The Songs of Winter | Robb Stark

Chapter 23

That morning, before we start moving to the Riverlands, I stare out the window of Robb and I's chambers the courtyard is a flurry of activity. Servants rush about, ensuring everyone is packed and ready for the journey. With a sigh I walk back to Robb and I's bed and take a seat, holding Songbird in my hand. I turn the sword over, examining its fine craftsmanship, and my thoughts drift to Jon. A vivid flashback from Winterfell, when Jon and I were just over eleven, fills my mind.

*Flashback Starts*

The air is crisp and cold, snow crunching underfoot as I stand in the courtyard of Winterfell. Clad in thick woolen clothes, I grasp a wooden sword, my breath visible in the frigid air. With determined grunts and small yells, I attack the straw mannequin, practicing my stances with enthusiasm.

I spin around, jabbing the sword into the mannequin's torso. Pivoting on my heel, I swipe at its side, then, with a fluid motion, flip the sword over my head and bring it down in a swift arc, decapitating the mannequin. A triumphant smile spreads across my face as the straw head rolls away.

The sound of approaching footsteps in the snow makes me turn. Jon walks towards me, his face a mask of stoic calm. His hands are tucked deep into his pockets to ward off the biting cold. "Ser Rodrik says the theatrics will get you killed," Jon states, his voice carrying a hint of admonishment.

Jon's eyes, though reserved, hold a flicker of curiosity as he watches me twirl the wooden sword by my side. The weight of his gaze makes me stop and smile at him, my breath forming small clouds in the air.

"Well, Rodrik's a bit of a grump anyway, isn't he?" I retort with a shrug, my tone lighthearted. "I don't expect I'll be fighting any battles anytime soon, so a little theatrics can't hurt." I grin, trying to elicit a rare smile from Jon.

He remains stoic, but I catch a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth as he examines what I'm wearing. "Lady Catelyn won't like that," he remarks, noting my dress.

I lift the hem of my dress slightly, a playful defiance in my eyes. "Fighting in my skirts feels better than fighting in pants," I declare, my voice filled with conviction.

Jon raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement breaking through his usual reserve. "Says no one ever," he retorts dryly.

I stick my tongue out at him, unable to suppress a grin. "Well, I'm saying it. I don't like the way pants feel. They're all tight and constricting."

Jon's expression softens just a bit, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips as he watches me. I turn back to the straw mannequin, resuming my practice. With a spin and a flourish, I slash at the mannequin, the dress swirling in a graceful arc. Each strike is precise, each step deliberate, yet there's a joyous abandon in my actions. I can feel Jon's eyes on me, a silent witness to my defiance of tradition.

"I suppose there's some truth in that. But what will you do if your opponent tries to grab you by your skirts? It'll leave you quite vulnerable, which is why it isn't recommended," Jon says, watching me carefully with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

I stop, placing a hand on my hip as I consider Jon's question. "Hmm, I suppose they could try. But I'm far too quick. Trying to grab me would leave them quite defenseless, wouldn't it?" I reply with a confident grin, twirling the sword around again with ease.

A hint of a smile spreads across Jon's lips at my confidence. He steps closer, his eyes glinting with a challenge. "And what if they manage to bypass your amazing quickness?" He says sarcastically.

Jon starts circling me, making me clutch my wooden sword tighter. Before I can react, Jon grabs my dress skirt and pulls hard, sending me sprawling onto the snow-covered ground.