Harrenhal — Godswood.
The godswood of Harrenhal was not large, yet it felt unusually deep and secluded.
Ancient trees blotted out the sky, their branches intertwined overhead. Even at noon, only a few shafts of sunlight managed to slip through the leaves, casting mottled patches of light across the ground.
The entire grove was filled with the damp scent of mildew, mixed with earth and rotting leaves.
From time to time, the wind stirred the branches, producing a soft rustling sound, as though someone were whispering in hushed tones.
Aemond stood alone before the heart tree.
It was an ancient weirwood, its trunk so massive that it would take four or five men to encircle it with their arms. Its bark was pale as bone, carved with a face—deep, ancient, as though it could see straight into a person's soul.
Aemond reached out and touched that face.
The bark was cold beneath his fingers, possessing a texture that was difficult to describe.
His hand traced the deep eye sockets, the bleeding tears, and finally came to rest against the trunk.
Suddenly, his hand froze.
The world around him began to twist.
The godswood vanished.
Harrenhal vanished.
Then he saw water.
A vast lake, its dark waters bottomless and unfathomable.
Above it, two dragons were locked in battle.
One was Vhagar.
Enormous beyond measure, her wings spread wide enough to blot out the sky.
Under the setting sun, she gleamed blood-red.
Golden fire burned within her eyes, and dragonflame gathered behind her jaws.
The other was Caraxes—the Blood Wyrm, Daemon's dragon.
Much smaller than Vhagar, yet swifter and fiercer.
High above, the two dragons tore at one another, dragonfire crossing through the sky as blood sprayed in every direction.
On Vhagar's back, two men were fighting.
One was Daemon.
In his hand was the Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister.
The other was himself.
Aemond saw himself astride Vhagar, a sword gripped in his hand.
But he had no time to dwell on it.
The next moment, he saw himself thrust the blade forward, piercing Daemon's chest.
Dark Sister slipped from Daemon's hand.
He lowered his head and looked at the sword protruding from his chest.
Then he raised his eyes and looked at Aemond.
He reached out and seized Aemond's arm.
The grip was impossibly strong, like an iron vise that could not be shaken loose.
"My good nephew..."
Daemon's lips moved.
His voice drifted from far away, like a whisper carried on the wind.
"I've been waiting for you..."
At the same time, both dragons began to fall.
Vhagar and Caraxes remained tangled together as they plummeted from the sky.
The wind howled past his ears.
The lake drew closer.
Closer and closer...
BOOM!
A colossal splash erupted upward and swallowed everything.
Aemond's eyes snapped open.
He was still in the godswood.
Still standing before the heart tree.
A hallucination?
He drew a deep breath and forced down the violent pounding of his heart.
What he had experienced just now felt like something deeper than a mere vision.
It was as if fate itself had been watching him.
A crow perched upon one of the heart tree's branches, its head tilted as it stared at him.
Its black eyes looked like two tiny pieces of obsidian.
"Cheap tricks and theatrics."
Aemond cast the bird a cold glance.
The crow did not fly away.
Instead, it let out a harsh, rasping caw.
Then a voice spoke.
Ancient.
Deep.
As though it had traveled from somewhere unimaginably distant.
Yet at the same time, it seemed to echo from the depths of his own heart.
"The prince that was promised..."
Aemond narrowed his eye.
The prince that was promised.
He knew that prophecy.
A secret passed down through the Targaryen dynasty for generations.
A secret born from Aegon the Conqueror's dream.
A prophecy that foretold a prince who would be born from the blood of the dragon and lead Westeros against the darkness that was yet to come.
The crow beat its wings and flew away.
The ancient voice vanished as well, as though it had never existed.
Aemond stood there in silence, staring at the weeping face carved into the heart tree for a long time.
The prince that was promised...
At that moment, the sound of footsteps approached.
Aemond turned and saw Hall striding toward him.
Dust covered his clothes. He had clearly come straight from Maidenpool after receiving the Prince Regent's summons.
"Prince Regent." Hall lowered his head in greeting.
Aemond nodded and walked out of the godswood, back into the sunlight.
"How fares Maidenpool?"
Hall straightened and followed behind him.
"Lord Mooton has surrendered."
Aemond did not break stride.
"He surrendered?"
"Yes," Hall replied. "Our army besieged the city for a month. Their food stores were exhausted."
"Lord Mooton attempted a breakout, but we drove him back."
"Last night, he sent an envoy. He is willing to surrender unconditionally."
Aemond walked onto the castle walls and looked toward the waters of the Gods Eye not far below.
The lake was dark and unfathomable, exactly as it had appeared in his vision.
"Then let Mooton earn redemption through service," Aemond said calmly.
Hall sought confirmation.
"My lord, you mean..."
"Assign his family's forces to the penal battalions," Aemond said.
"Send word that the Iron Throne expects him to personally atone for his crimes through service."
"Otherwise, his lands will be forfeit."
Hall drew a sharp breath and nodded.
"Yes, my lord."
Aemond turned to face him.
"These failures..."
"I can use this war as an opportunity to purge the disobedient lords."
"The Riverlands, the Vale, the North."
Hall was silent for a moment before speaking cautiously.
"My lord, those nobles stripped of their lands will surely harbor resentment."
"Many of those houses have existed for over a thousand years..."
"A thousand years?" Aemond let out a cold laugh. "And what of it?"
He looked at Hall, a chill gleaming in his violet eye.
"I already know how I will deal with them. You need not concern yourself."
Hall lowered his head.
"Yes, my lord."
Aemond studied him for a moment, then suddenly asked: "What do you think of Maidenpool?"
Hall's heart skipped a beat.
Maidenpool?
It was one of the Riverlands' important castles. Not a large one, but strategically positioned.
Its territory jutted northward into the Crownlands.
If he could obtain Maidenpool...
He took a deep breath, suppressing his excitement, and answered carefully: "My lord, Maidenpool is indeed a fine holding. But those nobles who are being stripped of their lands..."
"If you see a piece of land you like, tell me." Aemond cut him off and patted him on the shoulder. "You are one of my trusted men."
Hall froze for a moment, then dropped heavily to one knee.
"Thank you, my lord! I... I swear my life and loyalty to you!"
Aemond nodded and motioned for him to rise.
"Have you brought them all?"
Hall quickly got to his feet.
"Yes, my lord. More than a thousand men from the entire household guard have been brought here."
"They're still behind us. They should arrive at Harrenhal tomorrow."
"Excellent." Aemond smiled.
"I've already sent men to keep watch on the Lannister army."
Hall looked at him, waiting for the rest.
Aemond walked to the edge of the wall and gazed out across the distant lake.
Then he spoke slowly.
"The moment misfortune befalls them, you will act."
Hall blinked.
"Misfortune? My lord, do you mean..."
"That lion may die," Aemond said flatly.
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