The chill of the latter half of the night soaked through the stone walls. Daemon lay in bed, listening to Gael's even breathing from the next room and the rustling of Mysaria turning over further away.
The Cannibal yawned in the Flowstone Yard. The crackling sound of dragon breath scorching the flagstones seeped through the window cracks, interweaving with the faint wind from deep within Harrenhal into an eerie melody.
He rose silently, slinging Blackfyre across his back.
The farce at the banquet during the day was like a thorn in his heart—Daemon Targaryen's loose tongue was annoying, but the secretive demeanor of House Strong made him even more suspicious.
Especially when Lord Bywin mentioned Lyonel forging chains at the Citadel, the flash of worry in his eyes was definitely not just concern for his son's safety.
The corridor was empty, with only wall sconces casting flickering shadows between the stone cracks.
The sound of dragging chains came from the direction of the Tower of Ghosts. Perhaps it was the night watch patrolling, but the sound was excessively dragging, more like something heavy rubbing against the ground.
Daemon lightened his steps, his boots treading on flagstones accumulated with centuries of dust, raising fine grey mist.
The path to the godswood was hidden in the shadows behind the armory.
Moonlight was shattered by the ruins of the Wailing Tower, spilling onto the moss-covered stone path like broken silver.
The twenty-acre walled garden looked like the ribs of a giant beast in the night. The thorns growing on the wall were hung with condensed night dew, gleaming coldly under the moon.
When he pushed open the small oak gate, the hinges let out a tooth-aching creak.
Daemon subconsciously pressed his hand on his sword hilt, only releasing it when he heard the babbling of the stream.
The godswood was filled with the smell of damp earth, mixed with the unique bitterness of the weirwood heart tree. The stream flowing through the woods shimmered with light, breaking the reflection of the heart tree on the water surface.
He approached the eerie tree step by step. The face of the heart tree looked increasingly hideous in the moonlight. The twisted mouth grinned to an unnatural arc, and ghostly green flames seemed to burn in the two sunken eye sockets.
Just as Daemon reached out, fingertips about to touch the bark, dragging footsteps came from behind.
"Good evening, Prince." The voice wasn't loud, but pierced the forest silence like an ice pick. Daemon spun around, Blackfyre unsheathed half an inch, moonlight flowing in a cold arc along the blade.
A young man stood under the tree shadow. The hem of his black robe was stained with mud, and his left leg was unnaturally twisted. Every step required dragging his ankle in a semi-circle—that signature clubfoot was unmistakable even in dim light.
"Larys Strong." Daemon slowly sheathed his sword, fingertips lingering on the hilt. "I thought Ser Lyonel's second son didn't appear at the banquet because he was accompanying his father at the Citadel."
"I didn't expect the Prince to know my humble name." Larys bowed slightly. The movement looked somewhat comical due to his leg, but his eyes were sharp as a hawk's.
He dragged his left leg two steps forward, black robe sweeping through knee-high weeds. "Does the Prince visit the godswood late at night to listen to the whispers of the heart tree?"
Daemon didn't answer, his gaze landing on those bottomless black eyes.
The black hair of House Strong curled on his head. A few strands fell on his forehead, covering half an eyebrow, but unable to hide the sinister look in his eyes inconsistent with his age.
This was the future "Clubfoot" who would stir up storms, the man who would inherit Harrenhal after the deaths of his father and brother and play a key role in the Dance of the Dragons.
"This tree has many stories to tell." Larys walked to the heart tree on his own, reaching out to stroke the trunk gently. "When Harren the Black built it, he used the blood of three hundred Riverlands captives to water the soil. During Aegon's Conquest, dragonfire burned its ancestor to charcoal, but the next spring, a new sapling drilled out from the ashes." He paused, tilting his head as if listening. "Look at this face; doesn't it look like it's laughing? Some say it laughs at every fool who tries to control Harrenhal—when House Qoherys was exterminated, tree sap dyed the entire stream red; the night House Harroway was executed by Maegor, these eyes wept sap all night."
Daemon stared at the dark red sap seeping from the heart tree's eye sockets, thinking of the thirteen "bleeding" scratches his great-grandfather Daemon Targaryen would leave in the future. "You seem to take exceptional delight in the misfortunes of other families."
