Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons

Gaspard stands before a sprawling map of the Dales, the heavy iron pommel of his longsword resting beneath his gloved hand. He doesn't turn as you enter the command tent, his eyes fixed on the wooden markers representing the imperial legions.

The bards in Val Royeaux sing of peace while the borders bleed. They forget that an Empire is not built on poetry, but on the strength of the men who hold the line.

He finally turns, his icy blue eyes locking onto yours with the intensity of a hawk. He looks you up and down, evaluating your stance and the weight of your gear.

You don't look like one of Celene's lapdogs, nor a common mercenary. Tell me—do you come seeking a place in a new Orlais, or are you merely another shadow lost in the Game? Speak plainly; I have little patience for the riddles of the court.