On the morning after Baelon uncovered the dragon egg in the depths of Harrenhal, Princess Rhaenyra, far away in King's Landing, set out in formal splendor upon her royal Progress.
Her first destination was Harrenhal, and the chosen stage upon which she would "meet her suitors", the heirs of the Crownlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale.
Rhaenyra herself could be carefree about the matter. Her duty was little more than to arrive, exchange a few courteous words with each prospective match, and ride on. But for Baelon, who received the restless young lords already gathering under Harrenhal's cracked battlements, the Progress was a burden as heavy as the castle's cursed stones.
"Milord, House Blackwood and House Bracken have taken to brawling again. This time over… the division of smoked pork."
Illis burst into the Hall, his tunic damp with sweat. Smoke coiled in the rafters above, fed constantly by the dozens of hearths burning day and night.
Baelon pressed two fingers to his temple and exhaled sharply. "Seven hells. Tell them no brawling in my hall. If they crave blood, they can fight outside the gates, and they may wait there to greet the princess."
"Yes, milord." Illis bowed and sprinted out.
Baelon had no time for petty squabbles, not when preparations for the Stepstones campaign already consumed every waking hour. What ceremonies the Progress required fell entirely upon Illis, who did his best to keep the simmering Riverlords from spilling each other's guts across the flagstones.
The gathered heirs did not dare complain. They were heirs only, not lords. No one expected the master of Harrenhal to greet them personally.
A moment later, the doors swung open and Ser Erik, commander of Harrenhal's cavalry, known half-jokingly as the Knight of a Hundred Hearths, stepped inside.
"Milord," he said, helm in the crook of his arm, "the outriders report the princess's caravan is but an hour from the castle."
"Finally." Baelon rose at once. "Go. Muster every soldier. Rhaenyra's Progress is my own parade as well. Once it ends, we march for the Stepstones."
Royal Progresses were far more road than ritual. The matchmaking itself was brief, mere courtesies. In truth, the escorting, receiving, and parading consumed far more time than any meeting with eligible heirs. One or two days in the Riverlands would suffice.
Ser Erik struck a gauntleted fist to his breastplate. "Yes, milord!"
Under Baelon's command, Harrenhal's newly expanded garrison, two thousand strong, assembled with startling speed.
The stir this caused among the assembled heirs was immediate. Curious whispers followed the lines of armored men streaming into the Flowstone Courtyard, shields bright beneath the gray Riverlands sky.
"By the Seven… two thousand men? Is Prince Baelon marching on someone?"
"Look at their armor, uniform, polished… these are trained soldiers."
Their awe was warranted. Even in the populous Riverlands, few could field so many as a standing force. Other than the Tullys, only the Blackwoods and the Brackens might rival such numbers, and even they would strain to maintain so many year-round.
"I heard Prince Baelon intends to join Prince Daemon in the Stepstones," murmured a Vale heir. "Seems the rumors were true."
The murmur died as Baelon strode onto the raised platform astride his white stag, the creature's antlers gilded by torchlight.
"My loyal soldiers!"
The two thousand men slammed spear-butts and shield-rims against the stone in salute.
"Princess Rhaenyra's caravan approaches. As master of Harrenhal, I intend to receive her with full honors.
"At my command! Ser Erik, take the cavalry and ride ahead to escort the princess. Cantell, form the infantry in ranks along the main road. Ser Samond, set the archers on the walls."
At once, the army divided cleanly into its ordered formations.
Eight hundred infantry. Six hundred archers. Four hundred cavalry. And Baelon's two hundred personal guards.
The gates thundered open. The troops marched out with disciplined precision.
Rhaenyra, however, languished with her cheek pressed against the window of the royal wheelhouse, her hair pinned neatly, her expression anything but.
Her father had forbidden her from flying on Syrax for the Progress... a princess, he insisted, must travel with proper ceremony.
"So dull," she muttered. "I only hope Baelon has planned something interesting."
Outside her window, Ser Criston Cole rode beside the wheelhouse, posture immaculate even on the long road. "Your Grace," he called, "a force approaches, cavalry bearing a black banner with the red three-headed dragon. Likely Prince Baelon's riders."
Rhaenyra opened the window as hoofbeats rumbled like distant thunder. The Targaryen dragon snapped in the wind, its colors unmistakable.
When the riders drew up before the wheelhouse, she recognized the knight at their head.
