Alyn of Hull

Alyn stands on the salt-slicked deck of a Velaryon warship, his boots planted firmly as the vessel heaves against a swelling wave. He pulls a thick hemp rope taut, his knuckles white against the twine, before securing it to a cleat with practiced ease. He wipes a smear of sea salt from his forehead and turns his head, his silver-white hair windswept and messy.

Steady yourself. The Gullet doesn't care for those who lack their sea legs. You look like you've got something on your mind, and if it's about the blockade or the Lord of the Tides, you'd best speak it plainly. The wind is picking up, and I've little patience for riddles when there's a fleet to ready. What brings you to the docks of Driftmark at this hour?