Anar Pyrotharis 101 AC Harrenhal
I miss my mother. The fact that she was taken away feels like I am being swallowed by a black cold hollow sun. I can still feel her touch, smell her sweet scent of winter roses. She's been gone for five years now. I was too young to truly know her, but her face haunts my dreams, and when my father thinks no one can see or hear him, he cries, and it makes it just so much harder. My grandmother says that when she died, the whole Grand Duchy wore black and changed their banners to black. When my grandmother says stuff like that, it does not bring me comfort, because she's gone and nothing can bring her back. My father tells me she was wild and free like the North, her homeland. Lyanna Stark—it's that my father was in love the moment he met her, and that's why he asked for her favor and crowned her his Queen of Love and Beauty, and they were wed two moons later. And then two years later, I came along, and when I turned three namedays old, she died. My father told me it was a fever that she fought till her last breath, but to me, it felt like one minute she was the same strong and loving mother, then next I was saying goodbye for the last time.
Two distant roars take me away from my dark thoughts. Looking down from the back of Vhealorax, the Gods Eye stretched beneath us like an immense, dark sapphire set deep into the green heart of the Riverlands—a lake so vast its distant shores blurred into the horizon. The water was cold and terrifyingly still, mirroring the sky like a giant dark glass while wisps of white mist drifted lazily across its surface. Right at its center sat the shadowy Isle of Faces, a dense, ancient forest of weirwoods whose red leaves glowed like embers from high above. Far along the northern shore, the monstrous, melted towers of Harrenhal loomed over the edge, casting long, jagged black shadows out across the water, a silent reminder of what dragonflame could do to the grandest ambitions of men. I tell Vhealorax to land in High Valyrian after doing a few laps above the Gods Eye. As soon as I dismount, my father's and grandfather's dragons land as well.
"The boy is becoming one with Vhealorax at a rapid pace, son," said my grandfather in his same booming voice whilst helping my grandmother dismount. She wore all black, still mourning her mother and brother. My grandfather wore a bronze elaborate tunic with Kragor embroidered on his chest, with our house's family sword Last Light on his hip and sleeves, his golden hair braided in intricate war braids that I tried to imitate, but mine looked less imposing. His silver-gold eyes were imposing, like you were looking into the eyes of the Father himself. My father wore a gold tunic with highlights of silver. His silver hair was cut short, barely going past his ears, his eyes were the same silver-gold as his father's and me. Like him, but I wore an all-crimson tunic with Vhealorax embroidered everywhere, but my hair had different coloring to my family. I have golden hair with silver and black streaks. My grandmother says that it represents the different magical bloodlines, but to me, it makes me stand out amongst all my family.
We make our way after we meet up with our bannermen, and after all the common courtesies, we make our way into the great keep of Harren the Black. Passing beneath the monstrous iron portcullis of Harrenhal felt less like entering a castle and more like stepping into the mouth of a stone beast that had burned from the inside out. The air inside smelled thick of ancient soot, damp river moss, and roasting meats from the Great Council's endless kitchens. High above, vaulted ceilings vanished into total shadow, where melted stone hung in grotesque, frozen drips like blackened ice. Drafts cut through the cavernous hall, carrying the low, thunderous hum of five hundred lords murmuring, their voices echoing off the walls alongside the crackle of massive log fires roaring in every hearth. Even filled with the silk banners, grand retinues, and shimmering gold of every great house in Westeros, the sheer scale of the place made us all look small—a fleeting gathering of mortals playing at politics inside a monument to dragonflame. Even in its ruined state, it was still a sight to behold—the towers looked like they had violently pierced the sky. We entered the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, and it was almost like the hall was endless, but somehow she still caught my eye. She had light brown hair with light brown eyes to match. She wore a dark green dress that made her look magnetic. I must have had my gaze on her for too long, because when eyes met, I could feel the heat rush to my face and I could see her face start to turn pink. I turned away and faced my grandmother, and she was looking at me with that same knowing smirk, and I asked who that lady is, and she said, "That is Alicent Hightower, the daughter of the Hand of the King." Tuning out the rest of what she said, I say in a whisper, "Alicent."