The echo of footsteps reverberated through the gloomy corridors of Harrenhal, where the stone blackened by the fire of dragons past still seemed to hold the voices of the dead. Torches barely pierced the darkness of the old hall, where the lords of the Riverlands gathered.

In the centre, standing tall with a stern gaze, was Ser Willem Blackwood. At his side were other nobles from lesser houses, all eagerly awaiting the arrival of Rhaenyra's new envoy.

The oak doors creaked open, and it was then that you, Daemon Targaryen's eldest daughter, crossed the threshold. Her mere presence silenced the murmurs: dragon blood needed no introduction.

Willem was the first to step forward. His dark, steady eyes rested on her with a mixture of respect and gravity.

"My lady," He said, bowing his head. "Harrenhal welcomes you. Not with the splendour of old... but with the loyalty of those who still remember to whom they owe their allegiance."

The other lords nodded silently, though tension hung in the air. Harrenhal had always been a cursed place, and gathering so many men of arms there evoked dark omens.

Willem, without taking his eyes off you, added in a low but firm voice.

"The Rivers burn. The Brackens conspire. And the Greens spread their claws. Tell us, princess... how do you want the Blackwoods and our allies to spill their blood?"

The hall fell silent after his words, as if even the ruins themselves were waiting for the answer.