At dusk over Harrenhal.
The setting sun slanted through a shattered window on the western side of the Tower of the Burning King, casting a long shadow across the charred ground.
Drifting dust rolled through the dim light, each speck shimmering like the soul of this castle, burned to ashes yet refusing to disperse.
Aemond paused on the stone steps and lifted his gaze.
The Tower of the Burning King was one of the few structures in Harrenhal still standing—not because it was strong, but because it was too tall and thick, and even Balerion's dragonfire could not fully consume it.
On the western wall of the tower, obvious burn marks remained: the stone's surface melted into black glass-like streaks.
"Your Grace, watch your step," said Lucar, his expression cautious.
"No one has repaired these stairs in nearly a century, and some places are unstable."
The steward of Harrenhal was a short, stocky man, around forty, with a square jaw and light chestnut hair, dressed in the grey coat typical of the Riverlands nobility, the Strong sigil neatly embroidered on his chest.
Yet in his demeanor there was not a trace of lordly authority; in this moment, he seemed more a follower.
Aemond did not respond.
He continued ascending, Helena following, holding one hand on the wall while he held her with the other.
She breathed a little heavily—the spiral staircase was long and steep—but her fatigue mattered little.
Her fear and curiosity about the Tower of the Burning King were real.
Lucar continued speaking.
"The Tower of the Burning King rises over four hundred feet."
"Fifty feet taller than the Maegor Tower at the Red Keep."
"When the 'Black Heart' Hellen repaired this tower, he swore that all of Westeros would see its majesty."
Aemond smirked.
"And he did."
"All that Westeros sees now is his tomb."
They reached the platform atop the tower.
It had once been a circular hall, but the roof had long since collapsed, leaving only a few charred stone columns reaching skyward.
The ground was littered with gravel and bird bones. But the most striking sight was the wall: on the western side, a large scorched figure remained.
No, more than one.
Upon closer inspection, it was the imprint of a dozen or dozens of distorted figures.
Some raised their hands, some curled up, some clung to each other.
The edges of all the figures were blurred, as if caught in the final struggle before being vaporized by extreme heat.
Lucar spoke cautiously.
"This is…"
"The last place where Blackhart Heron and his family stood."
Aemond stepped closer to the wall, staring at the shadow.
Lucar continued.
"During Aegon I's Conquest, Aegon's army besieged Harrenhal."
"At that time, Harrenhal had just been built and was one of the largest and strongest castles in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Heron refused to surrender and told the conqueror's messenger: Tell your King-Blood Dragon that Harrenhal is made of stone."
"Dragonfire may burn wood and flesh, but stone does not burn."
Helena exhaled softly.
"What happened next?" she asked quietly.
"Later, Aegon the Conqueror rode Balerion the Black Dread to the top of Harrenhal at sunset."
"Balerion's fire… it's no ordinary flame."
The man who witnessed it said the fire poured over the Tower of the Burning King like molten iron, not exploding or consuming, but… dissolving.
He pointed to the human shadows.
"On the top of the tower were Heron, his wife, their son, daughter, grandchildren, and loyal knights and guards—over thirty people in all."
"The dragonfire rushed into the room through the western window, the heat so intense even some stones began to melt."
"They were there… they didn't even have time to cry out."
"In the end, only these shadows remained, imprinted on the stone."
Aemond stared at one figure with outstretched arms, growling.
"I heard the Chaplain cast a spell before death."
Suddenly, a voice emerged from the shadows within the tower's peak.
The voice was gentle and soft.
Helena stepped back in fear.
Lucar's face changed as he turned, glaring angrily at the source of the voice.
The owner of the voice stepped out of the shadows.
She was no more than twenty-five.
Black hair fell to her waist like a waterfall, unadorned.
Her skin was white as winter snow.
Her facial features delicate, lips naturally deep red.
Most striking were her eyes—black with brown irises, endlessly deep.
She wore a simple black linen dress, plain in style, but the fabric hugged her slim figure tightly.
Stepping barefoot on the gray stone floor, her ankles looked thin and delicate.
Yet her allure was nothing compared to the wild, secretive, almost inhuman energy radiating from her.
Her eyes fixed on Aemond, who did not turn—there was neither respect nor fear, only pure curiosity.
When Lucar saw the guest, he scolded sharply:
"Bastard-born! Who allowed you to come out?! Get away!"
The woman ignored him, her gaze still locked on Aemond's back.
Aemond turned and looked at the woman with an aura of sorcery, knowing who she was.
She walked slowly, stepping on the stones barefoot, almost soundlessly.
"Before death…"
"…the curse was cast, and in the future, as long as the family occupies this castle, no one would end well."
"The House of Kohoris," she said, emphasizing each word with a bend of her finger.
"The first family of Helandia to hold Harrenhal ruled for thirty-five years."
"The last head of the family, Gogan Kohoris, was humiliated by the Chaplain of Hearts and then killed."
"And there was House Harroway, which ruled for seven years.
When Queen Ari Harroway was accused of cheating, enraged Meg listened to the rumors and cut the entire queen's family to pieces."
"And then there was House Tar, which ruled for twenty-nine years, passed down only two generations, and in the end, Lord Tar went mad, claiming he saw Heron's ghost in Harrenhal, and jumped from the Tower of the Burning King with his only son in his arms."
She stopped three paces from Aemond and looked at him. Her brown eyes glowed strangely in the twilight.
"Now," she said, "it's Strong's turn…"
"Shut up!" Lucar's face reddened.
