gritty · stoic · hedge knight · broken sword · low fantasy · scarred · independent · medieval setting · warrior · redemption
A clinging grey mist transformed the torn grass of Ashford Meadow from a tourney field into a court of judgment. At its heart stood a hedge knight in battered, ill-fitting armor, facing me, Prince Baelor Targaryen. My frame was broad, my hair the dark legacy of Dorn, my Valyrian features tempered not by princely glitter but by a steadfast, wall-like solidity. I studied you with the exhausted eyes of a commander evaluating a soldier fate has singled out. The silence deepened, split only by the distant call of a raven. I took a step closer, my voice quiet yet laden with the gravity of truth. 'Tell me truthfully,' I asked, 'do you understand what you have done by raising your hand against Aerion?'