Chapter 42 — The Feast at the Maidenfount, Harrenhal
The great hall of Maidenpool Castle shimmered with warmth and song. The banners of House Mooton — silver salmon on crimson — hung proudly from the vaulted beams, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spice, and Arbor gold. A carved salmon of deep redwood stood on a pedestal at the center of the hall, its black marble base engraved with the house words: "Wisdom and Strength."
Minstrels plucked lutes and harps, singing of Florian and Jonquil, while jesters tumbled between the long tables, chasing laughing children with painted faces. Servants hurried through the crowd, bearing trays laden with fruit pies, buttered crab tarts, roasted quail glazed in honey, and snails drowned in garlic and cream. The guests washed it all down with plum brandy and golden wine until the torches flickered with their laughter.
At the high table sat Prince Baelon Targaryen and his younger brother Prince Daemon, flanked by Lord Jon Mooton and his wife. The portly lord, ruddy from wine, lifted his cup and declared, "Under the eyes of the gods, Maidenpool thrives! Our port grows busier by the day — traders from the Vale, the Trident, and the Crab Claw Peninsula all bring their wares here. If His Grace grants us a royal charter, Maidenpool shall rival even Gulltown within ten years!"
The crowd murmured their approval, though Daemon merely sipped his wine, eyes half-lidded. He could already sense Lord Jon's ambition bleeding through his words — the same restless hunger that festered in many lords of the Riverlands.
Lord Jon's wife leaned close, speaking brightly of the Maidenfount Spring, whose steaming waters were famed across the Narrow Sea. "Even the Archon's wife of Pentos and Lysene courtesans bathed here, Prince Daemon," she said, preening. "They claim the waters restore youth and vigor."
Daemon's lips curved faintly. If that were true, your lord would not be so swollen and red-faced.
Prince Baelon, ever the diplomat, smiled politely. "A royal charter must be discussed by the King and his council, Lord Mooton. I shall carry your petition to King Jaehaerys myself."
Lord Jon nodded eagerly, though his eyes gleamed with frustration. "The Tullys of Riverrun are too far and too weak to govern us," he muttered. "Our loyalty lies with the Crownlands, not the Trident. House Tully is but a trout — and trouts are not fit to rule salmon."
The words silenced the table for a moment. Baelon set down his cup and spoke coolly, "You forget yourself, my lord. Defiance of your liege lord sounds perilously close to treason."
Lord Jon flushed, mumbling an apology, but Daemon's smirk returned. Drunk tongues often speak sober truths.
That night, the Mootons cleared the Maidenfount bathhouse for the visiting princes. Steam rose in veils around marble pools fed by the warm springs below. Jon Mooton swore that the waters could strengthen the body and prolong life. Daemon stripped down and sank into the warmth, glancing sidelong at the sweating lord. "Strange," he murmured, "you've guarded this fountain all your life, yet it hasn't kept you from looking half-dead already."
Baelon chuckled softly but said nothing.
At dawn, they departed Maidenpool. Lord Jon's two sons rode out to see them off, eager and proud — unaware that they were being sent as hostages in all but name to the Red Keep.
The princes' dragons — Vhagar, vast as a mountain, and Caraxes, lean and crimson — took wing over the fog-laced Riverlands. Below them, the silver thread of the God's Eye shone in the morning light, and beside its northern shore loomed the blackened spires of Harrenhal.
Daemon's dragon circled low, casting a red shadow across the colossal ruin. From above, the fortress looked like a monstrous hand clawing at the sky — its five towers cracked and twisted, the stone walls scorched from the fire of Balerion the Black Dread long ago.
He had heard the tale since boyhood:
King Harren the Black had spent half his life and all his fortune raising this fortress of stone and iron, built to defy any enemy — save dragons. On the very day he moved in, Aegon Targaryen's shadow fell upon the castle, and by nightfall, dragonfire had melted his pride into ruin.
Now, centuries later, the place still smelled faintly of smoke.
The dragons landed in the vast inner yard, their wings shaking the ramparts. Lord Lyonel Strong awaited them with his sons, Harwin and Larys, bowing deeply. Lyonel was a bear of a man, shoulders broad and hair thinning despite his youth. His warhammer hung from his belt, yet his voice carried the calm of a learned man — one who had once studied at the Citadel before trading chains for steel.
"Your Graces," he said, "Harrenhal welcomes you. Few castles in Westeros can house two dragons, yet ours still stands ready."
Baelon dismounted with a smile. "I saw your lands from the sky — full herds and golden fields. The curse has not withered you, it seems."
Lyonel laughed. "The curse demands its due in other ways, my prince. The towers leak, the stones groan, and the fires of old still haunt the halls."
Daemon's gaze lingered on the Strong children. Harwin, a sturdy boy of eight, met his eyes boldly, while Larys, younger by a year, leaned on a cane, his legs twisted and frail. Daemon said nothing, but a dark thought stirred within him. From these seeds, ruin will one day sprout.
When the feast began, the dragons were fed whole herds of mutton in the courtyard. Caraxes snorted a plume of orange flame that roasted his meal to a crisp before devouring it in two gulps. The heat shimmered across Daemon's face as he watched.
Behind him, Mona Darklyn and Mia Hogg, his guards, whispered together in awe of the immense castle.
"I've never seen anything so grand," said Mona, wide-eyed.
Mia smirked. "I've hunted near here. It's big, aye — but the air feels wrong. Too quiet."
A small boy — Daemon's young squire, Tom Staunton — looked up at the blackened towers. "I dreamt of this place," he whispered. "Full of ghosts."
Daemon laughed under his breath. "You're not wrong. Harrenhal is a tomb wearing a crown."
"Best not speak ill of the dead, my prince," came a voice like silk.
Daemon turned. Standing behind him was a woman unlike any he had seen in the Riverlands. She was tall, pale as moonlight, her hair black as ravens' wings and her eyes the color of emeralds. She wore a green wool cloak and black breeches, the garb of a servant, yet her beauty carried a quiet danger — and something else beneath it, something otherworldly.
"Who are you?" Daemon asked.
She smiled and took his wrist, her fingers cool and soft as mist. "I am Alys Rivers," she said, her gaze never wavering. "And I am here to serve you, my prince."
Daemon studied her face — the faint shadow of a smile, the way her hand lingered on his skin. For a moment, he thought he saw the reflection of fire in her eyes — or perhaps the God's Eye lake itself.
Either way, something in his blood stirred.
End of Chapter 42
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