The last thing Robb remembered was the heat of his own blood and the soul-crushing sound of his mother's scream. But now, the screaming had stopped. There was only silence.
Robb felt cold, but it wasn't the sharp, biting frost of a winter storm. It was a heavy, ancient cold that seemed to seep out of the very fabric of the world. He opened his eyes, but there was no sun. Above him, the sky was a swirling gray mist. Snow fell in fat, silent flakes, coating a ground that felt alive.
Beneath his boots, thick, white roots curled through the black soil like sleeping snakes. The earth groaned as if it were breathing.
"I died," Robb whispered. The memory hit him like a physical blow—the Great Hall of the Twins, the music turning into a funeral dirge, the bolts in his chest, and the cold steel of Roose Bolton's blade. "I was a King, and I died a fool."
"A King who forgets his blood is but a man," a voice boomed, sounding like grinding stone.
The earth shifted. From the massive burial mounds—the barrows that held the ancient dead of Winterfell—shapes began to rise. They were giants made of shadow and frost, their eyes glowing with a pale, blue light. These were the Kings of Winter, his ancestors, called by the Old Gods to meet him in this place between worlds.
The Council of the Ancestors
The first to approach was Brandon the Breaker. He didn't look like a hero from a song; he looked like a man who had carried the weight of the North on his shoulders for a thousand years.
"You trusted those who have no honor," Brandon said, his voice echoing through the mist. "You broke a sacred pact for a fleeting feeling. You forgot that a Stark's word is the iron that holds the North together."
Robb bowed his head, the shame burning hotter than the cold around him. "I know. I failed my men. I failed my mother... and my sisters."
"Then learn," another voice said. This was Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt. He looked at Robb with eyes full of hard-earned wisdom. "I gave up a crown to save my people from dragonfire. Honor is not pride, Robb. Honor is doing what is right for the North, even when it tears your heart out. Your name, your house, your blood—they are your duty."
The Kings led him toward a massive weirwood tree. Its face was not sad, as the one in Winterfell usually looked. It looked hungry. It looked powerful.
"This is the seat of power," an ancient King said, pointing at the roots. "Not a throne of iron. Not a hall of stone. The North lives here, in the earth and the wood. Everything else is a lie told by Southerners."
The Gift of the Old Gods
As Robb reached out toward the tree, his palm began to sting. He looked down and gasped. A small charm, carved from white weirwood and bound with a tiny, ancient scroll, rested in his hand. It pulsed with a steady, warm heartbeat.
"What is this?" Robb asked, his fingers trembling.
"Your Archive," Brandon explained. "Inside this charm is the knowledge of the First Men. The magical books, the lessons of the ancestors, and the secrets of the runes are stored within. You need only think of a lesson, and it will be there."
Brandon stepped closer, his spectral hand hovering over the scroll. "But its power is more than just words. This scroll is a gateway. It can store anything you require—supplies, weapons, or treasures. If you place food within, it will never rot; the breath of winter preserves it exactly as it was. It can hold a mountain of gear, yet weigh no more than a leaf in your pocket. Only living things are forbidden; the scroll cannot hold a heart that beats."
Robb closed his fist around it. "And no one else can take it?"
"It is for you alone," Torrhen said. "It is invisible and unusable to anyone who does not carry your blood. To the world, your hand will appear empty."
"And the magic?" Robb asked. "I feel a chill... but it doesn't hurt."
The King with eyes like frozen rivers stepped forward. "That is your Bloodline Power waking up. You are a Stark. Your body and mind are now resistant to the deepest frost. You will learn to wield Ice Magic to defend your home and Light Magic to guide your people through the dark."
He pointed to the air, where faint blue symbols appeared. "Rune Magic shall be your craft. You will use the knowledge in your charm to create artifacts—weapons and wards that no Southern smith could ever replicate."
Robb's breath hitched. "And my siblings? Arya, Sansa, Bran, Rickon... can they do this too?"
"The blood is in them all," Torrhen said softly. "All Stark children carry the Seed of Warging. You all have the bond with your wolves. But your brother Bran... he is a Greenseer. He will see through time itself. You must guide them, Robb. Protect them until they find their own strength."
The Kings began to fade back into the earth. Their voices joined together, sounding like the wind howling through the wolfswood.
"You have a second chance," they whispered. "But it is not a gift for your own happiness. You must make the North strong. You must make it free. One day, every house from the Neck to the Wall will answer to no King but the Stark in Winterfell. The North must be independent."
Robb held the charm tightly. "I will do it. I will save them all."
"On your tenth name day, you return," the Kings commanded. "Wake."
Robb gasped. Light streamed through the wooden shutters of his bedroom. He was small—his limbs were shorter, his face smoother. The smell of old stone and pine needles filled his nose.
He sat up, his heart hammering. It felt like a dream, but when he opened his right hand, the white weirwood charm was there. It was warm and pulsing.
Somewhere in the castle, a wolf howled—a long, lonely sound of recognition.
Robb Stark was ten years old again. He had his life back, his family was alive, and the North remembered. He would make sure they never forgot again.