The Hanse kept themselves busy with a few last tasks in the first hours since Lord Walter's departure that morning. Jaime and Pycelle transported a few remaining vital pieces of equipment into the main hall from the woodland, inspecting the godswood trail and formation. The rest toiled away with the Tower of Ghosts. To ensure Harren had but one place to retreat, cutting it off was vital. Barrels, filled to the brim with godswood soil, remained within the courtyard.
Thanks to existing, marked borders around the tower, the three men applied the soil with meticulous care. Never letting it spill near the power of the curse. Geralt feared this step. A single misstep could have proven disastrous, bringing discharges and wraiths down on their heads. He didn't dare to breathe easy until midday when the task ended. Their circle of godswood dirt accomplished its duty without fail. Nothing would leak in or out. The overbearing heat that day, however, tempered the gratification of success. Or perhaps they'd simply grown accustomed to the dragon fire's absence under the weirwood's protection.
Oswell wiped away enough sweat to bring forth a second lake. "This damned sun is a pestilence…"
"Won't be getting much colder, not when we're underway."
Arthur sat at Geralt's left, finding refuge in the shade, surviving the heatwave with little more grace than his sworn brother. "You've the right of it, my friend. All the same, we'd best make the most of what peace we've left and retire inside."
So they did, leaving the Tower of Ghosts, courtyard, and outside world behind, venturing forth into Harrenhal's depths. Each footfall rung with a foreboding echo, accentuating the absence of others. The countless unlit hallways appeared closer to cave walls than a castle's. Harrenhal never felt more of an abandoned ruin.
The great hall's center was the exception. Under Oswell's watchful eye in the initial exodus efforts, it became a secondary camp for the company, the starting point of their curse-breaking efforts. It's massive, feasting table the lord's men put aside, replacing it with a meager one, more fitting of a roadside tavern and their small company. Food and drink aplenty ready at hand, and the center point of their plan.
Near it, a circular arrangement of soil, pebbles, dirt, and leaves over thirty feet wide laid atop blackened stones where nobility once gathered, warding off the lingering curse power, a haven when swords became drawn. To the east and west, trails of mud, grime leading to the godswood and Kingspyre Tower connected with the circle, furthering the warding effect.
A secondary configuration, half the size of the first, made its center, inscribed with dozens of elvish runes and Witcher formulae written by Pycelle's very hand. Within this secondary circle, Jaime and Pycelle left the chest from King's Landing and another where Pycelle placed his wraith oil. The third circle of sorts was provided by the weirwoods, support beams, and rafters spread out, forming an area where the curse's strength weakened. A no man's land where they could fight the enemy and the wraiths weren't entirely repelled away from them.
To the three arriving men's delight, they'd also prepared meals and filled goblets. Thus midday passed into the afternoon, in the company of friends and allies, resting as men, not Witcher's. Geralt found this a pleasant change from his usual, solitary, and silent preparation to a point.
"Take care, brother, a sword to swing true requires a sober mind."
Oswell put aside his second cup of wine. "Fear not, Arthur, I'm saving the proper drinking for after we've won."
"I'm aware, the hall is much too quiet for your true revelry."
The Kingsguard laughed, joined by Jaime. The two knights had enough experience to appear and to point to be at ease. Pycelle's tight smiles and half-hearted laughs betrayed a mounting worry. His gaze locked onto the surrounding shadows, the wine cup forgotten. Only a handful of torches, candles, and late afternoon sunlight illuminated the hall. Comrades and the godswood barrier weren't enough to quiet down the gnawing little voice of fear. The curse-breaking was nigh, an event of great importance and danger made aware for them all in exquisite detail. Weeks separating them from it became mere hours.
A beginner's spirits often waver at imminent peril. Only first-hand experience harden's them, or natural confidence.
He cast a subtle, meaningful glance at Jaime. The boy seemed untroubled, jesting away with Oswell across the table. Geralt knew such an attitude would fade once their fight began and hoped the years of training and survival instinct replaced it, not paralyzing fear. Something even young, full trained Witcher's weren't immune to, as Geralt himself could attest. The scars were proof enough.
