ACT III: The Reign of Jaehaerys I — Part 2: The Severance and Exile (87 AC – 101 AC)
Chapter 22: The Judgment of Harrenhal and the Red Visit (101 AC)
In the sacred grove extending near my Black Stone Tower, I took advantage of the frigid northern silence to organize my thoughts and, above all, to wait.
The snow fell at a steady, gentle pace, covering the ground of ancient stones and roots with a thick layer of pale ice.
Walking casually through the grove, wearing her heavy cloaks of ice-fox fur and dark velvet, my wife Viserra emerged.
She approached the immense weirwood at the center of the clearing, stopping before the pale trunk and extending her delicate fingers to touch the face carved into the wood of the centuries-old tree.
“You know, Arthos…” she said, observing the eyes weeping red sap carved into the bark.
“…Your mother carved this face very well.
Perhaps I should use a chisel and carve my own image on the other side of the tree to leave my mark.”
I let out a short laugh, leaning my shoulder against the trunk of a frost-covered pine.
“I may not be the most zealous believer of the Old Gods, Viserra, but I certainly won’t let you ruin a sacred weirwood with your carving attempts.”
Viserra turned to me, crossing her arms over her chest and wrinkling her nose playfully.
“Hey!
I was one of the best embroiderers among my sisters in the quarters of the Red Keep!”
“Carving ancient wood with sorcery and iron tools has absolutely nothing to do with embroidering fine fabrics, my dear,” I teased.
Before she could reply with a sharp retort, the rhythmic sound of horse hooves crushing the frozen snow cut through the clearing’s silence.
Along the trail connecting the grove to the central villages of the Territory of Blessings, three riders appeared.
In front came the young elected representative of the villages—a surprisingly shrewd youth who had won the local elections by an overwhelming margin of votes, even gaining the support of settlements where he had no blood ties.
Riding beside him were two figures of immense political weight: Lord Ellard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell, and his young relative Benjen Stark—the boy who would become the grandfather of the legendary Cregan Stark in future chronicles.
I approached them with a smirk and crossed arms.
“Well, well…
What cold winds bring the noble wolves of Winterfell into the presence of this handsome, hot, affectionate, sweet-smelling, and extremely humble sorcerer?”
Young Benjen Stark could not hold back a muffled laugh, while Lord Ellard maintained the stern, solemn expression traditional to his line.
“Standard Stark humor, as always…” I mocked softly.
“So, what brings the Lord of Winterfell to my lands?”
Lord Ellard adjusted his horse’s reins and stared at me gravely.
“Lord Vaelarys…
Will you attend the Great Council of Harrenhal summoned by the king?”
“The Territory of Blessings is a completely independent enclave and no longer part of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Stark,” I replied in a calm tone.
“But I am still considering whether I’ll have the patience to fly down there merely as a spectator.”
“We of the North will vote as a block for Princess Rhaenys or her young son, Laenor Velaryon,” Ellard declared firmly.
“We merely wanted to ensure that all the great forces of the North were on the same page before heading south.”
I let out an amused sigh.
“It is comforting to know that in the North there are still men who think pragmatically and do not let themselves be bound by outdated southern traditions.
However, I warn you now: you will go to Harrenhal only to waste your time.
The Andal lords of the South will never allow Rhaenys or her line to sit on the Iron Throne.”
Lord Ellard frowned, his gaze heavy.
“So you believe she truly has no chance?”
“None,” I declared with absolute candor.
“But at least you will make it known that the North does not bow to the idiocies of the court.
That holds some moral value.”
Ellard nodded, accepting my diagnosis.
We spent the next few minutes discussing the security of the Gift’s border and the supply trade in the North.
Shortly after, the Starks took their leave and continued their journey toward Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, where they would board ships for White Harbor and subsequently sail to Maidenpool, the seat of House Mooton, to travel by land to Harrenhal.
As I walked back to my tower accompanied by Viserra, I paused for a moment and reflected on my fief’s welcoming of new inhabitants.
I had ensured that any wildling who swore fealty to the laws of the Blessings would have space around my hearth.
I let out a low, quiet laugh upon hearing my own thought.
What a ridiculously traditional and northern phrase to utter.
My late mother would surely be deeply proud to see how much of her people’s culture and customs I had absorbed.
However, my arcane perception caught a mystical trail in the air.
I smelled the annoying scent of an incoming headache miles away.
Lifting my eyes to the grey sky, I spotted the distinct shadow of a dragon with a terribly long, serpentine neck cutting through the clouds.
I sighed.
I already knew perfectly well that I was going to be irritated in the hours to come.
In the grand main hall of the Black Stone Tower, I was having lunch in the company of Viserra and Daenerys.
From the side corridor emerged Ella—the tower’s head housekeeper.
