The Hall of a Thousand Hearths was only somewhat of an exaggeration. By Oswell's own words, there were but thirty-five. From the two that were lit near the entrance of the Great Hall, it may as well have been twenty. Each one was wide enough to serve as the bed-chamber of a lesser castle and taller than most trees outside of Brokilon Geralt had seen. The flames rose high, their intensity sending the warm air into the realm of unpleasantly hot. The Witcher idly wondered how much firewood was wasted bringing them to life, most likely enough to keep a small village alive through an ordinary winter.
The Great Hall itself was a monstrosity of architecture. Even with his eyes adjusted to the dark in ways beyond those of ordinary, Geralt could not even see the shrouded ceiling. Or far past the edges of the hearths lights. Were it not for the fires, there was no chance he could even begin to guess where the walls were. He had read about the Great Council held within these walls and the upcoming tournament which lords and knights from across the realm were to attend. There was no doubt there'd still be room aplenty leftover once they all settled in.
A testament to the absolute absurdity of the castle's construction was where the dinner table was situated. Back home or in King's Landing, they were placed somewhere in the middle of the hall. Or if there were multiple tables, the one with the host family was on the far side. This one was placed a short walk away from the entrance. Something which would look comical were the rest of the hall not covered in thick, almost impenetrable shadows. He could all but hear Dandelion compose a ballad about them or Hearths of Hell, and for once, Geralt wouldn't find the exaggeration unwarranted.
The absence of their weapons didn't help to put him in any ease, not that most present at the table seemed to notice. Lord Whent, as per his station, sat at its head. Though his appearance remained aged beyond his years, the occasion of hosting esteemed guests brought endless mirth to every action. His smile was ceaseless, and his laughter an equal match to Oswell, who sat to his immediate left. The rest of House Whent was seated on the right side of the table. Lady Shella took a more reserved but tactful approach to her husband. The fact she struggled not to look at Geralt's general direction wasn't lost on him.
Arthur sat to Oswell's right, engaged in stories of adventure and swordcraft with either Lord Whent or his oldest sons seated to the right of their mother. Pycelle kept to himself, sitting between Jaime and Arthur. A man of text and literature, even a Grand Maester, wasn't of much interest beyond mandatory courtesies. Particularly in the company of knights, a squire, and a strange man from afar. Maris Whent, as expected, took every opportunity to converse with Jaime, who sat opposite of her, to Geralt's immediate right. Her smile was as unceasing as her fathers, and so was the blush.
Jaime smiled back, exchanging japes and quips with her as the courses came and went. Entertaining Maris with tales of his first melee and excitement at witnessing, perhaps even participating, in the tourney at Harrenhal. In every way, he played the part of the dashing, young squire out of any girl's dreams well. But not too well, Geralt made sure of that before they left for dinner.
"Don't do anything foolish with Maris Whent," He said in the lad's chambers after his cleaning and dressing were finished. As expected, he wore a doublet with the colors of House Lannister. Jaime stared at him as though he'd grown another head. "What's with that look? You hadn't noticed the way she stared at you as though you were the Warrior come to life?"
"Of course, I noticed. I'm merely surprised you'd think I would do anything about it."
"I was your age once. I know what goes through young men's heads when a pretty girl's nearby," Some of his closest friends, probably all of them, would say he wasn't one to talk. Not that Jaime needed to be aware of that. "Be pleasant, polite, even dashing, but nothing more. I don't need another child surprise or to explain how one came to be to your father when we return."
To Geralt's surprise, Jaime didn't seem particularly scolded or annoyed by the order. If anything, he seemed amused, even snorting back a laugh. As though the thought of doing something lustful and forbidden with the queen of love and beauty was a great joke. Under the Witcher's severe gaze, however, he soon wiped the smile from his face and vowed to do as told. Soon enough, as one delicious course of meat came and went, attention was brought to Geralt himself. The second to youngest boy, who glanced meekly at him, eventually worked up the courage to inquire into the Kingswood Brotherhood incident.
