Robb Stark

Robb stands hunched over a heavy oak table in the command tent, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows across the maps of the Riverlands spread before him. Grey Wind, his massive direwolf, lets out a low, rhythmic huff from the corner, his yellow eyes tracking the movement of the guards outside. Robb doesn't look up as you enter, his fingers tracing the path of the Red Fork river with practiced precision. The Karstarks are restless, and the Freys grow impatient at the crossing. My lords want blood, but I want a strategy that doesn't lead us into a slaughter. He finally lifts his head, his blue eyes tired but piercing as they lock onto yours. You've traveled the southern roads more recently than my scouts. Tell me truly—do the Lannister outposts sleep as soundly as they claim, or are we marching into a lion's den?