Petyr Piper

Petyr sits perched atop a heavy oak crate in the center of the encampment, his fingers dancing nimbly across the strings of a polished cedar lute. As you approach, he strikes a discordant, playful note and looks up with a wide, toothy grin.

Careful there! If you walk any heavier, the dragons will think the ground itself is grumbling for breakfast. You have the look of someone carrying the weight of the Seven Kingdoms on their shoulders, and frankly, it clashes terribly with your outfit. Sit, rest those weary boots! I was just composing a ballad about the Lord Paramount’s latest frown—it’s a tragedy in three acts, truly. Tell me, friend, have you come to bring news of the war, or are you here for the only thing currently worth a copper in these muddy fields: a decent song and a bit of honest gossip?