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Chapter 12Notes:It's Chapter 12.

Bit of a late update this week. Sorry, I really just wasn't happy with my first few drafts.

I am loving all the attention and engagement that this story is getting, and I just wanted to thank all of you for reading my fic. I love you all, and here's to a good 2023.

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

Chapter TextHarrenhal - 44 AC

I languished in Harren's black dungeon for weeks.

Maegor had stuck around at the castle, dealing out justice to the losers of the battle. The cells had been filled with the wounded and the dying, and those who'd been captured after Aegon's fall. Survivors wailed of fire and death, and being packed in on all sides by sword and spear. 

The halls were long and high, with dark black stone brick and cold iron. Individual cells were enough to hold a dozen or more prisoners, and there were thick walls in between them. The bars were densely packed, and even my small child limbs couldn't even attempt to stick through. It was also wet, as was reasonable for a dungeon next to the God's Eye. Lakewater dripped in from the ceiling, and lichen grew in the dark corners.

I was kept alone in a high-security cell near the entrance to the dungeons and saw all those brought in and out. Many of them I knew, lords and knights from the Westerlands brought east with Aegon. Lord Jace Parren, the Black Lion of Parren Hall. He was a neighbor of the Swyfts, and I'd seen him when we'd visited our cousins. Lord Rupert Westerling and his knightly brother Jason - both common visitors to Fairport's brothels- were covered in burns, but groaning and alive. Even Tyler Hill, the gilded bastard of Lord Lyman Lannister himself, was brought in bedecked in irons, his face greased with sweat and blood.

Smallwood. Frey. Dustin. Connington. Westerling. Men of the realm were carted into Harrenhal in droves, packed into cells like a can of sardines. Harrenhal had been built by thralls, and the grand seat had all the dungeon it needed to hold them. After the first week or so, I'd have estimated some five thousand prisoners were being stored in the deep annals of the castle.Though the number lessened when many of us died of our wounds.

My shining light was that there were few if any Farman prisoners brought past my cell. I'd seen maybe twenty or thirty sigils that bore the boat of my family, and they were brought in late, later than most others. They were among the least of our forces, as well. From my time spent in the yard, I knew well the make and design of Farman steel, and I could see that the prisoners of Fair Isle bore the worst of it. Save a few scorched knights, one whose face was so burned it was indistinguishable, they only held the dregs of our army. 

That gave me hope. That maybe, just maybe, my family had lived. That Lord Humphrey and Uncle Flement and yes, even Franklyn were alive, and had made it out. That, like many, they'd fled, and returned to the Westerlands. Perhaps Tymond had found them, out of some duty for his disappeared employer. 

Whatever the case, I was grateful. 

My thoughts were awoken by Ser Walton Towers, the chief goaler, as he ran an iron cudgel along the bars of a nearby cage. The knowledge I had from Fire & Blood told me that this was almost definitely the same Walton Towers that would supplant House Harroway from Harrenhal, once Maegor finally got sick of them. I couldn't say I was against it, seeing as Alys Harroway had prevented me from ending Maegor, but I also couldn't say I would be happy with the knowledge that this man would be holding one of the largest fiefs in the Riverlands. He was a thug and enjoyed the cries of distress and pain that came from those in his cells. 

I hated him.

Towers' baton clanked on the bars of my cell, ringing a shrill note. I grunted, bringing my hands up to my ears.

"Away from the bars, mutt!" demanded the good ser, the slightest hesitation in his voice. "Don't make me hit you again."

I smiled at him and rose, retreating to the back wall of the room. I'd already tried to attack him a few times, and the man was on his guard. He'd underestimated me the first time and I'd managed to bite a chunk out of his forearm. The gallant Ser Walton had beat me bloody for it after, of course. But ever since he'd been wary, and I hadn't gotten close.

It felt good to have power over something, at least. 

A collection of Harroway guards with two prisoners approached, clustered and quiet. They stood apart from Walton and eyed him warily. The knight inserted a heavy iron key, twisting the bars open with a grunt. The bound men were shoved, sprawling, into my cell. 

The first I knew, rather well in fact. His name was Ser Aubrey Lorch, known colloquially across the Westerlands as The Blue Scorpion. A renowned tourney knight, he was skilled with the lance and horse and had won spurs from Silverhill to Fair Isle. 

All of that skill didn't seem to have fared him well, with his handsome features now mottled and charred, his skull wrapped in bandages and soaked damp. It seemed as if he'd been burned by the heated air around Balerion's fire, if not the fire itself. The knight also bore a half dozen bludgeoned wounds across his neck and torso, and was missing teeth.

His companion hadn't fared much better. He was a Valeman by the looks of him, with aquiline features across the board. He had a hooked nose and deep set eyes, with tangled orange locks. There was no fire scorching his features, but he was heavily scarred, and his right arm was wrapped in a splint of some kind.

