Whispers in the Godswood
The chill of the late night seeped into the stone walls. Daemon lay in bed, listening to Gael's even breathing from the next room, and the rustling of Mysaria turning her bedding in the distance.
The Glutton yawned in the Flowstone Yard, the crackling sound of dragon breath scorching the stone slabs seeping in through the window cracks, intertwining with the faint sound of wind deep within Harrenhal to create an eerie melody.
He rose silently and slung the Blackfyre across his back.
The farce at the banquet during the day was like a thorn in his heart— Daemon Targaryen's outspokenness was certainly infuriating, but the House Strong's cryptic demeanor made him even more suspicious.
In particular, the fleeting worry in Earl Bywin's eyes when he mentioned Leonno building the chain in the Citadel was far more than just concern for his son's safety.
The corridor was deserted, with only the flickering light of candles casting shadows between the stones.
The sound of dragging chains came from the direction of the Wailing Tower. Perhaps it was the night watchmen patrolling, but the sound was too drawn out, more like something heavy scraping against the ground.
Daemon shuffled his feet, his boots treading over the century-old dust-covered stone slabs, stirring up a fine mist of ash.
The path leading to the Godswood is hidden in the shadows behind the armory.
The moonlight, fragmented by the ruins of the Tower of Dread, spilled onto the moss-covered stone path, like shattered silver.
The twenty-acre wall resembled the ribs of a giant beast in the night, with thorns growing on top, drenched in dew that gleamed coldly in the moonlight.
When the small oak door was pushed open, the hinges made a teeth-grinding creaking sound.
Daemon instinctively gripped the hilt of his sword until he heard the babbling of the brook before letting go.
The Godswood was filled with the damp scent of earth, mixed with the unique bitter aroma of the Heart Tree of the weirwood tree. The stream that flowed through the forest shimmered, casting fragmented shadows of the Heart Tree onto its surface.
He approached the eerie tree step by step. The Heart Tree's face appeared even more grotesque in the moonlight, its twisted mouth stretched into an unnatural arc, and its two sunken eye sockets seemed to be burning with eerie green flames.
Daemon reached out, his fingertips about to touch the bark, when suddenly he heard dragging footsteps behind him.
"Good night, Your Highness." The voice was not loud, but it pierced the silence of the forest like an icicle. Daemon turned around abruptly, his Blackfyre already half an inch from its sheath, the moonlight flowing in a cold arc on the blade.
A young man stood in the shadow of a tree, his black robe stained with mud, his left leg twisted unnaturally, dragging his ankle in a half-circle with each step—that distinctive Clubfoot was unmistakable even in the dim light.
"Larys Strong." Daemon slowly sheathed his sword, his fingertips still resting on the hilt. "I assumed that Ser Leonno's second son was not present at the banquet, but rather accompanying his father in the Citadel."
"I never expected Your Highness to know my name," Larys said, bowing slightly. His movements were somewhat comical due to his leg injury, but his eyes were as sharp as a hawk's.
He dragged his left leg forward two steps, his black robe sweeping across the knee-high weeds. "Your Highness, have you come to the Godswood so late at night to hear the whispers of the Heart Tree?"
Daemon did not answer, his gaze fixed on the other man's unfathomable black eyes.
The black hair of the House Strong was curled into a ball on his head, with a few strands falling in front of his forehead, covering half of his eyebrows, but unable to hide the sinister look in his eyes that was beyond his years.
This is the man who will one day stir up Clubfoot, the man who inherited Harrenhal after the death of his father and brother, and who played a key role in the Dance of the Dragons.
"This tree has many stories to tell." Larys walked to the Heart Tree and gently stroked its trunk. "When the Harren the Black built it, he used the blood of three hundred Riverlands captives to water the soil. When Aegon conquered, Dragonfire burned its ancestors to ashes, but the following spring, new saplings sprouted from the ashes." He paused, tilting his head as if listening intently. "Look at this face. Doesn't it look like it's smiling? Some say it smiles at every fool who tries to control Harrenhal —when House Qoherys was wiped out, its sap stained the entire creek; the night House Harroway was executed by Maegor, these eyes wept sticky fluid all night."
Daemon stared at the dark red fluid seeping from Heart Tree's eye sockets, recalling the thirteen "bleeding" scratches left by his great-grandfather, Daemon Targaryen. "You seem particularly fond of the misfortunes of other families."
