The smoke had long since faded from the ruins, yet the air still tasted of ash.
Ser Simon Strong stood beside the charred remnants of a tower wall, his face drawn tight. He had served Harrenhal all his life , seen it crumble and blacken, and still he had told himself the old curse was just a story whispered by frightened smallfolk. But now, standing among the bodies of his kin, even he could not ignore the dread that lingered like a ghost among the stones.
For once, Simon had no words.
This was something he had never considered, that Harrenhal itself might have claimed its due.
Larys Strong, his cane clicking lightly against the flagstones, watched him with that mild, thoughtful expression that never quite revealed what he was thinking. He looked upon his great-uncle not as kin, but as one might study a piece of board in the game of cyvasse, useful, perhaps, but easily replaced.
In his heart, Larys felt nothing.
Ser Simon, for all his age and titles, had ever been a man of middling courage and lesser ambition, a fence-sitter who mistook his own cowardice for prudence. Always waiting to see which side of the wind blew warmer. Always pretending he could dance between dragons and live.
Larys had no patience for such men.
"I will not be staying long," he said quietly, breaking the silence. "When I leave, the work of restoring Harrenhal will fall to you."
Simon turned sharply, thinking he must have misheard. "Restore it?" he repeated. "You mean to repair Harrenhal?"
"That's what I said." Larys's tone did not rise, yet something in it made Simon step back. "Prince Aegon will need a strong seat, not a decaying ruin haunted by tales and smoke."
Simon frowned, looking around at the scorched stones and twisted iron gates. "Is that truly necessary? The walls still stand, and the halls,"
"What of it?" Larys interrupted.
"What of it?" Simon spread his hands helplessly. "We've lived here half our lives. It may be blackened, but it's still Harrenhal. We have no coin for such folly."
The younger man's smile was almost pitying. "Do you take me for a fool, uncle? I know precisely what lies in the coffers, to the last copper."
He took a step closer, lowering his voice so only Simon could hear. "Silver and gold do not weep for their dead. Money that sleeps in vaults is nothing but cold metal. It should serve its purpose while we still can."
Simon swallowed. "And if I refuse?"
Larys's smile vanished. "Then I will send men to make sure you obey. And should they find your work wanting…" His tone softened into something even colder. "Prince Aemond will come to inquire himself, upon Vhagar."
The name alone drained the color from Simon's face.
Vhagar, the oldest of the living dragons, mightiest since the Black Dread. Her wings could shadow a castle, her breath melt steel and stone. Even the memory of her roar was enough to set a man trembling.
"I understand," Simon muttered at last, lowering his gaze.
"Good." Larys adjusted his cane. "See that you remember."
With that, he turned and left his uncle standing in the courtyard, the wind stirring ashes around his boots.
Larys took command of the funeral that followed. It was a solemn, quiet affair, a thin line of black banners waving above a field of scorched earth. Lord Lyonel Strong, once Hand of the King, and his son Ser Harwin, burned with the keep they had called home.
Larys spoke the rites in a steady, measured tone. No tears marked his cheeks. To the men of Harrenhal, it seemed as though the gods themselves had turned their eyes away from the cursed fortress once again.
When the news reached King's Landing, fury shook the Red Keep.
Viserys Targaryen stormed through the council chambers, his face pale with grief and wine. "Damn it, damn it all!" he roared, casting a golden goblet against the wall. Red wine ran down the stone like blood.
Daemon watched from a distance, arms folded. His brother's anger had long ceased to move him.
"I had arranged everything," Daemon said, voice even, eyes glinting with faint amusement. "No one foresaw that Lyonel would ride home with them. There was nothing to be done."
He might as well have been speaking of the weather.
To Daemon, death was no stranger, and Lord Lyonel had merely stepped into the shadow sooner than most.
Viserys turned on him, his grief curdling into rage. "Do you think Lyonel's death means nothing? To you? To Rhaenyra?"
Daemon's expression didn't change, though his lips quirked in faint irony, as if to say, and why should it?
Viserys's breath came harsh and ragged. "Do you know what the Small Council debates even now?"
Daemon shrugged. "I'm not one of your councilors. How would I know what they mutter?"
"You would, if you'd ever learned restraint," the king snapped.
Daemon's eyes darkened. The memory of his brother's refusal to name him Hand still stung, a wound he hid beneath layers of sardonic laughter and restless violence.
Viserys's voice dropped low. "They mean to restore Otto as Hand. Only Lord Lyman objects."
Daemon laughed, sharp and cruel. "So it comes full circle. The leech crawls back to his host."
"Enough," Viserys said, though his voice lacked conviction.
Daemon stepped forward, eyes gleaming like polished steel. "You are the King, are you not? One word from you, and the council scatters like rats. Or has the crown grown too heavy for your neck?"
"If command were so simple, you'd still sit in this castle," Viserys shot back. "You speak of power, but know nothing of the burden it brings."
The king sank heavily into his chair. The wine on his fingers looked like blood.
He knew what Daemon could not, that more than half the court now bent knee to Alicent and her faction. The Greens held sway in every corridor of the Red Keep, and their dragons, four in number, did not heed his call.
If he defied the Council's will and refused Otto's return, the city itself might splinter. And if swords were drawn, if dragons rose against dragons… peace would burn with the rest of the realm.
Viserys closed his eyes. "You think me weak, but it is strength that stays my hand. To keep the realm from tearing itself apart."
Daemon snorted. "Your 'strength' smells of fear. The Greens will not dare rebel, Alicent hasn't the stomach for war."
He said it with conviction, yet his words faltered even as they left his tongue. In his mind's eye rose a different figure: Aegon, golden-haired, smiling like a boy who had already tasted power.
Perhaps Alicent lacked the will to challenge the throne. But her son… her son might not.
Viserys, blind in his faith, saw none of it. He believed Aegon innocent of ambition, just as he clung to the lie that Rhaenyra's boys were trueborn. His love made him merciful, and mercy, in this court, was a knife turned inward.
"Perhaps you are right," the king said at last, his voice weary. "Perhaps Alicent has no courage for rebellion. But even the faintest chance, the smallest spark, could set the realm ablaze. I will not see dragons make war upon their own kin."
Daemon's laugh was low, bitter, and cruel. "Still dreaming of peace, are you? Even after all these years?"
"What are you laughing at?"
"Nothing," Daemon said, turning away. His smile lingered, mocking and sad all at once. "A jest I told myself."
Viserys waved him off. "Go, then. I've no further use for you today."
Daemon bowed slightly, more mockery than respect, and turned toward the door.
"Wait," Viserys called. "There's no need for you to return to the Stepstones. I have other plans."
Daemon paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "My pleasure," he said with a half-smile.
The flicker of torchlight caught the edge of his face, the faintest glint of amusement in his violet eyes. The wars of the Stepstones had grown dull; let young Aegon wrestle with pirates and crowns.
As he left the chamber, the king sat slumped upon the throne, the weight of his crown pressing down heavier than ever.
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