Kingspyre Tower, the tallest of the five that rose above the monstrous walls of the rest of Harrenhal, it's original name was lost to history nearly three centuries ago when the first Targaryen king burned it and everyone inside to cinder and ash. The uppermost levels were the hardest hit out of the entire castle, blasted to such a degree they were utterly inaccessible, halls, rooms, and pathways leading to them were transformed into a massive, misshapen lump of burnt rock. Even the places of the upper section still livable were abandoned over fifty years ago when House Whent aided Maekar Targaryen in bringing down the infamous Mad Danelle Lohston.
Decades of disrepair and abandonment, and yet nothing's moved in here... Geralt thought as he stood at the center of the upmost hall left intact within the tower. Eyes keenly scrutinizing every inch, ears listening keenly for any noise. Over the years, he'd encountered no shortage of desolate keeps and abandoned strongholds. Places where nature and its simpler creatures moved in to lay claim to what man abandoned or left behind. No such thing could be seen three-quarters of the way up the tower. Lord Walter, in preparation for the tourney, already made places within Harrenhal livable for the numerous guests to come. The highest sections of the various towers didn't receive such care.
With no one present during the climb save for himself, Arthur, and Oswell, Geralt could perceive the auditory noises with much less to get in the way. More specifically, the utter lack of them. There was nothing. No matter how hard he tried, the Witcher was unable to hear a single living soul once the three reached the highest available levels. There was no scuttling or buzzing of insects, no sniffing, and prowling of rats. No bats laid claim to the towers deserted chambers and hallways, nor did any birds think to build nests. There wasn't even a cobweb to be found.
Either the creatures of this world are far more attuned to magic, or even their base instincts know to avoid this place...
It wasn't difficult to perceive why. Though lacking a medallion, given to Jaime and Pycelle for their simultaneous inspection of the godswood, Geralt didn't need one to grasp the strength of the curse and dragon fire poisoning the air and ground atop the tower. The dampening effect of both from the weirwoods wasn't present in the tallest quarter section of the structure. Either the beams were never used in its initial construction or, and he found this far more likely, Balerion was to thank for this absence. Given the poor state of the towers sections above their heads, even these trees couldn't survive the Black Dread's opening attack. Not when Aegon would've given Harren and his kin special attention.
The heat in the hall and during the daunting walk up to it was insufferable. Sweat covered every inch of his and the bodies of the others, not made any better by the humidity. A bathhouse where the fires and steam never went out and no fresh air was allowed to enter for days would be more pleasant. The sensation of Balerion's leftover magic would've made the place miserable to stand-in alone. The curse only made it worse. No longer did it simply gnaw at the back of one's mind, an unknown danger one could pretend to ignore. Now, it was akin to being surrounded by a pack of wolves or monsters. Snarling, watching, waiting. Letting the inevitability of pain and its threat hang over one's head like a guillotine.
Now it's only simmering, boiling under the surface, waiting for a spark to ignite it... Us.
"Well, Geralt?" Arthur suddenly spoke, walking closer to the center of the hall with Oswell next to him. "Is this it? The heart of the curse?"
"Its power is purest here," He said, turning to face them. Arthur kept a brave face, though Geralt couldn't miss the tension in his shoulders, the absence of Dawn keenly felt. Oswell did the same, even as his eyes seemed to wander throughout the room, eyeing it all with deserving suspicion. "At least the closest we can get to it given the tower's state above us."
"I feared you would say this..." Arthur's distaste was evident by how he, too, then looked across the room, wiping a few beads of sweat from his brow. He did so for good reasons. The mere act of ascending the place wearing jerkins was taxing, and with armor, it wouldn't become any easier. Then there were the holes. Some in the hall were wide enough to drive a cart through. It was a place no sensible warrior would choose to fight in.
Geralt understood their trepidation for these practical and unspoken personal reasons. He even sympathized with them. These were matters beyond the ordinary, above what they thought was possible up until but a few months ago. Against such forces, even the bravest men would feel trepidation.
Assurances will do no good for that. Not until I know what all our options are. Besides, the less we say of our plans in this room, the better...
