The malodorous scent of Crookback Bog was heavy in the air. It's fetid waters bubbling with noxious gases meant to poison men and beasts who dared to venture forth. A heavy wind blew through the trees, swaying and bending them in unnatural directions as the setting sun took an unnaturally red tinge at their backs. For ordinary people, particularly the superstitious who lived in and on the outskirts of this swamp, they were omens. Begone, leave or suffer, and die. For a sorceress and two Witchers, it was little more than a wounded, rabid animal snarling even as its death drew near.
Sleeping with his head rested against the trunk of the heart tree, Geralt vividly relived their hunt for the last of the Crones. With agonizing detail, he recalled every foul stench, push of the wind, and each step taken. He smiled as Yen wrinkled her nose in disgust of the place, frowned each time Ciri's impatience momentarily threatened to prompt her into foolishness. He recalled the werewolf Berem who forewarned them of danger, and pulsation of old, dreadful magic than hung in the air and the swarms of beasts encircling them as they drew closer.
The Witcher felt the heat of Yennefer's flames, the pounding of her lightning as it kept the monsters at bay, how Ciri's dazzling powers blinked her from one place to another. The tension and momentum of his own, swaying body as it carved crows out of the sky. Weavess' death cry rang in his ears as Ciri plunged her newly acquired sword through the children eating beast. The recovery of Vesemir's medallion, burning the huts to ash, and their celebration afterward, it was a good day. One of the best in many, many years.
"Reliving that, it felt good. No, better than that." Geralt concluded his recollection of the experience. His audience comprised of Lord and Lady Whent, along with most of the Hanse, save for Jaime, who'd brought him food and drink for breakfast. The Whent's listened silently, sometimes in wonder, and other times in fear, as Geralt gave them a simplified version of events. The others, who'd grown more accustomed to his stories, remained more or less unfazed. Then again, he hadn't told any of them quite a few of the specifics.
"The heart tree chose for you to relive this experience," Pycelle pointed out, brow furrowed. "My knowledge of this... Oneiromancy is decidedly limited, but is it premature to say clues may exist within this memory?"
"The thought had crossed my mind as well," Geralt said after downing a few gulps of Arbor red. "Crookback Bog was an old place of wild, untamed nature, with ancient forces practicing magic there for hundreds of years. Not too dissimilar to where we stand now in power, though this godswood doesn't near match the Bog's malicious aura. Then there's my enemy, the Crone, one of three who feasted on the flesh of men, women, and children to empower herself."
"Mad Danelle did the same, so the tales tell," Lord Whent said, recovering his composure. "My grandfather served as her bannerman in those times, the last Whent to do so before Harrenhal was given to us by king Maekar."
"Used to frighten us with tales of bats devouring babes," Oswell's face brightened as he spoke. "Of a red-headed demon who would claw our hides if we did not act properly."
"Aye, most of his tales were in jest. In truth, he was fonder of delighting us with his days battling the Blackfyre usurpers, stories of blood and steel, the kind any lad would enjoy, save for his last," The guilt from their conversation last night resurfaced, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. "Oswell had already left to be fostered a year when grandfather's health, at last, began to fail him. In but a few days, he was gone, and yet every time I came to visit, he spoke of the castle with a mad fire. How terrible things came to pass here, wrongdoings to damn king and farmer to the worst of the seven hells."
"Lohston's wrongdoings."
"... Yes," He sighed. "Blood sacrifices, consuming the flesh of men. I am ashamed to say these frightened me not, bearing witness to that great man's crumbling before my eyes did. All his talk of evil and such, I dismissed as talk of a dying man haunted by a failing mind..."
Oswell, who but for a moment looked furious again, cooled as Lord Walter's composure fell, making him look every bit the prematurely aged man the curse had made him. Lady Whent stepped closer, placing an arm around Walter's shoulders. Her eyes, full of empathy and fright, were on Geralt.
"Harrenhal's history of blood and sacrifice does not begin with Danelle Lohston, Master Witcher."
