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(EM Vol. 2: A Wandering Melody) Chapter 62: Blasphemous Halls
🕑 Added 2025-08-31 14:00:09 +0000 UTCChapter 62: Blasphemous Halls
123 AC, Dragonstone
He would take Caraxes and fly to Harrenhal. He would remind this cursed place of why it was wrong to poke a sleeping dragon. He would remind everyone that to attack his children was to invite death to their doors.
A part of Daemon Targaryen wanted to let the anger go, to get his revenge on the fool, Larys Strong, who had dared try to hurt his daughters. Then he would burn his master, Otto, and the rest of the Hightowers, just to be sure, maybe even go Asshai if the Shadowbinders were also involved. After all, they specialised in dark curses, didn’t they?
Daemon’s other side wished to stay at his daughters’ side, to make sure that they would live, much like he wished Laena had lived, despite the pain it had caused him.
In the end, he decided on a compromise. He would see his daughters and ensure their well-being, then he would burn Harrenhal to the ground. That sounded about right.
Did the sorcerer truly think that he would let something like this go, that he would let a threat against his family live?
Daemon was a warrior, one whose wrath was feared in the entire continent and beyond. He wasn’t some cowardly Andal who would let someone else fight in his stead. If he wanted someone dead, he always did it himself. Even back when he was commander of the city watch, he had been in there, from the Red Keep to Flea Bottom. He did not shy away from dirt and blood, and this was no different.
Magic being involved didn’t change anything.
He would find Larys Strong and destroy everything he held dear, even if it was the last thing he ever did, and he wouldn’t wait for Harry Potter to do it for him.
Daemon walked to the girls’ room, just to make sure that Potter hadn’t exaggerated things. The Kingsguard were gone, which either meant that they were woken up and dismissed by Viserys or that the King left the room, hopefully. He loved his brother, but Daemon wasn’t exactly in a mood to deal with him and his wilful ignorance.
He opened the door and found the Velaryons still sitting with Rhaena’s dragon, the Potter woman, and, to his slight surprise, Rhaenyra was there as well. Thankfully, Viserys and his wife were not in the room. The Andal bitch was probably praying after witnessing sorcery.
He ignored both and looked at the girls, seeing them looking far better, almost as if they were sleeping. The pale skin had warmed; there were no black veins or anything drastic. He touched them both and noticed that they were warmer as well.
He took a sigh of relief. Perhaps Harry Potter hadn’t lied. He turned to the woman and nodded at her in thanks. She took it in stride and nodded back, obviously not demanding anything. With that done, Daemon turned and left the room, to everyone’s surprise.
Rhaenyra was the first one to walk after him, practically growling, “Where are you going?”
“Just on a fly with Caraxes. I’ll be back soon.”
“Where is Potter?”
Daemon turned at her, “This is not the time for your shit, Rhaenyra.”
His wife reddened in anger and practically reeled back in shock. This was the first time he ever took that tone with his wife, but she had it coming, given the obvious fact that she prioritised information on Harry Potter more than his daughters. Well, his daughters were all but healed, so he could understand that, but even then, there was always this distance when she interacted with them.
Even ignoring the politics involved and pressuring the Hightowers, Daemon thought that he would have gotten remarried after Laena’s death, if only to provide the girls with a mother and perhaps sire an heir of his own. He had his heir in the form of his son, Aegon, but Baela and Rhaena didn’t truly see Rhaenyra as their mother, and the woman was mostly focused on her children with Harwin Strong, or Laenor Velaryon if she wished to continue her useless illusion of their parentage.
The boys were a good influence on his daughters, making them interact more with children their age, something that lacked in Pentos, but Rhaenyra hadn’t done as much as he expected to include them in their family. Perhaps after some time, and especially with Aegon and Viserys growing up, that small rift would mend, but thinking of what might happen in the future was a fool’s errand.
Still, he probably shouldn’t have been so harsh with her. He would end up paying for that later, that Daemon was certain of.
Thankfully, Rhaenyra didn’t have the opportunity to say anything as the Velaryons arrived behind her. Rhaenys was the one to speak up, “Potter went to confront them, whoever did this.”
Daemon grunted in response, and to his surprise, the woman smiled, “Good.”
Corlys looked strangely pale for some reason, and they both turned and entered the room. Deciding to ignore that odd encounter, he turned and left. He walked towards the nearest balcony, summoning Caraxes through their bond, his wife trailing after him, “Where are you going?”
“Where do you think? My daughters were just attacked.”
