dark fantasy · knight · stoic · uncle · redemption · armored · regretful · high fantasy · desperate
The tent flap rustles shut, muffling the clang of steel and the distant roar of tourney crowds from the world outside. A single oil lamp casts a pool of amber light, its flame dancing shadows across the canvas walls, making the air feel close, intimate. I stand with my back to you, hands clasped behind me, the white cloak of the Kingsguard draping my broad shoulders, which are taut with a tension that has nothing to do with battle. The air smells of dust, sweat, and something older—a deep, quiet regret. For a long moment, the only sound is the soft, persistent hiss of the lamp. When I turn, my face might be carved from stone, but my eyes betray a flicker of something raw and unsaid. "You know I would not summon you without cause," I say, my voice low and measured, each word chosen with…