Chapter 158: The March on Harrenhal
Those who had come to see Yara Greyjoy off had all witnessed Daenerys Targaryen's repeated warnings, as well as Drogon assigning the sea serpent to accompany her. To them, it all seemed a bit excessive.
After all, Yara was the rightful princess of the Iron Islands. With her uncle Euron Greyjoy gone, reclaiming her homeland should not have been difficult given her capabilities.
Once Yara departed, the remaining councilors turned their attention to planning the assault on Harrenhal.
Ever since learning that Daenerys would cross the Narrow Sea, Varys had been gathering intelligence across Westeros, and Harrenhal—once the greatest castle in the Seven Kingdoms—was naturally included.
At present, it was held by Bonifer Hasty and his band of barely a hundred holy knights. On paper, it posed little threat.
However, one obscure detail in Varys's report caught Tyrion Lannister's attention—something he quietly relayed to Daenerys.
"Bonifer… once loved my mother?" Daenerys's eyes widened in surprise.
Even Drogon, perched on her shoulder, perked up at the unexpected bit of gossip.
Originally, learning that only a hundred men defended Harrenhal, Daenerys had no intention of going personally. She had planned to remain on Dragonstone and await news of its capture.
But after hearing of Bonifer's connection to her mother, Rhaella Targaryen, she decided to go herself and attempt to persuade him to surrender.
Though she had never known her mother—who died giving birth to her—this link was enough. If Varys had mentioned it, then the relationship must have mattered.
Capturing Harrenhal would be easy. What concerned them more was the reaction of King's Landing and the House Lannister forces besieging Riverrun.
After laying out defensive contingencies, Daenerys set off with Barristan Selmy and Jorah Mormont to the Crackclaw Point to gather the Dothraki khals.
The Dothraki, having endured over thirty days on the "poisoned water," had only just recovered after three days of rest. Now, seeing the fertile lands around them, they were barely restraining their urge to raid.
Yet Daenerys's command—and Drogon's looming presence—kept them in check. Even so, more than a dozen had already died in private duels born of frustration.
When they heard they would soon assault a castle, leaders like Jhaqo lit up with excitement. Even the distant horses seemed to sense it, neighing restlessly.
Seeing the fire in their eyes, Daenerys once again laid down her rules: no pillaging, no rape, no slaughter of innocents.
She also informed them that the castle held only a small garrison—and that twenty-five thousand men would remain behind to guard Dragonstone. The news dampened their enthusiasm somewhat, but not enough to quell their anticipation for battle.
Breaking camp, Daenerys did not ride with them. Instead, she mounted Drogon—now in his full-grown form—and led twenty thousand Dothraki toward Harrenhal.
Though the Dothraki horses were swift, to Drogon it felt like a leisurely stroll.
Not long after they departed, King's Landing scouts observing from a distance rode hard to report the movement to Cersei Lannister.
Two hours later, they arrived.
The ruined towers of Harrenhal loomed ahead—vast, broken, yet still imposing. Though much of it lay in ruin, enough remained habitable. For the nomadic Dothraki, that was more than sufficient.
As they approached, Daenerys, riding Drogon, spotted an older knight with graying hair and a resolute expression standing before the shattered walls—Bonifer—along with his hundred holy warriors behind him.
Above them, Drogon's massive shadow darkened the sky. On the ground, the thunder of thousands of approaching riders shook the earth.
The holy knights' hands grew slick with sweat. Some even trembled as they gripped their swords.
It wasn't cowardice.
It was the overwhelming presence of dragon and horde alike.
Drogon landed thirty meters away. Daenerys dismounted and walked forward.
Only then did Bonifer and his men realize—she had arrived riding a dragon.
As Daenerys drew closer, Bonifer's gaze softened. He saw not just her, but echoes of a younger Rhaella.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing slightly despite standing on the opposing side.
"Ser Bonifer, I came personally when I heard you were here," Daenerys said with a faint smile.
His stern expression wavered.
"You resemble your mother… very much."
"Do I?" Daenerys replied softly. "I've never even seen her."
Yet from the look in his eyes, she knew—
He was telling the truth.
Sadly, her brother Viserys Targaryen had never told her any of this. Daenerys knew all too well—Viserys had always blamed her for their mother's death.
"You truly do resemble her," said Bonifer Hasty, a trace of longing flickering in his eyes.
Watching his expression, even Drogon—perched behind Daenerys—could tell this was more than a simple, one-sided affection. There had likely been something deeper between him and Rhaella Targaryen.
Daenerys had wanted to ask about her mother's youth… but this was hardly the place. She instead offered a faint smile.
"Ser Bonifer, I've only just returned to Westeros, and my forces have nowhere to settle for the moment. Would you consider yielding Harrenhal so they may stay here temporarily?"
Bonifer hesitated, his voice heavy with conflict.
"I was ordered by the king to hold Harrenhal. I'm afraid I cannot simply hand it over."
"You know as well as I do," Daenerys pressed gently, "that the current king in King's Landing is not of Robert Baratheon's blood—nor does he share any true tie to House Targaryen."
Her words struck home.
Bonifer had once sworn his oath to the Targaryens. He had only bent the knee to Robert because of the latter's claimed Targaryen lineage through his grandmother.
But now… serving Tommen Baratheon meant betraying that very oath.
Had Daenerys never returned, perhaps he could have ignored it.
But now—the rightful blood of the dragon stood before him.
And he was standing against her.
"Would you really have these young men die for nothing?" Daenerys continued, her voice soft but firm.
She had no desire to kill him—not unless there was no other choice.
What Drogon had sensed, she had already understood: Bonifer's feelings for her mother had never been simple admiration.
And perhaps… because of the guilt she carried for the mother she had never known, she could not bring herself to take the life of someone who had once loved her.
Bonifer turned and looked back at his men—the so-called Hundred, now reduced to barely eighty survivors of the War of the Five Kings.
Young faces. Tired eyes.
He had already watched too many of them disappear.
He did not want to see more.