Ser Simon Strong remained rooted to the spot, his silence heavy with the realization of his own oversight. He had lived within the melted walls of Harrenhal for so long that he had forgotten its true nature: it was not a home, but a strategic prize that sat like a gargantuan spider at the center of the Riverlands.
Larys watched his great-uncle with a clinical detachment. He saw the flicker of calculations behind the old man's eyes. Simon was a man of the middle—a fence-sitter who believed he could play both sides of the coming storm and emerge dry. He treated the lords of Westeros like fools, unaware that the dragons were already circling.
"I shall not linger at Harrenhal," Larys announced, leaning heavily on his cane. "When I depart, the duty of restoration falls to you."
Simon blinked, his mouth falling open. "Repair... Harrenhal? Have you lost your wits, nephew? This place is a cursed ruin. It has defied the hammers of a dozen houses."
"Prince Aegon requires a fortress of iron and stone, not a gloomy pile of slag," Larys countered. "It shall be made whole."
"With what gold?" Simon spread his hands, a desperate appeal to poverty. "The coffers are as empty as the Great Hall."
Larys let out a cold, sharp snort. "Do not play the pauper with me, Uncle. I know exactly how many coppers are hidden in the vaults. Money unspent is merely scrap metal. I shall send men to audit the work regularly. If you squander the Prince's vision, I shall not return to scold you. I will send Prince Aemond. Vhagar is 171 years old; I wonder if you'd like to see if she can melt what Balerion missed?"
Simon's face turned the color of curdled milk. Vhagar's fire was legendary; the prospect of the "Green Queen" appearing over the Gods Eye was enough to cow any man. Suitably warned, Simon stepped aside, allowing Larys to preside over the grim task of interring the ash that had once been the Hand and the Breaker of Bones.
The Red Keep: The King's Frustration
In King's Landing, the news of the tragedy at Harrenhal hit like a physical blow. Viserys was beyond grief; he was incandescent with a helpless, directionless rage.
"Damn it all!" the King roared, shattering his wine goblet against the stone floor. Red wine splattered across his robes like fresh blood.
Daemon stood by the window, watching the horizon with a look of bored indifference. "I had the pieces in place, brother. No one expected Lyonel to play the devoted father and escort the boy home. It was an accident of fate."
Viserys turned on him, his eyes bloodshot. "An accident? Do you have any idea what this does to the Council? To Rhaenyra?"
Daemon shrugged, his silence screaming his lack of concern.
"The Small Council is already clamoring to reinstate Otto Hightower as Hand," Viserys hissed. "Only Lyman Beesbury stands against them. If I refuse, the Greens will paralyze this city. They have the gold, they have the City Watch, and they have four dragons that do not answer to me!"
"You are the King," Daemon sneered, his lip curling. "Command them. If the leeches refuse to suck, burn them out."
"If commands solved everything, you'd still be in exile!" Viserys snapped back. "I will not be the King who presides over a dragon-led civil war. I will not turn this city into a slaughterhouse."
"Your commands are toothless because you are not firm," Daemon countered, though a flicker of doubt crossed his face. He thought of Aegon—the boy who had stood his ground at the funeral. Alicent might lack the stomach for a coup, but her eldest son was made of harder stuff.
Viserys slumped into his chair, the fire leaving him as quickly as it had come. He was still a man fantasizing about a peace that had already been devoured by the dragons. "I will not let it happen. I will find a way."
Daemon let out a dry, mocking chuckle. "You still believe in the song, brother. But the music has changed."
"Leave me," Viserys muttered, waving a trembling hand.
Daemon turned to go, but stopped when the King spoke again. "And you... you are not going to the Stepstones. My plans have shifted."
"My pleasure," Daemon replied with a shark-like grin. He was tired of the salt and the blood of the islands. If the King wanted to throw the young Prince Aegon into that meat-grinder, Daemon was more than happy to watch from the sidelines. "Let the boy have his rocks. I have a niece to comfort."