Blood and Winter (GOT/ASOIAF)

The Great Hall of Winterfell was behind him now, but its shadows still clung to his thoughts. The letter had been read, the ink dry, the demand clear. Come to King's Landing. Swear fealty to Joffrey Baratheon. Kneel before the usurper who dared call himself king.

Robb Stark had felt his fingers tighten around the parchment when he first read the words, his jaw locking, his breath coming slower, heavier. Now, as he strode through the quiet corridors of Winterfell, the letter might as well have been burned into his mind.

His father was a prisoner. Sansa and Arya were hostages.

As for him, the new Lord of Winterfell, he—he was to be a king's dog.

The thought filled his chest with something suffocating, a mixture of dread and anger pressing against his ribs, making every step feel heavier. He was fifteen years old. A boy by any measure. But boys did not lead armies. Boys did not march to war yet that was precisely what he must do.

Robb exhaled sharply, his breath misting in the cold night air as he stepped into the courtyard. A few guards nodded as he passed, their hands resting lightly on their sword hilts in quiet vigilance. They had no idea. No idea that their lord's son had just received the news that would change everything.

Winterfell was quiet, the evening settling over its walls with the heavy hush of expectation. The servants moved through their routines, tending to the stables, carrying logs for the hearths, pouring the evening's ale. Nothing had changed for them. Not yet. They did not know that war had crept to their doorstep, that blood and steel would soon drown out the peace they had come to know.

Would they ever know Winterfell as it was now again?

Robb's steps slowed as his gaze moved across the castle. The archways, the stone halls, the high towers where the ravens nested. The training yard, where he had sparred with Jon and Theon so many times under the watchful eyes of Rodrick Cassel. The bridge leading to the Burned tower, where Bran had fallen. Every stone, every familiar sight, seemed suddenly fragile—something he could only touch for a moment longer before it was swept away in the tide.

He did not know if he would ever see it again.

The thought made his stomach twist.

How many of them would not return? How many of the men he had trained alongside, who had fought in the yard and laughed with him by the hearth, would he see broken and lifeless on some battlefield far from home?

Would he even return himself?

Robb clenched his jaw and forced himself forward, through the courtyard, past the training yard, toward the only place he could find clarity. The Godswood.

The night air was sharp as he passed beneath the stone arch that led to the grove. Leaves rustled in the wind, branches whispering secrets to each other. Robb felt it then—felt the weight of what he was about to do. What he had already set into motion.

He had summoned his bannermen. He had sent out the ravens.

War was coming and there was no stopping it now.

-X-

The Godswood was still.

The moment Robb stepped beneath the canopy of ancient branches, the world outside seemed to fade away, swallowed by the quiet hush of leaves rustling in the cold wind. The air here was different—crisper, heavier, laden with the scent of damp earth and the lingering presence of something older than Winterfell itself. The soft crunch of fallen leaves beneath his boots was the only sound as he moved forward, toward the heart of the grove.

The Weirwood tree stood tall, its pale, bone-white trunk gleaming in the moonlight. Red sap bled from the carved face in its bark, streaking down like dried tears. The face, its eyes wide and unblinking, seemed to watch him as he approached.

Robb hesitated.

He had come here seeking guidance. Seeking answers. But now, standing before the tree, he felt foolish. Still, he forced himself to move. Slowly, he knelt, lowering himself onto the cold ground before the Weirwood, bowing his head in prayer.

"I do not know if you can hear me."

His voice was quiet, uncertain. He folded his hands before him, fingers pressing together tightly.

"I was never taught how to pray to you."

His mother had always knelt before the Seven, whispering her prayers in Septa Mordane's soft tones, telling him of the Father's judgment, the Mother's mercy, the Warrior's strength. But this—this was different. His father had always told him that the Old Gods did not need words, that they spoke in the wind, in the creaking of the trees, in the stillness of falling snow.

But if they were speaking, he could not hear them.

"Please," he murmured, lowering his head further. "I do not know what to do." The words tumbled out before he could stop them, raw and unguarded. "I am fifteen years old. I am not my father. I am not a warrior, nor a lord, nor a commander. But I am all of those things now, aren't I? I have called the banners. I have set this into motion. I did not want this, but I had no choice."

He swallowed hard. His hands had begun to shake, and he curled them into fists.

"I am afraid."

There. He had said it.

"I do not know if I am strong enough for this. I do not know if I can lead men to war. If I can fight battles and win. If I will even survive." His breath came shorter now, his heart pounding against his ribs. "If I do nothing, my father will die. I know he will. And my sisters—" he closed his eyes tightly, "I do not know what fate will befall them. But I know it will not be merciful." His shoulders tensed. "I need your guidance. Please. If you are listening, if you are there, show me a sign. Tell me I have not made the wrong choice."

