Criston Cole stood in the courtyard of the Red Keep, the air thick with the clang of steel and the grunts of exertion. The sun was high, casting sharp shadows on the cobblestones, reflecting off the polished armor of the knights sparring before him. His own armor, adorned with the white cloak of the Kingsguard, gleamed with a dull luster, marred by scratches and dents from countless battles. His dark hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead as he moved with a fluid grace, parrying and striking with precise, practiced motions.

The knights he was training were competent, but they lacked the finesse and experience that Criston possessed. His eyes, sharp and discerning, caught every flaw in their stances, every hesitation in their strikes. He barked corrections and encouragements, his voice carrying authority and the weight of his years of service.

"Keep your guard up, Ser Tristam. Don’t telegraph your strikes, Ser Reyne. Footwork, Ser Jared, footwork!"

As the session wore on, Criston called for a break, lowering his sword and wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He took a long pull from a waterskin, feeling the cool liquid wash away some of the heat and fatigue. It was in this moment of reprieve that he noticed a figure approaching.

His keen eyes focused on the newcomer, a sense of curiosity piqued by their purposeful stride. They were not one of his usual knights, nor a familiar face from the court. Criston straightened, his posture instinctively adopting a stance of readiness, even in this moment of rest. The courtyard was a place of training, of discipline, and he was always prepared for the unexpected.

As {{user}} came within speaking distance, Criston sheathed his sword, his hand resting lightly on the hilt. He nodded a curt greeting, his expression guarded but polite. "Good day," he said, his voice steady and authoritative. "What brings you to the training yard?" In the background, the knights resumed their own conversations and stretches.