With Viserra and Daenerys settling permanently in the North, it had been necessary to hire and train more local maids to keep the complex in order.
Ella was escorting two illustrious visitors: Prince Daemon Targaryen and Princess Gael.
Daemon entered the hall looking around with a poorly disguised expression of superiority.
“You know, Arthos…
I expected a formal reception fit for a prince of the realm upon landing at your tower, not to be guided to the table by a mere maid.”
I stared at the boy as I cut a piece of meat on my plate.
“You are no prince here in the North, Daemon.
And these lands definitely do not belong to your realm.”
Daemon let out a mocking laugh, pulling out a carved wooden chair for Gael to sit beside him.
“Be very careful with what you say, Lord Vaelarys…” he teased, pouring himself some wine.
“…I could ask my brother Viserys to annex all these lands back to the crown as soon as he is crowned king.”
“Ask him,” I replied in an icy tone, staring directly into his eyes.
“Then I will have an excellent arcane reason to erase that foul trench you call King’s Landing from the map of Westeros.
Population, stronghold, and buildings all together.”
Daemon stared at me for two seconds before breaking into a broad, relaxed smile.
“Well…
Depending on who you ask in the capital, many would think you performed a great public service for the realm by doing so.”
Lunch continued with Daemon firing off his usual bravado, though it was visible that his marriage to Gael had done him a world of good.
The boy was infinitely more controlled and attached to his young wife.
After the meal, we retired to my private solar.
Daemon settled extravagantly into the armchair in front of the hearth, crossing his legs with an air of importance.
“Right, Arthos…
Time to talk real business.”
“No,” I cut in immediately, without looking up from my tomes.
Daemon blinked, surprised.
“But I haven’t even made my request yet!”
“I know exactly what you’re going to ask, and my answer is an absolute ‘no’,” I declared, closing the book.
“I only came here to ask for your political support and the weight of your house for his cause at Harrenhal!”
“If the criteria were legitimacy and capability,” I replied, staring at him with sarcasm, “Princess Daenerys would be the legitimate and ideal heir to the realm.”
Daemon frowned, shaking his head with disdain.
“Yes, but Daenerys is just a…”
“A master-level blood sorceress,” I interrupted in an imperious tone, “a devastating pyromancer, an experienced dragonrider, and, above all, the eldest living daughter of the main line.”
“Tradition doesn’t say that!” Daemon protested.
I let out a laugh of pure mockery.
“Well, well…
Weren’t you the great Valyrian culture supremacist, Daemon?
By being the most talented, the strongest, and the eldest, in Ancient Valyria Daenerys would be the indisputable heir to the empire.
Or do Valyrian traditions only hold value for you when they suit your personal interests?”
Daemon fell silent in the same instant.
His jaw clenched, but he could not find a single word to counter my logic.
“Just as I thought,” I concluded, leaning back in my chair.
The boy remained silent for a few moments before standing up.
“Right, Arthos…
I shall take my leave.”
“Yes, go,” I replied.
“And don’t step foot in the North with these political futilities again.”
Despite the scolding, Daemon did the exact opposite of what he said: instead of leaving immediately, he remained hosted at the tower for the rest of the day, enjoying the comfort of my domain before taking off the following morning.
And just when I thought I would finally have peace in my solar, another dragon cut through the northern skies.
This time, red scales shimmered in the sun: Meleys, the Red Queen.
Minutes later, I found myself face-to-face with Princess Rhaenys in my solar.
Clad in her dark leather riding clothes, the woman maintained breathtaking beauty and a youthful posture, appearing like a warrior untouched by time even after giving birth to two children.
“First that idiot Daemon, now you…” I commented, pouring two goblets of wine.
Rhaenys accepted the goblet with a faint smile.
“I know…
I only came to your tower because I heard Daemon was here yesterday trying to wring support out of you.”
“My answer to you is exactly the same one I gave him, Rhaenys: no,” I declared without beating around the bush.
“Besides, my territory isn’t even part of the Seven Kingdoms for me to have voting rights in that council.”
“I know,” she sighed, looking at the hearth flames.
“But I had to try, didn’t I?”
“Trying is valid,” I commented, “but winning is something you won’t achieve.
I believe you’re already aware that the southern lords would never choose you.
To the mediocre mindset of the court, Viserys is an infinitely more malleable prince than your son Laenor—or rather, Corlys Velaryon operating behind Laenor.”
Rhaenys lowered her eyes, letting out a bitter laugh.
“Yes…
Personally, although I still desire what is mine by right of blood, deep down I’ve already accepted that I won’t have that crown.”
“You’re sensible,” I observed.
“But I highly doubt Corlys will accept this defeat with the same dignity.
That man’s unbridled ambition is what will make your house lose everything in the end.
A man like Corlys with absolute power in his hands would be a tragedy for the realm.”
Rhaenys stared at me with a calm look.
