Morning came, the sun rose as it always did, and the world spun on.
Harrenhal still crouched like a sleeping titan on the northern shore of the Gods Eye.
High above the massive walls and the five gargantuan towers, banners of yellow snapping with nine black bats flew proudly in the wind.
A heavy, oppressive atmosphere still hung over the Riverlands. The War of the Trident was officially over, but the wounds it inflicted were far from healed. The pain of lost loved ones and the bitter sting of lost power lingered in the air, creating a tangible, invisible Iron Curtain right down the middle of the region.
On one side of this curtain were the defeated Royalists, led primarily by House Whent and the lords of the eastern Riverlands. On the other side were the victorious rebels, the lords of the western Riverlands, led by Riverrun. Between them lay an abyss of cold, silent resentment.
At the Trident, Riverlords had fought Riverlords. Whether they bled for the red dragon or the leaping trout, they had all fought with the same desperate, selfless courage.
But now, the dust had settled. The pro-Tully rebels of the west were scooping up royal rewards and recovering their strength. Meanwhile, the eastern lords and landed knights who had backed the crown were not only dealing with the grief of defeat, but were also being bled dry by massive war fines while being forced to bend the knee to the men who killed their kin.
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Arthur Whent wasn't sparring today. Instead, he had dressed in formal attire befitting his noble station to welcome a new guest at Greenhand Manor.
He wore a tailored black tunic detailed with gold thread, fastened with obsidian buttons carved into the shape of bats.
Since House Whent's colors were black and gold, he could comfortably wear either.
(This wasn't unusual. Manfred Lothston, known as "Blackhood," famously wore only black clothing and cowls, despite his family's sigil being a black bat on a gold and silver field. It was similar to how certain Targaryens, like Aemond One-Eye, preferred black armor over the traditional red.)
Arthur's guest was the young Lord of Darry, Raymun Darry.
"Good day, Lord Raymun," Arthur greeted warmly.
"Good day, Young Master Arthur. Ser Lucas. Master Wylis. Master Lucas," Raymun replied, nodding to the assembled group.
Though Arthur technically held the dual titles of Heir to Harrenhal and Earl of Whitewalls, everyone simply referred to him as the Heir.
Raymun Darry was only a few years older than Arthur. Arthur was born in 275 AC; Raymun in 271 AC.
Castle Darry was located about a half-day's ride south of the Trident. It sat near the crossroads where the Kingsroad intersected the river at Lord Harroway's Town.
Both Harroway's Town and Castle Darry fell within the broader sphere of influence projected by Harrenhal.
Despite being older, Raymun was pale, painfully thin, and radiated a profound, almost suffocating aura of depression and isolation. Standing next to the vibrant, bursting-with-life Arthur, they looked like polar opposites.
But Raymun's demeanor was entirely understandable. He had drawn one of the absolute worst hands in the realm.
House Darry had lost a staggering number of men in the war. To make matters worse, they had been forced to cede vast tracts of land and pay crippling war indemnities. The Iron Throne had essentially pinned them to the floor and curb-stomped them.
If you were to rank the absolute biggest losers of the Rebellion era, the list would be fiercely competitive.
The Targaryens in King's Landing, the Darrys and Whents in the Riverlands, the Martells and Daynes in Dorne, and the fence-jumping Rygers in the Riverlands. On the rebel side, you had the Starks in the North, the Arryns in the Vale, and the Conningtons in the Stormlands.
House Arryn lost two direct heirs. House Dayne lost the Sword of the Morning and Lady Ashara.
Almost every major house took severe damage in the brutal political meat grinder that followed the "False Spring" of the Harrenhal Tourney. But if you were looking for the houses that got absolutely butchered, the Whents, Darrys, Rygers, and Conningtons were at the top of the list.
Lord Ryger's sons had split their bets, fighting on both sides of the war, yet somehow every single one of them still managed to get killed. Lord Ryger's mind completely shattered after that, and he was never the same.
As for the old Royalist guard, House Whent's decline was largely attributed to the bizarre, cursed "accidents" endemic to Harrenhal. House Darry, however, was destroyed simply because they had tied themselves far too tightly to the Targaryen mast.
All three of Raymun's older brothers had died fighting for Rhaegar at the Trident. If they hadn't, the youngest son never would have inherited the lordship.
Furthermore, they lost Ser Jonothor Darry of the Kingsguard, and their cousin, Ser Willem Darry—the master-at-arms of the Red Keep who had smuggled Viserys and Daenerys to Braavos.
