Inside the dusk of Harrenhal.
The dying sun slanted through a broken window on the western side of the Kingspyre Tower, stabbing in at an angle and dragging long shadows across the charred floor.
Dust drifted and churned in the dim light. Each mote glimmered faintly, like the souls of this castle that refused to disperse even after it had burned to ash.
Aemond halted on the stone steps and looked upward.
The Kingspyre Tower was one of the few structures in Harrenhal that remained relatively intact—not because it was sturdy, but because it was too tall and too thick. Even in those days, not even Balerion's dragonfire had been able to melt it completely.
Yet the western side of the tower still bore clear scorch marks: the stone surface had melted into glass-like flowing shapes, deep black.
"Your Highness, mind your step," Lucard Strong said carefully.
"These stairs haven't been repaired in nearly a hundred years. Some parts have come loose."
The acting steward of Harrenhal was a short, broad man, about forty years old, with a square jaw and light brown hair. He wore the grey coat commonly seen among Riverlands nobility, the Strong sigil neatly embroidered upon his chest.
Yet there was not the slightest trace of a lord's bearing in his manner. At this moment, he looked more like a follower.
Aemond did not reply.
He continued climbing. Helaena followed behind him, one hand against the wall, the other held in his.
Her breathing was a little quick. The spiral stair was long and steep, but for her, fatigue was secondary.
Fear—and curiosity about this Kingspyre Tower—were the real things.
Lucard kept speaking.
"The Kingspyre Tower rises more than four hundred feet."
"It stands fifty feet taller than Maegor's Holdfast in the Red Keep."
"When Harren the Black built this tower, he swore all Westeros would behold his might."
Aemond let out a faint snort.
"He succeeded."
"What all Westeros sees now… is his tomb."
They reached the platform at the top of the tower.
This place should once have been a circular hall, but the roof had long since collapsed. Only a few charred stone pillars remained, thrust upward like blackened fingers pointing to the sky.
Broken stones and bird bones lay scattered across the floor.
But the most striking thing was the wall.
On the western wall was a vast blackened silhouette shaped like a human figure.
No—more than one.
Looking closer, it was a mass of overlapping shapes—dozens of twisted human silhouettes layered together.
Some raised their hands.
Some curled their bodies.
Some clung to one another.
Every silhouette was blurred along the edges, as though caught in their final struggle just before being vaporized by unbearable heat.
Lucard spoke cautiously.
"This… is the place…"
"Where Harren the Black and his entire family stood in their final moments."
Aemond walked closer to the wall and stared at the dark silhouettes.
Lucard continued.
"During the War of Conquest, Aegon I's army surrounded Harrenhal."
"At that time Harrenhal had just been completed—one of the largest and strongest castles in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Harren refused to yield. He told the Conqueror's envoy: tell your dragon king that Harrenhal is made of stone."
"Dragonfire may burn wood and roast flesh… but stone does not burn."
Helaena drew a soft breath.
"And then?" she asked quietly.
"Then Aegon the Conqueror mounted the Black Dread, Balerion, and at dusk flew above Harrenhal."
"Balerion's dragonfire… that was no ordinary flame."
"Those who witnessed it said the fire looked like molten iron poured from the sky. When it struck the top of the Kingspyre Tower, it did not explode, and it did not burn."
"It… melted."
He pointed toward the human silhouettes on the wall.
Aemond kept his gaze on one of the silhouettes—arms flung wide, as if shouting.
"Back then, up here in the tower, there was Harren—his wife, his sons, his daughters, his grandchildren, and loyal knights and guards as well. More than thirty people in all."
"The dragonfire poured in through the western window. The heat was so great that even some of the stone began to melt."
"Some of the people inside… didn't even have time to scream."
"In the end, only these shadows remained—printed onto the stone."
Aemond stared at one of the figures with its arms spread, as if it were roaring.
"They say Harren laid a curse before he died." A voice suddenly drifted out from the shadows within the tower's top.
That voice was sweet and light.
Helaena startled and took a step back.
Lucard's face changed. He turned and glared furiously toward where the voice had come from.
