To Love A King || Maegor Targaryen

10 • THE RED EYED STRANGER

Harrenhal is a huge castle, the largest one in all of Westeros, though it is also the most ill-omened. It is located on the northern shore of the Gods Eye lake at the heart of the Riverlands, south of the River Trident and northwest of King's Landing.

Later, it was said the man came galloping from the Mud Gate of Kings Landing. He came on foot, leading his laden horse by the bridle to the South of Harrenhal.

It was late afternoon and the ropers’, saddlers’ and tanners’ stalls were already closed, the street empty. It was hot but the man had a black coat thrown over his shoulders. He drew attention to himself.

He stopped in front of the Old Narakort Inn, stood there for a moment, listened to the hubbub of voices. As usual, at this hour, it was full of people. The stranger did not enter the Old Narakort. He pulled his horse farther down the street to another tavern, a smaller one, called The Fox.

Not enjoying the best of reputations, it was almost empty. The innkeeper raised his head above a barrel of pickled cucumbers and measured the man with his gaze.

The outsider, still in his coat, stood stiffly in front of the counter, motionless and silent.

“What will it be?”

“Beer,” said the stranger. His voice was unpleasant, cold yet stern in authority.

The innkeeper wiped his hands on his canvas apron and filled a chipped earthenware tankard. The stranger was not old but his hair was almost entirely white as snow.

Beneath his coat he wore a worn leather jerkin laced up at the neck and shoulders. As he took off his coat those around him noticed that he carried a sword.... something unusual in itself, but no one carried a sword strapped to his back as if it were a bow or a quiver.

The stranger did not sit at the table with the few other guests. He remained standing at the counter, piercing the innkeeper with his gaze. He drew from the tankard.

“I’m looking for a room for the night.” the stranger requested.

“There's none,” grunted the innkeeper, looking at the guest's boots, dusty and dirty.

“Ask at the Old Narakort.”

“I would rather stay here.” the stranger insisted.

“There is none.” The innkeeper finally recognized the stranger's accent. He was foreign, a familiar common tongue.

“I’ll pay.” The stranger spoke quietly, as if unsure, and the whole nasty affair began. A pockmarked beanpole of a man who, from the moment the outsider had entered had not taken his gloomy eyes from him, got up and approached the counter.

Two of his companions rose behind him, no more than two paces away. “There's no room to be had, you vagabond,” rasped the pockmarked man, standing right next to the outsider.

“We don't need people like you in Narakort This is a decent town!”

The stranger took his tankard and moved away. He glanced at the innkeeper, who avoided his eyes. It did not even occur to inner keeper to defend the stranger, after all, who liked foreigners?

“All foreigners are thieves,” the pockmarked man went on, his breath smelling of beer, garlic and anger.

“Do you hear me, you bastard?”

“He can't hear you. His ears are full of shit,” said one of the men with him, and the second man cackled.

“Pay and leave!” yelled the pocked man.

Only now did the stranger look at him. “I’ll finish my beer.” his baritone grew confident.

“We'll give you a hand,” the pockmarked man hissed. He knocked the tankard from the stranger's hand and simultaneously grabbing him by the shoulder, dug his fingers into the leather strap which ran diagonally across the outsider's chest.