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The dream did not shatter all at once. Instead, the strange, shifting world around Jon Snow slowly broke apart into drifting fragments, patches of light and shadow, twisted and unnatural, scattering into the dark.
Only then did he realize…
That he had been dreaming all along!
And in that moment, it felt as if a great, unseen hand with long, cold fingers reached into his chest and seized his heart in a merciless grip, clutching it tight under the weight of fear.
"Ah—!"
The cry tore itself from his throat as Jon Snow jolted awake, his body moving before his mind could catch up. He sat bolt upright, chest heaving, the echo of that fear still clawing at his ribs.
But instead of the silence he expected, the first thing he saw was the long, solemn face of "Dolorous Edd," otherwise known as Eddison Tollett, leaning in far too close, studying him with the kind of grave curiosity one might reserve for a particularly troubling specimen.
Their foreheads collided with a solid, hollow thunk.
Eddison reeled back, clearly stunned, his eyes briefly unfocused. In his scramble to steady himself, both hands flailed behind him in search of something to hold on to. The table beside him clattered as he knocked it over, sending bottles and jars spilling in a noisy cascade.
His own retreating steps tangled beneath him, and with an awkward twist, he toppled backwards, landing hard on the wooden floor with a muffled thud.
The commotion, paired with Jon's sharp shout, was enough to startle several of their brothers into rushing into the room. Boots thudded against the floorboards, the cold air from the hall sweeping in with them.
With the blizzard howling beyond the walls, there had been little to do in the Black Castle but wait for the storm to pass. Jon's strange, unbroken slumber had quickly become a matter of gossip and curiosity. A few men had even been assigned to watch over him, so when noise erupted from his quarters, it was no surprise they came running without a moment's hesitation.
"What's going on, Edd?"
The voice belonged to Ser Alliser Thorne, the castle's master-at-arms. He had never believed Jon Snow's sleep was genuine. To him, the Stark bastard was always hiding something, and the idea of him lying helpless for days was too absurd to trust.
But even Alliser Thorne's doubts had been silenced—if reluctantly—after he himself had flicked a needle against the iron-plated plum blossom pin embedded in Jon's skin and received no response. Jon hadn't so much as twitched, not even a slight tightening of his brow.
It was only then that Alliser had to admit, however grudgingly, that the boy truly was unconscious.
With the snowstorm sealing them inside, the master-at-arms found himself with far too much time on his hands. And this was no Harrenhal, with its cavernous halls where men could still train beneath a roof. Here, the storm had locked them in, and the hours stretched long and empty.
So, with an air of mock self-importance, Alliser had volunteered to serve as Jon Snow's caretaker. In truth, he had done nothing of the sort. He never once joined in the actual tending of the boy during those days of silence. What he did enjoy, however, was watching someone he disliked lying helpless, stripped of the chance to answer back… a small pleasure he indulged in without shame.
He had half-believed Jon would never wake, that the boy would remain lost in whatever strange slumber held him. But now, barely two days later, that certainty had crumbled.
Alliser's thin brows drew together in a sharp crease as he stepped forward, paying no mind to Eddison Tollett, who still sat on the floor nearby, rubbing his head and blinking away the lingering ring in his ears. The master-at-arms came right up to Jon Snow, who sat rigid in bed, chest heaving, eyes wide and unblinking, his face still marked by the raw shock of waking. Arms folded across his chest, Alliser studied him with the cool scrutiny of a man examining something curious and faintly amusing.
"Well now, Lord Snow…" he said, his voice steeped in derision, "did we have ourselves a nightmare?"
It was the sort of needling remark that would usually spark an immediate flash of anger from Jon, especially coming from Alliser Thorne. Yet this time, Jon didn't even flinch. He only stared down at his own hands, his gaze clouded and uncertain, as though the words had barely reached him.
"Dream…"
"Dream…"
"Dream!"
The word left his lips first as a whisper, then again with a faint tremor, and finally as a gasp, as memory surged back in a wave that nearly knocked the breath from him. The color that had just begun to return to his face drained away in an instant, leaving him pale as fresh-fallen snow.
