Harrenhal
The towering walls of black stone remained structurally intact after the recent war.
They stood stubbornly, but their massive, sturdy shell formed a brutal contrast to the irredeemable decline of House Whent.
The lack of an owner and effective maintenance funds gave the colossal fortress a deep sense of decay and death from the inside out. It was like the skeleton of a giant stripped of its soul—a frame without vitality.
Euron's convoy arrived beneath the walls. The Kraken banner of House Greyjoy and his new personal banner as Lord of Harrenhal snapped in the wind. Iron hooves trampled the weed-choked road, stopping before the closed gates.
Waiting to greet him below was Oswell Whent, the former Kingsguard. Behind him stood a carriage with tightly drawn curtains.
Oswell wore an old tunic washed white. His posture retained a trace of the white knight's uprightness, but time and sorrow had carved indelible marks on his face. He looked much older than his years. In the depths of his once-steady eyes, a gloom and pain that couldn't dissolve had settled. Clearly, he had not yet walked out of the shadow of the death of his brother, nephew, and the glorious passing of his entire house. Now, he had shed the white cloak to welcome the future occupying his family's ancestral seat.
Euron didn't say much. He simply opened his arms and gave him a warm, solid embrace.
Oswell Whent's voice carried a hint of emotion. "I heard the King named you Lord of Harrenhal. Truly, I am glad. This castle has been silent for too long. I hope... no, perhaps only you can bring new life to it."
Euron released him, looking around at the towering but desolate towers. He admitted frankly, "It will be hard. The burden of such a massive castle exceeds imagination. But I will do my best."
"It is yours now." Oswell nodded, his tone turning somewhat bleak. "Then, it is time for House Whent to leave."
"Leave?" Euron raised an eyebrow, smiling. "When did I say that because I came, you must go?" His gaze locked sharply onto Oswell. "Besides, where can you go? Exile yourselves, become rootless duckweed?"
Without waiting for an answer, Euron's voice softened, filled with immense sincerity. "Harrenhal is big, but my heart is bigger than Harrenhal. Stay, Oswell. This helps me, but it also helps you. Rebuilding this giant city requires countless loyal people who know it. There is absolutely a place for you, for House Whent here."
His solemn promise struck Oswell's heart. "I guarantee you, when the time is right, House Whent will regain its own fief on this land through merit and rise again in Westeros."
Oswell looked back at Harrenhal, looming like a behemoth in the twilight, his eyes full of reluctance and struggle. He pondered for a moment, then finally turned around. Facing the carriage with closed curtains, he asked in a deep voice, "What about you? Do you want to leave this place of sorrow, or stay?"
A slender hand gently lifted the curtain from inside.
In the dim light, Lady Shella Whent and her daughter, Ariana, appeared.
Lady Shella's face was calm, carrying a trace of fatigue. She stepped out of the carriage first, nodding slightly in Euron's direction. Then, she reached out to support her daughter.
Young Ariana stepped down with unsteady feet. Her once youthful and vibrant face was now exceptionally haggard. Her once-bright eyes held a lingering shadow, hollow and lifeless, as if her soul had been drawn from her body.
Under Lady Shella's silent signal, the mother and daughter bowed deeply and submissively to Euron in unison, performing an impeccable courtesy. Their silence and posture declared their choice—to stay in Harrenhal and submit to its new master.
This largest and once most magnificent castle in Westeros was now like the skeleton of a beast with its heart gouged out. The walls still towered, the towers still stood like a forest, but the emptiness inside was heart-palpitating. The bustle and life of the past had dissipated, leaving only silence and echoes.
Walking through it, one saw almost no one. Weeds grew wild in the broad courtyards; only the wind passed through the massive halls.
The desolation before his eyes formed a tragic and ironic contrast to the glorious scene of the grand tourney years ago, which had attracted all the proud knights and beautiful nobles of the Seven Kingdoms.
The root of it all lay in House Whent erroneously siding with the Mad King Aerys during Robert's Rebellion, though the reasons were somewhat lamentable.
When Robert's warhammer decided the outcome at the Trident and King's Landing fell, while House Whent's male heirs died out, everyone understood—House Whent was finished.
Thus, bannermen, knights, soldiers, servants... all who depended on the castle for survival left Harrenhal like rats sensing a sinking ship. They abandoned House Whent, destined for reckoning by the Iron Throne, scattering to find new paths and masters in the settling chaos.
When Allyria stepped out of the carriage holding the infant Bella, the soulless Ariana's eyes suddenly lit up. She walked forward, asking softly, "Can I hold her?"
Allyria didn't know the reason, but seeing the look in Ariana's eyes, she knew this girl had also been a mother.
After Euron nodded slightly, Allyria carefully placed Bella into Ariana's arms. Ariana crouched on the ground, gently rocking the infant's tender body, and burst into loud, painful sobs... Euron intended to go over and comfort her, but Lady Shella gently stopped him, shaking her head. "My Lord, let her cry! Since returning to Harrenhal, she hasn't cried, laughed, or spoken. Perhaps letting it out will help."
Euron nodded silently. Some wounds could only be healed slowly by oneself and time. Or rather, not healed, but scabbed over and hardened. The scar would remain forever, just as Ariana would never forget the day her son died tragically, nor those who harmed him, and... the mastermind behind them!
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Accompanied by Oswell Whent and Dagmer Cleftjaw, Euron walked silently among the ruins.
The steward Erwin Snow—the Northern bastard Euron had placed in Harrenhal long ago as part of his "infernal affairs" plan (Chapter 123)—followed closely with heavy parchment scrolls, recording every instruction and observation from his master.
As far as the eye could see, there was decay and desolation.
The priority was naturally clearing the mountains of rubble, repairing the severely damaged floors inside the castle, and recovering usable stone, wood, and iron scattered everywhere.
To revive this beast-like castle, skilled stonemasons were indispensable. The excellent masons Euron had brought back from Lorath during his early travels across the Narrow Sea could finally display their greatest talents on the massive "canvas" of Harrenhal.
Maintaining the daily operation of such a behemoth required not only oceans of Gold Dragons but also massive manpower.
Looking at the dead city before him, Euron knew he couldn't let it remain so desolate. It needed "human breath." With people, a castle had air, a heartbeat.
The people of the Iron Islands would undoubtedly be his core, most loyal base. Euron would recruit upon returning to the Iron Islands, though he wondered how many Ironborn would be willing to leave the sea for Harrenhal to follow him.
Besides Ironborn, he also had to recruit widely—refugees from the Riverlands, landless peasants, even bankrupt knights—to quickly form an armed force named the "Harrenhal Guard."
Though the war had ended, guarding a vast territory still required a strong fist.
Most of the fine horses traded from the Dothraki Sea via the curved blade trade across the Narrow Sea could be transferred here to form a cavalry regiment belonging to Harrenhal.
He also needed to recruit clerks, judges, and petition the Citadel for a resident Maester...
A thousand threads tangled like a tide, every item urgent.
Facing this ocean of to-do items, Euron felt his head swell to the size of a bucket.