Chapter 102 Green Elder
As soon as the black water was drawn from Arya Harroway's blood by Dragonzel, it tried to infiltrate Dragonzel's body. Dragonzel snorted coldly, casually throwing the black water onto a slightly scorched wall nearby. The black water seeped into the wall as if water had met earth.
"Rhoynar water magic, the magic of the Silver Sea Fisher-Queen? No, I didn't sense any signs of the Gods Eye being mobilized. According to the family's magic records, Rhoynar water mages' magic relies on the Rhoyne River, which has rich magical remnants, or other major rivers and lakes. The Silver Sea has long since disappeared. Moreover, even the cursed lands of the Sorrows don't have such strange pollution."
Dragonzel carefully considered the source of the pollution in Arya Harroway and Harrenhal. He dismissed the Rhoynar's water magic. Although Valyria and the Rhoynar were sworn enemies, Valyrian magic texts didn't mention such an anomaly. Even the Sorrows, polluted by Prince Garin's curse, didn't show such effects.
As for the native magic of Westeros, Dragonzel had always believed that the Seven and the Drowned God were man-made deities, completely different from the Lord of Light, which was more like a manifestation of the world's will.
"Perhaps only those hidden Green Men know what's going on?"
Thinking of this, Dragonzel closed his eyes. He could clearly feel the lingering traces of dragonflame in the castle, as well as the continuous damp, cold, and eerie magical remnants echoing throughout Harrenhal. And Arya Harroway, from whom the black water had just been extracted, was once again developing the same pollution within her.
"Directly affecting the bloodline?" Dragonzel glanced around with some disgust. "Who is so malicious? How many people were sacrificed to create such magic?"
It seemed only the Green Men of the Isle of Faces would know what was truly happening at Harrenhal. Dragonzel thought about these things as he returned to the courtyard. Harrenhal's courtyard was vast enough that even Vermithor could rest comfortably within it, stretching his body and spreading his wings. But Vermithor clearly sensed something wrong with the castle and remained tense.
"Alright, alright, Vermithor, we're going to the Isle of Faces." Seeing his dragon uneasy, Dragonzel gently stroked Vermithor's lowered head and soothed him. "Alright, alright, no more. Be good."
With that, Dragonzel pressed his forehead against Vermithor's snout. Seeing Vermithor calm down, he mounted the saddle.
As the dragon spread its wings and took flight, Ser Simon Strong sighed in relief. Although House Strong had once been wealthy, much of their gold had been transferred away by Larys Strong, and the remainder had been taken by Prince Daemon to raise an army. The family could no longer afford to maintain a dragon.
"Lord Simon, two more died at home."
Simon's grand-nephew ran over, pale with fear, whispering into his ear.
"What happened?"
"Uncle Wade choked to death on a pie, and his body was cold when found. Aunt Arya… she was already rotting." The boy's voice trembled. "Is it a curse?"
"Don't talk nonsense." Simon covered the boy's mouth. "Tell your uncle to organize the men immediately. Take the young ones to the Red Fork front. No one stays in Harrenhal."
Simon had suspected a curse ever since Lyonel Strong and Harwin Strong died in fire within these damp halls. Now it seemed Harrenhal's curse might truly exist. Better to flee.
Perhaps, with the realm in chaos, House Strong might even relocate. Harrenhal was vast—but let whoever wished to remain, remain.
The Isle of Faces
It is said this island in the Gods Eye is home to thousands of ancient weirwood trees, each carved with a human face.
In ancient times, the First Men crossed into Westeros, wielding bronze weapons, cutting down weirwoods and warring against the Children of the Forest. Enraged, the Children called forth great floods, shattering the land bridge known as the Arm of Dorne, forming the Stepstones, and drowning lands to create the Neck.
Yet the First Men held the advantage in number and steel. Eventually, both sides chose peace. The Pact was forged on the Isle of Faces, and the Green Men were sworn to guard it forever.
As centuries passed and the Andals came, the Isle of Faces remained the only place south of the Neck where great weirwood groves still stood.
Vermithor circled the island silently, not roaring to announce his arrival. The dragon scanned every bird above the forest before descending to the island's edge.
"Respected Dragon King, I did not expect you to arrive so quickly."
A sharp voice spoke the moment Vermithor landed. Dragonzel looked down.
A small old man stood below, dressed in bark garments. His wrinkled skin carried a faint green hue, his ears slightly pointed. He held a weirwood staff adorned with a large stag skull and several smaller skulls. A raven perched on his shoulder, and a green snake coiled around the staff.
He rode a white stag that showed no fear of the dragon.
"Green Seer?"
"No, respected Dragon King." The old man shook his head. "There has been no true Green Seer south of the Neck for thousands of years. I only carry a trace of the Children's blood and can use a little crude magic."
"But you can enter my dreams," Dragonzel said. "Even with the aid of Helaena Targaryen's dragon dreams."
"That was done by the Children in the North, with our help," the old man replied calmly. "The ancient races have faded, but we still remember our ancestors' sins. So we keep vigil beyond the Wall, awaiting the final verse of the song of ice and fire.
Your arrival disrupted the melody, Dragon King. We had to test your purpose."
The old man bowed slightly.
"Continue. I'm listening." Dragonzel smiled faintly, calming Vermithor. He could sense many others hidden in the forest—watching.
"I did not expect you to be so… restrained," the elder said. "You did not conquer Westeros when you arrived, nor did you allow the dragons to perish unchecked."
"Do you think all Valyrian dragonlords are mindless conquerors?" Dragonzel sighed.
The old man nodded seriously. "Historically? Yes. Only Aegon I and Alysanne showed true wisdom. Even Jaehaerys I… had his moments of foolishness."
"Let's not dwell on that." Dragonzel urged Vermithor lower. "What's so great about the Iron Throne? Dragons matter—but people matter more.
My father once told me: build high walls, protect your people, store wealth, and only act when the time is right. Let others take risks first. Grow steadily, win hearts.
The Targaryens took generations to truly rule Westeros. What right do I have to seize it with two dragons and a handful of men?"
"Your father was wise," the elder said sincerely. "The Targaryens squandered divine favor for that throne."
He recited softly:
"When the end comes, Azor Ahai shall be reborn amid smoke and salt, to forge Lightbringer and end the Long Night."
"I wrote that prophecy myself," Dragonzel said flatly. "So tell me—how long until this Long Night?"
"Without you, dragons would soon go extinct," the elder said. "Magic would fade, and the world would prepare for its resurgence two hundred years later.
But your presence has altered the melody. The Long Night will still come—but now, you are meant to stabilize the world before it arrives."
He looked at Dragonzel.
"You are a benevolent man."
"You see too much." Dragonzel smiled faintly.
"You do not rely on blood sacrifice like other Valyrians," the elder continued.
"Living too long is tedious," Dragonzel replied lightly. "Two hundred years… it will be our descendants' burden."
"Heroes will rise among them."
"No need to say it." Dragonzel patted Vermithor. "Though I still fell into Daemon and Jacaerys's trap. A pity."
"You knew?"
"I make prophecies too," Dragonzel said. "Now—tell me about Harrenhal."
The elder hesitated.
"Harren the Black… unknowingly recreated an ancient sin. That castle is tainted by something even we cannot cleanse."
"Understood." Dragonzel nodded. "Then one last matter—
You've disturbed my dreams more than once."
He smiled slightly.
"How do you intend to compensate me?"
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