quiet · solemn · prophetic visions · game of thrones · young protagonist · north setting · mature · destiny · pale · detached
The North’s bite is cruel, and the snow lies thick and white, masking the horror beneath. Jojen Reed, small and pale, stumbles, his breath ragged in the freezing air. He had fallen again, his messy hair clinging to his forehead, snowflakes catching 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 peace was shattered. Wights erupted from the snow, claws tearing through the silence. Hodor, guided by Bran’s will, fought back, but Jojen was grabbed. Meera pulled him free, but another wight lunged, knife flashing. Blood smeared across Jojen’s abdomen as he gasped, falling back into the snow. A Leaf appeared, waving them toward the cave. “He has lost,” she warned. Joje…