Chapter 3: Barges on the Blackwater – Currents of Ambition
The royal barge Dragon's Grace pushed away from the King's Landing wharves at first light in the fourth moon of 184 AC, its black-and-red sails snapping in the spring breeze off Blackwater Bay. Prince Aegon Targaryen stood at the carved prow, small hands gripping the rail, silver-gold hair whipping across his violet eyes. Behind him, the Red Keep shrank against the skyline—Maegor's Holdfast a red fist, the Dragonpit a broken crown on its hill. The air smelled of salt, fish guts, and the faint rot of the city's underbelly. Forty oarsmen in royal livery pulled in steady rhythm, their grunts a low counterpoint to the creak of wood and the slap of water.
He was nine in body, a man of thirty-odd winters in mind, and already lord of Harrenhal by royal decree. Largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms, he reminded himself, the words a private litany. Five towers tall enough to mock the sky, curtain walls thick as a dragon's hide, lands that fed thousands. His. Not Daeron's charity—his prize.
"Careful, my prince," came a soft voice at his elbow. Lanna, now officially his cupbearer and chamber servant by his own command, clutched a woolen cloak. She had grown bolder in the weeks since the feast; the gold dragon he had given her that night had bought her loyalty and a new dress of blue wool edged in rabbit fur. "The wind is sharp on the water. You'll catch a chill."
Aegon turned, offering the boyish smile he had practiced in the mirror. "I am a dragon, Lanna. Fire does not catch cold." But he let her drape the cloak over his shoulders, her fingers brushing his neck a moment longer than necessary. Useful, he thought. She hears the smallfolk talk. And she looks at me like I hung the moon. In his old world he had used girls like her for information and discarded them when the deal closed. Here the game was slower, sweeter.
Tommard Paege joined them, the eleven-year-old page now promoted to squire-in-training for the prince's household. His freckled face was flushed with excitement, Riverlands mud still under his nails from helping load chests. "Look, my prince! There's the mouth of the Rush. We'll be in the river proper by midday. My father says the current is kind this time of year."
The barge slipped past the last of the city's hulks and into the wider Blackwater Rush, where the water turned from brackish green to deep blue-green. Willow trees lined the banks, their branches trailing like maidens' hair. Herons speared fish in the shallows. Aegon leaned on the rail, letting the motion rock him.
"Tell me of your home, Tommard," he said, voice pitched high and curious—the perfect princeling. "Paege lands are near Harrenhal, yes? Will your father bend the knee to me now?"
Tommard puffed up. "He already has, in his heart. House Paege has always been loyal to the Tullys, but a Targaryen prince holding Harrenhal? That changes things. We'll ride with you against any who doubt. Blackfyres or no."
Aegon's eyes sharpened at the name, though he kept his face open. Daemon. Already the whispers grow. He laid a small hand on Tommard's shoulder. "Good. When we reach Harrenhal I'll need men I can trust. Not just knights—eyes and ears. You'll be my first. A silver chain for your neck, lands for your father when you're older. Swear it?"
"I swear by the old gods and the new," Tommard said, dropping to one knee right there on the deck, voice cracking with earnestness. The oarsmen pretended not to notice.
Lanna watched from the side, twisting her apron. Later, when the midday meal was served—cold capon, hard bread, watered wine in silver cups—she sat cross-legged on a cushion beside Aegon's chair in the small aft cabin.
"You didn't eat much at the feast the night the king died," she ventured, refilling his cup. "I thought… maybe you were sad."
Aegon chewed slowly, tasting the truth behind her words. She wants to comfort me. Wants me to need her. He let a shadow cross his face. "I dreamed of him burning, Lanna. Like Harren the Black when my ancestor roasted him in his own castle. Fire and blood. But sadness? No. Kings die. Princes rise." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "You hear things in the kitchens still. What do the smallfolk say of the new king? Of my brother Daeron?"
She hesitated, then whispered, "They say he's good and just, but soft with the Dornish now that Princess Daenerys is wed to the Prince of Dorne. And the bastards… some lords grumble that Daemon Blackfyre struts like he's the true heir. They say his sword is Valyrian steel, Blackfyre itself."
Aegon filed every word away like a maester's quill. Exactly as the histories recorded. The seeds of 196 AC are already sprouting. Aloud he sighed. "Dangerous talk. But you're clever, Lanna. Keep listening for me. Tell no one else. There will be a pretty gown waiting in Harrenhal for you—silk, not wool."
Her cheeks flushed pink. She curtsied awkwardly on the swaying deck. "As my prince commands."
The days blurred into a gentle rhythm that pleased Aegon's calculating mind. Mornings: lessons with the maester who had been sent along—old Grand Maester Munkun's assistant, a nervous man named Walys—poring over maps of the Riverlands. Aegon pretended to struggle with the runes while already knowing every lord's seat, every ford, every old battlefield. Afternoons: archery practice on the wide deck, Tommard holding the target, Lanna clapping when the arrows struck true. Evenings: the barge tied to a willow-fringed bank, guards lighting braziers while Aegon sat by the rail listening to the river's murmur and the distant howl of wolves.
One night, under a fat moon, he found Lanna alone mending a tear in his cloak.
"You're not like other boys," she said quietly, needle flashing. "The way you talk… like you've seen things. The fever changed you, didn't it?"
Aegon sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. The emptiness flickered again—that Seattle rain, the headlights, the nothing. He pushed it down. "Maybe the gods gave me a second chance, Lanna. To be… more." His hand found hers, small fingers intertwining. "Stay with me at Harrenhal. Not just as a servant. As someone I can trust with secrets."
She squeezed back, eyes shining. "I will, my prince. Always."
Tommard joined them later, bringing a skin of watered wine. They talked of dragons long dead and castles yet to rise. Aegon spun half-truths—"I dreamed of a black dragon with a golden eye"—watching their faces for loyalty, for weakness. By the tenth day the barge had left the Rush and entered the quieter waters feeding the Gods Eye, the great lake shimmering like a mirror under spring sun. Reeds rustled. A fisherman's skiff waved as they passed.
On the fourteenth morning, the towers appeared.
Five colossal spires of fused black stone clawed at the sky above the treeline, twisted and melted where Balerion's fire had kissed them two centuries before. Harrenhal. Even ruined, it dwarfed everything—walls wide enough for four knights to ride abreast, the Whispers tower leaning like a drunkard, the Kingspyre still proud. Smoke rose from the small town huddled at its feet. Banners of red and black already flew from the battlements in welcome.
Aegon stood at the prow again, heart beating steady and cold. Mine. The barge slowed toward the stone quay where a dozen knights and servants waited, horses stamping, maester's chain glinting.
Tommard whispered, "It looks cursed, my prince."
Aegon smiled, small and sharp. "Curses are stories for small men. I am going to make this place remember a dragon's name."
Lanna touched his sleeve. "We're home."
For now, he thought. Until I want more.
The gangplank thudded down.
End of Chapter 3