Quentyn
The Lord of Bitterbridge had yet to set foot on his lands or lay eyes on his castle. He found himself falling out of Small Council meetings, daydreaming about afternoons spent idling in the gardens he would grow, or entertaining the wife he would soon have, or how his son would inherit lands and a castle when he died. Anything to distract from the slow bore of war.
King's Landing had remained a nightmare to govern, though half a year into the job Lord Quentyn found himself more than capable.
Bitterbridge will be a cakewalk, he thought, returning to his daydreams. Across the table Mace Tyrell was going on and on about the continuing repairs following the twenty-six fires. Oberyn Martell was twiddling his thumbs openly, and Randyl Tarly was staring with disgust at the Dornishman's discourtesy. Grand Maester Pycelle looked in much need of a nap, and Lord Velaryon was notably absent, having disappeared two days before.
Finally Mace called an end to the Council meeting, but to Quentyn's dismay asked him to hang back. "I have an assignment for you," he said in a voice that was equal parts hushed and pompous.
"What is it, my lord?" Quentyn asked.
"I need you to go to the Pyromancer guild. Speak only to Hallayne. He's the one that took over after we killed the last one."
Quentyn felt his heart sink into his stomach. The caches of wildfire hidden across the city was one of the secrets he would prefer to forget, and there had been rumblings among the lords of the court that Mace was planning something risky in case the city was attacked. Swallowing, he nodded.
"Tell Hallayne that I am ready to schedule the meeting," the lord regent went on. "He will understand. Come back to me immediately with the time and place. Tell no one what you do."
"Yes, my lord," Quentyn answered softly and took his leave. His mind swirled with thoughts and questions as he twisted down the spiral staircase of the Tower of the Hand. Obviously the rumors were true, and his liege lord was plotting a backup plan if their armies were not victorious in the field.
This will not end well, he thought to himself.
Out on the streets, the new arrivals of the Tarlys and Martells were apparent everywhere. One couldn't find a street that didn't have at least one Dornish spearman or Reach footsoldier strolling down it. Most rushed to get out of his way as Quentyn led his palfrey down the stone roads toward the Pyromancer guild.
The arrival of the armies had come after the threat of Stannis Baratheon melted away, and now the two forces threatened to strain the resources of the city. Quentyn knew privately that one would have to be sent away, now that the capital was not under immediate threat from the rebel Baratheon's combined Stormlands army and sellswords.
And the commanders of these armies presented their own sets of problems. Prince Oberyn was droll, sure enough, but he was also Dornish. He clashed more often than not on strategy in the Small Council, advocating that they take the fight to the Stormlands and stamp out Stannis' rebellion. Truthfully, Quentyn thought the Dornish prince was simply bored. He had heard as much from Grand Maester Pycelle, who sent a raven for the prince to Prince Doran in which Oberyn had demanded a more exciting assignment.
It didn't help that the Dornish presence in the city meant thousands of soldiers intermingling. The grudges between Dornishmen and Reachmen were notorious, and it took only two nights before there were reports of bar fights between soldiers of the allied armies. When Randyl Tarly had attempted to address the issue with Prince Oberyn, the prince had laughed in his face before the entire Small Council. The Lord of Horn Hill had grown angry and flush after Oberyn chided him for losing twice to a commander half his age, and the subject had yet to be broached again.
Lost in his thoughts, he almost passed the Guildhall of the Alchemists at first. Inside he found Mace's contact and returned quickly to the Red Keep.
"Tonight?" Mace asked, flush with excitement. "Excellent!" He clasped his cousin's shoulders. "Quentyn, you must come with me! I insist, you won't want to miss this!"
And so it was that night that Quentyn Tyrell found himself accompanying the Lord Regent through the darkened streets of King's Landing yet again, this time to the Dragon Pit atop Rhaenys' hill. Inside, the Pyromancers had stored boxes upon boxes of jars that-Quentyn hoped-were sealed tightly shut.
"My lords, my lords!" Hallayne greeted them, his apprentices scurrying behind him to bow before Mace and their guards. "We are ready for you."
Hallayne led them through the maze of crates, each one glowing faintly green, until they reached a large open aired room. Looking up, Quentyn could see the stars of the night sky through the top of the pit. He started as he turned to see Mace handling a jar of wildfire, grinning brightly into its greenish glow.
"My cousin, this is our secret weapon," Mace said proudly. "If Stannis Baratheon tries to take the city, I mean to light up his armies with jars of this pitch." He held the jar out for Hallayne, whose old hand quivered as he took it...
The glass shattered against the stone floor of the Dragonpit, and the glowing liquid splashed all over the Pyromancer and Lord Regent. There was a moment of clarity before all hell broke loose, and suddenly Mace Tyrell had burst into flames. Hallayne screamed and tried to run, but tripped just a few feet away. As he lay burning on the ground, Mace fell as well. The flames licked the nearest crate, and with a
BOOM!, the last thing Quentyn Tyrell saw was the brightest burst of light before his entire being erupted into flames.
