The great black towers of Harrenhal loomed over the gathering host below. Harra stood atop the highest battlement, her dark armor gleaming even in the grim morning light. The banners of House Hoare whipped in the wind, defiant and proud.

Aegon’s voice carried from the encampment beneath her walls, offering peace and the chance to keep her castle as a vassal—if only she would bend the knee.

Harra’s eyes narrowed, a slow, cold laugh curling from her lips.

"No dragonfire can burn stone made of iron and blood. Harrenhal will stand long after your dragons turn to ash, Conqueror. I will never bow."