Chapter 10: The Dragon's Gift
The great hall of Harrenhal glowed like a living ember on the night of the twenty-fifth day of the eighth moon, 184 AC. Lanterns hung from iron hooks along the high black beams, their pierced dragon cut-outs casting trembling shadows of three-headed flames across the fused stone walls. Fresh rushes crunched underfoot, scented with lavender and mint to mask the faint mustiness that always lingered in the oldest parts of the castle. Long tables groaned with the fruits of the harvest: roasted pigeons glazed with honey, barley loaves still warm from the ovens, wheels of sharp cheese from the lakeside farms, and bowls of stewed apples spiced with cinnamon traded from a passing merchant.
Prince Aegon Targaryen sat at the high table in the center, small but straight-backed in his black velvet tunic embroidered with red dragons. A thin silver circlet rested on his silver-gold hair—nothing ostentatious, just enough to remind everyone who ruled here. To his right sat Ser Oswell Whent, polished mail gleaming under his surcoat. To his left, Tommard Paege, eleven and trying very hard not to fidget in his new squire's tunic. Lanna stood behind the prince's chair as cupbearer, pouring small measures of the lavender-kissed dragon's-breath into silver cups for the guests. Her new gown of deep blue wool with silver thread caught the lantern light; she kept her eyes lowered, but a faint flush colored her cheeks every time Aegon glanced her way.
The hall was not crowded—perhaps eighty souls in all. The academy children and their parents filled one long table, wide-eyed at the sight of so much food. A dozen guards stood along the walls, mail polished, shields propped beside them. A handful of nearby knights who had braved the curse's reputation sat near the high table, their wives and sons whispering about the "young dragon who teaches letters to smallfolk." No great lords. No banners from Riverrun or the Twins. Just the people of Harrenhal, bound by the feast and the prince's quiet generosity.
Aegon raised his cup first, voice carrying clear and high across the hall.
"To the harvest," he said. "To the hands that sowed it, the rain that fed it, and the gods—old and new—who let it grow. May Harrenhal stand strong for another year."
The smallfolk echoed the toast, cups and wooden mugs lifted. A few cheers rose—more warmth than ceremony. Aegon drank a careful sip; the dragon's-breath burned sweet down his throat, loosening tongues without dulling wits.
Then the academy children stepped forward.
Fifteen of them—boys and girls from seven to twelve summers—lined up in front of the high table. They wore simple tunics washed clean, hair combed, faces scrubbed pink. The tallest girl, Mira from the mill village, stepped up first. She clutched a small slate tablet where Aegon had written the poem days earlier.
Her voice trembled at first, then steadied.
"When black stone weeps and towers sleep,
A dragon wakes where shadows creep.
He plants the seed in barren ground,
And learning grows where none was found.
Harren's curse is turned to light,
By wisdom's flame in endless night."
The hall fell quiet. When she finished, a ripple of applause started at the smallfolk table and spread. Aegon clapped loudest, violet eyes bright with practiced delight.
"Beautifully spoken, Mira," he called. "You honor us all."
One by one the others followed—short verses about the Gods Eye, the harvest, the prince who "broke the curse with books." A small boy of eight stumbled twice but finished proudly; Aegon nodded encouragement, and the child beamed as though he had won a tourney.
Lanna leaned close while refilling his cup. "They practiced every evening for a week, my prince. The mothers cried when they heard the poems."
Aegon touched her wrist lightly under the table—comfort, control. "They did well. You helped them practice, didn't you?"
She flushed deeper. "A little."
When the children finished, the guards moved.
Tommard stepped forward first, voice cracking only once as he called the order. "Shields up! Form the wall!"
Twenty men snapped into place in the center of the hall—shields locked edge to edge, spears held low. They advanced three paces in perfect step, then rotated ranks so fresh men took the front without breaking formation. Aegon had drilled the pattern himself: simple, Roman-inspired, dressed up as "a prince's game." The smallfolk watched in awe; a few knights murmured approval.
"Hold!" Tommard shouted. The line froze like stone. "Wheel left!"
They pivoted smoothly, shields never wavering.
Ser Oswell rose and lifted his cup. "To Prince Aegon, who teaches us strength in peace!"
The hall roared back the toast. Aegon stood on his chair so everyone could see him, raising his own cup high. "To Harrenhal! To the people who make it strong!"
The cheer lasted long enough that he had to wave them down, laughing the light, boyish laugh he had perfected.
The feast continued slowly, deliberately. Smallfolk shared stories of the old curse and how the young lord had lifted it with schools and fair courts. Knights spoke quietly of the disciplined guards and the clear spirits that warmed without blinding. Aegon moved among the tables—never long at any one, always listening, always smiling—planting seeds of loyalty with a word here, a promise there.
Near the end of the evening, as the lanterns began to gutter low, Lanna approached with a small plate of honeyed figs. "One more dance, my prince?" she asked softly, eyes shining.
Aegon took her hand. The musicians—a fiddler and a boy with a drum—struck up a simple reel. He led her into the open space before the high table, steps small and careful so she could follow. The hall watched, smiling. When the music ended, he bowed low to her like a courtly knight, and the smallfolk clapped again.
"Thank you, Lanna," he said for all to hear. "For everything."
She curtsied, cheeks burning. "Always, my prince."
As the guests began to drift toward the doors with jars of perfume oil and leftover bread tucked under arms, Aegon returned to the high table. Tommard joined him, still flushed from the drill.
"It was perfect," the squire whispered. "They love you."
Aegon nodded, watching the last lanterns flicker. "They do. And love is stronger than fear."
Inside, the selfish core purred. The feast had cost little—grain from his own fields, spirits from his own still—but it had bought something priceless: affection. The academy children would recite those poems in their villages for years. The guards would drill harder tomorrow. Lanna would spy sharper. And when Pate returned from Oldtown with scholars, the chain would tighten further.
The night was not over, but the chapter of the feast was only beginning. There would be more toasts, more stories, more quiet moments before dawn.
Aegon lifted his cup one last time to the empty hall, violet eyes reflecting the dying dragon-lanterns.
"Fire and blood," he murmured. "And now, a little light."
End of Chapter 10