The great hall of Harrenhal lay hushed beneath its towering vaults, its torches casting long, restless shadows that crawled across black stone. Before the dais, the household officers had gathered in a crescent, each stepping forward in turn. One knee to the floor. Head bowed. Fist to breastplate in the solemn knight's obeisance.
All bent the knee to Baelon Targaryen, Prince of the Realm and now master of the greatest fortress in Westeros.
All... save one.
Ser Harreth Strong stood stiff as a spear haft, offering only the barest inclination of his head.
It was not even a bow, hardly more than a token nod. A gesture offered to a passing acquaintance, not a liege lord. His lips pressed thin, and his hand rested upon the pommel of his sword as though he might have preferred the comfort of steel to courtesy.
A murmur rippled through the hall. Men shifted. Eyes darted.
Baelon had not yet spoken when another voice cut the silence clean in two.
"Ser Harreth!"Boots rang sharply on the stone as Ser Erik Riswell stepped forward, his jaw rigid, his cloak swinging behind him like a banner caught in a sudden wind. "You dare show such disrespect to your liege lord?"
Harreth's mouth curled with disdain. "Disrespect?" he echoed, almost lazily. He rolled his left shoulder as though loosening a tight muscle. "The young lord has not taken offense. Since when is it your place to yap at me like some kennel-cur protecting scraps?"
The insult struck the air like a thrown gauntlet.
Erik froze for scarcely a heartbeat. Then his eyes narrowed, the hard calm of a practiced soldier settling over his face. "And what of your family's vaunted loyalty?" he asked, voice measured but edged like whetted steel. "Unshakable, you once claimed. Unquestionable. Are we to believe it so fragile that you cast it aside the moment a new lord sets foot in Harrenhal?"
Harreth snorted. "Spare me your lecturing, Riswell." He reached up to adjust his cloak, revealing the crest of House Strong embroidered at his breast. "I bow as much as my old wound allows." He tapped his left leg for emphasis. "Perhaps you've forgotten I carry scars bought on your precious front lines."
"Curious," Erik murmured. "Your injury seemed less hindrance earlier, when you strutted across the yard like a champion at tourney."
A ripple of laughter, quickly strangled, ran through the assembled men.
Harreth's eyes flared. "You-"
"You insult the prince," Erik said plainly.
Steel whispered free.
Erik's blade flashed in the torchlight, drawn in one fluid motion.
Harreth's bravado evaporated. Cursing under his breath, he fumbled for his own sword, his supposedly injured leg shifting with no trace of pain as he surged to meet the challenge. A few of the gathered men exchanged knowing looks.
The hall erupted into motion.
Illis Dantell, Harrenhal's steward, scurried back several paces, he clutched her ledger protectively to his chest, eyes narrowed shrewdly, ever the one to observe which way the wind was blowing.
Samond Rivers, a broad-shouldered bastard sworn to the castle, laid his palm lightly atop his hilt, watching with the tense readiness of a man who had seen men die over far less.
Others stepped back quickly, unwilling to be caught between two armed knights.
And still Baelon remained upon Harrenhal's massive stone throne, carved from the very bones of the cursed fortress itself. He sat poised, leaning slightly forward, silver-white hair glowing in the torchlight. His eyes, a deep amethyst, studied the scene with calm interest.
Beside him, Ser Rosby, glanced toward the prince in quiet question.
Shall I stop this?
Baelon answered with the faintest shake of his head.
No. Let them show their loyalties. Let them reveal their fangs.
Below, the clash began.
Erik advanced with decisive precision, sword angled forward, boots sliding across the stone as lightly as a dancer's. Harreth met him with a two-handed grip, his strength evident but dulled by lack of discipline.
Steel met steel.
Once. Twice. A third time, sparks spitting from the blades.
Erik pressed the advantage, driving Harreth back step by step. The older knight grunted, swinging hard, each blow full of brute strength but lacking finesse.
"You always believed yourself above the rest of us," Erik said between strikes, his voice steady. "Above duty. Above honor."
Harreth snarled and hacked downward, forcing Erik to pivot aside.
"Careful, Riswell," he panted. "A man might think you mean to kill me."
"If I meant to kill you," Erik replied, sliding beneath Harrith's guard with swift certainty, "you would already be dead."
His sword darted low.
The steel plunged cleanly into Harrith Strong's left calf.
