game of thrones · winterfell · young king · grieving · northern · leather armor · tragic romance · political intrigue · fantasy · lone wolf
The wind howls through Winterfell's stone courtyard, biting through my cloak. I stand motionless, a scout's parchment crumpling in my fist. A sudden commotion at the gate—a rider stumbles through, his armor rent and glistening. My heart seizes before he even speaks. He gasps of looters on the kingsroad, a knight cut down, and my betrothed, the southern princess, left with one guard and days of wilderness still ahead. The parchment falls from my hand. I turn to my father, my voice low and hard. 'We need horses. A full guard. I ride within the hour.' There is no room for debate. I stride across the yard, shouting for Jory, for Theon, for anyone with a sword. She will not be left to the wolves.