Prince Aegon Targaryen
Aegon and Laena flew to Dragon's Heart two weeks after the wedding. In those days, the gods seemed to remember it was autumn and sent cold, dismal rains upon the Riverlands. Having made most of the journey between two layers of clouds, they still had to descend lower to avoid missing the castle. No sooner had they dived into the clouds than the dragon scales were instantly slick with moisture, and the leather cloaks that covered Aegon and Dennis, who sat behind him, instantly became even heavier. Silverwing, flying alongside, roared in displeasure, and Vermithor immediately supported her—the autumn weather drove even dragons to melancholy.
They burst from the cloud cover just above the Gods Eye, and in the distance, a dark, indistinct mass emerged from the grey gloom—the colossal form of Dragon's Heart. For a fleeting moment, Aegon fancied that the vague blot ahead somewhat resembled Dragonstone, but as soon as he blinked the water from his lashes, the illusion vanished: one tower loomed out of the rain, followed by a second, a third, and two more, turning into either a long-uncleaned candelabra or an ugly, aged hand with joints gnarled by arthritis. The summit of the Kingspyre was lost somewhere in the cloudy heights, and it seemed the tower stretched upward for leagues and leagues, reaching the very stars.
Below flashed Harrenton, appearing small, dirty, and uniquely wretched from the height of a dragon's flight. The dragons banked, circling the castle. It looked grim, somber, and miserable: the streams running down the black walls gave the impression that it was not rainwater flowing down, but molten stone once more.
Vermithor soared upward again, drawing Silverwing after him, only to drop like a stone into the vast courtyard between the Tower of Dread and the Widow's Tower. As he folded his wings, Aegon recalled that some ten years and half a lifetime ago, Jaehaerys had landed his dragon in this very spot; it could not be a coincidence—the Bronze Fury knew what he was doing. His faithful companion settled nearby. Silverwing descended cautiously, but still grazed the Widow's Tower with her wings, sending stone chips showering down. Yet, as soon as she touched the ground, it became clear there was space enough for both of them, and with room to spare.
The Prince waited until his sworn shield slid down the straps, unrolled the rope ladder, and only then began his own descent—usually he did this with confidence, but he had no wish to tumble into the mud before his vassals on his very first arrival. Underfoot, the ground squelched as expected, and Aegon grimaced in annoyance: this was not how he had imagined his first visit to his domains. Dragonkeepers had already run out into the yard—the Master of Dragons had seen to it beforehand that two dozen guards were stationed in the castle.
"Un-saddle them and feed them," the Prince commanded.
"Issa, dārilaros ñuhys (Yes, my prince)," replied the eldest of them.
"I thought that in the Riverlands, the rivers flowed on the ground, not from the sky," remarked Laena as she approached. Her dragon-hide flight suit saved her from the rain, but the woolen hood with which she covered her head was already soaked.
"These are no longer the Riverlands, jorrāeliarza (my love), but the Crownlands. Though on the Blackwater it pours as from a bucket as well."
At that moment, Ser Meylarr Teltaris, appointed by Aegon as castellan of the castle, approached them. Ser Meylarr was the own brother of the castellan of Dragonstone, and the Prince had preferred to take into service a man unconditionally loyal to his family and in no way connected with the locals. Gods knew how Simon Strong had conducted affairs, but Aegon decided that under him, everything would begin anew. The first step on this path was the new name for the castle; the second—two hundred craftsmen, builders, dragonkeepers, minstrels, cooks, lackeys, and washerwomen from King's Landing, Driftmark, and Dragonstone. Shortly after the wedding, Laena's retinue had set out, a half-dozen lady companions from noble families of the Crownlands and Riverlands. After all, the new house had to uphold the Targaryen reputation.
Behind the castellan's back stood a whole rank of men, a miserable wet wall—these were the vassals of the Prince of Dragon's Heart. All, to a man, tried to feign happiness at meeting their liege lord, but not all succeeded: a tall, hulking fellow with a nose twisted to the side wore a frozen grimace; a fat man with ginger mustaches, the only one to refuse a practical leather cloak, tried to give himself an air of importance, which in his understanding amounted to puffing out his cheeks and sticking out his belly. Somewhere to the side of them, a maester stood soaking with a sorrowful look—a small old man with comical whiskers whom Aegon immediately dubbed "The Gudgeon" in his mind.
