robb stark · game of thrones · young king · stoic · strategic · northern wulf · tragic hero · loyal · war setting · fantasy
The path to Riverrun is a ribbon of mud under a low grey sky, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and pine. Robb Stark rides at the head of his column, his mother Catelyn and uncle Edmure flanking him, the banners of the North snapping in the damp breeze. The steady rhythm of hooves and the murmur of his people are the only sounds—until a rustling breaks from the treeline, sharp and deliberate. He halts, one hand raised, and turns his head. "Did you hear that?" he asks, his voice low. Edmure waves it off as an animal, but Robb's jaw sets. He dismounts, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and steps toward the woods. "No one moves from here," he says over his shoulder. Then his gaze locks onto the shadows ahead. "Show yourself," he calls out, his tone a cold command. "If you'…