The mirth and quiet considerations halted when Arthur Dayne caught their attention by rising to his feet, smiling and glancing between the Hanse members.
"This is... A queer situation we find ourselves in. Dining within an abandoned castle, resting and soon preparing to do battle with wraiths, to banish fell sorcery from these lands..."
"Speak for yourself," The others laughed or smiled at Geralt's friendly interjection, even Pycelle.
"Uncommon but for one in our present company," He amended ere continuing. "A few moons ago, the rest of us would have thought such things fables and legends, tales from ages long since past. To know otherwise, to partake in something worthy of the Age of Heroes, I am not ashamed to admit excitement, fear, and gratitude to all of those gathered around me.
"Old friendships we have strengthened," He focused on Oswell, then the others. "New ones, we have forged a bond of companionship tying us all as one. Pay no heed to what may happen tonight, tomorrow. Find strength and courage in those standing beside you. Now and forever, we are the company of Harrenhal, and in-spite of the challenge ahead of us, I know victory will be ours."
One and all shared in Arthur's toast. The doubts weighing Pycelle down vanished, a fire burning in his eyes. Jaime and Oswell's good spirits intensified, the former's gaze only something a youth staring at his hero could perform. Geralt watched the knight closely, discerning a shrewd glint in the man's eyes. He'd seen it already, with Foltest and other men whose strength of character and voices could work a kind of sorcery for their own troops and comrades. The Witcher, sometimes to his own chagrin but not this time, got swept by it too.
"Your speeches are as good as ever, brother, only, I'd have called us the Curse Breakers of Harrenhal."
"A most appropriate title for a book of our efforts," The Grand Maester spoke for the first time in over an hour, his smile unmissable. "I've no doubt it will become a grand addition to the Citadel's vast collection."
For a while longer, the Hanse spent what little daylight left to them speaking, jesting, and enjoying each other's company. As all good things must, it ended sooner than they realized. When the sunset, they were back at work. They set the chairs, table, and provisions outside the hall, lest the wraiths use them as projectiles. Torches on stone pillars nearby were lit alongside two dozen candles in and out of the circles.
The Kingsguard placed their changed, silver-studded armors on, aided by Jaime. Pycelle busied himself by repeating the chants repeatedly, his elvish polished to near perfection. Geralt, in the meantime, kneeled within the outer circle, facing away from the others. With a practiced, deliberate slowness, he poured the prepared specter oil to a large, clean piece of cloth and rubbed it along the length of his Cat blade and crossbow bolts. The Grand Maester had outdone himself, finding the ingredients and successfully creating proper oils by his third attempt. He'd even produced enough to cover the length of Oswell's silver shield with it.
It was but the simplest variant of the oil. The ingredients for the stronger ones simply didn't exist in Westeros, pieces of monsters, essences, and bags of specific dust or ash. Geralt's own stash of them left behind with Roach. Many potions he would have gladly taken were inaccessible as well. So were the bombs, leaving Geralt with only what he'd brought over on his person: two Moon Dust bombs, a pair of Blizzards, a Petri's Philter, and Tawny Owl.
He'd drink the Blizzard when the wraiths appeared, and not a moment sooner. It acted quickly, heightening Geralt's fighting prowess with minor side effects but could not last long. The Petri's and Tawny Owl he would refrain from using in the first and hopefully only bout. Theirs was a back-up role. A means to boost his Signs if things spiraled well out of control. The Witcher hoped in-secret to avoid resorting to them. There were entire species of arachnids and snakes whose bites were less toxic than drinking even a single Petri's Philter.
To their luck, the wraiths had no idea of Geralt's Signs, nor did Westerosi have an equivalent to them, their sorcery far more rooted in ritualistic spells rather than in the moment casting. His meager spell-casting abilities could more than suffice. Vials, filled with godswood soil, would serve as supplements or replacements for his bombs. Another idea from Pycelle. He even stored several for himself to defend with if the incantations failed.
By the time he'd finished preparing, so too did the others. Pycelle knelt at the heart of the formations, both chests to his immediate right. Arthur and Oswell faced south and east, Jaime westward.