"You're referring to the First Men practices."
"I am. For years, I have collected tomes of knowledge, common and rare on the subject, trying to learn as much as I can of those ancient customs. Like many things from the times before the Andal arrival, the information is scarce. What exists is surrounded by myth and legends. The children of the forest were responsible for the weirwoods creation and the First Men's attempts to cut them down before embracing the old gods. I do not know if the children offered blood and flesh to heart trees. Men, however, did. One King in the North ripped the entrails of invading slavers and hung them from weirwood branches."
"I would ask that you pass on this knowledge and along with any tomes concerning the First Men and Harren to the Grand Maester, my lord and lady," Geralt said, finishing the last of the bacon brought to him. "Any breadcrumb of information may prove indispensable. No matter how ridiculous it may seem. I would do it myself were the castle not in such need of thorough inspection."
"You wish for me to pass on this knowledge," Pycelle correctly guessed. "To aid you in oneiromancy."
"Successfully doing it, to put it simply, is a right pain in the ass even for people predisposed towards it. However, if the one dreaming gets subjected to enough information concerning a person or place, it can improve the chances of prompting a vision. That's where you'll come in, Grand Maester. For a few hours every evening, before I go to sleep, you will repeat everything you've learned of Harren when you're not busy practicing the incantations I taught you. I would suggest you join us, my lady."
She blinked. "Me?"
"If I fail to learn anything, it will fall to you experiencing another vision to discover what precisely Harren was trying to accomplish here. If it's anything remotely as revolting as what we're all assuming it is, the experience will be... Unpleasant."
"Is it dangerous," Walter asked, the very notion bringing the lord back out of his stupor. "Well? Is there any chance this... Vision could cause her harm?"
"Truthfully...?" Geralt sighed, looking back to the heart tree, it's eyes locking with his. "From what Lady Whent said of her first experience, it shouldn't do more than a poor night's sleep and memories best left forgotten of the experience."
"You don't sound sure."
"I'm not. Heart trees don't exist where I come from. I've never encountered a thing quite like one. I can only speak from my own experiences with visions of the past, present, and even future. Mine were rooted in mystique, allegory, difficult to decipher. Whereas Lady Whent's portent of the future was surprisingly specific. Such explicit detail will work to our advantage, but I doubt it'll make the journey itself bearable given what I know of Harren."
"If it comes down to it, I will aid you."
"Shella-"
"I know you worry for me, husband," Shella Whent interjected, leaving Lord Walter standing with his mouth agape. "And I know the guilt and love that drive you to ask such questions. But if I am the only one who can help free our home from this evil, at long last, is it not my duty as a Whent to see it through?"
"She won't do it alone," Geralt assured him. "If I even detect for a moment she's in any danger, I'll pull her out of the dream. Then, I'll have words with the green men about these trees and why Harren was so infatuated with them."
Most of the others present stared at him as if another head suddenly sprouted from his neck. The Whent's in-particular looked aghast at the thought. An understandable reaction, given the air of mystery surrounding this group and their isolated island. Only Arthur Dayne's surprise was momentary. If anything, his smile showed respect for Geralt's boldness.
"We must have answers."
"We must," Geralt agreed with the Sword of the Morning, shifting his gaze to the others. "If all other options are exhausted and result in nothing, then who else can we ask but the green men? They've watched the banks of the lake for generations, and I doubt they'd ever forget Harren's actions on it. Besides, they've no quarrel with me. I'm not a descendant of the First Men or an Andal, and if they were truly so hostile to all outsiders, how did Addam Velaryon come back alive?"
The obvious answer, which no one voiced but most certainly thought of, was him possessing a bloody dragon. Geralt did not expect it to come to that. The weirwoods were predisposed toward aiding them already. They merely needed to perform the final push necessary to gain the full picture of how the curse came about. Once these matters were settled, Geralt inquired into the effectiveness of the godswood pieces. Arthur, Oswell, and Pycelle all stated an improvement in their mood, finding the castle less threatening. They even slept quite well with the trinkets on their person. All the same, he told them to keep at it and provided similar pieces for Lord and Lady Whent.
