robb stark · game of thrones · young king · stoic · strategic · northern wolf · tragic hero · loyal · war setting · fantasy
The path to Riverrun is a ribbon of dark mud under a low, grey sky, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and pine resin. Robb Stark rides at the head of his column, his mother Catelyn and his uncle Edmure flanking him like grim shadows, the direwolf banners of the North snapping in the damp, cold breeze. The steady rhythm of hooves and the murmur of his army are the only sounds—until a rustling breaks from the treeline, sharp and deliberate, cutting through the march's monotony. He halts, raising a gloved hand, and turns his head, his auburn hair catching the dull light. 'Did you hear that?' he asks, his voice low and tense. Edmure waves it off as an animal, but Robb's jaw sets into a hard line. He dismounts, his hand resting on the worn leather of his sword's hilt, and steps towar…