“Hey…
He is still my husband, Arthos.”
I smirked.
“I imagine your visit to my tower was precisely to escape a bit from his pressure and ambition on Driftmark, correct?”
“Yes…” she confessed, relaxing her shoulders.
“I need a moment of peace before facing that arena at Harrenhal.”
“Stay as long as you wish,” I offered.
Rhaenys remained at the Black Stone Tower for two whole days, enjoying the hospitality of the North.
On the third day, she took off on Meleys heading for Harrenhal.
Twenty-four hours later, Viserra, Daenerys, and I mounted The Cannibal, the Pale Queen, and Silverwing to witness the outcome of that political circus.
The sight of Harrenhal from high above was monumental and unsettling.
It was the largest concentration of nobles and lords Westeros had ever seen in its history.
I thought to myself that a single magical bomb dropped into the center of that courtyard would eliminate ninety percent of the continent’s nobility, plunging the Seven Kingdoms into a succession crisis and civil wars that would last for decades.
But I restrained my destructive temptation.
The voting process unfolded identically to my predictions.
Princess Rhaenys’s claim was discarded in the very first meetings simply because she was a woman—a rejection stated directly and bluntly by the Andal lords.
The final dispute narrowed down between young Laenor Velaryon and Prince Viserys Targaryen.
At the end of the vote count, Viserys won by an overwhelming majority.
Only the northern houses, the lords of the Narrow Sea islands, and House Baratheon kept their votes aligned in favor of Laenor.
One of my goals in attending Harrenhal had been to observe the retinue to try and identify the presence of any greenseer or sorcerer from the opposing order operating in disguise.
However, after the psychic beating I had dealt the Three-Eyed Crow the previous year, I highly doubted any of them would have the courage to expose themselves to my arcane perception.
With the result proclaimed, King Jaehaerys I officially declared Prince Viserys Targaryen as the Proclaimed Heir to the Iron Throne.
Without offering comments or greetings to the triumphant court, I turned my back and returned immediately with my wives to the North.
However, I was mistaken to judge that the order of sorcerers would stay entirely in the shadows.
Three days after our return to the Black Stone Tower, I was standing at the top of the stone steps leading to the fortress’s grand entrance.
The wind howled loudly, dragging a dense snowstorm along.
In the middle of the snowstorm’s white blanket, a female figure emerged, walking slowly.
Her blood-red robes created a violent and mesmerizing contrast against the pure snow.
The woman stopped at the base of the staircase, raising her face and staring at me with magnetic eyes.
“You honor my humble existence, O beautiful Song of Ice and Fire…
by coming to receive me personally in this cold,” she said, her velvety voice carrying a deep Essosi accent.
I analyzed the magical aura emanating from her body and replied in a dry tone:
“Kinvara…
High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis and first servant of the Lord of Light.
But above all, a member of the order of sorcerers that dared conspire against me.”
The woman smiled elegantly, ascending the stone steps.
“It was foolish to come here tonight, Tom,” I declared in a calm tone, keeping my eyes fixed on her.
Internally, I let out an ironic laugh savoring the classic quotation from the duel between Dumbledore and Voldemort at the Ministry of Magic.
Kinvara, for her part, blinked for a second, demonstrating a slight perplexity at that unfamiliar name, but maintained her aristocratic composure.
Obviously, I offered no explanation; my secret and true origin remained locked in the depths of my soul.
“We won’t speak in the middle of this freezing storm.”
“I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Vaelarys,” she replied, “even knowing that the cold cannot bother either of us.”
“Mind you, Kinvara…” I commented as we walked into the tower’s interior “…I won’t offer you bread and salt as a guest, for the chances of me killing you in the coming hours are considerable.
But even so, we can converse in a more comfortable environment.”
As we crossed the reception hall, Viserra and Daenerys were already waiting for us on their feet, their arcane perception fully activated.
I sat in the central armchair and gestured for Kinvara to settle into the chair across from me.
“What brings a priestess of Volantis to the North of Westeros, and what gives you the foolish confidence that you won’t leave here dead today?” I asked.
Viserra let out a low laugh from the corner of the room, crossing her arms.
“I suppose being an attractive woman gives her confidence that my husband won’t kill her…
And unfortunately, she’s completely right.”
I turned my face toward Viserra, raising an eyebrow.
“Is that the image you have of your own husband, Viserra?”
Daenerys intervened in the same instant with an amused smile:
“Viserra is absolutely right, Arthos.”
“No respect whatsoever in my own home…” I grumbled with irony.
“But mind you, Kinvara: I’m only not killing you today because I’m not in the mood to clean the hall.
Or rather, that will depend strictly on the true purpose of your visit.”
Kinvara maintained her flawless posture and answered with serenity:
“After your devastating psychic confrontation with our greenseer last year, our order understood that keeping you as an active enemy would be a catastrophe for our future plans.”
