Daemon Targaryen dismissed the king's messenger with a snarl sharp enough to cut flesh.
The man all but stumbled out of the tent, tripping over the threshold in his haste to escape. A knight tried to steady him, only to be shoved aside as Daemon stormed back inside, his cloak snapping behind him like a banner caught in a gale.
He dropped heavily into his chair. The wooden frame groaned under the sudden weight, and the oil lamps flickered, throwing unsteady light across his face, dark with fury, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. Rage simmered beneath his skin like the coals of a forge.
He would attend the feast next year.
Oh, he would go.
And when he stood before his dear brother, sweet, soft, self-righteous Viserys, the king would answer for this insult.For driving his son from King's Landing. His son, who had saved the princess. His son, who had tamed the white hart, the creature of kings.
His son, whose claim to the Iron Throne was no weaker than that of any blood of House Targaryen.
How dare he? How dare he?
BANG!
Daemon's fist slammed upon the campaign table. The impact rattled carved blocks representing fleets and armies, sending them skittering across the painted Stepstones. Several officers flinched; one swallowed loudly, another took a prudent step backward.
Corlys Velaryon, seated with the easy poise of a man long accustomed to tempests, be they sea-born or Targaryen, glanced at the prince from the corner of his eye.
"Leave him be," Corlys murmured to the men, waving them back to their tasks with a cool, commanding gesture. "We continue."
Outside, the sea wind howled against the tents. Inside, Daemon's breathing slowly steadied, though the storm never left his gaze. Even here, so far from the intrigues of King's Landing, so deep in blood and warfare that raven messengers often burned in the sky, he received Viserys's letters.
If Daemon had received his, then Baelon, at Harrenhal, surely had as well.
Baelon had scarcely settled into his new seat at Harrenhal when a shadow passed over the yard and cries rose from the parapets.
Syrax had arrived.
Golden scales caught the sun as she descended in a sweeping arc. Her roar shook loose dust from the stones. Yet, unlike the chaos that had erupted upon Tyraxes's first landing, the garrison this time held formation, the men stiff-backed but steady.
They had seen dragons enough these past days.
When the beast touched down, knights hurried forward, forming ranks as Princess Rhaenyra dismounted in a swirl of black and scarlet.
A tall knight strode to meet her, helm tucked beneath his arm.
"Under the banner of Lord Baelon," he announced, offering a deep, courtly bow, "Erik Riswell, Knight of the Hundred Hearths, welcomes Her Grace the Princess. If you will follow me, I shall take you to the King's Pyre Tower."
He straightened with a hint of pride that he tried, and failed, to conceal. The pale sun caught the sigil freshly worked onto his breastplate, a stylized tower over a ring of hearth-flames.
Erik had been a busy man of late. His cavalry had been enlarged, drilled until their hooves seemed an extension of the stone. And Baelon, young, ambitious, and unsettlingly perceptive, had granted him a new title.
A title modeled after the Vale's ancient Gate of the Moon knights.
"Knight of the Hundred Hearths?" Rhaenyra echoed as they walked, one brow arched in amusement. "Tell me, Ser Erik, do you own a hundred hearths, then?"
"Not quite, Your Grace." Erik's answering smile was modest, though pleasure glimmered plainly in his eyes. "It is a title bestowed personally by the lord. To me, it is the highest of honors."
They passed beneath an archway, torchlight painting warm colors across her armor.
"And with the honor comes duty," he continued. "Oversight of the great hall, what we now call the Hundred Hearths Hall, as well as command of the Middle Gate's defenses."
He gestured toward the sprawling courtyards beyond. "There are eight such titled knights in Harrenhal now. The Knight of Terror, the Knight of Wailing, the Knight of Widows, the Ghost Knight, the Blackheart Knight, the Heartwood Knight, the Flowstone Knight… and myself."
"Only four posts are filled. The other four await lordly appointment."
Rhaenyra slowed, intrigued despite herself. She glanced up at the looming towers of Harrenhal, their titanic silhouettes black against the pale sky.
The first five titles mirrored Harrenhal's infamous towers.Terror. Wailing. Widow's. Ghost. King's Pyre, though Baelon had taken to calling that last one the Blackheart.
"The Heartwood Knight oversees the godswood, twenty acres of ancient forest," Erik said as they passed between twisted oaks. "The Flowstone Knight commands Flowstone Yard, where steel is cleaned and warriors trained."
"Terror Knight?" Rhaenyra repeated, lips curling. "That sounds dramatically grim."
"That title," Erik replied, "belongs to Ser Cantrell Rosby. Strongest knight in Harrenhal. He guards Terror Tower."
They walked past a troop of men drilling with spears. Erik greeted them with a nod, pride swelling his stride.
"The Wailing Knight oversees the storehouses beneath Wailing Tower, currently Steward Dantell holds that duty."
"And the Widow Knight?"
"He commands the dungeons beneath Widow's Tower. Harrenhal's gaoler, in truth."
They passed under another archway, where shadows clung thick as cobwebs.
"Ser Samond Rivers serves as the Ghost Knight," Erik added, "guarding the eastern gate."
"As for the Blackheart Knight, protector of the King's Pyre Tower, your brother's residence, that post remains unfilled. Thus, Prince Baelon relies on gold cloaks for his personal guard."
Rhaenyra let out a low hum of amusement. "Eight knights, eight domains… the little brat has been busy."
They rode beneath the East Gate, the ruined sept to their left, the Ghost Tower rising to their right like a monolith of ash and bone. Harrenhal's immense scale always unsettled her, as though the very stones remembered suffering.
At last they reached the King's Pyre Tower.
Baelon emerged before they had even dismounted, striding out with two gold cloaks flanking him. His white hair ruffled in the breeze, his shoulders squared with a lord's new gravity.
"I knew it was you," he called, grinning. "Syrax's cry hasn't changed."
Rhaenyra stepped close, seized his cheeks between her fingers, and pinched.
"I told you to finish your work here and return to King's Landing, you little turncoat."
Baelon yelped and jerked backward, swatting at her hands. "Gods, I'm a lord now! How am I meant to maintain dignity if you pinch my face in front of my vassals?"
"Fine, fine." She released him with a theatrical sigh. "I came to bring you a letter. Alicent has given birth. A daughter, Helaena."
Her voice softened slightly as she drew a sealed parchment from her cloak and placed it in his hand.
Baelon's expression shifted, curiosity, then warmth. "Alicent has given birth? That is good news."
He broke the seal.
Delicate handwriting swept across the page like spilled silk. Alicent's thoughts unfolded gently, her quiet anxieties, her dreams, her aching loneliness in that cold gilded cage of a keep.How she missed him. How she resented the stifling courtesies of court. How she wished she could simply be Alicent Hightower again.
Not the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
Baelon's fingers stilled on the parchment. A faint smile tugged at his lips, though something more tender flickered in his eyes.
"Tell her I'll visit soon," he murmured. "And the feast next year, I will be there."
He folded the letter with care and tucked it against his chest, beneath his tunic as though it were a charm to guard his heart.
"Come," he said, turning toward the tower entrance. "The kitchens began preparations the moment Syrax was sighted. If we tarry any longer, the cooks might riot."
Rhaenyra laughed softly and followed him inside.
By evening, the long tables would groan beneath roasted venison, stewed hare, fresh-baked loaves, and casks of ale decanted in honor of the princess's arrival.
Harrenhal, ruinous, cursed, impossible Harrenhal, seemed almost warm for a moment.
And in the high tower of black stone, two Targaryen children stood together again, their dragons resting outside like silent sentinels.
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A/N: What comes next forces Baelon to make choices he can't walk back from.
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