The Songs of Winter | Robb Stark

Chapter 40

Robb Stark

Standing on the shore of the empty lake, I take a pebble, feeling its cool, smooth weight in my palm. With a flick of my wrist, I send it skimming across the water's surface, watching as it bounces in perfect skips before sinking out of sight. I grab another, letting the rhythm of the act quiet my mind. Each skip echoes back to me in soft ripples, a rare moment of peace in a world that's been anything but.

Footsteps crunch behind me, faint but unmistakable. I tense, my hand stilling mid-throw, and spin around to find Rickon standing there. He freezes, wide-eyed, like a startled fawn. I take him in, struggling to reconcile the boy I left with the young man before me. The last time I saw him, he was just a little thing, barely six, all wild curls and wide-eyed innocence. Now he stands taller, his face sharper, almost a teenager. He looks older, harder, the weight of everything our family has endured etched into his eyes.

"Rickon," I whisper, a thousand emotions crashing over me.

He hesitates for a moment before stepping closer, his gaze flickering between me and the lake. "Father used to do that," he says quietly, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "Mother would sit with me by the lake, holding me in her arms and telling me stories. And there he'd be, skipping stones like it was the easiest thing in the world." His eyes drop to my hand, watching as I clutch another pebble. "I always wondered how he did it. Made it look so effortless."

I swallow hard, hearing the ache in his voice. "It's all in the wrist," I say, the words catching slightly. I toss the pebble, letting it skim across the water. "He taught me when I was younger than you are now. We'd come to the lake, just the two of us, and he'd teach me how to hold the stone, how to throw it right. He said it was like life—get the angle wrong, and it sinks too soon. Get it right, and it goes farther than you expect."

Rickon nods, eyes fixed on the ripples fading into stillness. He stoops, picks up his own pebble, and tries to mimic my throw. The rock splashes into the lake, sinking almost immediately. Frustration flashes across his face, and I feel a pang of guilt. He missed out on so much, on father's quiet guidance, on mother's steady hand.

I crouch beside him, showing him the grip. "Here, like this," I say, adjusting his fingers around the stone. "It takes practice, but once you get it, you'll never forget."

Rickon tries again, this time getting a single, clumsy skip before the pebble plops into the water. A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he glances up at me, pride mixing with sadness in his eyes.

"Do you think... do you think if they were here, everything would be different?" Rickon's voice is barely a whisper, almost swallowed by the stillness of the lake.

I pause, his question settling over us. I think of all the ways it would be different, all the ways our lives might have been spared the losses, the heartbreaks, the endless battles. "Yes," I say softly, my voice low, almost reverent. It's a simple answer, but it holds a world of longing, a lifetime's worth of "what-ifs" that neither of us can ignore.

Rickon clears his throat, breaking the silence. "I feel like we're just... sitting ducks, waiting to be massacred," he says, his tone bleak. "One by one, each of the Starks dies, and I can't help but feel like... like one of us is next." His words hang in the air, raw and heavy.

I glance at him, taking in the shadows etched into his young face. "You think we're cursed, Rickon?" I ask, a hint of weariness slipping into my voice. Part of me wants to deny it, to tell him he's wrong—but to be honest I've thought the same thing many times before.

He shrugs, gaze distant. "I don't know what else to call it. We've lost Father, Mother, Aida... and now Jon left us." He hesitates, struggling to find the words. "It's like fate has a vendetta against our family. Every time we try to stand, it kicks us back down."