# The Road to Harrenhal - Three Weeks Later
The royal procession stretched for nearly a mile along the Kings Road, a serpent of carriages, wagons, and mounted knights that made the journey from King's Landing to Harrenhal look less like travel and more like a military campaign with better decorations. At its head rode the Kingsguard in their white cloaks, behind them the royal family's carriages—lacquered black and crimson, bearing the three-headed dragon that had conquered Westeros three centuries prior.
Above, two dragons circled in lazy patterns that made it very clear to everyone below that the Targaryens still possessed weapons of mass destruction and weren't shy about displaying them.
*Daemon's showing off,* Pyrion observed from his position sprawled across Aemon's lap in the lead carriage. The dragon had grown considerably—now the size of a large hunting hound, all sleek muscle and barely contained attitude. His scales had deepened to pure black shot through with veins of crimson that caught light like cooling lava, and his eyes burned with intelligence that was frankly unsettling for something that was technically still a juvenile.
*He's establishing dominance before we even arrive,* Aemon replied through their mental link, watching as Caraxes performed what could charitably be called an aerial maneuver and less charitably described as "showing off for the benefit of terrified peasants." *Classic Daemon. Why arrive quietly when you can arrive with dragons?*
The carriage held the family's youngest members—Aemon and Rhaenyra in their traveling clothes, Pyrion claiming most of Aemon's lap with the shameless entitlement of a creature who knew he could set things on fire if anyone objected, and Syrax perched primly on Rhaenyra's shoulder, somehow managing to look regal despite being roughly the size of a particularly ambitious house cat.
Across from them sat their parents, Viserys and Aemma, both looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. The journey from King's Landing to Harrenhal took nearly three weeks by carriage, and after two weeks confined in a moving box with two precocious children and their increasingly large dragons, even royal patience had limits.
"Pyrion's getting too big for travel," Viserys observed, eyeing the dragon with the expression of someone who'd been calculating volume-to-carriage-space ratios for the past hundred miles. "Soon we'll need to stable both dragons in the Dragonpit like proper royalty rather than letting them sleep in your chambers like oversized cats."
*Oversized cats,* Pyrion repeated with aristocratic offense. *I am a sophisticated magical construct bonded to dragonblood royalty. I am not a cat.*
*You literally spent an hour this morning in a sunbeam grooming yourself,* Aemon pointed out.
*That's strategic maintenance of my magnificent scales, not grooming. There's a difference.*
*Is there, though?*
*Your lack of appreciation for proper hygiene is noted and disappointing.*
"That's fine," Aemon said aloud, scratching Pyrion's jaw in the spot that made the dragon's back leg kick involuntarily—which was both adorable and slightly embarrassing for a creature trying to maintain dignity. "But they won't be chained. Dragons aren't horses to be hobbled."
The statement landed with more weight than it should have, given that it came from a three-year-old discussing dragon husbandry like he'd spent decades studying the subject.
Viserys and Aemma exchanged one of those looks that parents developed over time—the kind that communicated entire conversations in a single glance, usually variations on "our child just said something disturbing/impressive/both and we're not sure how to respond."
"The Dragonpit has unchained sections," Viserys said carefully. "Large chambers where dragons can roam freely. They'd have considerably more space than your chambers provide, even if they're not... wandering the Red Keep at will."
"They already wander the Red Keep at will," Rhaenyra interjected with the sort of cheerful honesty that made diplomatic incidents inevitable. "Syrax explores the whole castle. She knows every secret passage, every hidden room, every place where guards sleep during their shifts. She's very thorough."
"Does she now," Aemma said faintly, looking like she was mentally updating her threat assessments regarding castle security. "How... industrious of her."
