A Memory of Trees
The vegetable patch is frozen now, the last of the roots immobile in the long shadows of the ground. The woods and gardens are quiet, except for the slow drip dripping of ice, leaving watery trails down grey and still bark. From somewhere comes the slow flutter of wings as an owl lifts into flight. Robb huddles further into his bear lined cloak, his breathing quick and shallow.
He walks beneath a canopy of branches and twigs, stripped-bare to face the long winter, they moan in the bitter wind. It is midday but it feels like dusk, the bluish light barely filters between the skeletons of trees. He remembers summer; the feel of the sun with its orange rays, a warm breeze brushing the backs of his hands; the taste of strawberries and overripe melons, and the feel of skin lightly slicked with sweat. He recollects the long rides with Theon and Father on his old pony, galloping madly across dry grass that crackled and swayed under hoof. If he listens to his memories he can hear the sound of cicadas, a constant hum that signified warmth, as if the whole world were ablaze.
Shaking his head to clear it he smiles, his lips parting to show teeth. Why waste time thinking of what was, summer can only exist as reminiscence, as a story to tell Rickon before he falls asleep. For now he must forget Old Nan's tales.
All Robb knows now is winter.
Tomorrow he will begin the long march south, leaving behind his childhood and his memory of trees.