Robb Stark sat in the quiet of his solar, the firelight flickering against stone walls, his mother Catelyn seated nearby with a face carved from worry. The silence was broken by the hurried steps of Maester Luwin, his robes trailing as he clutched a sealed letter in trembling hands.
"My lord," the Maester's voice cracked as he bowed low, breathless from haste. "I bring grave tidings."
Robb rose, the weight of dread already pressing against his chest. Luwin's eyes faltered, unable to meet his gaze.
"Your father… Lord Eddard Stark…" The words stumbled, heavy as iron. "He was beheaded upon the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor."
The chamber seemed to collapse into stillness. Catelyn's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror, while Robb's knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table. The fire sputtered, casting shadows that seemed to mock the Stark name.
Something inside Robb snapped, and suddenly his vision was drowned in crimson fury. He looked down at his hand, startled to feel the wetness dripping from his fingers. Why am I crying? the thought struck him, raw and bewildered.
And then the truth answered, merciless and sharp: Because they killed my father. They murdered my father.
The words echoed in his mind, each syllable heavier than steel. Tears poured freely, unstoppable, until his sobs filled the chamber. He cried and cried, the grief of a son breaking through the armor of a would-be lord.
At last, his strength gave way. His knees buckled, and with a hollow thud, Robb collapsed into darkness.
As Robb's body crumpled to the floor, the chamber rang with a cry that tore through the silence.
"Robb!!" Catelyn's voice broke.
~~~
Within the darkness of Robb's mind, his eyes suddenly snapped open. As his vision cleared, he found himself standing before a massive weirwood tree, its pale bark gleaming like bone beneath an unseen light. The carved face upon its trunk wept crimson tears—blood streaming down in silent lament.
Robb's breath caught, his heart pounding as the eerie sight consumed him. Then, from the shadows near the tree, a voice whispered close, low and commanding.
"Stark."
The single word reverberated through him, heavy with fate, as though the gods themselves had spoken his name.
Then, once more, the memory of his father's death surged through Robb's mind, sharp and merciless. His whole body weakened under the weight of it, trembling as though the grief itself had hollowed him out.
He fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face, his cries breaking into raw shouts that echoed through the whole place.
After some time, as his sobs finally began to fade into silence, Robb heard it again.
"Stark."
The voice returned, deeper, closer—its presence unmistakable. It seemed to draw nearer to the great weirwood tree, each syllable resonating through the roots and branches like a summons from the Old Gods themselves.
Robb's breath caught, his grief momentarily stilled by the weight of that single word. The tree loomed before him, its bleeding face watching, and the voice pressed closer, as though destiny itself was walking toward him.
And he cried out, his voice breaking against the silence of the godswood.
"Gods! If You can hear me… why did You abandon my father to die!?"
The words tore from his throat, raw and desperate, echoing beneath the weirwood's bleeding face. His plea was not just grief—it was accusation, a son demanding answers from powers older than kings. The air itself seemed to tremble, as though the Old Gods had heard his anguish and weighed his cry against the fate of House Stark.
And once again, the voice spoke—unyielding, commanding, closer than before.
"Stark."
The words reverberated through the godswood, heavy with ancient power. Robb's breath caught as the command pressed into his very bones. The weirwood loomed before him, its bleeding face watching, its crimson tears glistening like fresh wounds.
Slowly, Robb extended his hand, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the weirwood's pale bark. The moment his skin met the ancient tree, a blinding light erupted, flooding his vision with brilliance so fierce it seemed to burn away the shadows.
Within that radiance, figures emerged—countless and imposing, their presence heavy with power. Each one stood tall, crowned with bronze circlets unlike any Robb had ever seen. From those crowns rose seven jagged blades, piercing upward like spears toward the heavens, gleaming with an aura both divine and terrible.
And then they all spoke at once, their voices rising together in a thunderous chorus that shook the very air.
"Stark, our descendant… we grant you all our wisdom. Into your hands shall return the glory of House Stark—the champions of the Old Gods."
The words reverberated like a storm, each syllable heavy with power and ancient promise. Robb felt the weight of their decree pressing into his soul, a mantle of destiny laid upon his shoulders. The crowned figures loomed, their bronze circlets gleaming, the seven blades piercing upward like eternal flames.
In that blinding vision, Robb was no longer just a grieving son—he was heir to a legacy older than kings, chosen to bear the will of the Old Gods.
And suddenly, a great pain surged through his entire body—so immense it felt as though he would burst apart from the agony. Robb screamed, the sound raw and desperate, echoing against the blinding light.
The torment consumed him, every nerve aflame, until the world itself seemed to collapse around him. Then, as swiftly as it came, darkness swallowed his vision once more. He blacked out, falling into the abyss of silence, his fate suspended between mortal grief and the will of the Old Gods.