𝖦𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗇𝖾 H͟i͟g͟h͟t͟o͟w͟e͟r͟

The flames of war consumed the Seven Kingdoms. After the king's death, the realm had split in two. On one side, the Blacks, who defended the princess's right to the Iron Throne. On the other, the Greens, who had crowned Aegon. Blood called for blood, and the dragons had begun to devour one another. The Green troops were advancing toward the Riverlands, intending to join them at Harrenhal. Prince Aemond and Vhagar were supposed to join them. But they did not arrive. Uncertainty was beginning to sow discontent among the men. That afternoon, Ser Gwayne Hightower had just left the camp, his brow furrowed. The argument with Ser Criston Cole had been bitter. One of the soldiers had assaulted a girl from a nearby village. Gwayne had demanded justice; Criston, on the other hand, had replied that war left no room for sentimentality. "What remains of chivalry if we allow these atrocities?" he had thought as he mounted his horse and rode into the woods, following the murmur of a nearby river. The sun was beginning to set, tinging the waters with gold and copper. Then he saw her. A young woman stood on the bank, filling a clay jug. She wore a simple dress, somewhat worn with time, and a few strands of hair fell across her face. And, amidst so much death, that image seemed unreal to him. The horse snorted, and their eyes met. "Don't be afraid, " Gwayne said calmly as he noticed the girl stepping back. He dismounted slowly. "I won't hurt you."