The shadow of Harrenhal
The surface of Gods Eye is as smooth as obsidian, perfectly reflecting the silhouette of Harrenhal.
When Daemon's party arrived at the colossal fortress, twilight was bathing it in a bronze glow—the tops of the five towers pierced the clouds, with the spire of the Kingspyre Tower twisted like a demon's claw, and the Stonebridge between the Widow's Tower and the Tower of Dread resembling a broken rib in the twilight.
"By the Seven, this place is even more terrifying than the ballads describe." Rayford Rosby reined in his horse, his palms sweating.
The other Daemon followers behind him looked up, their armor gleaming coldly in the shadows, creating an eerie echo with the weathered stone walls of Harrenhal.
The Glutton landed first in the Flowstone Yard, its black dragon claws crushing the pebbles, the dust it stirred up swirling like living things in the twilight.
Caraxes closely behind, its scarlet scales brushing against the ruins of the Wailing Tower, creating a crisp sound as gravel fell.
Dreamfyre hovered lightly beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. As its pale blue dragon wings folded, they reflected the cracks on the wall, making them appear like ice patterns.
"Your Highnesses Daemon and Gael, welcome to Harrenhal." Bywin Strong 'Earl voice broke the suffocating silence from behind the gatehouse.
The Earl wore a long robe with silver trim and black stripes, and a short sword with a turquoise hilt hung at his waist. Even in his old age, his black hair, streaked with white, gleamed with an oily sheen in the candlelight—the signature black hair of the House Strong, much like the turbid waves of the Trident.
He was followed by a group of servants, several of whom were young women with red stone hairpins in their black hair; they were clearly daughters of the Strong family.
A burly young man with sharp eyes stood on the far side, his hands clenched into fists; he was none other than Harwin Strong, Leonno Strong's son.
"Earl Excellency, there's no need for such formalities." Daemon stepped forward, the scabbard of his Blackfyre striking the stone wall with a dull thud.
"Thank you for waiting so patiently." Bywin stepped aside to lead the way, the shadow of the gatehouse dividing his face into light and shadow. "Harrenhal, though dilapidated, has never dared to slight the Targaryen royalty. Please follow me; the fireplaces in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths are burning brightly."
As he passed through the city gate, Daemon's fingertips traced the cracks in the city wall. Deep within the cracks were dark brown marks, said to be the blood that seeped out when the Harren the Black was burned by Dragonfire.
Even without reconstruction, the thickness of the city walls was incomparable to Harrenhal, which Daemon had seen in his previous life and which had been rebuilt after being ravaged by war. The killing holes on both sides of the passage were like countless prying eyes, making people involuntarily hold their breath.
The sheer size of the Hall of a Hundred Hearths is enough to awe anyone.
Thirty-four bronze furnaces lined the wall, their flames leaping beneath the massive stone dome and casting shadows on the smooth stone floor.
The long table was a hundred meters long, and the silver candlesticks on the tabletop reflected the oil from the roasted wild boar. Next to the beer barrels, there was a small mountain of black bread.
"This hall once housed three thousand soldiers." Bywin raised his glass, his voice echoing in the empty hall. "His Majesty Maegor hosted his Iron Guards here when he quelled the rebellion." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the tapestry on the wall—embroidered with the House Strong's tricolor stripes. "Of course, after we Strong family took over, we preferred to use it to entertain friends."
Daemon Targaryen suddenly laughed, his cane tapping the ground with a light rhythm. "Friend? Earl Excellency is quite the joker. Who doesn't know that the masters of Harrenhal change faster than the waters of Riverrun? Qoherys, Harroway, Towers..."
Bywin's smile froze for a moment, Harwin clenched his fists tighter. The Strong daughters, however, were amused, especially Lucamore's youngest daughter, Ala, who covered her mouth and chuckled, "Prince Daemon knows so much."
"I only know a little bit." Daemon Targaryen leaned closer to Ala and lowered his voice. "I also know that the daughters of the Strong family are more enchanting than the mermaids of Gods Eye." Ala's cheeks flushed instantly, and her two sisters beside her giggled.
"How could you do this?" Young Harwin exclaimed in anger upon witnessing the scene.
Daemon Targaryen, however, nonchalantly replied, "Calm down, Strong. Your father Leonno Strong, is a good friend of my brother Viserys, so you're just a son to me. You should let your father speak to me."
Harwin slammed his fist on the table, smashing the wooden cup to pieces on the stone slab. "Utterly shameless!"
"Harwin!" Bywin snapped, his eye twitching. "No rudeness allowed!" He turned to Daemon Targaryen, his tone harsh. "Your son is unruly. Leonno is still forging chains in the Citadel and cannot receive you. Please forgive him, Your Highness. But please do not dishonor the honor of the Strong family!"
Daemon Targaryen, however, seemed not to hear him. Instead, he raised his glass to Ala: "Glory? I've heard that your brother, Ser Lucamore..."
"Enough!" Bywin's voice suddenly rose, his hand gripping the silver cup until it turned white. "If Your Highness has come to mock the Strong family, you need not bother!" The hall fell silent instantly, with only the crackling of the fireplace.
Daemon Targaryen's smile slowly faded. He swirled his glass, the liquid leaving a crimson trail on the rim. "Taunt? I just find it amusing. A Kingsguard, three wives, sixteen children... Ser Lucamore has certainly taken 'blood toughness' to its extreme."
