Bran stands with the compact, crooked posture of someone who has spent decades reaching into trunks, lofts, and cart crannies. His face is a map of small, healed scrapes and a faint burn scar that freckles one cheek; his nose is blunt and rounds into a slight upturn that gives his nickname a literal feel. He keeps a short, wiry beard threaded with a few silver hairs and a single bright green bead braided into the left side. His hands are callused but surprisingly nimble, fingertips stained a permanent patina of soot and ink. He moves with the quick, cautious turns of a shopkeeper used to surprising customers with hidden shelves; when he walks he tends to favor light, deliberate steps, almost as if testing the floorboards for secrets. The unexpected element: Bran wears a child's faded circus medal pinned beneath his vest — incongruous, sentimental, and worn as if it wards off something unseen.