The rain had settled into a steady fall by the time they left the yard, turning the packed earth to slick mud beneath their boots. The noise of the men faded behind them, swallowed by the patter of water against canvas and stone.
Quentyn walked beside Aegon in silence, the weight of the morning still lingering between them, unspoken but not forgotten.
"Your defense is stubborn," Aegon said as they walked back toward the shelter.
"Lord Yronwood's men believed a stubborn defense keeps a man alive longer than a brave death."
"A useful lesson."
"I have found it so."
Aegon laughed softly, though the sound faded as they passed beneath the covered walkway. Servants came with towels, dry cloaks, cups of watered wine. The watchers began to scatter, the excitement of the bout giving way to the ordinary business of soldiers and rain.
For the first time that morning, Quentyn found himself almost alone with Aegon.
Not truly alone. Jon Connington stood not far off. Duck lingered near the yard. Gerris and Arch watched from the other end of the walkway. But the noise had lessened, and the rain made a curtain of the world.
Aegon took a cup and drank, then looked at Quentyn over the rim.
"You fight as if you do not wish to be seen."
Quentyn considered that. "Most men who enjoy being seen have more pleasing faces."
Aegon laughed again, this time more openly. It made him seem younger.
Aegon turned the cup in his hands. "You have friends who will laugh at you for it."
Quentyn glanced toward Gerris. "Gerris does that well enough for both of us."
Across the walkway, Gerris lifted his cup as though he had been praised.
Aegon's smile lingered. Then, slowly, it changed.
"I envy that," he said.
Quentyn frowned. "What?"
"Men who have known you long enough to mock you safely."
It was an odd thing to say… Too honest, perhaps. Quentyn did not know how to answer it. Aegon looked back out at the yard, where the rain had begun to soften the marks of their boots.
"I have Duck," he said.
"And Haldon. And Septa Lemore. And Lord Connington, of course. I do not lack loyal friends. Still…" He shrugged, as though dismissing the thought before it could become too much of one.
"A hidden prince learns to be careful even with laughter."
Quentyn studied him from the corner of his eye.
There were moments when Aegon seemed every inch the prince Jon Connington wanted him to be. Then there were moments like this, when the paint thinned and something lonelier showed beneath.
Was that truth?
Or another lesson well learned?
"My father says a prince should have at least one man near him who is unafraid to tell him he is being a fool," Quentyn said.
"And do you?" Aegon asked.
"Several." Quentyn said.
Aegon turned the cup between his hands.
For a while, he said nothing.
Rain whispered beyond the covered walkway, falling soft and steady into the mud of the yard. The cheers had faded now. The men of the Golden Company had drifted back to their own talk, their own jests, though Quentyn could still feel Jon Connington's eyes somewhere nearby.
At last, Aegon spoke, his voice casual, almost idle, though his eyes remained fixed on the rain.
"Tell me, Prince Quentyn… in Dorne, where men listen more carefully than they speak, what have you truly heard of Daenerys Stormborn?" he asked, his tone light but deliberate, as though he were testing the weight of each word before letting it fall.
Quentyn did not answer at once.
He shifted slightly, feeling the damp cold settle deeper into his bones, and studied Aegon's face before replying.
"Enough to know her name carries farther than most kings ever manage," Quentyn said evenly, his voice steady but cautious, choosing his words with care as he met Aegon's gaze.
"But names grow larger in the telling. Truth does not always keep pace."
Aegon's lips curved faintly at that, though the smile did not reach his eyes. He tilted his head slightly, considering.
"Songs and rumors are wind," Aegon replied, his voice softening, though there was a quiet insistence beneath it.
His thumb traced the rim of his cup in a slow, thoughtful motion. "I am not asking what sailors boast of in taverns. I am asking what Dorne believes.. what your father believes."
Quentyn let out a slow breath, glancing briefly toward the rain before answering.
"My father believes only what he can weigh and measure," Quentyn said, his tone calm but guarded, his posture still as stone.
"And even then, he does not trust it easily."
Aegon studied him more closely now, the faint smile fading as something sharper took its place.
"And you?" Aegon pressed, leaning forward slightly, his voice quieter but more intent.
"What do you believe, Prince Quentyn? Not as your father's son, but as yourself."
Quentyn hesitated, then answered carefully.
"I believe she rules Meereen," he said, his voice measured, his eyes steady.
"I believe she broke chains and made enemies in doing so. And I believe she has dragons."
