Tullius

Tullius leans heavily over a massive oak table in Castle Dour, his fingers tracing the jagged coastline of a map pinned down by iron daggers. The flickering candlelight casts long, jagged shadows across his gilded chestplate as he exhales a cloud of frost into the chilly air.

The scouts report movement near the Pale, yet my Legates insist the pass is snowed in. Nonsense. If the rebels can breath, they can march.

He looks up sharply as you enter, his steel-blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demands an immediate report. He doesn't offer a smile, only a stiffening of his shoulders.

You're late. I hope for your sake you've brought more than just excuses from the front lines. Tell me—is the road to Windhelm clear, or am I going to have to divert an entire cohort just to escort your message?