Its owner stepped out of the darkness.
She looked no more than a little over twenty.
Her black hair fell straight to her waist like a waterfall, without a trace of ornament.
Her skin was white as winter snow.
Her features were delicate, her lips a naturally deep red. Most arresting were her eyes—black sclera, brown irises, so deep they seemed bottomless.
She wore a simple black linen gown, plain in cut, but the fabric clung close, outlining her slender figure.
Barefoot on the dusty stone flags, her ankles were thin and fine.
Yet all that beauty was nothing next to the air about her—wildness mixed with mystery, and something faintly inhuman.
Her eyes fixed unblinking on Aemond's back, though he had not yet turned. There was no respect in them, no fear—only pure curiosity.
When Lucard saw her, he shouted in fury, "Bastard!"
"Who gave you leave to come out?! Get back inside!"
The woman ignored him, her gaze still locked on Aemond's back.
Aemond turned around and swept his eyes over the woman with that witchlike air, and in his heart he already knew who she was.
She approached slowly. Her bare feet on stone made almost no sound.
"Before he died, he laid a curse—that from then on, any House that held this castle would meet no good end."
"House Qoherys," she counted on her fingers, bending one with each name she spoke.
"The first Riverlands House to take Harrenhal. They ruled for thirty-five years."
"The last lord, Gargon Qoherys, was gelded and shamed by Harren the Red, then put to death."
"Then House Harroway held it—seven years."
"When Queen Alys Harroway was accused of adultery, Maegor I, in his rage, believed the rumors and had every member of her House hacked into pieces of flesh."
"Then House Towers held it—twenty-nine years. Only two generations. In the end that last Lord Towers went mad, said he had seen Harren's ghost in Harrenhal, and leapt from the top of the Kingspyre Tower with his only son in his arms."
She stopped three steps from Aemond and lifted her gaze to him. Her brown irises caught an uncanny sheen in the dusk.
"Now," she said, "it is House Strong's turn…"
"Shut your mouth, you vile bastard!" Lucard's face flushed red.
Aemond raised a hand. Lucard could only force down his anger, holding his breath and daring not make a sound.
Aemond looked at the woman before him and gestured for her to continue.
"My father, Lord Lyonel, and his eldest son Harwin, died in a senseless fire."
"The second son, Larys, is a cripple. The third son, Lucard…"
She turned her head and cast a glance at Lucard, whose face had gone pale green, the corner of her lips curling slightly.
Lucard's furious face shifted from red to white, his lips trembling.
The woman turned back and looked at Aemond again.
"So you see, Your Highness," she said softly, "the curse is real. Stone remembers fire, and castles remember death."
"Harren's resentment seeped into every brick of this castle, into every shadow."
"And you Targaryens…"
She moved one small step forward, close enough that Aemond could smell the scent on her. It was not perfume, but the smell of herbs.
"…brought fire and death."
She stretched out her hand—not to touch Aemond, but to point at the mass of blackened human silhouettes on the wall behind him.
Her finger moved slowly, then at last fixed firmly upon Aemond.
"It was you Targaryens who created this curse."
Silence filled the tower top.
From far away came the cry of crows. Wind passed through the broken walls, wailing as it went.
Lucard could no longer restrain himself.
"Alys… you bastard whelp born of a witch—"
"Father should have burned you and your mother together back then…"
Alys Rivers. Aemond settled that name in his mind.
The surname of bastards among the Riverlands nobility—Rivers.
Years ago, Lord Lyonel had seized a forest witch and forced himself upon her. After bearing him a bastard daughter, the witch cursed the lord and was burned alive by Lyonel's own hand.
And that bastard daughter had been kept confined in the tower ever since.
Now she stood here, speaking forbidden words.
Aemond finally spoke. His tone was calm, yet his eyes were fixed upon Lucard.
"Lord Lucard, she?"
Lucard froze, then hurriedly nodded.
"Y-yes, Your Highness. She is… a moment of foolishness by my father, with a forest witch."
"That woman practiced wicked arts. She used drugs to bewitch my father."
