Harrenhal loomed on the horizon like a wounded colossus, a skeletal monument of blackened stone rising from the mist. Before its towering five twisted spires, the Isle of Faces lay still beneath a muted sky, its ancient weirwoods whispering stories too old for men to understand.
Pinecone—the eldest among the four Children of the Forest—spoke in a voice as fragile as autumn leaves drifting across a forest floor.
"Harrenhal is not truly a castle," she said softly. "It is an altar built from ignorance. An altar carved from the hearts of weirwoods and the flesh and blood of the thousands who died constructing it… all sacrificed to the Old Gods."
Her amber eyes reflected the monstrous silhouette of Harrenhal, trembling with a mixture of fear and resentment.
"The Hoares who built it… Black Harren himself… he believed in nothing—neither Old Gods nor New. He stole the weirwood, butchered it, used its sacred wood for his purposes. But he gave no reverence. Not a single prayer. Not a single offering."
Pinecone's voice dropped even lower.
"And by the time the castle was finally completed, the Old Gods had long withdrawn. What lingered here was not divine power… but an empty husk of resentment."
Damian Thorne listened quietly, his expression unmoved. For mortals, these revelations were terrifying—stories that could shatter their worldview. But to Damian, they were simply another example of mankind playing recklessly with forces they did not understand.
Pinecone continued, a strange tremor weaving through her tone.
"And then Aegon the Conqueror came. His dragons unleashed Dragonfire upon Harrenhal. Mortal fire could not destroy the castle… but Dragonfire is magic—raw and ancient."
The leaves rustled as if reacting to her words.
"That fire awakened the resentment buried over a century. It ignited every drop of blood spilled here, every scream lost beneath stone, every sorrow soaked into the foundations. From that moment, Harrenhal became cursed. Any family foolish enough to claim it would see their bloodline wither and fade… until nothing remained."
The oppressive truths hovered in the air like a suffocating fog.
Rhaenyra stood behind Damian, her breath catching. Though she understood none of the Children's ancient tongue, the atmosphere alone chilled her to the bone.
Damian remained silent for a long moment, then finally spoke—his voice steady, almost indifferent.
"Westeros is no longer suitable for your kind," he said. "If you wish, you may come to my empire. There are forests there far larger than any here—untouched, unclaimed, undisturbed by humans."
It was phrased as an invitation, but the authority beneath it was absolute. The four Children exchanged uneasy glances. Their gazes flickered between longing, fear, and hesitation.
Finally, Pinecone asked cautiously, "Great One… could you send us to where more of our kin still dwell? To the other forests where our people survive?"
Damian raised a brow. "Where exactly?"
Pinecone fidgeted, shrinking in on herself. Her whisper was barely audible:
"Beyond… the Wall."
The moment the words left her mouth, the air froze.
Damian's eyes sharpened, cold and cutting like a blade pulled from winter's heart.
"Impossible."
The word was delivered with such finality that even the trees seemed to fall silent.
"That land belongs to the Cold Gods," he said. "A sanctuary for creatures born of darkness. I will not set foot there until I am fully prepared. And I certainly will not send you there as offerings."
The Children went still. They could feel it—Damian did not deny the Cold Gods' existence. He knew them. And he despised them.
Moments later, his oppressive aura gradually faded, returning the world to breath.
"I will come again before I leave Westeros," he said. "Give me your answer then."
And with that, he turned toward the shore.
---
A Dragonlord's Return to Harrenhal
By the time the enormous shapes of two dragons emerged through the clouds, gliding above Harrenhal's broken towers, the castle had already erupted into chaos.
Rhaenyra hurried after Damian, her heart pounding.
"What… did you discuss with them?" she finally asked, unable to contain her anxiety.
Damian casually relayed the story of Harrenhal's curse.
Rhaenyra froze mid-step.
"A curse? A curse that destroys any house who lives here?" She stared at the titanic, misshapen towers—ruins warped by Dragonfire long ago. Her skin prickled. "I… I don't want to go inside."
She had heard whispers, rumors, tales of ill fortune and tragedy—but never with such chilling clarity.
Damian turned to her, his lips curling into a faint smile.
"What are you afraid of?"
"I—"
"You are a Dragonrider," he told her, voice firm yet calm. "And I stand above all dragons. No petty, shattered curse can touch us."
He extended his hand.
"Follow me. Nothing can harm you."
Rhaenyra hesitated only a heartbeat before placing her trembling hand in his. Warmth surged through her, steadying her breath, easing her fear. With Damian at her side, she stepped through Harrenhal's colossal gates.
But the moment she crossed the threshold, she instinctively tightened her grip on his arm.
Inside, the air was thick—too thick. As if the stones themselves exhaled sorrow. Every scorched wall seemed to whisper stories of torment. The shadows stretched unnaturally long, clinging like the fingers of the dead.
Before they had walked far, a group of servants approached in a hurried line, surrounding a middle-aged man dressed in impeccable steward attire.
"Princess Rhaenyra," the man greeted with a respectful bow, though his voice trembled slightly. "Welcome to Harrenhal."
This was Dennis Strong—brother of Lord Lyonel Strong—acting castellan of the cursed fortress.
"We have already prepared lunch for Your Highness. Please rest first."
His gaze shifted to Damian—and his eyes widened in recognition.
Princess Rhaenyra's future husband. The Dragon King from the East. The man who commanded dragons as easily as others command soldiers.
Dennis instantly bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty Damian Thorne… House Strong offers you its greatest respects."
Damian nodded, though his attention was fixed elsewhere—on the monstrous black towers scarred by ancient Dragonfire.
"I am curious about this… the largest castle in Westeros," he said.
Dennis immediately brightened.
"It would be our greatest honor to show you. After lunch, I will personally guide Your Majesties through Harrenhal."
---
Far Away — The Basilisk Isles, Qohor
Across the sea, beneath a sunless sky, stood the ruins of Qohor—the infamous city of blood sorcery and slave markets.
Or what remained of it.
The once-mighty streets were now filled with silent figures—ashen-skinned laborers with lifeless eyes and rigid movements. Wights. Tireless. Obedient. Unquestioning.
Under their coordinated efforts, Qohor was being dismantled stone by stone. Entire buildings collapsed with thunderous roars as Wights tore them apart with inhuman strength. Massive stones were hauled away as easily as sacks of grain. Timber, metal scraps, even shattered monuments were sorted and collected.
They worked without rest. Without voice. Without will.
Preparing the land for a new city.
At the docks, supply ships from Volantis lay anchored, crews nervously watching the undead workforce. The Wights unloaded everything—timber, food, tools—moving with terrifying precision. Then the ships departed as quickly as possible, too terrified to remain longer than necessary.
No sailor dared step foot into Qohor. No merchant would stay the night. No priest would venture near.
This was the domain of the dead.
The domain Damian Thorne had claimed.
The Basilisk Isles were undergoing a transformation—slow, silent, unstoppable. One day, a new city would stand here, governed by the resurrected navy of Qohor and strengthened by Damian's growing influence.
Alongside New Ghis, they woul
d form an iron grip upon the Jade Sea, controlling trade routes, wealth, and power.
And all of it waited only for one thing—
Their master's return.