Viserys briefly summarized the situation in the Riverlands.
The Brackenwood family had defied royal decrees, and the farmers' guild was in turmoil.
In particular, there was strong resentment toward House Bracken.
Among Lord Tully's three sons, only the eldest was somewhat capable—but he had perished in a night raid by House Bracken.
The remaining two were either hedonistic wastrels or reckless fools.
It was inevitable that House Tully would enter a period of decline for the next few decades.
Hearing about the chaos in the Riverlands, Rhaegar furrowed his brows. He thought to himself that the lords of Westeros had long grown accustomed to his father's weakness, which emboldened them to openly rebel.
Lord Lyonel had been wounded, and Harwin had retreated to Harrenhal. The situation was more difficult than expected.
Old Lord Tully had fled with the rebel forces and taken refuge in Harrenhal, leaving Riverrun leaderless.
The geography of the Riverlands, with the Trident dividing various noble territories, made communication difficult and weakened the bonds between the lords.
Over time, this had led to growing indifference toward House Tully's rule, with each house governing as it pleased.
Among the Seven Kingdoms, the Riverlands had the most fragile order.
Rhaegar grasped his father's hand firmly, his gaze unwavering. "Do you want me to break the siege of Harrenhal?"
With Devourer's speed, he could fly there and back within an hour.
A few blasts of dragonfire would be enough to send the rebels scattering.
A flicker of guilt crossed Viserys' eyes. He clasped his son's hands tightly, his nose stinging with emotion. "Rest for the night first. You've just returned to King's Landing—you deserve at least one peaceful sleep."
After the burning of the Three Daughters' stronghold, he had complete faith in his son's abilities.
Unlike the Stepstones, which had treacherous terrain and caves where rebels could hide, the open plains of the Riverlands left no refuge from dragonfire.
Rhaegar murmured, "Very well. Tomorrow, I will head to the Riverlands, then deal with the Stepstones afterward."
The stronghold of the Three Daughters had been reduced to ashes.
The mercenaries scattered across the Stepstones were nothing more than grains of sand—easily swept away.
### …
Leaving the royal chambers, Rhaegar looked up and noticed a lone figure in a black dress waiting at the corridor's corner.
"Rhaenyra, you're still here." He stepped forward.
Rhaenyra remained turned away, her hands crossed over her abdomen.
Unaware of the storm brewing, Rhaegar smiled and asked, "Were you waiting for me?"
*Swish—*
A flash of cold steel pressed against his most vulnerable spot.
In an instant, Rhaegar's expression froze, cold sweat breaking out across his forehead.
"Of course, I was waiting for you. If I weren't here, someone else would be."
Rhaenyra smiled sweetly at him, one hand gently stroking his cheek while the other pushed the dagger forward.
"Sister… calm down."
Rhaegar's pupils contracted in fear.
One thrust of the blade, and all his troubles would be over.
Rhaenyra leaned in closer, her eyes icy. "You haven't had time to engrave bronze runes here yet, have you?"
She knew of Rhaegar's abilities—how he wielded a mysterious power called runes.
His upper body was inscribed with bronze runes, allowing him to transform into blue-scaled armor when attacked.
But his lower body was still unprotected.
Holding his breath, Rhaegar arched backward slightly, his voice bitter. "Rhaenyra…"
The initial panic passed, and he regained his composure.
She wouldn't actually hurt him.
She was just furious and taking this chance to teach him a lesson.
As expected, Rhaenyra withdrew the dagger, no longer pressing it against him.
But before Rhaegar could relax, the cold steel slid along his cheek.
Rhaenyra's voice was chilling. "This dagger was meant for Jeyne."
Rhaegar understood—she was restraining herself, for his sake.
"Rhaegar, I raised you myself. I know everything about you."
She pressed the dagger's tip against his nose, applying just enough force to make a small cluster of blue scales appear.
As the blade moved downward, more scales emerged to shield him.
Her expression remained calm, but her gaze was layered with complexity. "Remember your promise. Don't make me remind you."
Rhaegar grasped the small dagger, his voice solemn. "Fire never forgets."
With that, he snatched the dagger from her and tossed it aside. Then, lowering himself, he scooped Rhaenyra up over his shoulder.
"Rhaegar—"
She let out a startled gasp, pounding his back with her fists. The frost in her eyes melted away.
…
**The Next Day**
The sun hung high in the sky, its golden rays casting a warm glow.
*Screech!*
A shadow as black as night burst from the Dragonpit, streaking across the skies of King's Landing.
The common folk of Silk Street had the clearest view.
The massive, jet-black dragon was headed toward the Riverlands.
At the Old Gate, soldiers stood in orderly ranks.
Five hundred Second Sons, over four hundred Unsullied, and three hundred Dragon Guards awaited their orders.
The storm was coming.
A four-wheeled carriage slowly approached, flanked on both sides by over a hundred Vale knights clad in iron armor.
**Inside the carriage.**
Rhaenyra and Jeyne sat opposite each other—one in a black off-shoulder dress, the other in a plain white gown.
The atmosphere was tense and silent.
Jeyne lowered her head and spoke first. "Rhaenyra, I'm sorry."
"If an apology could fix everything, there'd be no need for laws."
Rhaenyra crossed one leg over the other, hands folded atop her knee, fingers lightly tapping against the back of her hand.
Jeyne took a deep breath and murmured, "I'll return to the Vale immediately and won't come back to King's Landing anytime soon."
"At least you know your place."
Rhaenyra's voice was cold.
Jeyne forced a smile, lips curling slightly. "I actually have a lot I want to say to you."
"If you dare say another word, you won't make it back to the Vale."
Rhaenyra's expression turned icy as she cut her off without mercy.
