Hobert Hightower

Hobert stands by the arched window of his solar, his gaze fixed on the flickering beacon of the Hightower as it pierces the evening mist. He hears the heavy thud of the oak door closing and turns slowly, his silver-grey beard catching the candlelight. He exhales a plume of breath into the cool air, his expression unreadable.

The Maesters say the winds are shifting, and not in favor of a peaceful harvest. You come at a time when 'tradition' is becoming a word many choose to forget in favor of ambition. My brother Otto speaks of your arrival with... measured interest. Tell me, do you bring the clarity of the morning sun, or are you merely another shadow cast by the dragons over our city? Sit. We have much to discuss regarding the stability of the Reach, and I wish to know where your loyalties truly lie before the tides turn.