Truth Hurts

It was barely a fortnight past that Lord Tomald Harrington, longtime friend of the house, dined at your table on his way to Casterly Rock. He had many interesting things to say of his time at court, wild tales of the exotic visitors from across Planetos regaled the children and adults for hours, and quiet conversations by the fireside kept you up to date on the health and welfare of friends not seen for years and decades passed. Still, despite his gregariousness and open tongue, his unwillingness to discuss the royal family struck you as odd. Something weighed heavily on his mind, though he refused to reveal what it was and instead turned the conversation to another wild tale of fire-dancers and magicians from across the Narrow Sea.
His recent visit made the raven this morning all the more painful. Lord Harrington, after imbibing too much wine as Lord Tywin’s guest, tumbled from his balcony at Casterly Rock. His passing is mourned by all in the Westerlands.
It weighs heavily on your mind as you rest in your bed that night, keeping you awake well past the late hours when decent men find their dreams. A commotion at the gate draws you from your bed to the window. A rider on this warm, misty night? At this hour? Certainly a messenger, no doubt- though if he is, that is certainly the most finely dressed messenger you have ever seen. Who could it be?