The main hall of Kingspyre Tower, also known as the Hall of a Hundred Hearths.
Legend has it that Harren the Black drove countless slaves to build this hall and truly constructed a hundred hearths, though most have now collapsed and been abandoned.
The Maester of Harrenhal pointed at the eerily empty hall, introducing the layout and those long-faded terrifying legends.
They crossed the stone bridge connecting Kingspyre Tower and the Widow's Tower.
The wind from the Wailing Tower whistled through the broken window frames, making a sobbing sound.
Finally, they reached the depths of the castle, a place that felt out of sync with this stone monster...
The Godswood.
This grove was exceptionally vast, covering twenty acres.
The trees were tall and dense, growing stubbornly even under the shadow of Harrenhal's high walls.
A small stream even ran through the woods, its gurgling water a rare sound of life within the castle.
Yet, this life carried a strange air; the bark of many ancient oaks, sentinels, and weirwoods was twisted into faces of agonized wailing.
The Maester stopped before an especially massive weirwood.
This heart tree was mostly dead, but its remaining trunk was still thick, and the face carved into it was larger than any other in the grove.
"Please look, Your Highness."
The Maester pointed to another clear mark on the heart tree's trunk, besides that face...
Thirteen deep scratches, neatly arranged.
"Legend says that during the Dance of the Dragons, Prince Daemon Targaryen once waited for his enemy here."
"For every day he waited, he carved a mark into the tree with his sword, totaling thirteen. Every spring, these gashes bleed a sap like real blood..."
Aegon's gaze fell upon those thirteen scratches, then slowly shifted to the weeping face of the tree.
This place, this tree, had already overlapped with a certain "marker" deep in his consciousness.
The system's check-in location was right here.
"I see. You may leave." Aegon waved his hand, his voice calm.
The old Maester, as if granted a grand reprieve, bowed and hurried out of the Godswood, which felt ghostly even in daylight.
Once the footsteps faded, Aegon stepped forward and gently pressed his palm against the cold, rough, scarred bark.
[Special check-in location detected: Harrenhal · Godswood. Check in?]
"Yes."
[Check-in successful. Reward obtained: Greensight.]
[Detected that this ability is based on the special existence of this world. System modifying...]
[Modification successful. This ability will be based on the host's own foundation; the host's own energy determines the extent of time reversal.]
Greensight... tracing back history.
Aegon withdrew his hand, the cold touch of the trunk seemingly lingering on his fingertips.
He looked around; in the fading light, the faces on the trees in the Godswood grew more hideous and terrifying, the shadows writhing like living things.
The ghost stories of Harrenhal were enough to chill any ordinary person to the bone.
But his heart remained untroubled.
Fear? The souls he had slain with his blade, the lives he had snuffed out directly or indirectly, were already countless.
Do ghosts fear men, or do men fear ghosts?
Amidst blood and fire, he was the one who made the living tremble and the dead uneasy.
He turned indifferently, left the Godswood, and returned to Kingspyre Tower the way he came.
The room of the castle's nominal lord was located on the upper floors of Kingspyre Tower.
The room was spacious, the stone walls seeping with cold, with only the dancing flames in the hearth providing a touch of life.
Aegon did not rest.
He walked to the window, gazing at the fully fallen night and the silhouettes of Harrenhal's towers, which looked like the fangs of a black beast in the darkness.
He closed his eyes and tried to channel the ability he had just acquired.
There was no need to deliberately seek out a heart tree as a medium; a mysterious sensation guided him.
His spiritual power, like invisible tentacles, gently brushed against the intangible strings of history settled in the surrounding space.
Buzz—
It wasn't a sound, but a slight tremor in his perception.
The scene before him blurred and shifted like rippling water, then quickly became clear again.
It was still the Hall of a Hundred Hearths in Kingspyre Tower, but it was no longer empty and cold.
The massive hall was brightly lit, illuminating a giant hanging tapestry of a three-headed red dragon on a black field, and a crowd packed together.
The noise of the crowd was boisterous, yet it seemed muffled, as if behind a thick layer of glass.
One could only see richly dressed nobles in small groups, conversing in low voices, their expressions varied—tension, anticipation, calculation, and unease written on every face.
