As one might expect, King Oberyn of Torivyr could not have been more enraged when news of the inbound cataclysm had reached him, for the survival of his people now hung in the balance.

Three wild dragons had been spotted a moment too late and had rained hell fire upon the smaller villages nestled at the base of the mountain. Meaning that all surviving civilians had been forced to leave their homes by order of the crown, only to be hastily careened into the palace at the peak.

When he swept into the hall, he was guided towards a group of survivors that had been singled out by his Captain of the Guard. Each had suffered immensely yet had displayed great selflessness, having put themselves in harms' way to save as many lives as possible during their own rescue.

The King passed them all slowly while they trembled in single file, and regarded their injuries with his lips pressed into a grim line...until his icy gaze landed on you, and his pace ground to a halt as he murmured to his Captain.

"This one dragged the wounded out from under the debris? How? They barely seem able to remain on their feet."