Arthur believed his theory was logically sound and highly probable.
House Whent only ever utilized the lower two-thirds of the castle, and House Lothston didn't use much more than that, Arthur reasoned.
Harrenhal was simply too massive. The cost of maintaining and heating the entire structure was astronomical, meaning it was never fully occupied. If the Witch Queen, Alys Rivers, truly had left behind a dragon egg or clues to its whereabouts, it was highly likely to be hidden in the abandoned upper levels or other forgotten, secret areas of the fortress.
During the Dance of the Dragons, both the Black and Green factions produced a bizarre, tragic romance.
The first pair belonged to the Blacks: the older "Rogue Prince," Daemon Targaryen, and the young "dragonseed" from Dragonstone, Nettles.
Nettles was small and wiry, with brown skin, black hair, and brown eyes. She rode the wild dragon Sheepstealer. Her teeth were crooked, her nose was scarred, and she was fiercely untamed. She was foul-mouthed and unwashed, but undeniably brave. When the Dance broke out, she was only sixteen.
Yet, while carrying out missions in the Riverlands together, Nettles and Daemon seemingly developed a deep romantic bond.
Following the Two Betrayers at Tumbleton, Rhaenyra Targaryen lost all faith in the bastard dragonriders. When she heard rumors that Nettles had become her husband's lover, Rhaenyra ordered Lord Manfryd Mooton of Maidenpool to execute the girl for treason.
Daemon spent one final night with Nettles before helping her escape. She and Sheepstealer fled into the deep wilderness of the Mountains of the Moon and were never seen again.
The second pair belonged to the Greens: Prince Aemond One-Eye and the "Witch" Alys Rivers.
Alys, allegedly a bastard of House Strong, was at least a dozen years older than Aemond, though she maintained an eerily youthful appearance. Rumors claimed she had never successfully carried a child to term before meeting the prince. She and Aemond fell deeply in love, and after he died in battle, she continued to hold Harrenhal for an extended period.
Between the Winter Fever epidemic and the chaotic aftermath of the war, Alys ruled the ruined fortress for at least three years.
After she finally vanished, the castle sat empty for a time, managed directly by the Iron Throne before eventually being granted to House Lothston.
---
The next day.
"Wait here. I'm just going to take a quick look around and come right back," Arthur told Ser Lucas and his squires.
Channeling the protective aura of the Greenhand, Arthur ascended the massive, sweeping staircase toward the abandoned upper levels of the Kingspyre Tower.
He had initially been confident he could reach the very top, but after a bit of exploration, he realized it wouldn't be that simple.
The upper third of Harrenhal's towers had been abandoned for generations. The air was thick with the suffocating stench of decay and ruin, heavy with centuries-old mold and rot. If an ordinary servant came up here to clean without taking extreme precautions, they would almost certainly contract a lethal case of pneumonia.
In this environment, only the bats thrived.
Relying on his Greenhand vitality, Arthur managed to climb fairly high, but thoroughly exploring the vast, ruined sections of the castle proved incredibly difficult.
More importantly, Arthur could genuinely feel a strange, oppressive aura pressing down on him—a palpable sense of decay and malice.
It's the stench of a curse, Arthur thought, staring at the staircase that unfurled before him like the tongue of some colossal beast. The sprawling chambers on either side were completely devoid of life.
While his Greenhand power was sufficient to protect him from the toxic atmosphere, the oppressive aura slowly drained his energy. The outer stones of the tower still bore the massive, jagged fissures left by dragonfire centuries ago. When the wind howled through those cracks, it sounded like the wailing of the damned.
After searching the immediate area and sensing no trace of fire or vitality, Arthur decided to head back down.
"Well?" Ser Lucas asked as Arthur descended.
"The air is too foul. Unless we bring in a massive workforce to clean and repair the stonework, those levels are completely uninhabitable," Arthur replied.
The curse was the real problem. Arthur decided to wait until his Greenhand power leveled up again before attempting a deeper exploration.
The aura of the curse was intrinsically tied to the construction and destruction of Harrenhal, meaning it was inextricably linked to House Hoare.
House Hoare was a bizarre anomaly. Though they were Ironborn, they largely abandoned the Old Way of reaving and instead enriched themselves through trade. Once they conquered the Riverlands, they didn't rule from the Iron Islands; they moved inland and built castles. For this, they were deeply despised by their fellow Ironborn.
Arthur thought of Storm's End and the Wall. Both were colossal structures imbued with ancient, self-sustaining magic that endured to this day.