*Your sister has just revealed that her dragon conducts comprehensive reconnaissance operations throughout the royal residence,* Pyrion noted with approval. *Excellent tactical thinking, terrible operational security.*
*She's three,* Aemon defended. *Operational security is probably not her priority.*
*It should be. We live in a castle full of people with competing political interests. Knowing who goes where and when is valuable intelligence.*
*You're encouraging my sister toward espionage.*
*I'm encouraging practical awareness of her environment. If that happens to involve espionage, that's just a convenient side effect.*
"The Dragonpit would give them room to actually fly," Viserys continued, determinedly steering away from the revelation that his daughter's dragon was apparently conducting surveillance operations. "Proper training space, other dragons for socialization, dragonkeepers who can ensure proper diet and care. Your chambers, Aemon, are—"
"Sufficient for now," Aemon interrupted with polite firmness. "Once they outgrow reasonable accommodation, the Dragonpit makes sense. But not chains. Never chains. Dragons that feel imprisoned develop behavioral problems. They need to know they can leave if they choose, even if they don't actually choose to leave."
*That's surprisingly progressive dragon management philosophy,* Pyrion observed. *Where did you learn that?*
*Common sense mostly,* Aemon replied. *Plus reading historical accounts of chained dragons versus unchained ones. The chained ones consistently show more aggression, less cooperation, and higher mortality rates from stress-related conditions. It's not complicated—intelligent creatures respond poorly to imprisonment.*
"The Targaryens have chained dragons for centuries," Viserys pointed out, though his tone suggested he was arguing more from tradition than conviction.
"And we've also lost dragons to various preventable causes over those same centuries," Aemon countered with the sort of calm logic that made adults uncomfortable. "Correlation isn't causation, but it's worth considering whether our traditional approaches to dragon husbandry are actually optimal or just historically established."
Another parental look, this one carrying distinct overtones of "our son just questioned three centuries of Targaryen dragon management and made disturbingly good points while doing so."
"We can discuss dragon care arrangements after the Council," Aemma said diplomatically, deploying the universal parenting strategy of postponing difficult conversations through appeals to future planning. "For now, let's focus on Harrenhal and ensuring the next three weeks don't end in civil war or succession crisis."
"Low bar," Rhaenyra commented. "Maybe we should aim higher? Like 'ensuring the next three weeks result in productive political outcomes and improved family unity'?"
"I'd settle for 'no one dies or declares war,'" Viserys replied with the resigned pragmatism of someone who'd spent too much time around nobility to have illusions about their collective decision-making capabilities. "Everything else is bonus objectives."
*Your father's expectations have become admirably realistic,* Pyrion noted.
*Three weeks of travel confined with toddlers who make concerning observations about political theory will do that to a person,* Aemon replied.
The carriage hit a particularly deep rut in the road, jostling everyone inside and causing Syrax to chirp indignantly while Pyrion simply dug his claws slightly deeper into Aemon's legs for stability.
"Nearly there," Viserys announced, peering out the window at the landscape that had become progressively more ominous over the past few hours. "Harrenhal should be visible over the next rise."
*Finally,* Pyrion said with feeling. *Another hour in this moving box and I was going to start setting things on fire just for entertainment value.*
*Please don't set the royal carriage on fire,* Aemon requested.
*I said I was *considering* it, not that I'd actually do it. Give me some credit for restraint.*
*You have the restraint of a particularly impulsive toddler with access to explosives.*
*And yet I haven't blown anything up today. I should receive recognition for my remarkable self-control.*
As they crested the rise, Harrenhal revealed itself in all its ruined glory—the largest castle in Westeros, five massive towers reaching toward the sky like broken fingers, walls thick enough to house entire buildings within them, and everywhere the evidence of dragonfire from centuries past. Melted stone flowed like frozen waterfalls down the outer walls, creating organic patterns that no mason could deliberately replicate. Windows gaped like empty eye sockets, and in the afternoon light, the whole structure seemed to loom with malevolent intent.
"Gods, it's depressing," Rhaenyra announced with characteristic bluntness. "Why would anyone choose to meet here? It looks like where happiness goes to die."
"Because it can house the several thousand lords who'll be attending the Great Council," Viserys explained patiently. "And because the symbolism is... significant. Harrenhal represents both Targaryen power—we melted it—and Targaryen restraint—we chose to rule rather than destroy. It's a reminder of what we're capable of and what we've chosen not to do."
