The surface of the God's Eye was smooth as obsidian, reflecting the silhouette of Harrenhal perfectly.
When Daemon's retinue arrived at this massive fortress, twilight plated it with a bronze halo—the tops of the five towers pierced the clouds, with the spire of Kingspyre Tower twisted like a ghostly claw, and the stone bridge between Widow's Tower and Wailing Tower looking like a broken rib in the dim light.
"By the Seven, this place is scarier than in the songs." Rayford Rosby pulled on his reins, palms sweating.
Daemon's followers behind him looked up one after another. Knights' armor gleamed coldly in the shadows, forming an eerie resonance with Harrenhal's mottled stone walls.
The Cannibal landed first in the Flowstone Yard. Pitch-black dragon claws crushed the gravel, raising dust that rolled like living things in the twilight.
Caraxes followed closely, crimson scales scraping against the ruins of the Tower of Ghosts, bringing a crisp sound of falling debris.
Dreamfyre landed lightly under the arches of the Hall of the Hundred Hearths. When her pale blue wings folded, the cracks on the walls looked like ice patterns in the light.
"Princes Daemon, Princess Gael, welcome to Harrenhal." Lord Bywin Strong's voice came from behind the gatehouse, breaking the suffocating silence.
The Earl wore a black robe trimmed with silver, a short sword inlaid with black turquoise at his waist. Though aged, his black hair mixed with white shone oil-bright in the candlelight—the signature black hair of House Strong, very much like the muddy waves of the Trident.
Behind him followed a group of attendants. Several young women wore red stone hairpins in their black hair, clearly daughters of House Strong.
A burly youth with sharp features stood on the far outside, fists clenched tight. It was Harwin Strong, son of Lyonel Strong.
"My Lord, no need for formalities." Daemon walked forward, the scabbard of Blackfyre making a muffled sound against the stone wall.
"I apologize for making you wait." Bywin stepped aside to lead the way, the gatehouse shadow cutting his face into light and dark halves. "Though Harrenhal is dilapidated, we have never dared slight the royal blood of Targaryen. Please follow me; the hearths in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths are already lit."
Passing through the gate, Daemon's fingertips traced the cracks in the wall. Dark brown traces congealed deep in the stone crevices, said to be the blood of Harren the Black seeping out when burned by dragonfire.
The thickness of the walls, even unrepaired, was incomparable to the reconstructed Harrenhal Daemon had seen in his past life after another war. Murder holes on both sides of the passage were like countless peeping eyes, making one hold their breath involuntarily.
The scale of the Hall of the Hundred Hearths was enough to shock anyone.
Thirty-four bronze hearths lined the walls. Firelight danced under the massive stone dome, casting shadows on the smooth flagstone floor.
The long table was a hundred meters long. Silver candelabras reflected the grease of roast boar, and mounds of black bread were piled beside ale barrels.
"This hall once held three thousand soldiers." Bywin raised his cup, his voice echoing in the empty hall. "When King Maegor quelled rebellions, he feasted his Kingsguard here." He paused, glancing at the tapestry on the wall embroidered with the tri-colored stripes of House Strong. "Of course, after House Strong took over, we prefer to use it to entertain friends."
Daemon Targaryen suddenly laughed, his cane tapping a brisk rhythm on the floor. "Friends? The Earl truly knows how to joke. Who doesn't know the masters of Harrenhal change faster than the river water at Riverrun? Qoherys, Harroway, Towers..."
Bywin's smile froze for a moment, and Harwin's fist tightened. But the Strong daughters were amused, especially Alys, Lucamore's youngest daughter. She covered her mouth and giggled: "Prince Daemon knows so much."
"Just a little." Daemon Targaryen leaned close to Alys, lowering his voice. "I also know the daughters of House Strong are more charming than the mermaids of the God's Eye." Alys's cheeks flushed instantly, and her two sisters giggled too.
"How can you be like this?" Young Harwin couldn't help expressing anger at the scene.
Daemon Targaryen waved it off carelessly. "Calm down, Strong boy. Your father Lyonel Strong is a friend of my brother Viserys, so you are like a son to me. You should let your father speak to me."
Harwin slammed the table and stood up, his wooden cup shattering on the floor. "Shameless!"
"Harwin!" Bywin scolded sharply, muscles twitching at the corner of his eye. "Do not be rude!" He turned to Daemon Targaryen, his tone stiff. "My grandson is unruly. Lyonel is still forging his chain at the Citadel and cannot host. Please forgive us, Prince. But please, Prince, do not insult the honor of House Strong!"
Daemon Targaryen seemed not to hear, instead raising his cup to Alys. "Honor? I heard your brother Ser Lucamore..."
"Enough!" Bywin's voice rose steeply, knuckles whitening on his silver cup. "If the Prince is here to mock House Strong, save your breath!" The hall fell dead silent, only the fire crackling.
The smile slowly vanished from Daemon Targaryen's face. He swirled his cup, the wine leaving crimson trails on the wall. "Mock? I just find it interesting. A Kingsguard, three wives, sixteen children... Ser Lucamore truly took 'The Seed is Strong' to the extreme."
