The trial took place in Aegon's Square, under the relentless sun of the capital. A crowd gathered around the black stone dais, where King Aegon's sword still rested embedded in the marble from centuries past. But there were no dragons that day. Only a man dressed in brown leather, with a helmet shaped like the antlers of a great elk.
Halys Hornwood.
At his feet, chained and with his tunic torn, lay Ser Mellard Swann of Monte Oscuro, a minor noble from the Stormlands. His sigil bore a black swan on a golden field, but his behavior was far from the nobility that shield was meant to inspire.
He was accused — with evidence, witnesses, and tears — of having raped and beaten more than a dozen young common girls in the weeks following the sack. He had taken refuge behind his name and his sword. But Halys respected neither names nor privileges.
—Ser Mellard —he declared firmly, as the crowd fell into tense silence— do you acknowledge the crimes you are charged with?
—I am noble by blood! I serve House Baratheon! I will not answer to a savage from the North! —the man spat, his lips cracked but his pride intact.
Halys walked slowly toward him. He carried no executioner. No hangman. Only his own sword. A Northern longsword, single-handed, heavy and sturdy, which he drew from its sheath as if it were part of his own body.
—King Robert granted you privileges to protect, not to violate.—Your title does not exempt you from the law.—And in this realm, under this new throne, there is no freedom for those who destroy the freedom of others.
Without further ceremony, he raised the sword.
And with a single clean stroke, he beheaded the knight.
The body fell to its knees, and the head rolled until it struck the feet of a woman who had come to see the monster who destroyed her sister die.
The crowd fell silent for a moment.
Then it erupted in a loud shout—not of joy, but of understanding. Of justice.
The law was no longer a game for nobles and castles. The law had a face. A sword. And it answered to all.
The Lord of Harrenhal
Later, in the audience hall of Maegor's Holdfast, Halys debated with his close circle: Wyman Manderly, Robett Glover, Rodrik Cassel, and the heir Flint of Stone Coast.
The city was on the brink of collapse. King's Landing housed over four hundred thousand souls, many homeless, without clean water or bread. The fields outside the walls couldn't keep up. The granaries were empty, and plagues loomed.
—We have to empty the pot —said Wyman through clenched teeth, sweating beneath his white merchant's robe—. And not burn the bottom.
Halys nodded.
—Then let them come North. To Harrenhal, to Hornwood, even to the untilled valleys of the Hornlands. —He stood before the kingdom's map—. Let them register. Let them work the land. Build homes and receive protection. Not slaves. Subjects.
Robett looked at him in astonishment.
—You'll take the scum of the capital to your lands?
—They are not scum. They are abandoned. And if the King wants a strong realm, he must start by giving them roots.
And so it was.
Through caravans organized by Lord Ricard Hornwood, over eight thousand people were moved to the Northern Trident lands, escorted by Rodrik Cassel's troops and overseers sent by Thorren Flint.
Farms, villages, and roads were built among the ruins of Harrenhal. Bridges were restored, new wells dug, and the old cursed castle began to beat anew. It was still a monster of stone and shadow, but under Halys's leadership, fear was replaced by hope.
In the streets of the capital, people spoke.
—"The man from the North does not just hand out bread…"—"He also cuts off heads."—"And builds towns."
Halys Hornwood, Lord of Harrenhal.Master of Laws of the realm.And now, also, the man who did not fear to stain his sword with justice.