It was deep in the night when Euron Greyjoy returned to the coalition's main camp. Inside the brightly lit command tent, all the key leaders—Robert, Jon Arryn, Eddard Stark, Hoster Tully, and Oberyn Martell—were gathered, awaiting his news.
Euron didn't waste words. He laid out everything he had heard in the Great Hall of Harrenhal. When he revealed that Arriana Whent, the daughter of Lord Walter, was not merely a hostage but had been bedded by Aerys II and was pregnant with his child, the air in the tent seemed to freeze instantly.
At first, there was dead silence. Everyone needed time to digest this horrifying news. They had assumed the girl was just a common political pawn, serving as a respectable handmaiden in King's Landing to ensure loyalty. But the ugly reality far exceeded their imaginations.
BANG!
A loud crash shattered the silence. Robert Baratheon's massive fist slammed into the heavy wooden table, knocking over a goblet. Dark red wine spilled across the surface like blood. Veins bulged on his forehead, and every line on his face twisted with rage as he let out a low, beast-like growl from his throat. "That damned old madman! How dare he—! How is he fit to sit on the Iron Throne?!"
Immediately after, Lord Hoster Tully stood up abruptly. He was trembling with anger, his white beard shaking. "Sacrilege! This is the most shameless desecration of the trust between the King and his lords! To use a father's love for his daughter to hijack his loyalty... this... this is unheard of!"
Even Eddard Stark, usually the most calm and restrained, had a face as dark as still water. His fingers gripping his sword hilt turned white, and his grey eyes held the chill of a Northern winter. His voice was low but carried an unquestionable finality. "Such acts are not those of a king. This proves even more that the cause we fight for is just."
Prince Oberyn Martell's reaction was particularly distinct, and particularly cold. The Dornish lord known as the "Red Viper" might not adhere to knightly codes of honor, and he might use poisons that traditional knights despised, but he had his own inviolable principles—a set of harsh standards for fairness and justice rooted in the sands and blood of Dorne.
The core rule was simple: Never harm innocent women and children.
Aerys II's actions went far beyond political maneuvering or the cruelty of war. It trampled the most basic baseline of humanity and precisely crushed the red line deep in Oberyn Martell's heart that could not be crossed. He didn't roar like Robert, nor did he condemn loudly like Hoster. He just stood up slowly, very slowly. Those black eyes, usually filled with mockery and laziness, were now as cold as black ice and sharp as poisoned fangs. The heated air in the tent seemed to solidify around him.
He gently stroked the shaft of his spear. His voice wasn't loud, but everyone present heard it clearly. Every word seemed squeezed from a crack in the ice. "Some people... are no longer fit to be called men." This sentence carried more weight than any roar. Those who knew him understood that the Red Viper's anger was never expressed in volume, but would transform into precise, prolonged, and irreversible vengeance at some future moment.
The tent was filled with righteous indignation. Aerys II's latest atrocity had not fractured the alliance; instead, it was like pouring oil on an already blazing fire, making the resolve to overthrow the Targaryen dynasty even firmer and purer.
As Jon Arryn's heavy words settled, a brief silence fell over the tent. Attacking Harrenhal meant immense sacrifice, but Lord Whent's predicament and the Mad King's evil had blocked all paths to reconciliation. The lords looked at each other, and finally, with grim faces, they slowly nodded—there was only war.
"Since we have decided to fight," Jon's gaze swept over every commander, "then we must figure out how to fight this battle."
While everyone was digesting the difficult decision and frowning at the model of Harrenhal on the map table, Euron Greyjoy broke the silence first. He took a step forward, his finger landing precisely on the model of the monstrous fortress in the sandbox.
"Since we need to discuss strategy, let me start." Euron's voice carried a calm that bordered on cruel clarity. "First, we must face the reality of Harrenhal's defenses. It is no ordinary castle."
He looked around, dismantling any unrealistic fantasies point by point:
"The thickness of the walls exceeds imagination. Especially the sections repeatedly melted by Balerion the Black Dread's dragonfire. The stone has twisted and fused, becoming even harder and tougher than before. Our trebuchets will likely leave only white scratches on it."
"The height of the walls is despairing. Standard ladders won't even reach the battlements, and building siege towers would be a long, drawn-out project."
"Geographically, the north side backs onto the God's Eye, making a full siege impossible. We can only focus attacks on the east and south, allowing them to concentrate their defense."
"The most troublesome part is the defense system of multiple gates and barbicans. Even if we pay a heavy price to breach the first gate, only another slaughterhouse awaits us."
Euron's analysis was like a bucket of cold water on their newly ignited battle lust, but it forced everyone to discard luck and face the brutal reality.
Then, his tone shifted. With the sharpness of a hunter finding a prey's weakness, he dissected Harrenhal's seemingly invincible shell to reveal the rot and cracks within.
"But even the strongest shield can be shattered with a single blow if you find the crack. Harrenhal's advantages are obvious, but its defects are equally fatal."
His finger traced over the models of the towering spires on the sandbox:
"First, its historical trauma. During Aegon's Conquest, Balerion's fire didn't just melt King Harren; it crippled the castle. The Tower of Dread, the Widow's Tower... all five main towers were hit directly by dragonfire. The surface stone might be twisted and solid, but the internal structural integrity was destroyed long ago, leaving unseen internal injuries."
His fingertip pointed to certain sections of the wall:
"Second, disrepair. The massive walls are thick, yes, but House Whent lacks the funds to maintain them properly. Huge cracks and gaps have appeared in many sections. Some are large enough to see the towers from outside, or even big enough for us to rest ladders directly against—they are no longer walls, but back doors opened for us."
He looked up, a calculating light glinting in his eyes:
"Finally, and most critically—the contradiction between scale and manpower. precisely because the castle is too big and maintenance too costly, House Whent abandoned the upper towers and many areas long ago. Those places are now playgrounds for bats and ghosts, completely undefended. Once the battle starts, the limited garrison will be stretched thin and forced to contract their defense. This creates massive blind spots and loopholes."
He looked around the group one last time, delivering the core tactic:
"The castle is too big, the defenders too few. This means their movement, communication, and coordinated defense will be extremely slow and difficult. That is our chance. We can create noise on all sides simultaneously, feigning attacks everywhere. We make them run like headless chickens, never knowing where our true main attack will land. Using diversionary tactics is enough to drag this clumsy stone elephant down until it collapses!"
Euron's analysis was like a light piercing the fog, pointing the way for the coalition—not brute force, but a clever strike at the soft underbelly.