"It's also cursed," Aemon added helpfully. "According to approximately forty different historical accounts, legends, and folk tales. Every House that's held it has suffered mysterious tragedies, financial ruin, or suspicious deaths. House Strong has held it longest and most successfully, which suggests either the curse is exaggerated or they've figured out how to appease whatever supernatural forces might be involved."
Another parental look, this one distinctly exasperated.
"Must you mention the curse?" Aemma asked wearily. "We're about to spend three weeks there. Perhaps we could focus on the political challenges rather than potential supernatural disasters?"
"The two aren't mutually exclusive," Aemon pointed out reasonably. "In fact, given our family's history with dragons and prophecy, dismissing supernatural concerns seems statistically unwise."
"He's not wrong," Viserys admitted reluctantly. "Though I'd prefer he wasn't right about things like castle curses. It's unsettling."
*Your parents are learning to accept that you make disturbing observations with concerning frequency,* Pyrion noted. *This is character development for them.*
*Or psychological damage,* Aemon suggested.
*Both, probably.*
Above them, Caraxes and Dreamfyre began their descent toward Harrenhal's massive courtyard, the two dragons spiraling down with the practiced coordination of creatures who'd been flying together regularly for weeks. Caraxes's distinctive serpentine form coiled through the air like a crimson ribbon, while Dreamfyre's more elegant proportions made her look like living artwork painted in blue and silver.
*Show-offs,* Pyrion muttered, watching with what might have been envy or might have been disdain—with dragons, the emotional distinction was often unclear. *Just because they can actually fly properly doesn't mean they need to rub it in.*
*You'll get there,* Aemon assured him. *You're growing fast. Another few months and you'll be able to carry me.*
*I look forward to the day I can drop you from significant heights to teach you humility.*
*That's not a reassuring thing to tell your bonded rider.*
*Consider it motivation to treat me with appropriate respect.*
The carriage finally rolled through Harrenhal's massive gates—iron-banded oak wide enough to accommodate four carriages side by side, scarred with ancient burns and remarkably well-maintained despite the castle's reputation for doom.
The courtyard beyond was chaos in the process of becoming organization—servants rushing to arrange accommodations for the arriving nobility, guards establishing security perimeters, maesters setting up their record-keeping stations, and in the center of it all, the Strong family waiting to greet their royal guests with the sort of practiced courtesy that came from centuries of noble hosting experience.
Lord Lyonel Strong stood at the center of the welcoming party, and even from a distance, Aemon could see why the man had developed a reputation as one of the realm's most capable administrators. He radiated competence—not flashy, not aggressive, just the quiet certainty of someone who knew exactly what needed to be done and possessed both the skills and authority to ensure it happened.
He was broad-shouldered and solid without being fat, his face weathered but not old, and his stance suggested he'd been a formidable fighter in his youth before transitioning to the less physically demanding but equally challenging work of castle management and legal administration. His clothes were fine but practical—good quality wool and leather rather than silk and jewels, the sort of thing you'd wear if you expected to actually work rather than just look important.
*Impressive,* Pyrion assessed. *He projects authority without arrogance, competence without showboating. Rare qualities in nobility.*
Beside Lord Strong stood a young man who could only be his heir—Ser Harwin Strong, age fifteen and already built like someone had designed a particularly ambitious warrior and then given him several extra servings at dinner. He wasn't just tall, he was *tall*—easily six feet already with several years of growth presumably left—and broad across the shoulders in a way that suggested he'd be genuinely terrifying in armor.
But it was his face that caught attention—open, honest, with the kind of earnest expression that suggested he genuinely wanted to help people and hadn't yet encountered enough betrayal to develop appropriate cynicism.
*Breakbones,* Aemon realized with sudden clarity. *That's Harwin "Breakbones" Strong, who'll eventually become Commander of the City Watch and—*
He stopped that thought before it could fully form. No point dwelling on historical trajectories that might never occur if he successfully prevented the conflicts that led to them.
