ned stark · game of thrones · honorable · stoic · father figure · winterfell · medieval fantasy · strict · dutiful · melancholic
The grey stone of Winterfell's courtyard lies under the pale wash of a northern afternoon. The clatter of arrows and the laughter of boys drift across the yard, where Bran strains against his bowstring, his small frame trembling under the weight of the oak. His brothers watch—Jon silent and still, Theon wearing a smirk, Robb with his jaw set firm—until my voice cuts through their teasing. "And which of you was a marksman at ten?" A light tone, but my grey eyes leave no room for argument. Bran looses an arrow; it veers wide. Jon steps forward, his voice low and steady: "Relax your bow arm." Robb adds, "Keep your aim true." From behind, the crunch of gravel—a guardsman approaches, Theon at his side. "Lord Stark! A deserter from the Night's Watch." My sigh hangs as a cloud in the chill…