"How many?" the young prince asked from the great chair.
Illis bowed low, voice trembling.
"My lord… every one of them."
He lifted his eyes, letting the truth strike the air like a thrown gauntlet.
"Not a few. Not several. All of them."
The word hung heavy, iron-thick.
Every man in Harrenhal desired something, coin, horses, women, armor, favors whispered in shadowed corridors. And gold was the root that fed all such desires.
Ser Samond, Ser Erik, the captains of the watch, even the stewards with quiet faces and quieter hands, Illis possessed something on each of them. Some sins were documented, others only rumored, but rumors could ruin as swiftly as proof.
Baelon studied him in stillness, one finger idly tapping the throne's armrest. He was a small figure carved into a massive seat of power, yet the authority radiating from him made Illis feel as though a grown dragon watched him from the darkness.
"Good," Baelon said at last. "Then you will bring me every scrap of it. Letters. Ledgers. Contracts. Bribes. Every secret you have ever bartered."
His voice softened, dangerous for its restraint.
"Do that, and I may yet forgive you… and your family."
Illis swallowed, feeling as though his soul shrank inside his bones. He bent low again.
"Yes, my lord."
*
Dawn bled pale light across Harrenhal, and Baelon summoned every officer and sworn knight of the castle to the great hall.
When they arrived, the sight awaiting them chilled even the bravest.
Baelon sat upon the lord's throne as though born to it, one hand resting casually on the carved stone, the other trailing along the wolf-fur thrown over the back. To his right stood Ser Brayden, the Black-Hearted Knight, in full mail, sword in hand. To Baelon's left, Illis stood rigid and white as milk, sweat beading at his temples.
At the foot of the dais rested a large wooden chest bound in iron.
"Gentlemen," Baelon called.
At once the room stilled. Every knight, steward, and captain bowed deeply.
"My lord," they answered.
Baelon nodded, his expression unreadable. "I've gathered you here for one matter alone. Last night, Ser Illis brought me a… gift. And as your lord, I find it fitting to share such generosity."
A ripple of hushed curiosity swept through the hall.
"A gift?" someone muttered. "What sort of gift?"
It had been years since every officer of Harrenhal stood under the same roof. The last time had been the Stepstones campaign. Tension coiled through the chamber like a drawn bow.
Illis felt as though cold river water had been poured down his spine. His hands were numb. His heart hammered. He knew exactly what Baelon intended.
He means to separate me from them. To set me against every man here until I have no ally left but him. Gods… he's turning me into his knife.
But there was no turning back.
Illis stepped forward.
"Yes," he whispered, then forced his voice louder. "Yes, my lord."
He grasped the chest's iron handles and lifted its lid.
Inside lay a trove of sin... letters, contracts, tax books with entire lines missing, reports from informants, written confessions bought with silver and threats. Illis' life's work. Every secret he had ever gathered.
"These," Illis declared, voice echoing through the vaulted chamber, "are the misdeeds of the men standing before me."
Gasps and curses erupted.
Illis continued, driven now by grim resolve. If I must be his blade, then let me be sharp enough to cut.
"For example, Ser Erik." He pointed to a knight who stiffened like a struck hound. "Two years ago, House Riswell borrowed a purse of gold in your name. It was never repaid."
A murmur broke out.
"And Ser Samond," Illis said, turning his gaze. "That fine armor of yours was forged for Lord Lyonel Strong's retinue, not for you. Bought with coin unrecorded."
Samond's jaw clenched.
Illis pressed on.
"And you, Ser Jaremy, three brood mares missing from House Cox. And Ser Willam, half your mill's tolls unpaid for six winters."
Every name was a stone tossed into deep water. Panic churned beneath the surface. Each knight's face blanched, then hardened, then began to twist in anger, some toward Illis, others toward fate, others still toward themselves.
Tax evasion. Embezzlement. Quiet theft dressed in polite words. None had paid full tribute since the death of Lyonel Strong. Each had taken advantage of Harrenhal's chaos.
Whispers spiraled into panic...
Until the hall shook with a sound like thunder.
A deafening impact hit the courtyard, rattling ancient stone and shaking dust from the rafters.
Tyraxes had landed.
He did not roar. His silence was worse. The young dragon's massive head angled toward the high arched windows. Blood-red scales glimmered like embers in the torchlight. His golden eyes burned with a primal, merciless heat. Smoke curled from between his fangs, thin and deadly.
Even Harrenhal could not survive dragonfire. The melted towers bore witness to that truth.
"My lord!" men cried as they dropped to their knees. Fear swallowed pride. A few clutched the hilts of their swords as though they were drowning and the weapons were driftwood.
Baelon rose from the throne and descended the dais with measured steps.
"No need for fear," he said calmly.
He gestured to Ser Brayden.
"Throw the chest out the window."
Brayden lifted the heavy chest as though it weighed nothing and strode to the nearest stone arch. With a grunt, he hurled it into the courtyard below. The chest cracked open on impact, letters and ledgers spilling across the ground like spilled entrails.
Baelon stepped forward, the wind tugging at his silver hair.
He spoke a single command in High Valyrian.
"Tyraxes. Dracarys."
For a heartbeat, the world froze.
Then a roaring column of blood-red flame poured downward, engulfing the chest, the letters, the secrets, the sins. The fire churned in a violent spiral, hotter than any flame Tyraxes had breathed before. The color was wrong, darker, richer, almost alive. Something in Harrenhal, or something in the dragon, had changed.
When the flames died, only drifting ash remained.
Baelon turned back to the hall.
His smile was faint, almost kind.
"Gentlemen," he said, "there is no need to trouble yourselves. All these crimes were committed under Lord Lyonel Strong's rule. I am Harrenhal's new lord now. As of this moment... your slates are clean."
Relief surged so swiftly that some men sagged where they knelt.
"Ser Samond," Baelon continued, "keep your armor. Ser Erik, your debt is forgiven. The rest of you, you owe nothing."
A grateful murmur swept the hall.
"But-" Baelon said softly.
Every heartbeat paused.
"If I discover such crimes again, I will not be so merciful."
The threat slid through the air like a honed blade.
Power laid bare.
Behind him, Tyraxes lifted his head and exhaled a plume of scarlet flame.
The message was unmistakable.
"My lord," Ser Erik said first, voice shaking, "I swear my life to you. I will follow you into battle without reward or claim, until death."
"Aye!" another knight shouted. "Our swords are yours! Across the Narrow Sea, to the ends of the world- we follow!"
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A/N:The war begins here. If you think you know what comes next, you don't. BUT It's already waiting in the chapters ahead.
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