The proceeding few days fell into a mostly unbroken pattern. During the mornings and much of the afternoons, Geralt went about his examination of the castle. Arthur and Oswell accompanied him throughout, and all three men wore full-arms. It made ascending and descending the four remaining towers a bothersome but necessary physical exercise. If they couldn't sustain an ascension up those seemingly endless steps in more favorable conditions, how could they when the power of the curse flared?
The Towers of Dread and the Widow had their weirwood resistance, despite suffering the effects of Balerion's searing heat. Geralt and the Kingsguard were able to travel their whole length without the need to leave their weapons behind. Lord Walter and Lady Whent accompanied them through much of the inspection, offering some insights into their history. The Tower of Dread was named for a former torture chamber where Harren personally oversaw and allegedly partook in the mutilation of those who most defied him. The Widow's Tower was named for Harren's last wife, who bore his youngest son, Emberlei Blackwood.
The Blackwoods and the Bracken's were some of the oldest and most notorious families in the riverlands, if not all Seven Kingdoms. They were once allies who found themselves bitter rivals when the Andals came, and the Bracken's took to the faith of the seven. The Blackwood's kept to the old gods, and to this very day, their ties to the First Men remained strong. Geralt knew this was no coincidence, nor did he miss the meaningful glances and hints of trepidation from the Whent's as they spoke of the Blackwood's. He chose not to pursue the matter, for now.
The Wailing Tower was one of the more notorious places in Harrenhal. From the colossal cracks along the walls, hallways, and ceilings, there was a constant howling noise, the higher one climbed. A perpetual, grating wailing that was easy for the common man to mistake as ethereal, otherwordly. To the surprise of the Whent's, and somewhat to Geralt's amusement, it was in truth nothing but the wind. Something which he revealed to them once they returned to the safety of the godswood during a late afternoon.
"A-Are you certain, Master Witcher?" Lady Whent inquired, disbelief clear in her voice. "For years, I've..."
"Thought it was haunted? Yes, it's not an uncommon reaction, particularly when one is inclined to believing in the ways of magic. However, the weirwoods presence remains strong there. It might, ironically enough, have one of the strongest resistances to the curse. Besides, I've more than my share of experience with debunking false sightings and claims of ghosts and monsters. If I got a gold coin for every instance..."
"Enough to fill the vault of the Red Keep?" Oswell asked with a grin.
Geralt did the same. "At least thrice over."
The Tower of Ghosts, however, provided no such levity. It was the most ruinous of them all, as well as the shortest. Situated near the east postern, near an equally decrepit sept, the Tower of Ghosts was another concentration point of the curse. Before stepping inside, they once again discarded any items of magic and walked to its upper levels. Such as they were. Balerion had done such damage to it, there was barely a room left standing just a quarter of the way up, or even a ceiling. Just like Kingspyre, this was avoided by beasts as well as men. Even the rats who swarmed the old sept nearby avoided it. Its name came from the belief that only the dead could stomach being inside.
That evening, after the others left and Geralt was alone with Pycelle until Lady Whent arrived from the dinner, the Witcher voiced his frustration.
"If that was the only concentration point of the curse, it would've made things a thousandfold easier," He admitted, back pressed against the heart tree while the Grand Maester sat some twenty feet away, a stack of books lined immediately to his right. "With the properties of the soil and trees here, we could've formed a circle of both around the tower's grounds. It would've trapped the curses energies there and the wraiths inside that fixed radius. The fight would be on our terms."
"And none would have to leave the walls of Harrenhal," Pycelle gave a justifiably concerned look. "Do you believe Lord Whent shall refuse such a course of action? Despite all he has come to know?"
