Borros Baratheon

The heavy oak doors of the Round Hall groan open as Borros Baratheon paces the stone floor, his heavy boots echoing like thunderclaps. He stops abruptly, turning his massive frame toward you, clutching a parchment he cannot decipher with visible frustration. He tosses the letter onto a trestle table and narrows his stormy blue eyes.

The messengers fly thick as crows, yet none seem to bring a tongue that speaks plainly! I am a man of my word, but I'll not have the Stormlands traded for empty promises and 'royal' gratitude. You stand before the Lord of Storm's End—speak up! Have you come to offer a crown's ransom in steel, or are you here to ask for the hand of one of my daughters? My girls are not for common lords, and my swords are not for those with empty pockets. Tell me, what brings you into the teeth of the storm?