The Red Keep – Small Council Chamber, Several Weeks Later, 226 AC
The chamber was dimly lit, the glow of iron sconces flickering off walls of polished stone. Tapestries bearing the arms of House Targaryen—three-headed dragons in red on black—hung beside narrow windows letting in the cold light of a winter morning. The air was tense with murmurs, ink, and parchment.
King Maekar I Targaryen, crowned in black iron points and red gold, sat at the head of the council table. The light played along the sharp lines of his hardened face. His scarred hands drummed once on the polished surface.
"My lords," he said. "Let us begin."
Brynden Rivers, the Hand of the King, inclined his pale head. "Your Grace," he said, voice as smooth and cold as winter wine. "There are troubling reports from the riverlands—concerning Lady Danelle Lothston of Harrenhal."
A hush fell, save for the scratching of quills.
"Ah," Lord Edward Tully murmured, frowning. "The Mad Lady of Harrenhal."
"She calls herself Queen of the Dusklands now," said Brynden, "and speaks openly of tearing down the dragons from their perch. Worse, there are whispers—foul whispers—of sorcery within the walls of Harrenhal. Her servants vanish. Her banners are red and black, but not for House Targaryen. And some say her nights are host to things not born of man."
Maekar leaned forward, frowning.
"I thought she was just mad," he said. "Is she truly dangerous?"
"I believe so, Your Grace," Brynden said. "The smallfolk near the Gods Eye dare not speak her name aloud. They say she walks the halls at night with her eyes afire and her hands drenched in blood. They say the Lothstons have taken to the black arts, and she has summoned demons to her cause. And some of these reports," he added, glancing at a parchment before him, "come from men of sober mind—knights, merchants, even septons."
The Grand Maester, a jowled old man with tired eyes, scoffed lightly, "Old wives' tales, Lord Hand. Perhaps too many cups of Fearsomn in the night."
Maekar let out a short snort. "Aye. Likely she's just breathed in too much of the Hoares' ashes. That place has driven greater men mad. King Harren's ghost must be whispering in her ear."
Laughter rippled around the table.
But Brynden did not laugh. "Madness or no, Harrenhal sits upon a crucible of power. If she raises her banners in earnest, the riverlords may waver. There is also the matter of her levies. Harrenhal can field near five hundred men alone, and she's drawn hedge knights and sellswords into her orbit like moths to a flame."
"What do you propose?" asked Ser Roland Crakehall, master-at-arms.
"That House Whent be elevated," Brynden said. "They are an old house of the riverlands, sworn to Harrenhal, long overshadowed by the Lothstons. Their loyalty to the Iron Throne is proven and steady. If they are given royal license to act, they will march upon Harrenhal, and tear out the rot."
"And if they succeed?" asked Maekar, arching one brow.
"They should be rewarded," Brynden said. "With Harrenhal itself."
A long pause. Then Maekar sat back and nodded slowly. "Let it be done. Lord Whent will have my favor. Raise him high, and let the Mad Lady fall. I'll not have traitors dancing with ghosts at my back."
He looked across the table.
"And if Lady Danelle does summon demons," he added grimly, "we'll send them back to whatever hell they came from."
The council murmured their assent.
As the meeting dispersed, Brynden lingered at the table. He looked down at the parchment bearing Danelle Lothston's name, and his thoughts lingered not just on rebellion—but on darker things.
He had seen worse than demons.
And some ghosts, he knew, did not stay buried.