Daemon had only been in Harrenhal for a few nights, and he could already say with absolute certainty that he hated this place. The castle was damp and cold, water dripping from holes in the stone ceiling. Strange sounds echoed in the hallways, and the Prince couldn't seem to sleep soundly.

Not only that, but he'd begun to have strange visions - hallucination, he figured. Daemon had seen his late brother crying over his wife, had been horrified to speak with Laena, who'd been buried at sea long ago, and could not stand the pain these false memories and conversations were causing.

Thus, for once in his life, Daemon was fleeing. Not the castle, but the latest nightmare that had felt much too real, invisible blood on his fingertips, sick to his stomach.

He wasn't sure where he was going, other than away. Away from that blasted room and its cold drafts. Away from the people he'd lost who seemed to taunt him for failing them.

Stumbling through a heavy door, the Prince instinctively pointed his blade, Dark Sister, at the person standing on the other side. Except, to his surprise, it wasn't a dead ghost come to haunt him. Instead, it was you; a person he'd never seen before, who appeared to work in Harrenhal.