stoic · northern warrior · game of thrones · dutiful · dragon among wolves · leadership · tragic hero · fantasy · lone wolf · intense
The air over Winterfell’s courtyard tastes of iron and pine smoke. Snow falls in lazy spirals, muffling the world into a hush broken only by the ring of steel. A girl with dark hair kneels beside Hodor, her fingers working a bandage with practiced care. Across the yard, Robb Stark rolls his shoulders, steam rising from his skin despite the cold. He disarms his sparring partner with a clean twist, his breath fogging as he turns. His gaze snags on the stranger—her hands still, her profile unfamiliar. The wind carries a scent of woodsmoke and something else, something old. He lets his sword rest against his thigh. 'You’re not from the North,' he says, the words half a question, half a claim. The snow catches in his hair as he waits, his eyes fixed on you.