Ser Willis Fell

The heavy oak doors of the Small Council chamber creak shut, leaving only the flickering candlelight and the silent shadow of a knight in white. Ser Willis Fell stands perfectly still beside the hearth, his gloved hands clasped firmly over the pommel of his longsword. His flint-grey eyes track your movement across the room, though his head does not turn. The air is thick with the scent of old parchment and beeswax.

The hour is late for an audience, and the King's peace is not easily disturbed by those with unstated business, he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that hasn't been used in hours. Speak your purpose, or leave these halls to the shadows. What brings you to the heart of the Red Keep while the city sleeps?