The third figure in the welcoming party was considerably less physically impressive but somehow more immediately interesting—a boy of perhaps thirteen, thin and scholarly-looking, with the kind of face that suggested he spent more time reading than running, and eyes that watched everything with careful attention. He leaned on a cane carved from dark wood, his left foot turned slightly inward in a way that suggested either injury or birth defect.
*Larys Strong,* Pyrion identified. *The younger son. Less immediately impressive than his brother, but potentially more dangerous if historical accounts are accurate.*
*If historical accounts are accurate,* Aemon emphasized mentally. *We're actively changing history. Who knows what stays the same and what shifts?*
The carriage stopped, and suddenly there was the organized chaos of royal arrivals—guards forming protective perimeters, servants rushing forward to open doors, dragonkeepers approaching the landed Caraxes and Dreamfyre with the cautious respect of people who understood exactly how quickly they could be incinerated if they annoyed their charges.
Viserys descended first, offering his hand to Aemma with practiced courtly grace. Then the children—Rhaenyra practically bouncing with excitement at finally being free of the carriage's confines, Aemon moving with more measured precision, Pyrion and Syrax choosing to ride their respective shoulders rather than walk because apparently both dragons had decided that dignified arrivals required being carried like living jewelry.
Lord Strong stepped forward, bowing with exactly the right degree of respect—deep enough to show proper deference to royalty, not so deep as to appear obsequious. His sons followed his example with varying degrees of success—Harwin's bow was enthusiastic but slightly awkward, like a friendly dog that hadn't quite figured out its own dimensions, while Larys's was precise and controlled despite the cane.
"Your Grace," Lord Strong said, his voice carrying the sort of warm professionalism that made people automatically trust him with difficult tasks. "House Strong is honored to host the royal family and the Great Council. Harrenhal stands ready to serve the realm's needs in this momentous gathering."
"Lord Strong," Viserys replied with genuine warmth. "Your hospitality is appreciated. I trust the preparations for the Council have progressed smoothly?"
"As smoothly as can be expected when attempting to house several thousand nobles who all believe they deserve the finest accommodations," Strong replied with just enough dry humor to suggest he was joking while also not really joking at all. "We've assigned chambers according to rank and political sensitivity, established security protocols to prevent anyone from stabbing anyone else without proper justification, and created meeting spaces sufficient for every faction to argue productively."
*He's good,* Pyrion observed approvingly. *Acknowledges the chaos while demonstrating control over it. And that joke about stabbing—delivered perfectly. Sets expectations about behavior without being heavy-handed about it.*
"Father's outdone himself," Harwin added with obvious pride, his voice carrying that particular quality of someone who genuinely admired their parent and wasn't embarrassed to show it. "We've even established a separate training yard for those who want to settle disputes with swords rather than words. Less bloodshed that way—exhausted nobles argue less enthusiastically."
"Practical," Daemon commented, having dismounted from Caraxes with Gael and joined the welcoming party. His armor was dusty from flight, his hair windblown, and he looked deeply satisfied with the world in general and his dramatic entrance in particular. "Though I'd argue that exhausted nobles might argue *more* enthusiastically, just with less coherence."
"We've established a curfew for that reason," Larys said quietly, his voice softer than his brother's but carrying unexpected authority. "All disputes must conclude by sunset. Arguments that extend past that point get moved to the following day, which tends to deflate enthusiasm considerably once people have time to reconsider whether their grievances were actually worth the energy."
*Clever,* Aemon thought, studying the younger Strong son with increased interest. *Using procedural delays as de facto conflict resolution. That requires understanding that most arguments are driven by momentum and pride rather than substance. Take away the momentum, and half the conflicts resolve themselves.*
"You've thought this through comprehensively," Alysanne said, she and King Jaehaerys having emerged from their own carriage with the practiced grace of people who'd been making royal entrances for decades. "House Strong's reputation for administrative capability is clearly well-earned."
"We try, Your Grace," Lord Strong replied with the modest confidence of someone who knew exactly how good he was but saw no reason to be obnoxious about it. "Though I confess, hosting a Great Council is unlike any normal gathering. The political stakes are... significant."