"After Father brought her back, she was kept in the tower and never allowed to see outsiders."
"As for today, I do not know how…"
"Is she usually watched?" Aemond asked.
"Yes… yes. Two old maids take turns guarding her. But they may have…"
"They may have fallen asleep," Alys cut in, smiling faintly. "Or perhaps they are dreaming sweet dreams and cannot wake for the moment. It matters little."
She looked again at Aemond and said carefully, "You are different."
"Different from everyone."
"Like two people…"
"So contradictory… and yet so mad…"
But suddenly she lowered her head, her whole body trembling. She dared not continue.
She could feel that clear killing intent.
Aemond's eyes had already narrowed slightly.
"What exactly did you see?"
Alys trembled and shook her head.
"I do not know."
"Lucard." Aemond turned away, no longer looking at her.
"Y-Your Highness?"
"Take the princess down," Aemond said. "The wind is strong at the top of the tower. She is tired."
Lucard hurried forward.
"Princess, please follow me…"
Helaena looked at Aemond in confusion. Aemond gave her a slight nod.
"Go. Wait for me below."
"I will come soon."
Helaena hesitated for a moment, then followed Lucard toward the stairs.
The sound of footsteps gradually faded into the depths of the spiral stair.
Only two people remained at the top of the tower.
Aemond and Alys.
His right hand suddenly shot out. He seized her by the throat and lifted her entire body off the ground.
"Cough… cough—"
Alys's feet dangled in the air. She struggled, her eyes bulging as the suffocating sensation rushed violently into her mind.
"A witch? Are you still trying to play tricks before me?"
"N-no…"
"Your… Highness… please…"
Aemond released his grip.
Alys fell to the ground, gasping for breath.
"Speak."
After recovering herself, Alys spoke cautiously. She knew this prince could kill her at any moment.
"It has always been influencing you, hasn't it?"
Aemond remained silent.
Alys continued.
"The other one… in your bloodline. It troubles you at every moment."
"I can see it. You have always been suppressing yourself."
Aemond stared at the woman sitting collapsed on the ground.
"How is it resolved?"
"Your Highness… there is no solution."
"Then you are of little use."
The sword at Aemond's waist had already slid half an inch from its sheath.
Alys shook her head.
"You are influenced by it. That is why you are so contradictory."
"Let yourself go?"
"Yes. Let yourself go."
"You must accept it. Accept its nature. Only then can you merge with it."
"If you keep suppressing it like this, sooner or later you will go mad."
Aemond remained silent for a long time, looking at her.
"What do you want?"
Alys smiled.
"Freedom," she said. "To leave this tower. To leave Harrenhal."
"Lucard fears me. Because my mother was a witch. Because I can…"
"He does not dare kill me."
"So he has kept me imprisoned here."
Aemond did not speak.
"I can help you," Alys said as she stood and approached him.
Aemond looked at the witch.
Dangerous…
Yet also… useful.
He nodded.
"Gather your things," he finally said. "Tomorrow morning, I will have Lucard arrange for someone to escort you to King's Landing."
The smile on Alys's face blossomed—true, undisguised delight.
"That is a wise choice, Prince."
She walked toward the stairs. Her bare feet touched the steps without a sound as she disappeared into the shadows of the spiral stair.
Aemond stood alone atop the tower.
Night had completely fallen.
He had always believed it was the Targaryen blood influencing his mind…
It turned out that it had never disappeared…
...
At the base of the tower, Alys returned to the room where she was kept. In truth, it was quite a comfortable chamber—there was a bed, a desk, shelves, and even a small hearth.
She closed the door and walked to the hearth.
No fire burned within it, only cold ash.
Alys stretched out her hand and held it above the ashes.
Deep within them, a spark suddenly flared.
It spread quickly. In the blink of an eye, a flame rose within the hearth, filling the room with light.
Alys gazed at the fire.
"One body, two souls?" she murmured to herself.
Just now, she had seemed to see a child standing beside Aemond, watching her all the while.
"So this is a Targaryen…"
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