The Songs of Winter | Robb Stark

Chapter 26

Robb Stark

The snowstorm howls around me, shrieking with the voices of the dead. Hardhome is a frozen graveyard, the icy wind biting through my cloak, colder than anything I've ever known. My sword feels too heavy in my hand, like it's dragging me down with every swing. I slash at the wights—those cold, lifeless creatures—but no matter how many I cut down, more take their place. They close in, their hollow eyes fixed on me, their frozen hands clawing at my armor.

I try to move faster, but my body feels sluggish, like I'm wading through snow up to my chest. My breath comes in harsh gasps, each exhale visible in the frozen air. The screams of the living fade into the background, drowned out by the eerie, unnatural silence that follows him.

I turn, and there he is.

The Night King.

He steps forward, his eyes—those cold, piercing blue eyes—boring into mine. The breath freezes in my lungs. His gaze paralyzes me, locking me in place. I try to lift my sword, but my arms won't respond. It's as if the cold has seeped into my very bones, freezing me from the inside out.

The Night King raises his hand, and my heart seizes in my chest. Before I can react, his cold, unfeeling fingers close around my throat. The chill is immediate, deeper than anything I've ever felt, like death itself is squeezing the life out of me. His grip tightens, and I gasp, my breath stolen, my vision blurring.

I claw at his hand, but it's like ice, unyielding, unbreakable. The cold spreads through me, starting at my throat and coursing through my veins like poison. My legs buckle, the strength draining from my body. I can't breathe. I can't move. The cold is everywhere, inside me, suffocating me.

Then... nothing.

I blink, and Hardhome is gone.

I'm in Winterfell now, in the crypts.

The sudden silence is deafening. My chest heaves with desperate breaths, but the cold lingers, a deep, aching chill that refuses to leave. I look around, the damp stone walls towering over me, the shadows thick and oppressive. The faces of my ancestors stare down from their tombs, watching in judgment. I can feel their eyes on me, but I don't dare look at them.

I take a step forward, and the silence deepens, pressing in on me like a weight. My heart pounds in my chest, but the air here is cold, still, and heavy with the scent of earth and death.

That's when I see her.

Aida.

She's lying on a stone slab, her long hair fanned out like she's merely sleeping. But her skin is pale, far too pale, and her lips are tinged with blue. My breath catches in my throat. My heart lurches, the ache of her loss ripping through me all over again.

"Aida?" My voice is small, broken. I stagger forward, my legs trembling beneath me. "Aid!"

I drop to my knees beside her, my hands shaking as I reach out. But I hesitate, my fingers hovering just above hers. She's so still. So cold. I can feel the cold radiating off her, like the crypt itself has claimed her. My hand trembles as I whisper, "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, Aid... I should've been there. I should've saved you."

Tears sting my eyes, blurring my vision. I don't know if I even have the right to be sorry after failing her—but the words tumble out, desperate and ragged. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Aid..."

For a moment, there's nothing but the oppressive silence. My chest tightens as I wait, hoping against hope that she'll respond, that I'll see her eyes, her warmth, her smile.