281 AD
Riverlands, Harrenhal
Harrenhal…
The largest castle in Westeros, both in area and size, greeted us with its five slanted towers long before we landed. Lyon rightly said that even Osgiliath looked like a toy in comparison.
"It truly is enormous," I thought as my ships, before the shocked eyes of the locals, docked at the few wooden piers. It was all too rare, due to the swift current of the God's River, to see ships here. "Although Harren the Black was too wasteful—who allocates nearly a hundred acres for the construction of a castle?"
The books about Aegon's conquests, set in the Citadel, tell us that roughly a century before the dragonlords' conquest of the Seven Kingdoms, King Harwin Hoare of the Iron Islands conquered the Riverlands from the Durrandons, the Storm Kings. The riverlords supported Harwin and his comrades, seeing them as liberators, but the ironborn proved even more brutal and demanding. This was amply demonstrated by the "liberator's" grandson.
Harren Hoare, Harwin's grandson, decided in his youth to build the grandest castle in existence—Harrenhal. This ambitious project lasted forty years. Harren chose an empty site on the shores of Lake God's Eye and imposed heavy taxes on all his holdings. Both the Riverlands and the Iron Islands were devastated. But even this was not enough, and Harren's men began to war with their neighbors, taking their stone, timber, gold, and labor.
The result was the colossal castle ever built in Westeros. It boasted five enormous towers, a perpetual source of spring water, vast underground storerooms brimming with provisions, and mighty walls of black stone—higher than any ladder could reach, thicker than any battering ram could breach, or any trebuchet could smash.
It is said that at the final meeting of the River and Iron Lords, which took place shortly before Aegon's landing, Hoare said that even if a million-strong army besieged his castle, they would not succeed.
He was right. But he hadn't foreseen one thing: dragons. Balerion the Black Dread, a beast from the time of Valyria, spared no one. The result is nearly three centuries of Targaryen rule over the Seven Kingdoms and the complete extermination of the Hoare line, with the only remnant of their existence—a cursed castle.
Fate is a cruel thing.
"Okay, back to work," I thought, picking up Lyon and heading off to find a spot for my tent. The tournament was only a week away, and the field in front of the prepared arena was already dotted with hundreds of tents belonging to visiting knights and lords. "Although, if you think about it, there are a lot of oddities connected with this tournament."
First of all, I'm well aware of the Whents' wealth. After all, my main income is trade, and I need to know the status of all the major houses in the Seven Kingdoms. Batkin may not be poor, but they're hardly rich either. And now... A tournament where they promise ten thousand dragons for first place??? For that kind of money, they could have restored Harrenhal long ago, not left half their fiefdom in ruins. Something fishy is going on here.
Secondly, this is the king's visit with his second prince, Viserys. Not only has Aerys never left the Red Keep since the Duskendale Rebellion, but he's also brought his second son, rumor has it he's guarded just as well as he is. I don't know what has driven this paranoid man to such a fuss, but it doesn't bode well.
And thirdly, it's the resignation of Tywin Lannister as Hand. I don't know what happened, but rumor has it that the Great Lion had another major falling out with the king, ultimately throwing the Hand's chain at him and retreating to Casterly Rock. The new Hand is Owen Merryweather, Lord of the Long Table, a man rumored to be a coward and a coward, capable of nothing but acquiescing to his king.
"No matter what, I have to keep my eyes open," I thought as I approached one of the Went warriors, who was serving as the tournament's assistant manager. "Something tells me this tournament will have a significant impact."
*
...and you will have no wife, no children, no family, no title! From now on, you are a knight of the Kingsguard! The sovereign's most loyal and courageous knight! Arise, Jaime Lannister!" Lord Commander Gerold Hightower's voice rang out like an alarm as he approached and raised the newest knight of the White Guard to his feet. The young man, who had recited his vows before the opulent royal pavilion, knelt on the green grass, clad in white enamel armor, in full view of half the lords of the Seven Kingdoms, smiled proudly.
"Ye-e-e-e-e..." I said thoughtfully, sitting on one of the pavilions among the middling Dornish lords, slowly becoming dumbfounded by what was happening. "Our king has handed the Warden of the West a real pig. There's no denying it."
