The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was alive with light and noise.
House Whent had thrown a farewell feast for Rhaegar and his retinue that rivaled a royal wedding. The realm was at peace, the harvest had been good, and House Whent's coffers were overflowing. Lord Walter Whent beamed from the high table, his chest puffed out beneath a doublet embroidered with nine yellow bats on a black field.
The bats unsettled Rhaegar. In Westeros, bats were creatures of the night, often associated with witchcraft. House Lothston, the previous lords of Harrenhal, had borne a similar sigil—a black bat on a field of silver and gold. They had gone mad, consuming themselves in dark rituals until Maekar I had been forced to extinguish their line. House Whent, originally knights in service to the Lothstons, had inherited the castle and the curse. Rhaegar wondered if they had inherited something else in the blood as well.
"We have been honored by your presence, my Prince," Lord Walter announced, raising a jeweled goblet. "The God's Eye has never looked so majestic as with your dragons dancing above it. If you ever wish to return, Harrenhal's gates are open to you."
"Your hospitality is legendary, Lord Walter," Rhaegar replied, raising his own cup. "I shall not forget the friendship of House Whent."
Privately, however, Lord Walter was already plotting his next move. He whispered to his brothers about a grand tourney, one that would eclipse all others, a spectacle to show the realm that House Whent was a power to be reckoned with.
Rhaegar smiled politely, but his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking of the curse.
He had asked Lord Walter for permission to visit the sealed upper levels of the Kingspyre Tower. The Lord of Harrenhal had hesitated—few went up there, claiming the air was bad and the stones whispered—but he could not refuse a prince.
An hour later, leaving Ser Barristan and his guards on the lower landing, Rhaegar ascended the spiral stair alone.
The air grew colder with every step. It wasn't just the winter chill; it was a damp, clinging cold that seeped through his heavy cloak and settled in the marrow.
The top of the Kingspyre Tower was a hollowed-out shell. The roof had been melted away three centuries ago by Balerion the Black Dread, leaving the room open to the stars. The floor was uneven, the stone running in frozen ripples like hardened wax.
Only bats lived here now. They hung in clusters from the jagged masonry, their leathery wings wrapped tight against the cold.
Rhaegar stepped into the center of the room. The wind howled through the cracks in the walls, sounding like the screams of the dying.
The curse of Harrenhal is not a myth. It is a presence.
He could feel it. It was different from the viscous, hateful malice of the Iron Throne. That had been a sharp, stinging pain. This was... heavy. It felt like grief. It felt like misfortune thickened into a physical weight.
Harrenhal was a graveyard of houses. House Hoare burned alive. House Qoherys wiped out. House Harroway slaughtered by Maegor. House Towers died out. House Strong executed by the dozens. House Lothston descended into madness.
And now House Whent, proud and wealthy, unaware that the clock was already ticking.
Rhaegar summoned the [True Dragon] spear from his inventory. The Valyrian steel materialized in his hand, the red-veined blade glowing with an inner heat.
"Show yourself," Rhaegar whispered.
He channeled his [Blood of Fire]. The amethysts on the spearhead flared, casting a defiant violet light against the encroaching shadows.
The darkness reacted.
Dust motes, red as dried blood, began to swirl in the air. They coalesced, drawing together from the corners of the room, forming a dense, crimson fog. It smelled of old copper and rot.
The fog thickened, twisting and churning until it formed a shape.
A giant, crimson eye opened in the darkness.
It wasn't a single eye. Rhaegar realized with a jolt of horror that the "pupil" was made of thousands of tiny, screaming faces—men, women, children—all fused together in a mass of suffering.
The Eye stared at him.
A beam of red light shot out, not heat, but pure entropy.
Rhaegar didn't dodge. He spun the spear, creating a wheel of violet fire.
Crash!
The red beam struck the fire shield, hissing like water on a hot skillet. Rhaegar gritted his teeth, feeling the impact rattle his bones. This wasn't physical force; it was a drain on his luck, his vitality, his very destiny.
"Begone!"
Rhaegar thrust the spear forward. A torrent of dragonfire erupted from the tip—not the silver fire of the Emperor, but his own multicolored rune-fire.
The fire clashed with the red miasma. The Eye shrieked, a sound felt rather than heard.
The curse of Harrenhal was fed by tragedy. Every lord who died here added to its power. It was a parasite that grew fat on the ambition of fools.
But fire cleansed all.
Rhaegar pushed harder, his will dominating the ancient sorrow. The crimson fog began to burn away, retreating from the brilliance of the Valyrian steel.
The Eye fractured. The tiny faces screamed one last time before dissolving into ash.
The massive red orb collapsed in on itself, shrinking down until it was no larger than a fist. It pulsed weakly, trapped in a cage of violet flame.
Rhaegar reached out with his left hand, the [Bronze Dragon Ring] humming.
"Seal."
The red sphere was sucked into the ring.
[System Notification: Curse Fragment (Sorrow) Captured.]
[Description: A concentration of historical grief and misfortune. Can be used as a crafting material or a weapon of last resort.]
The oppressive weight lifted instantly. The air in the tower felt lighter, cleaner. The bats chittered nervously but did not attack.
Rhaegar lowered the spear, breathing heavily. He wiped sweat from his brow. He hadn't destroyed the curse entirely—Harrenhal was too vast, too soaked in blood for one man to cleanse in a night—but he had broken its hold on the Kingspyre.
He walked to the edge of the broken wall, looking out over the moonlit God's Eye.
Something caught his eye on the stone sill.
Scratched into the melted rock, faint but legible after all these years, were words. They must have been carved with a dagger, perhaps by someone waiting for a battle they knew they would not survive.
Goodbye, my love. My Dragon Prince.
Rhaegar ran his fingers over the letters.
Alys Rivers. The witch queen of Harrenhal. And Prince Aemond Targaryen.
They had died here, or vanished here, in the Battle Above the God's Eye. Two lovers, doomed by war and madness.
"Rest now," Rhaegar whispered to the ghosts. "The dance is over."
He turned and walked back to the stairs. The feast below was still loud, the laughter of House Whent echoing in the halls. But up here, in the silence of the stars, the true lord of Harrenhal had just paid his respects.