Chapter 7: Ravens from Distant Towers
The days after Maester Walys's execution settled over Harrenhal like the first chill of autumn, slow and heavy. It was the tenth day of the seventh moon, 184 AC, and Prince Aegon Targaryen sat in the solar of the Kingspyre Tower with a fresh sheet of parchment, a new quill, and the faint scent of his own dragon's-breath spirits still clinging to the air from the night before. Sunlight slanted through the narrow windows, catching on the melted black stone walls that no maester would ever measure again.
Tommard stood at his shoulder, shifting from foot to foot. "You're really sending it to the king himself, my prince? Not just the Citadel?"
Aegon dipped the quill, his small hand steady. "The Citadel will rage in silence for now. They have no swords, only chains and whispers. But King Daeron is my brother. He must hear the truth from me first—before some archmaester spins it into poison." His violet eyes flicked up, boyish and earnest on the surface. "We write it together. You read it back. Make sure it sounds like a nine-year-old prince who is only trying to be good."
Lanna sat on a low stool nearby, sorting fresh raven feathers, her freckled face pale. "The smallfolk are still whispering about the pyre. Some say the old gods took the maester for cursing the prince. Others… they're glad. No more sour-faced chain-man telling us what the stars say."
Aegon smiled faintly, the expression hidden behind the mask of childish concentration. Glad is good. Fear of the curse keeps lords away; fear of my justice keeps everyone else in line. He began to write in careful, slightly rounded letters—nothing too perfect, nothing that screamed unnatural knowledge.
To His Grace King Daeron II Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms,
Brother,
I hope this letter finds you well and the realm at peace. The harvest at Harrenhal is strong this year, thanks to the gods and the good work of the smallfolk. I hold court every morning as you taught me, settling disputes fairly.
There is a matter I must tell you plainly. Maester Walys, who served House Lothston before me, hid a letter to the Citadel. In it he called me unnatural because of my fever-dreams and said he had prepared draughts should the archmaesters wish it. He spoke of the blood of our father running too hot and feared I might wake dragons again. I showed the letter to Ser Oswell and my guards. They agreed it was treason against our house and the crown. I had him executed at dusk and burned his body so no shadow could linger.
I have written to the Citadel that Harrenhal needs no new maester. The curse already keeps most men away, and I study my lessons alone with books and the help of good servants. I swear by the Seven and the old gods that I remain your loyal brother and servant. Harrenhal stands strong for you.
Your loving brother,
Prince Aegon Targaryen, Lord of Harrenhal
He read it aloud slowly. Tommard nodded. "It sounds… right. Like you're sorry but not weak."
Lanna bit her lip. "Will the king be angry?"
Aegon sealed the parchment with black wax and his new personal stamp—a small three-headed dragon he had carved himself. "He will understand. Daeron hates plots as much as he hates excess. And this way, when the Citadel complains, he already knows the truth from my own hand."
The raven flew that same afternoon, wings beating hard toward King's Landing.
Three days later the first reaction came—not from the king, but from the Citadel itself. A single raven arrived at dusk, its message short and cold, addressed to the castellan since no maester remained to receive it.
Ser Oswell read it aloud in the solar, voice tight. "The Conclave expresses grave concern at the death of Maester Walys without trial or report to Oldtown. Harrenhal has long been a troubled seat; the removal of learned counsel may invite further misfortune. We await the king's word on a replacement. Signed, Archmaester Theobald, Seneschal."
Aegon listened from the high seat, legs swinging like any bored child. Inside, cold satisfaction curled. They are angry. Good. Let them write letters and wring their hands. No chain will ever sit at my table again.
"The Citadel is upset," he said aloud, voice small. "But they dare not act without the king. Burn the letter, Ser Oswell. Tell no one but us."
Lanna twisted her hands. "What if they send someone in secret?"
"They won't," Aegon replied, patting her arm with brotherly fondness. "The roads to Harrenhal are watched now—my new scouts see every traveler. And the smallfolk love the school already. Yesterday three more children came for lessons. They call it 'the dragon's gift.'"
Tommard grinned. "The guards are happier too. That first cask of dragon's-breath is almost gone, and they drill sharper every dawn."
Over the next week the routines continued unchanged, slow and deliberate. Morning court: Aegon settled a miller's water-rights quarrel using printed tallies that showed exact shares for each village. Afternoon: he visited the new academy in the Tower of Ghosts, listening to a farmer's son stumble through his letters while the other children watched in awe. Evening: another secret distillation run in the cellar, this time adding lavender from the godswood for a softer scent Lanna said ladies would love.
Then, on the seventeenth day, the king's raven arrived.
Daeron's letter was longer, written in his own neat hand.
My dear brother Aegon,
Your words trouble me deeply. A maester plotting against blood of the dragon is a grave matter indeed. I have sent word to the Citadel demanding full explanation and forbidding any interference at Harrenhal without my leave. You acted swiftly to protect yourself and the seat I granted you; I do not fault your justice, though I would have preferred a trial before the crown. The realm has enough shadows without maesters adding more.
Continue your good work with the smallfolk and the school you describe. It pleases me that Harrenhal grows strong and fair under your hand. Come to Riverrun for my nameday in the new year if the roads allow; we will speak more then.
Your brother and king,
Daeron
Aegon read it twice, then handed it to Tommard and Lanna. The boy's face lit up. "He believes you!"
Lanna exhaled in relief. "The king is kind."
"He is," Aegon agreed softly, folding the letter with care. Inside, the selfish core of him smiled. Kind, honorable, and now he owes me trust. Aloud he said, "We will answer tomorrow—grateful, obedient, full of love for our brother the king. And we will keep the school open wider. Any child who wishes may learn. The Citadel can keep its chains; Harrenhal will have minds instead."
That night, as the weirwood leaf rested beside the king's letter on his table, Aegon stood at the window overlooking the black towers. The Citadel's outrage would simmer. Daeron's approval was secured—for now. His small empire of learning and loyal guards grew one quiet step at a time.
The old emptiness stirred briefly, like rain on a distant street, then faded beneath the steady drum of power.
"Fire and blood," he whispered to the dark. "But first, patience."
End of Chapter 7