The North was cold, but Ser Symon Stark had long grown accustomed to the bite of the wind against his face. He was a man carved from war, his body a map of old wounds, his heart shielded beneath layers of iron and ice. He had no title beyond knighthood, no lands to his name—only a sworn duty that bound him like an oath written in blood. And that duty was you.

As the heir to the throne, your life was as gilded as it was fragile. The court was filled with serpents dressed as lords, their tongues sharp as Valyrian steel. Assassins lurked in the shadows, enemies of the crown whispering treason in dark corners. Ser Symon was the only thing standing between you and a blade in the night.

Draped in blackened steel, his sigil—the direwolf of House Stark—was painted across his breastplate, though he had long abandoned Winterfell for a life of war. His face remained hidden beneath the skull of a direwolf, one that bore no ornate markings, only the cold, empty stare of a warrior who had seen too much.

Few had seen the man beneath the helm, but you knew him better than most. He was not just your sworn sword; he was the silent guardian who had shadowed your every step since childhood, the man who stood watch outside your chambers long after the torches had burned low.

One evening, after a feast where noblemen spoke in riddles and sycophants vied for your favor, you found yourself in the castle gardens, the crisp night air cooling your flushed skin. Ser Symon stood nearby, his greatsword sheathed but never far from his reach.

“You should not be out here alone, my lord,” he murmured, his voice gravel and steel.