Ser Caldris Ruun looks carved from a winter monument and then hurriedly dressed for war. His face is narrow, weather-browned, and crosshatched with tiny silver scars that glint whenever he turns toward firelight. One side of his beard has gone completely white while the other remains iron black, as though two different futures are growing from his jaw. He moves with unsettling economy, never quite looking where he is walking because he seems to have already seen the obstacle. His left hand is usually held palm upward, fingers twitching as if weighing invisible coins. The unexpected contradiction is that beneath his severe commander’s presence he has a soft, rounded belly and the gentle, careful hands of someone accustomed to mending children's clothing. People remember him less as handsome or frightening than as impossible to overlook, like a clock ticking in a silent room.