The Songs of Winter | Robb Stark

Chapter 24

Robb Stark

A/N: Looooonngggg Chapter Cause It's Hardhome!!! AKA my favorite Game Of Thrones Battle 😩

I sit hunched over on a weathered bench, the rhythmic scrape of metal against stone filling the icy air as I sharpen my sword. The chill bites at my skin, but I barely feel it anymore—just like I barely notice the glares from the men of the Night's Watch as they pass by. They've been bitter ever since Jon announced he'd allow the wildlings through the Wall. Their anger simmers, palpable in the way they avoid me or mutter under their breath, but I couldn't care less. My own anger runs deeper, hotter. It clouds my vision, reducing everything to a singular focus: reclaiming the North.

My fingers tighten around the hilt of the blade, knuckles white against the cold steel. That's all that matters now—getting the North back and protecting it, no matter the cost. Beyond that, I don't even know if I'll have the strength to care. If we manage to survive this war, if we somehow beat back the White Walkers, what then? I'm not the same Robb Stark I once was. War has stripped away that boy—replaced him with something colder, something harder. I'm only ten-and-nine, just shy of twenty, yet I feel far older. The weight of this war has aged me, brought a bitterness to my heart that I never thought possible.

Every night since that blood magic ritual, dark dreams plague me. The kind that sink their claws in and refuse to let go. Shadows swirl in my sleep, tormenting me, leaving me restless. It's a battle just to close my eyes, knowing what waits for me on the other side. I used to have hope, used to believe in the man I was becoming. Now I wonder if, even after we fight and win, I'll still have the fire I once had to lead the North.

Will the passion I carried into this war remain? Or will I be a shell of who I was? Honestly, I doubt I'll ever be the same, but time is the only one who will tell.

Sometimes, I force myself to think of Aida, just to feel something other than rage. I reach for memories—moments of warmth, of joy—hoping they'll stir something in me, anything besides this hollow anger. But even then, it doesn't last. The sadness, the grief—they all give way to the same fury that consumes me.

I'm pulled out of my thoughts, the steady scrape of my sword against the whetstone coming to a halt as Sam approaches. His face is pale, even more than usual, and he fidgets nervously. He's been like this ever since the day he saw me transform into the wolf. I can see the fear in his eyes—he's never quite been able to look at me the same since. I lift my gaze from my sword, the steel reflecting the cold light of the Wall, and meet his anxious stare.

"Yes, Sam?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend, but I'm in no mood for pleasantries.

"U-um, the Wildling... Tormund... he's to be released in a moment," Sam stammers, his words tumbling out in a rush.

I let out a huff, the air from my lungs clouding in the cold. Standing, I slide the sword back into its scabbard, the familiar weight of it settling at my side. As I pass Sam, I clap him on the back, not hard but firm enough to let him know I bear no ill will. He flinches slightly, but I don't look back.

I head toward Jon, who's standing by the courtyard, his eyes scanning the wall as if searching for answers that aren't there. Edd is holding Tormund by the arm, bringing him toward us. The wildling towers over most men, his fiery hair matted from his time in chains, but there's a gleam of defiance in his eyes, even in shackles.

As they near, Jon mutters under his breath, his voice low so only I can hear, "Once we do this, there's no turning back."

"I know," I reply simply, my voice steady. There's no room for doubt now.

Jon glances at me for a moment, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, but he nods. Tormund comes to a stop in front of us, his arms still bound. He raises his shackled wrists, eyebrows arching in amusement, as if to say, Well, get on with it.