On this sunny day, with only a few days left before the tourney, the king's heralds announced that a new member of the Kingsguard had been chosen to replace Harlan Grandison, who had recently passed away in White Sword Tower. Naturally, all the lords and knights present quickly filled the newly constructed stands, and commoners from the nearby town of Harrenton filled the remaining space. And then, when everyone had taken their places, someone I hadn't seen in five years stepped up to the royal dais. The young Lannister had grown taller, more mature, and his gait bespoke the stature of a well-trained warrior, but he was still a child compared to such monsters as Arthur Dayne and Gerold Hightower. I even felt a little sorry for him—his dream (like almost every boy in the Seven Kingdoms) had been fulfilled, not for his swordsmanship or knightly valor, but to spite the Old Lion.
"What are you talking about, Father? After all, becoming a knight of the King's Guard is quite an honor," Lyon asked, sitting next to me. He was dressed in simple trousers, a shirt, a surcoat, and a child's cloak. Judging by the lords' tense expressions and their heads turning in our direction, they, too, were beginning to take an interest in this conversation.
"Yes, please. It's not such a secret," I thought, and lowered my voice so only those around me could hear. "You see, son, without going into details, it is true. Our king has done House Lannister a great honor by taking one of their sons into service. But there's one important point. While joining the Kingsguard is considered a great achievement, the guardsmen's oath prevents them from marrying and inheriting their parents' title. So, not only has the main line of the Golden Lions just lost its representative, but Lord Tywin has also been left without an heir."
Judging by his thoughtful face, my son understood almost everything and didn't ask any more questions.
"But he has a younger son." "Unlike the lords around me." It was Lord Quorgyl's brother, I believe, who asked. "Tyrion, if I remember correctly."
"She's not cheating on you," I said, standing up and picking up my son. "But everyone knows he's a dwarf, and his birth killed the Old Lion's beloved wife, Lady Joanna. Imagine the kind of relationship they have in their family."
Without giving the others a chance to say anything, I turned and headed toward the tents. My mood wasn't exactly the best, and the fact that the feast in the main hall would begin in a few hours, and I needed to prepare for it, dampened it considerably.
Having entered the tent and handed Lyon over to Robin, who was teaching him the basics of literacy, I sat down at my work table, made of two sawhorses and a board placed on them, and began to beat out a simple rhythm.
The past week has brought many interesting discoveries, both good and bad.
On the bright side, the perfume, porcelain, and other Osgiliath merchandise sold like hot cakes, ensuring I wouldn't be left high and dry in the future.
And from the bad news... the purpose of holding the tournament became clear.
Through discreet questioning of Harrenton residents in taverns and brothels, my men learned that a Kingsguard with a bat emblazoned on his helmet had been there several months earlier. Oswell Whent, a close friend of Prince Rhaegar. And knowing where to look, I was easily able to find the information I needed from a reliable source—his wife. Since our wedding, I had maintained a constant correspondence with Elia, often telling her about Oberyn's misdeeds while visiting me and about affairs in Dorne. Plus, one of the many ladies-in-waiting the Dornish princess recruited after her marriage was my sister, Thea. After asking them a few leading questions and comparing the facts, I came to a very disappointing conclusion.
Great Council.
This is the general council of the lords of the Seven Kingdoms, convened in exceptional circumstances—from the determination of the heir to the throne to the overthrow of a king. Throughout history, it has only convened a few times, and these have occurred during periods when the country was on the brink of dire crises. Numerous clues helped me reach this conclusion, the most important of which was Elia's mention of Rhaegar's desire to invite the High Septon and the current Seneschal of the Citadel to the tournament. And while the invitation of a representative of the Faith is understandable, the head of the maesters... Gathered with them at Harrenhal were most of the lords of Westeros, not counting Tywin Lannister and his entourage, capable of holding a Great Council. And this number could easily have been sufficient.
If it weren't for the king's arrival.
"It's interesting how the girls dance in rows of four," I thought as I began to change. My trousers, shirt, tunic, and boots were simple yet expensive, made of high-quality fabric, embroidered with gold and silver. Still, in Westeros, clothing was much more modest than in the Free Cities, where most of the local "fashionistas" practically covered themselves in colorful feathers. "Aerys is lucky to have a master whisperer. I think he's the only one of the Small Council who works properly."