Geralt gave a shortened account of it, keeping the specifics concerning portals and such to himself. To the best of his ability, he spoke of how he dispatched the various members, thanks to surprise and superior swordsmanship, until the clash with the Smiling Knight. The back and forth between them, even noting his twisted sense of honor. The boys and men looked at him in rapture, while Maris Whent found the rescue of the princess romantic. Shella Whent remained politely silent.
"Is it true what they say, Master Geralt?" The oldest of the sons, Roland Whent, some years older than Jaime, asked in a tone of childlike wonder. "That you cut the Smiling Knight to a dozen pieces?"
"The tales exaggerate as usual," He answered in a drier voice, reaching for his wine cup and stoping before taking his drink. "It was barely two."
Much laughter followed that particular proclamation, with much of the ruling family asking about Witcher's, Geralt's homelands, and, in particular, tales of strange beasts he hunts. Stories of large insectoids, monsters who fed on the dead, and finally, cursed creatures. Specifically, Vincent Meis, the head of the Vizima city who took vigilante justice as a werewolf. Walter Whent and his older sons found the tale dubious, judging by the looks they sent Geralt's way. The younger children and Maris were more interested if nothing else. Shella Whent paled as the tale continued.
"What happened next, Master Geralt?" Asked the youngest of the four sons, Ben, eyes as wide as a full moon. "Did you hunt him down?"
"In a manner of speaking, truthfully, there was no need to kill Vincent. Though we Witcher's often have to take a life, whenever possible, we prefer to find alternative solutions. Particularly those who are cursed."
Lady Whent's complexion improved, and as she looked at him then, Geralt silently noted the tension ease from her shoulders.
"One particular cure for lycanthropy, or werewolves as they're commonly referred to as is something simple: love. Vincent Meis, as it turns out, had fallen in love with a... Local lady of the night. When all other means failed us, we decided on his being his last hope for a normal life."
"Did it work?" Maris Whent leaned forward, staring at him as though her life depended on the answer. "Please, Master Witcher, tell me it worked?"
"It was successful," He answered truthfully, taking some joy from the smiles and hopeful looks of his most receptive audience members. "Vincent never became a werewolf again, and eventually, he and Carmen were married."
"Oh, what a tale..." Maris leaned back in her seat, delighting in the ending as only a lady could.
"One for the delights of children and fair ladies everywhere," Lord Whent commented, amused though clearly disbelieving. "But only a tale, am I correct, Master Geralt? Strange creatures and animals are one thing, but men transforming into beasts during full moon's? Curses? Come now..."
"Curses are quite real, Lord Whent," Geralt replied, noticing Oswell stir from further up the table. "They can affect men, women, children, even places."
"There's no reason to skirt around the issue anymore, Geralt," Oswell said, a sudden irritation in his voice as he slapped the table. "You've not asked why we've come here yet, though the question has hung over you. To the seven hells with decorum, it's time we speak plainly: the curse of Harrenhal brings us here, brother, and we intend to break it."
Reaction to this proclamation was about what Geralt expected. The youngest grew fearful of mention of curses. The older children glanced at their uncle and parents with confusion and shock. Lady Whent took a deep, silent breath, as though a great weight was soon to leave her shoulders. Lord Walter stared unblinkingly at Oswell. When he looked to the rest of the Hanse and found absolute certainty across all of their faces, his confusion only intensified. The guards stationed nearby rattled in their armor as they tried to discretely glance at each other, or perhaps lean forward to hear more of this.
"Right, you think me mad, perhaps all of us. No, don't say it. I know you better than you think, Walter. You wish proof? Of curses and magic? You'll have it, guards!" He slapped the table again, the force shaking every plate, piece of cutlery, and cup. The sound reverberated through the empty, shadowy hall like an explosion through a cave. "Bring Ser Arthur and Master Geralt their weapons at once, then we shall see who is mad."
Lord Whent recovered from his stunned silence, and at that moment, Geralt could see the man he was before advancing age took its toll. The look of challenge in his eyes was equal to Oswell's, the look that could make a man cower in fear and beg for instantaneous forgiveness. Oswell met it unflinchingly, and wordlessly, the two brothers of House Whent stared each other down. Lady Whent made her move then, placing a hand on her husband's shoulder. The effect took a few more tense moments to finally take hold, but hold it did. Lord Whent's gaze softened, and his fist uncurled itself.