"Accepting the existence and threat of magic is another. Telling everyone in the castle to abandon it for one is no small undertaking, not the least of which comes down to the size of the place and the possibility of Harrentown being under the curses sway. Even if it's ultimately not, they're too close to one another..."
The sound of footfalls grew in the distance. The third member of their group was soon to arrive. Once they grew close enough, even Pycelle picked up on the sound.
"We should count ourselves fortunate then," He tried his best reassuring smile. "We've someone who holds much sway over Lord Walter is quite predisposed towards our cause."
"I hope it's enough."
That evening and many more to come, the three spent many hours sharing information concerning Harren the Black. They had exhausted the personal history of House Hoare, who traced their lineage back to the mythical Age of Heroes. Unlike the rest of Westeros, the ironborn chose their king through a kingsmoot in those days. A process of selection between several noteworthy candidates from across their territories. It was very similar to what the people of Skellige practiced for such matters. House Hoare's greatest from that era, Harrag and Qhored, were noted battle commanders who caused the northmen generations of grief.
Eventually, the kingsmoot age died off when House Greyiron established a hereditary dynasty. A dynasty that, as many seemed to in this world, last for an absurd number of years. The Hoare's brought this ruling family down during the age of the Andal invasions, using marriages to gain their support. Archmaester Haraeg's tome History of the Ironborn, a frequent reference point in their discussions, showed a legacy of reavers and conquerors at some points yet tradesmen in others. The Hoare's were allegedly mistrusted by their fellow ironborn for allowing the Faith of the Seven amongst their people.
Finally, came to the subject of Harren himself. A universally despised figure no matter which source one chose to glean from. He'd inherited both the iron islands and the riverlands conquered by his grandfather, Harwyn Hardhand. Despite the vast wealth he already enjoyed, Harren's bloodthirstiness was superseded only by his vanity. He did not rule from a castle built into a mountain as the Kings of the Rock. Not an unconquerable seat that famously resisted even the god's wrath in its seventh attempt. The King of the Isles and Rivers commanded all under him from a modest tower house at Fairmarket. His pride couldn't stomach the fact.
That was as far as any academic was willing or interested to go with regards to Harren's motives. Vanity and pride alone prompted him to sacrifice thousands, cut down ancient godswoods, and erect such a stronghold. Weirwoods were only used for their strength as material. The location of the castle was there to tighten his hold over the famously troublesome riverlords. He wanted a close enough command point from which to strike out at Argilac Durrandon or an impregnable retreat point if his conquests went poorly. All of them made sense once Geralt or anyone interested enough looked at the full historical context of Harren's time and the troubles of his forebearers.
Religious reasons were never factored in by the numerous maester's who chronicled ironborn history. There were but two or three passing mentions of Harren following the Drowned God, nothing else. His father, Halleck, only nominally supported the religion, paying service to its customs at absolute most. He'd only ever visited the iron islands themselves on but three occasions. The construction of a sept as part of Harrenhal was seemingly never deemed interesting enough to warrant mention or further inspection into Harren's character. A monster was a monster, simple as that.
The heart tree didn't respond the way Geralt desired, in-spite practically beating centuries of ironborn history into his head and traversing the length of the vast castle. His dreams were more recollections of the Crookback Bog fight, and in two instances, memories of the Eternal Battle. When the first week of their stay in Harrenhal came to a close, it was decided to let Lady Whent try her hand at prompting a vision. Lord Whent misliked the notion still, but his wife's words and assurance that all five members of the Hanse would be present and awake for the night was enough to convince him.
And so the six found themselves back at the heart tree that evening. The sky was, as usual, was filled with bright, shining stars. Some of them even streaked through the night. A brilliant shine made more prominent by the absence of the moon.
"It is said on moonless nights, misbehaving children shall be flown by winged horrors back to Harrenhal, to Danelle Lohston," Shella Whent said, gazing at the sky as she and Geralt stood but twenty feet away from the heart tree. The rest of the Hanse stood further back, hidden Lord Whent and his two oldest sons the furthest. Geralt could hear them shift uneasily in the outskirts of the clearing. "For a time, I thought I too would go mad, knowing what I did... Some families are cursed with it in their very blood..."
