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Chapter 10Notes:Let's do this.

Chapter TextHarrenhal - 43 AC

Despite his faults, Maegor knew how to throw a party.

Well, it would be more realistic to say that the Lord Harroway knew how to throw a party, although Maegor would take credit for his Hand's skill. The inhabitants of Harrenhal had flooded in revelry and merriment, odd for a force destined to take part in a great battle the following day.

Maegor had retreated early to his chambers, bringing his wife Alys Harroway with him. There had been some bawdy jokes made at that time by some of the fringe loyalists, men from the Riverlands who hadn't realized the extent of Maegor's nature. I'd caught some conspiring looks from Lords Harroway and Tully, and many men would likely face the consequences of their enthusiasm on the morrow.

Speaking of facing some consequences, the mighty Ser Kennet Gaunt would likely be on the prowl. I'd ignored his request to return, and for all that he knew I was parading around his name and badge like the child he perceived me to be. Luckily, I'd be lost amongst a flock of servants and squires, with nary a sergeant's badge to be seen.

I departed the feast, not looking to stay any longer than I had to. Maegor would be in one of Harrenhal's great towers, either indulging in his wife or dozing in his bed. Either way, he'd be vulnerable, and I had plenty of time to take advantage of that fact.

That said, this wouldn't be a simple in and out. Maegor was the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms during times of war, and there'd be no shortage of people who'd want him dead. Oldtown and its associated guilds, the lords of the Westlands and Riverlands, not to mention any of Maegor's surviving family outside Visenya.

That meant that I wouldn't be the only assassin sent after Maegor. There would be others, more skilled and experienced in the craft with better funding and equipment.

I'd have to use what scarce advantages I had.

…

I found King Maegor's rooms in the Widow's Tower, ten flights of stairs into the sky. Two kingsguard stood on either side of his door, conversing with one another. They wore the full sets of plate that were shown in House of the Dragon, not the cloaks and chain of Game of Thrones. Longswords rested at their waists, and there were no house sigils to be seen on their armor or clothing. They were the Kingsguard, and they would be my first obstacle.

I had a few resources available to me. There was Tymond's knife, a well-made blade that rested in a sheath up my sleeve. It had a blue-and-white stone inlaid in the pommel, showing off the sigil of House Tarbeck for the world to see. Despite that, it had a good weight to it, as far as I could tell.

There was also the vial of natural poison, a batch I'd been brewing on the trek through the Riverlands. I had some experience with dangerous plants, having gone camping quite frequently as a kid in my first life. I'd spent some time on Fair Isle learning about botany from Maester Lancel, and it hadn't taken much to follow that process.

The crossover in ecology between Earth and Planetos wasn't limited to fauna and major flora. Of course you have some variation, but by and large, most plants on Earth could also be found here. I'd managed to harvest a pouch's worth of Deadly Nightshade, and I'd mushed it into a paste.

Ducking into a side corridor, I took a second to run the makeshift poison up Tymond's knife. I needed to think this through.

There would be no way I could just stab the Kingsguard. I had a knife, was tall and strong for my age, and wielded a deadly poison, but there was no chance when I was going to take on two of the strongest fighters the Seven Kingdoms had to offer.

But the Kingsguard weren't a threat I needed to be worried about.

Harrenhal was a large and ruined castle. It had been melted just half a century ago by Maegor's father, and the tallest towers of the keep had never recovered. They were cracked, charred, and jagged, with holes at random intervals. They were perfect for climbing.

Growing up in British Columbia, I'd been no stranger to high heights and steep cliffs. I'd taken a trip up the Rockies when I was thirteen, and my friends and I had climbed whatever we could in the rural parts of Victoria.

Well then, I suppose I had my plan.

…

I started in the room below Maegor's.

Westeros had little to no windows, and even with my family's production of glass some half-decade ago, only a few of the greatest structures had even the most basic forms of window panes. Harrenhal, a ruined keep with far more pressing concerns than glass, was not one of the structures.

I had only the essentials, not wanting to lose any forms of mobility. My pouches, my boots, my socks, all of it was stashed under a bed, to be retrieved should this mission go well. I wouldn't just be climbing up and into Maegor's room, I'd be climbing back down as well.

The only things I brought with me were my trousers, my smallclothes, and Tymond's knife. It secured firmly in its sheath, and I had elected to poison the blade with my deadly nightshade paste. It wouldn't drop Maegor immediately, but if I had to run or was captured, the poison would succeed should my blade fail.

