To Lord Walter Whent, Lord of Harrenhal,
By order of King Daeron II Targaryen, you are commanded to vacate Harrenhal within one moon. The Crown seizes the fortress for immediate use.
Bloodraven paused, The ink glistened wet on the parchment. A harsh command that would destroy a noble house.
He dipped the quill again.
You shall be compensated. The Crown grants you new lands in the Riverlands and ten thousand gold dragons. Do not resist. Do not delay.
Brynden Rivers
Hand of the King
He rolled the parchment tight and dripped red wax onto the seam. His seal pressed into the molten pool left an imprint: a white dragon and weirwood tree.
Bloodraven set the scroll aside. Through the window, the city sprawled below. The fires had died dwon and smoke was clearing. A week had passed since he'd saved his brother.
Today, he'd opened the gates for the crown prince.
….
Iron Gate groaned and portcullis rose.
Dunk rode Thunder near the front, Prince Baelor on his left, Egg trailing behind. A dozen knights and men-at-arms followed in their wake.
He remembered chaos. Merchants shouting, whores calling from windows, carts clogging the streets. A city of vibrant filth and ceaseless noise.
This was not that place.
Gray dust covered the road, Thunder's hooves made crunching sound with each step. He glanced down and saw fragments mixed into the gray, It was Bone fragments.
The ash covering the city was the remains of its own people.
They rode deeper into the Street of the Sisters.
At intersections, Gold Cloaks stood behind tables distributing medicine water to lines of smallfolk. It was the antibiotic Dunk had provided.
"Look at them, They take the cure but fear the hand that gives it." Baelor said.
The smallfolk drink the antibiotic and prayed to the Seven before hurrying away.
"It is the ash," a woman whispered to her child. "Lord Bloodraven makes us drink the dead to cheat the Stranger."
Bloodraven had burned corpses with wildfire to stop the plague's spread. Now he offered white powder dissolved in water that saved lives.
Ahead, a commotion erupted.
A ragged septon stood before a Gold Cloak, waving a seven-pointed star above his head.
"I will not take your sorcery! ....You feed us the bones of our fathers, It is cursed!"
The Gold Cloak signaled. Two guards seized the old man by his arms.
"Open his mouth."
They forced the septon to his knees. One guard jammed a hollow ram's horn between his teeth while another poured the mixture of medicine and water through the funnel.
The septon gagged, choked, but he swallowed.
"That was your last chance, old fool." The captain gestured dismissively. "Black cell."
The guards dragged the septon away to cells.
"Next," the captain called.
Baelor looked away. "Necessity makes monsters of us all."
"It saves them though," Drunk said.
They rode in silence up Aegon's High Hill. The Red Keep loomed ahead, transformed from the nest of vipers and feasts Dunk knew from stories. Now it looked like a fortress under siege. Every gate barred. Archers are crowding the walls.
The guards recognized the prince and scrambled to open the way.
….
At the far end of the throne room loomed the Iron Throne.
Not the symmetrical seat Dunk remembered from the television show. This was a jagged monstrosity of swords melted and twisted together, asymmetrical and brutal. Blades jutted at odd angles. The message was clear: a king should never sit easy.
King Daeron II sat upon it, somehow maintaining dignity on that cruel perch. He sat upright with good color and clear eyes. The potion had worked perfectly.
At the foot of the throne stood Bloodraven in gray and white, pale as a ghost in the dim light.
Prince Baelor stopped. He removed his helm and tucked it under his arm.
Bloodraven stepped forward, he removed Golden pin shap of hand from his cloak.
"My prince, I yield the burden back to you. Now when your back, the realm requires its true Hand."
Baelor stared at the pin, then at the man holding it. The man who had burned thousands to save tens of thousands more.
"You held the realm together when the Stranger came knocking, you have my respect."
Bloodraven placed the pin in Baelor's palm but didn't release his gaze.
"There is one matter of state. I have issued a decree regarding House Whent. They are to be removed from Harrenhal. The castle must be emptied."
