Chapter 11: Lanterns Fade, Roads Begin
The music of the fiddle and drum lingered in the great hall like a half-remembered dream, soft and steady, as the twenty-fifth day of the eighth moon, 184 AC, slipped deeper into night. Most of the smallfolk had finished their portions of pigeon and barley bread, but none seemed eager to leave. Children dozed against their mothers' shoulders; knights nursed the last of their dragon's-breath in silver cups; guards stood a little straighter than they had at sunset.
Prince Aegon Targaryen rose from the high table, small hand extended to Lanna. "One dance," he said, loud enough for the nearest tables to hear. "As I promised my cupbearer, who has worked so hard to make this night beautiful."
Lanna's freckled cheeks flushed rose in the lantern light. She curtsied low, the silver thread on her blue gown catching the dragon-shaped shadows. "My prince honors me."
The fiddler quickened the reel just enough. Aegon led her into the open space before the high table, his steps careful and small so a thirteen-year-old girl could follow without stumbling. One hand rested lightly at her waist, the other holding hers. They turned once, twice, the rushes whispering under their feet. Lanna's eyes never left his face; her smile was shy and bright at once.
"You dance well for a prince who spends his days with books and drills," she whispered, voice meant only for him.
Aegon smiled the gentle, boyish smile he had practiced in the silver mirror of the Kingspyre. "And you dance like the river itself, Lanna. Smooth and strong." As they turned again he let his gaze drift—subtle, casual—across the hall. The academy parents watched with open fondness; the guards nodded approval; the handful of knights clapped in time, their expressions warm but not calculating. No hidden sneers. No whispered doubts behind raised hands. Loyalty, raw and simple, shone in every face.
Good, he thought, the word cold and satisfied behind the warmth in his eyes. They see a kind boy-lord dancing with a servant girl and think it proof I care for all of them. Perfect.
When the music ended he bowed low to Lanna as though she were a highborn lady. The hall applauded louder than it had for the poems or the drills. Lanna curtsied again, eyes shining, then returned to her place behind his chair. Aegon climbed back onto his seat, raised his cup once more.
"To every soul under Harrenhal's roof," he called. "May the next harvest be even richer, and the nights as warm as this one."
The toast echoed back, heartfelt and sleepy. Slowly the guests began to drift away—parents carrying sleeping children, knights clasping forearms with the guards, smallfolk clutching their jars of perfume oil like treasures. The lanterns burned lower, dragon shadows shrinking on the walls. By the time the last family left, only the inner circle remained: Ser Oswell, Tommard, Lanna, and a few servants clearing the tables.
Aegon yawned the yawn of a tired nine-year-old. "Tomorrow will be quiet. The feast was good."
Lanna touched his sleeve as she helped him down from the chair. "It was perfect, my prince."
He squeezed her fingers once, brief and reassuring. "Sleep well. You earned it."
The next morning dawned cool and golden, mist still clinging to the Gods Eye. Pate stood in the outer yard beside a sturdy dun pony, saddlebags packed light: a sealed letter from the prince, a pouch of silver, one small cask of lavender dragon's-breath wrapped carefully in oilcloth, and a change of plain clothes. The twelve-year-old looked older in the traveling cloak—merchant's son turned messenger.
Aegon walked out with Tommard and Lanna to see him off. The yard was quiet except for the pony's soft snorts and the distant clang of the academy bell calling the first lesson.
"Remember every word I told you," Aegon said, voice low but kind, the perfect elder brother. "You are a wandering student seeking rare books for a young lord who loves learning. Speak only to those who seem restless under the Citadel's rules—acolytes who grumble about forbidden scrolls, scribes tired of copying the same old histories. Offer them good silver, warm beds, and freedom to teach children without chains. If anyone asks your name, you are Pate of Maidenpool. Nothing more."
Pate bowed, serious and proud. "I won't fail you, my prince. I'll listen more than I speak. And I'll be back before the snows close the roads."
Lanna pressed a small bundle of honey cakes into his hands. "For the journey. Come back safe."
Tommard clapped the boy on the shoulder. "The prince trusts you. That's rarer than Valyrian steel."
Pate mounted, gave one last wave, and turned the pony toward the main gate. The guards saluted as he passed. Aegon watched until the small figure disappeared down the river-road that hugged the Gods Eye.
Three weeks later, far to the south, Pate sat in a smoky tavern on the outskirts of Oldtown, the Citadel's white towers visible through the open door like pale fingers against the evening sky. He had traveled slowly—barge down the Gods Eye to the Trident, then a series of slow wagons and rented horses along the Roseroad, sleeping in inns where merchants gossiped freely. Each night he listened more than he spoke, learning the rhythm of the road.
Tonight the tavern was half-full of acolytes in grey robes, their chains clinking as they drank cheap wine. Pate nursed a mug of ale, cloak hood low, pretending to study a battered book of poems.
At the next table two young men—barely older than him—complained in low voices.
"…another lecture on why Valyrian glyphs are 'too dangerous' for anyone below archmaester," the first muttered. "I've copied the same bloody scrolls for three years. What's the point if we never use the knowledge?"
The second laughed bitterly. "Oldtown keeps its secrets tighter than a septa's skirts. I heard there's a lord in the Riverlands opening a school for commoners. No chains, no oaths to the Conclave. Just teaching."
Pate kept his eyes on his book, heart beating steady. He waited until the second acolyte stepped outside to piss, then followed casually.
"Beg pardon," Pate said quietly in the alley. "I couldn't help overhearing. That lord in the Riverlands… Harrenhal, they say. Prince Aegon himself. He pays well. And he lets men teach what they know—old tongues, stars, even the things the Citadel calls forbidden. I'm heading back north in a few days. If any clever men want a better life…"
He left the offer hanging like bait. The acolyte stared, then gave a slow, hungry smile.
Two nights later, in another tavern closer to the Citadel gates, Pate sat with three more—two scribes and a herbalist who had grown tired of grinding the same herbs for archmaesters who never credited their work. Whispers passed over watered wine: complaints about the Conclave's stranglehold, rumors that certain books on dragonlore had been locked away "for the good of the realm."
Pate listened, nodded, offered the prince's silver as earnest coin, and promised warm towers and freedom at Harrenhal. By the time the moon had waned again he had four names, four quiet agreements, and a head full of careful notes written in the simple code Aegon had taught him.
The road home would be long and slow, but the first seeds had been planted.
Back at Harrenhal, as the ninth moon began, Aegon stood on the Kingspyre battlements and watched the horizon, violet eyes calm. Pate was still weeks away, but the feast's warmth still lingered in the smallfolk's smiles, and the dance with Lanna had bound her tighter than any oath.
The game moved forward, one careful step at a time.
End of Chapter 11