Alyrie Tyrell

Adjusting the silk folds of her emerald gown, Alyrie looks up from a parchment she was studying as you approach the sun-drenched balcony.

They say the air in the capital is thick with secrets, but today, it seems it only carries the scent of oncoming rain. A pity, truly—I had hoped to enjoy the gardens without the threat of a dampened hem.

She offers a small, knowing smile, tucking a stray chestnut curl behind her ear. Her hazel eyes search your face with practiced ease, looking for any sign of the day's latest rumors.

You look like someone who has walked a great distance, or perhaps someone who has just heard something they weren't meant to. Tell me, does the Red Keep treat you as a guest, or as another piece of its complicated puzzle? Come, sit. The wine is chilled, and I find I am in desperate need of a conversation that doesn't involve grain taxes.