His head snapped toward Alliser Thorne, eyes locking onto the man's face with piercing intensity. For the space of two long heartbeats, perhaps three, he stared without recognition, gaze hard and unblinking, until awareness finally stirred. But there was no time to dwell on who stood before him, no time to consider past grudges or the sharp edge of old rivalries.
Still clutching his head and wincing at the dizzy swirl in his vision, Eddison Tollett watched with no small astonishment as the two men most at odds within the Night's Watch suddenly reached for each other, each gripping the other's arm as though holding on for dear life.
Jon's expression was strange… stranger than anything Edd had seen on his friend's face before. His hand clamped tightly on Alliser's arm, his fingers digging in as though to keep the man from vanishing.
Had the lad woken up confused?
Was he so muddle-headed from sleep that he had mistaken Alliser Thorne for someone else entirely?
The thought slid through Edd's mind, edged with his usual dry, sour humor.
But almost at once, he knew he was wrong.
Because Jon Snow, his good brother and stubborn friend, finally spoke. They were the first words to leave his lips since waking from that deep and troubling slumber.
"Quick… quickly! Help me to the Lord Commander… this cannot be delayed, it's urgent!"
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Far away, in Harrenhal, the lord's chambers within the Kingspyre Tower lay heavy with stillness.
The air was thick with the sharp bitterness of medicine, mingled with a faint but unmistakable stench of decay that seeped into every breath, filling every corner of the spacious room.
All those northern lords who had managed to survive within the broken walls of Harrenhal knew, ever since their last meeting with Theon Greyjoy, that their king, Robb Stark, was here, locked in a battle with death itself.
Whether or not Robb still had the strength to lead them mattered less than one simple truth: in this moment, every man among them wanted him to wake.
If the soldiers could see their King in the North again, standing tall upon the battlements of Harrenhal with the weight of his heavy fur cloak draped over his shoulders, then their hearts, tight with worry, would ease, and their courage would return.
Only then could the lords hope to command their men with any real authority in this desperate defense.
But their world had grown silent. The ravens that might have carried word beyond these walls had all been brought down by Lannister archers, stationed with the sole purpose of cutting every line of communication.
They had no way of knowing if reinforcements would ever come, who might be leading them, how many there would be, or whether any would arrive at all.
Every last thread of hope for rescue they clung to was nothing more than a fragile, beautiful dream. And like all such dreams, it was destined to fray and unravel with the slow passing of time, until it became something darker, heavier, and impossible to turn back from: despair.
And now, after two long months of watching their king fight for his life on that sickbed, the most prominent of the northern lords received word to come to the Lord's chamber at the top of Kingspyre Tower.
They understood instantly. The final moment had arrived.
When the message reached them, a cold sweat broke across their backs in an instant, soaking through their tunics.
None of them dared to picture what would happen to Harrenhal without its King in the North, or how long the battered northern host could last with no leader to rally them.
Would it truly come to that? Would they be forced to bow to Tywin Lannister, and to those Valemen who had slaughtered their own kin?
The North did not want this… every bone and breath in them rejected it.
But they wanted to live. They still wanted to live!
Lord Jon Umber was the first to arrive outside the Lord's chamber in the Kingspyre Tower.
There were no guards at the door. No one needed to watch for assassins now; no one in the castle would dare raise a blade against Robb Stark in this hour. The few who might have been posted here had already been dismissed by Theon Greyjoy earlier in the day.
The door creaked open with a long, soft groan.
Jon Umber stepped into a room so vast it could have swallowed Winterfell's Lord's chamber five times over and still had space to spare.
The very first thing he saw was Theon Greyjoy, leaning against the wall in silence. His eyes were bloodshot, his beard unkempt and heavy, and there was a shadow in his expression that spoke of sleepless nights.
Then Jon's gaze fell to the bed.
There, sitting upright and draped in a heavy blanket, was Robb Stark.
His Grace was awake!
A sudden rush of joy flooded Jon's chest. He had come braced to say farewell to his king, to look upon him one last time before the end… but here he stood, staring at a Robb Stark who had opened his eyes again.
Truly, it felt in that instant as though the gods themselves had taken pity on the North.
