Robb VII
He stood in a forest or what had once been one.
The trees loomed around him, skeletal sentinels stripped bare of leaves, their branches twisted like arthritic fingers clawing at the sky.
Bark peeled away in ragged strips, revealing wood beneath that was black and rotten, as if some ancient blight had sucked the life from them long ago.
No birds sang. No rustle of small creatures in the underbrush. No whisper of wind through foliage, there was none.
The silence was absolute, a heavy shroud that smothered sound before it could be born.
Robb opened his eyes to darkness, a void so complete it pressed against his skin like wet wool.
He blinked, expecting the familiar stone walls of his chamber in Winterfell, the faint glow of embers in the hearth but there was nothing.
Only the chill bite of wind on his face, and the crunch of snow beneath his boots as he shifted his weight.
This is not another vision, he thought, his breath fogging in the air before him.
His previous dreams had been vivid, haunting, glimpses of lands he had never seen, faces of men he never knew, the howl of wolves echoing through crimson snow. They had always carried a strange warmth, a flicker of familiarity.
But this... this was foreign. Cold as iron quenched in ice water, devoid of any spark of life.
It clawed at his soul, whispering of emptiness, of endings without anew.
He looked down. Snow blanketed the ground, pristine and unbroken save for his own footprints, which seemed to appear as he noticed them.
It crunched softly under his soles, but the sound died too quickly, swallowed by the hush.
A fog hung low, curling around the tree trunks like ghostly fingers, obscuring the world beyond a few paces.
Robb's hand went instinctively to his side, seeking the hilt of his blade, but his fingers closed on empty air.
He was clad in simple wool and leather, no armor, no sword. Vulnerable as a babe in this forsaken place.
Silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Then, without warning, the ground trembled.
A low rumble built from deep beneath the earth, vibrating through his boots, up his legs, into his chest.
The trees shuddered, shedding flakes of bark like dead skin. Robb staggered, catching himself against a withered trunk. The wood crumbled under his palm, dry and brittle as ash.
The fog vanished in an instant, as if inhaled by some unseen maw. It peeled away, revealing the landscape in stark, merciless clarity.
Before him rose a colossal mountain, its jagged peak piercing the heavens like a broken blade. Fist-shaped, ancient, unyielding.
Robb's heart stuttered. He had heard tales of this place from the black brothers of the Night's Watch, Uncle Benjen's stories whispered by firelight. The Fist of the First Men. A ringfort from the dawn of days, where heroes had once stood against the night.
North of the Wall. The realization crashed over him like a wave from the Sunset Sea.
He was beyond the safety of ice and stone, in the wilds where wildlings roamed and worse things stirred. But this was no wildling haunt.
The air reeked of wrongness, a metallic tang like blood frozen on steel.
The sky above was clear now, a vast expanse of black velvet, starless and moonless. No aurora danced. No constellations guided. Just endless void, pressing down with the weight of oblivion.
The ground shook again, more violently this time.
Snow cracked and shifted, fissures spiderwebbing outward from his feet.
He braced himself, knees bending, hands splayed for balance. Above, the sky... moved.
It rippled like the surface of a disturbed pond, a colossal undulation that defied sense.
The blackness stirred, coiling and uncoiling, as if the firmament itself had a body, vast and alive.
Then it stopped. The tremors ceased, leaving only the echo in his bones. He straightened slowly, breath ragged, and looked up.
They were rims of blue and white, glowing with an unearthly luminescence, larger than the mountain itself, enveloping half the sky.
Eyes stared back at him.
Irises like fractured glaciers, pupils abyssal voids that sucked at the soul.
They fixed on him, unblinking, ancient and merciless.
His blood turned to ice in his veins.
This was no beast of legend. This was something older, something that predated the First Men, the weirwoods, the dawn.
It watched him as a man might watch an ant, indifferent yet absolute.
A wind howled from the mountain's slopes, a gale born of no natural storm.
It slammed into Robb like a battering ram, carrying the stench of decay, rotted flesh, frozen earth, the grave's embrace.
Snow whipped into his eyes, stinging like needles. He leaned into it, feet digging into the drift, arms raised to shield his face. The force nearly bowled him over, but he held his ground, teeth gritted, muscles screaming.
Then came the noise.
It tore through the air before it assaulted his ears, a cacophony of steel shattering, ice fracturing, the world itself rending apart.
Screams of metal twisted beyond endurance, glaciers calving into the sea, bones snapping under unimaginable pressure. It built and built, layering agony upon agony, until his eardrums throbbed with the assault.