I focused my breathing, stretching my toes and fingers. Then I climbed out the window.

It wasn't all that eventful of a climb, to be honest. The tower was sloped, and there were enough misshapen and cracked rocks that my climb was easier than with some trees. My body was small, and I hadn't done any major climbing in a while, but even that didn't prevent me from making my way up the tower.

Upon my arrival at the king's window, I was blasted with heat. From what I could see, Maegor's room was full of candles of varying sizes, all of them burning with a cruel red fire. The light emitted by the candles illuminated Maegor and one of his wives, Alys Harroway. They were asleep on a luxurious four-poster bed, with Targaryen-red sheets and mahogany wood posts. The two of them were entangled together, and the sheets around them were in disarray.

A platter of food on a tin tray sat within easy reach on a bedside table, while a proper wooden table and chairs were stuck into a corner. Targaryen tapestries were hung high on the black brick walls, and the previously mentioned candles sat on stools or the ground, forming a ring around the edges of the room. "Fire hazard," I murmured.

What I could only assume to be Blackfyre was sheathed in the corner, the sword of kings discarded without much ceremony. A suit of black plate mail was laid next to it, rubies within placed in the outline of a dragon.

Slipping into the room, I set my feet down carefully, aware of how uncoordinated my new body could be. Taking my time, I started to make my way over to the side of the bed. Neither Maegor nor Alys was made aware of my presence upon entry, and as I unsheathed Tymond's knife I thanked every god in existence for allowing me to end the war this easily.

The gods took notice of my thanks, and of my arrogance. They cursed me for it.

Outside, Balerion roared, the sound shaking Harrenhal's stones. The force reverberated through my body, and if I hadn't been training my balance for the past few years I would've surely fallen from sheer shock. The dragon's roar shook the room, and one of the glasses on Maegor's bedside table rattled off and smashed.

Oh, great. Plot armor.

Maegor lurched up, his body in motion before the roar was over. He was delirious, but his eyes were wild, the classic Targaryen violet coming off closer to red in the candlelight. The Queen responded to her partner's movement, murmuring in her sleep as she slept beside him. Maegor, for his part, was completely ignoring her and had made no call for help.

His eyes had zeroed in on me. "A child," he muttered, almost pensively.

I lunged towards him, slicing up at his exposed chest. I was acutely aware of how larger than I Maegor was, and of the substantial muscles that flexed as he dodged out of the way. The king leaped back, outside the thrust, before rushing towards me.

I hopped to the side to dodge his charge, and his fist clipped my ribs on his way by. He was already turning towards my new position when I recovered, my rib cage burning with pain. Keeping a hold of Tymond's knife in my non-dominant hand, I lifted a candle from a stool, flinging it at him like a javelin.

Maegor caught the burning end, his hand crushing the tallow in his grip. The man-made no reaction to the flames, tossing the candle to the side after a second or two. He grinned ferally at me, his hand unburnt.

Fire resistance. I'd hoped that it was only Daenerys.

I dodged and dived, Tymond's knife slicing out as I ducked his blow. The meaty flesh of his tricep was split by my blade, my momentum carrying the steel through hardened muscle and out the other side. I ended my lunge behind him, as the naked king roared in the personal agony of my blow.

He wheeled the first gout of blood spraying from his wound. I took a half second to revel in my strike and met his eyes. But what I saw shocked me.

King Maegor's eyes weren't eyes. At least, not properly. They had the same shape as eyes, and I could see pupils, but… they were made of fire. Akin to two miniature balls of flame, they puffed and sparked, illuminating the king's cheekbones in an eerie glow.

"What are you?" I rasped, my chest heaving.

The thing that had been Maegor looked back at me and gave me a manic grin. "A king!", he roared.

In the corner of my vision, I saw Alys wake from her sleep, pushing herself up on the mattress. Scratch marks covered her shoulders, back, and thighs, and her hair was a mess. None of that stopped her from noticing me and reacting quickly.

"Guards!" Alys shrieked.

In seconds, the door to the chambers had been thrown open, the two kingsguard on the other side shouting as they caught sight of the Queen, the bleeding Maegor, and myself. Their hands were on their swords in an instant, two fine blades that were polished to a shine.

I fled, rushing towards the window and hopefully out into the night. There weren't any thoughts in my head about what I should be doing or where I should be going, only that I'd royally fucked up and needed to be gone from there as soon as I could.

