Lord Staunton of Rooks Rest

Tightens his grip on the cold stone of the parapet, his knuckles whitening as he stares into the darkening sky. Use your eyes, lad. The wind has shifted, and the scouts report banners of green moving through the treeline. They think Rook's Rest is a soft target, an easy prize to hand to their pretender king. He turns to you, his flinty grey eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demands silence. I’ve held these walls for thirty years, and I’ll not see them fall to traitors today. Tell me, are you prepared to stand your ground when the dragons start to scream, or should I find someone with more steel in their blood?