North of the Isle of Faces, on the banks of the God's Eye, towers the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms—Harrenhal.
Three centuries ago, "Black Harren" Hoare enslaved the entire Riverlands to build this gargantuan fortress, the likes of which Westeros had never seen. But on the very day the final stone was laid, Aegon the Conqueror arrived atop his dragon, leading a modest host. Harren, proud and defiant, shut his gates and refused to bend the knee.
That decision sealed his fate.
The fortress that was said to be unbreakable crumbled under its first true test—not to a siege, but to dragonfire. The tallest towers and thickest walls meant nothing to creatures that could soar above them.
The Hoare dynasty was burned from the earth, and every family to inherit Harrenhal since has met a grim end. House Qoherys, House Harroway, House Towers, House Strong, House Lothston—all gone, one after another. The current lords of Harrenhal, House Harroway, seem to be following the same doomed path.
Once counted among the most powerful houses in the Riverlands, House Harroway was at its peak under Lord Walter Harroway, who had four sons and a daughter. His brother, Ser Oswell Harroway, served in the Kingsguard under King Aerys II. A strong house with strong men—or so it seemed.
Their downfall began the moment they hosted the grandest tourney in Westeros' history, held at Harrenhal.
Two years after the tourney, Lord Walter's brother and two eldest sons perished in Robert's Rebellion, fighting for the Targaryens. Though Lord Walter retained his title thanks to the intercession of his brother-in-law, Lord Hoster Tully, House Harroway lost over sixty percent of its lands as punishment. Their power was gutted.
The tragedies didn't stop there.
Not long after, his third son died of illness. Then, just six months ago, King Robert Baratheon summoned the realm's lords to suppress Balon Greyjoy's rebellion. Lord Walter answered the call, but shortly after leaving for war, his youngest and only remaining son—William Harroway—fell deathly ill and soon slipped into a coma.
The maester, Tosmew, gave up hope. The boy was as good as dead.
But then—miraculously—William awoke.
Not only did he awaken, but he began to recover at an astonishing pace. Harrenhal rejoiced, but no one knew that William Harroway had experienced death and rebirth. The boy who opened his eyes that day was no longer the same William.
This new William knew the future.
He knew that when the War of the Five Kings began, only Lady Shiera Harroway would remain. Her father and only daughter would die in the years ahead. After Shiera's death following the war, House Harroway would be stripped of their lands, their name swallowed by time.
It wasn't just the lords who were cursed. Anyone tied to Harrenhal met a grim fate:
Janos Slynt, made Lord of Harrenhal by Cersei Lannister, was executed by Jon Snow.
Tywin Lannister once held the castle, only to be killed by his son, Tyrion.
Ser Amory Lorch, appointed castellan, was fed to a bear by Vargo Hoat.
Roose Bolton took Harrenhal—his bastard son flayed him alive.
Vargo Hoat was killed by Gregor Clegane.
Gregor Clegane, too, was slain—by Oberyn Martell.
Polliver, who came after him, was killed by Sandor Clegane.
Petyr Baelish, made Lord of Harrenhal, was slain by Arya Stark.
…
The curse of Harrenhal was no mere tale—it was real.
Five months ago, the moment William regained consciousness, he sensed a cold, eerie force around him. Having fused memories from another life, he realized this was the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. Whether this supernatural awareness was his "golden finger" or something native to this world, he couldn't tell. But once he'd regained his strength and roamed the castle, he was certain: Harrenhal was truly shrouded in a dark, mystical power.
"Was I sent here across time and space to fight this force? To change my family's fate?" he wondered, standing beneath the towering spires that seemed to pierce the heavens. A bone-deep chill crept into his soul.
Shaking the thoughts away, William climbed into the waiting carriage. Today, he would leave Harrenhal for Oldtown to become a page in the service of Ser Gars Hightower and begin his journey toward knighthood.
A crowd had gathered outside the main keep to bid him farewell. Lady Shiera held back tears, her eyes red to match her hair. Her husband had just returned home after months away, and now her only surviving son, just nine years old, was leaving for a city a thousand leagues away. It was almost too much. But it was she who insisted on sending William to Oldtown.
Though she lacked her son's supernatural perception, as a descendant of House Lothston, she knew the rumors of Countess Danella Lothston's dealings with magic were more than just stories. And she believed—perhaps more than most—that the curse of Harrenhal was very real. Still, she'd hoped for a miracle.
