Harrenhal, The Kingspyre Tower.
Harrenhal at dusk.
The dying sun stabbed through the broken windows on the west side of the Kingspyre Tower, dragging long, jagged shadows across the scorched ground.
Dust swirled in the dim light, each speck shimmering like the unquiet souls of a castle burned to ash that refused to dissipate.
Aemond stopped on the stone steps, looking upward.
The Kingspyre was one of the few structures in Harrenhal that remained somewhat intact, not because of its sturdiness, but because it was so massive and thick that even Balerion's dragonfire couldn't fully melt it.
Yet, the western flank bore clear scars: the stone surface had melted into a glassy, flowing state, abyssal black.
"Watch your step, Your Grace," Lucard Strong said with an air of cautious subservience.
"These steps haven't been repaired in nearly a century; some spots are loose."
The acting castellan of Harrenhal was a stocky man in his forties with a square jaw and light brown hair.
He wore the grey coat common to Riverlands nobility, the Strong sigil neatly embroidered on his chest.
Yet, he held none of the poise of a Lord; currently, he behaved like a common lackey.
Aemond didn't reply.
He continued upward, Helaena following behind, one hand on the wall and the other grasped firmly in his.
Her breathing was shallow; the spiral staircase was long and steep, but for her, the physical exhaustion was secondary to the dread and curiosity this tower inspired.
Lucard continued his commentary.
"The Kingspyre stands over four hundred feet. Fifty feet taller than Maegor's Holdfast in the Red Keep. When Harren the Black built this tower, he swore the whole of Westeros would see his majesty."
Aemond let out a cold snort.
"He succeeded. Now all of Westeros sees his tomb."
They reached the summit platform.
It was meant to be a circular hall, but the roof had collapsed long ago, leaving only a few charred stone pillars pointing toward the sky like blackened fingers.
The floor was strewn with rubble and crow bones.
But the most striking sight was the walls: the western wall bore a massive expanse of scorched, human-shaped shadows.
No, not just one. Looking closer, it was a cluster of dozens of twisted silhouettes. Some had arms raised, some were curled in fetal positions, and others were locked in an embrace.
The edges of the shadows were blurred, like the final frantic movements of people vaporized by extreme heat.
"This is..." Lucard whispered.
"Where Harren the Black and his entire line made their final stand."
Aemond approached the wall, staring at the black silhouettes.
"During the Conquest," Lucard continued, "Aegon I's army besieged Harrenhal. At the time, it was the largest, strongest fortress in the Seven Kingdoms. Harren refused to kneel. He told the Conqueror's messenger: 'Tell your Dragonlord that Harrenhal is built of stone. Dragonfire can burn wood and char flesh, but it cannot burn stone.'"
Helaena took a soft breath.
"And then?" she asked quietly.
"Then Aegon the Conqueror rode Balerion the Black Dread over Harrenhal at twilight. Balerion's fire... that was no ordinary flame. Witnesses said it looked like molten iron poured over the tower. It didn't explode; it melted."
He pointed to the silhouettes.
"Harren, his wife, sons, daughters, and grandchildren were all here. The fire poured through the windows. The temperature rose so high that the stones themselves began to flow. Some didn't even have time to scream. All that remained were these shadows pressed into the stone."
Aemond stared at one silhouette that seemed to be screaming with arms outstretched.
"I heard Harren uttered a curse before he died," a voice suddenly drifted from the shadows of the tower top. It was sweet and light.
Helaena recoiled in fear.
Lucard's face darkened, and he spun around to glare into the darkness.
The owner of the voice stepped into the light.
She looked to be in her early twenties, with black hair cascading to her waist without adornment.
Her skin was as white as winter snow, her features delicate, and her lips a natural deep red.
Most captivating were her eyes, pitch black with brown pupils, deep enough to lose oneself in.
She wore a simple black linen dress, modest in style but tight enough to trace a slender figure. Her bare feet stepped onto the dusty stone, revealing thin ankles.
Yet, her beauty was eclipsed by her aura, a mixture of wildness, mystery, and a distinct sense of the inhuman. Her eyes were fixed on Aemond's back, devoid of respect or fear, filled only with pure curiosity.
Seeing her, Lucard barked in rage:
"Bastard! Who gave you leave to come out?! Get back!"
The woman ignored him, her gaze remaining on Aemond.
Aemond turned around, scanning the witch-like woman. He already knew who she was.
She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the stone.
"Before he died," she said, "he laid a curse. Any House that occupies this castle shall meet an ill end."
"The Qoherys family," she began, counting on her fingers.
"The first Riverlands House to hold Harrenhal. Ruled for thirty-five years. The last Lord, Gargon the Guest, was castrated and killed by Harren the Red."
"Then the Harroways were held for seven years. Queen Alys Harroway was accused of adultery; a furious Maegor I believed the lies and hacked the entire family into pieces."
"Then the Towers, held for twenty-nine years. The last Lord Towers went mad, claiming he saw Harren's ghost in the halls, and leapt from this very tower clutching his only son."