"Let's see what the others have found." He said with a sigh that wasn't entirely feigned. He moved past the knights, who stared after him for but a moment before following. None of the three men spoke on the way down, though Geralt could imagine them exchanging puzzled looks. Once they'd reached the point where the weirwood effect was present, the atmosphere improved, becoming merely unpleasant instead of unbearable. A handful of men at arms were provided by Lord Walter, and Geralt commanded them to stay put and keep their weapons safe.
When dealing with curses, particularly points where its power was at its purest, it was pivotal to disturb as little as possible. Even mundane alterations or obstructions could cause something to go awry. The risk only increased for magical ones. Thus, they had to temporarily abandon their magical or power obstructing weapons. A dangerous course of action by itself, but suffering a few tense minutes at a pure whirling point of the curse, was far preferable to inadvertently escalating its effects.
Maybe nothing would've happened, Geralt thought as they eventually finished their descent. But with a place like this, the fewer maybe's hanging over our heads, the better.
Following their return to ground level came a long journey through many hallways that seemed stretch on into infinity. Their endless lengths were only made bearable by the gradually lessening effects of the curse. With each step towards the godswood, the power of the weirwoods built into the blackened stones seemed more potent. Balerion's fire no longer gave the temperature an unearthly and unwelcome increase of heat. Nor did the twisting coils scratch at the back of Geralt's head. Or anyone else's. Yet even as the Witcher hoped and reasonably enough expected it, the effect of the godswood proper still surprised him.
As he and the group stood at the very edge of the vast forest, stretching out to over 20 acres, it was like entering another world. As far as the eye could see, elms, alders, and black cottonwoods were ever-present.
"Men," Geralt turned to address the group of soldiers who served as their escort. Their wariness was plain to see. Many failed to meet his gaze or hide their trepidacious glances toward the forest. "Stay here until we return. I don't believe we'll require your service for this inspection."
Their leader, a lad of no more than twenty at most with a narrow face and buck teeth protruding from his lips, nodded. Some color returned to his face as he did so. As it did for the rest of their group. For this venture, Geralt and the Kingsguard didn't give up their weapons. Merely standing in their outskirts proved the strength of the weirwoods capabilities. The power of the curse and Balerion's fire was absent. It was utterly repelled. Banished to the other sections within the walls of the castle, not permitted to tarnish this last place of the old land. The godswood of King's Landing was nothing in comparison. Here, the ancient, stalwart power of the earth reigned supreme, present in every leaf, rock, and gentle stream.
If the druids of my lands could know of this place, they'd likely try to claim the forest for themselves. The idea brought a smile to Geralt's lips, along with the potential lying in this place. The possibility of finding answers, and perhaps something to aid them in liberating the castle. But the godswood of Harrenhal was only pleasant in-sofar it was a reprieve from the other, darker forces thriving within this place.
It was an old forest, and this was plain to see the further in they traveled. While the outskirts resembled King's Landings, showing signs of human presence, domesticating the wilderness, the innermost regions were anything but. The air grew thicker with each step, heavy in a way only old woods could. The moon overhead, which shined on them, seemed to be repelled as well, it's light unable to penetrate the thick trees growing taller and older by the moment. Soon, the only light source was from their torches. A thick silence fell over the place, interrupted by the soft sounds of three men's footfalls.
Eventually, they reached a sizable clearing, a cut-off point where all other trees dared not pass over, a place where only one, unlike all the rest, was permitted to be in. The moonlight overhead was no longer blocked, shining down on the weirwood as bright as the sun. Though its size was unimpressive, relative to the other trees that dwarfed it, its appearance was entirely unlike the others. Simultaneously captivating and threatening.
Wood as white as bone, and leaves as red as blood... And that face... As told by men, living and through books, the weirwood did indeed have human features carved into it. It's narrow eyes thick with red, flowing sap which almost seemed to glow in the torchlight, flaring hatefully at them. Its mouth was twisted, a curl of absolute disgust. The power coming from it was the strongest he'd felt in Harrenhal. No, in all of Westeros. Even Balerion's skull wasn't so saturated with the power. Not even close.
