ASOIAF: The True House of Dragons

Aegon reached out and took the steel sword that Lord Tully held high, then gently laid the blade on the lord's shoulder.

His expression was calm and composed as he spoke solemnly, "I'm truly gratified, Lord Edmyn, that you can so clearly distinguish right from wrong. It's a rare virtue.

You've made a meaningful contribution to my cause, and the Targaryen dynasty will never neglect those who have earned merit.

In the name of Aegon I of House Targaryen, I hereby grant you the title of Lord Paramount of the Trident. From this day forward, you shall manage the affairs of the Trident on my behalf."

Edmyn's hands trembled slightly with excitement at these words.

His family had lived and flourished in the Riverlands for tens of thousands of years, long among the most prominent houses in the region. Yet they had never truly unified or ruled the entire Riverlands.

Aegon's reward finally realized the Tullys' long-standing dream.

Edmyn quickly responded, "Thank you, Your Grace, for your great kindness. House Tully will swear undying loyalty to the rightful rule of House Targaryen."

Nearby, the heads of House Strong and House Frey exchanged knowing glances. They had both noticed the subtle wording in Aegon's declaration.

He had granted Edmyn a governorship—but not a ducal title. Aegon had neither raised House Tully to a lordly rank nor granted them dominion over the entire Riverlands.

Both men shared a quiet, meaningful smile.

Aegon handed the ceremonial steel sword to Princess Rhaenys for safekeeping, then extended a hand to Edmyn, gently helping him to his feet.

He looked Edmyn in the eye, his tone sincere.

"The title of [Lord Paramount of the Trident] shall henceforth be hereditary in House Tully. As for the Riverlands, I still have other important plans for the region and cannot yet establish it as a separate duchy. I hope you understand.

But for House Tully's loyalty and service, I will ensure that proper reward comes once the Great Conquest is complete."

Edmyn's earlier excitement cooled as the reality of the situation settled in.

He hadn't been granted the title of Lord Paramount. The name [Magister of the Trident] could easily be mistaken for something grander than it was. A flicker of disappointment crossed his heart.

Even so, he quickly bowed and said, "Your Grace, to serve as Magister of the Trident is already an immense honor. House Tully asks for nothing more."

Aegon gave a slight nod, patting Edmyn's upper arm with a reassuring smile.

"Don't be discouraged. Aside from House Hoare, your family is the most powerful in the Riverlands. Once the Great Conquest is complete, I will see to it personally that you are named a lord. That is my promise to you."

Edmyn's eyes lit up with a flash of surprise and gratitude. He made to kneel again, but Aegon reached out and stopped him.

That firm promise dispelled the last trace of doubt lingering in Edmyn's heart.

...

Night fell.

Aegon hosted a grand bonfire banquet beside the royal tent, hoping to help the Riverlands nobles grow acquainted with the lords and retainers of the Targaryen court.

At the feast, as Aegon made rounds and exchanged courtesies, nobles from the Riverlands kept coming forward, warmly introducing their daughters to him.

The Targaryen dynasty had only just been founded, and as conquest swept across the land, many noble families now faced ruin. For others, it was a rare opportunity to rise.

No longer concerned with Westerosi norms of monogamy—after all, the king himself had taken two queens—these lords thought it only reasonable to offer one of their daughters in marriage as well.

With Rhaenys seated beside him, Aegon could hardly accept the advances of noble maidens eagerly seeking his favor. He politely turned them all away, one by one.

As the most powerful lord of the Riverlands, Edmyn remained by Aegon's side throughout and witnessed all of it.

He found himself pondering whether he, too, should make an offer. He had three daughters, after all—two of them twins. His family's hallmark auburn hair, coupled with the twins' fine features and graceful bearing... perhaps they truly stood a chance.

...

While laughter and music filled the Targaryen camp late into the night, a very different mood hung over Harrenhal.

The Iron King Harren stood atop the tallest tower of his fortress—the Iron King's Tower—gazing out toward the distant glow of the Targaryen campfires.

Even from here, he could see the flicker of flame and hear the far-off signs of revelry. His mood soured.

Not a single Riverlands noble had responded to his call for aid. He knew full well—how could he not—that the Targaryen camp must now be crawling with traitors from the Trident.

"Traitors! Filthy pigs!" Harren roared, hair bristling with rage as he pounded the stone railing of the Iron King's Tower.

