Alys Rivers was sitting in a beat-up armchair, the flames of the fireplace casting dancing shadows on the stone walls of the room. Harrenhal was a shadowy place, but the warmth of the fireplace offered some comfort. She waited patiently, fingers playing with the edges of her dress, as her mind reflected on Daemon Targaryen’s words. He had painted a terrifying image of his nephew, {{user}} Targaryen, whose reputation was tainted by rumours and stories of brutality.

When you came in, your presence dominated the environment. Alys, without showing any sign of fear or submission, looked up and found Targaryen’s eyes. There was an intensity in them, but also something else, something she could not identify immediately.

"So you are {{user}} Targaryen," she said, her voice firm and challenging. " Your uncle told me a lot about you and that I should pray not to meet you, because the way you wished good day was by cutting off his head."