The chamber hall of Riverrun was dim beneath the grey, rain-soaked afternoon.
Benches had been arranged in two uneven rows as water dripped steadily from the cloaks hung near the entrance, forming small puddles that servants hurried to mop away.
Behind the high seat, the carved stone trout of House Tully watched over the hall with an unblinking stare.
With a weary sigh, Lord Grover Tully stood before the crowd as he glanced at the men who filled the chamber halls. He had every reason to expect nothing would come from this exchange.
Alas, when the crown demanded answers.
Who was he to deny?
"My lords… let us begin. The matter at hand is the incident two nights past. Lord Lyonel Strong had passed away along with his eldest son, Ser Harwin, at Harrenhal." Grover said. "We are here to investigate the cause and decide what we are to do with Harrenhal. I ask only for tempered words and open minds."
"Tempered words? Open minds? We all know who's behind it." Amos Bracken immediately stood up. "It's that clubfoot. Other than Larys Strong, who else would benefit from killing the two?"
"Accusation is not proof, Lord Amos. And flinging blame without evidence serves no purpose but to stoke fires best left cold." Samwell Blackwood stood up in opposition, his words sharp as a dagger.
"Cold? Evidence? The man murdered his own kin to take Harrenhal; it's as clear as day? He's a snake. Snakes bite. End of tale." Amos smashed his hand against the table as he spoke.
"A tale, aye. And a poor one. Not a shred of fact to hold it upright." Samwell shook his head. "If I didn't know any better, I would have thought you had designs on Harrenhal."
"My lords, please—" Pinching his brow, Grover tried to intervene, but his words held little weight.
"Do not tell me to hold my tongue, Ser Grover. The trail leads to Strong. Arrest him and be done." Amos unsheathed his sword, his men doing the same. "But it seems these raven f*ckers beg to differ."
Samwell and his retainers unsheathed their blades in a single rasp of steel, mirrored at once by the Bracken men. The air thickened enough that every breath tasted of steel.
Grover Tully sat between them, jaw clenched.
Seven hells. If he stood up now and slit all their throats, perhaps the Riverlands would be quieter for it.
But he could not.
Both houses mustered more swords than his own, and every man in the hall knew it.
If blood were spilt today, House Tully would gain nothing, save maybe the privilege of burying everyone afterwards.
Then something, whether merciful or damnable, cut through the rising madness.
A sound.
Low. Vast. Piercing.
The men gathered froze, glancing at one another, each silently confirming they had heard it.
A deep, rolling bellow echoed again, closer this time still.
Too close.
Grover strode toward the nearest window, and the shutters rattled under his hand as he pulled them open.
And his blood ran cold.
Three shadows were moving across the sky, blotting out the sun as they descended. For a moment, Grover's mind refused to name them.
Whether it was due to their size. Or, the way their outstretched wings brought them to an early dusk.
Perhaps, it was the scream that tore from one of their throats, deep enough to shake dust from the beams above.
Still, he eventually came to his senses. He understood what they were, better yet, he understood why they were here.
Dragons.
Not one. Not two.
Three dragons.
Grover's breath caught. So the Crown had sent someone. He had expected knights, perhaps a lord or two.
But this… this was less an envoy, and more intimidation made flesh and scale.
Could Lyonel Strong's death truly warrant such a display?
The question flickered and died as quickly as it came.
Worst still, he knew exactly who was riding atop those dragons.
After all, there were only so many dragon riders in the realm. And, even fewer with beasts of that size.
None of it mattered now. Whoever rode those beasts commanded respect, or rather, demanded it.
And no lord of the Trident could greet such visitors from within the shadows of his own hall.
Another roar split the air, and Riverrun shuddered beneath his feet. The smallest dragon's wingspan stretched wide enough to drown the courtyard in darkness.
Grover swallowed, straightened his doublet, and forced calm into his limbs.
He had to meet them.
He must.
To delay would be to tempt the wrath of the sky itself.
***
Jumping off Vermithor, Baelon's gaze swept over the crowd gathered before the gates of Riverrun.
A riot of banners and armours caught the sunlight, but none of it could disguise the shared horror etched on every face as they stared at the hulking dragons looming before them.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dreamfyre landing nearby, a silver-haired figure clinging to her back.
He moved to help Helaena dismount.
"You know you didn't have to come," he murmured, keeping his voice low.
"Yet, I did." Her hand naturally slipped into his. "Do you think I'm blind to why Father assigns us these thankless tasks?"
Baelon said nothing, only offering a nod in agreement. He knew the truth behind her words. Their father had his reasons.
Reasons to desperately keep them away from King's Landing.
And… Baelon had an inkling of what those reasons might be.
The past two years had turned the court into a furnace. Roaring with both intrigue and division alike.
In times like these, dragon riders were more than symbols; they were weapons.
Unstoppable. Unbeatable. Weapons.
Especially young, unmarried ones such as them.
"Regardless," Baelon whispered as he guided her forward, "let us keep the peace here, and we will soon return home."
"Vezof jin azantys, ēdruta se."Go make yourself busy. I will handle this here.
Baelon turned, speaking to Vermithor.
The dragon's massive wings beat the air as it lifted off, the other two dragons soon following in kind.
"Greetings, Prince Baelon and Princess Helaena." Ser Grover approached first, offering his cautious greetings.
The rest of the assembled lords and retainers remained silent, still grappling with the lingering awe and fear of the now departed dragons.
Soon, the group began to head into Riverrun, as Ser Grover spoke of the situation at hand. "The Lord Hand travelled to Harrenhal with his eldest son two days past. During the night, while they slept, their tower caught fire. Both perished, along with several servants."
