Harrenhal was enormous.
In fact, it was said that the castle was three times larger than Winterfell, and even that comparison barely captured its true scale.
Every structure within the fortress was massive.
The stables alone could house nearly a thousand horses.
The godswood covered over twenty mu of land, its ancient trees forming a dense and solemn forest inside the castle walls.
The kitchens were so vast that two hundred cooks could work inside them simultaneously without getting in each other's way.
Everything about Harrenhal was exaggerated in size.
The walls were impossibly thick and rose so high that when one looked up from the ground, the catapults mounted along the battlements seemed as small as insects.
Five gigantic towers stood above the fortress like the fingers of a giant hand reaching toward the sky.
Their stone foundations were so wide that entire chambers had been carved inside the walls themselves.
Some of the interior rooms were so large that people joked they were big enough to house giants.
Yet despite its overwhelming grandeur, Harrenhal had always been a burden to its owners.
The House Hoare, which had originally built the castle, had only ever used the lower two-thirds of the towers.
The upper sections had long since fallen into ruin.
Decades of neglect had left entire wings abandoned.
In some places, the stones had collapsed completely.
The highest towers had become ideal homes for bats, whose shrill cries echoed through the broken halls at night.
Since the day it was built, Harrenhal had carried an ominous reputation.
After Aegon the Conqueror burned the castle during his conquest, Harrenhal seemed cursed.
The castle was simply too large.
Maintaining it required unimaginable wealth.
Only the richest lord in Westeros, ruling vast fertile lands, could even afford to reside there.
And even then, Harrenhal seemed to bring nothing but misfortune.
Rumors of curses and ghosts had spread for centuries.
Legend claimed that Harren the Black, the castle's builder, had mixed human blood into the mortar of its walls.
Because of that, the castle was said to carry a terrible curse.
No one could hold Harrenhal for long.
History seemed to support that belief.
Every noble family that had owned the castle had eventually met a tragic fate.
House Hoare.
House Harroway.
House Strong.
House Lothston.
House Towers.
One after another, every family that claimed Harrenhal eventually fell into ruin.
The castle had witnessed more horrors in three hundred years than Casterly Rock had seen in three thousand.
Because of this, when the Lannister army chose Harrenhal as their base of operations, rumors quickly spread throughout the camp.
Some soldiers whispered nervously about the abandoned towers.
Others claimed the castle was impossible to defend due to its massive size.
Some swore that ghosts haunted the dark halls at night.
One terrified soldier even claimed that he had seen a ghost when he woke up to relieve himself during the night.
The sight frightened him so badly that he crawled back into bed and waited until morning before daring to change his trousers.
Others whispered about fiery spirits.
They claimed the burned ghosts of Harren the Black and his sons still roamed the castle.
Anyone who encountered them would be burned alive.
These stories spread quickly among the soldiers.
But unfortunately for them, the rumors soon reached Lord Tywin Lannister.
Tywin did not tolerate fear.
Nor did he tolerate foolish gossip.
The punishment was swift.
Several people who had spread the rumors were publicly hanged.
Among them were a kitchen cook, a stablehand, and even a soldier who had gone mad with fear.
Their bodies were hung from the tallest walls of Harrenhal.
The massive stone walls rose like cliffs, ensuring the corpses could be seen from nearly anywhere inside the castle.
After that, the rumors stopped.
Fear quickly gave way to something else.
Under the leadership of the noble knights, the Lannister soldiers began discussing something far more pleasant.
Victory.
They imagined the wealth they would gain once the war ended.
Gold.
Land.
Glory.
The promise of victory filled the army with enthusiasm.
But that enthusiasm did not last long.
A few letters arrived from King's Landing.
Within a single day, the entire atmosphere of the camp changed.
The excitement of victory was replaced with something else.
Panic.
And the source of that panic was none other than Lord Tywin Lannister himself.
The lord they followed.
The man who commanded their armies.
The man whose decisions determined their fate.
Because at the most critical moment of the war…
Tywin Lannister had decided to surrender to the Iron Throne.