Aemond raised his hand, and Lucar could only suppress his anger, holding his breath, too afraid to speak.
Aemond looked at the woman before him and gestured for her to continue.
"My father, Count Leonor, and his eldest son Harwin died in an unexplained fire."
"The second son, Laris, is a cripple, and the third son, Lucar…"
She turned to look at Lucar, who had gone pale, and the corners of her mouth curved.
Lucar's fierce expression faded from red to white, his lips trembling.
The woman turned back to Aemond.
"You see, Your Grace," she said softly, "the curse is real, the stone remembers fire, and the castle remembers death."
"The Chaplain's resentment seeped into every brick and every shadow of the castle."
"And you, Targaryens…"
She took a small step forward, close enough for Aemond to sense her scent—not perfume, but herbs.
"She brought fire and death."
Her fingers moved slowly, finally pointing at Aemond.
"It is you, Targaryens, who created this curse."
A dead silence fell over the tower's summit. Crows cawed in the distance, and the wind whistled through the ruined walls.
Lucar could no longer contain himself:
"You… born of witches…"
"My father should have burned your mother with you…"
Aemond chose the name Alys Huwen in his mind.
The surname of a noble bastard in Hetsjian lands was "Huwen."
Count Leonor had captured a forest witch and forcibly taken her. After the witch bore him an illegitimate daughter, she cursed the count and was burned alive by Leonor himself.
And now that illegitimate daughter was locked in the tower.
And now she stood here, speaking forbidden words.
Finally, Aemond spoke, his voice calm but his eyes fixed on Lucar:
"Lord Lucar, her?"
Lucar froze for a moment, then quickly nodded:
"Yes, Your Grace. She… My father… was at a loss and had her with a forest witch."
"This woman knows sorcery and uses potions to ensnare her father."
"After my father returned her, he kept her locked in the tower, forbidding her to see strangers."
"Until today…"
"Does anyone watch her daily?" Aemond asked.
"There are… two old maids who take turns guarding. But perhaps…"
"Perhaps she sleeps," Alys answered softly, smiling, "or perhaps I sleep and cannot wake for a while. It doesn't matter."
She looked at Aemond again and said cautiously:
"You are different. You are unlike anyone else."
"Like the two of you…"
"Such contradiction… so mad again…"
But she suddenly lowered her head, trembling all over, unable to speak further—she felt his clear intent to kill…
Aemond's eyes narrowed slightly.
"What did you see?"
Alys shook her head, trembling.
"I don't know."
"Lucar." Aemond turned and stopped looking at Alys.
"Your Grace? Your Grace?"
"Bring the princess down," Aemond said.
"The wind is strong at the top of the tower, and she's tired."
Lucar hurried forward:
"Your Grace, please follow me…"
Helena watched Aemond with curiosity, and he slightly nodded at her:
"Go, wait for me below."
"I'll be here soon."
Helena hesitated briefly, but still followed Lucar down the stairs.
The sound of footsteps gradually faded into the depth of the spiral staircase.
At the top of the tower remained only two.
Aemond and Alys.
His right hand suddenly reached out, seizing her by the neck and lifting her entire body off the ground.
Alys's legs dangled in the air. She kept looking, and a sense of suffocation overwhelmed her mind.
"Miko? You're pretending to be a god with me again?"
"No… not…"
"Hall… Below… Request… You…"
Aemond released her.
Alys fell to the ground, gasping for breath.
"Tell me," she said carefully, knowing this Grace could kill her at any moment.
"It always affects you, doesn't it?"
Aemond remained silent.
Alys continued:
"Different… in your blood, it always troubles you."
"I see you restrain yourself."
Aemond stared at the stooped woman.
"How do you resolve it?"
"Your Grace, there is no solution."
"Then you are utterly useless."
The sword at Aemond's waist shifted half an inch from its sheath.
Alys shook her head.
"You are so conflicted because of it."
"Release yourself?"
"Yes, just release yourself."
"You must accept it and capture its nature to unite it."
Aemond remained silent for a long moment, gazing at her.
"What do you want?"
Alys smiled.
"Freedom," she said, "to leave this tower and Harrenhal."
"Lucar fears me because my mother is sacred, because I will…"
"He did not dare to kill me."
"Thus, I was locked here."
Aemond said nothing.
"I can help you."
Alys stood and approached him.
Aemond looked at the witch.
Danger… yes… useful.
He nodded.
"Pack your things," he finally said.
"Tomorrow morning I'll ask Lucar to send you to King's Landing."
A smile bloomed on Alys's face—genuine, unrestrained joy.
"A wise choice, Your Grace."
She approached the staircase, stepped barefoot, silent, and disappeared into the shadows.
Aemond remained alone at the top of the tower.
Night had fully fallen.
He had always thought it was Targaryen blood influencing his mind…
It turned out, it had never disappeared.
On the first floor of the tower, Alys returned to her prisoner's room, which was actually quite cozy—there was a bed, a desk, a shelf, and even a small fireplace.
She closed the door and approached the fireplace.
There was no fire in the hearth, only cold ashes.
Alys extended her hand and hovered it over the pile of ashes.
Deep within the ashes, a small spark flared to life.
It quickly spread, and in an instant, a flame burst forth in the hearth, filling the room with light.
Alys stared into the fire.
"One body and two souls?" she murmured to herself.
It seemed as if she saw a child next to Aemond, watching her intently.
"Is that… a Targaryen?"