Chapter 5: The Weight of Black Stone
The first true morning of lordship dawned grey and cool over Harrenhal, the Gods Eye lake shrouded in mist that clung to the fused black towers like a widow's veil. Prince Aegon Targaryen sat in the great hall's high seat—once Harren's, now his—his small frame swallowed by the massive oak chair carved with writhing dragons. He was nine, yet the knowledge in his head made every decision feel like moving pieces on a board only he could see.
Ser Oswell Whent stood at his right, chainmail rustling. "The smallfolk have gathered for court, my prince. Only a dozen today. The curse… it keeps the bolder knights away. Few wish to hold even a single tower or village under Harrenhal's banner."
Aegon allowed a thoughtful frown to touch his boyish face. Inside, satisfaction bloomed. Fewer lords means fewer rivals. Fewer hands reaching for my coin, my land, my power. The curse that had devoured House Lothston and every lord before them was a gift. He could keep the vast lands—thousands of acres of fertile Riverlands soil—under his direct hand. No greedy vassals carving out private fiefs. Centralize everything. Make them all answer to one dragon.
"Bring them forward," he said, voice high but steady.
The first petitioner was a stooped farmer named Harrold, cap in hand, complaining that his neighbor's pigs had rooted up his barley. Aegon listened, violet eyes sharp. From his new territory knowledge the answers came easily: crop rotation schedules, proper fencing lines, even simple drainage ditches that would prevent flooding next spring.
"Ser Oswell will send two men to mark the boundary with stones," Aegon declared after a moment's pretend thought. "And you, Harrold, will plant turnips in the far field next season—three rows for every four of barley. It restores the soil. The pigs will be penned, or their owner pays you two silver stags. Justice and good harvest together."
Harrold blinked, then bowed deeply. "The young prince is wise as the old kings. Thank you, my lord."
Word spread quickly through the hall. By the third day the line of petitioners grew—widows seeking tax relief after a harsh winter, a miller whose wheel had cracked, a mother whose son had been caught poaching rabbits. Each time Aegon applied the same quiet precision: tax rolls adjusted by season not by rigid custom, simple ledgers printed on his new wooden press (built in secret by Tommard and a carpenter who asked no questions), promises of road repairs that would bring more trade to the lakeside town.
On the fifth morning, after court ended and the hall emptied, Aegon walked the battlements with Tommard and Lanna. The wind off the Gods Eye tugged at their cloaks. Below, the smallfolk moved like ants—fewer armored knights than any proper lord's seat, but that was perfect.
"The curse helps us," Aegon said softly, stopping at a merlon to look out over his domain. "Fewer lords means I can shape everything myself. No one to argue when I train the guards my way."
Tommard grinned, still boyish at eleven. "Your way? Like the stories of the old emperors across the narrow sea?"
"Better." Aegon's mind flashed to half-remembered books from his old life—Sun Tzu, Roman legion drills, even spy novels where agents were broken and rebuilt with loyalty. Real military history: tight formations, relentless discipline, scouts who reported only to one commander. Fiction added the rest—mind games, subtle rewards that felt like friendship, small punishments that left no scars but planted fear. "We start small. Twenty men. I'll show you the drills myself. March in step, hold shields together like a wall. No more brawling in the barracks. And for the clever ones… secret work."
Lanna twisted her apron, eyes wide with that mix of awe and worry he had come to enjoy. "Secret work, my prince?"
Aegon took her hand gently, the gesture innocent to any watching guard. "Eyes and ears, Lanna. The smallfolk trust you. You hear things in the kitchens, in the wash-house. Who grumbles about taxes, who drinks too much and talks of the Blackfyres. Tell me quietly. I'll reward the loyal ones—extra bread, a silver for a wedding, a kind word that spreads. The others… we watch. No whips. Just… understanding. Like washing a dirty rag until it's clean again."
She flushed but nodded. "I can do that. For you."
Tommard squared his shoulders. "And I'll pick the guards. The ones who listen. We'll train them at dawn, away from the main yard so the smallfolk don't gossip."
That very evening, in a torchlit corner of the Tower of Dread's lower bailey—far from prying eyes—Aegon watched Tommard put ten chosen men through the first drill. "Left foot, right foot—together!" Tommard shouted, voice cracking but firm. Aegon had drawn the formations in the dirt himself: shield wall, rotating ranks, simple signals with flags. Real tactics from Earth's long wars, dressed up as "a prince's game." The men grumbled at first— "We're not children playing at soldiers"—but when Aegon promised double pay from the first harvest profits and a hot meal after every session, the complaints faded.
Later, alone with Tommard in the Kingspyre solar, Aegon unrolled a fresh sheet of printed parchment—his new tallies, neat columns of numbers no maester had taught him. "This is how we grow strong without anyone noticing. Track every barrel of grain, every silver stag. Centralize it all here. No vassal gets his own granary. Everything flows to me."
Tommard's eyes shone with hero-worship. "You talk like you've ruled for years, my prince."
Aegon smiled, small and private. "The fever taught me things. Dreams of how a real lord protects his own." The lie came smooth; the truth—the Seattle streets, the schemes, the selfishness—stayed buried. I will have spies who answer only to me. Men who think they chose loyalty. Women like Lanna who believe they're loved. Central power. My power.
Days turned to weeks. Court every morning after breaking fast—simple, fair rulings that made the smallfolk whisper the young prince was blessed by the gods despite the curse. Afternoons: riding the nearest fields with Ser Oswell, pointing out where new ditches should run, where barley should follow peas. Evenings: secret sessions in the godswood clearing, teaching Tommard and two trusted guards the basics of moving unseen— "Step where the leaves are thick, watch the wind so scent doesn't carry"—tricks pulled from spy stories and half-forgotten military manuals. Mind games came easiest: praise one man loudly in front of others, then pull the praised man aside for "special trust." Small gifts. Quiet reminders that the prince noticed everything.
One soft twilight, as red leaves drifted from the weirwood, Lanna brought him the first real whisper: a stablehand boasting that Daemon Blackfyre would reward any man who joined his banner when the time came.
Aegon listened, then squeezed her shoulder. "Good girl. Tell the man the prince values loyal tongues. Give him an extra flagon of the new barley-wine I'm having made. And watch if he drinks it with friends."
Lanna curtsied, cheeks pink. "As you wish, my prince."
As the seventh moon waned and the first harvest carts rolled in heavy with grain, Aegon stood once more on the battlements. Fewer lords meant his word was law across every village and field. His small guard already moved with sharper discipline. His first three spies—Lanna, a quiet cook, and a hedge knight down on his luck—reported only to him.
The curse of Harrenhal had become his greatest ally.
Yet that night, alone with the weirwood leaf still pressed between the pages of the Valyrian scroll, the old emptiness flickered again—like rain on Seattle pavement. He crushed it down.
"Power first," he whispered. "Everything else later."
End of Chapter 5