North of the verdant waters of the Gods Eye stood Harrenhal, the largest castle in all the Seven Kingdoms.
This was a fortress built by fear and hubris in equal measure.
Legend told that "Harren the Black," King of the Iron Islands and the Riverlands, had erected this "impregnable stronghold" at terrible cost—countless ancient weirwood trees felled, mountains of stone quarried from distant lands, the lives of thousands of captives spent like copper pennies, and mortar darkened with the blood of infants.
Unfortunately for Harren, he had failed to account for Aegon's dragons.
During Aegon's Conquest, dragonfire had rained from the skies, rendering stone walls as malleable as candle wax. Harren himself had become naught but charred bones in the highest tower, thereafter known as "Kingspyre Tower" in grim remembrance.
Harrenhal lost its master on that day, and in the centuries since, had never truly found another.
The castle had changed hands numerous times throughout its blood-soaked history, and without exception, the noble houses granted its dominion eventually faded into obscurity or met violent ends.
The smallfolk whispered that Harrenhal was cursed, its black stones drinking the life and fortune of any who claimed lordship over it.
Joffrey had initially dismissed such tales as peasant superstition. What significance could be attributed to several families dying out over the course of hundreds of years? Correlation was not causation.
But now, as he gazed upon the vast and dilapidated expanse of Harrenhal, he perceived something unsettling—a haze of crimson that seemed to cling to the melted stonework like morning mist, visible only to his enhanced senses.
Lady Shella Whent, the aged Countess of Harrenhal, emerged to greet them accompanied by no more than a dozen retainers. They moved with palpable wariness, struggling to conceal their terror at the sight of Rain, whose massive form dwarfed their horses.
The intimidating presence of the giant lion offered little comfort to the castle's inhabitants.
"Harrenhal does not welcome uninvited guests!" Lady Whent called out, her voice quavering despite her attempt at boldness. "State your identities and purpose! Do not presume we fear this... this beast."
These people evidently did not recognize the Crown Prince without his royal trappings.
Tyrion reluctantly dismounted from Rain's back, landing with an undignified thud before approaching House Whent's meager welcoming party.
"Greetings, esteemed Lady Whent," he said with practiced courtesy. "I am Tyrion Lannister, as I suspect you may have divined from my... distinctive stature."
Recognition dawned in the old woman's eyes, for the Imp's appearance was indeed unmistakable throughout the realm.
"The King's procession follows not far behind," Tyrion continued smoothly. "The Crown Prince and I merely wished to admire magnificent Harrenhal in advance of the royal party's arrival. I trust House Whent will extend its legendary hospitality."
As if summoned by his words, more than a dozen knights appeared on the horizon, riding hard toward the castle gates.
These men had been tasked with guarding the Crown Prince, but their mounts had proven woefully inadequate when matched against Rain's supernatural speed. Still, they had arrived in time to prevent any further misunderstanding.
The retainers of House Whent observed the fluttering banners the knights carried—the crowned stag of House Baratheon and the golden lion of House Lannister, gleaming in the afternoon light.
Lady Whent's demeanor transformed instantly as realization struck her.
"Your Royal Highness, Lord Tyrion," she said, executing a painful curtsy. "This old woman has shown inexcusable discourtesy. I humbly beg your forgiveness."
She turned and snapped orders to her household with newfound vigor. "Make haste! Prepare the great hall! Alert every servant, knight, and man-at-arms. His Majesty's royal progress approaches, and House Whent shall demonstrate its unfailing loyalty!"
Rain had already begun to move with regal indifference, padding toward the castle's massive gates. Tyrion, abandoned to his fate, had no choice but to follow on foot, his short legs carrying him across the dusty ground with visible reluctance.
Lady Whent personally guided the Crown Prince astride his fearsome mount.
"Your Highness honors us with this special visit," she wheezed, struggling to keep pace. "This old woman can only pray you will not be too disappointed by what you see."
Bitterness etched deep lines around her mouth.
"Harrenhal is naught but an empty shell now—a hollow monument to fallen glory."
All her children had preceded her to the grave, a sorrow no mother should bear. Harrenhal's immense size made it impossible to maintain with her dwindling resources, and she was old and frail besides. The question of who might inherit the cursed seat after her passing weighed heavily upon her mind. Such troubles had long since robbed her of any capacity for joy.
"You are too modest, my lady," Joffrey replied with practiced charm. "How could such a marvel be called a ruin? I daresay it surpasses even the Red Keep in grandeur."
His eyes, however, told a different tale as he surveyed Harrenhal with keen interest.
It did indeed resemble a ruin more than a functioning stronghold. There were no proper defensive fortifications, no clear boundaries between inhabited structures and formless mounds of debris.
