish. Arianne would have made even falling look deliberate.
He only felt drenched.