The massive, blackened skeleton of Harrenhal crouched beside the God's Eye like the corpse of a giant, once again witnessing the convergence of history.
In the past, it had bustled with the unparalleled grandeur of the Tourney at Harrenhal; now, its walls welcomed another gathering, one that might decide the fate of the realm.
The coalition armies from five regions of Westeros surged like five torrents of steel, merging here into a magnificent sea of encampments.
The silver trout on red and blue of House Tully flew closest to the castle.
The sky-blue falcon and crescent moon of House Arryn stood alongside the mountain clan banners, bringing the solemn chill of the Vale knights.
The crowned stag of the Stormlands, though battered from defeat, still flew high and proud, surrounding their leader, Robert Baratheon, who had recovered from his wounds.
The sun and spear of Dorne unfurled in the wind, Prince Oberyn's cavalry bringing the heat and wildness of the desert.
The golden kraken of the Iron Islands stood brazenly to the side, Euron Greyjoy's Ironborn bringing the scent of the sea.
The direwolf of the North roared in the wind, Eddard Stark arriving with the vengeance of his father and brother, the disappearance of his sister, and the honor of his house on his shoulders.
Thousands of tents spread across the lakeshore fields like mushrooms after rain. The glint of weapons stung the eyes, and the neighing of warhorses mixed with the hammering of blacksmiths to compose a majestic prelude to war. Banners of every color snapped in the wind. Soldiers, knights, and sellswords from all corners of the world, with different accents and armor, were temporarily united by a single goal.
This massive, noisy scene, gathering nearly half the realm, faintly echoed the assembly of heroes during the Tourney at Harrenhal. Only this time, they brought not lances and roses, but swords and the fire of vengeance.
Harrenhal's immense shadow fell over the coalition's command tent. Jon Arryn's aged but sharp eyes swept over the iconic fortress on the map, his steady voice breaking the silence inside:
"Storming Harrenhal would cost more than we can imagine. If we can persuade House Whent to see reason and reopen the gates, that would be the best course. We need an envoy to enter the tiger's den."
His gaze passed over the leaders in the tent one by one, weighing the most suitable candidate.
Robert Baratheon crossed his arms, his face written with impatience for "talk." He trusted his warhammer more.
Prince Oberyn Martell toyed with his spear, shaking his head lazily. "I have no friendship with House Whent. Too much talk from me might spoil things."
Eddard Stark stood silently to the side. His honesty was unquestionable, but persuasion required flexibility, not the straight-forwardness of a Northman.
Lord Hoster Tully snorted without hiding his disdain. He had always despised the vacillating Lord Walter Whent. Sending him would likely backfire.
Just then, Euron Greyjoy, leaning against the tent wall, let out a low chuckle. "Persuasion?" He shrugged. "The hope for success is slim. Since Lord Walter chose betrayal, he must have his reasons." He took a step forward, his pupils scanning the group. "However, I would be happy to meet him. Even if I can't convince him, at least... I want to ask him personally just what his reason for treason is."
Euron Greyjoy rode his warhorse, "Farul," alone, slowly separating from the coalition lines and heading toward the massive, hideous gates of Harrenhal. He patted the neck of his mount gently, and the magnificent white horse stepped steadily forward, neither fast nor slow, its hooves ringing clearly in the empty space.
Movement stirred on the walls immediately; defenders flashed behind the crenellations.
Moments later, the heavy iron gate, large enough to swallow a mammoth, did not fully open. instead, with a heavy grinding sound, it cracked open just wide enough for a few people to pass.
From the shadows of the crack, a young knight emerged first. His figure was slightly slight, his face bearing the reserved melancholy typical of House Whent—it was Caspor Whent, Lord Walter's eldest son. Beside him followed a maid with lowered eyes, respectfully holding a silver tray with both hands.
Euron dismounted cleanly. His gaze swept over the tray—it held bread and salt, representing the sacred guest right. Without hesitation, he reached out, broke off a small piece of bread, dipped it in the salt, and calmly put it in his mouth. With this simple action, the ancient pact was sealed. Under the witness of the Seven and the Old Gods, the master of Harrenhal was bound to guarantee his safety, and he was bound to do no harm to his host.
After partaking in the symbolic ritual, a hint of a smile touched Euron's lips. He nodded slightly to Caspor Whent, then followed the young heir into the bottomless shadow of Harrenhal, the heavy gate slowly closing behind him.
Euron followed Caspor Whent through cold, long corridors into the grand yet dilapidated Great Hall of Harrenhal. Only a weak fire flickered in the massive stone hearth, barely dispelling the chill seeping from the stones.
On the high seat, Lord Walter Whent sat stiffly, quietly waiting for the envoy. When Euron's eyes landed on the earl's face, even with his worldly experience, his heart skipped a beat.
Compared to the Lord Whent he had seen at the grand and noisy tourney just a year and a half ago, the man before him seemed to have aged twenty years.
Back then, though not young, his eyes still held the sharpness and luster befitting a great lord. Now, that spirit had been completely ground away. Deep wrinkles were carved into his forehead and corners of his eyes like knife marks.
Most shocking was his hair, which had turned almost entirely silver-white, clinging sparsely to his scalp, looking glaringly stark in the dim light.
Time and anxiety seemed to have cast a vicious curse on this lord.
Euron Greyjoy stepped into the hall, his gaze sweeping the oppressive space before finally resting on Lord Walter. He curled his lips into a smile and cut straight to the point. "My Lord, I assume I don't need to waste breath explaining why I am here?"
Walter Whent let out a long, exhausted sigh, his voice dry. "The world is unpredictable... I never thought House Whent would fall into such a state."
Euron took a few steps forward, his eyes locking sharply onto the other man. "Because it is unpredictable, we want to understand. Why betray the alliance and side with that madman? Harrenhal's stance deserves a decent reason."
Lord Walter's back seemed to hunch further. He was silent for a moment before finally spitting out the truth, every word heavy with helplessness. "My daughter, Arriana Whent... she is in King's Landing." This simple sentence exhausted all his despair and weakness.
Euron raised an eyebrow, quickly thinking through possibilities. "If... we find a way to rescue her from King's Landing?" He spoke faster. "King's Landing is under martial law, but we are not without eyes and ways there. If we use all our resources, rescuing or hiding a handmaiden and guaranteeing her safety until the war ends is not impossible."
Lord Walter slowly raised his head. His once-sharp eyes were now hollow and dull as he dropped a piece of information that changed everything. "Arriana... she is pregnant. It is the King's." He paused, then added in despair, "She is guarded strictly in the depths of the Red Keep. Rescue is impossible... The Mad King even promised to marry her."
Even Euron was silenced for a moment by this sudden news. He hadn't expected the foundation of this political game to be such a twisted personal tragedy.
Recovering, Euron let out a cold sneer. "I deeply regret your daughter's misfortune. But, my Lord, do you truly believe the promises of a madman?"
A look peculiar to fathers, a mix of pain and stubbornness, appeared on Walter Whent's face. He asked in return, "Other than that, what better way does a father have... to protect the daughter he loves most?"
The hall fell into a dead silence, with only the crackle of firewood in the hearth answering the unsolvable question.