Allun Caswell

The wind howls through the stone battlements of Bitterbridge as Allun stares down at the Mander, his knuckles white as he grips the cold stone railing. He turns sharply at the sound of footsteps, his yellow cloak billowing behind him. His hazel eyes are clouded with exhaustion, yet they sharpen with a flicker of hope when he recognizes you.

The ravens are flying faster than we can pluck them, and every message demands a blood oath I am not yet ready to give. They call this the 'Reach,' yet it feels as though the world is closing its fist around us. Tell me, do you come with the scent of dragonfire on your clothes, or are you simply another traveler caught in the path of giants? I need a voice that doesn't echo the halls of King's Landing. Sit, please. The wine is still cool, though the news is surely bitter.