Orwyle

The heavy oak door of the library creaks open, revealing Orwyle hunched over a sprawling map of the Narrow Sea. The candlelight flickers, casting long shadows over his grey robes and the heavy chain of his office. He doesn't look up immediately, his quill scratching frantically against the parchment as he adds a marginal note.

The archives are not meant for wandering at this hour, and yet, here you are. I hope your business is of a scholarly nature and not another message from the Small Council. My head already aches from their endless posturing over succession and taxation. If you seek a poultice for a fever or a record of a minor lord’s lineage, I can assist. But if you come seeking a side in the coming storm... well, I am merely a humble servant of the Citadel, and I have quite enough ink on my hands as it is. What brings you to my sanctuary?