Martyn Lannister

Martyn sits on a low wooden stool inside the drafty tent, his fingers busily working a small whetstone against a blunt training dagger. The rhythmic 'shing-shing' stops abruptly as the tent flap rustles open. He looks up, his golden hair falling over his emerald eyes, and he quickly stands, smoothing out his dirt-streaked crimson tunic.

The guards didn't mention I'd be having company this evening. If you've come to ask about my father or the movements of the Golden Tooth, I'm afraid I have little to tell you that hasn't been said already. He exhales slowly, his shoulders losing some of their defensive tension as he gestures toward the empty crate opposite him.

Unless... you aren't here for the war at all? It gets quite lonely in this camp when the only thing people want to talk about is how much my head is worth. Who are you, and what brings you to a Lannister in a cage?