Silence.

The Godswood did not stir.

The wind did not shift, the branches did not creak, the leaves did not rustle.

Nothing.

Robb exhaled sharply, his head still bowed, waiting. Listening.

But all he received was more silence.

A bitter chuckle slipped past his lips before he could stop it. The sound was quiet, humourless. He let out another laugh, shaking his head. "Of course." Slowly, he pushed himself back, resting against the thick trunk of the Weirwood. He tilted his head up, looking at the carved face, at the red streaks running down its bark. "I don't know why I expected anything else."

He had never heard their voices before. Not when he was a child, not when he sat with his father in the Godswood, not even when he had prayed in desperate times.

Why would that change now?

"Is that it?" He asked the Old Gods, his voice quiet. "Am I unworthy?"

The silence answered him.

Robb stared at the face in the tree, the deep red eyes carved into the wood, wide and expressionless. His father had always said that he could hear the Old Gods, that they guided him. He had always spoken of them as though they were watching, listening.

But they did not listen to Robb.

"Why did you guide him but not me?" He muttered, staring up at the branches. "Is it because I do not belong to you the way he does?"

His mother had told him the Old Gods were nothing but nameless spirits, that the Seven were the true gods, that it was the Seven who ruled over men. She had raised him to pray to them, to seek their guidance. Yet, she had never needed to hear their voices. She had her faith.

Robb was not sure he had faith in anything anymore.

His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, his fingers tightening around it. "I do not know what I am doing." His confession was quiet now, barely more than a whisper. "But I will do it anyway."

Because there was no other choice.

Because there was no one else.

Because, whether the gods listened or not, whether they judged him or ignored him, whether they found him unworthy—none of it mattered anymore.

He was going to war.

The silence stretched, vast and endless, settling over Robb like a heavy cloak. He let it wash over him, drinking in the cool night air, the scent of damp earth and old leaves. The weight of his confession, of his unanswered prayers, still clung to him, but here—here in the shadow of the Weirwood—there was peace.

For a moment, he allowed himself to forget.

His father, his sisters, the war looming on the horizon—he pushed it all aside, letting the quiet take him. The wind whispered through the branches, rustling the leaves above. Somewhere in the distance, the soft hoot of an owl echoed, followed by the skittering of small paws over fallen twigs. The gentle babble of the hot springs feeding the pool soothed him, its warmth a stark contrast to the crisp northern air.

Robb closed his eyes and the world changed.

The stillness shattered like glass.

A thunderous march, thousands of feet stamping the earth in perfect unison. The rhythmic clang of steel on steel, swords meeting shields, axes splitting bone. The shrieks of dying men, the roar of war horns, the thundering of hooves against the frozen ground.

The Godswood had vanished.

He saw flashes—blurry and quick, like looking through a window lashed with rain. The images blurred together, shifting before he could fully grasp them. Faces. Blood. Fire. The glint of a crown. A river dyed red.

Then—clarity.

A crowned stag, its antlers towering and proud, its golden coat gleaming. It shed its skin, peeling away in wet, crimson strips until nothing remained but the head of a lion, snarling, golden mane glistening with blood as it roared its entry to the world. The lion and a crowned wolf crashed together, jaws snapping, claws tearing, blood spraying the snow beneath them. The wolf leapt forward—only to stumble into two massive towers, their stone bathed in blue light.

Darkness followed.

When the wolf emerged once more, it was without its head.

Robb choked as the vision shifted again.

A wounded wolf, its leg torn and bleeding, struggling to keep afloat in stormy waters. Tentacles curled around its body, dragging it beneath the waves. A kraken. Then, a stag of flowers, its delicate petals curling in the wind, surrounded by whispering shadows. The shadows burst into flames, the stag burning, its petals curling into blackened ash—and in its place stood another stag, this one wreathed in fire, its antlers licked with dark flames.

"The Lannisters send their regards."

The voice rang in his head, deep and full of finality, like a blade scraping across whetstone.

A sharp gasp tore from his throat as he lurched upright, his breath coming in quick, panicked pants. His heart pounded against his ribs, his skin damp with sweat despite the chill of the night.

The Godswood was silent once more.

The wind rustled the leaves, the owl hooted again, the waters still flowed as they had before. But Robb was not the same. His gaze snapped toward the Weirwood tree, its red eyes staring back at him, its carved face just as silent, just as still.

But not empty.

Not lifeless.

"The Old Gods are real." The words left his lips as a whisper, barely audible, his breath still uneven. His body trembled, his muscles tight, yet his mind felt clearer than it ever had before.

A sharp, breathless laugh escaped him.

Then another and another.

Until he was laughing openly, hands gripping the damp earth beneath him, shoulders shaking.

The Old Gods were real.

He had asked for a sign.

They had answered.