Geralt knelt before the Grand Maester, sword laid gently within arm's reach. The courage given to him by Arthur held on, Pycelle's gaze resolute, his head nodding for them to proceed. The Witcher returned the gesture, taking a deep breath. Far above them, a large enough crack of the ceiling poured a ray of moonlight over the pair. It was a full moon.
"Cáemm aen hen,..." Witcher and Maester chanted the Elder tongue in-unison, their voices distant, eyes shut and postures stiff. "Cáemm aen hen... Cáemm aen hen!"
A faint gust of wind entered the hall, whistling through the vacant hallways of Harrenhal. It grew louder, stronger alongside the droning. Some torches and candles laid out across the room danced alongside its push and pull, others blown out, and some flames crackled with bursting flashes and sparks.
"Cáemm saov aen tedd,..." The chanting became louder, almost wrestling for supremacy with the howling wind. "Cáemm saov aen tedd... Cáemm saov aen tedd!"
Geralt's amulet quivered, joined by the rattling of the other's armors and Pycelle's Maester chains. The ground around though not directly beneath them, shook. The Witcher heard the cracking of stones, the falling of pebbles, the scuttling of retreating mice and rats in the dark.
"Cáemm dhu bhrenin Harren,... Cáemm dhu bhrenin Harren,..." The Witcher rose, sword in hand, eyes open, his destination the chest from King's Landing. His medallion shook with such vigor it almost seemed alive, but a glance at their surroundings revealed why.
Outside the barriers, lights and colors of unnatural shapes flash and swirled about them. The sounds of thunder and lightning echoed through the passageways and hall even as the overhead sky remained clear. Geralt took out the bait, walking northward to the edge of the second circle. There was a faint noise, moans, and groans, tired, angry, pained. The candles and torches still alight almost hurt to even glance at the shadows cast by them, revealing unnatural shapes.
Just a little more, Geralt extended his left arm, holding out the bait in its palm. Even through thick, leather gloves, he felt the growing heat in the room, repelled by godswood soil. How could he not, when so much of it entered the skull of a dragon?
The head was scarcely the size of an apple, a miserable, misshappen thing. Short-lived and stunted, a powerless last member of beasts who'd brought this world to heel. So inconsequential, no one ever bothered to name her. Now, the bone pulsated with power, becoming the epicenter of a storm, its minuscule presence drawing the attention of energies friendly and hostile to its attendance. A small flame glowed from inside it. The Witcher focused those powers, building a monstrous shout to come in the deepest recess of his throat.
"Cáemm... Dhu bhrenin... Harren!"
With that, the final spark was lit.
The Burning of Harrenhal, men, women, and children across all the Seven Kingdoms, high and lowborn alike, knew it well. There was never a swifter conquest of a castle or more absolute extermination of its people than the Black Dread searing away the black line into the ashes of history. Even knowing all of this and living under its shadow his entire life, Walter Whent's imagination could never grasp the magnitude of this event.
A fact made painfully clear as he watched it happen before his very eyes.
Neither Walter nor Shella rested since leaving Harrenhal, their gazes ever locked upon the castle with a maddening obsession. They left lunch and dinner uneaten when offered, and orders from either sparse, their oldest sons taking command of the camp for a while longer. They were the first and some few to witness the devastation from its very beginning.
There was no slowness to the change, no time to ready himself. As quickly as a simple torch burst into flame, so too did the castle. Streaks fire sprang to life along the walls, streaking across their entire length. Windows and cracks shined with blinding, white flashes ere belching out plumes of blood-red fire and black smoke high across the night sky. The flames bent in unnatural ways, swaying like waves in an ocean storm, shrinking and rising back up with unceasing fervor, unfathomably higher than even the tallest towers of Harrenhal.
The smoke pillars devoured the moon, spreading across the otherwise clear night sky as ink spilled over the parchment. By now, the entire camp was in dazed silence, watching the stars overhead vanish, the blotting out spreading for many, many more miles. Lightning and thunder cracked, a hailstorm of ash rain descended on them like a locust on fertile soil. Rapidly, the fire's glow looked as if they took a life of their own, changing the black smoke with a thick, bloody red tint.