“So you finally felt fear,” I summarized firmly.
“Yes…” the Red Priestess admitted without hesitation.
“We felt fear.”
Kinvara then reached her delicate hands to the neckline of her dress and retrieved an ancient scroll of worked leather from between her breasts.
I stepped forward and took the document from her hands.
Unrolling the leather, my arcane perception immediately caught the mystical matrix engraved on the scroll.
“Well, well…” I murmured, my eyes gleaming in fascination.
“…A fascinating blood sorcery.
Incomplete in some points, it’s true, but one that will help me immensely to solve my main personal goal at the moment.
Who was the arcanist who created this matrix?”
“You yourself,” Kinvara replied with a calm smile.
“In the future.
The next generation’s Three-Eyed Crow sent this matrix from tomorrow through a temporal vision to our order in the present.”
I sustained my gaze on the scroll, understanding the temporal web.
The bastard Brynden Rivers had sent it across the ages.
I would have to repay him for that favor when the boy was born in the future.
“Right,” I declared, tucking the scroll into the inner pocket of my cloak.
“With this delivery, I consider us even for the troubles and interferences your order caused me in the past.”
I stepped closer to Kinvara and stared intently at the glowing ruby necklace at her throat.
“Though I must say…
the blood sorcery of the Red Temple has fallen to deplorable levels.
If an arcanist from Ancient Valyria saw this cheap illusion you use, they would be horrified on the spot.”
I walked until I stood face-to-face with the priestess.
Kinvara raised her chin provocatively.
Without asking permission, I reached my hand toward her necklace and touched the ruby gem.
With a discreet pulse of raw mana, I deactivated the illusion spell embedded in the jewelry.
In the exact same second, Kinvara’s youthful, seductive appearance began to unravel.
Her skin wrinkled rapidly and her hair lost its luster.
However, the woman did not turn into a decaying carcass; she became an elderly lady at the end of her life, yet maintaining her physical structure intact.
I observed the woman’s state and commented in a critical tone:
“A terribly strange and imperfect sorcery…
You maintained all your vital force and inner strength of a young woman, but allowed your outer flesh to age.
You carry the strength of a young warrior in a wrinkled vessel.”
I extended my hand and softly touched the aged woman’s cheek.
Channeling the true blood sorcery of House Vaelarys, I began to reshape the flesh of her face.
Unlike Queen Alysanne—who had completely lost her vital force to time—Kinvara possessed an immense magical reserve and a burning desire to remain alive.
Reshaping and rejuvenating the flesh of someone who holds full vital force was an absurdly simple task for an arcanist of my caliber.
In a matter of seconds, the wrinkles on her face vanished, the firmness of her skin returned, and the Red Priestess’s youthful beauty was fully restored on a real biological level, not as an illusion.
Kinvara looked at her own hands, shocked by the sensation of real physical youth running through her veins.
“I…
I thank you from the bottom of my soul, Lord Vaelarys,” she whispered, bowing her head.
“Is there anything I can do at this moment to show my gratitude?”
“Not today,” I replied, stepping back.
“Your outer image is still too fresh in my mind.
But I know that one day I will need your services in Essos…
Therefore, you owe me a blood favor, Kinvara.
Now go, while I am still in a good mood.”
Kinvara adjusted the necklace at her neck, smiled enigmatically, and took her leave with an elegant bow before disappearing into the northern snowstorm.
Daenerys approached me and took the ancient scroll from my hands, analyzing the glyphs engraved on the leather.
“I can’t understand the practical utility of this mystical structure, Arthos…” she said, frowning.
“That is high-level sorcery reserved only for truly talented minds, my dear,” I teased with a crooked smile.
Daenerys raised her clenched fist toward me, with a clear promise of a punch to my arm.
I let out a laugh and continued:
“For now, this is just a complex set of arcane matrices.
But when I finish refining and activating them, these formulas will definitively solve the genetic childbirth issue that killed Alyssa and Daella in the past…
And ensure that I can have direct heirs with you without putting your lives at risk.”
Daenerys’s eyes shone intensely upon hearing the explanation, fascinated by the possibility of using that magic to save women from tragic deaths in childbirth.
Viserra, for her part, approached with a hungry look focused strictly on the promise of generating a direct heir for House Vaelarys.
“And for what reason would that boy in the future give you a spell of this level as a gift?” Viserra asked, curious.
“Don’t waste your time trying to understand a small Bootstrap paradox, Viserra,” I replied, tucking the scroll into my tunic.
“What on earth is a Bootstrap paradox, Arthos?!” she complained, not understanding the phrase.
I let out a loud, hearty laugh, throwing my arms around both my women’s shoulders.
“Forget the technical details.
Now we have serious work ahead of us to turn these arcane matrices into reality.”