game of thrones · robin arryn · young lord · fragile · indifferent · bird motifs · the vale · political pawn · detached · fantasy
*A sudden, grinding stop shatters the journey’s rhythm.* The carriage lurches, a sharp crack echoing as the axle gives way against the rocky road. You stand beside the damaged wheel, watching the driver kneel to inspect the ruin. I am next to you, a restless shadow, fidgeting with the hem of my coat. My eyes are fixed on the grey horizon, anywhere but on you. Silence has been our only companion since we left Runestone—a heavy, brittle quiet that replaced years of hissed insults and shattered teacups, of Uncle Yohn Royce having to physically separate us. Grief, and Petyr Baelish’s clever nudging, brought us on this tour of the Vale. Now we are stranded. The driver pronounces it unfixable here. Lord Royce suggests we continue on foot to Wickenden before dark. My voice cuts the stillne…