When William fell ill, she was overwhelmed with regret. But the Seven had answered her prayers, giving her another chance. After Walter returned, the two had a long talk and decided: William needed to grow up far from this cursed place.
Thanks to Oswell Harroway's connection with Ser Gerold Hightower, and Walter's own bond with Ser Gars during the Greyjoy campaign, Gars agreed to take William under his wing.
William's sister, Minissa, was heartbroken. She had never been separated from him since birth. He might've changed after his recovery—frequently spacing out at odd moments—but he smiled more often now, and in her eyes, was somehow even more lovable.
Even Maester Tosmew and others noted that the boy who returned from death was more courteous, more charming, and more focused than ever before. For the first time in years, they dared to hope for House Harroway's future.
But farewells must come. Lord Walter gave a silent nod to Ser Raymond Grell, the captain of the guard. The carriage began to roll. Flanked by a small escort of knights, it departed Harrenhal under the weight of a dozen unspoken emotions.
---
Two years later. Aegon's Landing Year 292. (Six years before the events of the original story.)
Inside a dingy inn in Oldtown, two foreign men sat in silence—no wine, no food, no options. They were down to their last hope.
Grop Vaatis and Mokken Rota, two warlocks from Qarth, had come to Westeros seeking knowledge and profit. Their expedition to Horn Hill ended in disaster. A public flogging by Lord Tarly ruined their reputation, and their intermediary had been executed—leaving them isolated, accused of fraud, and struggling to survive in a land where they didn't even speak the language well.
Weeks passed in misery. Then someone approached them with news: a nobleman wished to meet them. The man even paid for their travel and lodging in Oldtown. Overjoyed, they came close to tears.
Now they waited—nervous and hopeful.
Footsteps echoed. A servant entered the room, followed by a boy in luxurious clothes, no older than twelve. Regal bearing, elegant posture—clearly not an ordinary child.
"This is Lord William Harroway, heir to Harrenhal," the servant introduced respectfully.
The Qartheen men understood only a few words—"lord" and "Harrenhal" among them—but that was enough. They leapt to their feet and bowed clumsily, grinning with a hint of desperation.
"I… am Grop Vaatis," Grop stammered in broken Common Tongue. "This is… Mokken Rota. My assistant."
William smiled and replied—in fluent High Valyrian.
"All men perish. Sorcery endures."
Both men froze, wide-eyed. Grop whispered, "You… speak Valyrian?"
"I studied a little under Archmaester Marwyn," William said. "Haven't had much chance to practice—perhaps you two can help me."
Archmaester Marwyn, known as "the Mage," was a towering figure in the world of arcane knowledge. Grop instantly felt a kinship—So he's one of us!
Having been thoroughly humbled by their recent ordeal, Grop was desperate for a patron—and William was seeking exactly what Grop had to offer. Though his knight training consumed most of his time, William was frustrated with the slow pace of learning at the Citadel. Marwyn had yet to teach him any real magic. Grop and Mokken could provide a shortcut.
Mutual benefit. Perfect match.
They sat and talked, wine and food now flowing freely. The conversation soared—from magic to Valyria, from the Lands of Always Winter to the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai. Naturally, the topic turned to spells and incantations.
"…Of course, things like bravery can't be measured, but this healing spell—this one, you can see with your own eyes," Grop slurred, slightly tipsy. "My lord, let me demonstrate."
He began chanting, gesturing strangely. Mokken gave him a desperate look, silently begging him to stop.
Not again, Mokken thought, covering his face and peeking through his fingers to watch William's reaction.
But the moment Grop began chanting, William's heart skipped. He felt something inside stir—something ancient, cold, and powerful. Though he kept a smile on his face, his thoughts surged like a storm.
That feeling… That power… He's not even a true mage, yet he triggered it in me? This incantation must be nearly flawless. What a talent!
When Grop finished, William clapped earnestly.
"Amazing! I didn't understand it fully, but it sounded incredibly powerful!"
Grop bowed with theatrical humility, pride glowing in his eyes. Mokken exhaled in relief, wiping sweat from his brow. Looks like we're not sleeping in the streets tonight.
The meeting was a resounding success.
From that day forward, William Harroway had his first magical tutor—and took his first real step into the arcane.
---
(From now on, the Aegon's Landing calendar will use the abbreviation AC, e.g., AC 298 for the start of the original series.)