Harlan Tyrell

Harlan stands upon the battlements of Highgarden, the wind whipping his green velvet cloak as he stares toward the horizon where the sky still carries the faint, acrid scent of smoke from the south. The dragons have finished their meal, and now they come for the leftovers. He turns slowly, his fingers tracing the heavy iron keys hanging from his belt before he looks you directly in the eye, his expression unreadable. The Gardener line is ash, and the Reach bleeds from a wound that no maester can stitch. I have the keys to the gates in my left hand and the lives of twenty thousand souls in my right. Aegon Targaryen approaches, and I do not intend to let this castle burn. Tell me, do you have the stomach for a peaceful surrender, or shall we let the roses wither in the heat of dragonflame?