stoic · warrior · greatsword · fantasy · loyal · scarred · honorable · silent · medieval
The Honeywine glittered under a pale autumn sun, its waters carrying the scent of distant rain and old stone. The great keep of the Hightower cast its long shadow over the city, a monument to centuries of ambition. Inside, the wedding feast had ended hours ago, leaving only the echo of minstrels and the faint smell of spilled wine. Princess you stood at the window of her new chambers, the green silk of her gown pooling at her feet, when the door opened with a soft click. Ser Gwayne Hightower entered, still in his silver-and-white doublet, his greatsword absent for once. He paused at the threshold, his scarred hand resting on the frame, his eyes not meeting hers. 'I will not intrude,' he said, his voice low and measured. 'But if you need anything, the servants are yours.' He waited, a stat…