At the end of the hall, atop the high steps, it was not vacant.
A massive, ancient, and majestic stone seat was placed there. Upon it sat an old man.
He had the signature silver-gold hair of Valyria, but it had turned as white as snow and was meticulously groomed.
He wore a robe embroidered with the Targaryen three-headed dragon sigil and a simple gold crown, his gaze calmly scanning the room below.
Below the high platform, at the very front, stood two figures. A man and a woman, both possessing the signature silver hair of the Valyrian bloodline.
Aegon had some guesses about this scene and those silver-haired, purple-eyed figures...
The Old King, Jaehaerys I.
The Young King, Viserys I, and The Queen Who Never Was, Rhaenys...
And the Grand Council of 101.
A historic moment to decide the heir to the kingdom. The focus of the debate lay between these two of Targaryen blood.
Aegon's consciousness was like an invisible ghost, hovering above this history, watching silently.
He could see the deep exhaustion and hidden sorrow on Jaehaerys's face, the trepidation and yearning for recognition in Viserys's eyes, and the sharp edge and resentment in Rhaenys's brow.
He could "hear" the low-voiced discussions of the surrounding nobles, fragments of arguments about law, tradition, and gender.
This was history, a frozen fragment, a turbulent vortex in time.
Just then, Aegon's mind stirred slightly.
He recalled vague memories from his past life, where Bran saw a young Eddard Stark in a Greensight vision, and a shout seemed to cause ripples in the past.
Could he "resonate" with this place?
Could he do something? A thought emerged uncontrollably.
If... if his power were strong enough, strong enough to shake the barriers of time and space, using Ghidorah's terrifying power from a higher dimension that could warp gravity...
Could he, through this scene, this anchor, briefly touch or even intervene in this moment of the past?
This was merely a wild and vague hypothesis, like a spark flashing in the dark.
This bold idea would need to be put into practice later.
He composed himself, no longer trying to interact with the phantoms.
The scene before him began to shift rapidly, like pages of a book being flipped.
He saw the era of the Dance of the Dragons, with Daemon Targaryen pacing within this castle, ambition and kinship, power and duty clashing fiercely in his heart, ultimately manifesting as those thirteen sword marks on the heart tree and the even bloodier choices that followed.
He saw the Tourney at Harrenhal, the lances of knights, the laughter of noble ladies, the weaving of intrigue and glory; the grand clamor eventually returned to silence, leaving only legends and the whispers of ghosts.
He saw countless fragments: war, peace, conspiracy, betrayal, death... every stone of Harrenhal seemed soaked in stories, whispering and echoing within his Greensight perception.
Just then, a clear ripple from reality pulled him back from the regression through time.
"Your Highness."
A respectful report sounded from outside the door. Aegon slowly opened his eyes, his purple gaze bottomless in the firelight of the hearth.
"Enter."
A messenger in black armor entered and knelt on one knee: "Your Highness, reports from The Riverlands scouts. Edmure Tully, leading about fifteen thousand men, has gathered near Stone Hedge."
"He has sent an envoy, requesting... a negotiation with Your Highness to discuss the ransom of The Riverlands castles taken by our forces."
Aegon turned around, his face expressionless, save for a flicker of cold mockery in his eyes.
Negotiation? Ransom?
"Heh." A very faint cold laugh was exceptionally clear in the empty stone room.
"Tell the envoy," Aegon began, his voice flat yet carrying an unquestionable decisiveness, "that I have neither the time nor the interest to engage in any so-called 'negotiations' with a pack of the usurper's vassals and rebellious traitors."
"Send him back, and tell Edmure Tully..."
He raised his eyes to the messenger, a frigid light glinting in his purple gaze:
"I give him only two days."
"Within two days, he is to disarm, come to Harrenhal in person, and kneel before me to atone for the Tully family's part in the rebellion. Thus, the Soldiers under his command might live."
"Once two days have passed..." He paused, his tone grim, "then wait to embrace destruction."
"Go."
"Understood!" The messenger answered solemnly, stood up, and hurried away.
Aegon paid no further mind, turning his gaze back to the heavy night outside the window.
Negotiation? In the face of absolute power and a predetermined list for reckoning, it was merely a naive and laughable fantasy.
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