The horizon burned again last night.
A flicker of orange in the far west, just beyond the godswood and river bend. Not fire from within the castle. Not one of ours. Outlaws, most likely. Bandits. Or worse.
I stood at one of Harrenhal's many crumbling balconies, wrapped in a fur cloak too large for my still-growing frame, staring at the distant smoke with clenched teeth.
It was the third such fire in a week.
I'd hoped I was wrong. That it was just raiders taking advantage of the usual post-harvest slack in patrols. But deep down, I knew better.
Something was shifting in the world. Or more or less an unraveling.
The Iron Islands were due to boil over soon. The Greyjoy Rebellion hadn't begun yet, but I'd read enough to know the signs. Their longships were constantly testing the coasts, like foxes sniffing a fence for weakness. In the history books, it had felt inevitable. But now, being here, alive in this precarious web of cause and effect... nothing felt inevitable.
Were events fixed? Or had my presence shifted things already?
I didn't know. That uncertainty gnawed at me.
What if my actions here nudged the rebellion forward? What if stopping a raider saved the life of some future king? Or cost him another?
What if my very existence was a stone cast into the stream, rippling events off-course?
"Doesn't matter," I muttered, shaking my head.
I closed my eyes. Took a long breath. Centered myself.
None of it matters if I can't rule what I already have.
Harrenhal was dying.
Rotting, really—like a vast corpse too big to bury. Once the greatest castle in Westeros, it was now more ruin than stronghold. Half the towers were empty. Whole wings uninhabited. It took ten minutes to walk from the kitchens to the solar, and longer if the inner bridge was flooded again.
It was a monument to ego. And failure.
But I saw something else.
Potential.
A city. One day, maybe. A center of learning, of trade. Of science, even. But that was long-term. I needed food first. Security. Roads that weren't muddy. Walls that didn't crumble under their own weight.
The current plan was modest: strip stone from lesser towers and unused corridors. Reinforce the core structure, make the place livable, defensible. Use what we had until we could afford better.
That meant grain stores needed expansion. Farmhands needed tools. We needed more livestock and fewer mouths stealing it in the night.
Bandits. Again.
The fires were their calling card.
The local guards were slow to respond. Most were fat off their positions or old family retainers who hadn't held a sword properly since Maegor's reign. The truth was simple: the lands around Harrenhal were too big and too empty.
The chaos stirred by the Ironborn, whatever its source, was spilling across the Riverlands already. Refugees. Deserters. Thieves. They were trickling in, hiding in woods, striking farms, and caravans.
And as much as it infuriated me, I had to admit...
It was an opportunity.
A visible enemy. A problem I could solve publicly.
If I dealt with them, routed them myself, or with a handpicked force, I could claim victory. Gain favor with the smallfolk. Make them believe their lord was strong and cunning. Worth feeding. Worth following.
And more importantly... There was profit in it.
Bandits always had loot. Stolen goods. Weapons. Gold if I were lucky. I could take most of it under the guise of "reclamation" and distribute just enough to seem benevolent. A sack of flour here. A new roof there. Praise the lord for his mercy.
Simple optics. Power dressed as generosity.
"Smart, huh?" I murmured, mostly to myself.
I imagined my old self scoffing at all this. The petty calculations of feudal politics. But this was Westeros.
And I would play the game, or be played.
By midday, I was in the hall, seated awkwardly in my father's old chair, massive, high-backed, and carved with dragon wings. It had never fit me. Not yet.
Ser Alester stood at my right, stone-faced as always. On my left, Maester Ronnel, a stooped man who smelled faintly of ink and onions.
"Three more farms hit," Ronnel said, voice pinched. "Near the Blackbark stream. No survivors. Livestock taken."
Ser Alester grunted. "Too many, too fast. They're moving like sellswords, not starving men. Organized."
"Which means someone's leading them," I said.
Ronnel hesitated. "Shall we send a raven to Lord Tully?"
"No," I said sharply. "We handle it ourselves."
Alester arched an eyebrow. "With respect, my lord, we've not enough trained riders to—"
"Then we train them," I cut in. "Start with the third levy. Strip them down to ten men you trust. I'll lead them."
Silence.
Ronnel blinked. Alester's squint narrowed. "You?"
"Yes. Me."
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PowerStones!!!!!!!!
Expect another chapter tomorrow this time or earlier.
I would also like to now I'm starting the rewrite for my other fanfiction Natures Deviation.