His force, a sizable command left near enough to the castle to retake it, men he trusted to holdfast under any enemy siege, crumbled. Men screamed and ran, horses inconsolably panicked and neighed. Somewhere in the distance, Walter heard the voices of his sons, calling out to him, Shella, trying to maintain order as a searing hot wind threatened to blow tents and men alike aside.
Even so, the camp's noise could not overpower the castle's.
Moans, dozens, hundreds, echoed from its blackened, blazing walls across his family's lands, the cries of men, women, and children, all in agony. The knowledge these sounds could only come from those long since thought dead, now burning all over again, stunned Walter, freezing the blood in his veins.
All our lives... This evil lingered... The full brunt of those words, the meaning, and the history behind them crashed down on Walter's very soul like a mace. Several generations of Whent's born and raised with nooses around their necks, an unspeakable, unhuman power poisoning them, condemning them to inevitable doom. Despite all the Witcher said, all he and the others knew, Walter could not, would not grasp it fully.
Now he did, and it broke what little strength he had left. His legs and knees wobbled ere failing him. The lord of Harrenhal fell. He perceived nothing, not even pain, crumbling and lying in the dirt and mounting ash as though struck dead.
"Walter!"
Absently, he noticed his lady wife kneel by his side, struggling to make him rise. The overpowering weariness made it futile. Walter's own flesh was a weight pulling her down instead, soon enough leaving them both lying there, gazing as the fires and smoke rose before and around their lands.
"Father! Mother!" Roland called to them, rushing past the madness of the camp, halting at the sight of burning Harrenhal but for a moment. The lad kneeled by Walter's side, managing what his mother could not, slinging an arm over his shoulders and helping his father rise. "We must do something... Uncle is there. We must help him!"
Help them...? If Walter had the strength, he would've shouted it. Instead, he only gazed at his firstborn as though Roland was mad. What can anyone do against this...
"If it comes to that, we shall, my son," Shella replied. "Your uncle and his companions knew what evil they face. If any in the Seven Kingdoms can halt it, it is they."
"Then we are to do nothing...?"
She rested a hand on their cheeks; her gaze averting theirs from the flames. "We pray, to the olds gods and new, pray and hope they aid us in this time of need. Theirs is a great power, and I do not believe they shall abandon us now."
Walter stared into his wife's eyes. While their home burned and the dead rose to haunt the living, she remained steadfast, an unfaltering conviction lending her strength. Gazing at his child, the surrounding camp, stunned, on their knees or trying to keep order, her fortitude stood out to him all the more. Like a child, he found himself in need of it, clutching to anything certain in times where the word seemed laughable to him.
"... The camp..." Walter's faintly stammered, sounding close to a doddering old man to his ears. Closing his eyes, drawing some strength from a place he knew not where, he spoke again, more forcefully. "The camp... We must restore order here... Once they break the curse, our swift arrival may prove imperative to their survival... There is no telling what wounds they may suffer..."
Walter did not dwell on those dark thoughts, but for a moment. The War of Ninepenny Kings taught him even victory did not heal those already wounded, how even the triumphant laid in pools of their own blood, cut and hacked to pieces. The thought of this befalling Oswell and the others was unacceptable. Roland seemed to calm down, drawing renewed vigor of his own from his parents. Shella smiled, and for a moment, Walter allowed himself to find some small measure of relief.
He would need it. The coming hours would not grow any easier to bear.
The Whent's were not alone in their dazes and frights. Across the riverlands, men, and women, young and old, high and lowborn, gaped in paralyzing horror and uncontrollable fear at the curse-breaking of Harrenhal. Lord and ladies awoke by their men at arms, peasants stirred by the madness of their livestock. Horses bashed against their stable doors and walls, cows and sheep involuntarily produced bloody milk, young calfs shivered in their sleep, many never awakening again.
The slumbering Blackwood's became deathly ill, one and all. Shaking unceasingly in their sleep, cold as corpses to the touch even as they muttered of fire. Past the golden mountain, an iron beast in the guise of a man clawed out and devoured his own eyes before his kin. East of the king's city, across a great sea, a man stared in flames, his wineskin forgotten, flashes of knights and krakens doing battle. Northward, far past the great wall, in the cold, forgotten parts of the earth. An old crow steeled himself for the conflict at hand. In these places and many others, across and near Westeros, the curse-breaking was witnessed or felt.