"It's not misfortune, it's a lesson." Larys turned around, his limp making his stance slightly unsteady, yet strangely conveying a sense of condescending scrutiny. "The Strong family, with my brother and me, is the third generation to have established ourselves in Harrenhal. We didn't rely on prayer, but on remembering every scar. Like this tree, it has etched all its hatred on its face to survive to this day."
The stream flowed gently over the pebbles, and moonlight filtered through the gaps in the leaves, casting dappled shadows on Larys's face.
He suddenly laughed, the curve of his smile bearing a striking resemblance to the twisted mouth of the Heart Tree: "Does Your Highness know? The night before Uncle Lucamore was sent to the the Wall, he also prayed to the Heart Tree here."
Daemon raised an eyebrow. "What are you trying to tell me?"
"I want to tell you," Larys's voice was so low it was almost swallowed by the wind, "That the Strong family knows how to read the situation. Like now, I know you need some useful people, and I happen to need an opportunity to prove my worth."
He straightened his body, and although his limp made the movement somewhat comical, his eyes were unusually solemn. "I am at your service, Your Highness. Whether you need a map of the castle's secret passages, the hidden secrets of the Mikawa nobles, or even... some trivial matters that are inconvenient for the Kingsguard to know."
Daemon sneered inwardly. She was indeed a venomous snake with a keen sense of smell; without even showing herself, she had already detected an opportunity based solely on her own speculation and the conflict at the banquet.
He loathed such treacherous and cunning characters from the bottom of his heart, just as he loathed the strategists who would incite him and Daeron to turn against each other, while hiding in the shadows and stirring up trouble.
But he knew even better that in the ensuing civil war, which would be a bloodbath, Dragonfire and courage alone would be far from enough.
"Your value isn't determined by words." Daemon turned his back, gazing at the swaying shadows of the trees across the creek. "There are more rats than guards in King's Landing. Why should I believe you're more useful than them?"
Larys's eyes lit up, like a hunter finally getting his prey hooked. "Your Highness is wise." He dragged his limping leg to an old oak tree, parting the dense bushes. "I know what you're looking for—those bargaining chips that can change the future. And coincidentally, I know someone who might be able to help."
A slight rustling sound came from behind the bushes, and a dark figure slowly emerged.
It was a woman, wearing a gray-green long dress, with her long, jet-black hair cascading down to her waist like a waterfall. The moonlight shone on the ends of her hair, yet it didn't gleam at all, as if it could absorb all the light.
Her face was hidden in the shadows of the trees; only her exceptionally bright eyes, like emeralds reflected in a stream, could be seen.
"Alys Rivers," Larys introduced, a hint of barely perceptible reverence in his voice, "She's lived here a long time, longer than my father did in his youth."
Daemon's hand gripped the hilt of his sword abruptly. The name struck his mind like a bolt of lightning—the mistress of the future "One-Eyed" Aemond, the woman who was said to see visions in flames, the forest witch who played a bizarre role in the dance at the Gods Eye.
Leonno Strong's illegitimate daughter? Harwin and Larys's wet nurse? Or a sorceress who maintains her youth with virgin blood? Whatever her identity, trouble is inevitable.
Alys Rivers didn't speak, she just stood there quietly. Her gaze seemed to pierce through the night, reaching the deepest, most hidden corners of people's hearts.
Daemon felt a chill run down his spine, not from the cold of the night, but from the unease of being completely seen through, like standing naked on an ice field.
Just as he was about to begin questioning her, the woman suddenly chuckled softly. The laughter was soft, yet it possessed a strange, penetrating power that made the Leaf of the Heart Tree rustle.
"Welcome, Black Dragon from the Future."
Daemon's blood froze instantly. The Blackfyre was drawn with a "whoosh," its tip pointing directly at the woman's throat, the dragon steel blade gleaming with a bloodthirsty cold light under the moonlight.
The Glutton seemed to sense its master's murderous intent, letting out a low roar outside the Godswood, causing the night dew on the branches to fall.
Larys's smile froze, and he instinctively took a half-step back, his limp leaving a deep mark on the ground.
Alys Rivers remained standing, the cold glint of the sword reflected in her emerald green eyes, while a deeper smile curved her lips.
The wind suddenly stopped, and the sounds of the flowing stream, the rustling of leaves, and the distant roar of a dragon all seemed to vanish in that instant.
All that remained in the entire Godswood was the twisted face of the Heart Tree and Alys Rivers' seemingly indifferent words, which echoed repeatedly in Daemon's ears.