To find oneself once more within the former seat of Harren the Black after the Great Council was a strange and most disheartening experience. Then, the castle had been teeming with life; members of the royal family and the noblest lords of Westeros had been quartered in each of the five semi-ruined towers, the kitchens had labored day and night, the stables had housed a thousand magnificent steeds, and hundreds upon hundreds of servants had scurried tirelessly up and down stairs fit for giants. Then, all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms had gathered upon the northern shore of the Gods Eye, each with his retainers and servants, and Harrenton, beneath the walls of the colossal castle, had swollen to such a size that it surpassed both Gulltown and White Harbor. Now, the castle, having managed to change its name, was so empty it seemed dead. After the hasty departure of the last Strongs, scarcely two score people remained within, including old Maester Norbert.
Ten years later, only overgrown fields and ditches, where rows of pavilions had once stood and where peasants now grazed their cattle, reminded one of the bygone throng behind the melted walls. Aegon found not a single tangible trace: all that nature and time had not devoured had been appropriated and repurposed by the inhabitants of the town and the surrounding villages. The election of Viserys Targaryen as heir to the Iron Throne was attested to only by a commemorative column with a dragon at its apex, and by hordes of the most motley children—baseborn runts of the Council—scurrying through the muddy alleys of Harrenton.
While the rains fell, Aegon, accompanied by the castellan, walked the entirety of Dragon's Heart; it took several days, but the castle was inspected from the roof of the Kingspyre to the baths and the dungeons. Day upon day, the Prince grew more convinced that Harren Hoare had possessed a particularly hypertrophied hubris, multiplied by some monstrous insecurities. To make every room of the castle serve its intended purpose, one would need to stuff Dragon's Heart with people as in the days of the Great Council—but how, and to what end?
Sitting in his solar at a boundless table—the dream of any maester—already heaped with account books, tax rolls, and capitation lists, Aegon studied the maps of his lands. His fief occupied the entire eastern shore of the Gods Eye from the northern tip of the lake to the southern, bordering the lands of the Buckwells to the southeast, and it yielded a substantial income, a fair portion of which came from the Harrenton fair. Eight thousand townsfolk served not only the needs of the giant castle—merchants flocked to the town, which upon closer inspection proved rather wealthy, if slovenly, not only from all the Riverlands but even from King's Landing and the Reach. The last autumn harvest had already been gathered from the vast, fertile fields; though not as rich as the summer yields, it was certainly not superfluous.
The precepts of coin and commerce, imbibed from his uncle within the Citadel, held that great roads ought also to serve as a source of revenue, if not directly through tolls, then at least indirectly: travelers needed places to rest, to have their horses shod; crossroads of trade routes were ever places of profit. The Kingsroad passed through the lands of Dragon's Heart, yet it did not turn toward Harrenton. Maester Norbert, summoned to the Prince, explained with the humility of a gudgeon before a pike:
"His Grace King Jaehaerys commanded the road be built along the borders of the lords' domains, for otherwise their ancestral rights to the land would have been infringed."
Aegon looked again at the line of his grandfather's first road stretching across the map. Dragon's Heart and Whitewalls lay to the west of it, while Needle Hill and Hogg Hall lay to the east.
"Yet the road cleaves my lands in two. You will not deny that the Wodes, Paeges, Greys, and Hoggs of Hogg Hall hold their lands in my name?" Maester Gudgeon did not deny it. "It follows, then, that my grandfather infringed upon the ancestral rights of the Lords of Harrenhal, is that not so?"
"When they began to build the Kingsroad, my Prince, not a year had passed since the death of young Lord Maegor Towers. A mournful day, I remember it well: the youth stumbled on the stairs and broke his neck. Tumbled down two flights. The Dowager Queen Rhaena became the mistress of the castle, and she beseeched His Grace to lay the road further from the lake, that none might disturb her seclusion. There is a record of this in the chronicles; if you wish, I can fetch them."
"Not now."
Aegon grimaced in vexation: his great-aunt's caprice had cost the Strongs dearly, and now him as well. Had the Kingsroad passed directly through Harrenton, the town might long ago have rivaled Duskendale and White Harbor. One could, of course, propose to Viserys that the course of the road be changed, but until spring, the Small Council would not wish to hear of any construction. One could only hope the winter would be short.
Meanwhile, Maester Norbert was in no haste to depart; coughing quietly, he rustled behind his lectern, reshuffling the already stacked papers and recounted quills seven times over. Noticing that the man was trying to attract his attention, Aegon asked absently:
"Is there something else, Maester?"
"Ahem... I fear so, my Prince," the Gudgeon sighed, tugging at his sparse whiskers. "My Prince, do not think that I murmur against your rule—gods forbid, nay!—but I am no longer young. I have served in this castle for fifty years, and my health is not what it once was. Moreover, now that such a great court resides in Dragon's Heart, it is not so simple for me to fulfill my duties properly and in full measure. I am already forced to accept aid from a certain herbalist, but I cannot rely upon her for everything. She is, after all, illiterate."
"An herbalist?"
