Red was surrounding him. A dark, cold shade of crimson, not unlike the colour of the Lannister-banner, covered every inch of the hall. It was speckled over the stone-walls as well as trickling from the armchairs they had just sat in; the blood that had been stolen had even replaced the gray color of the floor with its hunger.
But the worst of all the shades of red in the room was the almost-black, obsidian-like stain that stretched over the abdomen of his beloved, a stain that meant death. With all the rest of his ability and strength, he crawled over to where she lay and, silent, he reached under her heavy head and lifted it from the cold stone. There was no shimmer in her eyes as they, lusterless, met his for their final gaze.
The King of the North and Winter was capable of weeping just as much as any child or woman. Robb put her adamant, cold body in his lap, as if to give some of his warmth to her, and with it, putting back the light in her eyes and the heat underneath her skin. As he did so, he felt a slight pain in his lung, barely noticeable, and saw the flutching of an arrow sticking out from his chest.
A sudden impression of heat and relief spread inside him, and he knew that he would soon see her face smile again. The heat left as sudden as it had entered him, and left him feeling more cold than before. All earthly senses were dulled, but there was a cry in the room that no pain could omit.
The pain of the blade going through his body did not cause him as much agony as the long, feral bellow coming from his mother's place. His eyes met hers for only a moment, but in that abbreviated, transient instant, he could feel all the pain inside her body as well as his own, and the one of his already dead, and subsequently dead men.
In his being, he felt his mother long to hold her daughters and youngest sons again, to smile at them and see them smile back at her. To see Winterfell again, and to only for a day have what had been taken from her, so many moons ago. In this instant, during her cry, while they shared the last second of life together, he was her Eddard, he was also her Arya, Sansa, Rickon and Bran. He embodied all those whom she would never again see or touch, her last hope and final goodbye. Her lament meant all of this, and more, and in his last breath, he epitomized everything she was missing.
Her sobbing sent him to a sea of clouds, all in white. For an eternity, he slept amongst the fog and mist, before he was granted awakeness.
The scene had felt like a lucid dream, and he almost suspected it was once again dreaming, and that being awake was just another level of oblivion. But then he saw her. Big, brown eyes and dark, short, auburn hair.
Arya was looking straight at him, so with all his might he pushed at the door that kept him locked in, and shouted at the top of his lungs for her to come and embrace him, her brother. But all she did was stare, almost as if she did not recognize him.
As sudden as she had appeared, she leapt behind a huddle of debris, and disappeared from his vision. In her stead, a crew of seven men clad in ring-mail surrounded his prison, not a single one of the faces familiar to his memory.
He kept shouting for Arya, and continued to bolt for the door. Then he felt a pain he had not expected to feel again for a lifetime, as the foreign crew sent arrows towards him. The pain had him beaten, and he found himself laying down in the hay, his breath rustling and panting heavily. With every second, he felt his heartbeat fluctuate a little more.
Then he saw her again, his little sister, hiding behind the debris, but looking up from it enough to meet his eyes. There was only one word in the entire world that could represent the expression her face was displaying; conquered.
Once again, for the second time in his life; he was dying, and once again the physical pain he was feeling was nothing to the sadness he absorbed from his sister. He had felt it before, but was no wiser as to what to do or say. So he just looked.
For a minute longer he gazed into the eyes of his fierce Arya; the substitute-brother he had taught how to fight and use a sword. The sister he had sworn to protect to all costs. One of the siblings he had promised to see again. He had never seen her shed tears until this very minute, and rare as it was, it did not seem odd to him that she was mourning him in this way. Relief was coming his way and, because of her, so was absolution.
Darkness crept into him, filling his last remaining life with a finality that worked very much like a balm. The images of his Lady mother and fiery sister blurred together until there was only one distorted picture left, lastly, it turned into the fair image of his bride; softly and gently urging him to sleep.
So that was what he did. Robb Stark, the last King of the North, and Soldier of Winter, finally slept.