In the cavernous halls of Harrenhal, Baelon contended with a vexation, which bore the bronze sigil of House Royce.
Some days earlier, envoys had arrived from Runestone. In the name of Rhea Royce, Lady of Runestone, they formally proposed the fulfillment of her long-standing betrothal to Prince Daemon Targaryen. The message was addressed to Harrenhal, where Prince Baelon now held court, and carried with it the weight of the Vale's expectations.
The letter had been written in Rhea's own hand. Its tone was courteous, yet unyielding. Should Prince Baelon and Prince Daemon refuse to honor the match, she declared she would go before the Seven and swear herself to the Faith. If driven to it, she would cut her hair and take vows beneath the High Septon's blessing.
Under the Faith of the Seven, a noble marriage did not strictly require the High Septon's presence. Any septon might witness the vows. Yet a High Septon could sanctify such a union himself, and in truth, only one party needed to petition for it. Rhea's meaning was clear. She would not be cast aside quietly.
This was no simple matter of matrimony. If the alliance could not be honored, then the betrothal must at least be dissolved with dignity preserved on both sides. House Royce had grown formidable in recent years. Among the nobility of Westeros, honor and appearance bore real power. The Royces possessed both.
After dismissing the envoy to a side chamber, Prince Baelon placed the letter upon the carved oak table before his father.
"Rhea has renewed her claim," he said evenly. "There is little ground left upon which we may stand in refusal."
Prince Daemon seized the parchment. His violet eyes scanned the lines once before his hand tightened. With a sharp motion, he flung the letter aside. It slid across the table and fell to the rushes.
"That bronze bitch," he snapped, his jaw hard. "I refused House Royce once. She dares press me again?"
His fingers curled against the table's edge. He had never concealed his contempt for the Vale, nor for the woman he had been bound to since childhood.
"She is your lawful wife in the eyes of the realm," Prince Baelon replied, his voice calm but firm. "The betrothal was sworn when you were both children."
Daemon turned on him, silver hair shifting over his shoulders. "Sworn by others. Not by me."
A brief silence settled between them.
"If you truly will not have her," Baelon continued, folding his hands before him, "I can send word to Runestone and petition for the engagement's dissolution."
At that, something flared in Daemon's expression. Pride, perhaps. Or defiance.
"I would sooner ride to war than beg release from that woman."
Prince Baelon regarded him steadily. This could not be postponed any longer. The longer the matter lingered, the more insult festered.
He signaled for the envoy to return. When the Royce knight stood before him once more, Baelon spoke with measured authority.
"Inform Lady Rhea that her request is accepted. If Prince Daemon raises no further formal objection, she may set out for Harrenhal to conclude the marriage rites."
Daemon's mouth tightened, but he said nothing.
In Westeros, noble vows were sworn beneath the Seven. From Daemon's temper alone, it was plain he would never ride to Runestone to claim his bride. Therefore the bride must come to Harrenhal.
As the envoy withdrew, Baelon allowed himself a quiet breath. Though legitimized and publicly acknowledged, he still felt the faint strain that accompanied any talk of marriage and bloodlines...
He had even ordered Rhea's portrait hung in Harrenhal's great hall, a gesture of goodwill meant to soften old grievances. Yet he knew too well that the grudges between House Targaryen and House Royce ran deep. The bond was delicate.
Several days later, in the Vale, Rhea Royce received Harrenhal's reply. She read it in silence, the candlelight flickering across her composed features. At last, she exhaled slowly and inclined her head.
"So be it," she said.
It was better thus. Dignity would be preserved.
At Runestone, preparations began at once. Two hundred Royce riders assembled in bronze and steel. When the gates opened, the column rode forth through the mountain pass, bound for Harrenhal.
From her saddle, Rhea studied the road ahead. Other travelers moved westward as well, merchants and minor lords alike.
"These riders," she observed quietly to the knight at her side, "are drawn to Harrenhal, as we are. I am told Prince Baelon prepares a grand wedding."