Most felt dread, some fascination, one terrified those around him.
Rhaegar and the assembled royal family and small council observed the great, unceasing point of fire burst to life. Shining and vast, it appeared a second sun rose on the horizon, the gathering smoke spreading far beyond the castle's borders, devouring the night sky. The crashing of thunder rang with such force, he could swear the earth was splitting asunder in the distance.
He'd visited Harrenhal several times already, as a boy and man grown, knew how tall its walls and towers reached, for the entire castle to burn as brightly as it did pointed to the flames rising even higher.
A burning to shame Summerhall in size alone...
More than ever, Rhaegar desired to be there. Not merely to bear witness to more sorcery as he'd longed for, but to aid his friends. Arthur and Oswell were men he trusted almost more than anyone else. Despite knowing their prowess, and that of Geralt, he could not silence the disquiet gnawing at him, the thoughts of them all burning to ash. In this, he was not alone.
Lord Tywin observed it all with his usual intense focus, betrayed by the rage in his gaze, the almost stone-like stiffness of his entire body. Rhaegar scarcely knew Jaime at all, yet any who understood Tywin could tell his firstborn was the pride of his family. A golden heir for which the lion would do anything, and now, he could do nothing but watch.
Varys looked closer to a corpse, deathly pale, his gaze unceasingly watching the burning lips parted in silent horror. There were many ways Rhaegar could describe the spymaster. Ere that evening, terrified, was never among them. The prince was unsure if Varys was even with them at all. Or had he gone some place very far away inside?
The Kingsguard remained resolute, standing vigil between Aerys and the assembled party, even as they doubtlessly feared for their brothers and even Geralt.
At Rhaegar's side, Elia shivered. Her lips quiver, arms tightly wrapped around his back. The prince could not smile or say anything calming. He could not even reassure himself, silently embracing her tightly instead and hoping it was enough. Theirs was a cordial marriage, and even this simplest of gestures struck him as feeble. A faint gasp drew his attention to the person at his side, standing rightmost of the gathered audience.
Mother looked worse than Varys. This was not the quiet resignation, the dignified acceptance she wore like a mask on the eve of Father's ravagings. She trembled, tears threatening to spill, only narrowly holding back sobs. Years had passed since Rhaegar had seen her this way. Not after Mother commanded him to halt comforting her from Aerys' ravages, lest their meetings provoke Father's wrathful suspicions of treachery.
The king was deathly silent, watching the flames several feet behind the Kingsguard from a wooden throne. Rhaegar reached out to his mother, and though it momentarily pained him to see her flinch at the touch, a smile many years unseen of genuine gratitude gladdened his heart.
The warmth turned to ice when the laughter arose.
Aerys' snigger transformed into a chortle, then blossomed into a loud, throaty howl. With unseen vigor, an almost child-like excitement, he rose from his chair, walking to the very edge of the walls. Everyone watched him, struck by fear, surprise, and perhaps even hope he would fall off the edge. He did not, resting taloned palms atop the red rocks, laughing all the while.
"This is it...!" He shouted between snickers. "It has returned! The power of dragons burns again. Do you not see it?!"
The lickspittles dared to laugh with him. All others, with any sense, stared in icy dread at the sheer joy on Father's face, the kind warmth of his smile, the passion in his voice, the tears in his eyes flowing freely. He cared not for their stunned silence, gazes of abject, horrified fascination Aerys was in a world all his own and turned back to its source with renewed mirth.
"Grandfather was right! He merely chose the wrong castle! Gods bless you, Witcher, I'll make you a lord of the realm for this!" The king roared, spreading his arms wide towards the fire as if embracing an old friend long thought gone.
To him... it is... Rhaegar swallowed the shard of ice in his throat, unable to escape the certainty Harrenhal was but the start of something much, much more.
A/N: The Elder Speech used here means as follows:
Cáemm aen hen - Come Old One
Cáemm saov aen tedd - Come Spirit of Old Times
Cáemm dhu bhrenin Harren - Come Black King Harren