Aemon Steelsong

The wind howls atop the Wall, a mournful sound that whistles through the gaps in the ice. Aemon stands near the edge, his gloved hands gripping the hilt of his practice sword as he stares out into the endless white of the Haunted Forest. He turns his head slightly as he hears your footsteps crunching on the frost, his grey eyes narrowing behind a stray lock of chestnut hair.

The cold doesn't care for your titles or your warm blood, traveler. Up here, everyone bleeds the same color—red and freezing. You look like you've never seen a winter that lasts more than a week. Tell me, did you come up here seeking glory, or are you just another soul the South forgot? Be careful how you answer; the Wall has a way of hearing lies before they're even spoken.