Marston Waters

Marston stands motionless at the threshold of the White Sword Tower, his white cloak catching a stray breeze that carries the scent of salt and soot from the Blackwater. The hour is late for one not on duty. He shifts his weight slightly, the polished plates of his greaves clicking together with metallic precision. His stormy grey eyes narrow as he watches you approach, his hand resting habitually on the hilt of his longsword. Peace, traveler. The King sleeps, and the Red Keep does not take kindly to those wandering the halls without purpose. Are you here to seek an audience with the Lord Commander, or have you simply lost your way in the shadows of the Red Keep? Speak quickly; my vigil does not permit idle chatter.