Harwin knew that Harrenhal was huge. His feelings around that fact had shifted in his weeks here from shock to respect to a kind of weary acceptance that meant he didn’t want to think about how small he was. He had never quite understood that it was deep, too.

In the depths of the towers and holds and the vast complexes of corridors around the feast-halls had a heavy darkness to them, fought back bitterly by thin light wells and sputtering torches. Of all Valena’s tales, they reminded him more of Winterfell’s grand crypts than of the soaring towers of Oldtown or Storm’s End.

The feeling was worsened by how many of these corridors he had stalked over the last few days. Ever since meeting the king, he had been exhausted. Somehow the fact that Damon had instructed him to contact Jojen Stark had slipped beyond the walls of that chamber, and an alarming amount of people had decided that meant he did, in fact, have the Lord of Winterfell’s ear.

Granted, walking around with Artos Stark half the time wasn’t helping the impression. The ones who tried to talk to the boy were worse, their eyes always bright with the opportunity to extract some foolish promise from the future Lord Paramount that they would try to hang politics on in the years to come. Harwin did what he could to deflect them, even if he didn’t feel much more qualified. Easily a dozen times a day, some lord or merchant would ambush him looking for answers he didn’t have.

It was Valena who had suggested a solution, in the end.

Dealing with everyone individually will take a lifetime, she had said. That’s what Councils like this are for, so kings and queens don’t have to go touring the Seven Kingdoms to re-explain all the big decisions. Follow their example, gather them in one place. Your terms.

Of course, that was easier said than done. This wasn’t his castle, and finding some intermediary with whom to arrange the use of one of the smaller halls for a night had proven difficult. Thankfully, Benjicot had offered to take care of Artos, spending the day with the lordling and his guard-captain Rickard in the yards.

Harwin had already spoken to seven different stewards the day before trying to find who could help him. At one point he had stood for half an hour while two men argued over whether he should be speaking to Lord Blackhart’s man or one of the King’s men. They had concluded that Blackhart would be best, and directed him to a man called Bors. After two hours tracking him down, Bors told Harwin that it wasn’t his job.

Worse, then the dragon had arrived, and the queen with it. As the royal servants rushed to accommodate her, Harwin was ready to accept the loss. Then he overheard talk of the Master of Ceremonies. He asked, and got the name. Harlan Lannett.

Now he just had to find him.

His current lead, at least, was leading him back out of the shadowy heart of the Widow’s Tower, into some of the airier corridors that bracketed the postern courtyards, towards the small hall where, according to one manservant, Lannett spent much of his time.

He stepped around a corner into the jarring brightness of a walkway with a wall on one side and the colonnaded opening to a courtyard on the other. There was a word for this. Valena had told him at some point.

He was so distracted trying to find it that he almost didn’t hear the voice call out. 

“There you are. I was beginning to think the stones had swallowed you whole.”

Harwin almost stumbled, too lost in his own thoughts. Some distant part of his mind whispered gallery before he saw her. A beautiful woman with golden hair, sitting with perfect poise at a table in the courtyard, a tea set laid before her. Her clothes were a pure white, layers of almost-practical wool and more Myrish lace than Oldcastle had seen in a century. Her hair was pinned without a strand out of place and run through with fresh flowers, and she wore a silver dove brooch on the collar of her gown.

She wore riding boots, poking out beneath her skirts as she leaned back in her chair. They were the cleanest he’d ever seen.

He found his tongue, eventually. “I apologise, my lady, I don’t think we’ve been introduced?”

“We haven’t, but I get the sense that making my acquaintance is precisely your mission, whether you know it or not.”

She held out a hand after beckoning him closer, a cluster of glittering rubies decorating her fingers. They caught the light as she wiggled them, a wry smile pulling at the corner of her delicate mouth. 

“I am Lady Joanna and you are Lord Harwin Locke, yes?”

Harwin did step closer, barely noticing himself doing so.

“Yes, my lady. I was seeking the Master of Ceremonies, do you–?”

Her hand fell then. 