Tywin's Decision
The gates of Harrenhal slowly opened.
Under the silent gaze of thousands of soldiers, Tywin Lannister rode forward.
He sat upon a white horse.
His golden hair gleamed faintly beneath the morning mist.
His expression was calm and unreadable.
Behind him followed fewer than fifty people.
A white banner was raised high above the group.
The cloth was damp with morning dew, hanging heavily from the pole.
The banner of surrender.
Under the watchful eyes of the Lannister army, Tywin and his small escort slowly passed through the gates of Harrenhal.
Their destination lay ahead.
The enemy camp.
The Council Meeting
Earlier that morning, Tywin had gathered several noble lords inside a cold stone chamber.
"I apologize for disturbing your spirits," Tywin said calmly.
"But I must inform you of an important decision."
"I intend to surrender to Robert Baratheon and the Iron Throne."
The room immediately fell silent.
The gathered lords stared at him in disbelief.
Tywin slid a crumpled letter across the table.
Someone swallowed nervously.
"Lord Tywin…"
"Surely this is a joke?"
But everyone in the room knew the truth.
Tywin Lannister never joked.
He rarely even smiled.
Tywin folded his hands calmly beneath his chin.
"Our plan has failed," he said quietly.
"And I take responsibility for that."
"We have lost everything required to win a decisive battle."
He gestured toward the letter.
"This letter…"
"…is the rope that pulls us back from the edge of destruction."
The lords began passing the letter between them.
As each man read its contents, their expressions grew darker.
Tywin continued speaking.
"The failure in King's Landing came suddenly."
"I understand that it is difficult to believe."
"But it is the truth."
"When I received this letter, I waited half the night to confirm it."
"And by morning, I had received three separate reports verifying the same information."
Silence filled the room.
Tywin allowed them time to absorb the news.
"If we had not received this message…"
"If we had launched our attack as planned…"
He paused.
"It would have been a disaster."
A Difficult Choice
The lords sitting around the table looked defeated.
Their earlier confidence had completely vanished.
Some of them were angry.
Others were simply exhausted.
One nobleman sighed deeply.
"We cannot throw away everything for the sake of pride."
"This was Kevan's final warning."
"He gave his life to buy us this opportunity."
Another lord spoke hesitantly.
"Do we still have a chance?"
"What if Robert kills us after we surrender?"
Tywin tapped the table with his finger.
"Yes."
"Robert may indeed kill us."
"But Eddard Stark will not."
The room went quiet again.
Tywin continued.
"The king's army is now largely composed of northern troops led by Eddard Stark."
"And everyone here knows what kind of man he is."
"The Lord of Winterfell values honor above all else."
Tywin's voice carried a trace of contempt.
"Fortunately for us…"
"…he will restrain his king."
"This is our opportunity."
"We have failed."
"But we have not yet lost everything."
The lords exchanged uncertain glances.
"Perhaps…"
One man finally murmured.
"Perhaps we still have a chance."
Tywin gave a faint smile.
"For now, we must survive this crisis."
"As for the rest…"
He let the sentence trail off.
The Northern Army
Outside Harrenhal, the Northern army stood in formation like a forest of steel.
Thousands of soldiers waited in silence.
At the front of the army stood King Robert Baratheon.
He sat upon his warhorse, wearing his heavy cloak.
His expression was complicated.
Anger.
Relief.
Confusion.
And something darker.
Killing intent.
Beside him stood Eddard Stark.
Unlike the king, Ned's expression was far calmer.
He wore his wolfskin cloak draped across his shoulders.
Although he appeared relaxed, his brow furrowed every time he glanced at Robert.
Finally, after a long moment of hesitation, Ned spoke.
His voice was quiet.
"Your Majesty…"
He cleared his throat.
"Your Majesty…"
"You have a good son."
Robert turned slightly.
Ned continued.
"Because of him…"
"We have won the war without fighting."
The morning fog drifted slowly across the battlefield.
And in the distance—
Tywin Lannister and his white banner continued approaching.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)