At that, Aegon's fingers tightened subtly around his cup, though he quickly masked it. His gaze dropped for a moment before lifting again.
"Yes… dragons," Aegon murmured, his voice lower now, almost thoughtful, though tension lingered beneath it.
The word lingered between them.
Then Aegon spoke again, more quietly still.
"And her son?" he asked, lifting his eyes to meet Quentyn's directly, his expression carefully controlled but edged with something harder to hide… curiosity, perhaps, or unease.
Quentyn did not answer immediately. He let the silence stretch, listening to the rain, weighing the question.
"I have heard… stories," Quentyn said at last, his tone deliberately vague, his gaze steady but unreadable.
Aegon's brow furrowed slightly.
"Stories?" he repeated, his voice tightening just a fraction.
"That is a thin answer for a prince of Dorne."
Quentyn allowed himself the faintest hint of a shrug.
"Thin answers are safer than thick lies," he replied calmly, his voice even, though there was a quiet firmness beneath it.
Aegon's jaw tightened, though he did not look away.
"What sort of stories?" Aegon pressed, his tone more insistent now, though he tried to keep it measured.
Quentyn met his gaze without flinching.
"The sort that grows in the east," he said, his voice steady, his expression unchanged.
"Strange things. Impossible things. The kind men repeat because they wish them to be true or fear that they are."
Aegon exhaled slowly, then glanced aside toward the rain, as if steadying himself.
"Tyrion Lannister spoke of him," Aegon said after a moment, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful, though there was a trace of unease beneath it.
Quentyn's expression did not change, though his attention sharpened.
Tyrion Lannister. Quentyn had never met the man, but he knew enough of Lannisters to distrust any gift they left behind, even if the gift was only a thought.
"And what did he say?" Quentyn asked, his tone neutral, though his eyes remained fixed on Aegon.
Aegon hesitated briefly before answering.
"He said there were dragons in the east," Aegon replied, his voice low, his gaze distant for a moment.
"More than one kind."
Quentyn said nothing.
Aegon drew a slow breath, then continued.
"They say Daenerys has three beasts," he went on, his voice steadying, though his fingers still moved restlessly along the cup.
"And they say her son is… something else entirely."
Quentyn's gaze hardened slightly.
"Men often call things 'something else' when they lack the courage to name them," Quentyn said, his voice calm but edged with quiet meaning.
Aegon turned back to him sharply.
"Then name him," Aegon said, his voice firmer now, his eyes searching Quentyn's face with open intensity.
The air seemed to tighten.
Quentyn held his gaze, unmoving.
"I cannot name what I have not seen," Quentyn replied at last, his tone steady, though there was a quiet weight behind his words.
"And I will not pretend certainty where there is none."
Aegon watched him for a long moment, then spoke again, more controlled now.
"I am not asking you to betray your father," Aegon said, his voice measured, though there was a hint of frustration beneath it.
"I am asking what Dorne believes."
Quentyn's expression remained composed.
"Dorne believes only what it can prove," he said, his tone calm but firm. "And even then, it questions the proof."
Aegon's lips pressed together briefly.
"And has it proven him?" Aegon asked, his voice quieter now, though the question carried weight.
Quentyn glanced down at the mud clinging to his boots before answering.
"That is not for me to say," he replied, his tone careful, his posture still.
Aegon's expression flickered frustration, perhaps, or something closer to disappointment.
"I am not his enemy," Aegon said, his voice more direct now, his gaze fixed on Quentyn.
Quentyn met his eyes.
"Are you certain of that?" Quentyn asked, his tone calm but pointed, the question slipping out before he could soften it.
The air shifted.
Jon Connington stepped forward at once.
"Prince Quentyn." Connington began sharply, his voice edged with warning, his posture tense.
Aegon raised a hand without looking at him.
"That will be enough," Aegon said quietly, though there was authority in his tone that brooked no argument.
Connington stopped, though his expression remained hard.
Aegon turned back to Quentyn, his gaze sharper now.
"He is my blood," Aegon said, his voice steady, though there was a hint of strain beneath it.
"If he is what men claim," Quentyn replied, his tone even, though his eyes did not waver.
Aegon's expression tightened.
"And if I am what I claim?" Aegon asked, his voice lower now, the question carrying more weight than before.
Quentyn felt the weight of it settle between them.
"If you are Elia's son," Quentyn said carefully, his voice steady though quieter now, "then Dorne has mourned you for half a lifetime."
Aegon's expression softened slightly at that, but Quentyn continued.
