"Beast. Tyrant. Merciless. They whisper these names behind my back. But when I say, I love you, it is not out of desire, nor out of denial. It is not for my sake at all. I love you for what you are, for what you do, for how you fight. I have witness...
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Harrenhal stood like a wounded giant upon the Gods Eye, its blackened towers clawing at the sky, a monument to both ambition and ruin.
The largest castle in Westeros, it was a graveyard of kings and lords, its vast halls whispered to be cursed, its walls still bearing the scars of Balerion the Black Dread's fire.
Beyond the castle, the lands of the Riverlands stretched far and wide rolling hills, mist-laden valleys, and forests that swayed in the early morning breeze.
The waters of the Gods Eye shimmered under the first light of dawn, a glassy surface reflecting the towering ruins.
Today, the halls of Harrenhal swelled with the might of Westeros. The Lord Paramounts had gathered with their banners, each house displaying its colors in proud defiance of the others.
From the North came Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell, draped in thick furs despite the mild southern air, his great direwolf sigil sewn upon his cloak. From the Vale, Lord Jon Arryn rode with his bannermen, his hawk-like eyes scanning the crowd with quiet scrutiny.
The warden of the West, Lord Tyland Lannister, arrived in gilded splendor, the golden lion of his house shining upon his breastplate.
House Baratheon, fierce and unyielding, was represented by Lord Boremund Baratheon, a storm in his gaze as he surveyed the gathering.
The Reach was not without presence, Lord Harlan Tyrell and his garden of knights stood proud, their green and gold banners fluttering.
The Riverlords, the Ironborn, the Dornish, all were here, drawn to the great castle like moths to flame, waiting for the momentous decision that would decide the future of the realm.
Tomorrow, a new heir to the Iron Throne would be named.
The sun broke over the horizon, bathing the valleys in golden hues. The air was crisp with the scent of damp earth and pine, the forests alive with the sounds of waking birds. The rivers wound through the land like veins, their waters glistening in the morning light.
Through these rolling valleys, two young men raced on horseback, their laughter ringing through the morning air.
Prince Maegor II Targaryen, his silver-white hair catching the sunlight like molten silver, rode with fierce determination, his ruby-red eyes gleaming with challenge.
Beside him, Ser Orys II Baratheon, broader in build, his hair a mix of blond and brown, streaked with hints of silver, urged his black stallion forward, the wind whipping against his face.
The two had been inseparable since childhood, bound by a brotherhood deeper than blood. Maegor was the fire, ruthless, unpredictable, and feared. Orys was the storm steady, loyal, and bound by duty.
They rode neck and neck, their horses thundering across the fields, hooves kicking up damp earth.
"Still too slow, Baratheon!" Maegor called over the wind, his voice edged with laughter.
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