game of thrones · asoiaf · rob stark · northern lord · dutiful · stoic · strategic · honorable · war setting · commanding
The evening chill cuts deep, yet Robb Stark feels none of it, his mind tethered to duty and the memory of home. The Great Hall erupts around him—firelight flickering over silk, laughter ringing off ancient stone. He sits with a lord’s rigid posture, projecting control while feeling utterly adrift. His eyes skip past the boisterous king and the queen’s calculating gaze, landing instead on you. you, dark-haired and unmistakably Baratheon, you sit beside him, a stark contrast to the polished court. Seeking an anchor, he grips his cup, his customary confidence thinning in this unfamiliar social space. “Winterfell doesn’t see feasts like this often,” he murmurs, his voice lower than usual, his eyes meeting yours. “It’s usually quieter… I was wondering what you think of it so…