“Daemon! You can’t…”
He didn’t listen. He didn’t really care what she had to say. There was only so long he could keep the rage at bay, and now it was time to indulge in it. He jumped up and landed expertly on his dragon’s back, climbing onto the saddle with ease. “We’ll talk when I come back.”
With that done, he commanded Caraxes to fly towards Harrenhal, and his loyal dragon accepted easily, soaring into the sky as quickly as he could, roaring in joy as Daemon finally let loose the bloodlust that he’d been harbouring for so long.
It has always been there, roiling beneath the surface. There was a reason he felt at home in war, where he got to indulge however he wished. He’d learned to control it, over time, keep it on a tight leash, to use it to scare others, to cow them at his unpredictability. They were right to fear him; the feeling was always there in the background, but he rarely unleashed it, rarely indulged, first for his brother, then for Laena, then for his children.
And now someone had hurt someone he treasured most in the world, and now it was time for the world to know his wrath. Caraxes roared in agreement and continued with the journey.
It was supposed to take a few hours on Dragonback, and with every passing second, Daemon’s rage grew hotter. However, slowly, he noticed Caraxes slowing down, which he found to be strange. He became slower, less fervent with his wingbeats, each one shallower than the last. The great beast’s growl turned into a strained wheeze, and his altitude dipped sharply.
Daemon narrowed his eyes. “Sōvēs,” he spoke in Valyrian, urging him to fly.
But Caraxes didn’t respond. Another beat of the wings, and then his body gave a worrying shudder mid-air. His trajectory turned into a sharp decline, and it was clear the dragon was forcing himself to glide rather than fall. Daemon shouted again, louder this time, “Sōvēs!”
Caraxes ignored him. Or perhaps he simply couldn’t do more.
The beast barely managed to veer off course before crashing into the canopy below. He landed with a heavy, graceless thud, branches cracking beneath him. The jolt nearly threw Daemon from the saddle, but he held fast. Dirt and bark exploded around them as the dragon slid several feet before coming to a stop.
Daemon jumped down immediately. “Caraxes,” he muttered, moving quickly to the side of the dragon’s head.
The beast’s eyes were open but dull, his chest rising slowly with ragged breath. He looked… drained. That was the best word he could use to describe it. Daemon clenched his fists. This reeked of magic and sorcery, which easily meant that he was on the right path.
Then, he looked up and saw it, Harrenhal. The towers that looked almost molten at the top, easily showing what it was, a sign of Balerion’s power and a message for all of Westeros. In there was the man who had been responsible for almost killing his daughters, or, according to the sorcerer, attempted to use them as pawns in some game likely against Daemon.
The familiar rage overwhelmed the worry he felt at Caraxes, which he noticed looked exhausted but not notably injured. He didn’t know much about how to help his previous Blood Wyrm, and he was stuck before Harrenhal without anyone who could help him.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
He remembered the sorcerer’s words that he wasn’t equipped to deal with magic. Potter hadn’t been exaggerating. History had taught him that since Valyria was founded, dragons had easily defeated any group of magic users in Essos. There was a reason why very few mages remained in the world, and the ones that did could barely use anything more than parlour tricks. They had been wiped out as the Valyrian Freehold grew over thousands of years. The Potters were obviously exceptions, travellers who had come from a place that Valyria had never visited and thus, hadn’t brought to heel.
He never imagined that something could impact Caraxes, not by some Andal mage at the very least, and now he was stuck.
His only choice was to move forward. Caraxes was strong enough to resist whatever affected him. Hopefully, it would be long enough that Daemon would get to Harrenhal and kill every last Strong himself. Perhaps with them dead, whatever magic that affected his dragon would stop.
Given that he had no other plan, he left Caraxes and slowly made his way to Harrenhal, making sure that he would be seen. He needed to enter the fortress somehow, and he didn’t think they would let him in.
In the distance, he noticed three guards patrolling nearby, and a grin grew on his face.
They would be very useful.
He walked discreetly, trying to avoid being seen or heard. Stealth wasn’t his greatest strength, but he’d practised enough in the Stepstones out of necessity to ambush pirates who had been hiding in the caves.
He snuck behind them and quickly used Dark Sister to stab one in the back, which he quickly followed by slashing the other in the throat, leaving one final guard. Unfortunately, he couldn’t take him by surprise, but Daemon was one of the greatest warriors in the land for a reason. He ducked behind a swing and let go of his sword before rushing in with a knife, stabbing it cleanly in the man’s eye, killing him instantly.
