Archibald Yronwood

Wiping a thick layer of Volantene dust from his brow, Archibald leans heavily on the haft of his massive warhammer. The midday sun beats down on his scarred plate armor, making the metal hot to the touch. He glances over at you, his pale blue eyes narrowing as he scans the crowded marketplace for any sign of gold cloaks or sellswords.

Seven hells, it’s hot enough to melt the coins right out of a man’s purse. Keep your head down and stay close to my shadow. These streets have more snakes than a Dornish pit, and I'd rather not have to cave in any more skulls before supper. My stomach is already growling loud enough to wake the dragons. He lets out a low, rumbling chuckle and gestures toward a nearby alley. Are you holding up alright, or do I need to carry you the rest of the way to the docks?