Whispers on the River Wind
The day after leaving Quiet Isle, the reeds on both sides of the river gradually thinned out, and the gray-green waves lapped against the ferry's deck, making a monotonous sound.
Daemon stood at the bow of the ship, watching Glutton, Dreamfyre, and Caraxes hovering low in the air, their dark and pale blue dragon shadows casting shadows on the water, startling flocks of waterbirds.
Daemon Targaryen sat at the stern, pulled an apple from somewhere, tossed it to the ferryman of the Roote family, and chuckled as he inquired which tavern in Lord Harroway's Town had the wildest horses.
"Harroway is just ahead." The ferryman took the apple and pointed to the dock ahead. "Roote Earl's double-headed flag can be seen from afar."
Daemon looked in the direction he pointed and saw a green flag with brown stripes fluttering in the wind. The two-headed horse on the flag was lifelike, as if it were riding the waves.
The stone round tower bunker by the dock exudes a sense of antiquity, the seven-domed church spire gleams white in the sunlight, and faded wine flags hang outside the two-story inn, swaying like birds with drooping wings in the wind.
"This place... looks quite quiet." Gael walked to Daemon's side, with Mysaria following behind her, holding a freshly sewn bandage in her hands— Ser Cox from Saltpans still had a lot of fabric left, and the girl was taking advantage of the journey to mend the worn-out cloaks of her followers.
"Quiet?" Daemon Targaryen appeared out of nowhere, limping against the ship's railing. "You'll see soon enough. The Roote daughters, I've met them a few times; they're more lively than the fish in Saltpans."
Gael's brows furrowed instantly, and she reached out to pinch his arm, but Daemon stopped her. "Don't be angry." He turned to the ferryman, "What kind of person is Roote Earl?"
"A good man." The ferryman grinned, revealing two rows of yellow teeth. "Last winter, the Earl opened the granaries and saved many lives. It's just... he loves to tell stories, especially Ser Ryam of his family, the first Kingsguard, he mentions it to everyone he meets."
When the ferry docked, Roote Earl was already waiting at the pier with his entourage. He wore a green brocade robe with a silver-hilted dagger at his waist, and his smile was as warm as the sunshine on the river, "Your Highness Prince Daemon! Your Gael Princess Geri! You must be tired from your journey. Please come with me to the castle to rest!"
The town's streets are paved with bluestone slabs, which gleam after being washed by the rain. The houses on both sides are mostly made of wood and stone, with pottery jars on the windowsills, filled with wild chrysanthemums.
The townspeople, dressed in brown cloth, stopped and stared at the procession with curiosity and fear. Children chased after the attendants, only to be pulled back by their mothers with a laugh.
The Roote family's castle wasn't large, with a stone round tower standing in the center. In the courtyard below the tower, several magnificent horses were tethered, one of which was brown and had two tufts of white hair on its forehead, much like the double-headed horse on the flag.
"This is ' River King '," Roote Earl patted the horse's neck, "Our darling of the Roote family, runs faster than the wind."
The banquet was held in the long hall of the castle, where the wooden tables were laden with roasted wild boar, stewed river fish, and rye bread. Roote Earl personally poured wine for Daemon; the liquid was amber in color and had a grainy aroma. "Your Highness, please try it. Our homemade ale is no worse than any other."
After a few rounds of drinks, Roote Earl opened up completely. He pointed to a tapestry on the wall, embroidered with a knight in a white robe. "This is Ser Ryam, the pride of our Roote family. He fought alongside Aegon the Conqueror and was one of the first Kingsguard!" He then pointed to another, "This is my grandfather, who supported Aegon the Uncrowned. Alas..." He sighed, "Maegor was too ruthless. Aegon was defeated, and our family was almost wiped out."
Daemon listened quietly, clearly the other man was under the influence of alcohol, and nodded occasionally.
