WMK 125 (Patreon)

Chapter 125: The Eve (Part 2)

As he walked deeper, a strange, crescent moon flickered intermittently through the branches and leaves. Pallid light and bottomless darkness alternated before William's eyes.

From within the darkness came the occasional "Caw—caw—" of ravens, their voices harsh and grating, evoking a sense of desolation and unease.

He had come to the godswood as soon as the feast ended. Merely a wall away, the castle was brightly lit and bustling with noise, but the godswood was shrouded in gloomy silence, as if existing in another plane.

Most of the godswood was weirwoods, but perhaps due to neglect or by design, many other types of trees were mixed among them.

As he walked, William saw pines, elms, peach trees, and many he couldn't name, all living under the shadow of the weirwoods.

Finally, he stopped before the heart tree.

It was an ancient tree so thick two men couldn't wrap their arms around it. Its bark, in the moonlight, resembled bleached bones. Carved into the trunk was a face full of hatred, with a twisted mouth and a pair of burning eyes.

Beneath the face were thirteen dark gashes. Each mark represented a day Prince Daemon Targaryen had waited at Harrenhal for the arrival of Prince Aemond, leading to the final battle of the Dance of the Dragons.

Slowly, he drew Dark Sister with his right hand. His left hand slid over the blade. The coldness of the steel and the pain of tearing flesh came simultaneously.

He pressed his bleeding left hand against the face on the heart tree, closed his eyes slowly, his expression calm.

He felt a wave of dizziness, a sensation very similar to when he was mentally linked with Margaery. But the difference was, for a fleeting moment, he felt he was no longer himself.

Then, the godswood under the ghastly moonlight appeared before his eyes; he heard the babbling brook, the rustling leaves.

Then he was at the Hightower, seeing Malora. She wore a black gown, her skin as white as snow, her flame-like hair cascading over her shoulders. Her face looked younger, more similar to Margaery's.

"We don't have much time," Malora murmured. "Lend me your strength."

He saw a crimson mist rise from Malora, enveloping them both.

Everything around them blurred, suddenly forming a vivid image, then blurring again, quickly forming another scene.

Thus, he saw flowers bloom and wither, the cycle of seasons; he saw partings in life and death, the joys and sorrows of the mortal world; he saw blood and fire, laughter and tears. Those past events, buried by time, unfolded before his eyes scene by scene.

The images flashed faster and faster. Bit by bit, he became unable to think, less and less able to comprehend what he saw, even gradually forgetting himself.

Until Malora's sharp voice rang in his heart, "Now!"

Without time to ponder why Dark Sister seemed to have turned into a shadow, he instinctively swung his right hand, slashing at the blurred phantom before him.

"Caw—caw—"

The call of a raven reached his ears. A cool night breeze brushed his face. The hand pressed against the tree hurt a little.

What happened? William quickly withdrew his hand and looked at it. There was a large wound on his palm, but no trace of blood.

His gaze shifted to the heart tree. The angry face on the trunk had calmed. The eyes were now narrowed, the mouth turned into an upward arc, as if smiling.

The hazy moonlight fell through the branches, casting mottled shadows and spots of light. A drop of blood trickled down the blade of Dark Sister, finally dripping from the tip and disappearing into the darkness.

William smiled slightly, looking up at the night sky. Unnoticed by him, the clouds had dispersed, and a crescent moon hung high in the sky.

Though unclear on the finer details, he knew that the curse that had shrouded Harrenhal for three hundred years had finally ended today, by his hand.

He walked back towards the castle with light steps. His family was waiting, wanting to hear about his long journey and tales from distant lands.

The morning wind blew from the lake. Two columns of thick smoke rising from the West Tower swayed left and right in the wind.

The textile workshop in the West Tower had expanded to twice its size since William's departure, and the roar of the machinery was even louder.

William found Lavender on the second floor. After several months apart, he had become more steady and confident.

