On the northern shore of the Gods Eye, across from the Isle of Faces, loomed the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms—Harrenhal.
Three hundred years ago, "Black Harren" Hoare enslaved the whole of the Riverlands to raise this colossal fortress, the likes of which Westeros had never seen. Yet on the very day the last stone was set, Aegon the Conqueror descended upon Westeros with his dragons and a small host. Harren, proud and defiant, refused to bend the knee, slamming shut the gates of his so-called unbreachable stronghold. But Harrenhal could not withstand its first true test. Perhaps no host in all the realm could have broken those towering walls, but stone meant nothing against dragonfire—for dragons fly.
House Hoare perished in the flames, and every house that came to hold Harrenhal afterward met the same fate: House Qoherys, House Harroway, House Towers, House Strong, House Lothston—all gone. Now the lords of House Whent, the current holders of Harrenhal, seemed destined to share that doom.
The Whents had once ranked among the greatest lords of the Riverlands. Lord Walter Whent, master of Harrenhal, had four sons and a daughter, while his brother Ser Oswell Whent wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard under King Aerys II. By rights, theirs should have been a flourishing house. But after hosting the grandest tourney in the history of Westeros—the Tourney at Harrenhal—the Whents' decline began.
Two years later, Lord Walter's brother, eldest son, and second son all perished in Robert's Rebellion. For siding with the Targaryens, the Whents were punished, and though Lord Walter's brother-in-law, Lord Hoster Tully, interceded to save their titles, more than sixty percent of their lands were stripped away. Their strength was shattered.
The misfortunes did not end there. Soon after, Walter's third son died of illness. Half a year ago, when King Robert Baratheon summoned his vassals to put down Balon Greyjoy's rebellion, Lord Walter marched with his banners. Not long after, his last son, William Whent, fell grievously ill, slipping into a coma from which no maester expected him to wake.
Even Maester Tothmure despaired and gave him up for lost. Yet miraculously, William awoke, his health slowly returning. All Harrenhal rejoiced, never knowing that William had undergone a death and rebirth. He was no longer the same boy.
This William remembered more. He knew that when the War of the Five Kings broke out, Harrenhal would be left in the lonely hands of Lady Shella Whent, widowed and bereft. That meant Lord Walter and their only daughter would die in the years to come, and once Shella passed after the war, House Whent would be dispossessed, consigned forever to the dust of history.
And it was not just the Whents. Any man who tied his fate to Harrenhal seemed doomed:
– Janos Slynt, made Lord of Harrenhal by Cersei Lannister, was beheaded by Lord Commander Jon Snow.
– Tywin Lannister, who camped his host at Harrenhal, was slain by his own son, Tyrion.
– Ser Amory Lorch, Tywin's castellan, was thrown to a bear by Vargo Hoat.
– Roose Bolton, who took Harrenhal, was slain by his bastard son, Ramsay Snow.
– Vargo Hoat, Roose's castellan, was butchered by Ser Gregor Clegane.
– Ser Gregor Clegane, once Harrenhal's lord, died at the hands of Prince Oberyn Martell.
– Ser Polliver, who held the castle after Gregor, was slain by Sandor Clegane.
– Petyr Baelish, raised to Lord of Harrenhal, was executed by Arya Stark.
The curse of Harrenhal was terror itself.
Five months ago, at the very instant William awoke from his coma, he felt a chill power suffusing the castle. Having merged with the memories of another world, he knew he now lived within A Song of Ice and Fire. What he could not discern was whether this strange sense was a gift carried from beyond, or some innate power awakened. Yet after wandering every hall and tower of Harrenhal, William confirmed: a supernatural force clung to the castle.
Was I sent across time and worlds to contend with this power, to change the fate of this doomed house? William gazed up at the five colossal towers, their peaks vanishing into the clouds, and shivered at the cold that reached into his soul. His feelings were conflicted.
He gathered himself, climbed swiftly into the waiting carriage. Today, he would set out for Oldtown to serve as page to Ser Garth Hightower, beginning his journey to knighthood.
Below the steps of the great keep, a crowd had gathered to see him off. Lady Shella fought back her tears, her eyes nearly as red as her hair. Her husband had only just returned from half a year at war, and now her last living son, a boy of nine, was leaving her side for lands far distant. It was bitter for a mother, yet she had insisted upon it. Though she lacked William's strange sense for unseen forces, as a daughter of House Lothston she had grown up on tales of Lady Danelle Lothston's dabbling in sorcery. She suspected that the curse of Harrenhal was no empty tale.
When William lay near death, she had been wracked with regret. The gods, it seemed, had granted her a second chance. After Lord Walter's return, they had spoken long and decided: William must grow far from Harrenhal. Through Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Gerold Hightower's connection, Lord Walter had forged a bond with Ser Garth Hightower during the Greyjoy Rebellion, and when Walter wrote to ask if his son might serve him, Ser Garth gladly agreed.
