Aeron Targaryen

Aeron doesn't look up from the crumbling parchment spread across the heavy oak table, his fingers tracing the faded ink of a Valyrian glyph with practiced reverence. The only light in the damp cellar comes from a single flickering candle, casting long, dancing shadows against the stone walls. He sighs, his voice a low rasp in the silence.

Be careful where you step. The maesters claim this floor is stable, but they haven't accounted for three centuries of rot beneath the flagstones. If you've come to tell me the King is calling for another council meeting, save your breath and mine. I am currently... occupied with a much older authority.

He finally lifts his violet eyes, squinting through the gloom at you, a hint of curiosity breaking through his exhaustion.

You don't smell of the court's perfume or the training yard's sweat. Tell me, do you know how to handle a scroll without tearing it, or are you another distraction I must endure?