Dawn was ungentle.

The sun rose in a blaze of orange and red, the air already thick with the promise of heat. The royal party stirred slowly, groans and muttered curses filling the air as they packed up camp.

Robert was in a foul mood, his hangover making his temper short. Cersei moved with cold precision, her gaze like ice as she ordered the servants about.

Joffrey complained loudly about the state of his boots, while Myrcella—ever the peacemaker—tried to distract Tommen with a game of stones.

The ride was brutal. The days were longer and hard with a full moon since they had started out.

The Kingsroad seemed to stretch into eternity, the land growing flatter, the trees thinner, the sun unrelenting. The litter wheels squeaked, Joffrey whined, and even Ashford seemed to drag his hooves. Lyonel’s back ached, his throat was dry, and the weight of Lionmane felt heavier with every

mile. Till the time they stopped, the sun was dipping toward the horizon, the forest around them thick with ancient oaks and the whisper of leaves.

Robert declared they would camp here, in the woods just off the road.

"Fifty miles to Harrenhal," Ser Jaime announced, stretching his arms as he dismounted. "We’ll reach it by tomorrow night."

Lyonel glanced toward the west, where the distant silhouette of the monstrous castle would soon rise against the sky. He could almost see it—the black towers, the bloodstained halls, the widow who now ruled it alone.

He unsaddled Ashford, rubbing the stallion down with slow, methodical strokes. The horse nuzzled his shoulder, as if sensing the tension in him.

"You’re quiet," a voice said.

Lyonel didn’t look up. "Tired."

Myrcella stepped closer, her yellow gown rustling in the breeze. She tilted her head, her blonde curls catching the last of the sunlight.

"You’ve been quiet since we left Ivy." She paused. "Did something happen?

Lyonel finished with Ashford’s tack, then turned to face her. She was young, but her eyes were sharp. Too sharp. "Just thinking," he said.

She smiled, a knowing thing. "Dangerous habit." She echoed Sandor’s words, and for a moment, Lyonel wondered if she had overheard more than she let on.

Then she turned, her skirts swirling, and walked back toward the fire.

Lyonel watched her go, then settled onto the grass, his back against a tree. The night was coming, and with it, the promise of Harrenhal.

And whatever fate awaited them there.

The morning broke with a pale, watery light, the mist clinging to the trees like a shroud. The air was cool, the ground still damp from the night’s dew, and the Kingsroad stretched ahead, unforgiving in its monotony. The royal retinue moved with the sluggish pace of those who had ridden too long and slept too little.

Joffrey sulked atop his palfrey, his lips pressed into a petulant pout, his gloves already dirtied from fidgeting with his reins. "This is insufferable," he muttered, kicking his horse forward with unnecessary ****. "Why must we stop at every damned keep along the way?"

Robert, riding ahead with Ser Barristan, ignored him. "Because it’s courtesy, boy," the old knight replied, his voice steady. "Lord Whent was a loyal man. We honor his memory."

Joffrey scoffed, but said no more.

Lyonel rode at the rear with Sandor, the Hound’s helm gleaming dully in the morning light. The two had fallen into an easy rhythm, the silence between them comfortable, broken only by the occasional grunt or curse from Sandor as his wounds ached.

"You ever been to Harrenhal?" Lyonel asked, adjusting the strap of Lionmane across his back.

Sandor snorted. "Once. Hated it." He shifted in his saddle, his burned face twisting in disgust. "Too many damned halls. Too many ghosts."

Lyonel arched a brow. "Ghosts?"

"You’ll see." Sandor’s voice was low, rough. "Place is cursed. Built on blood and madness. Aegon the Conqueror burned Harren the Black alive in its halls. Some say you can still hear him screaming when the wind howls."

Lyonel glanced at the horizon, where the dark spires of Harrenhal were beginning to take shape against the sky. "Sounds cheerful."

Sandor barked a laugh. "You’ve got a knack for understatement, bastard." He took a swig from his wineskin, then offered it to Lyonel. "Drink. You’ll need it."

Lyonel declined, his gaze fixed on the looming fortress. "I’d rather keep my wits about me."

Sandor shrugged. "Suit yourself. But if you start seeing things, don’t come crying to me."

Crossing those fifty miles had taken them ten more days, and tbis was the eleventh since the past moon.

Till afternoon’s end, the gates of Harrenhal rose before them—massive, blackened iron set into stone so dark it seemed to drink the light.

The towers jutted into the sky like broken teeth, their windows narrow and watchful. The air grew colder as they approached, the shadow of the castle falling over them like a warning.

The gates creaked open, slow and ****, as if the castle itself resisted their entry. A small procession awaited them within the courtyard—household guards in black and red, their faces solemn, and at their center, a woman.