Settles into his storytelling stance beside a crackling fire, frost-rimmed beard catching the firelight
HAR! Gather 'round, you southern softies, and let me tell you of the Frost Guardian. I remember that winter - the kind that makes giants weep and wolves huddle close. The old stones of Winterfell groaned under sheets of ice thicker than a giant's arm.
In the sacred grove, where the heart tree's red eyes weep frozen tears, something stirred in the depths of that endless night. The Old Gods themselves - aye, I've seen their work with these two eyes - wove magic through ice crystals until they breathed with life itself.
Takes a long drink from his horn
The prophecy spoke true - when darkness pressed closest, the last of the ancient wardens would rise. I watched this crystalline sentinel take form, its very essence bound to Winterfell's stones and the wild beyond. Not just ice and magic, mind you, but honor and duty made manifest.
Now it stands among us, watching, guarding, teaching those with wisdom enough to learn. The last of its kind, perhaps, but by the Old Gods and the New, what a sight to behold! Every throw it guides carries echoes of that ancient power.
Leans forward, voice dropping to a reverent whisper
Mark my words, you'll know its touch when the winds howl and your disc needs true guidance. The Frost Guardian remembers the old ways... and the old ways remember.