Harrenhal, the Hall of a Hundred Hearths.
House Hoare had prepared a grand banquet for Rhaegar and his retinue—a feast of joy and celebration.
The realm was largely at peace, and House Hoare was prosperous, populous, and wealthy.
Cups were raised in cheer, turning the Hall of a Hundred Hearths into a paradise of merriment, wine, and food.
Rhaegar felt somewhat embarrassed; his own party's consumption was modest, but the three dragons devoured whole oxen and sheep several times a day and rarely touched fish.
Every member of House Hoare wore the house sigil: nine black outstretched bats on a yellow field. Bats, linked to darkness and evil, struck Rhaegar as an uncommon emblem.
Lord Walder beamed, bidding his distinguished guests farewell.
Privately, Lord Walder nursed a grander scheme: to host a tourney at Harrenhal that would flaunt the house's formidable wealth.
Harrenhal had once housed the Great Council of Jaehaerys I, when the castle swarmed with visitors and stood at the height of its glory.
"Our house is ever hospitable, and Gods Eye Lake is a sight to behold. Should Prince Rhaegar find time, we would welcome his return." Lord Walder raised his cup first.
"Your kindness is unforgettable; I shall always cherish the friendship of you and House Hoare." Rhaegar lifted his own cup with a smile.
Rhaegar studied the glittering bat badge of gold and gems upon the lord's chest; it reminded him of House Rosby, extinguished for dabbling in black sorcery.
According to Rhaegar's informants, House Rosby shared some blood with House Hoare, though how closely remained murky.
Because of their reverence for dark magic, Lady Danerle and House Rosby were exterminated during the reign of Maekar I. Harrenhal was then granted to the Rosby knight who had served them, now led by House Hoare.
In private, Rhaegar had already asked Lord Walder to let him visit the long-sealed top floor. Though reluctant, the lord eventually agreed; the prince's request was unusual but not intolerable.
At the summit of the Kingsfyr Tower, Rhaegar trod across an empty, unsettling floor. Only the Hoare bats were present; the house seldom climbed so high, finding the cost of maintaining Harrenhal ruinous.
Broken chairs, rotted beds, and shattered windows had been partly cleared by Hoare servants, yet decay still clung to the stones.
Rhaegar ordered Barristan to wait below while he entered the top chamber alone.
Even though Lord Walder had ordered the place swept, black bats still wheeled overhead, and a dank chill crept into Rhaegar's bones.
With the Blood of Fire in his veins, he instinctively recoiled from curses and gloom.
Harrenhal's curse seemed woven into its vast yards; the castle had changed hands many times, usually ending in tragedy.
The Targaryens had drenched Harrenhal in blood more than once: Aegon the Conqueror burned the Hoares, the Cruel Maegor butchered the Harroways, one-eyed Aemond slew scores of Strongs, and most recently Maekar I exterminated the Rosbys.
Up here, Rhaegar felt a loathsome languor—formless yet clinging. House Hoare had perished in flames, and every line of castellans since had met grim ends.
Rhaegar raised the true dragon spear; its tip ignited with sapphire flame, flooding the tower-top with light.
Standing like a knight of fire in the centre of the room, he heard wind howl through great fissures. The bats scattered, leaving deeper darkness behind.
Crimson flecks, stinking of old blood, drifted into the space, swaying about the tower-top and slowly encircling him.
The hue evoked gore, yet also the dust of history; to draw near was to invite misfortune and frailty.
The motes felt ancient; their touch brought cold, rancour, and a breath of death.
Rhaegar recalled the curse of the iron throne: that torment seared the flesh, whereas Harrenhal's curse was sorrow—its crimson lights sapped luck and doomed bloodlines.
The vast chamber brimmed with red sparks. Rhaegar whirled the true dragon spear, flames roared, and the robust fire of the true dragon resisted the blight.
He stood cocooned by the crimson motes.
The fire of passion and vigour repelled the chill curse; flame and malice were natural foes.
The flecks clotted into a viscous mass, like over-ripe fruit dripping fetid juice.
They hung before him, coalescing into a single colossal crimson eye, itself composed of countless tiny red eyes no larger than fly-specks, all fixing Rhaegar in a river of bloodshot sight.
A cold finger seemed to trace his spine. Beams of red light shot from every tiny eye, intent on piercing him through.
He gripped the spear, summoned every spark within him, and a shield of flame blossomed to meet the rays that reeked of rot and ill luck—he dared not let them touch him.
Such curses could kill; with these lights haunting the towers, House Hoare seemed doomed to wither away.
"Now it is just you and I!" He clenched the true dragon spear; his violet dragon-eyes blazed brighter amid the fire, holding back the relentless curse-beams.
Again and again he parried, the fire inside him rising until purple flames danced in his gaze and sweat rolled down his face.
He lunged, turning attack into defence—a lone knight, his fiery lance cleaving the gloom.
Part of the bloody eye dissolved under the flames; the remnant condensed into a single crimson orb that Rhaegar sealed inside a ring, taming it with living fire.
Explorer: You have discovered Harrenhal's secret curse—woven of fire, blood, tears, and sorrow. It brings misfortune to its lords; beware.
The blight behaves like death-malice, sowing bad luck, weakness, and ruin.
Rhaegar mused: Harrenhal was ideal for curses—its power ran deep, tragedies repeated, and too few inhabitants ever absorbed or dispelled it.
Rumour claimed the castle was raised with blood and sorcery; each doomed lord fed the curse anew, yet Harrenhal's vastness never fully digested the taint, only nourished it.
Spear in hand, Rhaegar noticed words carved where walls met.
"Farewell, my love. My Dragon Prince!" He read the inscription.
A familiar name came to mind—Alys Rivers, the mistress of Aemond.
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