Baelon shifted where he sat, feeling vaguely cramped, though he could not tell whether the cause was his own recent growth or the slight fullness that had settled at Rhaenyra's waist.
He suspected it was the former.
Rhaenyra made no reply. Her lips parted, a breath catching as she stared at the ribbons spiraling in the wind above Tyraxes' back.
In that instant, she remembered her father's last words before she quit King's Landing, Viserys' quiet, bittersweet counsel, spoken with a weight that only now she fully understood.
"…"
She pressed her mouth into a thin line, forcing down the strange flutter rising in her chest.
She and Baelon were close, closer than she was with any of her cousins or companions, but that closeness lived in a realm she had never dared examine too deeply. It was family, she told herself. Nothing more.
And anything beyond that…
Baelon was still a boy, small enough to perch in her lap, young enough that she had never allowed her thoughts to stray into forbidden territory.
Sensing her withdrawal, Baelon wisely held his tongue.
Tyraxes dipped low, gliding over the jagged walls of Harrenhal. Arrows clattered harmlessly off the dragon's scales, either loosed in fear or offered as a symbolic salute, Rhaenyra could not tell.
The Flowstone Courtyard spread beneath them, its fore half cleared for Tyraxes' landing, its rear packed with eight hundred footmen and the many Riverlords who had gathered to witness her arrival.
Harrenhal was large beyond reason. Its stables alone could house a thousand horses; fitting two thousand men into its training yard was nothing at all.
Tyraxes folded his wings with sudden precision and dropped like a bloody-red thunderbolt. The impact sent a shudder through the stones, dust billowing outward in a violent wave. Several nobles stumbled, saved only by their retainers' steadying hands.
"ROAR!"
The dragon's cry cleaved the sky. Tyraxes reared back, a torrent of blood-red flame surging from his maw, fanning overhead into a blazing canopy that bathed the courtyard in crimson light.
The spectators below froze, stunned into reverent silence. For many, this was the closest they had ever come to a living dragon.
The fire had been the signal.
Beneath the scarlet blaze, all eight hundred footmen dropped to one knee in perfect unison, fists pressed to their chests as they bellowed:
"Honor to the glorious Light of the Realm, Princess Rhaenyra!"
And it was not only they, archers along the battlements, sentries outside the keep, and even the cavalry lined beyond the gates raised their voices to join the thunderous salute.
"Well?" Baelon drawled from her lap. "This is the gift I prepared. All of Harrenhal's strength, myself… and Tyraxes. We're yours to command."
Two thousand soldiers. A lord's loyalty. A dragon whose flame could melt castle stone.
A formidable force anywhere in the realm.
But none of that was what struck Rhaenyra to the core.
It was Baelon's intention, his heart laid bare in this fierce, extravagant gesture.
Above all else, that was what moved her.
"…Thank you."
Her voice trembled. Her eyes blurred. Heat stung the bridge of her nose. She fought to master herself, but the tears came, slipping free despite her pride.
Plip. Plip.
Baelon felt the warmth dampen his silver hair. He craned his neck upward just in time to see tears streak down her cheeks.
"Seven save us," he muttered. "The future queen is weeping. Wipe them off quickly, or the moment you step down, the Riverlords will christen you something absurd- 'the Weeping Queen,' most like."
His tone was dry, but meant to comfort. He truly hadn't imagined she would be so starved for assurance. He had only meant to craft a unique welcome, not reduce her to tears.
"Shut up," she snapped, rubbing fiercely at her face. "I wasn't crying. Tyraxes flew too fast- dust got in my eyes."
All fault was summarily placed upon the pitiful dragon.
Tyraxes: ???
Tyraxes huffed a plume of smoke, affronted.
Rhaenyra's presence marked the true beginning of her grand marriage tour, a procession meant to sweep through every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.
In fairness, Viserys adored his daughter. No princess in Westeros' long history had ever been granted such an extravagant courtship parade.
Yet for all the Riverland and Crownland lords preening like peacocks, eager to flaunt their virtues before her, not a single one found favor in her eyes.
Lord Bracken had even challenged several of Blackwood's young heirs to a duel, desperate to display his courage.
Though swords were sheathed before any blood was spilled, Rhaenyra's patience had evaporated entirely.
"This is maddening," she muttered.
She lounged back in the cushioned chair Baelon had insisted she use, her own makeshift throne, watching the spectacle with weary indifference.
Every man who approached her did so for her name, her station, or the dragon that shadowed her steps. None of this parade smelled even faintly of love.
"Want me to end it?" Baelon asked from his lord's seat. "You've met enough for a day. The rest can wait."
"No," she sighed. "Better to suffer all of it at once than wake to it again tomorrow."
Dragging herself upright, she forced charm and grace into each curtsey and greeting, soldiering through the endless procession of suitors as though striking names off a battle ledger.
One was older than Viserys; another scarcely older than Baelon himself.
Baelon's brows twitched at that last one, too slight to be noticed by most, but sharp enough to cut if one knew him well.
At his side stood Ser Illis, murmuring in his low, steady voice about their preparations.
"The warships purchased from Gulltown and the other ports have anchored in the northern bay. When we leave Harrenhal, we can board at once. The grain and hardtack are sealed against moisture, loaded into the holds exactly as you instructed."
Illis' experience was invaluable. He had spared Baelon no small amount of effort.
"Well done," Baelon said. "Once Rhaenyra's tour ends, we sail for the Stepstones."
Soon. The campaign he had built toward for months would finally begin.
"My lord," Illis added, lowering his voice, "Harrenhal holds two thousand troops, fifteen hundred regulars and five hundred hired swords. How many shall remain to guard the castle?"
With their departure close, the man finally dared ask the question burning on every retainer's mind.
"Leave the cavalry," Baelon answered at once. "I'll take the remaining sixteen hundred. Horses are useless at sea, the plains of the Trident are where they belong."
The four hundred mounted men were too rare, too valuable to gamble in a naval war. Horsemanship required years to master; footmen could be trained by the hundreds, but cavalry were irreplaceable.
"A wise choice, my lord. The Seven guide your steps."
Illis bowed and withdrew with the polished grace of a man who survived by pleasing those above him.
"That one…" Baelon murmured once he was gone. "He truly knows which way the wind blows."
Since Baelon had turned Harrenhal's vassals against Illis, quietly, and methodically, he had attached himself wholly to Baelon's side. Every conversation came salted with flattery, and beyond the hall he behaved like the most tireless of hounds.
A shrewd man. He understood perfectly: cling to Baelon, or die forgotten in Harrenhal.
As Baelon mused, a white cloak shoved through the crowd with uncharacteristic urgency.
"You again, Cole?" Baelon said. "What's the matter?"
Ser Criston Cole, sworn shield to Rhaenyra, stopped before them. His jaw was set, his expression severe. In his hand was a sealed letter, the wax stamped with the crowned dragon of House Targaryen.
He held it out.
"A message from King's Landing," Rhaenyra murmured.
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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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