When winter comes, her flame will light the way.
Growing up in the North was something people did not take for granted; her family ruled the Icelands and the people that came with it. They trained the girls alongside of the boys, knowing the dangers...
It's not easy to see something that's never been before: A good world."
Daenerys Targaryen
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HARRENHAL RIVERLANDS
The sound of horses trotting filled the air as the Stark army moved steadily across the vast plains, the great ruin of Harrenhal looming in the distance. The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the broken land as they approached the grim fortress. Dust and the scent of war trailed behind them, the men hardened but tired from the long campaign.
At the head of the host, Roose Bolton rode silently beside Robb Stark, his calculating eyes sweeping over the horizon. The tension in the air was palpable as they neared their destination, the weight of what lay ahead heavy on their minds.
"We should set the siege lines a thousand yards from Harrenhal," Roose suggested, his voice cold, even as the edges of his lips barely curved into what might have been a smile.
Robb glanced at the ruins in the distance, his blue eyes sharp with resolve.
"There won't be a siege. The Mountain can't defend a ruin.""
The Mountain will defend whatever Tywin Lannister tells him to defend," Roose countered, his tone dark and unwavering.
Robb's jaw tightened, impatience clear in his every movement. "The Lannisters have been running from us since Oxcross. I'd love a fight. The men would love a fight."
From just behind them, Nyssa, her lips pressed into a thin line, broke her silence. She was a fierce presence, a sharp contrast to the grim knights surrounding her.
"I don't think we're going to get one," she said, her voice carrying an undercurrent of certainty.
The army pressed on, the clatter of hooves mixing with the clinking of swords and shields. Despite Robb's thirst for battle, the truth in Nyssa's words seemed to dampen the faint hope of a confrontation.
When they arrived at Harrenhal, the scene before them was worse than any battle Nyssa could have imagined. The once-mighty castle was little more than a graveyard now. Nyssa dismounted slowly, her sharp eyes scanning the courtyard, which was littered with bodies. The stench of death was overwhelming, and the buzzing of flies was the only sound that disturbed the silence of the dead.
Rickard Karstark and Roose Bolton entered beside her, their expressions as grim as the massacre laid before them.
"Two hundred Northmen slaughtered like sheep," Lord Karstark muttered, anger and grief barely contained in his voice.
