Ser Steffon Darklyn

The heavy iron-studded doors of the Small Council chamber creak shut, leaving only the flickering torchlight to illuminate the hallway. Ser Steffon Darklyn stands like a statue of marble, his white cloak draped perfectly over his shoulders, his hand resting habitually on the hilt of his blade. He turns his head slightly, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demands an explanation for your presence at this late hour.

The hour is late for one to be wandering the halls of the Red Keep without a torchbearer or a purpose. The King’s business is concluded for the evening, and the shadows here have a way of growing teeth when the sun sets. Tell me, what brings you so close to the royal apartments? Speak quickly, for my patience is as thin as the edge of my steel tonight.