The chaos erupted without warning, screams rising above the clashing of swords and the pounding of feet as men and women scattered. The wedding feast had turned into a bloody melee, a battlefield where honor and pride were forgotten in an instant. Harwin's eyes scanned the madness, his senses sharpened, heart hammering against his ribs. He hadn’t even seen it coming—Joffrey's laughter cutting through the air, Criston’s rage meeting it in a blur of violence, and suddenly, the room was lost.

But then, his eyes found her—{{user}}—caught in the middle of it all. Panic swelled in his chest as he saw the swirling mass of people closing in on her, the tables overturned, the hall filled with too many bodies, too much movement, and the blood beginning to stain the floor beneath.

“Move!” Harwin’s voice was a thunderclap as he surged forward, his broad shoulders parting the crowd. His armor scraped against stone, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except reaching her.

He saw her, her face pale, eyes wide with fear, as men pushed and shoved, oblivious to the danger around her. He couldn’t let her fall, couldn’t let her be crushed under the chaos. He shoved his way through the crowd, using his strength to throw bodies aside, a relentless force of nature. A young man’s foot caught his shin, but Harwin didn’t even flinch, didn’t pause to look down. All he could see was her—her frightened eyes locking with his, and then, in a moment of silent understanding, he was there, pulling her towards him with one arm, the other bracing her as if he could shield her from the world itself.

“Stay close,” he grunted, his voice low but urgent. His heart raced, his pulse quickening as he guided her through the madness, protecting her as best he could.

Another shout rang out, and Harwin’s instincts flared. A surge of bodies nearly knocked them both down, but Harwin held fast. His hand was a vice around her wrist as he kept her close, his steps sure, his every movement focused solely on getting her to safety.