From Ser Erik's report, Baelon at last understood why Harrenhal, vast, imposing, and steeped in legend, felt less like a castle and more like a cauldron, simmering on the edge of a boil.
The Strong family had held Harrenhal for scarcely two generations, and in that brief span, half the Riverlands and a good portion of the Vale had grown hungry for it. The more Baelon studied the maps spread across his table, the more naked that hunger became.
Harrenhal lay at the beating heart of Westeros.
To the north stretched a broad inlet where seawater flowed deep into the Crab Claw Peninsula, slipping past the Quiet Isle and Saltpans, then pushing onward to Harroway's Town. It was there, at that churning hub of commerce, that the waters divided into the three forks of the Trident.
The Green Fork climbed north, winding past the Twins and toward the Neck, a rare, precious artery by which riverboats might slip into the North.
The Blue Fork was gentler, its waters slow and silvery. Though shorter than its sisters, it passed through Maidenpool, one of the richest markets in the Riverlands.
The Red Fork surged westward, swift and boisterous, straight to stately Riverrun and thence toward the gold-laden Westerlands.
Even within Harrenhal's own demesne, Harroway's Town swelled with merchants and travelers from every direction. The Kingsroad ran north to south through its center. The River Road cut east to west. The long, treacherous road from the Bloody Gate carried goods and gold from the Vale.
All of them converged here, at this monstrous, charred fortress whose shadow fell across half the realm.
Commerce thrived here more than anywhere between Dorne and the Wall. In the days of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, Harrenhal had even served as the unofficial political heart of Westeros. The Great Council of 101 AC had assembled within its blackened halls, lords and ladies gathered to choose the heir to the Iron Throne.
No wonder the great houses salivated over it.
House Strong, with roots shallow as reeds, had survived here only by the grace of kings. And with their downfall, the wolves and hawks had begun circling openly, eager to tear off their share before Baelon could secure his grip.
Ser Erik Riswell, earnest, armored, and still carrying the fervor of a young knight trying to prove himself, cleared his throat and continued his report.
"As far as I know, my prince," he said, placing one fist over his heart, "Ser Harreth's true backers are House Tully. They've long wished to extend their reach deeper into Harrenhal's lands."
Baelon's gaze sharpened. Erik swallowed but pressed on.
"That said, the Tullys have always bent the knee faithfully to the Iron Throne. I doubt they would encourage Ser Harreth to provoke you openly. Which leads me to suspect another hand in all this-the Royces of the Vale."
Baelon looked up at that, brows knitting. He set aside the quill he had been turning between his fingers.
"The Royces?" he asked quietly. "House Royce of Runestone? Their lands lie half a realm away. Why would they meddle in Harrenhal's affairs?"
He leaned back, mind turning. He knew the house, knew it all too well.
"If memory serves," Baelon went on, voice cool, "the Lady of Runestone is... or was, my father's lawful wife."
Erik rubbed the back of his neck, a touch embarrassed.
"Just so, my prince. But Lady Rhea is said to spend more time hawking and hunting than ruling. Day-to-day, most Royce affairs fall to her elders."
"And these elders," Erik continued, stepping forward as though laying a piece upon a cyvasse board, "withdrew every Royce caravan and investment from Harrenhal the moment word spread that a Targaryen prince would take the Strong seat."
Baelon's fingers stilled against the table.
Erik took a slow breath. "Certain… less honorable Royces, unable to move their landholdings, attempted to bribe Ser Harrith into making trouble for you."
"And all of it happened just as the crown seized the Strong family's properties," Erik added, lowering his voice.
Understanding washed over Baelon, cold as a winter tide.
Harreth Strong had lost everything when his family fell. His wealth confiscated, his standing gone. Desperate men were easy to buy. He had hoped to embarrass Baelon just enough to earn coin from greedy nobles, but not enough to lose his head.
And Erik, eager to prove himself, had walked straight into the snare.
One man seeking coin. One seeking advancement.
One clinging to survival. The other reaching upward.
And so their little "duel," as Harreth had called it, had spiraled into farce.
Yet beneath the farce lay something far more dangerous:
Tullys pushing from the west. Royces whispering from the Vale. Merchants like the Dantells sniffing around Harrenhal's broken stones.
Parasites, all of them, fighting atop a dying beast.
"I see." Baelon released a long breath. "You've done well, Ser Erik. You may go."
He paused, then added, "And train the cavalry well. I intend to expand the mounted forces soon. Expect the burden on your shoulders to grow."
Erik straightened instantly, pride lighting his face like a torch.
"I swear it, my lord, I will not disappoint!" He struck his breastplate with a gauntleted hand, bowed, and withdrew.
Baelon watched him go, expression cooling as the chamber door thudded shut.
His gaze slid to Cantrell, the massive white-cloaked knight standing at silent attention near the wall. Where Erik was eager, Cantrell was stone: broad, deafened long ago in some forgotten skirmish, but steadfast as winter.
"How much of what he said do you believe?" Baelon asked, rising from his chair.
Cantrell inclined his head slightly, reading the prince's lips.
"Most of it, my prince," he answered. His voice was low, grave. "Illis Dantell is clearly a merchant lord. Harreth Strong has opposed you openly. As for Samond… his loyalties are uncertain."
He shifted his stance, hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword.
"Only Ser Erik seems fully dependable at present."
Baelon gave a soft, humorless laugh. "Compared with the court intrigues of King's Landing, this place is child's play."
He paced toward the window, looking out across the lake where Harren's monstrous towers cast long, broken reflections.
"So Harrenhal is infested," he murmured. "Tully fingers in the west. Royce whispers in the east. The Dantells tugging at every purse string."
A slow, sharp smile curved his mouth.
"This is my domain. I will not allow anyone to put their filthy hands into my bowl."
He turned back to Cantrell, cloak whispering behind him.
"First things first, we cleanse the rot. Harrenhal's armies and coffers must be mine alone."
Cantrell bowed.
"For the next few days," Baelon continued, "you need not guard me personally." He waved one hand dismissively. "With your hearing, you'd never notice an assassin unless he stood behind you and shouted his name."
Cantrell stiffened, then nodded embarrased. "That… is true."
"You are better used commanding troops," Baelon said. "Of every man here, you alone are wholly loyal."
Cantrell dropped to one knee, fist pressed to the ground.
"Your will, my prince."
"Good." Baelon stepped closer, voice dropping. "Take command of the garrison. Remove every soldier with ties to Harrith Strong. I will not have my army leaking secrets like a sieve."
Cantrell rose, chin lifting.
"When you are done," Baelon added, "reward every soldier one gold dragon. Ten for each captain."
Cantrell blinked, surprised.
"Tell them this," Baelon said, pacing once more to the center of the room. "Tell them their new lord is generous and merciful. That loyalty will be answered with wealth, rank, and power."
Cantrell's lips curved into the faintest smile beneath his white cloak.
"As you command," he said.
Baelon turned his gaze once more to the map-strewn table.
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A/N- Baelon's journey gets far wilder in the next arc.
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