This was magic older than any kingdom or house of men. A primordial force that stretched back eons past the memories or even existence of beasts or sentient creatures. If this tree could speak, entire libraries' worth of tomes could be written. Not that he expected it to share such knowledge even if it could. From the way those baleful eyes seemed to bore into Geralt's, it was far more likely the tree would tell them to go to hell.
The last of its kind on this side of the lake, Geralt thought as a sudden forlornness came over him. Sudden, but not unfamiliar. Forests, animals, seas, they were all alive as the druids tried and failed to make most others understand. This one was not only more alive but aware than most. With each moment their gazes were locked, Geralt got the distinct impression something very much intelligent was scrutinizing him back. He hadn't even noticed Pycelle, Jaime, and their armed escort approach until they'd walked up right next to him.
The soldiers of House Whent tried to mask their discomfort with grim looks of determination. Ironically, bathed in the moonlight shining down, their expressions mirrored those of the very tree that discomforted them so. Jaime and Pycelle were more relaxed, even if the youth rested a hand atop the pommel and the Grand Maester's hand seemed to wobble uncontrollably.
"Soldiers of House Whent," The Witcher spoke, addressing the armed escort after a moment's silence. "You may leave us."
Exchanging looks, the guards seemed momentarily reluctant to do until their commanding officer, an older man who was closer to Oswell in years, inclined his head. "As you command, Master Witcher."
Once their clanking armors and footfalls faded far into the distance and silence fell once more, Pycelle approached.
"It is as you suspected, Geralt," He opened the wobbling hand to reveal the medallion lying in its palm. It shook so fiercely it almost seemed to perform small leaps with each twitch. "The heart tree is a source of power, perhaps the greatest in the castle. Have you ever witnessed such... Behavior, from your medallion?"
"Only in a handful of other instances," He took it back, though he did not put it on, gripping it tightly between his fingers. "I suspect the top of Kingspyre Tower would've caused a similar reaction had I taken it with me."
"So it is there," Jaime said, taking a deep breath. "The source of the curse..."
"Not the source, but where you're likely to feel the purest sense of the curse. I know what you're all thinking: fighting up there is a madness we should avoid at all costs but one we may have to accept as a possibility. Fortunately, some facts work to our advantage in this regard. Breaking a curse at its source of power is the swiftest way of ending it."
"Harren's wraith," Oswell said. "Your mind has not been changed on this matter?"
"No, if anything, getting a closer look at this place has verified some of my earlier assumptions. This situation reminds me of a previous curse-breaking I've done by its sheer scale alone. A battlefield where dead men, wraiths, and specters, were forced to reenact a battle in perpetuity until the greatest of them was slain by me. This arch-wraith was the lynchpin of the curse, through which all its energy channeled.
"Harren or one of his sons, one of them lived long enough to muster the pure hatred and bile necessary to cast such a curse. Perhaps more of them, I felt many eyes watch me atop that tower," The other's eyes flashed as he said this, recalling the unmistakable sensation of being observed from the shadows. "The overwhelming force of Balerion's power, inadvertently, raised the possibility of such a thing coming to pass. Then there's Harren's obvious fascination with the weirwoods and their use of constructing this place. Yes... Sorcery was afoot here long before any Targaryen conquerors came to the Westeros mainland."
"None know precisely how Harren and his kin perished," Pycelle said, thoughtfully running a hand through his beard. "Only that they were within the tower when the Black Dread turned them to ash."
"The heart tree might."
"... The tree?" Jaime repeated.
"There is a power within that tree, and within this very forest," Geralt answered calmly, his eyes gazing across the thick woods all-around them. "A power which not even the curse or dragon fire can overwhelm to this day. If I can gain a greater understanding of it, I might be able to catch a glimpse of events long past. Learn some facts that can aid us in the inevitable curse breaking. Or do you doubt such a possibility after Lady Whent's tale?"
"That's why you spoke little atop the tower," Arthur said. "No unwanted eyes or ears of the living and the dead to hear what they should not."