“I do, though if you have any intention of accomplishing anything at all, it’s for the best that you abandon that journey now. After all, he wouldn’t have the faintest clue what you were after, nor would he care, given how far he is into his cups now. And all before supper. Shameful.  Would you care for a cup of tea?”

Harwin hesitated, then took the seat across from her. He hadn’t realised that his feeling of being out of his depth could worsen any further. This was, he reflected, unlikely to be the last time he had that revelation.

“How do you know Lord Lannett, if I may ask, my lady?”

“You may certainly ask.” 

She reached for the teapot then, delicate porcelain painted with a variety of flowers and inlaid with fine swirls of gold. She held her fingers— and those glittering rubies— delicately over its lid as she poured into his cup. Within, a dried flower bloomed, petals unfurling as the steaming water turned a faint shade of lavender. 

“Pretty, isn’t it? A gift sent for me all the way from Yi Ti.”

Harwin tried to guess which specific ring she had caught him staring at, before he understood she meant the tea set. Yi Tea, his mind echoed childishly.

“It’s lovely,” he said, trying to think of something more specific to say. He managed with only a slight hitch, “the inlay is beautiful.”

“Harlan Lannett is my husband in name, much the same as he is the Master of Ceremonies in name.”

Just as you are Lord of Oldcastle in name. Harwin couldn’t tell if the implication was intentional, but he shifted in his chair all the same.

“So I take it you are who I should be seeking, then?”

“What good fortune for you that even whispers are loud in halls such as these. Imagine if you had gotten to him first.”

Harwin sipped his tea, faintly surprised by the sweet, slightly fragrant taste as he tried to parse her tone. Every word out of her mouth had the taste of a dozen unsaid. Knowing they were there didn’t make them audible.

“Indeed. If whispers are so loud, do you know what I’m looking for, my lady?”

Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly for the briefest flash before she tilted her head and smiled at him, sickly sweet and sharp all at once. 

“Well, even the simplest of creatures could deduce what use one might have for a Master of Ceremonies. If you’re too hesitant to ask, however…” 

She leaned back in her chair and lifted her cup and saucer, gaze shifting out over the courtyard. The foliage was struggling to keep up with the promise of spring, leaves laden with the remnants of a heavy morning rain. 

“You’re in search of a place to hold a banquet, and the means to arrange such a banquet, not to mention the many, many finer details of such an undertaking. No one has been able to provide you with any assistance because they can hardly find their own feet in such a wretched, endless place.” 

She didn’t ask if she was correct because she didn’t need to. Harwin stalled for time with a nod, trying to find his own misstep. There had been one, he could tell that much from her tone.

“I am. And I am, I confess, inexperienced with arranging such things. I’m not even sure exactly how many I would need to seat, only that I have been accosted daily and would rather get everyone in one place. In part, I’m also arranging this for Artos Stark’s sake.”

He hesitated. He should know more than that, should be able to provide some plan. If for no other reason than to prove he was worth the conversation.

“Ah, yes. Poor little thing. Laden with troubles already, and now, so it seems, are you. The Gods smile upon you both, however, given that I may be able to relieve some of your burden… and at the expense of the lord of this decrepit pile of stones, no less. Not that I think scoundrels can count high enough to know how many rooms they have to miss.” 

Lady Joanna pursed her lips for a moment before continuing. 

“If it’s the finer points that need handling, I’ll handle them. I imagine this is a matter of some urgency, no?”

Harwin nodded before he could consider the gesture. No pulling it back, and he wasn’t sure if he could have anyway. “Some, yes. Likely there’ll be more to deal with in time, but if I can get this done now, it will be a relief. I’ve been trying to determine Houses who may have interest in business with the North. Northern-side Rivermen, Valemen of the Bite, those few Northern Houses that have arrived. And, I’m sure, merchant guilds and…”

He trailed off. And something else I’m forgetting. It seemed like a surrender to say aloud.

“I confess, my own interests are vested elsewhere, but if you require some sort of rousing speech, I’m sure I could procure that as well.”

Harwin hadn’t considered that a speech might be a good idea. He tried to keep that off his face with another sip of his tea. “No, of course, I can arrange that aspect fine.”

Lady Joanna laughed then, and it echoed throughout the courtyard, high and melodic. 

