Chapter 9: Lanterns, Lavender, and Silver Promises
The great hall of Harrenhal smelled of fresh rushes, roasting pigeon, and the faint sweet bite of lavender oil that Lanna had crushed that morning. It was the twenty-third day of the eighth moon, 184 AC, and Prince Aegon Targaryen—nine in body, ancient in ambition—stood on a low stool so the servants could drape black-and-red banners from the high beams. The curse that kept great lords away had made this harvest feast deliberately small: only the castellan, twenty trusted guards, the growing academy children and their parents, and a handful of nearby knights who had dared accept the invitation. No grand tourney. No visiting highborn. Just enough warmth to bind his people closer.
"More lanterns along the walls," Aegon directed, voice high and clear like any excited boy. "The ones with the pierced dragon cut-outs. When they glow, it will look like the old dragons are watching over us."
Lanna climbed the next stool beside him, arms full of dried lavender bundles she had scented with his newest perfume recipe. Her blue wool dress was dusted with petals. "The smallfolk are calling it the Dragon's Gift Feast, my prince. They say no lord ever shared his own spirits with them before." She glanced at him, freckles bright in the afternoon light, eyes soft with that devotion he had carefully fed. "Will you dance with me once, even if it's only a child's step?"
Aegon reached down and brushed a petal from her hair, the gesture fond and innocent to any watching eyes. Inside, the calculation clicked: Her loyalty is iron now. "Of course, Lanna. One dance. And you'll wear the new gown I had sewn—the one with the silver thread. Everyone will see how well my cupbearer is cared for."
Tommard entered from the yard, cheeks flushed from drill, carrying a small cask of the latest dragon's-breath batch—honeyed and lavender-kissed. "The guards are polishing their mail, my prince. They want to look sharp when the children sing the new song about Harrenhal's wise lord. And the academy boys have practiced their reading perfectly—they'll recite the poem you wrote about the harvest."
Aegon stepped down from the stool, tasting the moment. The feast was two days away. Tables would groan with pigeon pie, barley bread, and his own spirits served in small cups so no one grew foolish. Academy students would perform, guards would demonstrate a simple shield-wall drill for show, and every guest would leave carrying a sealed jar of the new perfume oil as thanks. They will love me for it. Not the crown. Me.
Later, in the quiet of the Kingspyre solar as the sun dipped behind the Tower of Ghosts, Aegon sat with Tommard and Ser Oswell. A new idea had taken root—slow, careful, like everything he built.
"The Citadel claims they are clean," he said softly, fingers tracing the weirwood leaf on his desk. "But knowledge still flows through Oldtown. I want scholars here. Not chained maesters who answer to archmaesters first. Learned men—acolytes who have grown tired of the Citadel's rules, scribes, even hedge scholars who study old Valyrian without permission. They can teach at the academy. Strengthen us."
Tommard frowned. "How do we reach them without the Citadel knowing?"
Aegon smiled the small, sharp smile he allowed only in private. "We send one man. Quietly. Not a guard—too obvious. Young Pate from the academy. He's twelve, quick with letters, came from a merchant family in Maidenpool. Dress him as a wandering student seeking books. He carries a sealed letter from me—offering good pay, freedom, and a home at Harrenhal for any who wish to teach common children. He spreads the word in the taverns near the Citadel, listens for discontented voices, then returns before winter closes the roads."
Ser Oswell rubbed his chin. "Risky, my prince. If the Citadel catches him…"
"They won't," Aegon said calmly. "Pate is clever. And if he succeeds, we gain minds without chains. Send him tomorrow at first light with a pouch of silver and one cask of our lavender spirits as a sample gift. Tell him the prince trusts him like a brother."
Lanna, who had slipped in with fresh ink, nodded slowly. "I'll pack his bag myself. He's a good boy. He'll do it for you."
The decision settled like another stone in Aegon's growing wall of power. Pate would leave at dawn. The spy mission was small, deniable, perfect.
Then the rookery bell rang.
A raven from King's Landing—Daeron's seal heavy on the parchment.
Aegon broke it alone at first, then read aloud to the three of them, keeping his voice light and surprised.
My dear brother Aegon,
The realm grows stronger when blood stands together. In light of your wise rule at Harrenhal and the need to bind our father's scattered children closer to the throne, I have arranged a betrothal. You are to be wed, when you both come of age, to your half-sister Lady Shiera Seastar. She is but a girl of nine, bright and lovely, with a keen mind for letters and stars. Her presence at Harrenhal will honor the house and quiet any foolish talk of division among the legitimized. The formal announcement will come at my nameday feast in the new year. I know you will treat her kindly, as a true dragon should.
Your brother and king,
Daeron
Silence filled the solar for a heartbeat.
Tommard's mouth opened. "Shiera Seastar? The one with the mismatched eyes? They say she's beautiful as dawn and clever as a maester."
Lanna's hands twisted in her apron, a flicker of something pained crossing her face before she hid it. "She is… very highborn now, my prince. Legitimized. A great match."
Aegon kept his face a perfect mask of boyish wonder, though inside the hunger roared. Shiera. Silver-gold hair, one blue eye, one green. Sorceress whispers already follow her at ten. Knowledge of old magics, poisons, stars. And tied to me—not to Daemon or Brynden. A blade I can sharpen. A wife who brings power and beauty both. He lowered the letter, eyes wide. "Brother the king is kind. I will write back tonight—thank him with all my heart. Shiera will be welcome at Harrenhal. We will make the academy even finer for her. She can study the stars from the tallest tower."
Ser Oswell bowed. "A strong alliance, my prince. The smallfolk will cheer a wedding someday."
Later, alone as the lanterns for the feast were lit across the yard, Aegon stood at the window. Pate's mission would leave at dawn—quiet recruitment for his school. The feast would bind his people tighter in two days' time. And Shiera Seastar… a silver chain of his own making, delivered by his brother's honor.
The old emptiness stirred once, faint as Seattle rain, then vanished beneath the steady drum of expanding power.
He lifted his cup of dragon's-breath and smiled into the dark.
"Fire and blood," he whispered. "And now, a star to light my way."
End of Chapter 9