Helaena clung closer to Baelon, remaining quiet. Baelon, on the other hand, asked, "Does anyone know… any idea what could have caused this?"
Lord Bracken's eager voice cut through the silence. "The one who benefits most is the obvious suspect. Larys Strong. Nothing else makes sense."
"As I said before, Lord Bracken." Samwell Blackwood interjected sharply. "There is no solid evidence. We should wait for facts before casting blame."
As the lords debated, Lord Tully leaned close to Baelon, whispering in his ear. "The situation is murky… everyone knows why Lyonel and Harwin were at Harrenhal."
Baelon's jaw tightened. The rumours surrounding his nephews, Rhaenyra's children, had only grown over the years.
Lord Lyonel's choice to remove his son as Rhaenyra's sworn shield was an attempt to diffuse the situation.
How that ended up was obvious to everyone.
With that context, suspects could now include Lord Corlys Velaryon, defending his sons' honour, and even Prince Daemon, whose interest in Rhaenyra was an open secret.
Baelon clenched his jaw, forcing down a sigh. For all he knew, Larys, Corlys and Daemon could all have had a hand in this.
Now it seemed the entire realm, not just King's Landing, was reaching its boiling point. And in that heat, the smallest spark could ignite a storm that none could control.
How long this precarious peace could last was anyone's guess.
***
Night settled heavily over Riverrun, muffling the halls in a river-borne quiet. In Baelon's assigned chamber, he and Helaena sat cross-legged on the stone floor, facing one another.
Two candles stood between them, one before him, one before her. Their small flames wavered in the still air, no larger than a fingertip.
Neither spoke, their breaths slow.
Then the flames began to change.
The thin tongues of fire stretched upward, swaying as though stirred and moulded by an unseen hand.
They grew taller, to two, three, four times their original height, before snapping toward one another like vicious serpents. Slowly, the two flames intertwined in a fiery embrace, each trying to devour the other.
One moment, the fire before Baelon twisted into the skeletal silhouette of a dragon, wings beating with fury. The next, Helaena's flame contorted into the lean outline of a wolf lunging upward, its jaws snapping sparks.
The creatures of fire collided mid-air; embers showered the floor in a breathtaking cascade, yet not a single thing caught fire.
Their violence remained contained within the small circle of candlelight.
Minutes passed. Then tens of minutes. Then the better part of an hour.
The air grew tinged with the flavour of smoke, whilst their minds locked in the push and pull of the blazing struggle. Soon, one of the candles grew weaker.
Sweat gathered along Helaena's temple, and a fine tremor worked into her shoulders. Still, the duel of flames raged on, dragons turning into stags, wolves morphing into lions, all made of orange-gold fire, tangling in mid-air.
At last, Helaena's flame began to sputter, as if starved of air, while Baelon's only grew more forceful, wrapping around hers until it devoured the last flickering remnant.
Helaena let out a shaky exhale and braced a hand on her knee.
Baelon blew out his own flame with a lazy puff of breath before arching a brow at her. "Another victory for me, it seems. What does that make it now? Four hundred seventy-three to nothing?"
She climbed to her feet and gave him a wordless, bewildered stare. "You kept count?"
"Why would I not?" Baelon shrugged, absolutely unbothered.
He wouldn't say it was comforting that he finally had a talent she did not possess. After all, he was rather envious of her ability to prophecy outside their dreams.
Still, Helaena didn't dignify him with a response. She trudged toward the bed, dropping onto it with a soft groan as she rubbed her temples.
Baelon pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room.
"Here," he murmured, gently moving her hands aside. His fingers pressed against her temples in slow circles, kneading away the tension.
This was an unfortunate effect of practising magic. It seemed to put a heavy strain on their minds and bodies, a strain that could only fade following adequate rest.
Helaena sighed, her body slackening under his touch.
"We've grown better at shaping the flames," she muttered, eyes closed, voice low with fatigue, "but how are we to know the next steps in Pyromancy?"
"That book was only an introduction," Baelon reminded her. "It's no surprise its guidance has limits. Frankly, I'm grateful it worked at all."
"You're right," she admitted softly. "I suppose I'm being greedy. It's only… this year bodes ill for the realm. With Lord Lyonel's death…"
She paused for a breath. "…we both know who will be named Hand now."
Baelon grimaced before she even finished.
Otto Hightower.
Blood or not, the man's ambition was a blade he never sheathed. And with their father, as indecisive and easily swayed as he was, Otto would wield that blade freely.
A year like this could ignite the realm. Perhaps not openly… but close enough.
"Well," he said quietly, "that only means we must finish our task here and return as soon as we can. Only then can we begin our plans."
Helaena cracked open her violet eyes, studying him. "You planned our escape route?"
"What can I say?" Baelon leaned back with a mock-smug smile. "I'm just that clever."
She lightly smacked his arm. "Stop it. If you keep that up, you'll end up just like Aemond in character."
"That arrogant brat," Baelon muttered, rolling his eyes as he flopped onto the bed beside her.
Then he paused. A thought brushed him.
"When did we foresee that again? That dream in Driftmark?" He asked, turning his head to her.
Helaena mirrored him, shifting to her side. "Dear brother, have you forgotten how many dreams we've had over the years?"
"Aemond's," he clarified.
"I don't know." She shook her head. "That dream revealed only the outcome… not the cause. It showed us the result, but nothing of how or why."
Silence drifted between them, softer this time.
Baelon exhaled. "I only hope our little test works. If it does… maybe we can spare our younger brother some pain."
Helaena hummed her agreement.
Slowly, night pulled its veil over them. Dreams, prophetic or otherwise, claimed the siblings as the river murmured far below.