After going into the next room, reading a few local tales and putting my son to bed, I draped my red cloak, emblazoned with a sun and purple flames, over my shoulders and headed for the entrance to the Hall of a Thousand Hearths, the Great Hall of Harrenhal. They were already waiting for me there.
"Brother, what took you so long?" I could recognize Aerys's loud voice anywhere. Although, the main thing that mattered was that only he could address me like that.
"I was late. I was putting Lyon to bed," I replied, and seeing the smug and mocking expression on my older brother's face, I continued. "Once you have children, you'll understand."
"No, no, no... No!" Aerys waved his arms playfully as he walked through the wide-open gates of the hall. "I'm too young to marry! There are too many beauties left in this world for me to see!"
"Need I remind you what happens if you 'see' so many beautiful women?" I teased my amorous brother. Noticing the reflexive twitch in his shoulders, I realized he hadn't forgotten. After all, childhood suggestions last a lifetime, unlike those in later life. Those images had no effect on Oberyn. He certainly avoided large numbers of casual encounters for a while, but eventually he'd relapse, and I'd have to treat him for the ailments he'd picked up in the Free Cities and the Summer Isles.
Upon entering the Hall of a Thousand Hearths, I was able to fully appreciate its vastness—something I hadn't been able to do before, due to Walter Whent agreeing to only admit the Grandlords and their Lord Bannermen into the castle, sending the rest to spend the night in Harrenton.
"What do I care? I have just as good quarters on my ships, but for the others..." I thought as I walked deeper into the chamber, amazed by its size. It was three times larger than the throne room of the Red Keep in King's Landing, overwhelming in its very appearance. It made me believe that Harren the Black had spent nearly 40 years building this monstrosity, instead of the standard 3-4, completely devastating two of the nine regions of Westeros.
But it was clear the current owners were unable to maintain it. Of the thirty-four fireplaces, each an unwieldy ten feet wide, only twenty were lit, and the slate-floored room was draughty and devoid of character. Even the furniture, consisting of simple wooden tables and benches, covered with a tablecloth embroidered with the Whent and Targaryen crests, was new and crude, starkly out of place in the room's decor.
But this didn't stop the lords from enjoying themselves. Aerys and I were a little late, arriving only half an hour after the festivities had begun, but most of the guests were already tipsy. The Storm, King's, Reach, Dornish, Westerland, and River Lords were enjoying themselves to the fullest, their differences and squabbles forgotten, tossing back ever more goblets of wine. Their ladies, more cultured, sat quietly next to their husbands and engaged in small talk—about the weather, fashion, romance, and other trivialities unavailable to common men. Servants and maids bustled about, barely keeping up with the flow of food and wine and empty plates. Musicians played a variety of instruments, from the familiar harp to some hybrid of drum and accordion, and bards sang their best songs, trying to stir up a storm of emotion in the audience, who often thanked them with a shower of gold.
"Give me more!" A loud roar came from the center of the crowd, belonging to a huge man whose height and bulk were no match for mine. "Lonmouth, be a man! Three more mugs!"
Judging by his thick black hair, blue eyes, and the black crowned stag on his cloak, it was Robert Baratheon, the current Lord of Storm's End.
"Though he hasn't been there since Steffan's death," I thought, remembering that during my visit to Storm's End, I had to deal not with the Grandlord, but with his younger brother, Stannis, who acted as castellan. "If rumors are to be believed, all he does is visit the Eyrie and participate in tourneys throughout the kingdom."
The knight sitting next to him, competing with him in terms of how much he drank, was, if memory serves, Richard Longmouth. Head of a small house in the Stormlands and a close friend of Prince Rhaegar, who, over there, sat a short distance away, watching the proceedings with apathy, occasionally strumming his harp.
Indeed, just by the disposition of the people present, one could discern much about the experience and outlook of those present. The youngest and most ardent, mostly heirs and young lords, crowded around Baratheon, arguing over whether the drink would reach the second barrel. They weren't interested in politics or the management of their lands; they lived in the here and now, unconcerned about tomorrow.
