Chapter 6: Barley and Bitter Secrets
The locked cellar beneath the Tower of Ghosts smelled of damp stone, charred oak, and the sharp bite of fermenting barley. It was the eighth day of the seventh moon, 184 AC, and Prince Aegon Targaryen had waited until the smallfolk were abed before slipping down the hidden stair with only Tommard at his side. A single lantern cast long shadows across the rough-hewn tables he had ordered built in secret. Copper tubing—hammered by a deaf blacksmith who asked no questions—coiled like a sleeping snake from a large iron pot to a wooden barrel half-filled with cool lake water.
"First batch," Aegon said softly, his nine-year-old voice steady as he stirred the bubbling mash with a long paddle. The new knowledge made every step feel natural: malted barley soaked just right, yeast from the castle's own bread starters, slow heat from the brazier so the spirits would rise clean and strong. "We call it dragon's breath—clear, hot, with a touch of honey at the end. Strong enough to warm a man's belly and loosen his tongue."
Tommard, eleven and sweating despite the chill, watched wide-eyed as the first drops of clear liquid trickled into a silver cup. "It smells… powerful, my prince. Like the strongwine the knights drink, but cleaner."
Aegon lifted the cup, inhaled, then sipped. Fire and sweetness bloomed on his tongue—better than anything from his old world's cheap vodka. "Perfect. We'll age half in these oak casks for the guards. The rest we flavor with godswood berries for the feast next moon. Loyal men get a taste first. It binds them tighter than oaths."
They worked another hour, measuring, cooling, sealing. Tommard's loyalty shone in every careful movement; Lanna waited above with fresh bread to mask any scent on their clothes. When they finally climbed back into the moonlit yard, Aegon felt the quiet thrill of creation. My gold. My drink. My men. The curse that kept lords away made it all easier—no one questioned why the young prince spent so many evenings "praying" in the godswood or "studying" alone.
But the next morning, after the usual small court where Aegon settled a grazing dispute with printed tallies that left both farmers smiling, the maester approached.
Maester Walys was a thin man of fifty, his chain heavy with links of silver, iron, and lead. He had served House Lothston loyally, and now served the prince with careful bows and careful words. Today his hands trembled slightly as he offered a rolled parchment. "A raven from King's Landing, my prince. The king sends warm words about your courts."
Aegon took it, violet eyes flicking over the seal—unbroken. Yet something felt wrong. The maester's smile was too tight.
Later, alone in the solar, Aegon broke the real seal he had noticed earlier on a second, hidden letter tucked inside Walys's sleeve when the man had bent to adjust a brazier. The parchment was fresh, the script hurried.
To the Archmaester of the Citadel,
The boy-prince shows knowledge no child should possess—crop rotations unknown even in Oldtown, printing presses that mimic the Freehold, judgments too precise. He speaks of "central power" and drills his guards like a Tyroshi sellsword captain. I fear the fever changed more than his health. The blood of the Unworthy runs hot; if he grows stronger, Harrenhal may birth new dragons. I have prepared the usual draughts should the Citadel deem it necessary. Send instruction.
Aegon's fingers tightened until the parchment creaked. Old theories from his Earth life flooded back—whispers on forums and books he had read between schemes: the Citadel's quiet war on magic, maesters clipping the wings of dragons, poisoning eggs to end the beasts, guiding stillbirths and madness in Targaryen blood to weaken the throne. They fear us. Always have.
He called Tommard and Ser Oswell that same afternoon, the letter laid open on the table.
"The maester hides ravens," Aegon said simply, voice small but cold. "He thinks me unnatural. He speaks of draughts. Poison."
Ser Oswell's face darkened. "Treason, my prince. But the Citadel—"
"—will send no one," Aegon interrupted, eyes hard. "I am lord here. The curse already keeps most men away; I will not let chain-wearing spiders watch my every move. No more maesters at Harrenhal."
Tommard swallowed. "What will you do?"
Aegon stood, small shoulders straight. "Bring him."
The confrontation in the great hall was quiet, almost gentle. Walys knelt, chain clinking. "My prince, the letter was only concern—"
"You wished me dead," Aegon said, holding up the parchment for all the gathered guards and servants to see. "Like the dragons before me. Like the babes that never breathed. The Citadel has whispered against my house for centuries. I will not have it here."
Lanna gasped from the side; whispers rippled through the smallfolk. Ser Oswell's hand rested on his sword.
Walys's voice cracked. "I served faithfully—"
"You served the Citadel first." Aegon's tone never rose. "For that, you die."
The execution was swift—beheading in the yard at dusk, no spectacle, no torture. The body was burned on a pyre of weirwood branches so the old gods and new could witness. No raven flew to Oldtown. Aegon simply sent a polite letter to the Citadel: Harrenhal requires no maester. The prince studies alone.
In the days that followed, the real change began—slowly, carefully, so no one could call it rebellion.
"I will open a school," Aegon announced in the next morning's court, voice carrying across the hall. "Not for lords' sons alone. Any child who wishes—farmer's boy, washerwoman's girl—may learn letters, numbers, history. Those who study hard may take an examination, like the emperors of Yi Ti across the sea. The best will serve as tax collectors, judges, scribes—positions chosen by merit, not birth. Harrenhal will be governed by minds, not blood alone."
The smallfolk stared, stunned. A baker's wife whispered, "The young dragon gives us learning…"
Tommard helped draft the first notices, printed neatly on the new press. Lanna spread the word in the kitchens. Within a fortnight a modest academy rose in the repaired lower floor of the Tower of Ghosts—benches, slates, a few salvaged books from the maester's tower. Aegon taught the first lessons himself: simple sums, the Common Tongue, basic law. Older students learned from printed copies of old Riverlands histories.
His fame began to grow in quiet ways. Smallfolk mothers brought gifts of honey and eggs. A hedge knight who had refused land under the curse now begged to send his bastard son. "The prince lifts the curse with learning," they said in the taverns.
Meanwhile, the military training sharpened. Dawn drills in the outer bailey now included shield walls that locked like Roman legions, rotating ranks so no man tired, scouts taught to move like shadows from the spy tales of his old world. "Loyalty is earned, not bought with fear alone," Aegon told his thirty guards one misty morning, demonstrating a simple formation in the dirt. "Obey, learn, rise by merit—and Harrenhal will never fall again."
Tommard led the sessions now, voice stronger every day. Lanna's spies brought reports of genuine affection among the smallfolk: "The boy-lord cares for us more than any cursed lord ever did."
Yet that night, alone with the weirwood leaf and the ashes of the maester's chain, Aegon felt the old emptiness stir once more. Power tasted sweet. But the Seattle rain still whispered in the back of his mind.
He pushed it down and smiled into the dark.
One spider removed. A thousand loyal minds to come.
End of Chapter 6