Chapter 2: Feasts of Flesh and the Price of a Crown
The Great Hall of the Red Keep blazed with a thousand candles and the roar of a hundred voices. It was the turn of the year 184 AC, the first moon, and King Aegon IV—fat as a salted pig, his velvet robes straining over a belly that had not seen his feet in years—held one of his legendary feasts. Silver plates groaned under roasted boar, spiced lamprey pies, and heaps of honeyed figs. Wine flowed from gilded pitchers like rivers of rubies, and the air hung thick with the scents of cinnamon, sweat, and myrrh.
Prince Aegon Targaryen, nine years old in body but carrying the cold calculations of a man twice that age and more, sat at the high table beside his brother Daeron. His violet eyes missed nothing.
On the king's lap sprawled a laughing woman—Aegon knew her from the histories as one of the later mistresses, perhaps Serenei of Lys or another beauty bought with gold and promises. Nearby, half a dozen more women in silks cut low enough to shame a septa giggled and fed the king sweetmeats from their fingers. Bastards moved among the tables like shadows with silver hair: tall Daemon Blackfyre, already fourteen and handsome as sin, laughing with knights; young Brynden Rivers, quiet and watchful at nine; little Shiera Seastar, barely walking, carried by a nursemaid.
Look at them, Aegon thought, a slow, selfish smile tugging at his lips. Father's leavings. Useful, perhaps. Or obstacles. In his old world he had sold out partners for less than a throne. Here the game was bigger, and he intended to win every round.
He slipped from his seat when the mummers began their bawdy play. No one noticed a small prince in black velvet embroidered with red dragons. In a side passage he found her—a serving girl named Lanna, no more than thirteen, freckled and quick with a tray. She had been watching him all night with wide eyes.
"Princess—Prince," she corrected, curtsying so low her nose nearly brushed the rushes. "You need more wine?"
Aegon tilted his head, the picture of innocent curiosity. "Not wine. Secrets. You hear things, don't you, Lanna? About my father's… friends. And the passages under the keep. The ones the servants use when they don't want the guards to see."
Her cheeks flushed. "My prince, I—"
He stepped closer, voice soft as silk but edged like a knife. "Tell me one good secret and I'll give you this." He pressed a gold dragon into her palm—stolen from a tray earlier. "And if you bring me more, there will be silver for your mother's cough. I hear she's ill."
Lanna's eyes darted left and right. The power of a single coin and a boy's promise worked faster than any threat. She whispered of Falena Stokeworth's daughter Jeyne still visiting the king in secret, of a hidden stair behind the kitchens that led toward the Dragonpit ruins, of how Lord Lucas Lothston—Hand of the King and Lord of Harrenhal—grew frailer by the day. "They say the curse is eating him too, my prince."
Aegon's smile widened. Harrenhal. The largest castle in the realm. Towers tall enough to scrape the sky, walls that could swallow an army, lands fat with smallfolk and grain. Even ruined by dragonfire two centuries past, it was a fortress fit for a dragon. And its lord was dying. Perfect.
"Thank you, Lanna," he said, patting her cheek like a fond brother. "Speak of this to no one, and you'll eat better than any scullion in King's Landing."
She fled, clutching the coin.
Later that night, guided by her words and the half-remembered maps from books he had never actually read in this life, Aegon and a wide-eyed page boy he had befriended—young Tommard of House Paege, a minor Riverlands squire of eleven—crept through the secret stair. The Dragonpit loomed on Rhaenys's Hill, its great dome cracked open to the stars, empty since the last dragon died in 153 AC. No eggs waited; he knew that from his old-world knowledge. But the stones held echoes.
Tommard shivered in the moonlight. "This place is cursed, my prince. Like Harrenhal."
Aegon ran his small hand along a melted pillar. "Curses are for weak men. Dragons make their own luck." He picked up a shard of black stone, warm as if still holding Balerion's fire. "You want to be my man, Tommard? Not just a page. A friend who keeps secrets. I'll make you rich one day."