Not the first time she's helped ease tension's between them, I'd bet. Geralt thought, remembering countless tales of sibling rivalries. House Whent was no exception. Oswell had said in not so many words that his family didn't take his first encounter with the supernatural very seriously. And boys can be cruel about such things, even to their own brothers in youth.
"Men," Lord Whent spoke in a calm voice that brokered no argument, gesturing to two nearby soldiers. "Do as my brother commands, if he has brought proof of... A curse, then I would see it with my own eyes. And speak nothing of this to anyone beyond this hall, I will know if you have."
The two chosen guards paled noticeably and nodded their assent, leaving the hall with no shortage of swiftness to every step. In the tense moments of silence that followed, no one dared speak. The youngest children were naturally confused and frightened, casting glances about the room at the thick shadows all around them. Lord Walter siped his wine, leaning back into his seat in an approximation of sudden indifference. An attitude adopted by his older sons, who failed to refrain from casting curious looks at their uncle, Ser Arthur and Geralt. Minutes later, the two guards returned, swords in hand.
"Shall we, Master Witcher?" Ser Arthur asked with a hint of humor in his voice, rising from his seat.
"Indeed we shall, ser." Geralt answered, reaching the two men first. The twitching of their fingers around the scabbards was unmistakable. As was the less of color in their faces at the close proximity between them. When he reached out for the silver Cat sword, they went as stiff as statues. "My thanks, good men, though I must trouble you to keep one of my swords safe for a while longer."
Unsheathing the blade, Geralt performed a swift series of wrist motions, staring as the runes built into it already began to glow. It was not alone in this regard, for Dawn as well seemed to shimmer in Arthur's hands. Something not missed by the knight of Dorne or everyone observing the display. The two men walked some distance away from the table, putting themselves between it and one of the two hearths, placing the flames to their left.
"I trust I'll not fall to the ground, again?" Arthur inquired. Geralt gave him a small smile.
"No, this time, we strike at the same time, meeting halfway until the same discharge as last time comes to pass."
"They mean to fight?" Maris asked her uncle, trepidation, and curiosity, lacing her voice.
"No, my lady," Pycelle assured him with a warm voice. "Naught, but three blows will come to pass... Perhaps less, given what is already happening to the blades."
"The Grand Maester is correct," Geralt looked to the table, his eyes meeting Lord Whent's. "Which is why I suggest you all hold on to something. Those who can't should distance themselves."
The nearest soldiers already recoiled as if struck, and only a few moments later did they think to ask their lord for permission. Walter Whent, trying his best to appear indifferent, save for the trembling in his hand, gestured for them to leave that portion of the room. Once Geralt and Arthur were a good enough distance away from the others, they took their respective stances. Silent as a long-forgotten grave-yard, the two men stared each other down, their bodies poised and ready to attack at any moment. To an outside observer, it would appear they were there to duel to the death.
In truth, the two men waited until they were perfectly in-tune, weeks of sparring, helping each man to recognize the others tells. A feat made far simpler for Arthur by the purposeful holding back of Geralt. Eyes locked and blades ready, the two men shared imperceptible nods with one another and then, with perfect timing, struck. When their sword met halfway, the reverberating clanking sound of steel against steel was drowned out by a ripple, a shimmering, faint outburst of power from their glowing blades. Geralt felt his medallion bite into the flesh of his chest from the sudden vibration.
Not even looking at the table, the Witcher heard men, women, and children alike sharply breathe in and gasp. As ever, the strange Shella Whent had the most interesting reaction of all.
"Gods be good..." She whispered in pure awe. Her husband remained silent.
That won't last for much longer, Geralt thought, knowing that Pycelle's assessment of the situation was accurate. Sharing another nod with Arthur, he pulled the sword back, readied himself for another blow, and like a viper, met Dawn halfway once again.