Daemon chuckled and found the cleanest of his victims, which happened to be the latter, and had a similar build to him. He quickly put on their armour, with the helmet hiding his features wonderfully.
Looking at the bodies, he noticed that they, too, had black veins throughout their bodies, much like his daughters before they were healed. This was further proof that Potter hadn’t lied to him. He still didn’t like the man, but he had to admit that he respected him for discovering whoever was responsible so quickly.
Still, it didn’t make sense. Why did some guards have these black veins like his daughters did? Did Larys Strong truly curse his guards as well, maybe use it to force their loyalty somehow? He could see the crippled bastard do it. He was also the Master of Whisperers, so he could have planned this for some time.
He decided to think of it later; he had a plan to finish after all, and a castle to burn.
Wearing House Strong’s colours, Daemon walked to Harrenhal, joining a group of guards, who didn’t comment on his presence in any way. Minutes later, he found himself inside the fortress. Now, he only needed to find out where that damned rat was and stop his magic. Then he would go back to Caraxes and burn this place to the ground.
He was unnerved from the moment he entered the fortress, and a small part of Daemon thought that it was that infamous curse, but he quickly realised what it was.
It was the silence.
Harrenhal was massive. Each building and tower was beyond large, and it had to be a nightmare to maintain all of it, especially given the obvious damage to the structures. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people walked around the fortress, and yet, not a single word was spoken anywhere.
It was eerie, and again, Potter’s warning came to the forefront of his mind, that dealing with magic was very different. However, he didn’t exactly have much of a choice anymore, did he? He couldn’t leave without Caraxes, and he couldn’t heal Caraxes without killing Larys and stopping the magic.
Despite himself, he growled in frustration; it would take him days to find Larys Strong by looking around, which meant he would need to ask some questions, much like he had during his time as commander of the City Watch. He really should have left one guard alive to interrogate before entering.
That was very sloppy of him.
This meant now he needed to find someone knowledgeable and who also had access to that information. A guard was his best bet, and so, he spied on their movement. After a few minutes, he noticed that one of the guards had stepped away from the rest of his group, likely going for a shit or something. They had all but moved like Unsullied until then.
They disturbed him much like the Unsullied had. There was no passion, no joking, no fights, just discipline and nothing more. They were not warrior, just tools.
It didn’t matter. Daemon followed the guard, and the moment that they were out of sight, he grabbed him from the back and put a knife to his throat, “I will ask questions, and you will answer them. If you do as I say, you’ll live another day. Nod if you accept.”
He felt the guard nod and spoke up, “Let’s start with an easy one. Where is your lord?”
The guard stiffened but answered in a harsh whisper. “The Hall of a Hundred Hearths.”
Daemon remembered reading about it, the hall that was even larger than Viserys' throne room, further proof of Harren the Black’s arrogance. It did make sense that Larys would sit there, thinking himself some sort of king. Personally, he thought he’d be in a chamber, given his injuries, which would not have had time to heal. Then again, magic changed things, and Daemon roamed in the realms of the unknown.
He then continued, “What happened here? Why do you all have black veins?”
The man shuddered in his grasp, which Daemon found odd. Then the guard’s eyes turned completely black, and he suddenly grew in strength, almost overpowering him.
The Rogue Prince immediately reacted by slashing his throat, and the man fell, dead, “Gods be damned!"
That strength was unnatural, far more than he ever thought a man could possibly do, especially one who was completely bound and didn’t have any leverage. It didn’t matter. He had found what he needed. Now, he only needed to kill Strong and end this shit.
The Rogue Prince quickly hid the body inside a few empty barrels and walked towards where he remembered the Hall being. He entered the main keep and made his way through the twisted halls. He quickly found the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, and the doors were already open. There were no guards, nothing.
And yet, he barely had any time to think of this, as a giant hulking figure came at him out of nowhere and tackled him to the other side of the corridor. Daemon groaned, his body aching from the impact. His helmet had even flown off his head, and his breath left his lungs. Thankfully, years of battle had taught him never to stay still. He rolled away and noticed that a giant sword came down exactly where he was.
The Rogue Prince immediately rolled away and ducked at another swing, before stabbing his knife into his attacker’s knees, making him stumble. He got up as quickly as he could, with Dark Sister unsheathed in his hands, his blood boiling for a battle, a worthy opponent.
He froze as he finally took in his opponent. He looked like a giant, towering over Daemon easily, and almost twice as wide. He removed the knife from his knees without so much as saying a sound and ran towards Daemon.