"'Significant' is generous," Daemon said with a grin that suggested he was enjoying everyone's discomfort. "We're deciding who inherits the Iron Throne while several powerful houses maneuver for advantage and everyone pretends this is a measured deliberation rather than formalized power struggle. The word you're looking for is 'catastrophic potential,' not 'significant.'"
"Daemon," Gael said with practiced patience, her hand finding his arm. "Perhaps we could let Lord Strong finish his welcome before you start describing the Council as impending disaster?"
"But it's such an *accurate* description—"
"Accuracy and diplomacy are not always compatible," Gael interrupted gently. "Choose the latter for once?"
Daemon looked at her, and something in his expression softened. "For you, love, I'll attempt social graces. Though I make no promises about maintaining them for more than an hour at a time."
*Your uncle and aunt's relationship continues to fascinate me,* Pyrion observed. *She's the only person who can make him behave through nothing more than quiet request and genuine affection.*
*It's impressive,* Aemon agreed. *And probably the most functionally healthy relationship in our entire family, which says something about our family dynamics.*
"If we might proceed to your accommodations?" Lord Strong suggested diplomatically, pretending Daemon's commentary hadn't happened. "The journey from King's Landing is arduous, and I imagine rest would be welcome before the Council's formal proceedings begin tomorrow."
"Tomorrow already?" Viserys asked, surprised. "I thought we had several days before the official opening?"
"The lords are already arriving," Harwin explained, gesturing toward the outer courtyard where indeed, more carriages and mounted parties could be seen queuing for entry. "Within a day, everyone who matters will be here. Father thought it best to begin formal proceedings quickly rather than let tensions build through forced proximity and idle speculation."
*Smart,* Aemon thought. *The longer people wait, the more time they have to form factions and develop grievances. Start immediately, keep everyone focused on official business, minimize opportunities for conspiracy.*
"My brother inherited my love of practical solutions," Larys added with what might have been approval or might have been something else—his tone was difficult to read. "Why let lords marinate in their own anxiety when you could simply give them something productive to do?"
"Wisdom," Jaehaerys agreed. "Lord Strong, please lead on. I find myself suddenly eager to see these accommodations you've prepared with such care."
The procession moved deeper into Harrenhal, and Aemon found himself walking beside Larys, who'd somehow ended up positioned next to him without any obvious maneuvering. The younger Strong son moved with careful precision, his cane clicking against stone with steady rhythm that suggested long practice accommodating his disability.
"Prince Aemon," Larys said quietly, his voice pitched to carry only between them. "I've heard much about you. They say you're remarkably intelligent for your age."
"They say many things," Aemon replied neutrally, immediately on guard. Something about Larys's tone suggested this wasn't casual conversation.
"They do," Larys agreed. "Some more accurate than others. For instance, they say you possess unusual insights into political dynamics. That you've made observations that proved surprisingly prescient. That you understand patterns others miss."
*He's fishing,* Pyrion warned. *Very carefully, very subtly, but definitely fishing for information about your capabilities.*
"People tend to underestimate how much children observe," Aemon said carefully. "Adults speak freely around those they don't consider threats. It's remarkable what you can learn by simply paying attention."
"Indeed," Larys said, and there was something almost like approval in his expression. "I've found the same myself. People see the cane—" he tapped it against stone for emphasis "—and assume disability of mind accompanies disability of body. They speak as though I'm not there, or as though I wouldn't understand or wouldn't care. It's... illuminating."
*Oh, he's dangerous,* Aemon realized with sudden clarity. *He's telling me he understands exactly what I'm doing because he does the same thing. Using perceived weakness—physical disability in his case, youth in mine—to gather intelligence while people's guards are down.*
"Illuminating is certainly one word for it," Aemon agreed, meeting Larys's eyes directly. The younger Strong son's gaze was remarkably steady, remarkably calculating, and remarkably knowing.
"I look forward to observing the Council proceedings," Larys continued in that same quiet tone. "Political gatherings of this scale reveal much about how power actually functions versus how people pretend it functions. The gap between perception and reality is often... instructive."
