The Twilight of Winterfell

Chapter 4: Visions of the Past

The North had a way of holding on to its history, as if the very land itself remembered the blood and tears that had soaked into its soil. For Bella, the days at Winterfell were a constant reminder of the weight of that history. The ancient walls, the cold stone floors, the ever-present chill in the air—it all spoke of a past that was both distant and disturbingly close.

It was in the quiet moments, when she was alone in her chambers or wandering the empty corridors, that the visions would come. They started as fleeting images, half-formed thoughts that danced at the edge of her consciousness. But as the days passed, they grew stronger, more vivid, until they were impossible to ignore.

One cold afternoon, Bella found herself in the library, seeking solace in the musty smell of old parchment and the quiet rustling of pages. She had come to appreciate the library as a refuge, a place where she could lose herself in stories of a world she was still trying to understand. But today, as she reached for a book on a high shelf, something else reached back.

The vision struck her like a bolt of lightning. One moment she was standing on a stool, her hand brushing against the worn leather spine of an ancient tome, and the next, she was somewhere else entirely.

She was in a dark forest, the trees towering above her, their branches clawing at the sky. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and decay. Shadows flitted between the trees, and the sound of whispering voices echoed in her ears.

Bella tried to move, but her feet were rooted to the ground. Panic surged through her, and she struggled to breathe, her chest tightening with fear. The voices grew louder, more insistent, until they became a cacophony of unintelligible words, pressing down on her like a physical weight.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the vision changed. The forest dissolved, and Bella found herself standing in a vast hall, its walls lined with tapestries depicting scenes of battle and bloodshed. At the far end of the hall, a throne of black iron loomed, its twisted spikes glinting in the dim light.

Seated on the throne was a man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his face obscured by shadows. But his eyes—his eyes burned with a fierce, unnatural light, a deep red that sent a shiver down Bella's spine. He looked at her, his gaze piercing through the darkness, and Bella felt an overwhelming sense of dread.

She knew this man, though she couldn't say how. There was something familiar in the way he held himself, in the cold intensity of his stare. He was a part of this world, and yet, he was not. He was a ghost, a relic of a time long past, and he was watching her with an intensity that made her blood run cold.

"Who are you?" Bella whispered, her voice trembling with fear.

The man did not answer. Instead, he raised his hand, and Bella saw that it was covered in blood. The sight of it filled her with a sickening horror, and she took a step back, her heart pounding in her chest.

As she did, the vision shifted again. The hall faded away, replaced by a swirling vortex of light and shadow. Bella felt herself being pulled into it, the force of it dragging her down into a dark, bottomless void. She screamed, reaching out for something—anything—to hold on to, but there was nothing. She was falling, falling, falling...

And then, she was back in the library, gasping for breath as she clutched the edge of the shelf for support. Her legs trembled beneath her, and she sank to the floor, her mind reeling from the intensity of the vision.

For a long moment, she sat there, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her heart racing. The room around her seemed to sway, the familiar surroundings distorted by the lingering echoes of what she had just experienced.

It took several minutes for Bella to calm herself, to remind herself that she was in Winterfell, that the vision was not real—or at least, not happening now. But the fear remained, a cold knot in her stomach that refused to go away.

What was happening to her? Why was she seeing these things? And who was the man on the throne?

Bella had no answers, only questions that seemed to multiply with each passing day. The visions were becoming more frequent, more intense, and she had no idea how to stop them—or if she even could.

She forced herself to stand, her legs still shaky as she braced herself against the shelf. The book she had been reaching for lay on the floor, its pages splayed open like a wounded bird. Bella stared at it for a moment before bending down to pick it up, her fingers brushing against the rough parchment.

As she did, a thought struck her, one that sent a chill down her spine. What if the visions weren't just in her mind? What if they were a warning—a glimpse into a past that was somehow connected to her own fate?

The thought was terrifying, but Bella couldn't shake it. She needed to understand what was happening to her, and she needed answers. But where could she find them? Who could she turn to in a world where she was a stranger?

As she left the library, the weight of the vision still heavy on her shoulders, Bella made a decision. She would seek out Bran Stark. The young boy, confined to his wheelchair, was said to have visions of his own—visions that went beyond the realm of the living.

If anyone could help her make sense of what she was seeing, it was Bran. And perhaps, in his wisdom, he could help her unravel the mystery of the man on the throne and the blood on his hands.

For Bella knew one thing for certain: the past was not done with her yet, and whatever it wanted, it would not be denied.