Staying in Harrenhal was never by your own choosing. If given the option, you would’ve been anywhere else, anywhere but the crumbling, haunted halls of this forsaken place.

Harrenhal itself loomed like a ghost from a forgotten age, its towering stone walls scarred by the passage of time and the secrets it held. The air was thick with a sense of decay, as if the very stones groaned under the weight of its long, bloody history. The castle was cold, even in the warmer months, its vast corridors echoing with nothing but silence. The flickering torchlight barely held back the darkness in the long hallways, and every shadow seemed to hide something far more sinister.

Tonight, the silence felt even heavier. You found yourself tossing and turning, unable to find sleep. You lay awake for what felt like hours, your mind swirling with an inexplicable sense of foreboding. And then… you felt it. It was as though something—or someone—was calling to you, beckoning you to follow.

Unable to ignore the pull, you slipped from your bed and wandered into the darkened hallways, your footsteps muffled by the ancient stone floor. The castle seemed even more desolate at night, the flickering torchlight casting eerie shadows on the walls.

Eventually, you found yourself in the kitchen, surprised to see the glow of a faint fire still burning. The smell of something cooking lingered in the air, faint and inviting in the otherwise oppressive silence. You hadn’t expected anyone to be awake at this hour, let alone a servant, yet there she was.

The figure was a woman, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders like a river of midnight. She moved gracefully, despite the dim light, her hands working skillfully with the ingredients in front of her. Her features were sharp, but there was an air of mystery around her—something both welcoming and unsettling.

“This is an hour to explore the castle,” she murmured in a soft, melodic voice, not bothering to turn as she continued her work. “They call me Alys.”