"And if Daenerys Stormborn's son lives," Quentyn added, his tone still measured, "then he is also of your blood. Blood does not always bind men together. Sometimes it divides them more cleanly than any sword."
Aegon looked away toward the rain.
"No," he said quietly, his voice stripped of pretense for a moment.
"It does not."
He drew a breath, then spoke again.
"I do not wish to fight him," Aegon said, his voice low, almost reluctant, as though admitting something he would rather not.
Quentyn studied him.
"Then do not," Quentyn replied simply, his tone calm, though there was a faint edge of realism beneath it.
Aegon gave a faint, humorless smile.
"If only crowns were won by wishing," Aegon said, his voice dry, though there was a trace of bitterness beneath it.
Silence settled again.
After a moment, Aegon spoke once more.
"When you write to your father," he said, his voice steady again, though quieter, "what will you tell him of me?"
Quentyn considered that carefully.
"I will tell him what I have seen," Quentyn replied, his tone measured, his gaze steady.
"And what have you seen?" Aegon asked, his voice intent, leaning slightly forward.
Quentyn chose his words with care.
"I have seen a prince who is brave enough to cross the sea and stake his claim," Quentyn said, his voice calm, though deliberate.
"I have seen discipline, courtesy, and a man who has been trained for rule."
Aegon watched him closely.
"And?" Aegon prompted, his voice quieter now.
Quentyn held his gaze.
"And I have seen that courage does not prove truth," Quentyn said, his tone steady, though the words carried weight.
The silence that followed was heavy.
"That is a harsh judgment," Aegon said after a moment, his voice controlled, though there was tension beneath it.
"It is not a judgment," Quentyn replied calmly. "Not yet."
"Then what is it?" Aegon asked, his voice tightening slightly.
"Caution," Quentyn said simply, his tone firm.
Jon Connington's voice cut in, cold and sharp.
"Dorne has had years for caution," Connington said, his gaze fixed on Quentyn, his tone edged with impatience.
Quentyn turned to him.
"Dorne has had years of burying its dead," Quentyn replied, his voice quiet but unyielding.
Connington fell silent.
Aegon stepped slightly between them, his voice calmer now.
"Lord Connington speaks from loyalty," Aegon said, his tone measured.
"I do not doubt it," Quentyn replied.
"Nor should you doubt mine," Aegon added, his voice steady, though there was a hint of urgency beneath it.
Quentyn said nothing.
Aegon stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"I need Dorne," Aegon said plainly, his tone direct now, abandoning pretense.
"I will not pretend otherwise. If Dorne stands with me, others will follow. The realm will remember."
"The realm remembers what it chooses," Quentyn replied, his tone calm but firm.
"Then help it remember my mother Elia," Aegon said, his voice sharper now, the name carrying weight.
Quentyn's jaw tightened.
Aegon's expression shifted at once.
"Forgive me," Aegon said quickly, his voice softer now, regret flickering across his face.
"I did not mean—"
"Yes," Quentyn said quietly, his tone steady. "You did."
Aegon did not deny it.
After a moment, he spoke again.
"What would Dorne ask of me?" Aegon asked, his voice quieter now, more measured.
"My father will decide that," Quentyn replied, his tone calm.
"And you?" Aegon pressed, his voice softer, more personal now.
"What would you ask?"
Quentyn hesitated, then answered.
"I would ask that you do not force Dorne to choose too quickly," Quentyn said, his voice steady, though thoughtful.
Aegon frowned slightly.
"Delay can kill a cause," Aegon said, his tone firm.
"So can haste," Quentyn replied, his voice even.
Aegon studied him, then nodded slowly.
"Your father's son," Aegon said, his tone thoughtful.
"I have been called worse," Quentyn replied, his voice dry.
Aegon gave a faint smile.
"No doubt," he said quietly.
A servant approached with a cloak, and Aegon allowed it to be draped over his shoulders.
"I hope, Prince Quentyn," Aegon said, his voice steady once more, "that when Dorne looks upon me, it sees more than sellswords and doubt."
Quentyn inclined his head.
"I hope so as well," Quentyn replied, his tone sincere, though measured.
And that, at least, was true.
Quentyn watched as Aegon turned back toward the yard, Jon Connington falling into step beside him, the Golden Company closing around him like men guarding something fragile against the storm.
Dorne had waited long for a dragon.
Now another had come, with sellswords at his back and Elia's name upon his tongue.
Quentyn did not know yet whether he was a prince, a pretender, or a danger best left to burn before he reached Dorne.