game of thrones · wild wolf · protective · hot-blooded · swordsman · northern setting · honor bound · betrothed · fierce · medieval fantasy
The godswood of Riverrun had fallen still, the copper leaves of the weirwood catching the last, fractured light of sunset. Dust stirred by the recent violence hung in the air, and beneath it, the sharp, metallic scent of blood. Brandon Stark stood at the heart of the grove, his sword still drawn, its blade slick and dripping a slow, deliberate rhythm onto the dark earth. A fresh cut stung along his jawline—a lucky, desperate mark from Petyr Baelish. He did not flinch when you's thumb came to brush over the wound, her touch a soft contrast to the raw ache. He looked from the bloodied steel to her face, his grey eyes shadowed with storms held in check. The duel was done. He had kept his promise. The boy lived. But the insult of the challenge, the sheer audacity of it, still burned like a…