"I imagine you'll find considerable material for observation," Aemon replied, carefully maintaining diplomatic neutrality while acknowledging the implied understanding between them.
*He knows what you are,* Pyrion said flatly. *Maybe not the full extent, but he recognizes that you're operating on a level that three-year-olds shouldn't be capable of. And he's letting you know he knows while maintaining plausible deniability. That's sophisticated intelligence tradecraft.*
*Which means either I've gained a potential ally who understands the value of strategic information gathering,* Aemon thought grimly, *or I've just been identified as a threat by someone who's very good at eliminating threats through methods that don't leave obvious evidence.*
"I suspect we'll both find this Council quite educational," Larys said with a slight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Then he increased his pace slightly, moving forward to join his father and brother, leaving Aemon to contemplate that deeply unsettling conversation.
*That,* Pyrion observed, *was either the beginning of a productive intelligence-sharing relationship or the first move in a very subtle game of mutual threat assessment.*
*Probably both,* Aemon replied. *In my experience, the most productive relationships begin with mutual recognition of danger.*
*Your definition of productive relationship continues to concern me.*
*Welcome to Westerosi politics,* Aemon thought dryly. *Where everyone's dangerous, everyone knows everyone else is dangerous, and the trick is figuring out which dangerous people you can work with versus which ones you need to neutralize preemptively.*
They continued deeper into Harrenhal's massive interior, through corridors wide enough for dragons to navigate comfortably, past great halls that could house armies, and finally to the royal wing where House Targaryen's accommodations had been prepared.
"Your chambers, Your Grace," Lord Strong announced, gesturing to an impressive set of rooms that suggested someone had put considerable thought into what royalty would consider adequate lodging. "We've assigned you the Tower of the King's Dragon—largest quarters in the castle, with balconies suitable for dragon access and security arrangements befitting your station."
"Appreciated," Jaehaerys said, already looking weary in ways that suggested the journey had taken more from him than he'd admit. "If we might have a few hours to settle in before any formal obligations?"
"Of course," Lord Strong replied immediately. "Dinner will be served in the Great Hall at sunset—informal gathering, chance for early-arriving lords to meet and establish connections before tomorrow's official proceedings. Your attendance would be welcomed but is not required if rest is preferred."
"We'll attend," Alysanne decided, giving her husband a look that suggested this wasn't negotiable despite his obvious exhaustion. "Establishing presence early sets expectations for the Council."
*Your great-grandmother understands that the real Council occurs in informal gatherings rather than formal sessions,* Pyrion observed. *The official votes just ratify conclusions reached through private conversations and dinner negotiations.*
*Which means the next three weeks are going to be intensive political maneuvering disguised as social events,* Aemon realized with resignation. *This should be exhausting.*
*Look on the bright side,* Pyrion suggested. *Exhausting political maneuvering at Harrenhal is probably less likely to result in you personally being set on fire than conducting midnight alchemical experiments in your chambers.*
*That's a low bar.*
*But technically accurate, which is the best kind of accurate.*
As the royal family dispersed to their various chambers, Aemon found himself alone with Pyrion in rooms that were simultaneously luxurious and vaguely ominous in that way that only Harrenhal seemed to manage. The windows looked out over a courtyard where more nobles were arriving, the furniture was clearly expensive but also clearly ancient, and the walls themselves seemed to press inward with the weight of centuries of accumulated tragedy.
"Right then," Aemon announced to his dragon, settling into a chair that was probably worth more than most houses. "Three weeks of intensive political manipulation while maintaining cover as a precocious but essentially harmless child. This should be interesting."
*Your definition of interesting remains concerning,* Pyrion replied, but there was affection beneath the sarcasm.
And as sunset approached and the Great Hall of Harrenhal began filling with nobles from across the realm, Aemon prepared himself for what promised to be either the political achievement of his young life or a catastrophic failure that would haunt the Targaryen dynasty for generations.
*No pressure,* he thought with dark humor.
*All the pressure,* Pyrion corrected.
