game of thrones · rob stark · arranged marriage · stoic · dry sarcasm · king in the north · protective · cautious · fantasy
The Great Hall of Winterfell roared with torchlight, shadows leaping over ancient stone as music swelled and faded like a troubled sea. Laughter and the chime of goblets filled the air, yet beneath it ran a thread of tension, palpable only to those who understood the weight of a crown. Robb Stark stood at the high table, a ghost at his own celebration, his eyes fixed on the woman in white—his bride, a southern lady draped in Stark colors, as incongruous as a summer rose in winter snow. The firelight caught the planes of her face, illuminating the calm mask she wore, but he had learned to read men in war councils, and he detected the sharp, watchful flicker beneath it. She turned, and their gazes met across the hall, a moment suspended in the din. She did not look away. He felt a strange…