Word of Harrenhal's new call to arms swept swiftly across both the Riverlands and the Crownlands, borne on the tongues of merchants, sellswords, and every wandering soul who passed beneath its towering shadow.
Though the castle was now counted among the Crownlands by royal decree, its sheer size and position meant it still pressed against Riverlands soil more than any other. The Riverlands, heart of the Seven Kingdoms, crossroads of every road worth riding, saw caravans from north, west, and south alike passing through its broad green plains. And wherever caravans traveled, their hired blades followed.
Thus it was hardly a wonder that when these mercenaries reached the little town under Harrenhal's lordship, the generous terms posted there drew them southward in droves. Men of every stripe crowded into the keep's lower yard, eager to carve their names into whatever ledger would have them.
Baelon stood atop the ramparts, watching their arrival with a measured, almost scholarly calm. The afternoon sun caught on helms and half-mended mail as lines of sellswords trudged across the drawbridge in unruly columns.
He did not look impressed.
For all their lofty boasts, sellswords were known for one trait above all: opportunism. They fought bravely enough when victory was certain, but at the first scent of defeat they melted away like mist under morning sun. Their quality varied wildly besides, some were second sons of minor houses, trained in the yard since they could walk; others were little more than farmboys who had strapped on scavenged armor and convinced themselves they marched toward glory.
Baelon accepted the former readily enough. Well-bred blades were rarely the strongest, but they were disciplined, literate, and accustomed to command. They would serve Harrenhal well.
The latter… he considered with care.
If a man showed loyalty and steady character, Baelon did not mind shaping him into something sharper. Harrenhal needed soldiers, after all, and even the greenest sellsword had seen more true danger than a levy farmer pulled from his plow.
Everyone can be tempered, he thought, watching a nervous youth spill half his pack while scrambling to fall into line. So long as the metal is sound.
Time passed in a steady whirl of labor, and soon the caravans Illis had dispatched returned laden with grain. None had needed to ride beyond Harrenhal's own domain, one trip to the town had sufficed to gather every bushel Baelon required.
Weapons and armor proved more troublesome. The nobles of the Vale had sold little, too proud or too cautious to empty their armories, so Illis had spent more coin acquiring stockpiles from Riverlands lords and Crownlands depots. Much of it bore signs of hard use: scorched mail links, dented shields, blades that had been hammered straight more than once.
Baelon inspected each crate personally in the yard, running a practiced hand along the metal. He did not mind the scars.
"So long as it holds," he told Illis without looking up, "a patched suit of armor protects no worse than a fresh one."
Illis bowed. "Aye, my lord."
Coin was the least of their concerns. Harrenhal still had gold dragons enough in its ledgers, and even if it did not, Baelon's private coffers could sustain a small war. And if his larger plan succeeded, Harrenhal would not merely survive, it would flourish for years, perhaps decades.
War devoured gold. But when guided with a steady hand, its spoils could be beyond imagining.
One grey morning, Baelon convened the household officers in the great chamber. Maps of the Crownlands and the Stepstones lay unfurled across the table, weighted down by iron markers shaped like tiny ships.
He traced a path across the Narrow Sea with one finger.
"Has the envoy returned from King's Landing, White Harbor, or Claw Isle? King's Landing is closest, they should have sent word back by now."
The steward bowed. "My lord, there has been no reply from the capital. But House Celtigar of Claw Isle has sent ravens. Their lord agrees to sell a number of warships from his fleet. And…" He hesitated, surprised even as he spoke the words. "He offers to accompany Your Grace to the Stepstones with ships and men of his own."
Baelon's brows lifted. So House Celtigar moves openly, even eagerly.
Claw Isle was sworn to Dragonstone, and in this age their loyalty to the Crown was beyond question. But how had they learned he meant to march for the Stepstones?
Because he had not troubled to hide it.
Recruitment, procurement, provisions, he had done it all beneath the sun. Let his enemies whisper. His aims were nobler than theirs.
"Send word to Lord Celtigar," Baelon ordered. "Tell him I accept. He is to ready his fleet and stand prepared to join mine. Once my ships gather here, we sail together."
He paused, eyes returning to the map.
"And send another delegation, this time to the Reach and Dorne. Tell them to purchase whatever ships they find. If they cannot buy war galleys, then merchant cogs will do. Transport matters more than pride."
The steward hesitated. "My lord… the cost-"
"I know the cost," Baelon cut in gently. "A warship takes years to build. That is why the Velaryons command half the realm's navy, and why the seas bend before them. We cannot afford to wait for new hulls. We take what we can."
The argument died in the steward's throat. He bowed once more.
"As you command."
*
King's Landing
Far from the storms gathering around Harrenhal, the Red Keep basked in the warm haze of afternoon. Yet inside its crimson walls, King Viserys paced the length of the council chamber with fretful steps.
He had finally heard.
A squire had delivered the raven moments earlier, and now the king's hands shook slightly as he read Baelon's intentions again and again, as if repetition might change the words.
"To send troops… to the Stepstones," he murmured. "Seven save us."
Daemon's defeat gnawed at him still, and with Corlys Velaryon pressing ever harder for aid, the matter weighed more heavily than ever upon his spirit. He wanted to help his brother. He should help him. But each time he moved toward action, the small council dragged him back with cautions and counterarguments.
Otto Hightower, his grim and increasingly unwelcome Hand, stood at the king's shoulder now. His face was unreadable.
"Your Grace," Otto said smoothly, "Prince Baelon is young. He should not entangle himself in a conflict that has already bled the realm. It would be unwise to indulge him."
Across the table, Princess Rhaenyra stiffened. She had come to the council as heir, but her attention had snapped toward the conversation the moment Baelon's name was spoken.
"What do you plan to do, Father?" she asked, voice tight.
Viserys pressed one hand to his brow. "I… I will think on it."
"Think on it?" Rhaenyra's disbelief cracked the poised princess's facade. She rose from her seat, skirts whispering against the stone floor. "Baelon is preparing to join a war, and you would simply… think?"
"Rhaenyra," Viserys pleaded, "I know he is young. But what reason have I to forbid him? If I command him as king, I wound him. If I forbid him as uncle, I shame him. And if something happens to Daemon while Baelon is held back…" His voice trembled. "He may never forgive me."
"Better his anger than his death," Rhaenyra shot back.
Otto cleared his throat. "Her Grace speaks out of concern, but the matter is simple, we should prevent the boy from leaving. Prince Daemon brought this upon himself. The Stepstones are no cause of ours."
Rhaenyra turned, eyes blazing. "Of course you would say that."
Otto smiled thinly. "Princess-"
"Enough," Viserys snapped, not angrily, but helplessly. He sank into his chair, defeated by the sheer weight of choosing. "I will think on it. Baelon requires time to gather his forces. We will speak again in a few days..."
It was indecision disguised as prudence. Everyone knew it. But no one said so aloud.
One by one, the council bowed and withdrew.
Rhaenyra lingered only a heartbeat longer, long enough to cast Otto a glance that dripped venom and promise.
Then she swept from the room.
In the corridor outside, her breaths came sharp and furious. Daemon was her blood. Baelon was her kin as well, her closest ally in a court increasingly poisoned by her father's Hand.
She would not let Otto Hightower chip away at her family, not piece by piece.
This time, she vowed silently, you will not escape untouched, Lord Otto.
This time I will see you removed from King's Landing altogether.
She lifted her chin, set her steps toward the queen's apartments, toward Alicent, toward a conversation long overdue.
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A/N:The war begins here. If you think you know what comes next, you don't. BUT It's already waiting in the chapters ahead.
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