Yet as he carried that joy in his heart and stepped closer, Jon Umber felt a sudden jolt deep inside, the kind that tightened his chest without warning.
For the man before him, though he wore the face and name of Robb Stark, was not the King in the North he remembered. The difference between them was stark and jarring, a chasm that made his stomach sink. His eyes held no such light.
Robb had often been reckless, yet the fire of youth had burned brightly in him. Even the great houses of the North took comfort in that fire. They liked to hear their young king speak of the future and of the plans he dreamed up for their people. Often it was little more than the rambling talk of a man warmed by too much ale, yet they welcomed it all the same because it showed a king with ideas and with spirit.
The Starks had ruled the North for thousands of years, and no one wished to see their place shaken. But now, sitting before him, breathing hard, his eyes bloodshot, his face pale as fresh-fallen snow, Robb Stark looked nothing like the king they had rallied behind.
Jon Umber searched that withered frame for even the faintest spark of vitality, and found none.
"Your Grace…"
The words slipped from him before he even knew what he meant to say, and then he stopped, unable to find anything more.
"Ah… Lord Umber."
Robb Stark had heard the voice and slowly turned his head. His once-clear eyes were now clouded with weariness; they rested on Jon for a moment, and then he managed a quiet, soundless smile.
"Your Grace…" Jon tried again, but Robb gave the faintest shake of his head, cutting him off before he could go on.
The Northern king, who had awoken so suddenly only to reveal a body weakened almost beyond recognition, let his words fall slowly, each one heavy and deliberate. "Lord Umber… let me speak first. May I?"
The phrasing sounded almost like a request, but the weight in it was such that Jon Umber felt no room at all to refuse.
"Your Grace, please… go on."
Robb smiled again, faintly. He had meant to gesture toward the chair nearby, to bid the Lord of Last Hearth sit, but waking this time had drained from him the last scraps of strength he possessed. Even lifting an arm was beyond him now.
Theon Greyjoy understood what Robb intended, and so he spoke in his stead.
"Sit, Lord Umber. His Grace has something he wishes to say to you."
Jon understood as well, though in that moment his thoughts were so unsettled and unsteady that it took him a heartbeat to respond.
He turned, gave Theon Greyjoy a small nod of acknowledgment, and then lowered himself into the seat before Robb Stark.
By now, he had already begun to sense what it was the King in the North meant to tell him.
Theon withdrew from the chamber, closing the door behind him with slow, deliberate care.
At once, the room fell into stillness.
In the past, such silences might have stretched on for a long while, each man waiting for the other to speak, but now Robb Stark no longer had the time, or the strength, to let silence linger.
He had to make certain that before the next wave of unconsciousness pulled him under, everything that needed to be said was said.
Some plans, some decisions, could only be made by the King in the North while he still had breath in his body.
As long as his heart kept beating and his lungs still drew air, the crown remained upon his head.
And so, the burden of making those arrangements rested squarely on him.
"Lord Jon Umber…"
"I am here, Your Grace."
Robb Stark's mouth curved faintly, the movement more a tired twitch than a smile.
"No need for formality. We've had more than enough solemnity for one lifetime. This time, I'd like our talk to be a little easier."
"Lord Umber, do you understand why I sent Theon away just now?"
Jon Umber glanced toward the door, shut tight, and gave a small nod.
At this moment, Robb's mind seemed clearer than it had in days, as if illness had stripped away every distraction and left only what mattered most. He knew now that only those born of the North could truly be trusted.
"I understand, Your Grace."
"Good... that's good. I'm glad you understand. My body is failing, but that doesn't matter. The Stark family is no pack of lone wolves."
"When I return to the embrace of the gods, you must hold the line as best you can."
"I believe Clay Manderly will be gathering forces in the North for a counterattack."
"I need you to last until the moment Clay arrives to break the siege."
"I've no wish for Tywin Lannister, that old vulture, to see me in the moment of my death. Can you help me with that, Lord Umber?"
When Robb spoke of his own death, his voice was startlingly calm, almost gentle.
It was plain that he had long since accepted what was coming.
Outside the window, heavy clouds smothered the sky, and at last, snow began to fall upon the black towers of Harrenhal.
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[Chapter End's]
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