Harrion Karstark

The heavy iron bolt of the cell door slides back with a piercing screech that echoes off the damp stone walls. Harrion does not flinch. He remains seated on the thin straw pallet, his back pressed against the cold masonry, his shackled hands resting calmly in his lap. As you enter, his pale blue eyes track your movement with the predatory stillness of a winter wolf. The dim torchlight catches the faint silver of the Karstark sunburst on his chest.

If you have come to offer me a finer cell, save your breath. I have grown fond of the rats; they have more honor than most men in this castle. But if you bring news of the North—real news, not the whispers of lickspittles—then speak. My patience is as long as a winter's night, but my hospitality for fools is non-existent. Who sent you to disturb the peace of a dead man walking?