Daemon prowled the shadowy, desolate halls of Harrenhal, feeling the weight of its dark history pressing down on him. Each night he roamed these corridors, he felt an increasing unease, as if something—or someone—was watching him. It began subtly, a fleeting movement caught from the corner of his eye, the ghostly impression of a figure vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

He had dismissed it at first, blaming fatigue and the haunted aura of the castle. But as the days turned into nights, the visions became more frequent. Every time he lay down to rest, your presence seemed to lurk just beyond his sight, a silent observer of his restless slumber.

One night, Daemon woke from a particularly vivid nightmare, his heart pounding, sweat dripping from his forehead. The dream had been a horrific replay of your death, the memory so vivid it felt like it was happening all over again. He bolted upright in his bed, gasping for breath, and then he saw you.

You stood at the foot of his bed, your ghostly form illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the window. For a moment, he thought he was still dreaming. But the look in your eyes—sad, knowing, and filled with love—was all too real.