Baelon pressed on without pause once King's Landing disappeared behind him.
No markets, no villages, no slow meandering along the kingsroad, only the steady rhythm of hooves and the cold breath of the riverlands on his cheek. He rode as though chased by some unseen specter, though none dared question him. Even the white hart beneath him seemed to sense his purpose, cutting across the rolling plains like an arrow loosed from a longbow.
For days they made cruel time, sleeping only when the men threatened to collapse.When at last the shadow of Harrenhal rose from the horizon, the column drew to a halt without Baelon needing to speak a word.
Even he, who had once lived in a world of steel towers that scraped the heavens, felt a jolt in his chest.
Five monstrous towers clawed at the sky like broken fingers, their upper halves melted and warped into grotesque shapes, the legacy of Aegon the Conqueror's wrath.
The curtain walls were swollen with thickness, broad as keeps in their own right, casting long black shadows across the waters of the God's Eye. The lake lay silent, its surface catching the light like a sheet of tarnished silver.
Madness, Baelon thought. Ambition sharpened into folly. Harrenhal was a monument built not for men, but for despair.
Its stables could house a thousand horses. Its godswood stretched further than the eye could easily follow, twenty acres of ancient oaks and tangled undergrowth. The kitchens, legend said, could cook enough food to rival the feasts of Winterfell, and its hallways were broad enough for three wagons to pass abreast.
A fortress carved for giants, never meant for mortal hands.
A sudden shriek split the air.
"SKREEEEEE-!"
Tyraxes tore through the cloudbank above them like a scar of living fire. His wings, blood-red and edged with darker streaks, sheared the fog as he descended. The young dragon had grown quickly these past moons, now more than ten meters from snout to tail, his crown of horned ridges sharpening each day, granting him a regal, almost ancient bearing.
Baelon lifted his gaze to him, pride swelling in his chest. The bond between them thrummed like a second heartbeat.
Tyraxes spiraled once over the fortress, claiming it with the confidence of a creature who already knew the stone belonged to him. Then he released a roar that cracked across Harrenhal like a thunderclap.
The courtyard erupted in panic.
"DRAGON! A DRAGON IS UPON US!"
"Sound the bells! Fetch the stewards-warn-"
"Silence yourselves!" A knight in full plate strode forward, helm under one arm, dark cloak snapping against his armor. His voice boomed like a command drilled a thousand times. "It is no attack. That is Lord Baelon's dragon. Stand ready to receive him!"
The guards stiffened, shame coloring their faces. They fumbled to swing open the great gates-massive slabs of iron and oak that groaned like waking beasts. When at last the passage cleared, Baelon urged the white hart forward.
The courtyard stretched wide and empty, stone polished smooth by centuries of marching boots. Tyraxes landed atop a half-collapsed tower, curling around it like some vast, living serpent, smoke curling from his nostrils.
Baelon slid down from the hart with a practiced movement. His boots touched stone.
A knight hurried toward him, then dropped to one knee so swiftly the metal of his armor clattered.
"I greet you, Your Grace- the Morning Prince, Lord of Harrenhal, rightful master of these lands," the knight proclaimed. "Baelon Targaryen."
Baelon reached out, lifting him by the arm. "Rise, ser. Tell me your name."
"Erik Riswell, my lord," the man replied with visible pride. "Captain of Harrenhal's cavalry. I command two hundred horse."
"Riswell," Baelon murmured, tasting the name. "House Riswell is known in the Crownlands for its honor."
Erik blinked, momentarily startled. "That Your Grace remembers even a house as small as ours… it humbles me."
Baelon only offered a faint smile. In the genealogies of the realm, the Riswells appeared but briefly, yet always with the same phrase beside them: oath-true.
He gestured forward. "Let us continue inside. I would see the hall."
As they walked beneath the archway, Erik leaned closer, his voice falling to a low murmur. "My lord… a warning. Most within Harrenhal greet your coming with relief. But some among our vassals still hold loyalty to House Strong. They may test your rule."
