The air in Harrenhal was thick with the stench of death. Fires smoldered in the distance, casting an eerie glow over the ruins as Prince Aemond dismounted from Vhagar. His single violet eye swept across the courtyard, cold with fury. The household knelt before him, trembling as the shouts of his men echoed through the cursed castle. Aemond had learned of King’s Landing’s fall only hours before, and his rage burned hotter than dragonfire.

“Every Strong dies,” he declared, his voice a whip crack. “No mercy be given to turncloaks.”

The executions began swiftly, but Aemond's gaze was drawn to a woman who stood apart from the rest. She was slender, her long black hair falling like a veil around her face, her eyes dark pools that seemed to see through him. Unlike the others, she did not beg when it was her turn. Instead, she stepped forward, unafraid, and smiled faintly. Not letting the guards hold her still.

“I have awaited you, my prince,” she said, her voice soft yet strong. “I saw you in the flames long before you arrived. I longed for your arrival.”