"My Prince, Dragon's Heart is yours," the castellan announced, bending the knee and kissing the proffered hand with its rings.
"My thanks, Ser Meylarr. How have you not been washed into the lake here?"
"Only by the grace of the gods, my Prince," the castellan chuckled, rising from the mud. "Since morning it has seemed to me that it is drier in the lake than on the shore. My Prince, My Lady, I am happy to present to you your loyal vassals."
Teltaris stepped aside, and Aegon tried to replicate that very benevolent smile with which Viserys bestowed favor upon petitioners from the height of the Iron Throne. Laena, standing beside him, took his arm and gave his elbow an encouraging squeeze; immediately, he felt calmer.
"Lord Tristan Shawney of Sourwater," the first proved to be that very puffing fat man.
"Happy to serve, my Prince," Shawney dropped heavily to one knee and slobbered over the rings.
Aegon suppressed the desire to wipe his hand on the man's own clothes and asked instead:
"If I recall correctly, Lord Tristan, Sourwater lies directly opposite Dragon's Heart?"
"True, my Prince, at the very southern tip of the lake, where the Teardrop flows out."
"Well, that gives an idea of the size of our lands," Laena remarked.
Meanwhile, Shawney's place was taken by a man ordinary in all respects, with a burgeoning paunch and a budding bald spot. The Prince prudently leaned his cane forward, resting his hand upon the dragon pommel.
"Lord Benedict Butterwell of Whitewalls," Ser Meylarr introduced the vassal.
"Happy to serve, my Prince," Lord Butterwell proved far neater than his predecessor and managed to touch his lips squarely to just one of his father's rings. Moreover, anticipating his liege's question, he hastened to add: "We are your nearest neighbors, my castle lies fifteen leagues to the east of Harrenhal."
"Of Dragon's Heart, my lord," Aegon corrected him.
"Forgive me, my Prince. Yes, of course, of Dragon's Heart."
After the erring Butterwell followed Lord Simon Chambers of Lake Shore and Lord Roger Ryger of Willow Wood; following them, the Prince was presented with his landed knights: Ser Walter Wode of Needle Hill, Ser Hugo Hogg of Hogg Hall, Ser Alin Terrick of the Roost, Ser Garrett Paege of Snake-catcher, Ser Gwayne Grey of Grey Glen. Lord Ryger stooped, and his wet locks resembled the willow branches of his sigil; Ser Hugo turned out to be the hulking fellow with the crooked nose; Ser Garrett was snake-thin, and so many hawk feathers stuck out of Ser Alin's hat that together they resembled a peacock's tail.
After the vassals, the castellan led Maester Gudgeon, who called himself Norbert, to the Prince. To Aegon's question of how long he had served in this castle, the little old man plucked at his whisker and thoughtfully pronounced:
"And how old am I? Exactly twenty years less than that I have served."
Norbert the Gudgeon could have been fifty, or seventy, so the answer was not particularly informative. Suppressing his surprise, the Prince noted to himself that it would not hurt to beg some novice from Uncle Vaegon.
After the maester came the turn of the household staff: the master-at-arms proved to be from Driftmark, but the housekeeper was local, having been a wet nurse to the late sons of the late Lord Lyonel in her youth, which she proudly reported to her new master before bursting into bitter sobs. Having spoken a few empty words of comfort to the poor woman, Aegon and his spouse finally left the wet courtyard and entered beneath the vaults of the Hall of a Hundred Hearths through one of the side entrances, passing the families of the vassals and the servants.
At some moment, from the crowd of maids curtsying before them, the Prince's gaze picked out a young woman, about the same age as Laena. She too curtsied, but unlike the others, she did not lower her eyes. There was neither defiance on her face nor the sugary-shy smile servants use to show their readiness to serve a master in bed as well, only faint interest. Moreover, the maid seemed strangely familiar to him. She could well have begun serving here back in the days of the Great Council, but could Aegon have remembered her from then? There had been thousands of servants here then.
