On the second day after leaving the Quiet Isle, the reeds along the riverbanks gradually thinned. Grey-green waves lapped against the ferry's planks, making a monotonous sound.
Daemon stood at the bow, watching The Cannibal, Dreamfyre, and Caraxes circle low. Pitch-black, pale blue, and crimson dragon shadows were cast on the water, startling flocks of waterfowl.
Daemon Targaryen sat at the stern, producing an apple from somewhere and tossing it to the ferryman of House Roote, smiling as he asked which tavern in Lord Harroway's Town had the strongest horses.
"Harroway is just ahead." The ferryman caught the apple, pointing to the dock in front. "You can see Lord Roote's two-headed horse banner from miles away."
Daemon looked in the direction he pointed. Sure enough, a banner with a brown sigil on a green field fluttered in the wind; the two-headed horse on it looked lifelike, as if galloping on the waves.
The stone round tower by the dock exuded a sense of age. The seven-domed sept's spires gleamed white in the sun. Outside the two-story inn hung a faded wine flag, drooping like a bird with broken wings when the wind blew.
"This place... looks quite quiet." Gael walked to Daemon's side, Mysaria following behind holding freshly sewn bandages—there was plenty of cloth left from Ser Cox of Saltpans, and the girl was mending the followers' frayed cloaks during the journey.
"Quiet?" Daemon Targaryen leaned over at some point, limping to rest against the gunwale. "You'll know in a bit. I've met Lord Roote's daughters a few times; they are livelier than the fish in Saltpans."
Gael's brows furrowed instantly. She reached out to pinch his arm but was blocked by Daemon. "Don't get angry." He turned to the ferryman. "What kind of person is Lord Roote?"
"A good man." The ferryman grinned, revealing two rows of yellow teeth. "Last winter, the Earl opened his granaries and saved many lives. Just... loves telling stories too much, especially about their Ser Richard Roote, one of the first Kingsguard; he mentions him to everyone."
When the ferry docked, Lord Roote was already waiting with attendants. He wore a green brocade robe, a silver-hilted dagger at his waist. His smile was like sunlight on the river, warm and melting: "Prince Daemon! Princess Gael! You've had a hard journey; come to the castle to rest quickly!"
The town streets were paved with bluestone, polished bright by rain. Houses on both sides were mostly wood and stone, with clay pots on windowsills holding wild chrysanthemums.
Townspeople in brown cloth clothes stopped to watch this retinue with dragons, eyes full of curiosity and fear. Children ran after the squires, only to be laughingly pulled back by their mothers.
House Roote's castle wasn't large. A stone round tower stood in the center. In the yard below, several fine horses were tethered; one brown horse actually had two tufts of white hair on its forehead, looking exactly like the two-headed horse on the banner.
"This is 'River King'," Lord Roote patted the horse's neck. "The treasure of our House Roote, runs faster than the wind."
Dinner was held in the castle's long hall. The wooden table was filled with roast boar, stewed river fish, and rye bread. Lord Roote personally poured wine for Daemon, the liquid amber-colored and smelling of grain: "Try this, Prince. Our home-brewed ale is no worse than anywhere else."
After three rounds of wine, Lord Roote's chatterbox opened completely. He pointed to a tapestry on the wall embroidered with a knight in a white cloak: "This is Ser Richard Roote, the pride of our House, who conquered the realm with Aegon the Conqueror, one of the first Kingsguard!" Then he pointed to another painting. "This is my grandfather, who supported Prince Aegon the Uncrowned back then. A pity... Maegor that brute was too ruthless. Prince Aegon lost, and our house was nearly exterminated."
Daemon listened quietly, nodding occasionally as the other party was clearly drunk.
Gael sipped her juice, but her eyes kept darting toward Daemon Targaryen—that fellow was sitting among Lord Roote's daughters, saying something that made the three girls laugh like blooming flowers. One in a yellow dress even secretly stuffed a honey cake into his hand.
"Look at him!" Gael lowered her voice, pinching Daemon's arm. "Hasn't been well-behaved for two days since Saltpans, and he's starting trouble for us again!"
Daemon shook his head helplessly. Just as he was about to get up to pull him away, Lord Roote raised his cup: "Prince, I heard you are going to Harrenhal? That place..." He clicked his tongue. "Is very cursed."
"Oh?" Daemon was interested.
"Ever since that old bastard Harren built that broken castle, it hasn't been peaceful." Lord Roote drained his cup. "House Qoherys held it for a few years, then went extinct; House Harroway took over, intermarried with Maegor, and got wiped out; later House Towers won the melee but didn't last long; Princess Rhaena lived there for a while, heard it was haunted at night; now House Strong lives there, hopefully they last longer." He leaned closer, voice lowering. "Everyone says that place is cursed; whoever holds it gets unlucky."
Gael's face turned slightly pale, subconsciously leaning closer to Daemon. Mysaria also stopped her needlework, worry in her eyes. Daemon Targaryen leaned over at some point, chewing honey cake: "Cursed? I say it's just to scare people. When the Conqueror flew Balerion over Harrenhal, why wasn't he cursed?" He winked at the Roote daughters. "If you ask me, it's those people being incompetent, unable to hold their family estate."
"Shut up!" Gael finally couldn't help scolding in a low voice. Since Daemon Targaryen took Daemon to the Street of Silk, she found him annoying. Daemon Targaryen shrugged, saying no more, but winked at the yellow-dress girl again.
Night in Lord Harroway's Town was exceptionally quiet, with only the croaking of frogs in the river and the distant evening bell of the sept.
Daemon had just unbuckled his sword when the door was pushed open gently. Gael led Mysaria in. The girl's silver hair was loose on her shoulders, timidity in her eyes.
"I... I'm scared." Gael walked to the bed, voice faint as a mosquito. "Listening to Lord Roote talk about Harrenhal, and House Harroway... they were all exterminated."
Mysaria nodded too, shrinking behind Gael. "Big Daemon also told us blood seeps from the wall cracks of Harrenhal."
Daemon sighed, lifting the quilt. "Come in."
Gael climbed in immediately, pressing tightly against him. Mysaria curled up at the foot of the bed.
"Do you think Harrenhal is really cursed?" Gael's voice trembled. "Changing so many masters in less than a century. Qoherys, Harroway, Towers... and Aunt Rhaena, she was so strong, yet..."
"There is no curse." Daemon stroked her long hair, his voice steady. "Only human hearts and war. House Qoherys fell to internal strife; House Harroway tied themselves to Maegor, so when Maegor fell, they naturally couldn't live; House Towers wasn't capable enough to hold such a big castle." He paused. "House Strong has good momentum now; as long as they don't make mistakes themselves, they can hold it."
Gael didn't speak but burrowed tighter into his arms. Moonlight filtered through the lattice, casting dappled shadows on the floor, looking very much like those supposedly blood-seeping wall cracks of Harrenhal.
"Sleep." Daemon kissed her forehead. "We have to travel tomorrow."
Gael hummed a "mm" and gradually closed her eyes. Mysaria also breathed evenly.
Daemon stared at the ceiling, thinking of Lord Roote's words, thinking of how House Strong would also face extinction in the future. Could Harrenhal really be cursed?
Thinking of that massive, dark castle, it felt like a dormant monster under the moonlight.
Perhaps there was no curse, but the game of thrones was always more hurtful than curses.
He sighed softly, holding the person in his arms tighter. The night was still long, and so was the road.
---