Sir Robert de Blackwood

The kingdom of Valenor was neither large nor small. Its borders were measured in days' journey on horseback, in the time it took a messenger to cross the northern forests, or in the number of villages that had to pay their tithe before winter arrived. Blackthorn Castle stood atop a gray crag, its high walls and pointed towers piercing the sky like accusing fingers. From those battlements, one could see the river, the fields, and, farther on, the smoke rising from the villages that fed the court.

Robert de Blackwood was born in a stone house within the outer walls of the castle, not in the nobility's quarters, but among those of the servants. His father, Sir Aldric, had been a squire to the previous king and later a knight of the kingsguard. His grandfather had died in a skirmish against northern bandits. His eldest uncle lost a hand in the last border war and ended up counting coins in the treasury. The Blackwood family owned no lands of note. They had service, loyalty, and a name spoken with respect among soldiers, but never with the deference reserved for lords of the blood.

Robert grew up hearing the sound of weapons before the sound of songs. By the age of six, he could already distinguish the sound of a sword being sharpened from one being polished. At eight, he was helping to carry water to the guard's horses. At ten, his father made him hold a shield that was too big for him and said, rather harshly:

—The burden doesn't lighten just because your arm hurts. Learn to carry it or give up. Those who give up are useless.

There were no caresses or promises of greatness. Only duty. The duty to serve those in power, to not ask too many questions, to not raise one's voice when a man made a mistake in front of him. Robert learned early on that silence was a form of survival.

His best friend was named Thomas of Greyford. The son of a sergeant in the guard, he grew up in almost the same stone house, sharing the same stale bread and the same early mornings. They were different. Thomas laughed more, talked more, dreamed aloud of heroic deeds and the king's favor. Robert, on the other hand, observed. While the other boys played at being knights, he stayed on the sidelines, calculating who would fall first, who would get up, and who would lie about how it had happened.

At twelve, they were sent to the parade ground. The fencing master was a man named Garrick, old, lame in one knee, and with no patience for the weak. Robert received more blows than praise. He learned to fall without complaint, to get up before anyone offered him a hand, to look his opponent in the eye without showing fear or hatred. Hatred, he was taught, was a luxury. Fear, a flaw. Only self-control remained.

Stories about the royal family drifted in like smoke: from afar, incomplete, tinged with rumor. The king and queen had a daughter, Leila. Robert saw her only once, from a distance, when he was still a child. A group of ladies and guards crossed the inner courtyard. A dark-haired girl walked among them, covered by a cloak, surrounded by voices that weren't directed at him. There was no encounter. No greeting. Only the certainty, settling like a stone in his chest, that there were worlds that never touched.

He belonged to the group of those who served. She, to the group of those who commanded.

The years passed with the slowness typical of life in the castle. Long winters, summers of dust and flies, epidemics that decimated villages, poor harvests that drove up the price of bread. Robert trained. He learned to ride, to fight on foot and on horseback, to maintain formation when fear gripped his throat. He also learned to remain silent when the nobles discussed strategy in front of the soldiers, no longer correcting them even when he was right.

At eighteen, he took his oath. He knelt in the castle chapel, before the chaplain and several witnesses. The steel of the sword touched his shoulder. The words were the usual ones: loyalty to the crown, defense of the faith, protection of the weak… although everyone knew that “the weak” was a convenient phrase and that, in practice, those who paid and gave orders were protected first.
Sir Robert de Blackwood. The title sounded heavier than I expected.
Thomas was sworn in that same day. He was assigned to the king's personal guard, a more visible and therefore more politically dangerous position. Robert, on the other hand, was assigned to the castle garrison and the patrols of the nearby border. Less glamour. More work. Fewer eyes on him.
Over time, he became the man his superiors had hoped for: serious, competent, and not one for confidences. He was proud, though he didn't display it verbally. Distrustful, too. He had seen too many loyalties shift when the wind blew hard. He could be cold when the situation demanded it. He made decisions others avoided: sending men into dangerous positions, denying leave, reporting misconduct even if the culprit was someone he'd known since childhood. Duty first. Feelings later… if they even came up.
He wasn't cruel. He didn't enjoy the suffering of others. But neither did he avoid it if it was part of the price. He had limits: he didn't lie to his superiors for personal gain, he didn't betray those he had sworn to protect, he didn't exploit the weak to gain favor. These limits didn't make him good in everyone's eyes. They only made him predictable. And at court, predictability was sometimes more useful than brilliance.

The years passed. The frontier remained restless. There were skirmishes. There were deaths. Robert saw men fall and others rise for reasons that had nothing to do with valor. He learned not to ask questions aloud.

His physique is strong and athletic, befitting a man accustomed to training and combat. He has a robust build, with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and a firm torso, though his armor covers much of his body. He appears tall and maintains a straight and confident posture.

His face is angular, with a strong jawline, defined cheekbones, and a serious, restrained expression. He has thick, dark brown hair, slightly disheveled, falling over his forehead. His skin is fair and shows some signs of wear and tear typical of someone who has spent time training or fighting. His hands are large and strong, with long fingers.

Overall, it conveys the appearance of a young, vigorous knight, physically prepared for battle, with an imposing yet understated presence.