The Council of Harrenhal

Denys Arryn, now de facto Lord Paramount of the Vale, had been honored with a place at Rhaegar's side as the host moved to Harrenhal. As he moved to the front, his eyes looked at the nobles and knights of the Vale who would be walking there. The death of Jon Arryn had broken their spirits, although some had the fire of defiance within the depths of their eyes. It was best for the Vale, and better for what little remained of House Arryn, to bend the knee. For after him, only children remained, his son and a nephew, Harrold Hardyng. A lot would need to be done once this... well this council and perhaps more was completed.

Once they had arrived, Denys followed Rhaegar to where he was to meet Lord Tully. While waiting, he did wonder how his son, Osric, was doing back at the Eyrie. Surely, by now, his wife and the court had heard of what had happened. When able to, a raven would be sent to calm his likely panicking wife.

"Would it amuse you to hear of a dragon wounded by his own horse?"

Rhaegar's lips betrayed the hint of a smile, and his eyes glittered strangely in the light of the midday sun. He himself had not come in armour, though a sword still hung at his waist.

"Let us put an end to this waste of fine men, my lord. You fought nobly and honourably, and I shall forget that you broke the king's peace to ride for a pretender when you bend your knees and re-swear you oaths to me. You have my word that your crimes shall be forgiven and amnesty granted."

Though battered and broken, the Prince still had the look of the kings of old in that violet gaze. Oddly, being carried around only served to make him appear ever more regal.

"A hostage will be given from your house to mine, as a token of your good faith. We will take hostages from every house that rode for this rebellion in the Riverlands, the North, and the Vale, to be fostered amidst those that stayed true."

”Come, Lord Tully, do not insult my honour. I would not make a vow I could not keep.”

Rhaegar’s smile died in turn, replaced with the stone mask of practiced severity.

”It is in the interests of my father and the realm for a lasting peace, though he does not yet know it. My father is badly advised by men who seek to advance themselves at all of our expense.”

It was true that Aerys was surrounded by lickspittles that only fed his paranoia, hastened his descent into madness.

”I am his son, his heir. The next King to sit the Iron Throne. I will personally ensure that the oaths are given are upheld.”

How Rhaegar would do this was left up the interpretation of Hoster.

”In time. First I shall ride for Harrenhal. A council has been called, the summons sent.”

Rhaegar gestured for Hoster to ride at his side as the litter was raised by several serving men.

”Ride with me, my lord. Your dignity requires you attend.”

The Prince’s litter was taken into Harrenhal’s Great Hall, where Rhaegar himself would take a position upon the raised dais, seated upon the traditional throne of the Lord of Harrenhal. But the Lothstons and Whents had scarcely found use for a hall so vast, a hall built to host entire kingdoms rather than a mere banner Lord’s court. The throne had last been seated upon by his own father during the feast that followed the fateful tourney here, when the halls had been packed to the brim with Lord Whent’s guests of honour. Aerys had sat above them all, all hair and fingernails, his neck and shoulders sagging under the weight of the magnificent crown of Unworthy Aegon. It was a monstrous thing, golden and thick, encrusted with gemstones that served as the glittering eyes of several carved dragons.

The halls of Harrenhal would be filled to the doors once again, though in rather different circumstances. Lords and knights filtered into the cavernous Hall by the thousands, parading their pennants and banners proudly behind them. Ten thousand devices or more; every animal that a man could conceive, sunbursts and stars by the hundred, castles and towers and skulls and swords. Even some of the crude northern sigils were among them, the flayed man and chained giant led inside by the snarling wolf. On every wall was Lord Whent’s field of bats, but above them all was the Red Dragon. The Dragon with three heads, snarling in victory. Royal sigil of the Conqueror, first borne westward on the back of Balerion the Dread, who broke this great fortress with dragonfire. It was perhaps the largest banner that any man had ever laid eyes upon, and it rippled menacingly above as the winds of a dying winter buffeted through the great arched windows.

With the Dragon watching on, each man was sorted and placed according to his rank. The most ancient houses were placed at the front, led in chief by the Lords Paramount, who stood directly before the Prince himself. These were the bloodlines that descended from ancient kings and heroes of yore, bloodlines that could trace their descent back to a time closer to myth than history. After them came the newer noble houses, some of which like the Freys and Whents were wealthy and powerful but only recently raised from obscurity. Then came the minor banners by the hundred, men who had earned the title ‘Lord’ and commanded a few landed knights to their name, but had little else to merit their appearance here. They would follow their liege in all things, for the most part.

A herald in the colours of the royal house announced that the proceedings were to begin, and so was convened the Great Council of 283 AL, held by the Prince of Dragonstone to address the cause of the rebellion and secure the realm’s governance.

Prince Doran Martell had begun traveling North as soon as word had reached him of the battles outcome. Now he stood among the Dornish delegation with his brother Oberyn observing the prince as he sentenced Robert Baratheon to death. A fitting end for the man in truth, but Aerys would not be pleased. He turns to Oberyn and mutters, "What do you think Rheagar is hoping to gain from this?"

”For our shared blood I will grant you the black cloak. Gods be with you, cousin.”

Rhaegar said, uncaring. With a wave of the hand, Robert was escorted outside. No sword would swing for him this day.

”To the rest of the so-called rebels I will honour the promises made. I grant those who raised their banners mercy, provided they swear their oaths of fealty now and provide a ward for the crown as token of their good faith.” He paused. ”Remember them, my lords, for we will not be so merciful a second time.”