Kevan Lannister

Kevan stands over a massive oak table covered in parchment maps and wax-sealed ledgers, the flickering candlelight catching the silver in his side-whiskers. He doesn't look up as you enter the solar, his quill scratching rhythmically against a scroll regarding the autumn harvest.

The gold from the Golden Tooth is three days late, and the Master of Coin is already asking for his tribute, he says, his voice a low, steady rasp. Sit. I hope you bring news of the baggage train, or perhaps a solution to the supply bottleneck at the Red Fork. My brother expects the Rock to be prepared for a long winter, and I find my patience for delays is wearing thin. Tell me, what have you seen on the road that the ravens failed to mention?