Interestingly, Harren the Black's own brother had served as the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
Legend claimed that Harren mixed human blood into the mortar of his castle, binding the resentful souls of the countless laborers who died building it into the very stones. It was possible Harren had attempted to imbue his fortress with magic, much like Bran the Builder—but he had botched it completely.
Harren the Black possessed nowhere near the power or knowledge of the legendary builders, and the Age of Heroes was long past. When the dragonfire rained down, whatever twisted magic he had attempted to weave fractured, twisting the castle into a nexus of curses and lingering malice.
"It's a nuisance, but not an insurmountable one," Arthur said slowly.
If his Greenhand power grew strong enough to envelop the entire castle, he could theoretically purge the lingering resentment and purify the stones.
But for now, it was off the table. He would have to focus on his other objectives first.
---
Late 286 AC.
Arthur rode away from the docks, crossing the river from Lord Harroway's Town to the opposite bank of the Trident estuary.
In the past, the ferry crossing would have deposited travelers right at the Inn at the Crossroads, but the river had shifted its course some seventy or eighty years ago.
Past the Trident's mouth, the primary body of water opening out into the Narrow Sea was the Bay of Crabs. Shaped like a steep, curving horn, its northern and southern shores bordered the Riverlands, the Crownlands, and the Vale.
The standard-bearer of House Whent rode at the vanguard, the black bat sigil snapping proudly in the wind. Arthur rode just behind him, flanked by Ser Lucas Dayne, Lucas Roote, Wylis Wode, and a contingent of mounted guards.
Arthur wore a suit of black enameled armor covered by a golden surcoat. He was heading east, toward Saltpans.
Saltpans sat at the very edge of the Riverlands. On rare occasions, it still suffered raids from the wildling clans of the Mountains of the Moon. Because of this, traveling to Saltpans required an armed escort.
Arthur was beginning to understand Hoster Tully's old lifestyle. In his youth, Hoster was restless, constantly riding out to patrol and travel his lands. Now, however, the Old Trout was aged and broken, his health permanently damaged after nearly being killed by Jon Connington at the Stoney Sept. He no longer possessed the vigor of his younger days.
The lands north of the Trident's mouth had originally belonged to House Darry in their entirety. But as punishment for their fierce loyalty to the Targaryens, the Iron Throne had stripped away half their territory and converted it into a royal fief, drastically reducing the Darrys' power and influence.
Arthur's retinue rode along the coast, cutting through fields, woods, and marshes. This wasn't the Kingsroad; they traveled along smaller, winding paths. The rhythmic clatter of hooves filled the air. After a few hours of hard riding, the scent of sea salt finally overpowered the smell of pine and earth.
They hugged the riverbank, passing through more farmland and pastures. Just past noon, a town appeared on the horizon. They had arrived at Saltpans.
The town was dominated by a castle, though it was small enough to be mistaken for a wealthy manor, consisting of an outer bailey and curtain walls surrounding a tall, square keep. The area around the docks was bustling with shops, inns, and taverns.
Spotting the banner of House Whent, many townsfolk paused to watch them pass. They naturally recognized the sigil; Harrenhal wasn't that far away.
"There might be spiders here too," Ser Lucas warned Arthur quietly.
"Perhaps, but the odds are much lower here than in King's Landing or Maidenpool," Arthur replied.
He thought of Doran Martell. The Prince of Dorne was a man defined by his extreme caution. Part of this was because Doran fully understood how militarily weak Dorne truly was compared to the other kingdoms. But it was also because Doran was terrified of the Spider's little birds infesting Sunspear. Doran and Varys belonged to two entirely different Targaryen restoration camps, and Doran preferred to orchestrate his plans from the isolated safety of the Water Gardens to avoid the eunuch's gaze.
To the east of the docks lay the Bay of Crabs, the water shimmering a brilliant blue-green beneath the sun.
There were ships moored here, though not a massive fleet. Most were shallow-draft river galleys designed for navigating the Trident. A smaller portion were true seagoing vessels. Arthur even spotted a Braavosi merchant ship—a beautiful carrack with two banks of oars, a gilded figurehead, and three tall masts flying furled purple sails. The hull itself was painted a rich, vibrant purple.
Seeing the Whent banner approach, the gates of the local keep swung open. Ser Quincy Cox personally rode out to welcome Arthur into his home.
"Good day, Ser Quincy!"
"Good day, Master Arthur!"
"Have there been many wildling raids lately?" Arthur asked as they shook hands.
"Very few," Ser Quincy replied. He was an old knight with greying hair, his physical strength clearly waning, though he maintained a highly optimistic, cheerful demeanor.