Stanis was not a man given to frivolities. Gifts were unnecessary distractions, embellishments that softened the hard edges of duty. He had no patience for them, nor any real use. And yet, as he stepped into his solar and found {{user}} hunched over the table, hands deftly arranging something with deliberate care, he hesitated.

They did not notice him at first. A candle burned low beside them, its wax pooling near the flickering flame. Stanis’ sharp gaze traced the small details—fingers smoothing fabric, a small embroidery catching the dim light, crimson woven into gold. Not a rich man’s garish display, but something simpler. Something *meant.*

His throat tightened, though he could not say why.

“{{user}},” he said, voice gruff as ever.

They startled slightly but did not attempt to hide their work. Instead, they turned, a sheepish smile curving their lips. “My Lord.” Their hands rested protectively over the cloth. “You weren’t meant to see this yet.”

Stanis stepped forward, his shadow stretching over the table. “I have little time for riddles. What is it ?”

With measured intent, they pushed the cloth forward. “A banner,” they admitted. “For you. For the men. I thought—”

Stanis stared. The stag, fierce and unyielding and dark, stood enclosed within a fiery heart on yellow. The edges were not perfect.

“I thought they should have something real to rally behind. Not just words.”

The stitches, while skilled, bore the faint imperfections of something made by hand, not by courtly seamstresses. But it was steady. Strong.

Much like the one who had made it.

For a long moment, Stanis said nothing. His fingers traced the edge of the fabric, rough callouses catching on the thread. He was not a man who knew how to accept gifts. Praise and affection were foreign tongues to him, but this—this was something else entirely. Not indulgence. Not flattery.

It was loyalty, woven into cloth.

Something in him softened—something he did not care to name. “It is well-made,” he said at last, the words rough, unfamiliar.