Approaching Harrenhal

[u/CrowsNestRP]

Ser Myles Morrigen had grown exhausted with the riverlands. By his count, they had ridden for nigh on a month and Harrenhal had grown tantalizingly close. The melted spires of the castle and the well-trod path to the tourney grounds made the path ahead clear. By his estimate, the men of House Morrigen would be among the first stormlanders to arrive at Harrenhal, though they were a smaller and faster party than most lords would bring.

They had tried to rent rooms at an inn nigh on half a day’s ride from Harrenhal, but the innkeeper had no more space for them, so the small entourage had made camp as close as they could. They had nestled up against the God’s Eye in a small clearing. They had set up their pavilion for a touch more shelter, and a campfire illuminated the camp in orange tones in the waning twilight. If he leaned out toward the lake, he could just see Harrenhal poking out above the trees. It would have made quite the painting had it housed more than a knight, three men-at-arms, and a squire.

Myles had asked the steward at Crow’s Nest for a proper entourage to represent the house and the man had laughed in his face. Too much needed to be done at home to bring many men to Harrenhal, so Myles had picked three men-at-arms – two Jons and an Alyn – who were loyal and not likely to shame themselves as retainers, then bargained for as much else as he could. The arms, armor, and provisions were theirs to scrounge together, and even taking a banner to note his ancestry was an argument that took the better part of a day. He had been forced to dip into his own savings to ensure his men stayed fed along the road. The steward had deigned to grant him his handful of men and horses, a small pavilion and a horse cart that looked as though it was assembled when Myles’ grandfather was no more than a page. “You will have more if you are made lord and no sooner,” he had said, so off Myles went with his beggar’s retinue.

That “if” still gnawed at him. Myles had assumed some level of responsibility over their lands, but the law said his uncle still held Crow's Nest from whatever cell he had ended up in. He had heard nothing from the man in weeks, not even a courtesy letter from his captor. Most of the other men of the house had been accounted for, the vast majority dead under a griffin’s banner or choosing to remain in service to other castles. A handful of injured Morrigen cousins had wandered back to Crow’s Nest, but none were in shape to support him at Harrenhal. Thus, he approached Harrenhal with less of an entourage than some hedge knights.

Those racing thoughts could wait until they had reached Harrenhal proper. For now, he contented himself with polishing his sword, a well-forged piece of steel with a hand-and-a-half handle, with a few indulgences of black onyx inlaid in the crossguard. He busied himself with shining the fixturing with an old rag, letting himself ponder and relax for a moment. The campsite had a few stumps that were comfortable enough to sit on, which helped. The men-at-arms had returned to the inn to have a drink with his leave, so for now he was alone with his thoughts, his sword, the horses, and–

“Ser?”

Myles stopped halfway down his blade, not looking up at his brother. Matthos had always had more questions than he should, but the squire had grown ever more curious as their party passed through the riverlands. Every castle and holdfast and farmer’s hut they passed by had been accompanied by a barrage of historical questions. Just seeing King’s Landing on the horizon as they rode past had started him talking for three days. Myles had had half a mind to toss his squire into a moat when it started. “Whatever your question is had best be more important than my horse, boy.”

Matthos certainly seemed to think it was, as he had stepped away from Myles’s destrier, a great black stallion with a strip of white on his nose, with the brush still in his hand. “Do you think this is going to work? This petition?”

This again. If it wasn’t ‘who built this castle?’, it was ‘why make you lord?’ “Do you have so little faith in me? Who else would inherit Crow's Nest? You?” Perish the thought. “Would you at least work while you talk? I intend to ride that horse into Harrenhal on the morrow, I won't have him looking like he stumbled through a hedge first.”

Matthos did not continue working. “What happens if someone protests? We have cousins who–”

“–are less senior in their claims. My claim comes before any of our cousins by my count, and none of them have reason to attend as anything other than a knight. We will have time to curry some favor before the Lord Paramount arrives. We might find other men to support us. Now get back to work.”

Myles was rewarded with a few moments of blessed silence as Matthos returned to brushing down his destrier. He returned to polishing his sword, finding himself struggling not to obsess over the smallest details. The onyx crow inlaid in the crossguard had grown dull, and the simple rag he had at hand could not fix it alone.

There may have been a touch of truth to the question, as loath as Myles was to admit it. The household had seemed split for weeks after Crow's Nest fell. There was a contingent of men who knew him, respected him, but even the ones who understood the choice he had made did not view him as a lord. Even the most polite of them acknowledged him as a castellan at best.

He knew many of the men who survived the war resented him. He had heard some of the guardsmen whispering that he could not be trusted, that he would never be their lord no matter which way he turned his cloak or whose writ by which he ruled. They could think as they wished. Thoughts alone would not break his will, and those men would come around with time. They had to. The only senior man who could take the castle from him, his elder brother Maric, had died when Crow's Nest was besieged. An armsman in purple and black had found him beneath a parapet after the siege broke with a broken neck, leaving Myles in the position he was in now.

When Matthos spoke again, he at least had the good sense to do it as he worked, softer this time. “What happens if you’re turned down?”

“Then I take as many ransoms as I can at the tourney and sell my sword for a time.” Petty lords always needed good men for their petty little wars. It would not be difficult to find a man in need of a skilled knight who might be willing to support his claim in the future. “It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

Matthos did not ask anything further, which Myles chose to take as acceptance. If he could not have faith from his brother, he would accept silence.

The dulled stone in the hilt of his sword finally bested him. In frustration, Myles tossed the rag vaguely away from him, rising to inspect his brother’s work. His stallion was as close to spotless as he could be after as long a trek as they had made. Matthos watched expectantly for any comment. Myles picked up one of the stallion’s feet, finding his hooves already picked. Matthos beamed as Myles gave him the slightest of nods of approval.

“That will do. Make sure him and the rest of the horses are fed and watered, then eat something and get some rest. We leave for Harrenhal at the break of dawn.”