Robb I
293 - AC
The snow had been falling since dawn, soft at first, then heavy and relentless, a curtain of white that smothered the woods in silence.
The boy rode beneath the boughs of the Wolfswood, his cloak drawn tight, his breath steaming in the cold air.
Winterfell was far behind now, its towers hidden beyond the veil of snow. Here, the world was nothing but grey trunks and white ground, an endless forest where time itself seemed to sleep. The air was still, so still that even the crunch of his horse's hooves sounded like a trespass.
The Wolfswood had always held a strange pull over him. It was wild and old, untouched in places where the trees grew too close for light to pass.
Maester Luwin said some of these oaks had stood since before the First Men cut stone.
He liked to believe it. He liked to think that when the wind blew through these branches, it carried whispers from those days long past, when men still spoke to the old gods, and the old gods answered.
The horse snorted, uneasy.
Robb gave its neck a soft pat, trying to soothe it.
"Easy, boy," he murmured. "We're near."
He followed the narrow trail that wound deeper into the woods until the trees began to thin.
Ahead, through the swirl of falling snow, the dark mouth of the cave came into view, their secret place, His, Jon's and Theon.
They'd stumbled upon it two moons past, chasing a wounded hare. The creature had vanished into a narrow crevice, and when they'd followed, they found the hollow beneath the hill, wide, cold, and echoing with the faint trickle of unseen water.
Carvings covered the walls, shapes of men and wolves that seemed to dance in the torchlight. Jon said they might be runes of the First Men; Theon had called them scratches made by wildlings.
To him, they had always felt like something in between, both alive and watching.
Now, as he neared the cave once more, that feeling returned stronger than ever.
He swung down from the saddle, his boots crunching deep into the snow. The horse shifted restlessly, snorting clouds into the frigid air. He ran a hand along its neck, murmuring to calm it, but its muscles trembled beneath his palm.
A shiver crawled down his spine.
The trees around him stood too still. No sound came from them, no creak of boughs, no flutter of wings, no rustle of fox or hare. It was as if every living thing had fled.
He took a step forward. The snow sank under his weight with a muted sigh. Another step. Then another. The dark arch of the cave yawned before him, rimmed in frost.
And then something moved in the corner of his eye.
He turned, heart quickening. At first, he saw nothing, only the shifting curtain of snow between the trees. But as his eyes adjusted, he saw it.
A figure stood at the edge of the clearing.
It was tall, impossibly tall, its shape cloaked in tattered grey that merged with the shadows of the trees.
Antlers or perhaps twisted branches jutted from its head, black against the pallid sky. The wind stirred its ragged form, but not like cloth; it moved like fur, long and coarse, dripping with snow.
It's hands, ashen and grey like bones made out of coal and snow.
It didn't move closer. It only stood there, silent, still, watching.
His breath hitched. He could not see its face, not truly, only the faint gleam of eyes, cold and dark, reflecting the dim light like two drops of oil.
He swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. "Who goes there?"
The words fell flat, devoured by the snow.
No answer came.
The shape lingered for a heartbeat more, then was gone. Vanished between the trees without a sound, leaving only the swirling white behind.
He turned in a slow circle, hand resting on the hilt of his shortsword. His horse backed away, ears flat, eyes wide.
"It's nothing," he whispered, though his voice trembled. "Only the snow. Only the woods."
But the woods had gone too quiet.
A faint sound, almost a breath, brushed past his ear. The hair on his neck stood on end. He spun, drawing his blade, the steel whispering from its scabbard.
No one stood behind him. Only trees.
Then something hit him.
A blow, sudden and massive, struck him from front with the force of a hammer. The air left his lungs in a sharp gasp as he was driven face-first into the snow. His sword flew from his hand, vanishing into the white.
The world blurred.
He tried to push himself up, to see, but something heavy pinned him down, not claws, not steel, just a weight like the mountain itself.
He caught a glimpse of it then, a shadow moving above him, tall and shapeless, the faint rattle of breath that was not human.
The snow beneath him darkened, his vision swam. His fingers twitched toward the hilt he couldn't reach.
Then the weight was gone.
The forest swayed around him in silence. He thought he heard his horse scream, a high, terrified sound that echoed between the trees, and then it, too, faded.
Snowflakes fell gently against his cheek. He tried to lift his head, but the world tilted sideways, fading into grey.
His last thought before the dark took him was of his father and the cave, waiting just ahead, its mouth open like something alive.