Gael sipped her juice, her gaze occasionally drifting towards Daemon Targaryen —the man was sitting among Roote Earl's daughters, saying something that made the three girls smile broadly, and one of them, wearing a yellow dress, even secretly slipped a piece of honey cake into his hand.
"Look at him!" Gael whispered, pinching Daemon's arm with her fingertips. "He'd only been behaving himself in Saltpans for two days, and now he's causing trouble for us again!"
Daemon shook his head helplessly, and was about to get up to pull the man away when Roote Earl raised his glass and said, "Your Highness, I heard you're going to Harrenhal? That place..." He clicked his tongue, "Is quite mysterious."
"Oh?" Daemon became interested.
"Ever since that old bastard Harren built that dilapidated castle, there's been no peace." Roote Earl finished his drink. "The Qoherys family only occupied it for a few years before they were wiped out; the House Harroway took over, married into the family with Maegor, and ended up being slaughtered; then the Towers family won the tournament, but didn't last long either; Princess Rhaena lived there for a while, and I heard it's haunted at night; now the Strong family lives there, hopefully it will last longer." He leaned closer, lowering his voice, "They say that place is cursed, whoever occupies it will be doomed."
Gael's face paled slightly, and she instinctively moved closer to Daemon. Mysaria also stopped what she was doing, her eyes filled with worry. Daemon Targaryen, who had somehow gotten closer, still chewing on a honey cake, said, "A curse? I think it's just a scare tactic. When the the Conqueror flew over Balerion on Harrenhal, they weren't cursed, were they?" He winked at the Roote daughters. "If you ask me, it's because those people were incompetent and couldn't protect their inheritance."
"Shut up!" Gael finally couldn't help but scold in a low voice. Ever since that time Daemon Targaryen took Daemon to Silk Street, she had always found Daemon Targaryen annoying, while Daemon Targaryen would just shrug and not say anything more, but then wink at the girl in the yellow dress.
The Lord Harroway's Town is exceptionally quiet at night, with only the croaking of frogs in the river and the distant sound of evening prayer bells from the church.
Just as Daemon unsheathed his sword, the door was gently pushed open, and Gael led Mysaria in. The girl's silver hair was loose over her shoulders, and her eyes held a hint of timidity.
"I... I'm scared." Gael walked to the bedside, her voice barely audible. "I heard from Roote Earl about Harrenhal and the House Harroway... they were all wiped out."
Mysaria nodded, shrinking further behind Gael: "Big Daemon also told us that blood is seeping from the cracks in Harrenhal's walls."
Daemon sighed and pulled back the covers. "Come in."
Gael immediately crawled in and snuggled close to him, while Mysaria curled up in a ball at the foot of the bed.
"You're saying, is Harrenhal really cursed?" Gael's voice trembled. "So many masters in less than a century: Qoherys, Harroway, Towers... and Aunt Rhaena, she was so powerful, yet..."
"There's no curse." Daemon gently stroked her long hair, his voice steady. "Only human nature and war. The Qoherys family is fighting amongst themselves; the House Harroway is tied to Maegor, and if Maegor falls, they naturally won't survive; the Towers family isn't capable enough to defend such a large castle." He paused. "The Strong family is currently in a good position; as long as they don't make any mistakes, they can hold it."
Gael didn't speak, but snuggled even tighter into his arms. Moonlight streamed through the window, casting dappled shadows on the floor, much like the supposedly blood-soaked cracks in the walls of Harrenhal.
"Go to sleep," Daemon kissed her forehead. "We have to travel tomorrow."
Gael hummed in agreement and slowly closed her eyes. Mysaria also began to breathe evenly.
Daemon stared at the ceiling, recalling Roote Earl's words and the fact that the Strong family would also face destruction in the future. Could it be that Harrenhal was truly cursed?
Thinking of Harrenhal, that dark and imposing castle, I feel as if it were a lurking monster under the moonlight.
Perhaps there is no curse, but the game of power is always more damaging than a curse.
He sighed softly and hugged the person in his arms tighter. The night was still long, and the road ahead was still long.