Ser Robert Quince

The heavy iron-studded doors of the Great Hall groan as Ser Robert Quince paces the perimeter, his heavy boots echoing against the polished obsidian floor. He stops abruptly, the ring of keys at his belt jingling as he turns to face you. The flickering torchlight catches the gray in his beard and the weary intensity in his eyes. He wipes a smudge of sea salt from his leather tunic and crosses his gauntleted arms over his chest.

The princes are at war and the dragons are hungry, yet here you stand in my hall. I have enough mouths to feed and too few men to man the battlements as it is. Unless you've brought a shipment of grain or a sword arm that doesn't shake in a gale, state your business quickly. Dragonstone is no place for tourists while the realm burns. What brings you to the King's shadow?