The Rogue Prince ducked under a swing before kicking his knees again. A wound was a wound after all. His enemy was certainly big and strong, but he was also slow. After another missed swing, he found an opening and walked in close, before stabbing the beast in the heart.
Despite the situation he was in and that their battle hadn’t been discreet, Daemon couldn’t help but feel elated at defeating a worthy opponent. He went to grab his sword, only to freeze as he saw that the blood was black for some reason.
Then, the man he’d just stabbed in the heart, who should have been a corpse, moved somehow and then grabbed Daemon and slammed him into the ground, followed by a punch that made him see things.
His vision blurred for a few moments before he felt himself being dragged on the ground by his legs. He heard a woman’s voice, speaking up, “You’ve done well, Lord Strong.”
He heard the man who should have been a corpse grunt in response, and the woman continued, “Now, isn’t this a surprise? Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, himself.”
Daemon growled, “Where the fuck is Larys?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard? Poor Larys died tragically a few weeks ago,” the voice retorted, and finally, his sight was unblurring, looking at the woman in question, and already hating the amusing look she had on her face, “He’s served his purpose valiantly, but he outlived his usefulness. I am his sister, Alys Strong, Mistress of Harrenhal.”
Wait a fucking minute. Larys was dead. Had Potter lied to him? No, he hadn’t. He’d only said that whoever was responsible for his daughters was in Harrenhal, not that Larys Strong was responsible. The fact that the man fled Dragonstone many times pointed towards it.
Then, if Larys was dead, then was his bastard sister, assuming she was telling the truth, the one who poisoned his daughters? Everything about her, the assuredness in his face, and her unnatural beauty, showed that there was magic involved. She was likely the witch who had crafted the curse, but why?
He growled out, “What do you want from me, witch?”
“What makes you think that I want anything from you? Sure, you’re a wonderful little thing, a man with the blood of the Conqueror, a Dragonlord, and that beast of yours is wonderful. I can find many uses for both of you, don’t worry, but what makes you think that you’re important enough that I would bother speaking with you?”
Daemon sneered as the woman took a sip of her wine, obviously relishing her position on him, “You poisoned my daughters. You brought me here, asking for my attention.”
“Oh, I did, in fact, arrange for your daughters’ condition. It was supposed to be only one, but you know, it was hard for my agents to find out which was which, so they found it more prudent to just poison both. And I did it to gain the attention of a being far more powerful than you think, an invitation, really.”
Daemon couldn’t help but feel his rage returning to the forefront of his mind, “You attacked the royal family, likely brought doom to this entire fortress, for an invitation.”
“Oh, you poor man. You think yourself above the rest of the world because of your dragons, that it is the true power of your line, and you would be correct. Yet, for some reason, you cling to the notion that royalty means anything. I have shown you the power I have, the ability to defeat your dragons. Tell me then, why should I fear the wrath of House Targaryen?”
Daemon was about to reply, only to hear a loud crunch echoing in the room, which seemingly changed the entire atmosphere of the room. He turned, despite himself, and saw Harry Potter casually sitting on one of the chairs, his legs lying on the table, while he casually took a bite out of an apple, with a book in his hands.
The Rogue Prince couldn’t help but gape at the scene, especially as the man casually motioned for them to continue without looking up. They both stayed silent, still staring at the man, who then finally turned his gaze towards them, “Don’t mind me… Sorry for the disturbance. You were all monologuing and stuff. Please point your swords at me if it helps you relax!”
Dozens of guards unsheathed their swords at once, and the madman simply grinned and took out an apple from his coat, holding it up, “Care for an apple?”
Despite the situation he was in, his body bruised and likely a few broken bones, unarmed in front of a witch while his dragon was defeated and sleeping outside the Fortress, Daemon had to admit that this was probably the most outlandish thing he’d seen all day.
AN: Phew, that chapter was pretty hard to write, and even then, I’m not really sure about it. Daemon is tricky to get right, and I wanted to showcase a bit of how badass he could be, while also being hampered by his arrogance. I wanted it to be a bit like a Souls game, where I would get overconfident at the start with mobs and end up getting destroyed by the first boss. I hope this chapter came out like I wanted it to, but I don’t mind rewriting it depending on your feedback. As usual, please let me know what you think and if you have any suggestions.
Comments
Doubledoor
Damn, I hope Daemon gets some serious consequence for his idiotic behaviour. Maybe a lost hand or the death of his dragon... Just something he can't shrug off.