Baelon's mouth curved faintly. "Let them." Ghosts of old lords clung to these stones as stubbornly as moss. He had expected resistance.
Harrenhal had always devoured those who sought to claim it.
*
The Great Hall
The hall devoured sound. Its ceiling soared high above them until it was lost in shadow, making even the torches seem like pale, flickering things. Every step echoed back like a distant drumbeat. The walls, forged from black stone, held the chill of ages.
At the far end rose a throne carved directly from the rock, a titan of jagged edges and harsh lines, shaped like a crown broken in battle.
House Strong's sigils had been stripped away.In their place hung massive banners of the three-headed dragon on black.
Leonor Strong had adorned the hall in life; Baelon saw the remnants of his taste everywhere. Oil paintings lined the walls, each framed in polished oak, landscapes of the God's Eye, portraits of long-dead Strongs, depictions of harvests and hunts. Beneath each tall window stood a stone statue of a knight, carved with uncanny precision, their eyes seeming almost alive in the dim light.
Rhaenys had once called Harrenhal a mausoleum. Baelon now understood the truth of her words.
A small gathering awaited him, perhaps a dozen officers in all, arranged before the throne. A mix of armor and robes, steel and parchment. The men and women who would become the spine of his rule here.
Baelon climbed the steps and took his seat.
The massive stone throne seemed to swallow his slight frame, yet none dared underestimate him, not with Tyraxes perched outside like a red shadow waiting to strike. And not with the whispered legends of the white hart following his name from King's Landing to the far corners of the realm.
He let the silence linger a heartbeat, then spoke.
"Step forward. Introduce yourselves, and swear your oaths."
The first to move was a young knight clad in mail and a plain helm. He sank to one knee, gauntleted fist pressed against the floor.
"My lord," he said, bowing his head. "Ser Samond Rivers. Bastard son of the late Lord Leonor Strong. I command three hundred archers."
A bastard, yes... but there was pride in the way he held himself, and his voice carried none of the bitterness Baelon expected. Loyalty, then. Leonor must have trusted him deeply.
Baelon inclined his head. "Rise, Ser Samond."
Next came an older man whose fingers sparkled with rings. His embroidered doublet was immaculate, and his smile had the polished smoothness of a trained courtier.
"I am Illis Dantell, my lord, steward of Harrenhal. For generations my family has overseen the lands, trade, and granaries." He hesitated, lips parting, then dipped into a deeper bow as Erik coughed pointedly behind him. "And… I swear my house to your service, Your Grace."
Baelon nodded, schooling his expression. He'd need to watch that one.
One by one the remaining officers came forth, master builders, reeves, captains of watch. All swore loyalty, though some did so with more conviction than others.
Then the last man stepped forward.
A broad-shouldered soldier with weathered skin, a scar cleaving down through one eye, and the bearing of a man who had drilled soldiers since before Baelon was born. His armor was battered but well-kept, every strap oiled, every plate polished.
He did not kneel.
He planted his feet instead, meeting Baelon's gaze with the hard stare of a man testing the strength of a blade.
"I am Harreth Strong," he said. His voice carried no deference, only cold steel. "Master-at-arms of Harrenhal. Commander of five hundred infantry."
Baelon felt the shift in the room. The air tightened. Even the torches seemed to crackle more sharply.
Not reverence. Not loyalty.
Resentment.
A challenge laid plainly before him, sharpened by the weight of old blood and unburied grudges.
So this is the first ghost, Baelon thought. The first to test whether Harrenhal belongs to me... or still to the Strongs.
The hall held its breath.
Baelon rose slowly from the throne.
And Harrenhal watched its new lord take his first step into power.
-----
A/N- If you're liking how the story starts, trust me, the best parts are only beginning. Baelon's journey gets far wilder in the next arc.
You can read 32+ advanced chapters right now on my Patreon!
www.patreon.com/Baelon