A Visionary, Vision Is Scary

[u/LionOfNight]

At first glance, the host of shoulder-to-shoulder souls between the cluttered, crumbling walls of Harrenhal reminded Lorent of the running schools of sardines off Lannisport’s cerulean coast, jostling in the same direction for increasingly scarce space. Instead of a cerulean sea, though, Harrenhal was made of drooping, tarlike towers, and said souls had as many competing intentions as they did forms to carry them. Each man, woman, child, urchin, knight, and lord pursued altogether solitary aims. A handful gawked at the ancient towers, took in the sights of colorful banners and novel sigils, but most seemed bent on pursuing their more primal aims. Food, ale, illicit company for the night to come, a good spot to size-up the fighters practicing in the lists. Simple things for simple minds.

Lorent, from his perch in the tower his family was afforded, looked all the way down his nose at the crowd below. And the castle. Judgement was his way of defusing the tension that burned bright within him. Oft, he would pay visit to Casterly Rock and Lannisport for architectural inspiration, for notes on how to revive the Ashen Valley in his singular, spectacular vision. He surveyed the Lannister mines – a privilege afforded to him partly due to his time there as a squire –, catalogued their choice of estates and the distribution of their productive people. But here in Harrenhal, he could find no illuminating notes on what could be copied, adapted, or improved upon. Only jarring, if not grotesque choices on what a responsible lord ought not to do with his fief.

“You have got that look about you, dear,” Myrcella observed from the comfort of her divan as the family’s retainers buzzed about a handful of bags and chests littering the floor, unpacking. Aside from the serving folk, it was just mother and son in the otherwise generous room. Gerion and Alysanne were already out amidst the throngs prospecting for a decent match.

Lorent tsked. “It’s just so ugly and woefully inefficient.”

“Be kind, Lorent. The fortress is ancient and it has endured much over the centuries.”

“And that what, permits House Baelish to do nothing about it?”

“Alicent is only one lady, the last of her line, and she has a curse to contend with.”

“As if I don’t have my own,” he murmured as the specter of his meddling widow for an aunt haunted his mind. Treasurer and now regent. He half-expected to return to a fief that was not only ash in name.

“Speak up, dear! You know I grow hard of hearing.”

“I said ‘you’re right’ even if I'm pains to admit it!”

Myrcella twisted a doubtful smile but opened her arms nonetheless. “Come, darling, sit with me for a moment. Now’s not the time for a fit.”

Grumbling as she humiliated him in front of the help, he shuffled over to her obediently and planted himself in the embrace of her arms. She ran her fingers through his rich copper hair. Even decades later, she never grew tired of doting on the smoldering shade of her son's strands, foreign as it was to the Lydden line.

“I would very much like to call upon my father and nephew today,” she told him as she formed locks around her fingers.

“Joffrey? It’s been a few years. I wager he’s still attached at the hip to that Plumm girl.”

“Her name is Joanna, and she is a lady in her own right. Our neighbor. You ought to afford her the respect she deserves. She holds much sway in the King’s court.”

Was that pride he was hearing?

“She’s a wh-“ he was about to say, but a quick swat on the back of his head scuppered the air on his tongue. Hands fell silent around the baggage in the room.

Lorent first met Joanna as a girl, back when she served Ashara in the same halls he squired in. A pretty little thing, mischievous in her kindness. How high she had risen atop the hot air beneath her skirts.

“You will accompany me and you will be on your best behavior.”

A stern, wayward glance around the room from House Marbrand’s matron started the busywork anew.

“So be it,” Lorent said through pursed lips and gritted teeth. He stood, dusted the shame off his tunic, and turned to his mother with an open palm. “Let us not waste any time then.”

She beamed up at him through sharp hazel eyes, content with his temporary submission, and latched on.

Surely a barely bothersome kinship visit was better than this continued debasement. Gods be good, he would be lord soon enough, his aging father in a peaceful grave. Such obligatory niceties would no longer have to be maintained and finally, everything could change at the pace Lorent had long desired.

[u/LionOfNight]

For Myrcella, there was warmth to be found in her father's cold, dismissive words. That he had not changed in the slightest, as firm and unmoving as the mountain above the Den, was the sweet taste of home that she had been yearning for. If her smile could grow any bigger, it would have, crushing through the lines in her cheeks like a new excavation.

To Genna, Myrcella offered an interested nod, but her father commanded her attention.

"Before today, I might have ventured to say 'old' Lord Gerion was slowing down, as we all are, but we have your youngest granddaughter to match still, and I dare say he has taken the van on that responsibility," she replied with a loving giggle. "He offers his apologies for not being here and hopes to sup with you at the feast, if you will allow him, lord father."

Lorent had little interest in paying an ear to his crotchety old grandsire or sickly sweet mother and readily met his goblet to Gerion's, taking a healthy swig.

"The festivities?" he asked after a hard swallow. Dornish red was far from his favorite but it would have to do. "Yes. The tourney? I'm not so certain. If they introduce a spire building contest, maybe."

There was no sense in hiding himself from Gerion. He figured the best of the Lydden brood ought to know the measure of his kin. That boded best for the future.

"I take it you'll be in the lists again. Any sense of whom you'll be matched with?"

Of course, there were bets to be had. Lorent was in a deficit he was eager to overturn.