Warmth trickled down his neck, blood, seeping from his ears. He clapped his hands over them, but the sound burrowed deeper, vibrating through his skull, his teeth, his very thoughts.
It was speaking to him. Words without form, a language of entropy and endless night.
Promises of winter without end, of life extinguished, of kingdoms crumbled to dust.
Robb could not understand the syllables, they twisted like thorns in his mind but the intent clawed at him: oblivion, the cold embrace of the void.
His knees buckled. Strength fled his limbs, and he knelt in the snow, palms sinking into the frozen crust.
His vision blurred, edges darkening as if ink bled into the world.
The noise pounded relentlessly, gruesome in its intensity, grinding his will to powder.
Blood dripped from his ears onto the white ground, blooming like crimson roses in the frost.
His eyes watered, stung by tears he could not control, the pressure building until it felt his skull might split.
Then, abruptly, the noise ceased. The silence returned, heavier than before, ringing with the ghost of torment.
Robb gasped, chest heaving. He forced his head up, blinking through the haze.
The eyes in the sky remained, watching, but now something stood at the base of the mountain, a figure, cloaked in black, its long sleeves trailing in the snow like shadows given form.
It was tall, unnaturally so, its posture rigid as a weirwood trunk. But what seized Robb's gaze, what sent a final spike of dread through his heart, was the head.
No human face peered from beneath the hood. Instead, a direwolf's head was stitched into the fabric of its flesh, its fur matted and decayed, jaws frozen in a silent snarl. The eyes of the wolf glowed bright blue, piercing as the aurora, cold as death's own stare.
The figure did not move. It simply was.
His arms gave out. He collapsed face-first into the snow, the cold seeping into his bones, numbing the pain.
Darkness closed in, not the gentle fade of sleep, but a voracious hunger that devoured light and warmth.
The last thing he saw was the blue-eyed wolf, staring down at him from the shadow of the Fist.
—----
Midday light slanted through the high windows of Winterfell's Great Hall, pale and thin as a blade's edge.
Robb sat alone at the high table, elbows planted on the scarred oak, chin resting on steepled fingers.
The hall was empty save for the occasional servant drifting through with trays or brooms, their footsteps muffled by rushes.
He had not eaten.
The trencher before him held only a half-loaf and a wedge of cheese that had gone untouched.
The dream clung to him like damp snow.
He could still feel the cold of that otherworldly snow under his knees, the way the mountain had stared down with eyes vast as the sky itself.
The direwolf head stitched to black cloth, his own sigil turned grotesque, blue fire in its gaze, haunted the corners of his vision even now.
He had woken drenched in sweat despite the chill of his chambers, heart hammering as though he had run for leagues.
No warmth in it, no whisper of his patron, only dread, vast and incomprehensible, like the silence before an avalanche.
What did it mean? A warning? The Wall was far, the Fist of the First Men farther still.
Yet the vision had felt real, more real than the stone beneath his boots. He rubbed at his temples, trying to press the images away. They only pressed back harder.
Footsteps, light and deliberate, broke the quiet.
She appeared in the arched doorway, a splash of color against the grey stone.
Arianne wore a gown of deep crimson silk beneath a light northern fur, the fabric catching the light like spilled wine.
Her dark hair was loose, streaked with those strange black threads that caught the eye and refused to let go.
She tilted her head as she approached, studying him with those clever, dark eyes.
"You look as though someone has stolen your wits and left a shadow in its place," she said, sliding onto the bench beside him without invitation. "What troubles the Young Wolf at midday?"
Robb managed a half-smile that did not reach his eyes. "I didn't sleep well."
She arched her brow. "A poor night's rest can make even the bravest man brood. I know a remedy or two for that."
He glanced at her, curiosity stirring despite the weight in his chest. "And what remedy would that be, Princess?"
Arianne leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.
"I have my ways." She paused, letting the words linger like perfume. Then, lighter: "Sansa mentioned your glass gardens. I've never seen such a thing, flowers blooming in the heart of winter. Will you show me?"
Robb considered her for a moment. The dream still gnawed at him, but her presence was a distraction, warm, insistent, alive. Perhaps that was what he needed.
"Aye," he said at last. "I'll take you."
They rose together. As they walked the winding corridors toward the godswood and the glass gardens beyond, Robb let his mind drift back over the week that had passed since the betrothal was announced.
It had begun with formality, public walks, polite conversations in the hall, the weight of every eye upon them. But the days had softened the edges.
She had laughed at his stories of childhood mischief with Jon and Theon, teased him about his solemnity, matched his stride when they walked the battlements.
