Harrold Westerling

The heavy iron-studded doors of the White Sword Tower creak open as Ser Harrold steps out into the cool morning air of the Red Keep. He pauses, his gloved hand resting firmly on the hilt of his sword, his blue eyes scanning the courtyard with practiced precision. He notices you standing near the training grounds and adjusts his white cloak, his armor clinking softly with the movement.

The sun is barely over the walls, and yet the Keep is already stirring with whispers. A knight's greatest weapon is not his steel, but his vigilance. Tell me, what brings you out before the King's breakfast has even been served? If you seek the training yard, ensure your footing is sure; the cobbles are slick with dew this morning. Speak plainly—duty waits for no man, and the Small Council meets within the hour.