His status issue had been resolved; he was now officially Harrenhal's Master of Industry. He had been invited to last night's feast, but with everyone drinking and making merry, they hadn't been able to talk in depth. So William had specifically come to the West Tower to see him today.

Lavender first introduced William to several other Citadel apprentices. They had also decided to follow Lavender's example, abandoning their apprentice status to swear allegiance to Harrenhal.

These apprentices were of average talent, their hopes of becoming maesters very slim. But they had all completed basic education and earned at least one link in mechanics. Given the educational standards in Westeros, they were rare talents.

With them, Harrenhal's industrial department was no longer just an empty shell and had achieved significant results.

They had not only successfully managed the expansion of the textile workshop's capacity but also carried out a major upgrade of the forging workshop and smithies, introducing more hydraulic machinery. There was even a faint hint of an assembly line, greatly increasing the production speed of weapons and armor while significantly reducing manufacturing costs.

Harrenhal's cavalry was gradually being outfitted with full plate armor, with plans to equip all fifteen hundred cavalrymen within a year.

If achieved, this would undoubtedly be the most lavish in Westeros. Even the Westerlands, with their mines, had not yet equipped all their cavalry with full plate.

Without a doubt, although the number of Harrenhal's cavalry hadn't increased, their combat effectiveness would take a significant leap.

William was very satisfied with Lavender's work during this time. After offering a few words of encouragement, he assigned him an urgent task: to design a set of armor suitable for giant cavalry based on the characteristics of the giants and mammoths.

William had no intention of rushing the giants into battle.

Before coming to the West Tower, he had already sought out Ser Robin, Harrenhal's master-at-arms, instructing him to work with Groo and Skg to develop a specialized training program to produce at least fifty qualified giant cavalry.

It didn't matter if they weren't ready for the upcoming war. By the time the Dragon Queen returns, whoever sits on the Iron Throne likely won't yield it willingly.

Then there would be wars with the wildlings, and even the Others. The coming conflicts in Westeros would be very long.

After taking his leave from Lavender, William went to the top floor of the West Tower. The Warlock, gaunt as a skeleton with pale skin and blue lips, had been waiting for some time.

Once seated, the Warlock asked, "My lord, I sensed some unusual changes last night. Was that you doing something?"

"Your senses are sharp, Master," William said, leaning back in his chair, appearing very relaxed. "Though the journey north was arduous and long, it wasn't in vain. The curse on Harrenhal is lifted."

"Was it... magic?" The Warlock's eyes grew fervent.

"In a way, yes. But not Qartheen spells; it was the ancient magic of the children of the forest."

The Warlock showed a slight disappointment. "Several times recently, while reciting incantations, I've felt I was on the verge of actually casting magic. I thought it was a sign of magic's return."

"Magic is indeed returning," William said, taking a ring from his finger and placing it on the table before the Warlock. It was made of dull, silvery metal, simple and unremarkable in design. "This is a Valyrian steel ring. A spell is infused within it."

The Warlock reached out, picked up the ring, and examined it carefully. After a while, he slowly looked up at William, his hand holding the ring trembling slightly, his voice also shaking a little. "This is... this is a Qartheen spell. I can feel it."

William nodded.

"To think I would see a true Qartheen spell again," the Warlock said, placing the ring back on the table, his gaze lingering on it reluctantly.

"Wear this ring, Glop," William said, looking directly into the Warlock's deep-set eyes. "I have a task to entrust to you."

The Warlock straightened up, his expression serious. "Please command me, William."

"You know, those ancient magics often have prophetic abilities. This time, I also saw some visions. A girl, with three dragons, appearing in Qarth."

"Dragons..." The Warlock let out a ghostly sigh.

Magic had faded with the extinction of the dragons, taking away the pride and dignity of the sorcerers.

"When the stars bleed, the magic dragon is born. Counting from now, there are about six months," William placed the ring in the Warlock's hand. "Go to Qarth. Tell that girl that if she returns to Westeros, she can have everything she desires."