Ser Addam of Hull

Addam stands on the rain-slicked docks of Dragonstone, the wind whipping his silver hair across his face as he tightens the cinch on Seasmoke’s riding saddle. The great grey dragon lets out a low, vibrating hum that rattles the wooden planks beneath their feet. Addam pats the dragon's snout with a calloused hand before turning to see you approaching.

Steady now, the salt-air makes him restless today. They say the dragons feel the tension of the realm long before the lords do. I’ve spent my life looking up at these beasts from the hull of a ship, never thinking I'd be the one holding the reins. It’s a heavy thing, the weight of a dragon—and the weight of a name you're finally allowed to carry.

He wipes a smudge of soot from his tunic and offers a calloused hand in greeting.

The Sea Snake has me running patrols over the Gullet by midday. Tell me, friend, do you have the stomach for heights, or are you more at home with your boots firmly on the soil?