King Viserys Targaryen stood on the brink of madness.
Had Rhaenyra suffered so much as a scratch, had a single hair upon her head been disturbed, he would have ordered Harwin Strong hewn apart upon the council chamber floor without a moment's pause. The thought alone made his vision blur red.
Across the table, Otto Hightower regarded the king's fury with careful, measured calm, though a thin crease of displeasure troubled his brow.
The plan had failed.
Worse... Harwin had been caught in the act.
Now Otto had no choice but to sever the sinking stone before it dragged him down as well.
"As you may not yet know," Otto began, rising with grave formality, "Harwin Strong, heir to House Strong of Harrenhal and Captain of the City Watch, bribed a kitchen maid, adulterated Princess Rhaenyra's wine with an aphrodisiac, and sought to commit an unspeakable crime."
A cold murmur rippled through the Small Council chamber.
"Fortunately," Otto went on, eyes turned sanctimoniously toward the painted ceiling, "Prince Baelon sensed the danger, alerted the guards, and had Ser Harwin seized before harm could come to the Princess."
On his seat, Lord Lyonel Strong felt the world tilt beneath him.
All my life I have guarded the honor of House Strong… only for my own heir to drive a blade through it and damn us all.
"Where is the kitchen maid?" Otto asked sharply. "Has she been taken? A servant who would betray the Princess must not be permitted to remain within the Red Keep."
"The girl fled soon after the incident," said Ser Harrold Westerling. "My men are searching the city. We expect word shortly."
"Oh? Then allow the Hightower guard to lend their strength," Otto replied smoothly. "As Hand, it is my burden to lighten His Grace's."
He sat once more, his face composed in righteous solemnity, though his thoughts raced behind the mask.
Baelon's fate mattered little now.
Harwin Strong, however, Harwin must never speak again.
Viserys exhaled, steadying himself. He had meant to dismiss the council, to confront Harwin in private, but every soul present was bound to the throne. Let them witness the reckoning.
Moments later, Harwin Strong was dragged inside, bloodied, bruised, scarcely recognizable.
"HARWIN!"
The king's roar shook the pillars.
His fragile calm shattered.
Viserys lurched to his feet, seized the heavy stone marker from the table, and hurled it with all the force wine and age had not yet stolen.
CRACK.
The orb smashed into Harwin's mouth, shattering teeth, driving bone inward.
Blood sprayed across the cold stone floor.
Harwin collapsed, howling like a wounded beast.
A hush fell, a terrible, suffocating silence. The chamber stank of blood and fear.
Viserys sagged back into his seat, chest heaving, Ser Harrold struggling to steady him. A life of peace had softened the king who once rode Balerion; time had turned his strength to dust.
Lyonel Strong stared at the broken figure of his son, anguish twisting every line of his face.
Honor. Duty. The Seven. None of it mattered.
Not when Harwin's life hung by a fraying thread.
"Your Grace…" Lyonel fell to his knees, voice breaking. "I beg mercy. In the name of my service- spare Harwin's life."
"He will take the black. He will serve at the Wall until death. I resign as Master of Laws. My lands, my wealth, my sworn men, let all pass to the crown. Only spare my son."
He pressed his forehead to the marble floor.
He wagered everything House Strong possessed.
For he knew the truth: Harwin had attempted to violate the king's heir.
It was treason. Viserys would be within his rights to extinguish House Strong root and stem.
Only the king's soft heart offered hope.
Viserys said nothing.
The silence was a drawn blade.
And at last he spoke.
"Harwin Strong sought to despoil the Princess. He shall be gelded, his head shaved, branded a criminal, and sent to the Wall as a brother of the Night's Watch."
Lyonel flinched, but uttered no protest.
"And House Strong of Harrenhal," Viserys went on, his voice a whip crack, "is stripped of its lands, its sigil, and its noble standing. All holdings are seized by the Iron Throne."
He turned to the kneeling Lyonel.
"As for you…"
Lyonel lifted his head, trembling.
Viserys's gaze softened, barely.
"…you are to leave the Red Keep at once. Go where you will, so long as it is far from my sight."
Exhaustion dragged at the king's every word. He longed only to collapse into sleep and wake to find this nightmare undone.
"Your Grace," Otto murmured, "there remains… the matter of Prince Baelon."
Viserys snapped.
"I said he is young! We will decide when he is older!"
Otto paused, then pressed on.
"With respect, Your Grace… Baelon's youth does not dull his influence. His name already eclipses Princess Rhaenyra's in the city. And he holds no lands of his own. Prince Daemon has nothing to leave him."
"Harrenhal would be… fitting."
Viserys stilled.
Otto stepped closer.
"Harrenhal is vast, fertile, and near to King's Landing. A dragon could reach it within minutes. Will you keep the boy caged in the Red Keep forever?"
The king hesitated.
Otto delivered the final blow.
"Have you forgotten, Your Grace? Forgotten the sight of Baelon crowned by the white hart, lords kneeling before him?"
"If you remain gentle, the realm will gather around him. And Princess Rhaenyra's claim will rot."
"Rebellion. Civil war. Dragonfire."
"When one must cut, Your Grace, cut cleanly. Or doom us all."
Viserys turned, eyes cold as winter stone.
Otto met him with the impeccable loyalty of a practiced liar.
"No one will replace Rhaenyra as my heir," Viserys said at last, hollow.
"But…"
But the dream returned... Baelon crowned in morning light.
If only Baelon were mine…
Viserys closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the choice was sealed.
"By royal decree," he said, "Harrenhal is removed from the Riverlands and placed under the direct authority of the crown."
"Prince Baelon Targaryen, for taming the white hart, is henceforth Lord of Harrenhal."
A collective breath shivered through the chamber.
"All that belonged to House Strong, the lands, the coin, the men, the castle, shall pass to Prince Baelon as his personal inheritance."
Viserys's jaw tightened.
Damn you, Daemon. Why must Baelon be your son… and not mine?
"As royal kin, Baelon's descendants shall bear the right to claim dragons and the Targaryen name. They may hold titles, but the royal house shall ever be their root."
A whisper escaped him, too soft for many to hear.
"…forgive me, Baelon."
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