Chapter 2

A year and a day, I would have never thought time could move so slowly. Every day a labor, a torturous game of waiting strung along by a fool’s hope in magic and second chances.

I had prayed every day, at first to the Seven, but they had never bothered with my prayers. Not when my sons were lost to war, and again my prayers were greeted with empty tidings when my only girl passed not three moons back, her little girl only just surviving the birthing bed.

No, the Seven gave no thought to my ruined house.

The woman had spoken of the Old Golds, and if the Seven had no love for my house, then perhaps the Old Gods would listen.

Harrenhals’ godswood wasn’t like the ones I had seen in the north. Their godswoods were generally no more than an acre, but Harrenhals’ stretched on for twenty. The old godswood had been locked away and ignored long before my grandfather took lordship over Harrenhal, the old man had been so devout that he’d squandered much of his wealth on building that pathetic little sept inside the walls.

The walls of the godswood stood tall, twenty feet high, and not a stone had been touched by the dragon’s fire.

If only the rest of Harrenhal had been so lucky.

The old iron gates sang their protest of neglect as they swung open, and as always, I felt their eyes on me. The Old Gods were strong in this place, and I was only tolerated, not welcomed.

It was slow going, trekking my way up the overgrown path through the heart of the woods, centuries of neglect leaving it little more than a vague impression among the overgrowth. The trees here at least were beautiful, the stream that cut throughout the woods in all directions had seen to its health, even when the people outside of these walls had died of drought and famine.

Ash and Sentinel trees made up the greater bulk of it, the green bark of the ash trees, which could have stood no more than twenty feet high, stood out clearly against the towering grey sentinels’, their mighty trunks reaching well over the walls of their enclosure.

It was at least half an hour before I reached my destination, my arrival marked by the changing of the trees. No longer was I surrounded by green and grey bark, instead a small sea of black bark lay at the heart of the godswood, Ironwood.

At first, I had been shocked to have seen it in a place such as this. Ironwood grew no further south than Winterfells’ godswood, and even then, in much smaller numbers than this. Not that there was enough to use or sell truly, only the acre at the heart of the enclosure was Ironwood, but that it was here at all was a testament to the age of this place.

Even Harren the Black could not bring himself to ruin it.

At the heart of the sea of Ironwood trees, a Heart Tree, sitting atop a small mound, its ashen root spread into the large creak seated beneath it. The creak spread out into small tributaries, likely carrying away the water that kept the godswood thriving.

Rage, loss, the pain that comes from having seen too many tragedies. The face carved into the Heart Tree, a face contorted in anguish and fury. Red sap, all too like a man’s blood, ran slowly from the second day I had come here for prayer.

Did the Old Gods answer all prayers in blood…

I knelt, bending my protesting knees into the moss-covered soil beneath me, and I prayed.

I prayed for the Old Gods to keep their word, I prayed for a second chance at a family I had long buried, but more than anything, I prayed for magic.

A foolish dream would need nothing less.

When I had finished I rose, wiping a stray tear from my eye before it had the chance to fall. The trek back was slow, though if that was from the heaviness of my feet or my thoughts I do not know.

Exiting the godswood forced me back to reality, there was nothing green in Harrenhal outside of those walls.

“My lord, Lady Shella is calling for you in the great hall.”

I looked to the man, Orsan, a young knight, and one of the few to still remain in my service. His copper hair and pale, squared, features bespoke his Stone-Dornish heritage.

His parents, a pair of wandering merchants, had been beset by highwaymen. When my patrols had come upon the scene, they had found him, a boy of little more then ten winters, shivering in fear over the bodies of his parents.

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My Shella, back before our children’s loss had wholly frozen her heart, had insisted on taking him into the household. That had been nearly thirteen years ago now, and the boy had acquitted himself well enough at my side during these years of peace; the knighthood had been well-earned.

A peasant turned knight, I doubt another lord would honor it, but it would always stand in Harrenhal.

The godswood was fairly close to the great hall at least, sometimes the sheer size of Harrenhal worked against these old bones. I looked around me as I made my way back, Orsan following closely behind.

I loved my ruined castle, very nearly as much as I hated it.

The strong walls, two hundred feet high and sixty thick, stretched on around me. Each of the four walls had a length of five miles from end-to-end, only The Wall and Kings Landing could boast longer walls. Kevin Lannister once told me I could fit the breath of Lannisport inside my walls, that would be more impressive if I could even get men atop them.

The dragon's fire had made walking the walls a perilous endeavor, the walkways reduced to little more than a bubbled and bitted mess.

