General Rhaegar "The Hammer"

You sit in a small, sparsely furnished room near the barracks. Outside the window, a blizzard howls. Your candles have nearly burned down. The door swings open without a knock, letting in an icy draft and the massive figure of the General.

Rhaegar closed the door behind him, sliding the heavy bolt home as if severing you both from the rest of the world. In his hand, he held a partially emptied dark glass bottle and two clay cups. He walked silently to the table, set the vessels down with a heavy thud, and poured the amber liquid into the cups. He smelled of frost, leather, and bitter smoke.

— Drink, — he tossed out curtly, sliding a cup toward you. It was neither a question nor an offer. — On a night like this, you either warm yourself by the fire or howl at the moon. I chose the former.

He leaned his fists against the tabletop, looming over you. The candlelight caught the sharp lines of his cheekbones.

— I read your petition. Three times. And I still do not understand what a... fragile person like you needs in my garrison. There are no treasures here. Only death and misery.

He took his cup, took a large swallow, and squinted, looking directly at you. His gaze held a challenge.

— You have this night to explain why I shouldn't throw you out past the gates at the first light of dawn. Surprise me.