Upon seeing Aegon and Aemond, Lord Hobart Hightower beamed and greeted them warmly.
"It is an honor to meet you, my lord," Aegon said, dropping his usual nonchalant demeanor to offer a formal salute.
"Good lad, you've grown tall and strong," Lord Hobart said, grabbing Aegon's arm with both hands and giving it a firm squeeze.
Aegon immediately puffed up with pride. "Indeed," he boasted, flexing his bicep. "I've defeated countless foes in the training yard."
"Scarecrow foes?" Aemond muttered under his breath.
Aegon's face darkened as he shot a glare at his younger brother.
"Well, I can see the King's eldest son has the makings of a great warrior, worthy of the Conqueror's name," Lord Hobart said to smooth things over, his enthusiasm for Aegon only increasing.
Aegon preened, enjoying the praise from his great-uncle. He didn't realize that while Lord Hobart rarely visited King's Landing, he paid very close attention to his Hightower grandchildren. At the hunt for Aegon's third nameday, he had been the one to lead the chants of "Long live Prince Aegon!" To him, they were "good lads" with Hightower blood and a claim to the Iron Throne; that was all that mattered.
In contrast, Aemond's reception was far more subdued. Lord Hobart merely patted him on the shoulder. "You will soon be as strong as your brother," he said, "and his most steadfast and loyal supporter."
Aemond forced a smile, but inwardly, he made a silent note of the insult. The simmering conflict between the brothers demanded that he be seen as more than a mere subordinate.
"Come, I've prepared a sumptuous welcome feast for you both, with delicacies you will not find even in King's Landing," Lord Hobart announced, oblivious to the irritation he had caused, as he began to boast of the wealth and heritage of Oldtown.
Aemond followed absentmindedly, his thoughts already drifting. He found his great-uncle's fawning over Aegon, and his endless babbling, to be deeply tiresome.
By the shores of the Gods Eye.
A palace complex of pure white marble stood on the lakeshore, its courtyards filled with pavilions and terraces. Water diverted from the Gods Eye flowed through a network of canals and streams, feeding the various rockeries and flower gardens. A gray stone wall separated the magnificent new buildings from the surrounding farmland.
"This is the palace," Rhaenyra, dressed in a black, off-the-shoulder gown, explained as she led Helaena and the others through the gardens. "Beyond the walls are the newly reclaimed fields, tilled by the city's orphans."
Helaena's expression was one of wonder, her gaze fixed on the green sprouts rising from the fields beyond.
"What are their taxes?" asked Jeyne Arryn. As the Lady of the Eyrie, she took the matters of lordship seriously.
"Thirty percent, which is higher than for ordinary smallfolk," Rhaenyra answered fluently, "but I provide them with seeds and tools, and the land is theirs to work."
King's Landing was a crowded city, with a constant stream of orphans and the dispossessed. Reclaiming new fields under royal patronage was a significant act of charity. While the taxes were high, the harvests were guaranteed. Countless orphans and widows had already pledged their fierce loyalty to Princess Rhaenyra, whom they called the "Light of the Realm."
Jeyne nodded in approval. "A good policy. It is a victory for both the Iron Throne and the smallfolk, so long as you do not raise a crop of ingrates." Her noble sensibilities were clear; those without land were, in her eyes, of a lower class.
Rhaenyra did not take offense, but she heard the warning in her friend's words. Do not raise ingrates. The smallfolk were not just of low birth; they could be ignorant and easily swayed by rumor and populist sentiment.
"Ultimately, it is the great lords who rule this continent," Jeyne said meaningfully.
Rhaenyra frowned slightly, sensing a hidden message in her words but unable to place its source.
Not far from the courtyard was the main hall of the palace. Aemon stood on a balcony, his hands resting on the railing as he gazed out at the view.
"The palace is truly magnificent, Your Highness," Ser Simon Strong said with a humble smile, approaching slowly. The heir to Harrenhal, once a fierce warrior himself, had grown portly in his old age.
Aemon, worried the endearing old man might exhaust himself, said, "What do you think of my proposal? I can offer a fair price."
Ser Simon paused, then shook his head regretfully. "There is indeed a treasure in the vaults of the Kingspyre Tower, but it represents the savings of generations of my family. It cannot be wasted on repairing a castle."
House Strong had not been a powerful family before the Conquest. By the grace of King Jaehaerys, they had been granted Harrenhal, the largest castle on the continent—a great honor, and a great trust. Due to its strategic location, Harrenhal was the first line of defense for the Crownlands against any attack from the Riverlands. But in an age of dragons, its military significance was vastly diminished.
"Very well," Aemon said, unable to force the issue. House Strong was truly impoverished, or at least they acted as though they were. Even with the money, they dared not spend it. The ten great catapults that had once lined the battlements were reduced to two, and damage to the castle was only ever crudely repaired. Their frugality was taken to an extreme.
Ser Simon smiled wryly, thanking the prince for his understanding.