"That's how we're doing it, from this meeting until the last. You will not utter a word about the curse or how we're going about dealing with it outside the confines of this forest. If one must write letters of progress to the king, Lord Tywin, or anyone else in King's Landing, they will do so here. Discretion and secrecy are of paramount importance from this moment forth."
"The king will have to be managed," Oswell said, addressing Pycelle and Arthur. "Once he hears we've reached Harrenhal, he will demand this and that of us. I'd not be surprised if his patience was already thin from the time it took us to arrive alone."
"The Ser Arthur and I shall manage this," Pycelle replied, giving the knight a knowing smile. "His Grace has always been... Positively disposed towards us. I am certain that letters from us shall earn us enough time to do our work properly."
"Yes," Arthur smiled back. "Particularly if Ser Barristan were the one to speak our words to the king."
"Varys will aid us as well," Geralt said, his mouth just slightly curling. "The Spider shapes his schemes known only to him, but for now, he's on our side, and Aerys listens to him closely. Still, we mustn't waste a moment, and there's much to be done in the days ahead."
He tossed the medallion to Jaime, he deftly caught it. "You'll take your horse and ride out across the outskirts of the castle grounds. Pay very close attention to the vibrations of the medallion. As soon as you feel the vibrations end, stop, and mark the position down on a map. I want to know precisely where the power of this place starts and ends. Once that's done, I'll do a second sweep myself and make out which magic it is."
Jaime gripped the medallion tight and bowed his head. "Of course, I won't fail you."
"I know," He faintly smiled before turning to the others. "Arthur, Oswell, you'll accompany me during our tours of the towers. So far, we know Kingspyre is a point of the curse's purest energies. We need to assess the damage done to the others, make sure there's only one such place for the wraiths to retreat to and not more."
"With full arms," Oswell said. "By the time we've climbed up and down half a dozen times, we'll scarcely need any effort at all to do it later."
"Grand Maester, you'll continue practicing your incantations within the forest. Keep the bait safe too, it may not even be a bad idea to bring it here to completely mask its presence. I don't want anything setting off the wraiths until we're ready."
"A wise choice," He replied. "Is there anything else you wish for us to do?"
"Yes, hold out a hand, all of you," They exchanged puzzled glances but acquiesced to his demand. Geralt, meanwhile, went about swiftly picking and choosing from various things littering the ground. A rock, fistfuls of dirt, a twig or two, and gave each one to a member of the Hanse. "I wish to test the repellent capabilities of the godswoods force. Each of you holds a tiny portion of this place. Carry these with you in the coming days, then report to me if you sense any change in the general feel of the castle or your own moods. If even these small bits and pieces can offer resistance to the curse, all the better for us."
"A dirt and twigs meaning the difference between life and death," Oswell muttered, shaking his head as he gripped the soil tightly. "Half a year ago, I'd have laughed at the very thought."
"The world is more interesting than any of us thought possible," Pycelle replied, gently carrying the twig given to him. "Interesting... And dangerous."
"As a friend of mine would say, danger and wonder are as close as bravery and madness," Geralt smiled again, turning towards the heart tree. "Get some rest everyone, we've got long days ahead of us, and in my case, little sleep, I think."
"You mean to sleep here?" Jaime asked, nudging the twig in his free hand back and forth between his fingers. "Would it not be wiser to merely ask Lady Whent to do it instead?"
"That's my second plan if my attempts yield no results," He started walking to the heart tree, and so did the others in the opposite direction. Their footfalls grew fainter while the air grew thicker the closer Geralt approached.
Unlike any other tree, he'd come across before, this one had no scent. Not the bark or the leaves. Most humans wouldn't notice or care, but to his heightened Witcher senses, it was a perplexing thing. Its eyes continued to follow him as he stood but ten feet away and laid his weapons on the ground. Then, he moved to the side, pressing his back and head against the trunk. The stars shined brightly overhead, as did the moon. With a series of long-practiced and mastered breathing motions, Geralt relaxed his muscles, let his worries fall to the wayside, and soon enough, fell into a slumber.