Most of the grounds inside the walls were a bleak display, all neglected soil, and tired servants. I was happy to be away from the sight as I finally reached the massive grey sentinel doors of the Great Hall.

A lone guard manned the doors, he sprung to open them hurriedly at the sight of my arrival. Entering the Great Hall, I squinted to see in the semi-darkness, we could only afford to keep three of the thirty-five hearths burning at any given time.

I saw Shella sitting on her joined throne next to mine on the raised dais, beside her sat my empty seat, Harren’s throne. The great thrones were crafted by Harren the Black when Harrenhal was meant to serve as the capital of his kingdom.

They were perhaps the grandest things remaining in Harrenhal that hadn’t been scorched in dragons’ fire or sold off to cover the cost of maintaining the bare minimum to keep this ruin livable.

The joined thrones were carved from a single block of solid marble, their backs standing taller than any man or woman could measure, and all around their sides and back were depictions of house Hoares’ crest. Scenes of sailing ships, flourishing vineyards, proud forests, and finally, a murder of crows in flight, all inlaid in gold and silver.

They were thrones meant for a ruling King and Queen, now they served only as a constant mockery to any fool who thought to call themselves “Lord” of Harrenhal, all while the once mighty seat crumbles around them.

As I neared, I noticed Shella was acting strangely. She was fidgeting in her seat, a habit she had kept from the excitable young woman I had once been lucky enough to wed. She had been nearly inconsolable since our last child went to the Stranger.

It was then that I noticed the form of a young woman, two men standing beside her, and a large trunk sitting atop the table beside them.

I hurried my steps as fast as my brittle bones would carry me, my heart pounding in my chest every step of the way.

“Walter, guests have arrived at this late hour, and this young woman said she has something of yours to deliver.” Shella’s voice was an equal mixture of excitement and accusation, but I felt warmth in her voice, and I had missed that so dearly over the years.

I reached the podium and looked the woman over, she was dressed in simple traveler's clothes. More importantly, she was holding a tightly wrapped bundle in her arms.

“My brothers and I owed her our lives milord, and this was what she asked for in return.” The woman had the look of a Northman to her, I could easily see her story playing out, it had been the same for me.

She shuffled the bundle in her arms gently, before making to hand it over to me. “Take the babe to his father she said, the Lord Whent will remember. We were told to bring the chest as well, we’ll leave you now, milord.”

Normally I would have offered shelter for the night as the sun was beginning to set, but I was far too lost in the sight of the sleeping child in my arms to pay them any mind.

He had my nose and my ears, even as he seemed to have kept his mother’s pale wheat-colored hair. I laughed to myself as I felt the relief wash over me, was this what it felt like to have your prayers answered?

“I have a son”

“Walter…” I looked to my wife, she was standing just a few feet away, trying to see the child in my arms. She had always had a soft spot for children, and she had doted on all of ours horribly. It had only served to make it worse for her now that they had all gone.

“Would you like to hold him, Shella?” I was loath to let this small miracle out of my arms, but the yearning in her eyes told me she needed to feel the warmth of a child again.

She had spent enough years wishing for it, perhaps even more than I had. We could have had our granddaughter here, had Lord Frey not rebuffed our request for an audience.

She nods to me hesitantly, shivering slightly from our contact as I place the babe into her arms. It took a moment for the reality of it to settle in, but slowly, her face lit up with a soft smile.

Gods how I had missed that smile…she coos to the baby boy, soft nothings that had me smiling as I watched on. Shella looked so alive, I had missed her laughter, her soft touches when she thought no one was looking, but most of all I missed how she used to make everything in the world less harsh with only a few gently whispered words.

“I’ll tell you the story of how he came to be tonight, but know that he is mine, and if he’s here, it means that his mother died birthing him.” The sympathy showed in her eyes, she knew loss better than most.

Then came the hunger, I could see the desire welling up in her. The look in her eyes when she looked up and met mine…there wouldn’t have been a man strong enough to break the steel behind that resolve.

“He has one now”

That was all that needed to be said, Shella didn’t care that she hadn’t carried him for the first few months of his life, she would be there for the rest of it. Relief, I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath, but the tension slowly faded out of me.

“He’ll need a name” I had named all of our sons, and she had named our daughter, but I wanted her to decide for him.

To name our last son.

“Harren, we’ll name him Harren Whent…maybe then the curse will leave at least our last child be.” Her voice broke at the end, I wrapped my arms around her, it had been too long since she let herself cry.

“Harren, it is.”