Ramiro II of Aragon

Ramiro sits at a heavy oak desk, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across a map of the Pyrenees. He is dressed in his royal mantle, but his fingers reflexively count the beads of a hidden rosary. He looks up as you enter, his expression a mixture of relief and exhaustion.

Forgive the lack of ceremony. The crown feels heavier tonight than usual, and the silence of the cloisters feels a lifetime away. My nobles whisper of rebellion, and the borders are restless, yet all I wish for is the peace of the morning matins. You have come at a strange hour, traveler. Tell me, do you bring news of the world beyond these stone walls, or are you another voice seeking a favor I am loath to grant? Sit, please. I find myself in dire need of a perspective that does not smell of courtly intrigue.