[Greywater Watch] 

The first light of dawn crept through the ancient trees surrounding Greywater Watch, casting dappled shadows across the still waters of the bog. Inside the fortress, the air had the scent of herbs and the soft murmur of whispers as the healers tended to their charge. Robb Stark, once the fiery King in the North, now lay in a room that was more akin to a warm cocoon of furs and pillows, his body slowly mending from the grievous wounds he had sustained at the Red Wedding.

Each day, he grew a little stronger, his colour returning, his breaths less ragged. Yet, there remained a haunted look in his eyes, a testament to the horrors he had endured.

Howland Reed, the lord of Greywater Watch, visited him often, his own eyes reflecting a mix of sadness and determination. Robb had always known that Howland was a friend of his father, but he had never fully understood the depth of their bond until now. The stories he told painted a picture of a time long past, of adventures and battles, of love and loss, of a young Eddard Stark who was as fierce and loyal as the son he had raised. Robb found solace in these tales, feeling a connection to his father that transcended time and death.

As the days stretched into weeks, the pain of his injuries began to fade, and with it, the fog of despair that had settled over him. He started to take short walks around the fortress, leaning heavily on a cane carved from the heartwood of a weirwood tree, a gift from Lady Alysanne herself. The gentle sway of the moss-covered branches and the distant calls of the cranes helped to soothe his troubled mind.

Howland Reed, ever vigilant, noticed the change in him and took it upon himself to teach Robb the ancient arts of the crannogmen, sharing the secrets of their swampy homeland. He spoke of the whispers that danced through the reeds and the way the water could hide as much as it revealed. Robb listened intently, his eyes alight with curiosity. It was a strange world, so different from the rugged North, but he felt a kinship with these people who knew the value of stealth and loyalty.

One evening, as the light of the setting sun painted the room a warm hue of gold and crimson, Howland pulled out a map of Westeros, spreading it out before them. His gnarled fingers traced over the lands, pausing at certain spots as he recounted tales of battles won and lost, of alliances made and broken. His words were a gentle nudge, reminding Robb of the destiny that still lay before him, of the promise he had made to avenge his family and claim what was rightfully his.

Their conversations grew longer, delving into the intricacies of politics and the art of war. Howland spoke of his friendship with Eddard Stark, of their shared youth and the battles they had fought together. He spoke of the fierce love Eddard had for his wife and children, and the burdens of leadership that had been placed upon his shoulders. The stories filled Robb with a quiet resolve, a determination to honour his father's legacy and restore House Stark to its rightful place.

Robb's days grew more structured as his strength returned. In the mornings, he would train with the crannogmen, learning to navigate the treacherous waters and marshes, his muscles reawakening to the familiar strain of combat. His afternoons were spent in the library, poring over dusty tomes filled with the wisdom of generations past. And in the evenings, he would sit with Howland, the candlelight flickering across their faces, as the old man shared the history of the North and the ancient pacts between the Starks and the other great houses of Westeros.

Howland spoke of his own friendship with Eddard, of their days as young men, eager to prove themselves in the shadow of the great battles that had shaped their world. His voice grew wistful as he recounted the Tourney at Harrenhal, where they had both competed and forged bonds that would stand the test of time. He spoke of the love between Eddard and Catelyn, a bond that had transcended the boundaries of duty and had been the foundation of their house. Robb felt the weight of his father's legacy, but also a warmth in knowing that he had friends who would stand by him in the days ahead.

The whispers of the marsh grew less foreign to Robb's ears, and he began to appreciate the subtle beauty of the lands he had sought refuge in. He watched the crannogmen train, their movements fluid and silent as they navigated the murky waters. Their skills were unrivaled, and he knew that he could learn much from them. With each passing day, his strength grew, the ache in his bones lessened, and the scars on his soul began to heal.

Howland Reed noticed the change in the young wolf, his shoulders straightening and his eyes growing clearer. The weight of his loss had not lifted, but he bore it with the stoic grace of a man who knew the cost of war.

One night, as the moon cast long shadows through the heart tree's chamber, Robb approached the dark pool of water at its base. The surface rippled slightly, and the reflection of the weirwood's carvings danced on the water. He had heard the whispers of the old gods here before, but tonight felt different. He knelt, his reflection distorting in the pool.

