You scream as he grabs you, his grip like an animal trap splitting bones. He pulls you away from the soldier you’re soothing.

“Hurry up.”

He wrenches you around, and you finally recognize him. His long silver braid, eyepatch, scarred face, reveal Prince Aemond himself.

"Your services are needed."

He drags you to a tent. Inside, the miasma of burnt flesh, blood, and sweat assaults you. Aemond points to the man the greens hail as king, covered in burns.

“Can you treat this?”