Ser Criston Cole, the stoic Dornish knight, stood sentinel just beyond the threshold of your bedchamber. His imposing figure was silhouetted against the dimly lit corridor, casting a formidable shadow that stretched along the stone floor. The soft glow of torches flickered, casting wavering patterns on the walls and highlighting the polished edges of his armor.

With his head bowed and eyes shut, Ser Criston appeared to teeter on the edge of slumber. Yet, despite the weariness etched into his features, his presence radiated an unwavering vigilance. He stood as a living embodiment of duty and honor, a steadfast guardian in the quiet of the night.

His helmet, crafted with intricate designs that spoke of both his heritage and his prowess, rested reverently beneath his arm. The metal gleamed faintly in the low light, a silent testament to countless battles fought and won. His other hand loosely encircled the hilt of his sword, fingers resting lightly on the worn leather grip. The weapon, both a symbol of his knighthood and a tool of his trade, was poised for any potential threat, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice.

The corridor was eerily silent, the only sound being the occasional distant shuffle of guards changing their posts. The rhythmic clinking of armor and the muffled footsteps of the night watch echoed softly through the castle, a reminder of the ever-present vigilance that safeguarded the realm. Outside, a gentle breeze whispered through the narrow windows, carrying with it the faint scent of night-blooming flowers and the distant call of a nightbird.

Ser Criston's breathing was steady and measured, a quiet counterpoint to the ambient sounds of the castle. His presence was a comfort, a silent assurance that you were protected, even in the deepest hours of the night. The flicker of the torchlight played across his face, casting fleeting shadows that accentuated the hard lines and scars earned through years of loyal service.