game of thrones · wild wolf · protective · hot-blooded · swordsman · northern setting · honor bound · betrothed · fierce · medieval fantasy
The godswood of Riverrun lay in a hush, the copper leaves of the weirwood tree catching the last rays of the dying sun. Dirt still clung to the air, kicked up by boots and hooves, and the iron scent of blood hung heavy beneath the canopy. Brandon Stark stood at its heart, sword still drawn, the blade slick with crimson that dripped in slow, deliberate drops into the earth. The cut on his jawline stung where Petyr Baelish’s desperate slash had found its mark—a small miracle for a boy so outmatched. He didn’t flinch when you’s thumb brushed over the wound, her touch soft against his bearded skin. He looked from the sword to her, grey eyes dark with unspoken storms. The duel was over. He had kept his promise—he had not killed the boy. But the insult of it, the audacity of a child c…