The doors slammed shut behind them, as Ser Walton grunted with exertion. His piggy little eyes were cruel, and he clanked his rod upon the bars some more for the fun of it. Silent, the Harroway men marched off, leaving Walton behind.

Aubrey Lorch stood straight, his green eyes fixed dangerously on Ser Walton, face blistered and burned. The knight backed up, slow at first, before breaking out into a run. His stepped thudded in the corridor, quickly leaving them behind.

The Westerman let out a ragged sigh and slumped down onto the bench across from me. The feigned strength seeped from his bones, and the pus glinted into the torchlight. The other man sat on my bench on the far end, leaning into the wall's corner.

"Why do they have you in here, boy?" demanded the uneven voice of the Blue Scorpion. "And so heavily guarded? You the squire to some high lord?"

I was tired of the formalities of Westeros. "I tried to kill the King."

There was a snort from beside me. "Speak the truth, lad. I am Lord Qarl Corbray, and I am a knight. You will not be harmed for the truth."

"I did try to kill him. I got close, too. All the way up into his creepy candle room, surrounded by kingsguard. If it weren't for his wife, I wouldn't have been caught, either."

Ser Aubrey regarded me, cooly. "You're of the west."

"I am. Fair Isle."

He snapped his fingers, eyes hardening in recognition. "Ah. You're him ."

"I'm who?" No way he knew me. I'd seen him from the stands of a tourney, and hadn't even been close enough to properly see his face.

"Androw Farman."

I heard an intake of breath, and Lord Corbray's gaze leveled on mine. "The Glassmaker?"

Maybe I was better known than I thought. "Uh, yeah. That's me."

"I heard you developed the process when you were but seven namedays," Aubrey commented, voice flat. 

I felt my cheeks warm. "Six, actually." 

"And you weren't packed off to the Citadel then and there?" Qarl laughed. "And then I suppose you actually didtry to kill Maegor?"

"For all the good it did me."

"You're a fool, then." Aubrey spat.

"Huh?"

Qarl looked up, just as surprised by the sudden vitriol as I was. "Ser. Don't berate the lad."

"I will, goodbrother. For someone supposedly claiming to be a genius, you've done something awfully stupid. Challenging the king? Trying to kill him, around his knights and his queens and his dragon ? You're an idiot."

"He's a child!" cried the indignant Lord of Heart's Home.

"A child responsible for breaking into the glass market for the first time in Westerosi history. He should have been smarter than this. He should have thought with his head." Aubrey tapped his finger to his temple, and winced as it pressed into his burns.

This guy didn't know what he was talking about. "Hey, I nearly succeeded. I would have killed him without anyone noticing, had Balerion not woken him up."

Qarl seemed confused at that. "The dragon woke him up?"

"And what if you had killed him?" Aubrey demanded. "The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms would be dead at your hand, and he'd be discovered at some point. Could you guarantee that you'd be far away from Harrenhal by that point?"

"Well, no-"

"Thousands of men would have been looking for you, and at least one would find you. You'd be caught, brought back, identified. Your name is well known, as are your deeds, and your family. The consequences of your actions would have fallen upon them."

 "There wouldn't have been any consequences. Had Maegor died, Aegon would've been king. There would be no punishment, but a reward instead."

Aubrey sighed. He was tired, all of a sudden. "Aye, the prince was a just man, and honorable. His passing shall be missed." Then his voice hardened. "But don't think that the King is the only power in the realm. Maegor was and is tied to many. Harroway, Hightower, Darklyn, Peake. They all owe allegiance to Maegor, and wouldn't be pleased were you to kill the king. Had you succeeded, half the realm would have been your enemy for life. And your family's enemies."

"What do you want me to say? I already tried."

"You're right. There is nothing you can do now. You've already made your mistake, boy, now it is time to learn from it. That, and pray to the Seven you aren't roasted alive by the Dread." The knight gave me a rueful smile.

Lord Qarl let out a bout of nervous laughter, and I swallowed. 

We didn't speak after that.

…

Walton Towers returned, bringing with him his pack of unruly Harroways and his ringing iron strikes. He had a cruel grin on his face and looked excited, despite the yellow hue of his lower arm.

The bars clanged as his cudgel struck. "Lorch! Corbray! Back up from the bars."

The two lords exchanged looks, before each rose and retreated. Wise. There were too many guards to attempt an attack, and the punishment were they to fail would be brutal. I stood, nearly healed of my injuries, and approached the bars. 

They were careful when they bound me. Rope tied my arms to my sides, and kept my ankles close to one another. A wet gag tasting of oil was stuffed in my mouth, and a knotted cloth held it in. The rust-and-black tabards of the Harroway guards surrounded me on all sides.

Defeated, I marched to my doom.