**Foolish woman.**
If Rhaegar hadn't worked so hard to please her last night, she would've had Jeyne intercepted and killed on the way.
The conversation was over.
Rhaenyra stepped out of the carriage, her snow-white legs barely visible beneath the black dress.
The carriage passed through the city gates, heading toward the Vale.
Three hundred Dragon Guards followed behind the Vale knights, joining the escort.
The Second Sons and the Unsullied split into two groups, each exiting the city separately.
They were the forces accompanying the prince to the Riverlands.
Rhaenyra turned slightly, watching as the carriage and the troops disappeared from view.
"Princess, shall we return to the Red Keep?"
Ser Steffon Darklyn of the Kingsguard reminded her softly.
Rhaenyra touched the Valyrian steel necklace around her neck and smiled. "No, I'm going to the Dragonpit."
"As you wish, Princess."
Steffon asked no further questions, standing guard at her side.
Feeling the cool three-headed dragon pendant, Rhaenyra felt at peace—though she found herself thinking about Rhaegar.
"Perhaps a trip to the Riverlands will help me cool off after that meeting with Jeyne."
---
**The Riverlands, Harrenhal.**
By July, the summer heat was at its peak, and the castle grounds were scorching.
"Pour the wildfire! Hurry!"
"Catapults, ready!"
Outside the towering, massive walls, thousands of peasants in rough linen clothes surrounded the fortress, their emotions running high.
Most wielded pitchforks and hoes—hardly proper weapons.
At the front of the crowd, ten large catapults were being wheeled into position.
These were operated by hundreds of well-armed soldiers clad in polished armor.
Emblazoned on their breastplates was a crimson warhorse on a golden shield—the sigil of House Bracken.
Among them were also banners of several lesser houses, vassals sworn to the Brackens.
This siege on Harrenhal was orchestrated by House Bracken, inciting the peasants to rise in rebellion.
At the officers' shouted commands, soldiers carefully hauled barrels of wildfire into the catapults.
"Fire!"
On command, the catapults launched.
The barrels soared over the massive walls, crashing into the fortress's interior.
**Boom!**
The barrels shattered upon impact, unleashing vivid green flames that spread rapidly.
The catapults were reloaded.
"Fire again!!"
One by one, more barrels were hurled into Harrenhal.
Some struck the walls, while others flew farther, landing in the godswood near the fortress.
The wildfire clung to stone as if it needed no fuel, burning fiercely.
The godswood, once serene, was soon engulfed in an inferno of emerald flames.
Before the Targaryen conquest, Harrenhal had been the largest and grandest castle in Westeros.
It stood on the northern shore of the continent's largest inland lake, the **Gods Eye**.
Its thick, sheer walls rose like cliffs, and its gatehouse was as large as an ordinary castle's main keep.
Harrenhal had five great towers:
- **The Tower of Dread**
- **The Widow's Tower**
- **The Wailing Tower**
- **The Ghost Tower**
- **The King's Pyre Tower**
But after being scorched by Balerion the Black Dread, none of them remained intact.
The once-magnificent towers were warped, their stones cracked and crumbling.
Many of the structures envisioned by King Harren the Black had been reduced to blackened ruins, forever shrouded in an ominous atmosphere.
**Boom!**
More barrels crashed down, and the green flames raged ever stronger.
Though they couldn't reach the five towers, the wildfire surrounded them in an unrelenting blaze.
Inside the castle, fewer than two thousand soldiers stood in defense.
They climbed the battlements, loosing arrows at the enemy below, desperately trying to fight back.
Unable to withstand the raging fire, the rear gradually turned into a sea of flames.
"Put out the fire quickly! The green flames are spreading near the tower!"
"Everyone, put out the fire…!"
Under the clear sky, the darkened Harrenhal was engulfed in green fire.
Thick smoke and desperate screams combined into a symphony of misery.
"Ah! Don't let the green fire touch you—"
"It's burning! The fire won't go out…!"
Soldiers and servants rushed to extinguish the flames, but as soon as the green fire touched them, it ignited instantly, burning fiercely and resisting any attempt to douse it with water.
The maesters of Harrenhal recognized this fire.
A product of alchemy—wildfire.
Highly unstable, extremely flammable, and incredibly adhesive…
Its destructive power rivaled dragonfire, igniting on contact and exploding in an instant.
It was an extremely dangerous incendiary substance.
Once banned by the Citadel.
On the castle walls, Harwin stood clad in armor, sword in hand, his expression tense.
He knew of wildfire and had heard of its terrifying properties.
In less than fifteen minutes, the wildfire had spread across most of Harrenhal.
At this rate, they would burn to death before the rebels even breached the gates.
Outside the castle.
The rebellious mob launched their assault, charging toward the walls with ladders, braving the hail of arrows raining down upon them.
"Surround the east gate! Don't let the Strongs escape!"
A Bracken officer gave the order, directing the rebels to encircle Harrenhal completely.
Harwin was both furious and anxious. He drew his sword and roared, "Drop rolling logs and fire oil! Don't let them climb the walls!"
At this moment, regret consumed him.
Years of peace had made House Strong complacent.
Their war supplies were lacking, and even the soldiers had little proper equipment.
There should have been trebuchets atop the battlements.
But due to years of neglect, they had been dismantled long ago.
If they were still there, the siege engines below wouldn't be the only ones wreaking havoc.
The rebels would have already been reduced to ashes.
A guard stumbled forward in a panic and urgently reported, "My lord! The fire in the godswood is out of control!"
Out of control? It was beyond control.
The flames grew fiercer by the second, driven by the wind, creeping ever closer to the tower.
Many servants had died on their way to fight the fire.
(End of Chapter)