"Aye, my Prince. She serves as a chambermaid, though she spends nearly more time in the godswood than cleaning chambers."
A prick of foreboding struck the Prince.
"Where is she from?"
"She is the daughter of the late housekeeper. Unmarried, if I may note."
"Someone's bastard?"
The Maester cleared his throat and, lowering his voice for some reason, added:
"The late Lord Lyonel's, my Prince. At seven years of age, he set her to watch over his legitimate daughters, forbade that she be whipped for offenses, and gave her gifts a pair of times. Alys—that is her name—is very sharp of wit, my Prince, but alas, illiterate. Furthermore, she is a woman..."
"In other words, you have need of an apprentice?" Aegon raised a brow. "I imagine some capable lad can be found within the castle. If the locals do not please you, one can search in Harrenton—the townsfolk would tear each other's throats out to settle a seventh son in the Citadel."
Norbert fingered his drooping whisker again and sighed once more.
"I fear, my Prince, that I need not merely an apprentice, but a novice or a junior maester. I wished to ask your permission to send a raven to the Citadel, that the Conclave might dispatch someone."
"Of course, if you deem it necessary," Aegon nodded. "Though he will be an eternity traveling from Oldtown by the autumn roads. It is unlikely he will arrive before the onset of winter."
No sooner had the words flown from his tongue than an idea struck the Prince of where a replacement might be found closer at hand. How many men had his uncle brought in his retinue? In the end, one could offer the place to Marlon—his old friend had always wanted to find a warm spot beneath a dragon's wing. The dozen chains of a Grand Maester did not threaten him—the Conclave would sooner hang themselves than appoint anyone younger than fifty to the Red Keep—and the place of the Maester of Dragonstone would not be free, gods willing, for a long time yet.
"Tarry a moment, Maester," Aegon called out to the Gudgeon. "I shall write the letter myself. Or I may even fly to King's Landing. Archmaester Vaegon is currently in the capital, and with him are several maesters and a crowd of novices—one of them may well become your assistant."
"My thanks, my Prince, that would be splendid. If I may..."
"Yes, of course."
Following Norbert with his gaze, the Lord of Dragon's Heart noted that the man had to open the door leaf with visible effort. The castle, where everything was gigantic, from the doors to the rookery, was unfriendly to the aged. It was small wonder the Maester could not cope—half the Citadel could find work and room enough here.
A fleeting thought burned Aegon with a sudden realization. He did not need to occupy all five (or four, if he followed Ser Meylarr's counsel) towers—his family would have space enough even if he gave one of them to the Order of Maesters.
Like links in his own unforged chain, one thought latched onto the previous. The customs of the Citadel had always seemed strange to him: take, for instance, the privilege of appointing the Grand Maester of the Red Keep, who by virtue of his office sat on the King's Small Council. The concentration of all knowledge in a single place violated the principle established by the Citadel itself: the accumulation, preservation, and dissemination of knowledge. The Ironborn had attacked Oldtown more than once in the past; maesters meant nothing to them, just as septons did not, so the Citadel was plundered and burned along with the rest of the city. Who in their right mind would keep all their dragon eggs in one clutch? Certainly not the Master of Dragons.
The maesters at Dragon's Heart could be entrusted with the library Aegon had collected; they would translate, preserve, and spread the knowledge of Old Valyria. Moreover, the surrounding lords were unlikely to object if maesters were trained north of the Blackwater and traveled to them not for months, but for weeks and days.
"You have that look again," Laena chuckled, entering the solar. She wore her dragon-hide suit again, and Aegon praised himself once more: the gift had pleased not only the recipient but the giver as well.
"What look?"
"Like that time when Father opened the chest with that statuette. Surprised and very sly, as if you know more than everyone else but won't say a word to anyone. What has happened?"
"Maester Norbert asked for an assistant, and I am thinking of solving the root of the problem."
"Even more maesters?"
Aegon snorted—his wife had learned to read him too well.
"Even more maesters," he nodded. "Besides, it will solve the problem of the empty towers."
"The Conclave has not seen a more generous gift since the founding of the Citadel."
"The Conclave can go to the Seven Hells (Peklo)," the Prince grimaced. "I have no intention of giving my home to that pack of lazy wolves. They would squabble all winter over whether to accept the gift or not, and when they decided to accept, they would tear each other apart for the right to occupy the new chambers. I wished to invite Uncle and his retinue here. Marlon shall become the Maester of Dragon's Heart, and Uncle shall teach his novices."
"A house full of cantankerous greybeards and clamoring, pimply youths," his spouse drawled ironically, leaning against the table beside him.
"We can build a new one," Aegon shrugged. "A manse with gardens on the Isle of Faces, for example, or a palace in Harrenton, or raise an inner wall so they do not get underfoot."
"What tempting proposals. And what shall we do while the building is underway?"
"Did you not wish to see Essos? Tyrosh and Pentos?"
"And Volantis!"
"Truly?" the Prince smiled slyly, having no burning desire to return there. Leaning forward, he pulled his wife to him and settled her upon his lap. "I do not recall that in the list of desires. Will you remind me?"
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