Now, Harren had truly reached a dead end.

His only two sons had gone to launch a surprise attack on Aegon's army, only to be discovered ahead of time and killed on the spot. The blow to the Iron Kingdom's morale was devastating. The Ironborn were a savage people who preyed on the weak, and with Harren now caught in such a desperate struggle, it only fanned the flames of ambition in those who dreamed of killing their king and taking his place.

Not long ago, Harren had received word that rebellion had broken out in the Iron Islands. Three factions were involved: House Volmark of Harlaw, Rolder, the High Priest of the Drowned God, and Vickon Greyjoy, leader of the raiders on Pyke. Together, they were blocking reinforcements from House Hoare from reaching the Riverlands.

This forced Harren to grow wary even of those he once trusted most.

Even when his advisors urged him to abandon Harrenhal and retreat to the Iron Islands, he suspected a hidden scheme behind the suggestion—fearing an ambush on the way by rival houses who might try to kill him and seize power for themselves.

Deep down, Harren simply couldn't bring himself to let go.

He had poured decades of effort into the construction of Harrenhal. This towering, colossal castle—the tallest and grandest in all of Westeros—had nearly drained the Iron Kingdom's resources built up over centuries. How could he just walk away from it? It was like one of those properties Aegon had bought in his past life—just as the mortgage was nearly paid off, would he really walk away now and stop making payments? Of course not. The logic was the same.

Harrenhal had only been completed and occupied for a few days before Aegon brought his army to its gates.

Now, Harren was filled with rage and frustration. He wanted to scream, but there were no more tears left to cry.

In truth, he already knew how this would end.

The Iron Kingdom, cut off and without allies, was doomed to fall. With no heir, House Hoare was destined to die out.

At this moment, the only thing Harren wanted was to be buried alongside the one thing in the world he still cared for—his castle.

That night.

Harren tossed and turned, unable to sleep.

He didn't dare summon his wives or concubines to serve him. With no sons left, and all his wives being daughters of powerful houses from the Iron Islands, he couldn't be sure where their loyalties now lay.

Eventually, in a daze, Harren drifted into a deep sleep. But in the blink of an eye, he seemed to regain consciousness.

"Is this a dream?" he murmured.

Harren now found himself standing on the aerial bridge that connected the main towers of Harrenhal. He was alone, walking through the newly finished castle, surrounded on all sides by darkness thick as ink.

The castle was so vast that even he, its master, was lost inside it. He had no idea how far he was from his bedchamber—he didn't even know which tower he was in.

Cold, clammy stone walls flanked him on either side, and the single path ahead stretched into a bottomless abyss of black.

In the suffocating silence, only the sound of his own footsteps echoed off the walls.

He tried to stop—but his feet refused to obey.

Out of the darkness, something suddenly tripped him.

Harren bent down to pick it up. It was a broken deer antler, with a ruby crown soaked in blood still dangling from it.

When he straightened up, the darkness before him had vanished—replaced by fire.

From within the flames, a black monster came charging forth. Its body loomed like a mountain, and even the towering Harren felt utterly insignificant in its presence.

"Is this the monster that killed my two sons?" Harren thought to himself.

The giant beast quickly spotted him.

As their eyes met, a chill swept through Harren's body, the cold seeping into his bones. His hand instinctively reached for his waist, and just as his fingers brushed the ivory hilt of his sword, the dragon suddenly opened its blood-red maw...

"Your Grace! Your Grace, wake up!!"

In the darkness, a voice called out urgently, and the whole world seemed to shake around him.

The dragon and the flames vanished the moment Harren's eyes snapped open, replaced by the towering dome above him, countless fireplaces along the walls, and Maester Tion standing in front of him.

Maester Tion was trying desperately to wake him.

It took Harren a while to regain his senses and realize he had somehow ended up asleep in the hall.

"Was I sleepwalking?"

He rubbed his throbbing temples. He remembered that in his grandfather's final days, the old man often wandered in his sleep. Back then, young Harren would laugh at him for it.

"Now I'm just like him," Harren muttered to himself.

"Your Grace, Aegon has surrounded Harrenhal with his army and is requesting a negotiation," Maester Tion said gently as he helped the Iron King to his feet.

"Aegon? That damned Dragonlord of Valyria!"