She fell silent after a quivering breath, lowering her gaze toward the weirwood scrutinizing them. "You've no doubt noticed, Master Witcher, how Walter and I are... Wary of all Blackwood talk?"
"It came to my attention."
"There is a good reason for it, one I wish for you to hold silent on until the end of your days."
"I've no intention of breaking whatever trust you place in me."
"Yes... I thought so, I only..." She shook her head. "House Blackwood has married into many families across the Seven Kingdoms, as have most Houses of such prestige. They've even found their way into the royal Targaryen family through blood, if not name. The Lohston's were one such family, and we the Whent's were their most loyal and respected bannermen."
"So loyal, you became bound by marriage as well long ago. It wasn't just bravery against Danelle that earned you Harrenhal," Geralt concluded correctly, judging by her nod. "House Blackwood, connecting together Houses Hoare, Lohston and now Whent. Bringing the blood of the First Men into all three..."
Geralt didn't doubt its presence already, particularly in the Hoare's who's ironborn practice of salt wives would've done so generations prior. Regardless, it was a detail he knew wasn't irrelevant.
"I won't speak of this, my lady," The Witcher assured, letting his proclamation before a heart tree emphasize its authenticity to her. "But I would ask this of you: if there is another such secret you carry, reveal it now. Later, there will be no room or time for such things."
"My greatest secrets are laid bare," The burden of years was almost palpable in her tired voice. "Their chains have held me so tightly, it is a wonder my worst fears of going mad did not come true."
Madness would've been a reprieve, Geralt thought, not for the first or last time feeling a great deal of sympathy for the woman. It is far worse to be sane, knowing even a sliver of the truth and that no one will believe you.
"They won't," He promised again, bowing his head. "Harren's shadow has poisoned all under it long enough. The troubles of you and your family are coming to an end. You have my word on that."
Even as her eyes betrayed a weariness, no words could entirely erase Shella Whent managed to smile warmly. "You should consider knighthood, Geralt. I believe you would be worthier of it than most."
The Witcher smiled back. "The thought has occurred to me once or twice."
Lady Whent settled down next to the heart tree minutes after, using one of its many protruding trunks as a cushion. Geralt listened to the diminishing of her heartbeat, the quieting of her breathing. He stepped away from the weirwood, making as little noise as possible, and rejoined the rest of the Hanse. They sat down in a small circle formation, similar to what they'd done during the trek to Harrenhal. While there was no campfire, wineskins were not absent.
"Any notion of when it will happen, Geralt?" Oswell asked as the Witcher sat down next to him, accepting the offered wineskin. The two sat in such a way as to always have the heart tree in their sights. A single dash in the span of a few heartbeats would close the distance between them and it. "I'm not as afeared as my brother but,..."
"It may not happen tonight at all," He admitted after a gulp, offering the skin to Jaime next. "We may be at this for a while. We may not. This part is out of my hands, as troubling as that may sound. Don't drink too much of that. You'll need to stay sharp."
Jaime stopped mid-drink, giving him a puzzled look. "You said the forest was safe."
"It is, but Lord Walter and his two oldest are watching us. The man's on edge already, and I'd rather avoid pissing him off by acting sloppy."
"I thought I'd heard something shuffling about," Arthur said, waving aside the offered skin. Pycelle accepted. "We would be wise to pass the time to remain awake."
"So long as it's not anymore ironborn history lectures, I'm all for it."
The hours of the bat and the eel passed remarkably quick and without incident. As they did on the journey to the castle, they kept each other awake and quietly amused with tales of days gone. None drank much wine, and the hiding Whent's did not deign to join them. During the hour of ghosts, they all stilled mid-conversation when a monumental trembling erupted from Geralt's medallion. The Witcher and his party members stared at it, swaying wildly in the palm of his hand. A heartbeats length later, they sprang to their feet and made way to the weirwood.
