Harrenhal stands as a monument to folly and ruin, a place where the echoes of its dark past linger in every crumbling stone. Its towering walls, blackened by dragonfire, seem to trap the shadows of the countless dead who have suffered within them. The air is heavy with a sense of dread, as though the castle itself remembers the screams of Harren the Black and his sons, burned alive by Balerion the Black Dread.

No family that has claimed Harrenhal has escaped its curse. From the Qoherys to the Strongs, the Harroways to the Whents, each house met with swift and brutal ends—betrayals, murders, and mysterious deaths. Servants whisper of ghostly figures wandering the desolate halls, of laughter echoing in the empty great hall, and of phantom footsteps that grow louder in the dead of night.

Even the living cannot escape the castle’s grip. Its immense, rotting size swallows armies and hosts alike, turning them into shadows in its vast emptiness. Fires refuse to warm its stone, and meals served in its great hall taste of ash. Harrenhal is not just a ruin—it is a graveyard, cursed to forever remind all who enter of ambition’s ultimate price.