twin flames | daemon targaryen

sixty-three

The Riverlands, Three Days Later

The smell of smoke still lingered in the air. Ash seemed to cling to every surface in Harrenhal and Harrentown, no matter how harshly they were scrubbed. Reminders of the siege laid upon the castle and town days earlier by the two Targaryen warriors were everywhere, and no one would soon forget it.

The great hall of Harrenhal was filled with over one hundred men gathered around a long oak table standing at the center of the room. An intricate, hand-woven map of Westeros laid atop the aged wood. Small figurines were placed all over the map, depicting fish, dragons, wolves, lions, towers, and more. Candles burned on nearly every available surface in the hall, their wax melting down their sides as the hall was lit in a golden glow. The candles were necessary for clouds filled with ash and smoke covered the sun outside.

Two men with silver hair stood on either end of the long table. It was Damion who stood at the northern edge of the map and Daemon at the southern end. Their hands were placed firmly on the hilts of their swords hanging at their sides, and their lips were turned down into identical frowns as they studied the map before them. Their armor, made of high-quality black and white metal, shone in the candlelight, revealing the intricate dragon scale design decorating their chest plates.

The lords of House Mooton, House Tully, House Frey, House Blackwood, House Ryger, House Mallister, House Roote, and House Darry stood along the table between the two Targaryens, their advisors and the lords of more minor Riverland Houses standing behind them. Each of the Riverland lords wore grim expressions, for once not squabbling amongst themselves as they infamously did whenever they gathered together.

They had all come to Harrenhal on their own accord, taking off on horseback with their advisors and best fighters for the great, ruined castle within the hour of the arrival of Daemon and Damion at their keeps days before. They did not need much convincing from the two Targaryens to join the Red cause.

Whether it was out of loyalty to Rhaella and Viserys and his dying wishes or fear of the destruction the Rogue Prince and the Ruthless could bring on dragonback, it did not matter. They were all there, the lords of the Riverlands, swords at the ready, prepared to fight for the Red Queen, their Queen. Each man had individually pledged themselves and their Houses to Prince Daemon and Damion upon their arrival to Harrenhal, kneeling before the men and muttering their promises to Queen Rhaella.

Daemon had sat upon the throne of Harrenhal as Damion stood beside him at his right, the two Targaryens watching expressionlessly as lord after lord came in, promising their allegiance to them and Rhaella. Something dangerous surrounded the father and son, something dark that sent goosebumps rising on the skin of the lords as they kneeled before them. To many, it felt as if the Great Conquering was happening again, the men of Westeros forced to bend the knee to the Targaryens once more as the threat of fire and blood hung overhead.

Outside the castle, Caraxes and Darksmoke flew, the great dragons circling the highest towers of Harrenhal. Their shrieks and clicks echoed for miles, the sounds of their wingbeats so deep and powerful they could be felt in the chests of all those who stood on the ground. The creatures weaved in and around the five towers, casting shadows over the ruined and melted stone, a terrifying reminder to all that the castle of Harrenhal could never escape the fire and fury of House Targaryen for long.

"I say we begin heading South on the morrow."

In the great hall, everyone turned to look at Damion. The young prince lifted his gaze from the map, ignoring the eyes of all of the Riverland lords as he met his father's stare. He should have felt intimidated being surrounded by so many men who were older and wiser than he, but he didn't. He had been trained for this, thousands of hours spent in the training yards with his sword, thousands of hours spent in the skies on Darksmoke, thousands of hours spent in the libraries with his brothers and sisters learning from the maesters employed by his House. If anything, Damion felt powerful, knowing that he and his father were the ones who commanded them and would lead them in battle.