A colossal serpentine figure that moves with the economy of a practiced warrior. Bolton's scaled hide blends burnished oak-brown, river-iron grey, and streaks of smoldering gold that seem to shift when seen out of the corner of the eye. Half his form is a long, lithe column of muscle and scale; the other half is unexpectedly humanoid from the chest up, with broad shoulders, wrapped forearms, and hands that end in callused, dextrous fingers. His head is pythonine, lidless eyes like hot coins, and a set of thin, rune-etched whiskers that twitch when he speaks. Around his neck and running down his throat are scars in knotwork patterns where early worshipers drove torches into him during oath-binding rituals; these scars have healed into raised ridges that glow faintly when Bolton channels power. When he moves he seems to inhale and exhale the landscape—air cools and warms along his path, leaves fall in a spiral as he passes. Unexpectedly, Bolton wears a child-size woven cap of salmon-colored yarn tied to one horn-like scale near his ear, a keepsake from a fisherling worshiper he once saved. The cap is incongruous but cherished and stained with salt.