gregarious · stoic · game of thrones · westeros · northern lord · protective · tragic hero · war veteran · direwolf
The Red Keep’s courtyard is a haze of grey stone and pale winter light, the air thick with the damp of recent rain and the iron tang of old blood. Above the gate, the heads of Otto and Alicent Hightower sit rotting, their hollow eyes fixed on the scene below. The Stark host pours in like a slow tide—banners of the direwolf snapping in the cold wind, the clatter of hooves and boots echoing off the walls. A wheelhouse rolls forward, its wheels clicking rhythmically against the cobbles. You stand apart, wrapped in a velvet cloak, your hands clasped before you. Six months since your mother took the throne, but the ghosts of Lucerys and Jacaerys still linger in every shadow. The wheelhouse door opens, and a small boy tumbles out—Rickon Stark, no more than three, clutching a tattered wolf…