"That boy and his band of Riverlands traitors—are they realizing they can't take my castle?" Harren laughed wildly.

Maester Tion gave no response. He had seen Balerion with his own eyes—the monstrous size of the Dragonlord's mount. To him, Harrenhal looked no more than a large toy fortress in the shadow of such a beast.

Harren kept ranting, hurling insults at the Targaryens, his expression growing more and more unhinged.

After a while, Maester Tion quietly reminded him, "Aegon is waiting for your reply at the castle gate."

Harren's tirade came to an abrupt end. He lowered his head, a touch of weariness in his voice as he waved a hand.

"I know, I know... Tell that hairless boy I'll meet him outside the gates at sunset."

With that, Harren turned and walked off in silence toward his Iron Tower, leaving Maester Tion with nothing but the sight of a lonely figure retreating into the distance.

Tion bowed respectfully and said, "Yes, Your Grace."

...

By evening, Harren had donned his royal armor and made his way toward the great hall of Harrenhal. The nightmare from the previous night left his body aching, and the chain around his neck jingled with every weary step, the metallic clinking echoing through the empty hall.

Harren enjoyed that sound—more than harps or bagpipes, it was sharp and real.

"Your Grace." The lords of the Iron Kingdom stepped forward to greet their king.

Harren gave them a cold glance, reading the shifting thoughts behind their expressions.

"Now, let us leave the castle together."

He yanked the cloak embroidered with the Hoare sigil from his squire's hands and clasped it to his shoulders himself. Outside the hall, the men chosen by his chief bodyguard were already waiting, fully armed and ready.

Harren selected a chestnut mare and climbed into the saddle. In that moment, he seemed to shed his wrinkles and white hair, once more becoming the Iron King who had once terrified the entire Riverlands.

He waited for the captain of his guard to raise the banner of House Hoare high, then spurred his horse forward with a sharp kick and galloped toward the castle gates.

"Open the gate!" Harren shouted.

With a low mechanical groan, the steel-plated gate slowly began to rise from the muddy ground, the massive opening yawning like the maw of some ancient sea serpent.

As the outside world came into view through the widening gate, Harren spotted Aegon, King of the Targaryens, astride a white horse, waiting calmly at the far end of the drawbridge.

Aegon, with his silver hair and purple eyes, wore a magnificent suit of black scale armor. A dark red cloak hung from his waist, and the banner behind him fluttered high.

It was a black flag, emblazoned with a fierce, three-headed red dragon.

Compared to the vast army of tens of thousands behind Aegon, Harren's few hundred soldiers looked pitifully small.

Dozens of nobles in gleaming armor stood close around the young Dragonlord. Aegon sat tall on his white horse, chin slightly raised, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Harren.

But what chilled Harren even more were the two dragons looming behind the army.

One of them—a black dragon over a hundred meters long—lay coiled like a massive black mountain. Before it, any living creature seemed utterly insignificant.

Harren stared into Balerion's blood-red eyes, and his throat tightened. A cold shiver ran down his spine.

This was the very same monstrous beast that had appeared in his nightmare the night before.

"Are you Harren Hoare, the false king of the Iron Kingdom?" the young King Aegon of House Targaryen was the first to speak, his voice cold and crisp.

"Watch your tongue," Maester Tion immediately shouted. "You stand before the King of the Iron Islands and the Riverlands, the master of the largest and strongest castle in Westeros—His Grace, King Harren I."

"If he's truly a king, why is he cowering inside his castle like a coward?" Aegon gave a faint smile as he looked at Harren. "I've heard the Ironborn are a fearless people."

"I'll regard this meeting as one between two kings—Aegon I of House Targaryen," Harren replied loudly, face stern and expressionless.

"Then what would you advise?" Aegon raised an eyebrow slightly.

"Since you're the one who proposed this negotiation, let's hear your terms first," Harren responded coldly.

Aegon remained calm and began to speak slowly.

"Kneel before me. Renounce your claim to the Riverlands and Harrenhal. Acknowledge me as the sole king of Westeros. In return, I will grant you the title of Lord of the Iron Islands. As your king, I will forever protect you and your house, and fully support your right to rule the Iron Islands—just as I do with the lords on both banks of the Blackwater Rush."

