personal6

Chapter 9Notes:It's assasinatin' time.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter TextHarrenhal - 43 AC

As I'd thought, Maegor was at Harrenhal.

It was a no-brainer. My knowledge of the Faith Militant-era Targaryens was pretty limited, but I'd been racking my brain for all useful information as soon as my second life had begun. I knew the broad strokes of what happened in this battle, and one of them was the involvement of the Harroway forces.

Since House Harroway was the family of Maegor's second wife and were the lords of Harrenhal, Maegor would have eager and ready access to the greatest castle in the Riverlands, and the ego to use it. Sure, Maegor appeared from the south at the onset of the battle, but the likelihood that he'd stayed with the Peakes and Merryweathers in their camp was laughable.

We'd stripped ourselves of all sigils and markings upon our arrival, making our way to the great keep as an unmarked knight and his squire. Farman and Tarbeck markings would have done us no favors when it came to joining Maegor, and we've just as likely ended up in the gallows. As that was something I wanted to avoid , we played it safe.

Besides, it wasn't as if Tymond was willing to just throw his life away in an attempt to kill Maegor, so the majority of this attempt would have to be on my shoulders. I would have to locate Maegor's rooms, kill him, and leave before anyone raised the alarm and I was caught. Tymond could bring me into camp and vouch for me as his squire, but beyond that, it'd be on me.

We got accepted pretty quickly, a quartermaster seeing our arms and Tymond's 'hedge knight' status and assigning us to a miscellaneous assortment of other sworn swords. It seemed like Maegor's reputation hadn't prevented a large assortment of sellswords and landless knights from joining his service.

Unluckily, we were placed outside of the castle, away from the upper echelons of nobility and rank. Our unmarked status meant we were nobodies, just bodies to be thrown at the enemy at the first opportunity. The lowborn, bastards, and landless had staked a claim on this land, making camp around a small hamlet that sprouted out of the hills around Harrenhal.

Compared to Pinkmaiden and Prince Aegon's camp, this place was a lot smaller, and a lot quieter. The guards marked with Tully, Harroway, and Targaryen colors were wary and ill-equipped, clustered around fires and tents. The Targaryens among them strutted about with obvious dominance, baring the dragon sigil as if it made them superior.

In a way, it kind of did.

The frequent revelry and partying that took place in Aegon's camp was completely absent, and there was no glorious flight of Balerion to inspire morale in the troops. It was apparent the Black Dread was present, seeing as Maegor's paranoia wouldn't allow him too far away, but there were no obvious signs.

Tymond and I set up our little camp, getting a cooking pot and wash line and going over anything else. None of my wealth was obvious, and I partook in the usual squire activities, tending to the horses and my mentor's arms. Tymond uncapped a flask of his own and stood over the cookpot pushing at the mush while he drank.

Sadly, that drew attention.

"Why hello there, friends. What do we have here?"

The two of us looked up to see the three-headed red dragon staring us in our faces, woven into a black cloth that hung loosely over chain mail. A handsome-looking man of middle age with long leather gloves stood nearby, a baton at his belt and a posse at his back. They all displayed the Targaryen sigils and were grinning ear-to-ear.

Tymond grunted. "Just a bit of stew. Move along."

"Now, now." The man chided. "We're all pals, here. Why don't you share?"

I adopted my lowest lowborn accent. "I only stewed enough rat for the ser and myself, milord. Begging your pardon, but we needs it for ourselves."

"Shut it, lad!" barked Tymond. He glanced at me, warning in his blue eyes. I clenched my jaw and turned back to setting the tent. "I ain't sharing me stew, not with my squire nor with no dragon. You'd need King Maegor himself to come down and demand some to git me to part from it. Piss off.

"Bu-"

Tymond whipped his eyes towards me. "I said shut it!"

I went quiet.

The men around us chortled in their amusement. Old leather gloves leaned forward. "You're a prickly one, I reckon. Pretty too. I've fucked uglier whores on the Street of Silk. But you know the thing about whores?"

"What's that?" My knight asked, a dangerous tilt to his voice.

"They're good actors. They know how to laugh. To kiss. The best ones even know how to love, make a man feel good about himself and like he can take on the world.

But they also know how to hide their feelings. Their disgust. Their pain. And wouldn't you know, their fear. I seen a young waif scared shitless swallow it all and push forward, pleasuring a man four times her size and four times her age. You couldn't a known."

Tymond stood, his lanky height meeting eye level with the Targaryen man.

"You as scared as that whore. So why don't you give me yer stew and yer drink, before I scare ya more than them girls ever were."

The knight of House Tarbeck's hand went to his sword, followed by the assorted Targaryen men in quick succession. Tymond's jaw clenched, and you could hear him grit his teeth.

Then he tossed his flask to the gloved man and stalked off.

Laughing, the men-at-arms made themselves at home around our fire, helping themselves to the rabbit stew I'd caught a few hours ago. The man who'd scared off my knight glanced at me and caught my staring. "You. Boy."

