Chapter 231: The Appearance of Wildfire

Viserys gave a brief account of the situation in the Riverlands. The region was in chaos: the Brackens had rebelled, and the farmers were in turmoil. Of Old Tully's three sons, only the eldest had shown any competence, but he had been killed in a night attack by the Brackens.

The other two were either boorish fools or reckless men with no sense. The Tully House was expected to decline in the coming decades.

Rhaegar frowned as he listened. The nobles of Westeros had grown accustomed to his father's perceived weakness, emboldening them to rebel openly. Lord Lyonel had been wounded, and Harwin had retreated to Harrenhal, making the situation more difficult than anticipated.

Old Tully had followed the rebels to Harrenhal, leaving Riverrun leaderless. The Riverlands, divided by the Trident River, suffered from poor transportation and weak connections between the nobles, leading to widespread indifference to the Tullys' rule. It was the most disorderly of the Seven Kingdoms.

Rhaegar took his father's hand, looking at him with determination. "Do you want me to go and relieve Harrenhal of its siege?" With the speed of Cannibal, he could fly there and back within an hour. A few bursts of Dragonfire would quickly scatter the rebels.

Viserys' eyes flashed with a mixture of shame and pride. He clasped his eldest son's hand with both of his own, his voice thick with emotion. "Rest for the night first. You've just returned to King's Landing; you need a peaceful sleep."

After Rhaegar's decisive action against the Triarchy, Viserys fully trusted his son's abilities. Unlike the rugged terrain of the Stepstones, the open plains of the Riverlands offered no hiding places for rebels. There, dragons were invincible.

Rhaegar nodded. "Okay, tomorrow I will make a trip to the Riverlands. I'll deal with the Stepstones when I return."

The stronghold of the Triarchy had been reduced to ashes. The mercenaries on the Stepstones were now nothing more than scattered forces, easily swept aside.

...

After leaving the chambers, Rhaegar lifted his eyes to see a black-clad figure waiting at the corner of the corridor.

"Rhaenyra, are you still here?" Rhaegar approached her.

Rhaenyra stood with her back to him, her arms crossed over her chest.

Rhaegar, unaware of the tension, asked with a smile, "Waiting for me?"

Swish-

A flash of cold steel cut through the air, aimed directly at Rhaegar's vital point.

In an instant, Rhaegar's face stiffened and cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

"Of course I'm waiting for you. If it wasn't me, it would be someone else," Rhaenyra said with a grin, pressing the dagger to his throat while she stroked the side of his face with her other hand.

"Sister, calm down," Rhaegar said, his pupils dilating in fear.

Rhaenyra leaned closer, her eyes cold and calculating. "You're here, but you haven't had time to finish carving your runes, have you?"

She knew that Rhaegar possessed a mysterious power through runes. The upper half of his body was covered in bronze runes that turned to green scales when attacked, but the lower half remained unfinished.

"Rhaenyra..." Rhaegar began, his voice a mixture of panic and determination.

After a brief moment of fear, he regained his composure. He knew she wouldn't hurt him; she was using this as an opportunity to teach him a lesson.

As expected, Rhaenyra withdrew the dagger slightly, no longer pressing it against his skin. Just as Rhaegar began to relax, the cold blade pressed against his face again.

"This dagger is for Jeyne," Rhaenyra said coldly.

Rhaegar understood. She was pushing him, making him face his mistakes.

"Rhaegar, you grew up under my care. I know everything about you," Rhaenyra continued, pressing the dagger lightly against his nose. Greenish scales appeared, blocking the blade.

The dagger slid down, revealing more green scales. Rhaenyra's eyes were calm as she said, "Remember your promise. Don't make me remind you."

Rhaegar gripped the dagger and replied solemnly, "Don't worry, my flame will never go out."

With that, he grabbed the dagger and discarded it, then bent down and lifted Rhaenyra onto his shoulders.

"Rhaegar..." Rhaenyra exclaimed in surprise, patting his back as the frostiness in her eyes melted away.

...

The next day, the sun was high in the sky, casting thick, golden rays over King's Landing.

"Roar—"

A pitch-black dragon soared out of the Dragonpit, its shadow flashing across the sky. The civilians on Silk Street saw it most clearly as it headed towards the Riverlands.

At the old city gates, five hundred Second Sons, four hundred Unsullied, and three hundred Dragonkeepers stood in formation.

Rumble, rumble, rumble—

A four-wheeled carriage approached slowly, flanked by a hundred Vale knights clad in iron armor.

Inside the carriage, Rhaenyra and Jeyne sat opposite each other—one in a black strapless dress, the other in a long white gown. The atmosphere was tense and silent.

Jeyne bowed her head and spoke first, "Rhaenyra, I'm sorry."

"Apologies don't replace justice," Rhaenyra replied, crossing one leg and tapping her fingers on the back of her hand.

Jeyne took a deep breath and whispered, "I'll return to the Vale and never come back to King's Landing."

"Make sure you do," Rhaenyra said in a cold, clear voice.

Jeyne forced a smile, "I actually have a lot to say to you."

"If you say one more word, you won't be returning to the Vale at all," Rhaenyra snapped, her face turning icy.

