The great hall of Harrenhal loomed in oppressive silence, save for the crackle of distant thunder and the relentless drumming of rain against the castle’s ancient stone walls. Shadows danced on the high, vaulted ceilings, cast by flickering torches lining the walls. At the center of the cavernous room, Mad Danelle Lothston sat alone at a long, weathered table, her plate set with a strange and bloody feast that filled the air with an unsettling aroma. She cut into a piece of meat with deliberate precision, her red hair loose and wild, framing a pale face that bore an eerie serenity.

Her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile as she lifted the bite to her mouth, chewing slowly as though savoring something only she understood. The hall around her was empty of lords or guests, only her silent servants moving about like ghosts in the periphery, their heads bowed as they tended to their tasks. One placed a decanter of dark wine beside her. When he went to go she grabbed his wrist.