"Oh-it's you," she said with a wry smile. "The… Knight of a Hundred Hearths, wasn't it? You greeted me last I flew to Harrenhal."
She remembered the absurd title. His name escaped her.
"You remember true, Your Grace," Ser Erik replied, not at all offended. "I am the Knight of a Hundred Hearths. Prince Baelon appointed me to lead your escort."
He bowed from horseback. "The lord has prepared a ceremony for your arrival. Ride on, we shall clear the way."
With Ser Erik's escort, the caravan reached Harrenhal twenty minutes ahead of schedule.
Rhaenyra descended from the wheelhouse and stretched, her spine popping softly. Before her, lining the broad road beneath Harrenhal's towering ruin, stood two disciplined rows of soldiers, heavy spears gleaming, swords sheathed at their hips, helms shadowing their faces entirely.
Their breastplates bore the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Blood-red cloaks hung from their shoulders, snapping sharply in the wind.
Baelon's personal guard.
Two hundred in all, thirty of them drawn from King Viserys's household guard, the remainder personally selected by Baelon for loyalty and strength. Their full helms, forged in the Vale, lent them a uniform, forbidding presence, their scarlet cloaks had been ordered from King's Landing at considerable expense.
"Well," Rhaenyra murmured, genuinely impressed. "Not bad at all."
Even she, Princess of Dragonstone, accustomed to the Kingsguard's immaculate luster, could not deny the formation's striking appearance.
At the far end of the soldier's lane waited Baelon upon his white stag, seated with easy command upon the high saddle.
Rhaenyra strode toward him, lips curving. "So this is your surprise? I must admit, it's a touch underwhelming."
The soldiers were fine enough, but she saw such pageantry daily in the Red Keep.
Baelon only laughed. "It's not quite that simple."
A vast shadow swept across the ground.
Rhaenyra's breath caught as a blood-red colossus descended with a resounding impact.
Tyraxes.
The young dragon's wings folded with a leathery rustle. Smoke curled from his nostrils; his crimson scales caught the afternoon light like rubies.
Baelon inclined his head. "The stairs to Harrenhal's gate are far too steep for comfort. Allow me to take you up, on dragonback."
Rhaenyra's brows arched. "Now that is more like it. I thought you meant to make me ride the stag with you." Her smile turned teasing. "A dragonlord ought to arrive on a dragon."
Tyraxes bore only a single saddle, but Baelon was lean and compact. The two of them could fit, close enough for warm breath to mingle.
As Rhaenyra approached, Baelon's gaze flicked, briefly, uncontrollably, to the curve of her bodice before he snapped it upward as though scorched.
"You have the look of a man thinking improper thoughts," Rhaenyra said, pinching his cheek with the ease of long familiarity.
Baelon flushed, swatting her hand away. "Come. Harrenhal awaits."
Together they mounted. Tyraxes crouched, and leapt skyward.
On the ramparts, Ser Samond raised a fist.
"Archers...! ready!"
Two hundred bowstrings drew taut.
"Aim…! loose!"
The sky blossomed.
Baelon's special arrows, commissioned in secret weeks prior, soared upward. Their hollow resin tips whistled faintly; the long silk streamers tied beneath them unfurled into vivid ribbons of color.
Scarlet, gold, blue, green, violet... flickering, twisting, drifting like a host of sprites dancing on the wind.
From Tyraxes's back, Rhaenyra's breath caught.
The arrows floated, dipped, swirled, trailing curtains of color through the sky. In the fading daylight they shimmered like scattered jewels, chaotic yet wondrous.
She had seen the great tourneys at King's Landing, the pageants of Oldtown, the lantern festivals across Dragonstone's terraces, but never this. Never a sky painted in five-colored silk.
"Well?" Baelon called over his shoulder, voice half-shouting against the wind. "Do you like it?"
Rhaenyra did not answer at once.
Her eyes were wide, her expression unguarded, softened, luminous. The silk ribbons spun beneath them, drifting like living strands of fire.
Finally, she exhaled, her voice quiet but certain.
"Yes," she said. "I love it."
Tyraxes banked gently toward Harrenhal's gate tower, the ribbons swirling in their wake like a storm of color, and Baelon felt her arms tighten, just slightly, around his waist.
It was enough.
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A/N:The war begins here. If you think you know what comes next, you don't. BUT It's already waiting in the chapters ahead.
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