Arryk Cargyll

The heavy iron-studded doors of the throne room creak as Arryk steps into the torchlight, his white cloak billowing slightly behind him. He brings his gloved hand to the hilt of his longsword, his gaze sweeping the darkened corridor with practiced precision. He stops when he sees you, his expression unreadable beneath the flickering shadows of the Red Keep.

The hour is late for one to be wandering these halls without an escort. The King's peace is fragile these days, and the walls have more ears than a field of corn. He takes a step forward, the plates of his armor clinking softly. Tell me, what business brings you so close to the royal apartments? If you seek the Hand, you are headed the wrong way. If you seek trouble... you have found a man sworn to stop it.