*Obviously,* Aemon agreed.
And with that philosophical consensus, they began preparing for the Great Council and whatever challenges the next three weeks would present.
The Dance of Dragons wouldn't prevent itself, after all.
—
**[STATUS UPDATE - GREAT COUNCIL ARRIVAL]**
**Location:** Harrenhal
**Duration:** 3 weeks anticipated
**Primary Objective:** Ensure successful succession settlement without factional violence
**Secondary Objectives:** Prevent Otto Hightower power consolidation, maintain family unity, avoid supernatural incidents related to castle curse
**Current Challenges:**
- Larys Strong has identified unusual capabilities (threat/opportunity unclear)
- Dragons approaching size requiring Dragonpit accommodation
- Several thousand nobles gathering with competing political interests
- Succession question remains officially unresolved
- Personal credibility depends on successful political engineering
**Risk Assessment:** High
**Confidence Level:** Moderate
**Probability of Success:** To be determined
**Immediate Next Steps:**
1. Attend informal dinner gathering
2. Assess political landscape and faction development
3. Begin implementing succession compromise strategy
4. Monitor for threats (political and supernatural)
5. Maintain cover as precocious child while conducting strategic operations
The game was afoot.
Whether Aemon was prepared for it was another question entirely.
But ready or not, the Great Council was about to begin, and history hung in the balance.
*Just another impossible task,* he thought.
*Your last one,* Pyrion added ominously.
*Hopefully not,* Aemon replied.
And with that less-than-reassuring exchange, they prepared to descend into Harrenhal's Great Hall and whatever political chaos awaited them there.
—
In the Tower of Ghosts—which no one had officially named the Tower of Ghosts, but which everyone called the Tower of Ghosts anyway because Harrenhal inspired that kind of creative nomenclature—a small figure pressed against the windowsill, watching the royal procession with eyes that saw more than they should.
Alys Rivers was three years old, which meant she officially existed in that peculiar social category of "acknowledged but not discussed." She was Lord Strong's bastard daughter, product of a liaison with a servant woman who'd died in childbirth, and she lived in Harrenhal's forgotten corners with the sort of freedom that came from being simultaneously visible and invisible. Noble enough to be educated, common enough to be ignored, and strange enough that even the servants crossed themselves when she passed.
She didn't mind. Being ignored meant people didn't notice when you watched them. Being strange meant people attributed your observations to childish imagination rather than genuine insight. And being forgotten in towers meant you could see things—*really* see things—without anyone asking uncomfortable questions about how or why.
Right now, she was seeing something that made her teeth ache and her fingertips tingle with the sensation she'd learned meant *pay attention, this matters, this is IMPORTANT.*
The dragons were obvious—massive Caraxes and elegant Dreamfyre circling overhead like deadly artwork, their presence making the air itself feel heavier, charged with something that wasn't quite magic but wasn't quite *not* magic either. Dragons always felt like that to her, like reality bent slightly around them, accommodating their impossible existence through sheer stubborn refusal to not exist.
But it was the small dragons—the *babies*—that made her skin prickle with recognition.
The crimson and black one walking the young prince's side burned with something that felt wrong in ways she couldn't articulate. Not evil-wrong or bad-wrong, but *impossible-wrong*, like looking at a reflection that didn't quite match what it was reflecting. She could see—or sense, or *know* in that way she sometimes knew things—layers beneath layers, patterns that shouldn't exist, connections that made her head hurt if she focused too hard.
*That dragon isn't just a dragon,* some part of her understood with certainty. *That dragon is—*
But the thought slipped away before she could complete it, leaving only the impression of vast complexity compressed into small form, like trying to fit an ocean into a cup and somehow succeeding through methods that violated several natural laws.
And the prince himself—
Alys pressed closer to the window, ignoring the way the old stone felt warm under her hands despite the autumn chill. Prince Aemon moved like other children moved, smiled like other children smiled, but underneath there was something that reminded her of looking into deep water where you couldn't see the bottom. Depth that suggested the surface appearance was just that—surface—with unknown depths beneath.
