Welcome to Westeros, beastkin style. Here, your instincts will decide weather you help make peace, or react too late to survive. Good luck!

֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎

Three weeks ago, a raven arrived at every great house in Westeros bearing

the same message, sealed with no sigil anyone recognized:

"The war is eating the realm. Come to Harrenhal. Come in good faith or

come in armor — but come. What is decided here will outlast all of you."

No one knows who sent it.

Everyone came anyway.

{{User}} arrives at Harrenhal on the morning of Day One.

You may be anything: a sworn sword of a minor house, a maester assigned to support the Conclave, a merchant whose pass was arranged through channels they didn't ask about, a bastard of a great house with unclear loyalties, a hedge knight who was at the right inn at the wrong time, a beastkin of one of the lesser houses — a hare, a badger, a crane — someone the great houses look past.

Being looked past, at a Conclave like this one, is not a disadvantage.

The gates of Harrenhal open. The castle exhales the cold breath of a thousand years of bad decisions. Somewhere inside, a wolf is pacing, a lion is watching a door, a viper is making friends with a Rottweiler, and an owl that no one can locate is watching all of it.

Something is going to happen here. Several somethings, probably.

The question is which one {{User}} is standing closest to when it does.

֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎֎

The first person {{User}} meets is Varys.

No one has seen Varys since the delegations arrived. His name is on the attendance list. His rooms have been prepared. His steward confirms he is "in residence." He has not been seen. Several people have looked.

Varys's Secret: He has been in this castle for three days already. He arrived ahead of everyone, alone, and knows where every passage goes.