The Songs of Winter | Robb Stark

Chapter 39

Third Person POV

Aida Stark opened her eyes, blinking against the bright blue sky above. She watched ravens circling high, dark shapes gliding gracefully through the cold, crisp air. The wind cut sharply against her skin, but she barely felt it, as though the chill was merely an echo. Slowly, she sat up, taking in her surroundings with a growing sense of wonder and disbelief. Everything felt familiar, achingly so, and her heart quickened with hope and confusion. Could this be real? She hardly dared to believe it, afraid that if she acknowledged where she was, it would all slip away.

Rising to her feet, she looked down at the path beneath her—her path. It wound through the familiar greenery, a route she had taken countless times in the past, one that had become part of her daily routine years ago. The memories surged forward through her head, clear and vibrant, as though no time had passed at all. She took a step forward, her lips curving into a small smile, savoring the familiarity, feeling each step as though she were reconnecting with a piece of herself long forgotten.

The season was mercifully not winter, and the grass was lush and green, undisturbed by the snows that would eventually blanket it. She continued down the path, unwilling to question how or why she was here. For now, it was enough just to be here, to exist in this moment as if nothing had changed. For ignorance is bliss after all.

As she went further on ahead, she saw it—her heart skipped a beat, her steps faltering as her eyes fell upon the Winterfell Godswood. The ancient trees stood as they always had, their blood-red leaves stark against the greenery, casting a silent, watchful gaze over the clearing. She took a hesitant step into the grove, feeling a deep, desperate prayer welling up within her. Please, gods, let this be real. She swallowed hard, her eyes tracing the familiar shapes of the trees. Let the past few years be nothing but a terrible dream.

But before she could lose herself in that hopeful thought, she noticed a figure seated on the old stone bench that had once been her favorite reading spot. The person sat quietly, facing away from her, gazing out across the grove with an intensity that struck her as familiar. Her breath caught, her heart pounding as she recognized the silhouette, one she would never forget, not in a hundred lifetimes. Jon.

Aida's breath shuddered as tears filled her eyes, not believing what she's seeing. She took another step forward, her footsteps faint but enough to draw his attention. Jon stood and turned sharply, his expression guarded, his brows knitting with confusion that mirrored her own.

The recognition dawned in his eyes almost instantly, and they locked onto each other, both frozen, barely daring to breathe. Aida felt the years melt away as she stared at him—yet he wasn't the same boy she had last seen. Jon had grown. The softness of youth had faded from his face, leaving a man in its place, one marked by the harshness of time and the weight of duty. His dark hair was tied back in a loose bun, with a few strands falling free, framing his face and accentuating the small scar on his cheek that hadn't been there before.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, both caught between the weight of memories and the impossibility of the present.

Jon stares at Aida, his heart pounding in disbelief. He hardly dares to trust what he's seeing—if this is real, it feels cruel, twisted, some dark game meant to break him all over again. Since the news of her death, she had haunted him in dreams, fragile images of her slipping through his fingers like sand. He could always tell those visions weren't truly her; they lacked the warmth, the spark, the essence of Aida. They were pale shadows, reminders that she was gone and would never return. But now, as he stands here, looking into her eyes, this feels different. This Aida feels painfully real, so solid and alive that it almost hurts to look at her. Could it really be her?