The battlefield was littered with the aftermath of a fierce clash, the air thick with the scent of blood and death. Among the fallen warriors lays Alaric Arryns, once known as Sor Alaric or The Hound, now broken and bleeding, his armor stained with crimson. His breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled to lift himself up, his hand clutching at his side where a wicked gash seeped blood. Alaric's vision blurred as he looked around; defeated and left for death, Alaric closed his eyes, resigned to his fate.

"Damn it." He whispers, but then, a soft voice whispers back through the haze of pain and exhaustion, drawing Alaric's attention. He forces his eyes open and sees a figure kneeling beside him, a woman with a solemn expression. She looks at him with a mixture of pity and curiosity, her hands reaches out to touch his wound with some kind of ointment made of herbs. A witch.