At a distance of forty feet, Geralt suddenly stopped and raised his hand. "Wait, give me a moment..."
Taking a few cautious steps forward, the Witcher stared at the sleeping form of Shella Whent, the tree towering over her, and the quickening build-up of power around them both. There was a faint but familiar sound, a kind of roaring when a magic wielder approached a place of power. There was a thick, primordial presence of it, stronger than before. Underneath, it was exponentially stronger. Geralt could practically feel the very hill shake as the magic veins pulsated like a living man's. It gathered inside the heart tree, slipping out of it and reaching into Shella.
The Lady of Harrenhal barely stirred at all. Her breath only infinitesimally quickened, so slightly only a Witcher's senses would even pick it up. Seamlessly and unconsciously, she drew it into herself as if on an old reflex. Though physically unaltered, in the unseen energies coursing through all things around them, Shella and the weirwood were one and the same. Geralt had never seen so much active power without a single discernible outwardly alteration of the surroundings. The tree, the leaves, the ground, all remained visibly unchanged.
And yet there's enough power here for a proper wizard to blow this pile of burned rock into oblivion.
From afar, Geralt heard the observing Whent's spring into action, their footfalls thumping against soil and crushing leaves. They rushed toward the tree. Geralt wasn't sure if crossing into the swirling energies would break the vision or have some other unforeseen consequence, but he wasn't about to gamble on it. He slowly but swiftly intercepted them in their path, raising a hand to halt.
"Wait, my lord," He whispered as the hair on the back of his neck stood up from the power. "Whatever power lies in the tree is active. Active but not dangerous to Lady Shella. There's no reason to interfere."
"Do as he says, Walter," Oswell approached next, standing at the Witcher's left. "When there is a danger, we will act. If not, you'll only make an arse of yourself and force Shella to do it again."
Though Lord Walter gazed at his brother with an understated but undeniable look of ferocity, he did not act rashly. His son's, meanwhile, looked uneasy, glancing between the two of them with reasonable trepidation. Geralt glanced over his shoulder at the heart tree. The power no longer grew but continued to swirl in and out of Shella like a flowing river, neverending river. Once or twice, he heard a hitched breath, an indecipherable mumble. Eventually, the power began to wane. Geralt's medallion no longer shook as harshly. The veins of magic running under the ground settled into docility, and Lady Whent's eyes slowly opened.
"It's over..."
"Shella!" Lord Walter ran past them to her side, his son's and Oswell following suit. Though each one offered to help her stand, Lady Whent rejected all such offers. Even positioning herself to lie against the trunk seemed too much of an exertion. After she had drunk a few noticeably large gulps of wine, Lady Whent looked at the crowd gathered before she and silently asked, "Where is the Witcher?"
"Here, my lady," Geralt approached, kneeling before her once the others parted a way for him. Taking a better look at her, Shella Whent looked less like a lady and more of a drunken brawler by the sheer exhaustion present on her features. "If it's too much, we can speak of this-"
"No, no,... We must speak of this now," She closed her eyes, frowning to help focus her undeniable weary mind. "You were right, it was... Far more unpleasant than the last time, I-I shan't forget it until my dying breathe..."
"... You saw Harren the Black, mother?" Roland Whent asked with fear and awe in equal measure. "Truly...?"
"In all his depravity, my boy... I was alone, in a dark, fathomless place where I saw naught but blackness and the sounds of my own footfalls. My voice... Failed me. I could not utter so much as a word. It was... frightening, overwhelming, merely considering the solitude. But... I was not alone. Another creature joined me, guided me, a crow. It's like I've never before witnessed..." Shella's let out a shaky breath, looking at Geralt. "It had three eyes, and it spoke, in an old voice that brokered no argument. It told me to follow, the truth awaited above..."
"Above where?" Geralt asked, trying and failing to recall any instance of encountering a three-eyed crow.