"Lord Whent has been loyal. To strip him of his seat without cause is unconscionable."
"There is cause."
Something in Bloodraven's face made Baelor hesitate. He studied the albino's expression.
"Very well." Baelor fastened the pin to his cloak. "The decree stands."
Bloodraven bowed low and melted back into the shadows as if he'd never been there at all.
King Daeron rose from the Iron Throne.
Every head in the hall turned. The King descended the steps with surprising vigor for a man who'd been at death's door.
"Father." Baelor bowed his head.
"My son." Daeron placed a hand on his shoulder. "You have returned to us. The Seven have been kind."
But the King's gaze moved past his son, settling on Dunk.
Daeron walked past his own son and stopped directly in front of Dunk. Though small and round-shouldered, the King radiated quiet authority.
"Ser Duncan."
"Your Grace." Dunk dropped to one knee.
"Rise."
Dunk stood. The King extended his hand, a breach of protocol that made several courtiers stiffen. Dunk took it.
Daeron leaned close enough that only Dunk could hear.
"Even if my brother had not told me, I would have known. After all, he gave you the biggest fortress in the Seven Kingdoms. You have my gratitude, ser."
….
POV: Aerion Targaryen
Fire consumed everything.
In the heart of the inferno, a girl with silver hair walked into flames that should have killed her. She didn't scream or burn.
On pyre was savage horse lord Beside him, the witch, bound and wailing as heat blistered her flesh. And there, the babe. The twisted, stillborn thing.
Only death can pay for life.
The girl stepped deeper into the fire. When the smoke cleared, she rose from the ashes unmarked by flame. Clinging to her naked shoulder was a creature from legend. A dragon.
Aerion woke up breathing heavy, for three weeks the same vision had hunted him. Every time he closed his eyes, the gods showed him the ritual.
He pushed damp hair from his forehead. The instructions were clear now. To wake dragons from stone, he needed two things: a human sacrifice, and the blood of the dragon.
Aerion turned his gaze to the corner of his pavilion.
Two girls slept tangled on silk cushions. He'd paid a fortune to Dornish agents to acquire them from a Lysene slaver. Rare creatures blessed with Old Valyrian blood. Silver hair and violet eyes.
They'd been maidens when they arrived. Pure vessels waiting to be filled with purpose.
The elder girl stirred. She saw him watching and rose, clutching her silk shift against her body. She approached on trembling legs.
"My prince."
Aerion studied her the way a craftsman studies raw material. A tool. Nothing more. A vessel to carry the fuel his ritual required.
"Speak."
"I have missed my bleeding. Two weeks now."
He stood and placed one hand flat against her stomach.
"You're certain?"
"Yes, my prince." Her eyes dropped to the floor. "I can visit the apothecary. Moon tea will flush it out. I would not burden you with a bastard."
"Moon tea? You would wash away the blood of the dragon with bitter herbs?"
"I thought… I thought princes do not want baseborn sons."
"You know nothing of what I want." He gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You will drink nothing but what I give you. Eat the finest meat. The richest foods. Grow strong and healthy. You carry something far more valuable than you understand."
"Thank you, my prince. I will give you a strong son."
Aerion stroked her silver hair. "Yes. You will give me exactly what I need."
The second girl had been watching from the cushions Jealously.
She rose and crossed the space between them, swaying her hips with each deliberate step.
Aerion shifted his attention to her.
"And you? Has your womb quickened?"
"No, my prince. My courses came three days past."
She stopped beside her sister and reached for the laces of his breeches. Her fingers moved with practiced skill.
"But the way you take us… I will bear fruit soon enough. Let me try again. Put your fire in me."
Aerion looked from one girl to the other. The pregnant one and the one still desperate to conceive.
The ritual might demand more than one life, better to prepare multiple sacrifices. Two babes to feed the flames would be safer than one.
He guided the pregnant girl toward the bed. "Lie down."
Then he turned to the second. He felt no desire for her, no affection. A gardener doesn't love the soil, he simply works it until it yields what he requires.
….