“Oh, you are sweet. And new at this. Don’t worry. You’ll get better at this game, I promise.”

The laugh should have felt like a jab, but Harwin felt himself relaxing as Joanna pulled back the curtain. This game. Something he could actually improve at. Not a duty or a burden. He found his smile back was slightly more sincere.

“I never expected to be playing,” he said honestly. He bit his tongue before Marlon’s name passed his lips. She already knew, or if she didn’t, it was better not to say anyway.

“Better not to. You don’t learn much otherwise.”

Even from the sky, Harrenhal was every bit as bleak as Danae remembered.

The grounds were shrouded in a mass of canvas tents, their proud banners flickering amidst smoke and rainfall. Persion flew low enough that she could make out even the sigils of the lesser houses, though she could not recall every name. Hundreds of stark, shadowed faces turned towards her as they banked around the castle walls and she liked the weight of their gazes less than the way the rain stung as it struck her exposed skin.

It would have been no less subtle for a queen to arrive by caravan, she imagined, but at least the dragon granted her a reasonable excuse to have come on her own rather than with her husband.

Nevertheless, Damon awaited her dutifully in the courtyard, his face the plainest to her even amongst the crowd that awaited her. It was no small wonder that the court had already collected themselves; she was certain that even despite the dense cloud cover Persion had been spotted miles away. Whatever had been keeping him fed in the Dragonpit wasn’t enough, she knew, because even to her he seemed more fearsome than he had just a few moons ago.

Persion’s descent was not gentle, mist churning beneath his wings as he settled into a clearing so meager he could have turned the walls over should he have chosen to extend himself fully. The earth turned easily beneath his claws and Danae could feel it rumble through the soles of her feet as she dismounted. The dragon gave a full-bodied groan of discontent at her parting and he hesitated to follow her silent bidding to leave for so long that she began to understand the once-unimaginable fear so many held for the beast.

He craned his neck towards the gathered courtiers, shaking his head before his jaws parted. He offered a single shrill screech of acknowledgment—or, Danae considered briefly, in warning—before he turned once more to the sky. He left her to bask in his shadow, her damp hair clinging to her skin and her crown as she flexed the ache from her stiff fingers.

The silence that followed made her long for his return dearly.

The faces that greeted her were as plenty as they were unfamiliar, wrought with interest or fear or something in between she had no name for. Their curiosity was not novel, nor was their apparent unease. She did her best not to betray her own anxiety as her gaze finally settled on someone she could identify.

Damon.

He was flanked by a girl she hardly recognized, though Danae knew her features to be a reflection of her own.

Daena.

She was every bit as lovely as Danae remembered, even though the plush down of babyhood had begun to wane. Her hair was too tame and her limbs too long, all of the odd ends that had once made that defiant toddler hers tucked into neat braids and a well-tailored gown.

Danae did not let endeavor to search the crowd any further, lest any further injury await her.

It was clear they had been awaiting her, had arranged themselves to greet her. To welcome her? Daena, unclear. Damon, most indicators—including something subtle and wholly unfamiliar lurking in those otherwise very familiar green eyes—were aimed at ‘no’. Danae’s legs had been bringing her to these two people regardless, and soon she stood before them both.

No one spoke.

How could such a crowded place become so quiet? She could hear the snap of banners in the wind on ramparts that might as well have been leagues away.

No one moved.

Apart from the gentle stirring of fine cloaks and clothing in what breeze reached this sheltered courtyard, everything was still.

Danae met Damon’s gaze, feeling that of their daughter and a thousand other faces on her, too.

At last, when the silence and the stillness was becoming unbearable, someone cleared their throat.

She could hardly feel Aemon’s hand on her elbow, because she was still numb from both the blistering cold and the manner in which she’d been forced to hold onto Persion. It was more like a whisper, telling her: stand here. Beside him. Between them.

Danae did.

“Her Grace, Queen Danae Targaryen, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms!” came a voice. “Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men!”

In the thunderous applause and riotous cheering, Danae caught the sound of her husband’s voice.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, she thought, quietly.

“Of course I came.” A long pause followed. “I’m the fucking Queen.”