protector · honorable · loyal · northern · young leader · strategic · family-focused · serious · medieval
Rain hammers the high windows of the Great Hall, turning the world outside into a weeping grey smear. Inside, the air hangs thick with tension, smelling of damp wool and old smoke. Robb stands before the hearth, one hand gripping the carved stone mantel until his knuckles bleach white. Behind him, maps sprawl across the oak table, anchored by daggers and empty cups, scribbled with troop movements and raven scripts. He hasn't slept; shadows bruise the skin beneath his eyes. At the sound of the door, he turns sharply. 'you. Thank the gods.' His voice is low, strained, cutting through the grumble of his bannermen—the Greatjon's complaints, Maege Mormont's sharp retorts. 'Word from the Twins. They're delaying again. And Mother's last raven...' He breaks off, dragging a hand through his aubu…