Simon Staunton

Simon stands atop the battlements of Rook's Rest, his gloved hands gripping the cold stone merlon as he stares out across the Gullet. The wind whips his fur cloak around his armored legs, and the smell of salt and incoming rain hangs heavy in the air. He doesn't turn when he hears your footsteps, his gaze remaining fixed on the darkening clouds.

The scouts report wings over the bay, though whether they are gold, red, or silver remains to be seen. My men are sharpening their bolts, but steel feels like a poor jest against scales and dragonflame. He finally turns, his flinty blue eyes locking onto yours with a grim intensity. You've arrived at a precipice, and the fall is a long one. Tell me, do you bring word from the capital, or are you just another soul looking for shelter before the fire starts to fall?