She'd heard the servants talking about him. "Strange child," they whispered when they thought no one was listening. "Says things he shouldn't know, understands things he shouldn't understand, watches everything like he's keeping score." They said it with the nervous affection reserved for precocious noble children who might grow up to be either brilliant or catastrophically dangerous.
But Alys could see what the servants couldn't—that whatever Prince Aemon was, "precocious" didn't begin to cover it.
*He's like me,* she realized with sudden clarity. *But different. I see things that are. He sees things that could be or should be or were or—*
Again the thought fragmented, too large for her three-year-old mind to fully process, leaving only impressions: patterns, possibilities, timelines that branched and converged and tangled together like roots of some vast tree she couldn't see the shape of.
The silver-haired princess—Rhaenyra, the servants called her—was simpler. Bright and sharp and determined, her small dragon perched on her shoulder like living jewelry, but essentially comprehensible. A child who would grow into something formidable through normal development of considerable natural talents.
But her brother—
*He's already grown,* Alys understood with the certainty that came from her strange sight. *Or was grown. Or will be grown. Or is growing backward. Or—*
Time got complicated around Prince Aemon in ways that made her head spin.
She watched him walk beside her half-brother Larys—another person who understood what it meant to see more than others, though his seeing came from observation rather than whatever it was that let Alys know things she shouldn't know. Watched them talk with the careful courtesy of people who recognized danger in each other and were mutually assessing whether that danger was threat or opportunity.
*He sees Larys,* Alys noted. *Really sees him, not just the crippled boy everyone else dismisses. Which means he's dangerous or stupid, and he doesn't feel stupid.*
The crimson and black dragon—Pyrion, she heard the name whisper through her awareness like smoke—turned its head suddenly, looking directly up at her window despite the distance and angle making that impossible. Its eyes burned with intelligence that had nothing to do with animal instinct and everything to do with awareness that probably shouldn't exist in any creature, let alone one that was technically still a juvenile.
*It knows I'm watching,* Alys realized with a thrill of mingled fear and excitement. *It knows, and it's letting me know it knows, which means—*
The dragon's gaze held hers for a moment that stretched longer than it should have, and in that moment Alys felt *seen* in ways that went beyond physical observation. Assessed. Evaluated. Acknowledged.
Then Pyrion turned away, resuming his apparent role as decorative shoulder jewelry for his prince, and the moment broke.
Alys stepped back from the window, her heart racing with adrenaline that had no clear source. Her hands were shaking slightly, though whether from fear or excitement or the simple strain of perceiving things her young mind wasn't quite equipped to process, she couldn't say.
"The dragon prince is wrong," she whispered to the empty tower room, testing the words. They felt true but insufficient, like describing an ocean as "wet"—technically accurate but missing the essential nature of the thing.
She'd have to watch him. Carefully, quietly, the way she watched everything from her forgotten corners and ignored spaces. The Great Council would bring thousands of people to Harrenhal, which meant chaos and distraction and opportunity to observe without being observed.
*I need to understand what he is,* Alys thought with the determined focus that sometimes gripped her, the certainty that this mattered in ways that would ripple outward through time. *Because whatever that prince and his dragon are, they're going to change things. Big things. Important things.*
*Everything things.*
Below, the royal family disappeared into the castle, swallowed by Harrenhal's massive halls. Above, the adult dragons found perches on the outer walls, settling in with the patient stillness of apex predators who knew nothing could threaten them.
And in her tower, Alys Rivers pressed her small hands against ancient stone and felt the future shifting like sand beneath running water, patterns forming and reforming around the impossible boy-prince and his even more impossible dragon.
The Great Council was about to begin.
But something else was beginning too—something stranger, more complex, something that made the very stones of Harrenhal hum with anticipation.
Alys didn't know what that something was.
But she intended to find out.
Even if it took her entire life to understand what she'd seen in that moment when the dragon's eyes met hers and recognized something in her that even she didn't fully know was there.
*The game is changing,* she thought with sudden certainty.
*And I'm going to watch every move.*
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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
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