Harreth screamed, a raw, ugly sound that echoed from the blackened rafters. His leg buckled. Blood spilled in a dark rush across the stone floor. He collapsed to one knee, clutching at his sword not to strike but simply to brace himself upright.
Erik withdrew his blade smoothly, wiped it with a practiced flick, and sheathed it with a soft click.
He turned, walked back toward the dais, and knelt before the prince with deliberate grace.
"My lord," Erik said, tone level and clear, "Ser Harreth's conscience seems to have awakened at last. Despite his… suffering, he forces himself to kneel before you with the respect owed his liege."
A few stifled snorts of amusement sounded among the officers. Others whispered quietly among themselves.
Baelon's lips curved in a faint, knowing smile.
It seems Erik was not simply a swordsman, he was a man who understood the language of power too.
"Rise, Ser Erik," Baelon said. His voice carried easily through the hall, smooth and cool. "You have shown loyalty and a sharp mind. For this, you shall be rewarded, one hundred gold dragons."
Erik bowed deeply.
Baelon turned his gaze toward the still-kneeling Harrith Strong.
"Ser Harreth," he said, each word precise, cold as winter air, "you have shown insolence toward your prince and disrespect toward your liege lord."
Harreth's breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat trickled down his temple. His leg bled freely, staining the stones like spilled wine.
Baelon allowed the silence to stretch, the weight of judgment settling over the hall like a gathering storm.
"I strip you of your command," Baelon continued at last. "Your knighthood is revoked. From this moment forth, you hold no rank in Harrenhal. The command of the infantry and the office of master-at-arms are transferred to Ser Cantrell Rosby."
The color drained from Harrith's face.
"You-!" he croaked.
Baelon tilted his head slightly, as though puzzled. "I?" he repeated gently. "I remind you only of the law: to insult a prince of the royal house is treason. To insult your liege lord is death."
Thirty gold cloaks moved as one.
Baelon's personal guard stepped forward, boots thudding in perfect unison.
Whatever words Harreth meant to shout died in his throat.
His jaw clenched. Shoulders slumped. At last, he bowed his head, truly bowed it this time, in abject submission.
"Good," Baelon said softly.
He leaned back into the throne's cold embrace and lifted one hand dismissively.
"You may all leave. Illis- by morning, I expect a full inventory of Harrenhal's vaults, stores, and assets. Ser Erik, remain."
The hall emptied quickly. A few men cast sympathetic glances toward Erik, others eyed him with newfound respect, or caution.
When the door's heavy boom echoed shut, Baelon's expression shifted, the stern public facade easing into something more thoughtful.
"Ser Erik," he said quietly, "I am new to Harrenhal. I know only what rumor whispers. I need someone intelligent and loyal to tell me how matters truly stand."
Erik inclined his head. "My prince… the truth is simple enough."
He hesitated, then stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"House Strong was never fully accepted by Harrenhal's sworn vassals. Their rule has long been… unstable."
He folded his hands behind his back, his demeanor now that of a seasoned officer reporting to a commander he respected.
"The castle's purse strings lie with House Dantell, Illis's kin. They hold the keys to the vaults and the ledgers. They smile sweetly, but their loyalty is to silver, not swords."
Baelon's brows knit slightly. "And the Riverlords?"
Erik exhaled slowly. "House Tully has long desired to bind Harrenhal firmly beneath their influence. House Strong resisted them for years. Now that the castle has passed to you, they will test your resolve... subtly, at first. Then boldly, if they sense weakness."
Baelon's fingers drummed once on the arm of the throne.
So that was the game.
This colossal fortress... rich, strategic, and feared across the realm, was not held by strength of arms alone. Its wealth, its divided vassals, and the ambitions of its neighbors knit together into a snarl of political tension.
It was a web he would need to unravel strand by strand.
And if he was to rule Harrenhal, he would master every piece of it.
Every man. Every coin. Every threat.
Baelon Targaryen rose from the throne, his cloak falling around him like a spill of dark crimson silk.
"Thank you, Ser Erik," he said. His voice was calm, beneath it, something far sharper stirred. "Your candor serves me well. And your loyalty will not be forgotten."
Erik bowed once more. "My prince."
Baelon's gaze swept the empty hall, weighing the future that awaited him.
Harrenhal might be cursed.
But it was his now.
And he intended to bend its destiny to his will.
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A/N- If you're liking how the story starts, trust me, the best parts are only beginning. Baelon's journey gets far wilder in the next arc.
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