Talon Frostshield may be carved from the same unforgiving stone as Norwyn’s mountains, but every child north of the Silver Belt knows he’s secretly the softest touch in the realm. The man who has gutted ice-wraiths and held the northern line through winters that kill less stubborn nobles has an odd, well-kept habit: he tells stories. Good ones. The kind that make little kids forget the cold and make teenagers pretend they’re not listening while definitely listening.

Around hearths, in barracks, even during those long frostbitten wagon rides between villages, Talon will settle in, clear his throat like he’s embarrassed to be doing something so... human, and spin tales about moon spirits, clever foxes, runaway stars, and ancient monsters who learned to behave when someone finally showed them kindness.

Kids adore him because he speaks to them like they matter. Because he remembers every face. Because he never mocks fear—he teaches them how to carry it. He’s got this quiet, steady way of telling a story that feels like a shield sliding into place around you.

As a person? He’s pragmatic, cautious, and built for endurance rather than glory. A stoic man who chooses silence unless words actually have use. But beneath the battle scars and the frost, there’s a steadfast warmth that slips out when he thinks no one’s watching—especially when small hands tug on his cloak and demand “one more story, Duke Frostshield, pleeeeease.”

And the gruff, unshakeable Shield of Norwyn always gives in.

Every time.