"Yes, milord?"

"Go to the keep and fetch me and the lads our rations. We're feasting tonight!"

The men around him celebrated, passing the drink amongst themselves. I paused, trying to look as meek as I could. "May I get a name for yourself, milord? To tell the sergeants."

Gloves grunted, before nodding. "You can tell em' Ser Kennet Gaunt sent ya. Here."

He took a badge off his lapel, tossing it. I fumbled, then caught it.

"You don't bring me back my badge and food, I beat you black and blue."

"Yes, milord."

I had an in.

Harren's great keep was all that it was hyped up to be and more.

I'd seen shots of it both in House of the Dragon and Game of Thrones, and neither did it justice. It was a labyrinth of a castle that bustled with activity like a bee hive or an ant hill. The towers were melted and crusty and the stench was pungent, but despite all this, there was an overwhelming sensation of majesty and power that I felt entering the castle.

No wonder Harren the Black thought he could take on dragons.

I was dressed in grungy clothes and carried a badge, so the one person who questioned me quickly dropped all interest. Other servants, likely more aware of the comings and goings of the staff, gave me odd looks, but no one seems all that suspicious of my presence. I imagined there was quite a bit of turnover during times of war, especially with armies arriving every day at Harrenhal to muster.

Maegor held his court in one of Harrenhal's many courtyards, open to the sun and the sky and the mist. Watching from a nearby parapet, I saw the Cruel sitting on Harren's throne, a seat of slate that seemed to be only surpassed in discomfort by the Iron Throne itself. The chair was lumpy and spiked, looking vaguely gothic in its design. The hideous thing wouldn't be out of place in a bad vampire flick.

Lord Lucas Harroway, the Hand of the King and current Lord of Harrenhal, stood to Maegor's right. Lord Edmyn Tully stood off to the side, and Maegor's wives each stood behind one of his shoulders. A host of knights, captains, and minor lords were splayed out around the courtyard, each having their own private conversation or observing some rival or ally.

Maegor himself was a tall man, strong and broad. He wore full plate mail while at court, and I could see Blackfyre, one of his family's valyrian steel swords, sheathed at his waist. His hair was white like snow, and his eyes were a pale violet. A deep red cloak splayed out across his shoulders, and the Conqueror's Crown, set with valyrian steel and inlaid with rubies, gripped tightly to his skull.

He might have been handsome if it weren't for the perpetual scowl on his face or the heaps of scars that had torn into his skin over the years. He had a sharp jaw, not unlike Tymond's, and the classic Targaryen combination of features that, on the average valyrian, gave them an ethereal beauty. Maegor… wasn't that.

His wives were another story. Like the average all-powerful dictator, Maegor had certainly gotten the pick of attractive women to take to wife. Both Alys Harroway and Tyanna of the Tower were stunning in their own ways. Alys was staring vacantly ahead, likely tuned out from whatever was going on. Tyanna… Tyanna was staring right at me.

I quickly broke from the stare, averting my eyes in hopes she had just been glancing at me. No such luck. I could feel her gaze on me even as I scanned the courtyard, and when I returned my sight to her she hadn't moved.

I gulped.

Our staring match, whatever its cause, was interrupted as Maegor got up to speak. He stood from his throne and spread his arms in a welcoming gesture, smiling just slightly too wide to be normal.

"My friends. We are assembled here today to respond to the threat in the West, the Abomination's son, Prince Aegon Targaryen. He seeks to usurp my throne, and we, the noble lords and ladies of Westeros, respond.

I would like to thank Lords Tully and Harroway for assisting me in these troubling times when so many rebellious lords seek to wrest me from the throne and place a false king upon its seat. When I look around this courtyard, I see true friends, ones who I can rely on through thick and thin.

Even though they are absent, I would also like to thank Lords Peake, Caswell, and Merryweather, who lend their support to our cause while their liege lords betray us. Perhaps it will be time for new Wardens of the South after this war is over, one from a more loyal seat than Highgarden or Oldtown.

Prince Aegon and his motley army march on King's Landing, from their mustering point at Pinkmaiden. They are unaware of our positioning, and with my Lord Commander leading an army from the east, the Reachmen from the south, and our forces from the north, the abomination's son will have no hopes of victory.

We march on the morrow, hard and fast. But tonight, we feast, and we delight. House Targaryen rewards its allies, and this is just the beginning of our many blessings. Enjoy your evenings, my friends!"

The battle to come was heralded by thunderous applause.

Notes:One of the last chapters in this arc and the proper introduction of Harrenhal. I love this castle, this landscape, and the general vibe of Harrenhal, and I'm happy to have worked it into this story. It probably won't show up in this fic again after our Aegon the Uncrowned arc, so I'm enjoying this as much as I can.

Would you guys be interested if I did a fic more centered on Harrenhal? It'd be focused around the stillborn son of Hoster Tully and Minisa Whent instead surviving, and claiming Harrenhal through his mother's line after Robert's Rebellion. I'd like to hear your thoughts.