The conversation ended abruptly.

Rhaenyra stepped out of the carriage, her snow-white calves disappearing under her black skirt. The carriage then left the city gates, heading towards the Vale. Three hundred Dragonkeepers followed, joining the knights as an escort.

The Second Sons and the Unsullied split into two groups, each heading out of the city gates to join the prince in the Riverlands.

Rhaenyra watched the carriage and procession disappear from view.

"Princess, let's return to the Red Keep," said Steffon Darklyn, the Kingsguard.

Rhaenyra touched the Valyrian steel necklace around her neck and smiled, "No, I'm going to the Dragonpit."

"Yes, Princess," Steffon responded, escorting her without question.

Feeling the cool three dragon-head pendants, Rhaenyra's mind settled, and she found herself missing Rhaegar.

"I think I'll take a trip to the Riverlands," she decided, seeking to distance herself from the recent confrontation with Jeyne.

...

The Riverlands, Harrenhal

Summer brought scorching heat, and the castle grounds of Harrenhal were blistering.

"Pour on the oil, quickly!"

"Prepare the catapults!"

Outside the towering thick walls, thousands of peasants in rough cloth and linen surrounded the castle, forming a fierce and determined crowd. Most wielded makeshift weapons—manure forks and hoes, their equipment rudimentary at best.

At the forefront, ten large trebuchets were being positioned. Operated by hundreds of well-equipped soldiers in armor, each bearing a red stallion upon a golden escutcheon on brown—the emblem of House Bracken. Mixed among them were banners of other minor nobles, bannermen of House Bracken.

The siege of Harrenhal was a rebellion led by the Bracken House, with peasant support.

As commanders barked orders, soldiers carefully loaded barrels into trebuchets.

"Release!"

At the command, the trebuchets launched their loads. The barrels arced over the towering walls, crashing into Harrenhal's interior.

Rumble...

The barrels shattered, releasing green flames that spread rapidly.

The trebuchets were swiftly reloaded.

"Release!"

Barrel after barrel was hurled into Harrenhal. Some crashed against the city walls, while others flew farther, landing in the godswood at the edge of the walls. The green flames clung to the stones and continued to burn fiercely, requiring no additional fuel. The forest burst into flames almost instantly.

Harrenhal was once the largest and most majestic castle in Westeros, built on the northern shore of the continent's largest inland lake, the God's Eye.

Its thick and steep walls stood like cliffs, and the gatehouse alone was as large as most main castles. Five towers loomed within Harrenhal: the Tower of Dread, the Widow's Tower, the Wailing Tower, the Tower of Ghosts, and the Kingspyre Tower.

Since the burning by Balerion the Black Dread, none of the towers remained intact. They were twisted, their stones cracked and blackened ruins now stood where grand designs once existed.

A dark atmosphere prevailed over the ruins of Harrenhal, as the green flames of rebellion consumed its ancient stones.

Boom--

More barrels were hurled over the walls, and the green flames grew increasingly intense. Although the five towers remained untouched, they were now surrounded by fire.

Inside the city, fewer than 2,000 guards scrambled to defend Harrenhal. They climbed the walls and launched counterattacks with bows and arrows against the rebels below. However, the spreading wildfire was overwhelming, and the rear of the city was gradually consumed by flames.

"Put out the fire! The green fire is spreading to the towers!"

"Everyone, put out the fire!"

Under the clear sky, green flames raged in the dimly lit Harrenhal. Smoke and screams filled the air, creating a mournful symphony.

"Ah! Don't touch the green fire!"

"It's burning! It can't be put out!"

Soldiers and servants tried to extinguish the flames, but the green fire clung to their bodies and burned even more fiercely when water was poured on it.

The steward of Harrenhal recognized the wildfire, an alchemical product known for its extreme flammability and adhesiveness. It was as powerful as dragonfire and could explode on contact. Once banned from the Citadel, it now wreaked havoc.

On the city tower, Harwin, clad in armor and wielding a sword, watched anxiously. He was well aware of the horrors of the wildfire. In less than half an hour, it had spread across half of Harrenhal. At this rate, they would be burned alive before the rebels could breach the city gates.

Outside the city, the rebels began their assault. Braving a hail of arrows, they carried ladders and charged the walls.

"Surround the east gate! Don't let the Strongs escape!"

A Bracken commander gave the order, directing the chaotic masses to surround Harrenhal completely.

Inside, Harwin, filled with fear and anger, drew his sword and bellowed, "Use the rolling logs and oil! Do not let the rebels climb the walls!"

Regret weighed heavily on his heart. The long peace had dulled the vigilance of House Strong. They lacked war reserves, and their soldiers were poorly equipped. The battlements, once armed with stone throwers, were now defenseless due to decay

If the defenses had been maintained, the few stone throwers below wouldn't have had a chance to show off. The rebels would have set themselves ablaze.

A guard ran up in a panic. "My lord, the fire in the godswood is too big! We can't control it!"

The situation was dire. The wildfire was spreading uncontrollably, driven by the wind and inching ever closer to the towers. Many servants had already perished in their attempts to fight the flames.

(Word count: 1,810)