As he gazed into the water, the ripples grew still, and the whispers grew louder. Suddenly, the image of his sisters, Arya and Sansa, and his brothers, Bran and Rickon, filled the pool. They were older, their faces drawn with the lines of hardship and experience, but their eyes were alive with hope and determination. The vision was as real as if they stood before him, and his heart swelled with joy at the sight of them.

In this vision, the walls of Winterfell stood tall and proud again, the Stark banners fluttering in the wind. His siblings were surrounded by a host of loyal men and women, their bonds as strong as the iron of the North. There was a fierce unity in their eyes, a shared understanding of what they had lost and what they were fighting for.

The only one missing was Jon, who had become a sworn brother of the Night's Watch.

Robb reached into the water, and his hand touched the cold stone of the weirwood. The vision shimmered and grew clearer, as if the heart tree itself was speaking to him. He saw his sisters, Arya and Sansa, standing tall and proud, their faces etched with the wisdom of the trials they had faced. Arya, the little girl he remembered playing with in the godswood at Winterfell, had grown into a warrior, her eyes sharp and cunning, a reflection of their mother's wit and their father's valor. Sansa, the elegant lady of court, had become a leader of the people, her grace now a shield that protected those who looked to her for guidance.

Bran, the quiet and thoughtful one, was not just a boy anymore. He sat in a chair of weirwood, his eyes closed, yet Robb knew he saw more than any of them. His mind was a gateway to the old gods' secrets, and the whispers of the trees were his to command.

The vision shifted, and he saw Rickon, wild and free, leading a pack of direwolves across the snow-covered lands of the North. The youngest Stark had become one with the beasts, and together they formed a formidable force, striking fear into the hearts of their enemies.

Jon's face appeared last, his eyes haunted yet steadfast. He was not at Winterfell, but beyond the Wall, standing with the Night's Watch. The sight of his brother brought a mix of pride and longing to Robb's heart. Despite their separation, Jon's destiny remained entwined with theirs, a silent guardian of the realms of men.

The vision faded, leaving Robb kneeling before the weirwood, his hand still in the cold water. He felt a newfound strength surge through him, a conviction that the Starks would rise again. He knew that the path ahead would be fraught with danger, but the love and resolve he saw in his siblings' eyes gave him hope.

He shared his vision with Howland Reed, who listened with solemn interest. "The old gods speak to those who seek their counsel," Howland murmured, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "It seems they have chosen to show you the path of your house's restoration."

Robb knew he could trust Howland's wisdom, but the vision also brought him a burden he wasn't quite ready to carry. The sight of his siblings, alive and fighting, filled him with hope, yet also fear for their safety. He understood that he must play his part in this unfolding saga, but the thought of facing battles anew made his scarred heart ache.

In the quiet of his chambers, he pondered over the vision. Each detail was etched into his mind, from Arya's fiery determination to Sansa's unyielding grace. He knew he had to find a way to bring them together again, to unite the scattered pieces of his shattered family. It was a daunting task, one that required cunning and patience.

Something he ha sorely lacked the first time around.

But, he had been given a second chance.

Alysanne Targaryen, daughter of Princess Elia Martell, and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the man who kidnapped his Aunt Lyanna.

Though they had yet to meet, Robb felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards the woman.

She was the reason he hadn't perished in the Red Wedding.

Alysanne had sent her spies, a network of loyalists who had infiltrated the very heart of the Frey stronghold, to save him.

These men and women, who had risked their lives for a cause they believed in, had spirited him away from the bloody carnage and brought him to the safety of Greywater Watch.

The news of Arya being in the care of Lady Alysanne filled him with relief and hope.

The thought of his sister, the fiercest of them all, under the protection of a Targaryen was an odd comfort. But he knew that Alysanne had proven herself to be a friend to House Stark. Her actions had saved him, and now she offered her protection to Arya. He had to believe that she had a plan, a way to restore balance to the realm that had been torn apart by the lust for power and vengeance.

Robb knew that he could not remain hidden in the bog lands forever. The North needed a leader to rally behind, to remind them of their pride and their duty to House Stark.

Most believed him dead, and perhaps he should have been.

But, the fact remained: he was alive.

And with life came the responsibility to fight for those who had been taken from him.

Robb's thoughts swirled like the mist outside his window as he contemplated his next move. He knew he could not return to the North as a lone wolf; he needed an army, and allies who would stand with him against the Lannisters and their ilk.

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

That was his father would tell them.

Robb took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his father's words as if they had been etched into his very soul.

The North remembers, and House Stark would not be forgotten.