The boy's eyes shone with hero-worship. "I swear it, Prince Aegon."
They slipped back before the feast ended.
Prince Daeron found him at dawn in the solar, mud on his boots.
"Aegon," Daeron said quietly, closing the door. His face was lined with worry even at thirty. "The maester says Father grows worse. And you—wandering the city at night with a page? This is not the behavior of a prince of the blood. The court already whispers that the Unworthy's blood runs too strong in you."
Aegon looked up with wide, guileless eyes. "I only wanted to see the old Dragonpit, brother. Like the stories Mother told before she went to the gods. I meant no harm."
Daeron sighed, ruffling his silver hair. "You are too clever for your years. Stay close. Honor our name."
Honor, Aegon thought as Daeron left. A chain for fools. But he nodded obediently. The mask held.
The next weeks blurred into fevered decline. King Aegon IV lay in his bedchamber, limbs black and rotting, flesh worms crawling where once mistresses had kissed. On his deathbed he dictated the will that would doom the realm: all his bastards legitimized. Daemon became Daemon Blackfyre, sword in hand. Brynden, Aegor, Shiera—all raised high.
Aegon stood at the foot of the bed, small and silent, while his father wheezed his last. The fat king's eyes, bloodshot, found him once.
"My true son… take what you want, boy. The world is meat."
Then he was gone. Early 184 AC. The realm mourned with dry eyes.
The funeral pyre burned on the shores of Blackwater Bay. Daeron II Targaryen was crowned in the Great Sept, the High Septon placing the crown upon his solemn brow. The new king wore plain grey, as always.
Three days later, in the royal solar, Prince Aegon knelt before his brother-king. The small council watched: the new Hand, a cautious lord from the Reach; the Master of Laws; and Lord Theomar Smallwood of the Riverlands, a stout, practical man who had served both kings.
"Your Grace," Aegon said in his clearest, most boyish voice, "my father is with the Stranger. I am but a second son, yet I would serve you. Grant me a fief worthy of our blood. Harrenhal—the greatest castle in all the Seven Kingdoms. Its walls could hold back any storm. Let me make it strong for you."
Daeron frowned, fingers steepled. "Harrenhal belongs to House Lothston. Lord Lucas served our father loyally, if… unwisely. And the castle is cursed, brother. Every lord who holds it meets ruin."
Aegon kept his face innocent, but inside the hunger roared. Largest. Richest lands in the Riverlands. A seat from which a dragon could watch the Blackfyres, the Tullys, everyone. He said nothing of the dying lord he already knew about.
Lord Theomar Smallwood cleared his throat. "If I may, Your Grace. Word reached us this very morning—raven from Harrenhal. Lord Lucas Lothston passed in the night. No strong heir stands ready; his sons are young or sickly, and the curse weighs heavy on them. Granting the seat to Prince Aegon would be… prudent. A trueborn prince of the blood holding the largest fortress in the Trident would bind the Riverlands closer to the Iron Throne. The smallfolk would see your justice and generosity. And in these uncertain times, with so many new lords raised high…" He glanced meaningfully at the legitimized bastards. "Better the dragon's own son than another house that might waver."
The other councilors murmured agreement. Daeron looked torn—honor versus practicality.
Aegon lowered his eyes, the perfect picture of a grateful child. "I would rule it wisely, brother. For the realm. For you."
Daeron exhaled. "Very well. Harrenhal is yours, Aegon. Swear to hold it in my name and keep the peace."
"I swear it," Aegon said, and the words tasted sweeter than any wine at the feast.
As he rose, a fleeting emptiness touched him—like the rain-slick street in Seattle, the crash, the nothing. Power felt good. But alone in his new chambers that night, with servants already packing for the journey to his vast, ruined seat, he wondered if even the largest castle in Westeros could fill the hole where a soul should be.
He pushed the thought away. Tomorrow he would ride for Harrenhal.
And I will make it mine in truth.
End of Chapter 2