But Aemon continued, "You are Lord Lyonel's uncle. Have you heard any intention from him to move House Strong out of Harrenhal?"
"Uh, forgive my age, my prince, but I do not take your meaning," Simon said, stunned.
Aemon got straight to the point. "If House Strong is willing to sell, I can purchase Harrenhal at a high price and find you a new, more manageable territory."
"No, no, no!" Ser Simon was so shocked he took a step back. "House Strong is loyal, Your Highness! We have absolutely no complaints." The fat old man looked as if he might have a heart attack. House Strong had jumped from a third-tier house to a great one overnight, all thanks to royal favor. It was that favor which had allowed his nephew, Lyonel, to replace Otto Hightower as Hand of the King. Loyalty was the only currency the Strongs had to offer. For Prince Aemon to suggest such a thing… was he questioning that loyalty? The last prestigious house to hold Harrenhal, House Harroway, had been exterminated by Maegor the Cruel when their loyalty was questioned.
Aemon's next words confirmed his fears. "Harrenhal is the greatest castle in the Seven Kingdoms, tasked with the defense of King's Landing. Yet when I look at its lord, I see not a giant of a man, but a frail one."
Sweat beaded on Ser Simon's forehead. Harrenhal's walls were crumbling, its defenses lax. At best, it showed a neglect of their duties; at worst, it was a dereliction of their sacred trust.
"Please consider this carefully," Aemon said, not pressing further. "Perhaps send a raven to Lord Lyonel. If House Strong is willing to transfer Harrenhal, I will see to all the subsequent arrangements."
"Yes, my prince," Simon said nervously.
Aemon turned back to the view. He had come to the Riverlands specifically for this. One must always be mindful of the power of the great houses and devise strategies to keep them in check. Weaken the nobility, consolidate royal power. The Reach and the Riverlands, two realms with powerful vassals, were his primary targets for reform. Reclaiming Harrenhal was the first step. The castle was too important to be left in the hands of any vassal family, who might not fully commit their strength to the crown in a time of crisis. It was better to bring it directly under royal control.
Ser Simon's letter quickly found its way to King's Landing via raven. In the Red Keep, Viserys had just concluded a Small Council meeting. The Sea Snake and Ser Tyland Lannister had returned from the Stepstones with news that was neither good nor bad. The waters were calmer under the patrol of the Velaryon fleet, and Prince Qoren Martell had agreed to postpone any marriage negotiations for the time being.
"A glass of wine," Viserys sighed, returning to his chambers and sinking into a chair.
A knock came at the door. It was Lyonel Strong.
"What is it?" Viserys asked, seeing the look on his Hand's face.
Lyonel, his expression complicated, handed over the letter from his uncle Simon.
Viserys read it and frowned. "What is wrong with that boy? Not satisfied with building a palace on the Gods Eye, now he sets his sights on Harrenhal?"
"My uncle is terrified, Your Majesty," Lyonel said bitterly. "He fears I have made some grave error and lost your favor."
Viserys, hearing the distress in his friend's voice, stood up. "Lyonel, you have been my loyal Hand for ten years. Your counsel has always been wise and selfless. You are a true and faithful servant of the crown." After all his years as king, Lyonel was one of the few he could truly rely on, a man who had remained steadfastly loyal through every conflict. How could he possibly doubt such a minister?
"Your Majesty, you are too kind," Lyonel said, taking a deep breath. "The Old King granted my family Harrenhal, but we have failed to manage it well. That is my failure as Hand. If you approve, I will order my family to begin repairs at once."
"No need," Viserys said. "This isn't wartime. Why waste coin on such things?"
"It is a matter of my family's honor," Lyonel insisted.
Seeing he could not be dissuaded, Viserys relented. "I recognize your loyalty, my friend. I will personally write to Aemon and rebuke him for his unreasonable demands." He truly believed his nephew was being unreasonable. What was the point of Harrenhal? It was a cursed, lifeless pile of stone.
"Thank you for your trust, Your Majesty," Lyonel said, finally relieved.
After Lyonel departed, Ser Tyland Lannister knocked and entered, holding two letters. "Your Majesty."
Viserys was surprised. It was a busy day. One letter was from Rhaenyra, sent from the new palace. The other was from the Master of Coin, Lord Lyman Beesbury, sent from Highgarden.
Rhaenyra's letter told a slightly different story than Lyonel's. She mentioned that Lord Grover Tully of Riverrun was old and that his grip on the Riverlands was weakening. She wrote that House Strong was too poor to afford the necessary repairs for Harrenhal, and that Prince Aemon was willing to purchase the castle and grant the Strongs a new, more suitable territory in exchange.
Staring at his daughter's beautiful script, Viserys fell into deep thought. The letter was in her hand, but the words were clearly her cousin's. Why does he want Harrenhal so badly? Viserys sensed that his nephew was stirring up trouble again, proposing something drastic that he would be forced to refuse.
"No matter where I send him, he will not stay still," Viserys muttered, a headache beginning to form as he picked up the second letter.
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