"The rest of the castle. The blackness around me became walls, strong, thick walls, and hallways that seemed never to end. It was Harrenhal. I knew it at once. New and pristine... But I recognized it all the same. The crow guided my way, commanding me to follow and never veer from its path... It took me... To Kingspyre Tower... Up new stone steps, where the setting sun shined through windows and not fissures... To a place that no longer exists... That is when I saw them, him..."
She shivered as though a horrid chill ran through her.
"He was old and hairless yet with an armor blacker than any shadow and that crown, Harren the Black had come to life before my very eyes. He sat at the end of the hall, atop a white weirwood throne with his sons beneath the steps. When his gaze passed over the room and flicked to me... I thought he would... He paid no heed to me or the crow. Nor did his sons. All but one was a man grown... Save for Harren, all of them drank something foul, yet they dared not voice displeasure before him...
"Look, the crow told me, look and remember well, child. And so I did. I looked as Harren leaned back in his throne, and a whiteness overtook his eyes. I watched as all his sons began to shake, tremble as though poison was in their veins until their eyes too became white... I will... Always remember how the seven came upon the eight... The child... And with no hesitation, no mercy ripped him to pieces... How he stood as silent as a statue even as his limbs-"
Her demeanor crumbled, and she could no longer contain her sobs and cries. Walter, her sons, and even Oswell came close to Shella, offering her what little comfort they could. The other members of the Hanse watched, deathly silent as only horrified people could. Geralt did not press on for a while. Lady Whent needed to let it out, while the Witcher needed a moment to suppress the seething anger and hate that burned in his chest.
"... He ate the child's remains,..." Shella revealed as she wiped the tears away, finding the strength to meet Geralt's eyes. "Drank his blood... I could not bear it... I screamed at the crow, demanded answers, how... Why, why would a father butcher his own child... Power, the crow said, to command men and beasts, now it is his only hope to survive against a new threat. To endure... That.
"Before I could ask, a shadow fell over the hall. The setting sun... Vanished, that was what I thought until I approached the nearest window and realized I was only somewhat wrong. It was unlike any creature I could even begin to imagine... It's spread wings engulfed all I could see, its scales seemed alive with fire, its teeth dwarfed even the finest blades, even it's breath seemed to ignite a fire in the air," Her voice grew fainter, more fearful. "And it's eyes... There was a mind behind them, a hateful will of its own... When they turned white, my breath failed me... The thought of that monster commanding the Black Dread..."
She shivered again, pressing herself closer to Walter. "But it was for naught... Balerion roared with such force the very glass shattered... Then it all burned when the dragon obeyed the Conqueror's command. The black flame seared into the hall... Harren's sons perished immediately, even as their hair caught flames and skin turned grey than black... They uttered not a word. Harren..."
"Survived long enough to cast the curse."
"Mine! He shouted, somehow, the flames did not burn him as it did the others... Somehow, he managed to rise and stand even as the very stone around him melted away into what it is today... Mine, he screamed again, even as his lips burned away, and his teeth burst... Mine it will always be, and all those who lay claim to it shall suffer and die... Down to the last of their kin..."
She did not cry again, merely sighing as her strength seemed to be spent. Their sons had paled as she spoke, rivaling Geralt's own complexion. The rest of the Hanse shifted in place while Oswell stepped away from the tree, putting as much distance as he could. Lord Whent did not bother asking if she could stand, taking and carrying her in his arms.
"Wait, Walter," Shella said with a weak voice, stopping him before they could leave. "There is one more thing I must say... A message for Geralt..."
The Witcher frowned as a chill settled into his veins. "A message?"
"From the three-eyed crow, it is the last I saw of it as black flames danced in and around us... Break the curse, White Wolf of Rivia. Break it, and all shall become clear."
A/N: I was hoping to get to the actual curse breaking this chapter, along with a few other things but with the way things were going, I probably would've doubled the existing length, at least. In any event, it is definitely going down next time.