The few inhabitants visible moved like ghosts through the vast courtyards, diminutive and silent, more akin to squatters in an abandoned building than rightful denizens of a great castle.
Fortunately, the gatehouse still stood intact, its massive arch tall enough to rival the Tower of the Hand in the Red Keep. Passing beneath it might reasonably be considered formal entry into the castle proper.
Once within, Joffrey could plainly see the scars left by dragonfire centuries before.
Every stone wall bore cracks and discoloration. The repeatedly melted and cooled rock had flowed like wax before solidifying into strange formations that resembled frozen waterfalls. The five immense towers that pierced the clouds loomed like the gnarled, twisted fingers of some buried giant, reaching up to snatch unwary souls from the heavens.
The sight was both terrifying and magnificent.
Joffrey's gaze seemed focused on something beyond the physical stonework—something hidden within the very fabric of the ancient fortress.
The hazy crimson light that suffused Harrenhal, invisible to ordinary eyes, was not uniform in its intensity. Within the stone walls, Joffrey could discern brighter, more intricate patterns that pulsed with arcane energy.
New runes are beckoning to me, he thought with growing excitement.
This confirmed his theory regarding alternative methods of acquiring runic knowledge.
Buildings with ancient, mystical legacies.
Castle Black and Storm's End could almost certainly be counted among such places, their construction steeped in legend and magic. Did Winterfell likewise harbor such secrets? His anticipation for the journey northward grew stronger by the moment.
Night descended upon Harrenhal, and the ancient fortress finally stirred with something resembling life.
King Robert had arrived with his considerable entourage, and Lady Whent had respectfully invited His Grace and his closest companions to lodge in the central tower of Harrenhal—the infamous "Kingspyre Tower."
Though the name carried ominous connotations, King Robert had jovially accepted the arrangement, either oblivious to or unconcerned by the historical irony.
Hundreds of knights and lords, along with thousands of servants, now crowded into the Great Hall for the evening's feast. Despite their multitude, the immense chamber swallowed them easily, making even this substantial gathering appear modest within its cavernous expanse.
Joffrey found himself wondering why "Harren the Black" had constructed everything on such a preposterous scale.
It was impractical for daily life, inefficient to heat, and impossible to properly defend without an army of thousands.
Perhaps it had been designed specifically to emphasize the terrible lesson it now embodied—how even the mightiest works of man could be reduced to ruin by dragonfire.
Yet beneath his critical assessment, Joffrey felt a stirring of envy.
Size has its own virtue, he admitted to himself. The Red Keep is impressive enough, but its grounds cover mere hundreds of thousands of square feet.
It paled in comparison not only to the grand palaces from his previous life but even to other castles within Westeros itself. Harrenhal, Winterfell, even Casterly Rock—all dwarfed the seat of the Iron Throne.
How can this be tolerated?
He set himself another ambitious goal to add to his growing list: to build a palace of unprecedented scale and splendor, one that would make Harrenhal seem modest by comparison.
It should, at minimum, rival the entirety of King's Landing in its current form.
King's Landing.
Joffrey's gaze drifted to Robert Baratheon, seated at the high table.
The King had a serving girl perched upon his knee, his face flushed with wine, regaling the surrounding nobles and knights with increasingly slurred tales of his glorious youth.
Each time Joffrey observed the King, each moment he considered the schemers and plotters infesting the Seven Kingdoms, he became more acutely aware of his precarious position.
He could envision, without hesitation or remorse, the precise manner in which he might end Robert's life.
Joffrey faced this world with a consciousness unburdened by his predecessor's memories and attachments. He felt no obligation to honor relationships that brought him no benefit, viewing those who posed obstacles to his ambitions as enemies to be eliminated.
Moreover, Robert had shown scant affection or concern for his purported son throughout Joffrey's lifetime. Their interactions contained little genuine warmth or paternal guidance.
And without Robert, Joffrey's path to power would be significantly clearer.
Beyond the nebulous threat of a kinslayer's curse, he could identify no compelling reason to hesitate, let alone abandon such a course of action.
Is it truly kinslaying, he mused, when no blood relation exists?
Joffrey found he cared little for the distinction.
He had already resolved to act without hesitation or self-recrimination when the moment arrived.
Father, he thought, watching Robert laugh uproariously at his own jest. Let me address you thus, sincerely, one final time.
I am going to kill you.
You named me Prince of Dragonstone, and for that, I shall grant you one last pleasure.
You've always favored grand spectacles, have you not?
I brought a piece of music from that other world—a composition of particular majesty.
There, it was called "The King's Arrival." Here, I shall name it "King's Landing."
I had intended to reserve it for my own coronation, but now it shall be yours.
Your name will forever be linked to it in the annals of history.
Be content with this honor.
Let me dedicate this song, "King's Landing," to you.
To bid you farewell.
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