Quentyn Martell rode through the grey drizzle of the Stormlands with the weight of duty heavy on his shoulders.
The horse beneath him was steady, a sure-footed Dornish sand steed that had carried him many leagues already. Behind him rode three trusted companions, Ser Archibald Yronwood, Ser Gerris Drinkwater, and young Ser Cletus Yronwood.
They traveled without banners, dressed as modest rchants, just as his father had instructed.
Investigate the boy, Doran had told him in that quiet solar back in Sunspear.
The one who calls himself Aegon Targaryen. The one who landed with the Golden Company. Learn if he is real... or rely another pretender.
Quentyn’s gloved hands tightened on the reins.
He had been sent in Arianne’s place.
Again.
The thought sat like a stone in his chest.
His sister... the heir, the bold one, the favorite in so many unspoken ways, had vanished into the night with the dragon prince Rhaego.
And instead of fury or pursuit, their father had simply looked at him with those tired, calculating eyes and rembered the very words he said.
"You will go, Quentyn. You have always been the careful one."
Careful. Reliable. The second son.
He had never resented Arianne for being the heir.
Not truly...
But there were monts, like this one when the knowledge that he was the spare, the one sent when the brighter child could not be trusted, stung more than he cared to admit.
Ser Archibald rode up beside him, rain dripping from the brim of his helm.
"Still no sign of the Golden Company’s main force," the big knight said quietly.
"But the rumors are spreading. A boy with a griffin banner raised over Griffin’s Roost. They say the boy fought with his own hand at the taking of the castle."
Quentyn nodded, eyes fixed on the muddy road ahead.
"If he is real," he said softly, almost to himself, "then he is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen... If he is not... then he is a lie with a thousand swords behind him. "
Gerris Drinkwater snorted from behind them.
"We could simply wait for your sister to return with the dragon prince. That would make things simpler, wouldn’t it?"
Quentyn did not reply.
The rain continued to fall as they rode onward, silent and unseen, toward the distant silhouette of Griffin’s Roost.
He had been sent to judge a boy who claid to be a king.
And sowhere out there, his sister was running toward her own destiny with another dragon at her side.
Quentyn Martell wondered, not for the first ti, whether his father had chosen the right child for this task.
The rain eased as they crested the final hill. There, rising against the darkening sky, stood Griffin’s Roost. The black and crimson griffin banner flew high above the tallest tower, defiant and proud.
Even from this distance, Quentyn could see signs of recent fighting with scorched stone, broken timber on the outer walls, and ard n patrolling the battlents.
Ser Archibald grunted beside him. "They’ve already dug in. Looks like they an to hold it."
Quentyn said nothing. He simply stared at the banner, the weight in his chest growing heavier.
So it begins.
If this boy truly was Rhaegar’s son, then Dorne stood at a crossroads. One path led east, to his sister and the dragon prince she had run away with. The other led here, to this uncertain claimant and the Golden Company’s swords.
He wondered which path his father truly favored.
"Shall we get closer, my prince?" Gerris Drinkwater asked quietly. "We could pose as rchants seeking shelter for the night."
Quentyn shook his head slowly.
Not yet," Quentyn said. "We watch a little longer. See who cos and goes.
Two dragons.
Two paths.
And sohow, he had been sent down the one that felt like shadow. Quentyn Martell did not believe in destiny.
n spoke of it often enough. Singers liked the word, so did fools and kings. But Quentyn had seen enough of the world to know that most roads were chosen, not fated.
Still, as he looked down upon Griffin’s Roost, he felt the weight of it settle on him all the sa.
"Enough," he said quietly.
Ser Archibald turned in the saddle, rainwater dripping from his beard. "Enough watching?"
Quentyn nodded. "Enough watching," he said. "Let’s go."
Ser Gerris gave a faint snort. "Was wondering when you’d say that. Thought you might root yourself here and grow into a tree."
Quentyn ignored him. His eyes remained fixed on the castle.
Griffin’s Roost a broken tower hastily repaired with fresh timber. n walked the battlents in mismatched armor, so in mail, others in boiled leather. Not a lord’s household guard.
Soldiers of fortune.
"If the boy is what he claims," Quentyn said, "he’ll want great houses to see him, he’ll want witnesses. Allies. Legitimacy. Not hide behind walls like a robber knight."
"And if he’s not?" Gerris asked.
Quentyn’s jaw tightened slightly. "Then we’ll know soon enough."
Ser Archibald shifted in his saddle. "You an to walk straight into a castle held by the Golden Company? "
"As rchants," Quentyn said. "Tired, wet, and looking for shelter. Nothing more."
Gerris chuckled under his breath. "You’ve never looked like a rchant in your life. And if they decide we’re worth more dead than alive?"
"No," Quentyn said, "but I can look like a man who needs a dry place to sleep."
That, at least, was true.
Quentyn’s mouth tightened slightly.
"And if they decide we’re worth more dead than alive? Then we’ll have our answer about what kind of king this ’Aegon’ intends to be."
There was a brief silence between them. The wind shifted, carrying the sll of damp earth and woodsmoke from the castle below.
Then Archibald grunted. "Well. I’ve ridden this far. Might as well see it through."
Quentyn gave a small nod and nudged his horse forward.
Ser Cletus spoke for the first ti, his voice quieter than the others. "If the Golden Company holds the gates... they’ll ask questions."
"They can ask," Quentyn replied. "We’ll answer what we must."
"And the rest?" Gerris said.
Quentyn glanced at him.
"The rest," he said, "we keep to ourselves."
Archibald gave a grunt that might have been approval.
"Well then," the big knight said, "no sense growing roots here."
Quentyn nodded once.
He turned his horse slightly, guiding them toward a concealed ridge overlooking the castle. As the rain finally stopped and the clouds began to part, Quentyn Martell felt the cold hand of destiny on his shoulder.
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