The knight inclined his head. "My prince has gathered near two hundred swords for your escort, my lady."
Rhea's gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "Let it be known," she said softly, "that House Royce does not ride in shame."
Her horse stepped forward, and the bronze column followed, banners snapping in the mountain wind as they began the long journey toward Harrenhal.
House Royce commanded vast holdings in the Vale. From town and countryside alike, men-at-arms could be called in formidable number. The garrison at Runestone was particularly renowned, its heavy cavalry among the finest in the Vale. For an escort such as this, Rhea had drawn seasoned riders straight from the castle's own watch.
"Even so," she murmured, her voice low, almost lost beneath the rhythm of hooves, "the strength of House Royce is not inconsiderable. Our levies alone exceed ten thousand."
She did not speak in idle pride. It was precisely because she understood power that unease stirred within her.
She was not riding to Harrenhal as a supplicant. Though she would be a stranger in those vast black halls, she would not be powerless. In recent years House Royce had risen sharply in influence. If men might contend for dominance in the realm, so too might women.
From all she had learned of Prince Daemon Targaryen, he was not a man who yielded lightly. If he had accepted this match so suddenly, then something in his standing must have shifted.
Before she could give voice to that thought, riders appeared along the distant road. A patrol bearing the sigil of Harrenhal moved to intercept them.
"Halt your company," their captain called, his voice carrying across the wind. "Declare yourselves."
A Royce knight urged his destrier forward, bronze runes glinting faintly upon his armor.
"House Royce," he replied in ringing tones. "By command of Prince Baelon, we escort Lady Rhea of Runestone to Harrenhal."
Prince Baelon's letter had arrived days ahead of them. Harrenhal was prepared.
The patrol captain studied them a moment longer, then gestured toward a broad clearing beyond the road. "Form your column there. You will be received under watch."
The Royce riders obeyed without protest. Discipline mattered as much as pride.
As they advanced beneath Harrenhal's escort, Rhea lifted her gaze and beheld, for the first time in truth, the lands surrounding the great fortress.
In the distance, rising stark and severe against the sky, stood the blackened towers of Harrenhal. Villages and market towns dotted the plains like seeds scattered by a careless giant. Roads converged toward the fortress in dark lines, busy with carts, drovers, and armed men.
The sight struck her more deeply than she had expected.
Power.
That was her first impression.
Soldiers drilled in ordered ranks beyond the outer fields. Smoke rose from smithies and cookfires alike. Settlements spread outward from the ancient walls, life clustering in the shadow of ruin.
She felt, suddenly, the scale of what she rode into.
Then the light shifted.
A vast shadow swept across the sky, swallowing the sun in a single passing breath.
"Dragon!" someone cried.
"It is a dragon!"
The thunder of wings rolled over the clearing. Air churned and pressed downward with crushing force. Royce warhorses screamed and reared, iron-shod hooves striking sparks against stone as riders fought for control.
Rhea's own mount shied violently. She tightened her grip on the reins, jaw set, refusing to yield to panic. She would not appear frightened before her own men.
Above them wheeled a colossal shape, black as midnight, its wings outstretched like a living storm cloud.
"Prince Baelon," the patrol captain breathed, recognition dawning. He slid from his saddle at once and dropped to one knee.
The dragon circled once, unhurried. Its scales drank the sunlight, gleaming like polished jet. A long tail lashed through the air as it banked.
Upon its back sat Prince Baelon, upright and steady, silver hair streaming behind him in the wind.
The great beast descended in a measured glide toward an open field beyond the clearing. Each beat of its wings stirred dust and grass in spirals. When at last it neared the ground, the shadow of dragon and rider engulfed the assembled riders whole, casting them in sudden dusk beneath the looming presence of fire and blood.
---------
A/N: Advance chapters available on Patreon,
If you've enjoyed the story so far, this is the moment you don't want to miss.
www.patreon.com/Baelon