Now, as they passed beneath the covered walkway that led to the glass gardens, he realized how easily she had slipped into his days. How naturally their steps had begun to match.
The glass gardens rose before them like a jewel set in stone, high panes of leaded glass catching the weak sun, steam curling from vents where hot springs fed the roots below.
Robb pushed open the heavy door, and a wave of warmth rolled over them, scented with earth and green things.
Inside, the air was thick and humid. Rows of lemon trees stood in neat lines, their leaves glossy and dark. Fruits hung heavy on branches, bright against the grey world outside. Vines of grape and honeysuckle climbed trellises, and beds of winter roses bloomed defiant blue and white. The glass above diffused the light into soft gold, turning the space into something almost otherworldly.
Arianne stopped just inside the door, breathing deep.
"Gods," she murmured. "It smells like home."
Robb closed the door behind them. "My ancestors built this to farm crops even in the darkest of nights and long winters, it was my mother, who planted these flowers, the Tullys love their rivers and their gardens. She missed the warmth."
Arianne walked forward slowly, trailing her fingers along a lemon leaf. "And you? Do you come here often?"
"When I need to think." He followed her down the central path. "Or when the cold becomes too much."
She glanced back at him, smiling. "And does it become too much often, Lord Robb?"
"More often than I'd admit."
They wandered deeper. She asked about the plants, how the springs were channeled, which fruits survived the harshest winters. He answered as best he could, surprised by how easily the words came. She told him of Dorne in return, her voice light and musical.
"The Water Gardens," she said, pausing beneath a canopy of orange blossoms. "That's where I grew up. Pools and fountains, children laughing, the sound of water everywhere. The sun on the marble, the scent of jasmine and salt from the sea. Sunspear itself is older, sandstone walls the color of honey at sunset, towers that catch the dawn like fire. My uncle Oberyn says it's built to remind us we were never conquered."
Robb chuckled. "The North was never conquered either, it knelt."
She turned to face him fully, eyes sparkling. "Then we have that in common. Stubborn blood."
"Aye. Though yours runs hotter."
"Hotter?" She stepped closer, playful. "Careful, my lord. A northern wolf might find himself scorched."
He met her gaze. "I've faced worse than a little heat."
She laughed, a bright, unguarded sound that echoed off the glass. "Bold words. I'll remember them."
They continued walking, trading jests. She teased him about his solemn face when he trained; he countered by asking if all Dornishwomen walked with such deliberate sway, or if she had practiced in front of a mirror. She swatted his arm lightly, grinning.
"You're bolder than you let on, Robb Stark."
The banter faded into comfortable quiet. They stopped beside a bed of winter roses, their petals velvet-soft against the cold glass beyond. Arianne reached out, brushing one bloom with her fingertips.
"In Dorne," she said softly, "we say the desert teaches patience. But the gardens teach joy. I think you could use more joy, my lord."
Robb looked at her, truly looked. The dream still lingered at the edges of his mind, dark and cold, but here, in this pocket of warmth, she was sunlight made flesh.
"Perhaps I could," he said.
Arianne stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the faint spice of her, myrrh and orange blossom. She reached up, cupping his face with both hands, and pulled him down into a kiss.
This time, he did not hesitate.
His hands found her waist, fingers splaying across the small of her back, pulling her flush against him.
The kiss deepened, fiercer than before, edged with something raw and hungry. He tasted the sweetness of oranges on her lips, felt the heat of her through silk and fur.
She made a soft sound of surprise against his mouth, then melted into him, her fingers threading into his hair.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, her eyes were wide, pupils dark.
"I didn't expect that," she said, voice husky.
Robb loosened his hold, suddenly uncertain. "I-if I was too forceful-"
She laughed softly, pressing a finger to his lips.
"No. I liked it. Very much. It was… a welcoming change." Her smile turned wicked. "You've been holding back, haven't you?"
"Perhaps."
She stepped back, but kept one hand on his chest, over his heart.
"Tonight," she said. "Come to my chambers. We'll talk about what keeps you from sleeping. And perhaps… find other ways to chase the shadows away."
He felt heat rise in his face, but he did not look away. "I'll come."
"Good." She leaned up, brushed a lighter kiss against his jaw. "Don't keep me waiting, Lord Robb."
She slipped past him then, leaving a trail of warmth and the faint scent of citrus in her wake.
Robb stood alone among the roses, heart still racing. The dream lingered, dark and vast, but for the first time since waking, it felt smaller, pushed back by the memory of her lips on his, the promise of her chambers, the simple, human heat of another soul.
He touched his lips, tasting her still.
Outside the glass, winter waited. But here, for a little while, there was light.