She stopped three paces from Aemond, looking up at him. Her brown pupils glinted strangely in the twilight.
"Now," she said, "it is the turn of the Strongs."
"Shut your mouth! You wretched spawn!" Lucard's face turned bright red.
Aemond raised a hand, and Lucard was forced to suppress his rage, seething in silence.
Aemond looked at the woman and gestured for her to continue.
"My father, Lord Lyonel, and his eldest son, Harwin, died in a mysterious fire," she said.
"The second son, Larys, is a cripple. The third son, Lucard..." She turned to glance at the now pale Lucard and smirked.
She turned back to Aemond.
"So you see, Your Grace? The curse is real. The stones remember the fire; the castle remembers the dead. Harren's resentment has seeped into every brick, every shadow. And you Targaryens..."
She moved a small step closer, near enough for Aemond to smell her, not perfume, but the scent of herbs.
"You brought the fire and the death." She reached out, not to touch Aemond, but to point at the scorched silhouettes behind him.
Then, her finger slowly shifted until it pointed directly at Aemond.
"It was you Targaryens who created this curse."
A dead silence fell over the tower. A crow cawed in the distance; the wind wailed through the ruins.
Lucard could no longer contain himself.
"Alys... you witch-born bastard! My father should have burned you along with your mother!"
Alys Rivers.
Aemond let the name settle in his mind. The bastard surname of the Riverlands: Rivers.
Lord Lyonel had captured a forest witch years ago and forced himself upon her.
After bearing him a daughter, the witch cursed the Lord and was burned alive by Lyonel's own hand.
This daughter had been kept locked in the towers ever since.
Aemond finally spoke, his tone level as he looked at Lucard.
"Lord Lucard, is this her?"
"Yes... Yes, Your Grace. She is... a mistake my father made with a forest witch. The woman used sorcery to ensnare him. She's been kept in the tower to keep her from outsiders. I don't know how."
"Is she guarded?" Aemond asked.
"Two old maids watch her in shifts. They must have..."
"Perhaps they fell asleep," Alys interrupted with a light laugh.
"Or perhaps they are having such a pleasant dream that they cannot wake. It matters little."
She looked at Aemond again, her voice dropping.
"You are different. Different from everyone. Like two people... so contradictory... yet so mad."
Suddenly, she lowered her head, her body trembling.
She stopped speaking, sensing a sudden, sharp killing intent. Aemond's eye had narrowed.
"What exactly do you see?"
Alys shook her head, trembling. "I don't know."
"Lucard." Aemond turned away from her.
"Take the Princess down. The wind is too strong, and she is tired."
Lucard hurried forward. "Princess, please follow me."
Helaena looked at Aemond with confusion, but he gave her a small nod.
"Go. Wait for me below. I will be down shortly."
As their footsteps faded down the stairs, only Aemond and Alys remained.
He suddenly reached out, gripping her throat and lifting her off the ground.
"A witch? You think of playing your games with me?"
"No... no..." Alys kicked her feet, gasping for air as the darkness pressed in.
"Your... Grace... please..."
Aemond released her. She fell to the stone, gasping for breath.
"Speak."
Alys steadied herself, knowing this Prince could slaughter her at any moment.
"It has been influencing you, hasn't it? The other one is in your blood, bothering you at every moment. I can see you are always suppressing yourself."
Aemond stared at the woman.
"How is it resolved?"
"Your Grace, it is not. There is no solution."
"Then you are useless." Aemond's sword cleared its scabbard by half an inch.
Alys shook her head. "You are only conflicted because you fight it. You must let go."
"Let go?"
"Yes. Accept it. Embrace its nature to fuse with it. If you keep suppressing it, you will eventually go mad."
Aemond was silent for a long time.
"What is it you want?"
Alys smiled. "Freedom. To leave this tower, to leave Harrenhal. Lucard fears me because of my mother, because of what I can do... he won't kill me, so he keeps me here."
Aemond said nothing for a moment, then nodded.
"Pack your things. Tomorrow morning, I will have Lucard arrange for you to be sent to King's Landing."
Alys's face broke into a genuine, undisguised smile.
"A wise choice, Prince Aemond."
She walked toward the stairs, her bare feet silent as she vanished into the shadows of the spiral.
Aemond stood alone at the summit. Night had fully fallen.
He had always assumed it was his Targaryen blood influencing his mind... but perhaps it had never truly vanished.
-------
Alys's Chambers.
At the base of the tower, Alys returned to her room, a comfortable space with a bed, books, and a small fireplace.
She closed the door and walked to the hearth. There was no fire, only cold ash.
Alys reached out, her hand hovering over the embers.
Deep in the ash, a spark suddenly ignited. It spread instantly, filling the room with light.
"Two souls in one body?" she murmured to herself.
She had caught a glimpse of a faint man standing beside Aemond, watching her the entire time.
"Is this what a Targaryen is?"
-----
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