The Songs of Winter | Robb Stark

Chapter 25

Robb Stark

I wake up in a daze, my vision swimming as my eyes adjust to the dim light of my chambers at Castle Black. The room is familiar but disorienting; shadows dance along the stone walls, thrown by the flickering flames in the hearth. I blink a few times, trying to clear the fog from my mind. It feels as though I'm dragging myself up from the depths of some dark and icy abyss. My body aches with a cold that clings stubbornly to my bones.

To my right, Jon sits slumped in a chair, his eyes closed and head tilted to one side, clearly lost in a restless nap. He looks exhausted, as if he's been keeping watch over me for long.

"Jon." My voice comes out rough, dry like I haven't spoken in days. The sound feels foreign, even to my own ears.

Jon stirs at the sound of my voice, his eyes fluttering open. For a moment, he looks disoriented, as if unsure whether I'm real or just another figment of some dream. Then his gaze sharpens, recognition washing over him, and relief floods his features. "You're awake," he says, a smile tugging at his lips, though there's a strain in his voice.

"How long have I been out?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to hear the answer.

"Two days," Jon replies, his voice tinged with an unspoken worry.

Two days. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, feeling the weight of lost time pressing down on me. I try to sit up, but my muscles feel weak, unsteady. Jon quickly stands, reaching out to help, but I shove his hand away, frustration simmering beneath my skin. "I can do it myself," I snap, the words coming out harsher than I intend.

"Robb—"

"I said I can do it myself," I repeat, more forcefully this time. Jon takes a step back, his brows furrowing in concern, but he says nothing. I push myself up with a grunt, every movement sending a jolt of pain through my stiff body. My head spins, but I force myself to sit upright, my mind a chaotic mess of anger, fear, and something I can't quite name.

As I flex my fingers, I notice a strange discoloration—my veins are faintly tinged with blue, like they've been touched by frost. I stare at them, unable to tear my eyes away from the unsettling sight. "My veins... they're blue," I say, my voice tight with confusion and dread.

Jon nods solemnly. "It's not the only difference," he says, hesitant. "Your hair... there's a white streak in the front, like snow." He gestures towards his own hair, as if to show me what mine looks like now.

I clench my jaw, swallowing the rising tide of anger and unease. A mark, a reminder of the Night King's touch that I'll never be able to erase. I reach for the glass of water on the bedside table, downing it in a desperate attempt to soothe the coldness that lingers inside me. "I reckon the Free Folk passed the Wall while I was under," I say, trying to focus on something other than the strange alterations to my body.

Jon nods. "Yes, they've passed. We kept our promise."

"Good," I reply, though the word feels hollow. My thoughts are already moving ahead, the weight of duty pushing me forward despite my lingering weakness. "I need to send ravens."

Jon frowns, his concern breaking through his stoic demeanor. "About what?"

"This war isn't over," I say, my voice hardening with resolve. "It's time everyone knows that. The dead aren't the only threat—there's still a fight to be had, and we're far from finished."

Jon watches me, his expression a mix of worry and determination. I see my reflection in his eyes, and for a moment, I wonder if he sees the man he once knew or something colder, something touched by darkness. But there's no time to dwell on it now. The battle isn't just against the dead—it's against whatever's been left behind in me.