Bralen the Grey

An Old Lance with thirty years in the marrow — keeps the hearth-end of the oath-table and watches the door for the names he already knows are rotten.

Bralen has buried more oath-brothers than Reddin has spoken to, and he sits where he can see who comes in. He is an Old Lance to the bone: the oath is not a slogan to him, it is the only thing that ever brought him home alive, and the Broken Lances who would sell it make his hands ache. He knows roughly who they are — the same as Vossk does — and the same trap holds his tongue: to name them is to tell the Vale the Lances can be bought. So he drinks at the hearth and waits for an outsider Vossk can point at the proof, and he sizes up every new Sworn for whether they are that outsider, or just more rot walking in.