"Please command, Your Highness!" Hugh's voice was like a low rumble of thunder in the quiet chamber.
Aegon leaned forward, his violet eyes reflecting the cold light of the morning. "In a short time, I will likely be granted the title of Earl of the Stepstones. It is a gift wrapped in thorns, and it means war. I am giving you five hundred sets of master-worked plate and fifty thousand gold dragons. You are to slip out of the city and form a mercenary company. I care not what you call it, but in half a year's time, when I send the word, you must have two thousand five hundred men ready to bleed for me. Can you do it?"
Hugh's heart hammered against his ribs. The sheer scale of the trust Aegon was placing in him was staggering. To lead an army, to hold the coin of a prince—it was a world away from the forge. "Rest assured, Your Highness. It shall be done. I will not fail you."
Aegon smiled, a genuine spark of warmth in his eyes. "Good. The armor and gold are already stowed in a merchant cog at the harbor. Depart tonight. As for Martha and the children, do not fear. When I move to the Stepstones, I will take them with me. They will be safer in a war zone under my protection than in this nest of vipers."
Hugh knelt once more, his gratitude too heavy for words. Aegon helped him up, his mind already calculating. He had been training Hugh for six years for this exact moment. While the Hightowers and Lannisters would provide troops, those armies belonged to their lords. To truly sit the Iron Throne, Aegon needed a sword that belonged only to him. By using the resources of his allies to arm Hugh's "sellswords," he was building a private legion in the shadows of a public war.
The Smoke of Harrenhal
Three days later, the gates of the Red Keep groaned open for the departure of the Hand. Lord Lyonel Strong patted his son's shoulder as they prepared to ride for the Riverlands. Harwin, the "Breaker of Bones," looked back at the castle with a dejection that bordered on despair.
"I am unwilling, Father," Harwin rasped. "If I had been the one to wed Rhaenyra... if I had just spoken sooner..."
Lyonel's face went bone-white with fury. He leaned in, his voice a lethal whisper. "Unwilling? You climbed into the Princess's bed and sired three bastards! You have endangered the House, the Throne, and your own neck! Do you want to die? Go back to Harrenhal, manage our lands, and thank the Gods you still have a head to wear a helm!"
Lyonel waved the caravan forward. He could not pass Harrenhal to Larys—a cripple would bring mockery to their ancient line—so Harwin had to survive. He did not see the shadow that detached itself from the castle walls as they left: Larys Strong, following at a distance with a small, silent retinue.
The journey was a blur of speed. Lyonel was desperate to lock his heir behind the massive walls of their ancestral seat. They arrived at Harrenhal covered in the dust of the road, exhausted and relieved. But on their very first night, the curse of Harren grew teeth.
The tower where father and son slept erupted into a localized, unnatural inferno. There were no screams, only the roar of hungry flames. By morning, the Hand of the King and his strongest son were nothing but ash.
Five days later, Larys arrived. His granduncle, Ser Simon Strong, was already presiding over the blackened ruins.
"Why are you here, Larys?" Simon asked, his brow furrowed.
"I have a royal decree," Larys said, his voice trembling—though whether from grief or suppressed excitement, no one could tell. "Where is Alys Rivers?"
Simon's lip curled in disgust. "Your father and brother are ghosts, and you ask after a bastard witch? Have you no heart?"
Larys looked at the boxes containing the remains of his kin. He felt a flicker of guilt, but it was quickly swallowed by the cold fire of ambition. He had known the plan. He could have stopped them. He chose not to.
"I will avenge them," Larys whispered. "But for now, I inherit. Gather the household, Granduncle. They must swear fealty to the new Lord of Harrenhal."
"You are hasty," Simon grunted. "No one contests your claim."
"The situation is hasty!" Larys snapped. "King's Landing is a slaughterhouse. I have made my choice. Prince Aegon is the true master of the Iron Throne."
Simon went pale. "The King named Rhaenyra. You speak treason, boy. We should stay neutral. We should hide behind these walls and let the dragons burn each other."
Larys let out a dry, melodic laugh that chilled the marrow in Simon's bones. "Neutrality? Granduncle, neutrality also requires strength! When the dragons land on these towers—and they will—what will you use to be neutral? Harrenhal is the heart of the Riverlands. The Greens will want it. The Blacks will need it. There is no middle ground in a war for the world. You either choose a side, or you become the ash beneath their feet."