Lyonel POV
It had been many days since Lyonel had left the Kingswood behind him.
The great forest was far to the south now, yet it clung to him like a shadow.
He could still hear it when the nights were quiet, the whisper of the trees, the distant thunder, the screams, the crack of lightning splitting the sky. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could still see the glowing red eyes of the Black Devil burning in the darkness.
He had ridden far, but the memory rode with him.
Thunder moved at a steady pace beneath him, the stallion's hooves striking rhythmically against the road. The morning air was cool, and the countryside stretched wide on either side, open and calm, so different from the suffocating woods he had escaped.
Yet Lyonel's thoughts were not on the road.
They were on the words of the old witch.
The Storm Lord.
Those words had lodged themselves deep inside his mind and refused to leave.
"You may think it is the Seven who have blessed you… But it is not. It is my lord, the Storm Lord, who saved your house, your creator, and now you."
Lyonel frowned as he rode.
All his life, he had known the story.
Every child in House Dondarrion knew it.
The founder of their house, a messenger, surrounded by Dornish raiders, was saved when lightning came down from the heavens and scattered his enemies. It had always been told as a miracle of the Seven, the Warrior's fury and the Father's justice striking together in a bolt from the sky.
That story was part of his blood.
Part of what made House House Dondarrion who they were.
And yet…
The witch had spoken as though it were a lie.
As though another power had claimed that miracle.
The Storm Lord.
He didn't know what to make of it.
The old woman had wielded powers no septon could explain. She had healed wounds with a touch. She had spoken into his mind. She had called lightning from the sky.
She had died saving him.
And her sister had been worse, something dark and unnatural.
Lyonel exhaled slowly.
Could the Seven truly be false?
The thought alone felt like blasphemy.
He shook his head almost immediately.
No.
His faith remained.
It had to.
The Seven had guided him his entire life. The Seven had shaped the world.
Whatever that witch believed, whatever strange magic she served, it did not change that.
"No," Lyonel muttered under his breath. "The Seven are true."
Before he could sink further into thought, something pecked sharply at his head.
"Ow!"
He jerked slightly in the saddle.
Cloud sat perched atop his helmetless head, pecking insistently at his hair.
"Cloud, stop doing that," Lyonel said irritably.
The bird ignored him and pecked again.
Lyonel reached one hand upward to grab him.
Cloud immediately flapped away, soaring just out of reach.
Lyonel glared after him.
"Annoying bird."
Cloud circled once in the air, letting out a smug chirp before gliding ahead.
Lyonel sighed.
At least the bird had stopped tearing at his hair.
He shifted in the saddle and urged Thunder onward.
The road wound north, and the land slowly began to change. The villages were larger here, the roads better maintained. More travellers passed him, smallfolk with carts, merchants on horseback, labourers walking in groups.
Then, sometime in the distance ahead, Lyonel saw it.
He sat up straighter.
At first, it looked like mountains on the horizon.
Dark shapes rising impossibly high against the sky.
But as he rode closer, the shapes became clearer.
Towers.
Walls.
Massive, monstrous towers.
His eyes widened.
"Harrenhal…" he whispered.
Harrenhal rose before him like something from legend.
It was enormous.
No castle had any right to be that large.
Its towers clawed at the sky, thick and black and immense. The walls looked like cliffs of dark stone, towering over the surrounding lands. Even from far away, it dwarfed everything around it.
Lyonel had thought Blackhaven impressive.
This was something else entirely.
It looked less like a castle and more like a city wrapped in black stone.
"It must be three times the size of Blackhaven," he muttered in awe.
Cloud circled back and landed on his head once more.
Lyonel sighed but allowed it.
"No pecking."
The bird settled comfortably.
Lyonel patted Thunder's neck.
"Let's go fast, boy."
Thunder neighed in response and quickened into a stronger pace.
The closer they came, the more overwhelming Harrenhal became.
Its size pressed down on the land around it.
Soon they reached the small village outside the great castle.
Lyonel slowed Thunder to a careful walk.
Something felt strange.
The village was quiet.
Too quiet.
A few doors were shut. Smoke rose from some chimneys, but the streets were nearly empty.
Lyonel frowned.
Where is everyone?
He rode slowly through the lane until he spotted a boy near a well.
The boy couldn't have been older than eight.
Lyonel raised a hand.
"You, boy," he called. "Where is everyone?"
The boy looked at him—
At the armoured rider.
At the strange white bird on his head.
Then the boy's eyes widened, and he ran.
Lyonel blinked.
The boy disappeared into one of the houses without a word.
Lyonel shook his head.
"Well, that was helpful."
He urged Thunder onward, leaving the village behind and riding toward the gates of Harrenhal.
As he neared the castle, the sounds of life returned, voices on the walls, movement beyond the gates, distant clangs of work being done.
The gates themselves were shut.
Massive.
Dark.
Lyonel stopped Thunder before them and looked upward.
There was no visible guard at first.
He raised his voice.
"Is anyone there?"
For a moment, nothing answered.
The silence stretched long enough for unease to settle in his chest.
Then a voice called down from above:
"Who are you?"
Lyonel straightened in the saddle.
"I am Ser Lyonel Dondarrion of Blackhaven," he called back. "I have come to see Princess Rhaena Targaryen."
There was silence again.
Then:
"If you are a Dondarrion, where is your sigil?"
Lyonel closed his eyes.
Fuck.
His tabard.
His breastplate.
Both gone.
Ruined and abandoned in the Kingswood.
He exhaled and looked up again.
