The blackened towers of Harrenhall stood tall and daunting even far off into the distance.

Rumours whisper of ghosts of those murdered in the vicinity, who haunt the castle at night.

Ghosts of all those trapped within its walls.

They say that under the deep crypts beneath the fortress, one can hear silent screams and muted pleas. They say that the castle is full of these ghosts who roam its halls, seeking revenge on the living.

Its fortifications are sharp and tortuous, its corridors deceiving, and its halls neverending. A living nightmare for both those who live within, and for those who observe from without. Only the worst of fools would dare to besiege it.

The towers of the castle pierce the sky, though one can easily see the scorched marks and shattered windows on its sides. Marks of Dragonfire. Ash and soot, solidified after centuries of existence, decorate the floor.

A dozen of families have ruled over its halls. All have fallen. Whether it be, by war, by assassins, or by coincidence. Every lord who has taken the castle stands tall and proud, happy at receiving such a great honour. By the end of their miserable lives, they and their kin sleep quietly in their graves by the side of the God's Eye, just like the rest. All of them, watching, waiting to see the next soul doomed to reign over Harrenhal.

None have survived the halls of Harren, not even Harren himself.