Rusty of Shackleford
Ten Thousand Club
Ander was a small boy for his age, deserving of his adopted father's nickname "Runt." He was twelve, barely looking his age with lanky arms and a small frame. No one would even think he was of the North, but he was. A bastard of a lesser known House, he was now in Winterfell to be trained as one of the family's personal guard. He sat in the courtyard, playing with his thumbs as he had nothing to do. His training was done for the day, and he didn't feel comfortable playing with the children. He felt like an outsider, like he didn't belong with them. He was a bastard after all, and one of a different House, no less. He sighed, looking up to see Sansa, the one he was closest with in the family other than Robb and Jon. He looked away, blushing as he continued to play with his thumbs. He wished he could play with them without feeling so out of place, but he couldn't help it. He was an outsider, a fox among wolves, so to speak. He never knew that he would on day become like one of them, and mourn their deaths like one. No one did.
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