Corlys Velaryon's defeat meant one thing above all else: the Sea Snake would not be loosing a fresh assault upon the Stepstones anytime soon.
His proud fleet lay crippled, half scattered to the winds, half limping back toward Driftmark. Too many hulls had been splintered beneath Volantene rams, too many seasoned oarsmen lost to the sea. For all his famed daring, Corlys was no fool. He would be forced into a defensive crouch unless he could draw fresh strength from another quarter.
And in the Seven Kingdoms, the Sea Snake had precious few allies left.
He needed Daemon.
Daemon had dragons. Daemon had reputation. And Daemon had the fierce, dangerous charisma of a Targaryen prince, an advantage no treasure hoard could buy.
But Daemon alone was not enough to save House Velaryon from the mire in which it now floundered.
If Corlys sought a lever long enough to move kings, he needed more than the rogue prince.
He needed Baelon.
A child of only six summers, newly lord of Harrenhal. Nephew to the king. A boy whispered to be favored by the white hart, an omen that gave even hardened knights pause.
And more importantly, Corlys knew, a child whom Viserys loved too dearly to deny.
The king could refuse Daemon a hundred times over. Daemon was a disgraced prince, a relentless troublemaker, to bend before him openly would make Viserys seem weak, indulgent of treason, forgiving of lawlessness.
But Baelon? Sweet, solemn Baelon?
Who would dare cast blame if a young lord sought to defend his father? Who would scold a child for raising banners for his own blood?Who would name it rebellion if a boy bled in service to the realm?
Corlys knew the answer.
No one.
Thus, when Baelon received the Sea Snake's letter, sealed in Driftwood Throne blue and silver, he read it with a calm, discerning eye that belied his years.
He recognized the tactic at once.
Corlys placed himself upon the highest moral hill, recounting the Triarchy's depredations, burned merchantmen, stolen cargoes, disrupted trade routes, villages terrorized by sellsail captains drunk on blood and loot. Again and again he invoked duty, honor, and the charge laid upon any son of House Targaryen to defend the realm.
He even claimed Daemon had been struck by a Myrish scorpion bolt, and that Caraxes had suffered wounds as well.
Baelon's lips twitched.
If Daemon were truly bedridden, Corlys would already be halfway to King's Landing to cast blame at the king's feet, or halfway across the Narrow Sea to petition Pentos for aid. The idea of the Sea Snake lingering meekly on Driftmark while his prince lay dying was laughable.
Yet truth mattered little.
Corlys knew the game he played.
And Baelon, young though he was, understood it as well.
I have my invitation, he thought. My excuse.
Excuses were the currency of lords.
That very afternoon, Baelon summoned every sworn sword, steward, and retainer of Harrenhal to the great hall. Ravens fluttered from the rookery before the council even gathered; messengers hurried down every corridor beneath the fortress's towering black stones. By sunset, the hall was filled.
"Lord Baelon now presides," cried a herald, his voice echoing through the cavernous chamber.
Baelon climbed the steps to Harren the Black's monstrous throne, its surface dark as midnight and cold as winter steel. The ancient seat dwarfed him, yet when he settled upon it, small hands resting on stone claws carved centuries before, not a soul in the hall could pretend he looked anything less than a lord.
The torches shivered in their sconces as he lifted his chin.
"Ser Illis," Baelon said, his voice clear and steady. The steward bowed, one hand pressed over the sigil of House Strong embroidered on his doublet. "State the exact totals. How much coin, grain, and armament do we command?"
Illis stepped forward, unfurling a leather-bound ledger. "Excluding Your Lordship's private treasury," he began, "Harrenhal's coffers contain eleven hundred gold dragons, just over five thousand silver stags, and-" he paused, turning a page-"more than ten thousand of copper pennies."
Baelon nodded for him to continue.
"As for grain," Illis said, "the past three harvests were generous. Lord Lyonel sold some of the excess, yet what remains should sustain the castle for a full year, even at high consumption."
"And our armories?" Baelon asked.
"We hold enough spare armor and weapons to equip two hundred footmen," Illis replied. "If we melt down every reserve piece and reforge them, we might outfit five hundred. But our forges are strained, and our smiths are… few."
A murmur swept through the gathered retainers, quiet, uneasy, and curious.
Baelon's expression did not shift. He only inclined his head slightly.
Two generations.
That was all the Strong line had held Harrenhal, too short to fill its armories, too short to rebuild the forges shattered in bygone wars. They had gathered coin, not strength. Stewardship, but not steel.
But foundations existed.
And foundations were enough.
"Send word to every market town within three days' ride," Baelon commanded. "Purchase grain, enough to feed a thousand men for half a year."
Illis blinked, breath catching. "A thousand, my lord?"
"At least." Baelon's tone left no room for doubt.
He continued without pause,
"Riders will travel throughout the Riverlands, the Crownlands, and the Vale. We require armor and weapons, five hundred full sets at minimum. Buy outright. Do not haggle. Do not wait for new forges to be built."
Gasps rippled among the stewards. One man shifted on his feet, glancing nervously toward the titanic windows as though expecting to see ravens blotting the sky.
Baelon spoke on, unbothered.
"I want stockpiles, not promises. I will not gamble the lives of my men on the speed of unfamiliar smiths."
Illis cleared his throat. "The Vale's armories are cheapest, my lord. Their iron is plentiful; their prices fair. If Your Lordship permits, I can dispatch buyers at once."
"Do it."
"And expansions?" Illis hesitated. "Recruits? Harrenhal has long served as refuge to mercenaries wandering the Riverlands. Many free riders-"
"Post a proclamation," Baelon said, cutting him off gently but firmly. "I will hire sellswords, free riders, and hedge knights. Any man loyal and willing. Minimum five hundred. Maximum one thousand."
He leaned forward on the throne, violet eyes gleaming like polished amethyst beneath the torchlight.
"Until my ranks are full," he said softly, "my gates remain open."
Silence fell... heavy, and suffocating, almost holy.
A steward dropped the quill he carried; it clattered against the stone floor. A knight near the front pressed a fist to his breast in silent vow. Others shifted, looking from one to another, as if confirming what they had just witnessed.
This was no child speaking. This was a lord preparing for war.
And Harrenhal, vast, brooding Harrenhal, the greatest fortress in all the Riverlands, seemed to awaken at his words. Its black stones drank in the torchlight, its pillars shuddered subtly as if exhaling after a long sleep, and its monstrous shadow stretched across the hall like the wings of some great, unseen beast.
Baelon, six-year-old lord of Harrenhal, rose from the throne with steady grace.
"Go," he said. "We have much to do."
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A/N:The war begins here.If you think you know what comes next, you don't.It's already waiting in the chapters ahead.
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