"Gagagaga!" Harren burst into shrill laughter. His sharp, grating cackle echoed through Harrenhal's massive gate, startling a flock of sparrows roosting nearby.

Aegon's brows drew together slightly, a flicker of displeasure crossing his eyes.

It was a long while before Harren's laughter faded. He stared straight at Aegon and spoke.

"King Aegon. That's your offer?"

"Yes," Aegon answered.

"Then hear mine!" Harren suddenly roared, his voice thunderous.

"Disband your army. Return all the lands you've seized. Hand over every Riverlands lord who's sworn to you—let me deal with them. Then you can safely crawl back to that desolate stone island you call home and keep playing your little game as the Stone King of Blackwater Bay. Gagagaga!"

"I don't want bloodshed," Aegon said, his voice cold as iron.

"But I do, Aegon," Harren replied, slowly shaking his head. His tone was hoarse and low. "You killed both of my sons… House Hoare has no heirs now."

Aegon went quiet. For a moment, he said nothing—realizing he had likely killed Harren's sons during their failed ambushes.

Still, Aegon didn't want to inherit a blackened ruin scorched by dragonfire. What he desired was a new castle. A perfect one. Brand new. Nine levels tall, pristine and flawless.

"Look behind me, old Harren," Aegon continued calmly. "Take a good look at the banners flying behind me—silver trout, dancing maiden, heart tree with a raven, the red horse… I believe you recognize them."

Harren tilted his head slightly, sneering.

"I know them. They were once my vassals. Traitors, cowards... and bastards born of donkeys and fish."

The Iron King's vicious insults instantly enraged the Riverlands lords beside Aegon. Furious shouts erupted as they hurled curses at Harren, an onslaught of foul language pouring forth.

Aegon calmly raised a single hand, silencing the commotion.

"Surrender now, and you may still rule the Iron Islands. This is your final chance. I command twenty thousand men—and two dragons. One of them stretches over a hundred meters long, the last true Dragonlord in the world."

Harren didn't let him finish.

"I don't care what you've got," he shouted. "All of you are outside my walls. And my walls are tall, thick, and unbreakable."

"Dragons can fly," Aegon replied evenly.

"Gagagaga!" Harren suddenly laughed again.

"Stone doesn't burn," he told Aegon with absolute certainty.

Aegon shook his head, helpless. His gaze drifted westward, toward the setting sun.

"When the sun sets, your Iron Kingdom will fall," Aegon said coldly.

Harren spat hard on the ground, yanked his horse around, and shouted over his shoulder.

"The Iron Kingdom will never fall."

The massive gates of Harrenhal slammed shut with a thunderous crash, driving deep into the mud. Dirty water splashed up, splattering across the dark red robes of Aegon's royal garb.

Aegon glanced down at the stain on his collar, then looked up once more at the iron gates.

He let out a long, heavy sigh.

...

Inside the castle, Maester Tion walked side by side with Harren.

"Your Grace, you... perhaps you really should consider King Aegon's proposal carefully. After all, the Dragonlord can fly..." Maester Tion finally couldn't hold back and spoke up.

He wasn't a coward—just genuinely concerned for the aging king.

Harren said nothing, walking in silence as they made their way to the top-floor bedchamber of the Iron King's Tower.

At the doorway, Harren paused, his back to Maester Tion, and said quietly, "Tonight, go to that boy Aegon and tell him... that I'll be sleeping at the top of the Iron King's Tower.

And remember—don't let him know I sent you."

Maester Tion froze, staring in stunned silence at his liege lord before blurting out, "Your Grace, I... I'm not that kind of man. I'll always remain loyal—"

Harren slowly turned around to face him, tears already streaming down his weathered cheeks. The old king placed a broad hand on the maester's shoulder, gently cutting him off.

Choking back his emotions, Harren confided in him.

"Tion... the North and the Vale—those neighboring Harrenhal—have both refused us aid. The Riverlands and the Iron Islands have betrayed us. My only two sons are dead...

Now, all I have left is Harrenhal. I just want to stay here, with it, forever.

I only wish to die with dignity. Can't you even grant me that one final request?"

Maester Tion's mouth hung open, speechless. For a long moment, he didn't know how to respond. But under the old king's pleading gaze, tears welled in his own eyes as well.

At last, he slowly knelt before Harren and said with sorrow,

"As you wish, my king."