Chapter 12: Snow on the Road, Stars Above the Black Stone
The ninth moon of 184 AC arrived with a bite in the air that promised winter. At Harrenhal the leaves in the godswood had turned blood-red and begun to fall, drifting across the twenty-acre expanse like scattered rubies. Prince Aegon Targaryen stood in the repaired lower hall of the Tower of Ghosts—now the heart of his growing academy—watching fifteen children and the first two arriving scholars bend over slates and parchment.
The new teacher, a thin former acolyte named Maekor who had fled Oldtown under the name "Maek the Reader," pointed at a simple star chart pinned to the wall. "The Wanderer star moves thus each year," he explained in a quiet, careful voice. "Prince Aegon wishes you to learn the names the old Valyrians gave them—Vēzos for the sun, Qēlossos for the moon. One day the lady who will be our princess may ask you what you know of the skies."
The children's eyes widened. A miller's daughter raised her hand. "Will Princess Shiera really come here, my lord?"
Aegon, seated on a low bench among them like any other student, smiled the gentle smile that had won their hearts. "When we are both older, yes. She loves the stars as much as I love learning. That is why we study them now—so Harrenhal can welcome her with open eyes and open minds."
Later that same afternoon, in the Kingspyre solar, a raven arrived from King's Landing. Lanna brought the letter on a silver tray, her fingers trembling with excitement. "It's from Lady Shiera, my prince. The seal is a little star in green wax."
Aegon broke it carefully. The parchment was small, the handwriting rounded and childish but surprisingly neat for a girl of nine.
Dear Prince Aegon, my betrothed,
Thank you for the pretty scented oil you sent. It smells like summer flowers and makes my septa smile. King Daeron says I may write to you. I like stars best of all. I have a book with pictures of them from Old Valyria. When I come to Harrenhal will you show me the towers at night? I promise not to be afraid of the ghosts. I hope your school is nice and the children are kind.
Your friend and future wife,
Shiera Seastar
Aegon read it aloud to Lanna and Tommard, keeping his voice warm and boyish. Inside, the calculation turned like a well-oiled wheel. Bright, curious, already dreaming of Harrenhal. Perfect.
"She sounds sweet," Lanna said softly, though her eyes held a shadow. "And clever."
"She does," Aegon agreed, folding the letter with care and placing it beside the weirwood leaf in his desk drawer. "We will answer tonight—tell her about the new star lessons and promise her the tallest tower for her own observatory. Tommard, have the masons begin clearing the top of the Kingspyre tomorrow. Small repairs only. We must make it safe before spring."
Tommard nodded eagerly. "And the money for all this, my prince? The schools, the repairs, the new guards we're training…"
Aegon leaned back, violet eyes distant. "That is why I have been thinking of trade. Our dragon's-breath and the perfumes we make—they are finer than anything the lords of King's Landing have tasted or smelled. Rare. Strong. People will pay in gold for what we can send south. I mean to meet Lord Varayan of the Blackwater coast. He has fast ships and honest captains. We will trade our spirits and scented oils through him. The coin will mend the melted towers, pay the guards better, feed the schools, and give our new scholars the tools they need—glass for star scopes, herbs for new medicines, parchment without end."
Ser Oswell, standing guard at the door, raised a brow. "Varayan is a careful man, my prince. He trades with Lys and Braavos but keeps clear of royal notice."
"Exactly," Aegon said. "Send a polite raven tomorrow—invite him to visit after the snows ease, or offer to meet at a neutral inn on the river. Tell him the young Lord of Harrenhal has goods that will make him richer than any spice run."
While plans took shape in the warmth of Harrenhal, far to the south the roads grew colder.
Pate rode north under a sky the color of wet slate. Snow had begun to dust the Roseroad in thin white veils that melted by midday but left the ground treacherous. He traveled alone now, the four scholars he had recruited waiting in a safe house near Bitterbridge with instructions to follow in small groups when the worst of winter passed.
At a small inn outside Highgarden he stopped for the night, cloak pulled high. Two acolytes in grey shared a table near the fire, speaking low.
"…heard the Conclave is watching the roads for any who left without permission," one whispered. "They say a boy was asking questions in Oldtown taverns."
Pate kept his head down, sipping weak ale. His heart beat steady. He left before dawn.
A week later, near the crossing of the Mander, came the close call.
He had paused at a muddy waystation to water his pony when a man in plain traveling clothes—too well-fed for a commoner—sat beside him on the bench.
"You're a long way from Oldtown, lad," the stranger said pleasantly. "Carrying any messages for lords who don't like chains?"
Pate forced a laugh that sounded young and nervous. "Just books for my master in Maidenpool, ser. Nothing special."
The man's eyes lingered on Pate's saddlebags a moment too long. Then he smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Safe roads, then."
Pate left the waystation at a trot and did not stop until nightfall, changing direction twice through wooded paths and spending the next night in a hayloft instead of an inn. The snow fell thicker now, muffling sound and hiding tracks. He burned the coded notes he had taken and rewrote them from memory in the simple tally-marks Aegon had taught him.
By the time the Gods Eye came into view again, the first heavy snows had blanketed the Riverlands. Pate's pony plodded through drifts, but the boy's eyes were bright with success. Four scholars. Four minds the Citadel would never own. And the prince would be pleased.
At Harrenhal, Aegon stood on the repaired section of the outer wall, snowflakes catching in his silver hair. A sealed letter to Lord Varayan had already flown south. The star-lore lessons continued each morning. Shiera's little letter rested safe in his drawer.
The pieces moved slowly, carefully, exactly as he liked them.
End of Chapter 12