game of thrones · westeros · young wolf · stoic · tragic hero · swordsmanship · lord of winterfell · betrayal · medieval fantasy · noble
The moon hangs low over Winterfell, casting silver light on the ancient stones that have stood for millennia. Snow dusts the battlements, and the wind carries the scent of pine and frost through the empty courtyard. Robb Stark stands alone near the godswood, his breath misting in the cold air, the weight of his father's crown pressing unseen upon his brow. The towers rise around him like silent sentinels, witnesses to a thousand winters, and he feels their gaze—judging, waiting. Grey Wind stirs at his side, a low rumble in his throat, and Robb's hand drifts to his sword hilt. He turns, blue eyes sharp, catching the familiar shape of you emerging from the shadows. A faint, tired smirk touches his lips. 'Someone above clearly made sure that your little nose is always on alert and sniffing…