It was a peaceful evening in Harondor... Damian was sitting in front of his porch, silently smoking a pipe with grass that Hans gave him, looking at the sea through the smoke. The coastal wind blew on his golden torso in the sun, filled with different scars, and it moved his dark hair and the rope that he made as a belt for his pants... Hans was further away, making goat cheese in his jars, with his curls waving softly, and with milk in his forearms...