This sentence was like a boulder thrown into boiling oil. The men of House Strong all put hands on their sword hilts. Simon Rivers, Lucamore's bastard son currently serving as the castle's captain of the guards, had already drawn his longsword halfway, the bronze scabbard gleaming coldly in the firelight. "Prince, please retract that statement!"
"Retract?" Daemon Targaryen raised an eyebrow, cane scraping harshly on the floor. "Did I speak wrongly? Among you, is there no one whose mother was one of those three wives?" His gaze swept over Alys and her sisters. "For example, this pretty lady, perhaps she is of Ser Lucamore's blood?"
"You seek death!" Harwin roared and drew his sword, but was pinned down by Bywin. The old Earl's face was flushed red, veins popping on his forehead. "Prince Daemon Targaryen! Have some self-respect! Lucamore was my brother, true, but he has long paid the price for his actions! The honor of House Strong is not to be defiled!"
Just then, Daemon suddenly stepped forward, the pommel of Blackfyre smashing heavily into his great-grandfather "cousin" Daemon Targaryen's stomach. "Shut up." His voice was cold as The Cannibal's breath. "You're drunk; go rest."
Daemon Targaryen grimaced in pain. Just as he was about to retort, Jarmen Waters and Mycah Rivers grabbed him from left and right.
The one-eyed bastard's gaze was like quenched ice, and the bastard of House Mooton gripped his short sword tight. The two half-dragged, half-carried him out of the hall.
"Let me go! Little Daemon, you traitor!" Daemon Targaryen's roar echoed in the passage. "Cowards of House Strong! Don't hide behind an old man if you have guts..." The voice faded away, leaving only the crackle of the hearths in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths.
Bywin sighed heavily, waving for attendants to clean up the mess. "I made the Prince laugh."
"It was I who didn't stop him in time; I didn't expect him to be so rude after drinking." Daemon raised his cup in apology, his gaze on Harwin's tense profile. "Everyone knows my cousin's dissolute nature. Drunken nonsense; please forgive him."
Gael quickly added, "His leg injury isn't healed, and his mind is muddled too. Lord Bywin, please don't take it to heart."
Mysaria stood behind her, tugging gently at her sleeve to shield her—the girl's platinum-blonde curls were striking in the firelight, contrasting sharply with the black hair of the Strongs.
Bywin was silent for a moment, finally smiling bitterly. "Let it be. That Prince... has always been so."
He filled Daemon's cup. "Lyonel, as my heir, is forging chains at the Citadel and couldn't welcome you personally; please forgive us. As for Harwin, the child has been stubborn since he was small, just like his father."
Mentioning Lyonel, Harwin's expression softened. "Father says he won't feel at ease serving the realm until he forges at least six links."
"Diligent." Daemon nodded, thinking of the intrigues in King's Landing. "When he returns, I will thank him personally."
The dinner continued in awkward silence. Bywin tried to discuss lighter topics like the fisheries of the God's Eye or the harvest of the Riverlands, but the men of House Strong remained grim-faced.
Alys and her sisters left early. Simon Rivers used patrol as an excuse to lead the guards outside the hall, clearly still brooding over the insult.
Late at night, Harrenhal was exceptionally gloomy. Daemon stood on the terrace of Kingspyre Tower, looking down at the night view of the God's Eye.
The lake water shimmered with phosphorescence, stretching the shadows of the five towers into twisted shapes like five dormant beasts.
The Cannibal lay in the Flowstone Yard, occasionally spitting a small cluster of black fire, illuminating the bats atop the Wailing Tower.
"What are you thinking?" Gael walked over wearing his cloak, Mysaria following behind holding a newly sewn cloak—made from cloth given by House Roote, embroidered with a small black three-headed dragon.
"Thinking about the curse of this castle." Daemon whispered, fingertips tracing the scorch marks on the railing. "Qoherys, Harroway, Towers... will House Strong be next?"
Gael shivered. "Don't say that; I'm scared. Daemon, Lord Bywin seems like a good man."
"Good men may not be able to hold Harrenhal." Daemon thought of the future Dance of the Dragons and the destruction of House Strong in the storm. "In the game of thrones, perhaps being good is sometimes the most useless trait."
Mysaria suddenly pointed toward the godswood. "There seems to be light over there."
The three looked in that direction. In the twenty-acre godswood, ghostly green light flickered among the twisted branches of the weirwood heart tree.
The face on that heart tree was hideous and terrifying, dark red sap seeping from the eyes like silent tears.
"Probably the woodsman praying," Gael tried to explain, her voice trembling slightly.
But Daemon gripped Blackfyre tight. He remembered Lord Roote's words and the legends about blood seeping from wall cracks. In the shadows of Harrenhal, something ominous truly seemed to be hiding, peeping through the stone cracks at everyone who entered.
Caraxes's roar came from the distance, carrying a trace of irritability. Daemon knew Daemon Targaryen was definitely complaining about being locked up.
Night wind blew through the cracks of Kingspyre Tower, making whimpering sounds.
Watching the ghostly light in the godswood, Daemon suddenly felt the curse of Harrenhal might not be a lie.
It was like a lurking beast, waiting for the right moment to drag all who tried to tame it into eternal darkness.
And their arrival might just be the key to awakening this beast.
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