Then there was nothing.
—---
Jon II
293 - A3
The wind clawed at the walls of Winterfell, a low, endless howl that seeped through the cracks like a living thing. Snow fell thick in the courtyards below, muting all sound but the groan of wood and the hiss of fire.
In the upper chambers, Maester Luwin worked beneath the dim glow of a single lantern. The air smelled of damp wool, smoke, and blood. Robb lay still upon the bed, his skin pale and drawn tight, the faint rise and fall of his chest the only sign that life still clung to him.
The boy had not spoken since they brought him back.
Eddard Stark stood beside the bed, arms folded, the fur of his cloak dusted with melting snow. His face was hard, unreadable, yet his eyes never left his son.
Catelyn sat at her son's side, her hand gripping his limp one as if sheer will might pull him back from wherever he had gone.
The maester set aside a bloodied cloth and let out a slow breath. The fire in the hearth crackled but gave little warmth.
"The bleeding has stopped," Luwin said, voice low and measured.
"His heart still beats, but faintly. The fever lingers, though I've cooled his brow thrice over. I've given him milk of the poppy for the pain, but…" He hesitated, the rest unspoken.
Catelyn looked up sharply. "But what, Maester?"
Luwin adjusted his chain, the links glinting in the firelight. "There's no wound to match what I've seen. The nosebleed, yes, but no cut, no blow, no bruise that could have caused such weakness. I've treated fevers and wounds enough to know this isn't either."
Her fingers tightened on the blanket. "Then what did this?"
"I do not know, my lady," the maester admitted quietly. "There's no sign of beast or blade. No mark at all."
Silence hung heavy. The only sound was the steady drip of melted snow from the eaves above, like the ticking of an unseen clock.
Ned's gaze remained fixed on his son.
"He was found near the Wolfswood," he said finally. "You're certain it wasn't an animal?"
"I found no bite, my lord," Luwin said. "If a beast had taken him, he'd have been torn, not stricken. This—" He shook his head. "This is something else."
The door opened then, letting in a gust of cold air. Theon Greyjoy stepped inside first, snow still clinging to his cloak, followed closely by Jon Snow. Both boys looked pale and shaken, their faces drawn tight with exhaustion.
Ned turned toward them, his tone calm but sharp. "Tell me how it happened."
Theon glanced at Jon, then looked away. "We found his horse wandering near the treeline. Reins trailing, no sign of him. When we searched, we found Robb lying in the snow… shaking, blood running from his nose."
Ned's brow furrowed. "Was there a fall? Ice? A rock?"
Theon shook his head. "Nothing of the sort. He wasn't broken, my lord, just… wrong. Like something inside him had given way."
Catelyn's breath caught. "Poison?" she asked quickly, her voice trembling despite herself.
Maester Luwin frowned. "There are no signs of it. No blackness on the lips, no froth, no swelling. And who in Winterfell would dare such a thing?"
Jon stepped forward, his hands clenched at his sides. His voice was quiet, rough from cold and grief. "He wasn't cold when we found him. The snow was falling hard, but his skin was hot—as if he'd been burning from within."
Catelyn turned her head toward him, her eyes sharp and bright. "You should not speak of things you don't understand."
Jon flinched but said nothing. Ned's gaze lingered on him for a long moment before softening. "That will do, Jon. You've done your part."
Jon bowed his head. "Aye, my lord."
He left without another word, his boots leaving wet prints across the stone. Theon lingered, uneasy, then muttered something about checking the stables and followed after him.
When they were gone, Catelyn rose to her feet, crossing to the fire. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the poker, stirring the embers until they sparked. "It's not natural," she whispered. "It can't be. My son rides into the woods a boy and returns like this?"
Ned's jaw tightened. "I'll not have talk of curses or shadows. We'll find the cause. We must."
Luwin dipped a cloth into a bowl of cool water and pressed it gently to Robb's brow. "Whatever did this," he said, "it left no trace I can see. But if the gods are kind, he'll wake by morning."
Catelyn looked at her son's still face, pale against the dark furs. She brushed a strand of hair from his forehead with trembling fingers.
"If the gods are kind," she echoed softly.
Outside, the wind rose again, rattling the shutters. Snow swept across the yard in pale whirls, hissing against the walls.
And in the silence that followed, Robb's breath hitched—faint but real. His fingers twitched beneath his mother's hand.
Catelyn froze. "Ned—"
But when they looked again, he was still once more.