The more experienced and older players, like Jon Arryn, Jon Royce, Brynden Tully, and Randyll Tarly, sat in small groups, quietly conversing, only occasionally sipping from their mugs, trying to keep their heads clear. They were old foxes, with a wealth of life experience and knowledge, having witnessed the reign of their father, and even their grandfather, the current king, and it was very difficult to rouse them.
Aerys was slightly conspicuous by his absence, as was Lord Commander Gerold Hightower and his new ward Jaime.
"I don't know why the Madman needed them, but I just wonder when it will dawn on him that the son of the much-hated Tywin Lannister can now officially be by his side day and night, sword at his side." I thought, and after walking a bit around the hall, I noticed one striking detail.
The northerners sat in a separate group. I knew some of them well—Jeor Mormont, Roose Bolton, Howland Reed, and Galbart Glover. But I had never seen the Starks, sitting in the center of their vassals.
As one of the two houses (along with the Lannisters) that drove the plot of the story I partially knew, they needed to be given special attention.
Rickard Stark, the "Dire Wolf," lived up to his reputation. Tall, powerfully built, and with a thick mane of black hair, he, in his northern attire, closely resembled the symbol of his house—a fearsome and dangerous direwolf, whose wild eyes glared at those around him, searching for lurking enemies, and gazed with incredible tenderness upon his family—his wife Lyarra, his sons Brandon, Eddard, and Benjen, and his daughter Lyanna.
The eldest and youngest brothers were remarkably similar. Bearded and black-haired like their father, they had long faces, sharp features, and Stark-like gray eyes. While Benjen's eyes gleamed with amusement, constantly trying to crack jokes at the expense of his sister, who sat next to him, the eldest's eyes lived up to his nickname: "Wild Wolf." I heard of his exploits while visiting the Night's Watch and the Dreadfort. Always one to flirt with a woman, fond of drink and merrymaking with friends, heirs to the great houses of the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale of Arryn, he was considered by the locals to be the "ideal young lord." Although I didn't quite believe it.
But the middle brother was much more different. With chestnut hair, a long face, and eyes that conveyed emotion with remarkable clarity, he stood out from the rest of the family. Quiet and calm, Eddard, according to my informants, was sent as a child to be raised by Jon Arryn, the current Grand Lord of the Vale. There, he met and befriended Robert Baratheon, the current Lord of Storm's End. Rumor has it they made a curious pairing—the stag seeks trouble, the wolf drags it out.
But Liara, with her daughter, Lianna, looked downright wild among this pack of wolves. Both possessed that very "wild Northern beauty" the northerners so often told me about. Their thick black hair cascaded down their backs, reflecting the glimmer of the candelabra, and their light but revealing dresses nicely outlined their figures, which on earth would have been called model-like. The only thing that connected them to the men sitting next to them were their eyes. They were as gray and cold as the perpetually overcast sky above the Wall, but at the same time very soft and warm, the kind found only in loving mothers and sisters.
"So this is what they're like... the Starks," I thought, remembering that, judging by the only three episodes of the series I'd watched, only two of the six wolves present would survive. "What will happen in the near future that would cause an entire grand lord's house to suffer so?"
"What's wrong, brother?" Aerys's voice made me flinch slightly, and I realized I'd been staring at the northern lords for several minutes now, who were starting to give me strange looks. Mainly Bolton, Mormont, and Reed.
"That's an idea!" I thought, realizing how to get out of the awkward situation and at the same time solve a small problem related to the old swamp dweller who had recently stopped sending letters. "No problem, bro. I just recognized an old friend. I wanted to chat. Will you come with me?"
"No-o-o," Aerys drawled, waving his hands. "While you're being polite, that stag will have drunk all the wine." He pointed at Baratheon, who had at that moment outdrinked the lemon knight and was screaming like a little child. "So don't be long."
And he left, dramatically waving his blue cloak, emblazoned with four snowflakes—the coat of arms of his house.
"Show-off," I thought, turning around and heading for the northerners' table. They fell silent at my approach and began glaring at me. Without success. "Hello, Howland, long time no see. How is Lord Ailis?"
A moment later, piercing, swamp-colored eyes were looking at me.