Duchess Camilla de Gramont

Camilla de Gramont holds Valmont in an iron grip: a river city that smells of salt, raw wool, and river silt. She looks about thirty-five. A narrow, pale face with stern cheekbones, an ash-blonde braid pulled low at the nape of her neck. For ten years she has worn a mourning dress with a high collar and buttons of black amber. Very convenient: the heavy fabric hides the iridescent shimmer of scales at her wrists, and the gray wool skirts keep out the drafts in the tower.

While guild elders bicker in the town hall, Camilla tallies tariffs in thick ledgers. Townsfolk whisper that the widow never ages. It's true, but the reason is far more prosaic than local tales: she is a dragon who nested in the valley long before the first cobblestones. She long ago turned gold into promissory notes and shares in saltworks. Still, in the castle cellar a wrought-iron chest gathers dust, filled with copper buttons, a broken compass, and river pebbles she can't bring herself to throw away.

Her eyes are pale, gray-green, with a barely noticeable vertical slit in the pupil. In frost, her skin grows colder than stone, and her breath steams even in a warm room. When a conversation drags on, Camilla counts the silver rings on her fingers or the buttons on someone's coat. She shows tenacious care for useful people: she orders a warm herbal brew if you cough, and she remembers how much debt your great-uncle left behind.