"Not misfortune, but lessons." Larys turned around. His clubfoot made his stance look skewed, but inexplicably exuded a condescending scrutiny. "House Strong has only established itself in Harrenhal for three generations up to my brother and me. We rely not on prayer, but on remembering every scar. Like this tree, it carved all hatred on its face to survive until today."
The stream babbled over pebbles. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on Larys's face.
He suddenly smiled, the arc of his grin somewhat resembling the twisted mouth of the heart tree. "Did you know, Prince? The night before Uncle Lucamore was sent to the Wall, he also prayed to the heart tree here."
Daemon raised an eyebrow. "What do you want to tell me?"
"I want to tell you," Larys's voice dropped extremely low, almost swallowed by the wind, "people of House Strong know how to judge the situation. Like now, I know you need people you can use, and I happen to need an opportunity to prove my value."
He straightened his body. Though the clubfoot made this action look somewhat comical, his eyes were unusually solemn. "I am willing to serve you, Prince. Whether you need the map of the castle's secret passages, the secret thoughts of the Riverlands nobles, or even... some small matters inconvenient for the Kingsguard to know."
Daemon sneered inwardly. Truly a venomous snake with a keen sense of smell. Without showing his face, relying only on personal speculation and the conflict at the banquet, he sniffed out an opportunity.
He loathed this kind of shadowy, treacherous character from the bottom of his heart, just as he loathed those strategists in the future who incited him to turn against Daeron while hiding in the shadows to gossip.
But he knew even better that in the future civil war woven of blood and fire, dragonfire and courage alone were far from enough.
"Your value isn't proven by words." Daemon turned his back, looking at the swaying tree shadows across the stream. "There are more rats in King's Landing than guards. Why should I believe you are more useful than them?"
Larys's eyes lit up, like a hunter finally seeing prey take the bait. "The Prince is wise." He dragged his clubfoot to an old oak tree, pushing aside a dense bush. "I know what you are looking for—those chips that can change the future. Coincidentally, I know someone who might be able to help."
A slight rustle came from behind the bush, and a dark figure walked out slowly.
It was a woman wearing a grey-green long dress. Jet-black long hair cascaded to her waist like a waterfall. Moonlight falling on her hair tips reflected no silver light, as if absorbing all rays.
Her face was hidden in the tree shadows; only a pair of unusually bright eyes could be seen, like emeralds soaked in stream water.
"Alys Rivers." Larys introduced, a trace of imperceptible awe in his tone. "She has lived here for a long time, longer than when my father was young."
Daemon's hand slammed onto his sword hilt. This name struck his mind like lightning—the future paramour of "One-Eye" Aemond, the woman said to see visions in flames, the wood witch who played an eerie role in the Dance over the God's Eye.
Lyonel Strong's bastard daughter? Wet nurse to Harwin and Larys? Or a witch maintaining youth with virgin blood? Any identity meant trouble.
Alys Rivers didn't speak, just standing there quietly. Her gaze seemed able to penetrate the night, piercing straight to the most hidden corners of one's heart.
Daemon felt an inexplicable chill, not from the cold of the night, but the discomfort of being thoroughly seen through, like standing naked on an ice field.
Just as he was about to question her, the woman suddenly chuckled softly. The laugh was light, but carried a strange penetrating power, making the leaves of the heart tree rustle.
"Welcome, Black Dragon from the future."
Daemon's blood froze instantly. Blackfyre unsheathed with a shing, the tip pointing straight at the woman's throat. The Valyrian steel blade gleamed with bloodthirsty cold light in the moonlight.
The Cannibal seemed to sense his master's killing intent, letting out a low roar outside the godswood, shaking night dew from the branches.
The smile on Larys's face froze. He subconsciously took half a step back, his clubfoot dragging a deep mark on the ground.
Alys Rivers, however, stood still. Those emerald-green eyes reflected the cold light of the blade, and the corner of her mouth curled into a deeper arc.
The wind stopped suddenly. The sound of the stream, the rustling of leaves, the distant roar of the dragon—all seemed to vanish in this moment.
Only the twisted face of the heart tree and Alys Rivers's seemingly plain words echoed repeatedly in Daemon's ears.
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