The discharge of power was beyond even his expectations. With no stoking or further enhancing of his own, Geralt watched as the purple and blue colors seemed to swirl about them for an instant until erupting like a titanic burst of Aard. The nearest pillars shook and grumbled around them. The massive flames of the hearth seemed to recoil as a struck child would into its cavernous depths. Pieces of cutlery flew from the table and well above the heads of its occupants. The nearby guards covered and shielded themselves from them as though they were the arrowheads bearing down for killing blows.
Maris Whent shrieked and took cover behind her seat. The second oldest somehow managed to smack his head against the pie before him. The youngest children stared with open mouths even as the wind blew their hands and chubby faces in the opposite direction. Lord Whent seemed to shrink in his seat, eyes almost unnaturally wide as he clenched his left armchair in a death grip. Shella Whent placed a hand before her face, hair flung in every direction as Princess Ellia's was. Mouth trembling and tears in her eyes, the Lady of Harrenhal seemed almost in a world of her own as she stared at what just occurred.
The first to speak and break the thick silence that befell the hall was Oswell.
"Well then, brother," He smiled with a look of satisfaction, placing a hand on Lord Whent's shoulder. The gesture caused his older brother to involuntarily shake in his seat. "I suppose fearing grumpkins and snarks isn't so foolish anymore."
To no one's surprise, least of Geralt's, Lord Walter's solar was near thrice the size of Aerys' personal feasting hall. Situated in the second-lowest level of the Kingspyre Tower, the Lord of Harrenhal summoned the entire company there once the bewilderment of the demonstration passed. All of the children were sent to their quarters. Under Lord Whent's piercing glare and voice, which brokered no argument and promised severe punishment, all present were sworn to secrecy. This included the guards. The Witcher found it an understandable but ultimately useless order. The castle's inhabitants would know everything soon enough, through gossip or Lord Whent's own mouth.
With each step they took toward the infamous tower where Harren and his entire lineage was snuffed out, the lingering magic intensified. Sometimes, Geralt felt as though he was back in Loc Muinne, finding it difficult to breathe as a heated stone all but burned around him. At other points, the tendrils of the curse seemed more eager than ever to twist about him. Neither power, however, could overcome the resistance of the weirwoods potency. In fact, once they entered the tower itself, situated near the northeastern side of the Hall of a Thousand Hearths, the curse, and Balerion's magic were hardly felt at all.
Oswell mentioned his family had abandoned the upper sections of the castle. Did they subconsciously know or feel the weirwoods resistance? It was, but one more thing to inspect once his report to Lord Walter was delivered. Sitting directly across the man in-question and provided more than enough wine to wet his throat, Geralt did precisely this. Detailing his own investigation into the castle's history, Harren's near annihilation and appropriation of the weirwood forest, what Balerion's magical fire would've done, and then the dead families who tried and failed to survive in the castle. Bathed in candlelight, Lord Whent's unflinching, grim visage observed Geralt like some foreboding statue. His lady wife, seated immediately to his right, seemed to grow more afeared as Geralt, with further input from Pycelle, went through the various pieces of evidence they'd acquired.
"Though I've only passed through a portion of your castle, Lord Whent," Geralt said after a cup of wine. "My first impression paints a poor picture of the situation, and I don't expect it to improve over the coming days and nights of further investigation."
"... You are absolutely certain there is a curse? Not simply..." He fell silent for a moment, visibly struggling for words. "Remnants of magic?"
"Were it so, our demonstration from earlier wouldn't have happened or this conversation. No, Lord Whent, the curse is quite real, and I suspect many people here have been aware of it, whether they fully knew it or not," Geralt noticed Lady Whent shift in her seat, though he did not deign to so much as glance her way. "The sense of discomfort, that something doesn't want you here, and will hurt you for so much as daring to enter. These are all things people feel and often dismiss, sometimes for good reason, not here. Even places that suffer mundane tragedies and disaster acquire a... malevolent aura about them. Harrenhal has one of the worst I've ever encountered in my decades as a Witcher."
