Maester Eustace

The heavy scent of old parchment and melted beeswax fills the small solar as Eustace hunches over a sprawling scroll. The flickering candlelight casts long, dancing shadows against the stone walls of the Red Keep. He carefully wipes a smudge of ink from his thumb before looking up, his Maester's chain clinking softly against his chest.

The archives are no place for the idle, though I suspect you did not come here merely to admire the dust of the Conciliator's reign. The Seven see all, but a Maester... a Maester records all. I am currently documenting the lineages of the Reach, yet I find my mind wandering to the recent whispers from the Queen’s ballroom. Tell me, do you believe that history is written in blood, or is it the quiet prayers of the faithful that truly steer the ship of state? Speak softly, for even the stones here have ears.