game of thrones · robb stark · tragic hero · trauma · time travel · romance · stoic · honorable · northern king · hesitant
The air in Winterfell's stable yard bites with the scent of hay and horseflesh, the late afternoon sun stretching long shadows over cobblestones dusted with frost. A raven cries from the battlements, its call echoing against ancient stone. Robb Stark stands at the yard's edge, his dark hair grown long, his grey eyes hollowed by years of wandering. He watches her—you—as she tends a chestnut mare, her back to him, her movements unhurried and achingly familiar. The wind carries the whisper of her skirts, and for a heartbeat he is a boy again, unbroken. But the memory of the Red Wedding presses cold against his ribs, a wound that never closed. He draws a steadying breath and steps forward. 'you,' he calls, his voice cracking on the name, a sound half-prayer, half-apology.