The confusion lasted but a moment, exactly as long as it took to take the next step and let the strange maid slip from view. Aegon blinked and came to his senses just in time to hear the castellan's words:
"There will be a feast in your honor this evening, my Prince, but for now, permit me to escort you to your chambers. They are in the Kingspyre."
Memories of the time of the Great Council flooded back again, and the Prince shuddered, feeling the phantom chill of old pains:
"Accursed stairs..."
"If you wish, we can prepare chambers lower down..."
"No, it is not worth it."
On the way up, instead of the long-tiresome game of counting steps, Aegon inquired of Teltaris:
"Tell me, Ser Meylarr, in what condition is the castle?"
"Neglected, my Prince," the castellan confessed. "Not one of the owners of Harrenhal used more than half its premises at once. Even when Queen Rhaena lived here, her court numbered no more than a hundred souls; under the Strongs, the same number served. By and large, the entire royal court ought to be housed here to utilize all the castle's capabilities."
"I have no need to keep so many idlers here."
"One can make do with less, my Prince. The Kingspyre is the most habitable of the towers, but we have put it in order nonetheless. We also patched up the kitchens, the stables, part of the servants' quarters, and changed the roof on the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. The builders swear by the Smith that in winter it will be as dry there as in the Dornish desert."
"We shall see," Aegon grunted. "And the other towers?"
"One way or another, everything will have to be restored, save for the Tower of Ghosts—it is simpler to dismantle it entirely; the stone will go toward the construction. But even if we tear down one or two towers, most of the servants' quarters, and half the stables, I simply cannot imagine what must be done so the remaining rooms do not stand empty. I say nothing of the fact that there is simply no one to defend these walls."
"Let us assume, ser, that dragons can defend them," Laena remarked.
"It remains to pray, my lady, that there be no occasion for that."
"So be it," Aegon nodded. "As for the towers, I do not wish to make hasty decisions; I must inspect the castle."
"As you wish, my Prince. And here are your chambers," the castellan himself opened the heavy oak door, upon which new carvings in the form of dragon heads had already been made. "Her ladyship's chambers..."
"I do not think they will be needed," Laena interrupted him, walking inside.
The solar could rival the halls of the Red Keep in size. Its walls were hidden by black draperies and tapestries from among the numerous gifts at their wedding. The furniture, placed about the room not out of necessity but to fill the volume, was, on the contrary, upholstered in white velvet. A grate with the inevitable dragon heads covered the large hearth, and a black banner with a white dragon hung on the wide chimney. By the tall windows stood a massive wooden table; nearby, huddled like a poor relation, was a lectern with writing instruments; evidently, the maester would use it.
"Further on is the small library," Teltaris explained. "The bedchamber is behind that door. Rooms for your sworn shield are also prepared; they are on this same floor."
Aegon leisurely walked around the room and sat at the head of the table, growing accustomed to the sensations. To feel himself the master not just of chambers, but of an entire gigantic castle and all the lands adjoining it, was strange.
"I suppose we need to freshen up from the road," he remarked.
"Of course, my Prince, I shall order baths," Ser Meylarr bowed and exited.
When the door closed behind him, Laena, who had been examining one of the tapestries depicting a hunting scene, turned to her husband and asked bluntly:
"Did you notice?"
"What?"
"Not 'what', but 'who'. That girl downstairs."
"Which one exactly?" the Prince frowned.
"Do not play the fool. I speak of that maid. She is the spitting image of Bethany: the same eyes, hair, mouth..."
The comparison with the Master of Laws' daughter put much in place.
"Evidently, a bastard of one of the Strongs," Aegon shrugged. "Mayhaps even of that same Lord Lyonel; what of it?"
"Nothing. It just caught the eye. You know, we had best change the draperies. There is much space, of course, but the black is oppressive... And the furniture needs recovering, or such upholstery will not last long."
"I would change the tapestries as well."
"Without fail, these are simply dreadful. Who gave them, anyway? I want something with the sea, ships, and dragons; we could also display some of your curiosities..."
Aegon smiled at his wife's unfolding activity. Well, at least one would not be bored here.
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