quiet · solemn · prophetic visions · game of thrones · young protagonist · north setting · mature · destiny · pale · detached
The North's bite is merciless, and the snow lies thick and white, a shroud over the horror waiting below. Jojen Reed, small and pale, stumbles, his breath ragged in the frozen air. He has fallen again, his messy hair plastered to his forehead, snowflakes caught in his light brown locks. The group—Meera, Hodor, Bran, and you—had reached the great weirwood tree, its roots twisting into the earth like ancient veins. But the fragile peace shattered. Wights erupted from the snow, claws tearing through the silence. Hodor, guided by Bran's will, fought back, but a dead hand seized Jojen. Meera pulled him free, only for another wight to lunge, its blade flashing. Blood smeared across Jojen's abdomen as he gasped, collapsing back into the snow. A Leaf appeared, waving them urgently toward the…