Then Maegor's hand closed around my arm.

The God's Eye - 43 AC

It had gone downhill so fast.

King Aegon had been resplendent, bedecked the finest Lannister steel, astride the majestic Quicksilver. The armies of the Westerlands and Riverlands had been amassed in orderly rows, and hundreds of sigils had fluttered in the wind. Franklyn had thought that Maegor would flee the field before facing the united royal force.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

Franklyn had been marching on the van, his uncle and grandfather astride the finest destriers the young lordling had ever seen, better than any of the garrons on Fair Isle. Fifteen thousand men had marched behind them and a dragon had soared above. They'd been on the southern shore of the God's Eye, making good time to King's Landing. The Farman troops had been in formation, alongside Franklyn's cousins in the Swyfts, as well as the main force of the Pipers.

Then the loyalists began to appear.

A wall of spears had sat in their path, the sigils of a dozen crownlander lords and the kingsguard brazenly declaring their intentions. Aegon and his lords had marched on them, only for scouts to report the forces of Houses Tully and Harroway approaching from the north, and Houses Peake, Merryweather, and Caswell from the south. Fifteen thousand men, all said and done, same as theirs.

Even then, there had been hope. His Grace had roused the men, speaking of chivalry and courage, and the shining knights of the realm. Franklyn had felt hope stir and had started with.

Before it had promptly turned to ash.

Like a vulture of the Stranger's flock, the Dread had appeared on the horizon, the shining slate figure of who could only be the Cruel on his back. Small as a mite on a dog, Maegor had swung Blackfyre over his head, and the mustered men of the Iron Throne had charged as one.

Aegon had taken off without hesitation, Quicksilver quickly rising into the air. Above the God's Eye, Maegor and Aegon had met, facing off against one another. Like a hound harrying a hart, Quicksilver had circled Balerion, slicing and tearing streaks of black blood from the beast.

Farman lines had hit the foe, the Harroway levies crumbling under the pressure of hardened Westerlander steel. A deluge of death had fallen upon enemy reserves in the form of the Lannisport crossbows, and Ser Tyler Hill, Lyman Lannister's bastard, led the charge by decapitating an enemy knight who wore Tully the colors of House Wode.

Franklyn himself had let out a roar and entered the fray. His lance had broken upon the chest of an enemy man-at-arms and sent the man to the ground. Another man had rushed his destrier, and he'd brained him with his lance's stump.

Then Aegon fell.

That was all it took. In an instant, all the forward momentum they had was reversed, and half the men broke. Franklyn would later admit to having nearly broken himself, but the presence of his uncle beside him had kept him sane.

Flement had fought his way toward him, riding his horse through a sea of friend and foe alike. Franklyn could hardly think with all the screams, grunts, and steel all around him, but when his uncle struck his face with an armored gauntlet, he found his focus.

"RUN!" Roared Flement, spittle flying from his lips. He then turned back towards the incoming lines of House Harroway and Tully. "FAIR ISLE!"

The men around him mustered, and charged. Franklyn fled.

His lip was throbbing from where his uncle had hit him, and he could taste blood in his mouth. Beneath him, his destrier picked up speed, trampling friend and foe alike as it took its rider from the field.

Looking over his shoulder, he could see Flement get pulled from his horse, a giant knight in Kingsguard armor held him by the neck like Elissa held one of her dolls in the brief moment before she lost interest. Then, with the same dismissal that Elissa had, Flement had been thrown to the ground, and a spray of blood had painted the knight's cloak several seconds later.

How could this have happened?

A roar reverberated from above, freezing the men around Franklyn and jarring Franklyn out of his thoughts. A whip cracked, and a trampled knight of House Westerling on the ground nearby screamed in pain and fear. Franklyn's pants suddenly soaked, and the taste of blood in his mouth was joined by bile.

Balerion the Black Dread, covered in blood and gore, swept over the Farman forces like the Stranger incarnate. King Maegor the Cruel remained atop his back, whip in one hand and Blackfyre in the other. The great dragon's mouth was agape, and a red light emanated from the back of his throat. The king and Balerion roared as one, and Franklyn could barely make out the word, "Dracarys!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Franklyn muttered, his mind everywhere and nowhere. He felt Balerion's heat on his face as the great beast's neck took on a scarlet glow. "Father. Androw. Uncle. Grands-"

The heat consumed him.