"You've known it since we were children, Walter," Oswell said, not unkindly. "Many times, you sneered at the notion of a curse, but look at what has happened this night. Look what has happened to you! By the light of the seven, in but a year you've aged ten! Someone would sooner mistake you for my father, and not my brother!"
For an instant, the anger from earlier burned bright in Lord Whent's eyes. Yet, as his hand curled about the armrest of his chair, they flicked to it and rested on it.
The hands of an old man, not one of but forty and one, Geralt could see the thought pass through his mind as he stared at the wrinkled skin. His wife laid hers over his, and Walter seemed to draw strength from the gesture. "The situation is serious. There is no disputing this but not unfixable."
The lord and lady looked at him with renewed interest. "With your permission, I would do a thorough examination of the entire castle grounds. I must know just how far the curse reaches, where it is strongest. I'll also need everyone to tell me of any strange occurrences they've noticed in or around Harrenhal. No matter how absurd it may seem, I want to hear it. The more I understand the curse, the easier it will be to break it, hopefully soon at that."
"If those are your terms, Master Geralt... Then allow me to be the first to speak," Shella Whent said, gathering his strength after a long breath. Lord Whent stared but did not interrupt, even as the surprise was plain to see on his face. "... I have always believed in the gods, the Seven, in the thought of higher powers watching over us, offering us comfort... Since I first visited Harrenhal, I knew... Or perhaps began to suspect that not all of these powers were so benevolent..."
She gave a sympathetic look to Oswell, who sat to Geralt's left. "When you were a boy and told us of that wraith, I could never remove it from my thoughts. Many sleepless nights I had ever after, even as the years went by because of it. Even the joys of marriage and motherhood could stave such dread from my thoughts for but a short while..."
Lord Walter said nothing. The guilt and pain clear for all to see. As was the reason why his wife refrained from sharing these thoughts from him even after so many years.
"When I was heavy with my Maris," Shella Whent continued, turning her gaze at Geralt. "... I do not know, the fear of something terrible happening... One night, when my husband was away, I fled from my chambers and... Found myself in the godswood. I had gone there before, finding solace and peace there... But..." She shivered. "That horrible face of the weirwood... I could never muster the strength to approach it..."
"Until that night."
"Yes, Master Witcher. That night... I felt drawn to the tree. No longer did I see anger or hate... But pain and sorrow. A lonely soul, a kindred spirit. I... Laid down next to the tree, and that was when I... I had a dream, or perhaps it is better to say a vision..."
"A vision, my lady...?" Pycelle inquired, running a hand through his greying beard.
"I was lost in a dark, cold place... My voice was gone, and in every shadow cast by torches... I saw... Creatures, stare back at me through the blackness... Men who were no longer men... Corpses dragged from the sea itself... Calling me... Taunting me, how I would see all of my kin die until only I remained... Old and alone..."
At that moment, Lord Walter's arm came around his wife's shoulders and held her tightly as tears began to fall from her face. For a while, no one interrupted them, letting husband and wife have their moment of respite.
"Thank you..." Shella silently said, smiling and kissing Lord Whent's cheek.
"If you wish, we can continue-"
"No, no Walter, I must," She gently urged him, and he did not stop her. Instead, the Lady of Harrenhal drew strength from the secret lifted from her shoulders. "For my tale is not finished, nor does it end quite so grim."
Then, she looked at Geralt, at all of the company gathered before her, and a childlike admiration entered her eyes. "When it seemed I had succumbed to madness, from the darkness my rescuers came, five men, five knights out of the tales themselves forcing the creatures back. One as tall and terrible as the bat of House Whent. One who shined as bright as a star. One who almost seemed made from gold. Another with no blade yet who stood tall none the less, and then... The last warrior with hair as white as snow and the piercing gaze of a serpent."
A/N: Ah, its good to be back. Hopefully I can get Harrenhal finished before exams rear their ugly heads again. And for those wondering why Geralt's eyes are described as serpentine instead of cat-like:
On the third day all the children died save one, a male barely ten... Finally came the seventh day. The male awoke and opened his eyes, and his eyes were as those of a viper.
From Blood of Elves, preface to Ch. 3