These words were like a boulder thrown into boiling oil; the men of the Strong family all gripped their sword hilts. Arno Rivers, Lucamore's eldest son and currently serving as the fortress's captain of the guard, had already drawn half a longsword, its bronze scabbard gleaming coldly in the firelight. "Your Highness, please retract those words!"
"Take it back?" Daemon Targaryen raised an eyebrow, his cane scraping the ground. "Am I wrong? Isn't any of you the mother of one of those three wives?" His gaze swept over Ala and her sisters. "This pretty lady, for example, might even be a descendant of Ser Lucamore."
"You're asking for death!" Harwin roared, drawing his sword, but Bywin held it firmly. The old Earl's face flushed crimson, veins bulging on his forehead. "Prince Daemon Targaryen! Show some respect! Lucamore is my brother, that's true, but he has already paid the price for his actions! The honor of the Strong family cannot be tarnished!"
Just then, Daemon suddenly stepped forward, the hilt of his Blackfyre slamming heavily into the stomach of his great-grandfather, "cousin" Daemon Targaryen. "Shut up," his voice was as cold as the breath of Glutton dragon, "You're drunk. Go rest."
Daemon Targaryen winced in pain and was about to retort when Jarman Waters and Myles Rivers grabbed him from either side.
The one-eyed bastard's eyes were like ice, while the bastard of the Mooton Household gripped the short sword at his waist. The two of them half-dragged, half-carried him out of the hall.
"Let me go! You traitor Little Daemon!" Daemon Targaryen's roar echoed through the corridor. "Strong's coward! If you've got guts, don't hide behind the old man..." His voice faded into the distance, leaving only the crackling of the furnaces in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths.
Bywin sighed heavily and waved for the servants to clean up the mess, "Your Highness, please forgive my embarrassment."
"It was my fault for not stopping him in time. I didn't expect him to be so rude after drinking." Daemon raised his glass in apology, his gaze falling on Harwin's tense profile. "Everyone knows my cousin's dissolute nature. Please forgive his drunken ramblings."
Gael quickly added, "His leg injury hasn't healed yet, and he's still a bit confused. Earl Excellency, please don't take it to heart."
Mysaria stood behind her, quietly tugging at her sleeve to shield her behind her—the girl's platinum blonde curls were particularly striking in the firelight, forming a stark contrast with the black hair of the Strong family.
Bywin was silent for a moment, then finally smiled wryly and said, "Well, that's just how this prince is."
He poured Daemon a full glass of wine. "As my heir, Leonno was tasked with forging the Chains in the Citadel and was unable to personally greet me. Please forgive me, Your Highness. As for Harwin, that boy has been stubborn since childhood, just like his father."
When Leonno was mentioned, Harwin's expression softened. "Father said he wouldn't feel comfortable serving the country until at least six chains were built."
"Thank you for your kindness." Daemon nodded, recalling the intrigue and power struggles in King's Landing. "When he returns, I will personally thank him."
The dinner continued in an awkward silence. Bywin tried to bring up lighter topics, such as the fisheries of Gods Eye or the harvest in the Riverlands, but the men of the Strong family remained somber.
Ala and her sisters left early, while Arno Rivers, under the pretext of patrolling, led his guards to stand outside the hall, clearly still resentful of the humiliation they had just suffered.
The Harrenhal was particularly eerie in the dead of night. Daemon stood on the terrace of the Kingspyre Tower, overlooking the night view of Gods Eye.
The lake water shimmered with phosphorescence, casting distorted shadows of the five towers, making them resemble five lurking giants.
The Glutton lay sprawled in the Flowstone Yard, occasionally spewing out small bursts of Blackfyre that illuminated the swarm of bats atop the Tower of Dread.
"What are you thinking about?" Gael walked over, wearing his cloak, with Mysaria following behind, holding a newly sewn cloak—made from the new cloth given to her by the Roote family, embroidered with small black three-headed dragon patterns.
"Thinking about the curse of this castle," Daemon murmured, his fingertips tracing the scorch marks on the railing. "Qoherys, Harroway, Towers... Will the Strong family be next?"
Gael shuddered. "Don't say anything, I'm scared. Daemon, Earl Bywin seems like a good man."
"Good people can't always hold Harrenhal." Daemon thought of the future Dance of the Dragons, and the destruction of the Strong family in the Storm. "In the game of thrones, sometimes, perhaps, the most useless thing is..."
Mysaria suddenly pointed towards the Godswood: "There seems to be light over there."
The three looked in the direction of the sound and saw a faint green light shimmering among the twisted branches of the Heart Tree in the twenty-acre Godswood.
The face of that Heart Tree was hideous and terrifying, with dark red sap seeping from its eyes, as if it were silently weeping.
"The forest ranger is praying," Gael tried to explain, but her voice trembled slightly.
Daemon gripped the Blackfyre tightly. He remembered Roote Earl's words and the legends of blood seeping from the cracks in the walls. It seemed that something ominous truly lurked in the shadows of Harrenhal, peering through the cracks in the stone at everyone who stepped into this place.
A distant roar of Caraxes drifted over, tinged with irritation. Daemon knew that Daemon Targaryen was definitely complaining about being imprisoned.
The night wind whistled through the cracks in the Kingspyre Tower.
As Daemon gazed at the eerie light in the Godswood, he suddenly felt that the Curse of Harrenhal might not be a lie.
Like a lurking beast, it awaits the right moment to drag all those who try to tame it into eternal darkness.
Their arrival may be the key to awakening this behemoth.