House Darry had deep roots in the royal court. They had been incredibly prominent, serving as the Mad King's most trusted loyalist enforcers.
For the sake of House Targaryen, House Darry had sacrificed five key members of their family.
They had leveraged themselves entirely on a Targaryen victory, and when that investment crashed, it wiped them out.
And the tragic fate of House Darry wasn't even over yet. According to the original timeline, not only would Raymun eventually be slaughtered by Gregor Clegane, but his only son would also be murdered by the Mountain, officially extinguishing the male line of House Darry forever.
Arthur looked at Raymun with genuine pity. The guy truly had rock-bottom luck.
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Arthur led Lord Raymun on a tour of the manor grounds, hoping the idyllic scenery might ease some of the young lord's crushing gloom.
Eventually, they arrived at Arthur's log cabin—his personal "Carefree Lodge."
Arthur treated Raymun to fresh fish caught right on the estate, grilled to perfection, served alongside iced lemon water sweetened with honey.
"Your estate is incredibly welcoming. I almost don't want to go back to Darry," Raymun admitted, taking a long sip of the lemon water.
The green fields, the gentle hills, and the babbling brooks made it easy to forget the ugly realities of the world.
Lemon water wasn't expensive in the modern world, but in medieval Westeros, for a house that had just been financially gutted like the Darrys, it was a rare luxury.
"The manor is a peaceful place. You are always welcome here, my lord," Arthur said, settling into his chair and gesturing for Raymun to make himself comfortable.
Raymun desperately needed to get out more. He wasn't married, and rattling around a half-empty, grieving castle all by himself was a recipe for madness.
"You are far too young to be carrying the burdens of grown men," Ser Lucas observed, his voice tinged with sympathy.
The Whents, the Daynes, and the Darrys had all backed the crown. All three had lost family. All three had suffered.
But House Dayne was safely isolated in Dorne, far from the King's wrath. Their core strength remained intact, and Lord Dayne still lived.
House Darry had taken the full, unmitigated fury of the Iron Throne straight to the face and was currently on life support.
House Whent sat somewhere in the middle. They had paid extortionate fines, but they had kept their lands. More importantly, their foundational wealth meant they could bounce back much faster than the Darrys.
"I thank you for your kind words, Arthur. Ser Lucas," Raymun said, letting out a heavy, shuddering sigh. "The days are long and bitter, but I have no choice but to carry the weight. My father left Castle Darry in my hands; I can only grit my teeth and push forward. The Seven put us in this world to live, but it seems they also put us here to suffer."
Raymun was a textbook "spare" heir, thrust into power only after the primary heirs were wiped out—much like Eddard Stark or William Mooton.
The only difference was that the Starks possessed massive inherent power, and Eddard happened to be a brilliant commander who won his war. For the losers, the path forward was far darker.
"It is true for Darry, and it is true for Harrenhal," Arthur agreed with a bitter smile, draining his glass of lemon water.
Arthur didn't need to try very hard to win Raymun over. The political reality did the work for him.
The lords who rode Robert's coattails to victory were currently drowning in gold and royal favor. (Except for Eddard Stark, who essentially did all the heavy lifting and walked away with far less than the Lannisters, who just swooped in at the end).
The defeated Royalists could only watch, consumed by envy and seething hatred.
Under these circumstances, all Arthur had to do was offer a sympathetic ear to this broken young man.
Raymun was the ultimate disenfranchised victim. His hatred for the Wolf-Fish-Falcon-Stag-Lion alliance was absolute—it was a blood feud.
With House Darry brought into the fold, Harrenhal's little support group had just gained another member.
"I want to avenge them. But I can't. House Tully betrayed the grace of the Dragon Kings, while Darry stayed true. Yet here I am, too weak to do anything but scrape by and pay the Iron Throne's extortionate debts," Raymun confessed, the alcohol and the safe environment loosening his tongue. He sounded utterly defeated.
The moment the words left his mouth, Raymun tensed, suddenly regretting his candor.
I've had too much to drink. I shouldn't be saying things like this out loud.
"I know exactly how you feel, Lord Raymun. But you must endure," Arthur said, looking Raymun dead in the eyes, his voice low and steady. "Listen to me. We are the defeated houses of a defeated cause. And because of that, we must endure more than anyone else."
Raymun's eyes went wide, staring at Arthur Whent.
Beneath the idyllic scenery of the lake and the mountains, and behind the face of this young boy, beat the heart of someone who absolutely refused to accept defeat.
Endure the humiliation now, so you can strike later. That was the true logic of power.