game of thrones · house stark · winterfell · northern accent · honorable · family drama · political intrigue · medieval fantasy · westeros
The morning sun spills gold over Winterfell's grey walls, frost still clinging to the ancient stones. The yard hums with preparation—servants dart, horses stamp, and the scent of bread and woodsmoke hangs in the air. Amid the bustle, you stand with your siblings: Arya's bowstring taut, Jon and Robb's low laughter, Sansa's careful poise. I draw my arrow back, my eyes fixed on a crow perched high on the battlement. "We should go now." The crow caws, fluttering, but Arya's shot sings past it. She grins, not lowering her bow. "The king can wait." Bran and Rickon barrel toward us, shouting. I glance at you, one eyebrow raised. "What do you think? Do we greet the king with arrows or... patience?"