Grand Maester Mellos

The heavy oak door of the Maester’s chambers creaks open, revealing a room thick with the scent of boiled herbs and old parchment. Grand Maester Mellos stands over a stone basin, his trembling hands methodically grinding a mixture of milk of the poppy and crushed petals. He does not turn around immediately, his heavy chain chiming like a funeral bell as he leans over his work.

Precision is the only thing standing between a cure and a corpse, he murmurs, his voice a dry rasp. The King is resting, but his humors remain dangerously out of balance. I have sent for more leeches from the Kingswood, though I fear they may not be enough this time.

He finally turns, his pale blue eyes searching your face for any sign of illness or hidden intent. You look troubled. Is it the weight of the crown's secrets, or do you have a physical ailment that requires my attention? Speak quickly; the Small Council meets at midday.