"As you can see," he called, "I am armed and armoured. I lost my breastplate and tabard in the Kingswood after an ambush. They were damaged beyond use, and I had to leave them behind."
The guards above were silent for several moments.
Lyonel waited, trying not to look nervous.
Finally, the voice spoke again:
"We will allow you entrance."
Lyonel relaxed slightly.
Then the guard added:
"But what is that bird on your head?"
Lyonel looked upward at Cloud.
The Thunderbird blinked innocently.
Lyonel answered without hesitation.
"It is my pet."
There was another pause.
Then the guard said simply:
"Very well."
A moment later, the great gates of Harrenhal began to open.
The sound was like thunder, heavy wood and iron grinding against stone.
Slowly, the darkness within the gate opened before him.
Lyonel took a breath.
Then he nudged Thunder forward.
And rode into Harrenhal.
Rhaena POV
The air felt heavy with heat and the bitter scent of boiled herbs, damp cloth, and sickness. Even with the shutters cracked open to let in the evening breeze, the chamber remained stifling.
Rhaena Targaryen stood beside the bed, her hands clasped so tightly in front of her that her fingers hurt, but she hardly noticed.
All her attention was on the young man lying beneath the blankets.
Maegor looked far too pale against the dark bed linens.
Sweat clung to his brow, soaking his hair and dampening the pillow beneath his head. His breathing came in uneven bursts, too quick, too shallow, each breath sounding strained, as if even that simple act demanded effort.
He looked smaller somehow.
Weaker.
Rhaena's chest tightened.
Seventeen.
Only seventeen namedays.
Seventeen, and he looked as though the Stranger was already standing beside his bed.
She bit at the edge of her nail, an old nervous habit she had never fully broken, and forced herself not to look away.
At the other side of the bed, Maester Will leaned over his patient, checking the sweat on his brow, listening to the rise and fall of his breathing, feeling for something in the weak pulse at his wrist.
The maester's face grew more grim with each passing moment.
Rhaena noticed.
"Speak," she said quietly.
The maester hesitated.
Then he straightened slowly and folded his hands inside his sleeves.
"Princess…" he began carefully, "Lord Maegor's fever has worsened."
The words struck her like a slap.
Her worry turned to anger at once.
She stepped toward him sharply.
"Worsened?" she repeated. "Did you not tell me yesterday that the herbs would help him?"
The maester lowered his eyes.
"Princess, I believed they would—"
"You believed?" she snapped.
The old man stammered, clearly shaken.
"Ah… it… I…"
Rhaena's patience snapped.
"Speak!"
The word rang through the room.
The maester flinched visibly.
Then, with obvious reluctance, he said the words she feared most.
"I do not know."
Silence followed.
Rhaena stared at him, feeling anger and helplessness twist together inside her.
He did not know.
The man who was supposed to heal, who was supposed to understand sickness and medicine and all the mysteries of the body—
He did not know.
She looked back at Maegor.
His chest rose and fell in weak, uneven motions.
He was suffering, and no one in this castle could save him.
Rhaena shut her eyes briefly, forcing herself to stay calm.
"At least ease his pain," she said at last, her voice quieter now but no less firm.
The maester nodded at once.
"Yes, Princess."
He moved to the table at the bedside and prepared a small measure of Milk of the poppy, carefully lifting Maegor's head enough to help him swallow it.
The young lord barely reacted.
His eyes remained shut.
His face remained twisted in discomfort even after the dose was given.
Rhaena watched in silence.
When the maester finished, she spoke again.
"Leave."
He bowed his head quickly.
"Yes, Princess."
Then Maester Will hurried from the room, leaving her alone with the feverish lord.
The silence felt immense.
Rhaena stepped closer to the bed and sat carefully on its edge.
For a moment, she simply looked at him.
She had known Maegor long enough to think of him as more than merely the lord of the castle where she stayed.
He was a friend.
Young, proud, stubborn at times, but kind.
One of the few people at Harrenhal whose company she had truly come to value.
And now he lay here burning with fever while she could do nothing.
She reached out slowly and laid the back of her hand against his forehead.
He was burning hot.
A tear slipped down her cheek before she realized it.
She swallowed hard.
"No," she whispered.
She had lost too many already.
Too many friends.
Too many people she cared for.
She could not bear to lose another.
She wiped the tear away quickly, almost angrily.
Then she stood.
There was nothing she could do in that room except watch him suffer.
So she left.
The halls of Harrenhal were cold compared to the fever room.
The stone walls loomed high and dark around her as she walked, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous corridors. Torches flickered in their brackets, casting restless shadows across the black stone.
She walked without direction.
Past empty chambers.
Past servants who bowed and quickly moved aside.
Past arrow slits where evening light streamed in thin lines.
She needed movement.
Needed space.
Needed anything to distract her from the image of Maegor burning up in that bed.
Then footsteps approached.
One of the guards stopped before her and bowed.
"Princess."
Rhaena looked at him, her patience already thin.
"Yes?"
"There is a man here to see you."
She frowned.
"There are many men who come to see me," she said. "Why tell me of this one?"
The guard hesitated.
"He claims to be a knight of House Dondarrion," the guard said. "And says he bears a message for you."
Rhaena stilled.
A knight of House House Dondarrion?
And a message?
For her?
She narrowed her eyes slightly.
"Did he say his name?"
The guard shook his head.
"I do not know."
"Only that the matter was important."
Rhaena thought for only a moment.
Then she nodded.
"Take me to him."
The guard bowed.
"At once, Princess."
She followed him down the dark halls of Harrenhal, her mind turning away from fever and sickness and toward this strange new arrival.
A Dondarrion knight.
A message.