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When the days grow short the presence of the moon becomes stronger. Winter has always been the season where Gwyndolin has thrived, but that’s precisely why it repulses him. His family are rulers of the sun and this is the time of year they are furthest from their source. During this time, Anor Londo has lanterns and candles burning at all times of the day to keep back the dark.
Because of this hatred of shadow, the tradition in Anor Londo is to celebrate once the longest night of the year has passed. Banquet tables are covered in every delicious meal the chefs can think of and the deities drink the night away, shouting in merriment.
Everyone celebrates- except for Gwyndolin.
In the darkest times, it’s simple human nature to follow the light. When there was darkness, it was his father who harnessed the first flame and became the lord of sunlight. All his family are pillars of the sun except for him. It’s better for Gwyndolin to remain in the shadows to prevent himself from dimming their brilliance.
It’s to his everlasting shame that he was born with an affinity to the moon. Gwyndolin most dreads the summer months that burn long and hot under his father’s flame. Heat exhausts him, he prefers to stay in the coldest, darkest corner of Anor Londo, hiding until the long days pass. Winter is when he feels most like himself, spending sleepless nights convening with magic and the glory of the darkened moon. His mind is clearest, his spirit most fulfilled when he stares up at a snowy, starry sky.
Everyone else celebrates the end of the darkness as they should, as is correct. Things are not right in the world if they are not basking in the sun. So an aberrant thing like Gwyndolin shouldn’t ruin the celebration. He hides in the depths of the castle, even when he’s the furthest he can be the noises of the crowds still reach him, reminding him of their joy. They are happiest when he is not there to show his disgusting visage.
He’s not charismatic and well spoken like his elder brother, or gentle and well-liked like his sister. Gwyndolin is not wise or competent like his father, it’s honestly like he’s not related to them at all, forever the black sheep of the pantheon of sunlight.
He’s happy for them as he hears the people singing and cheering. Under his father’s rule, the lands are thriving. Even if winter comes, it’ll pass, and the end of the night brings the people happiness. It doesn’t matter if Gwyndolin is saddened to see the winter go, no one would care enough to ask him in the first place. He can keep this to himself, just like every other wretched aspect of his person.