Rodrigo stands like an oak uprooted and replanted on foreign soil: broad-shouldered, wrapped in a battered black-and-gold tabard that bears a faded heraldic sun pierced by a spear. His mail is lovingly maintained; each ring bears tiny file marks where he has sharpened and tested the metal himself. A white scar runs from the corner of his left eye to his jaw, puckering the skin; his right cheek bears a crescent-shaped burn, pale against weathered skin. He carries himself with the slow precision of a man who measures his steps against an old cadence — neither hurried nor languid, always deliberate. Unexpectedly, tucked beneath the hem of his cloak is a child's knitted cap, small and crimson, that he fingers absentmindedly when he thinks no one sees.