William's elder sister, Minissa, wept openly. She had never been apart from her brother since his birth. Though since his recovery William sometimes drifted into strange reveries, he laughed more often, and she found him even more endearing than before.
Even Maester Tothmure and many others remarked that William seemed more courteous, more charming, more optimistic for the house's future after his illness.
But farewells come, however unwelcome. Lord Walter gave a nod to Ser Raymund Grell, captain of the guard. The carriage jolted forward, a train of knights riding in escort, while those left behind watched with eyes full of grief, pride, and hope.
Two years later, in the year 292 After Conquest—six years before the events of the original story—
Glop Vaty and Mokken Rota sat listlessly in a room of an Oldtown inn. There was no wine on the table—in truth, before being given shelter, they could hardly even manage to eat.
Their disastrous journey to the Tombs of Rhaenys had left the two warlocks from Qarth battered and broken. The whipping they suffered at the hands of Lord Tarly had been humiliating enough, but when their poor intermediary was condemned to a cruel execution, despair had swallowed them whole. Strangers from across the world, ignorant of the tongue and customs, denounced as frauds by a great lord—suddenly they found themselves friendless, unable even to survive in this alien land. Weeks of wandering followed, until at last a messenger approached, saying a great lord wished to meet them. The warlocks were so overjoyed that they nearly wept aloud.
Now, though nervous, they waited with hope. This patron had generously covered their travel to Oldtown, as well as their lodgings and meals, but if the meeting turned poorly, neither Glop nor Mokken had the faintest idea how they might return home.
At last came the sound of footsteps. They turned, and a serving man entered with a boy of perhaps ten or twelve. The youth's garb was rich, his bearing noble; clearly, this was no common guest.
"This is Lord William Whent, son of the Lord of Harrenhal," the servant announced with respect.
Though their grasp of the Common Tongue was meager, they understood enough—"Lord," "son of a lord." The master himself had arrived. Awkward and anxious, Glop and Mokken scrambled to their feet with nervous smiles.
Glop stammered out an introduction in halting Westerosi: "Honored lord, I am Glop Vaty. This is my assistant, Mokken Rota."
William smiled, replying instead in High Valyrian: "All men are mortal, but sorcery endures."
The familiar words stunned them. Glop asked carefully, "You… you speak Valyrian?"
"I studied a little under Archmaester Marwyn," William said, still smiling. "But I seldom have chance to use it. I would be grateful for the chance to learn more from two masters such as yourselves."
Marwyn of the Citadel—the so-called Mage—was as close to a giant as Westeros possessed in matters of the arcane. Glop had, of course, heard of him. A fellow traveler, then! At once, he felt the distance between them narrow.
Glop's arrogance had been scoured away by hardship; now, desperate to find a patron—someone who might fund even the cost of returning home—he eagerly sought favor. For William, meanwhile, most of his time in Oldtown had been devoted to knightly training. His progress at the Citadel was only modest, and Marwyn had yet to begin teaching him true occult lore. To gain from these warlocks seemed an opportunity not to be missed. Thus, both sides were well served, and both recognized the other's value immediately.
They sat, wine and food were brought, and the talk flowed easily. They spoke of mysteries, of Valyrian history, of the lands beyond the Wall, even of the Shadowlands past Asshai. Inevitably, sorcery and spells were discussed.
"…True, qualities like courage cannot be measured, and the effect of a charm may be hard to prove. But this spell of healing—once spoken, the wound closes before your very eyes. My lord, let me demonstrate," Glop declared, already tipsy with wine. He ignored his assistant's frantic grimaces, began to chant, strange syllables twisting through the air, his hands shaping uncanny signs.
Mokken sighed inwardly. It's happening again… He pressed a palm to his brow, peeking nervously at the boy across the table.
Yet William's heart had jolted the instant the words were spoken. He felt a current stirring within him, a hidden power flowing to the cadence of Glop's chant. Though his face remained calm and cheerful, within him a storm raged. This is it. This is the power… Hm? He shouldn't be able to wield true magic himself—he must be calling forth what slumbers in me. That means the incantation is flawless. Remarkable… what a talent!
When the chant ended, William clapped with genuine admiration. "A master indeed! I cannot claim to understand the words, but they sound most potent."
Glop bowed with dignity, basking in the pride of a warlock's art. Mokken exhaled in relief, wiping the sweat from his brow. The meal ticket is safe, at least. He even joined in the applause with sincerity.
The meeting was a triumph. All left satisfied, and William retained Glop as his advisor, beginning in earnest his studies of magic.