DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. They are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.

NADIA

The days have flown by all too quickly, and before she knows it, she's spent her first week in Winterfell. A week away from home. A week trapped in this Hellhole.

A shiver runs down her spine. A wisp of mist leaves her parted lips as she exhales. It'll be a cold night. Again. There's an awful lot of those here.

Maester Luwin had been kind enough to bring her some blankets. But even they could not keep out the biting frosty air. Not when her own clothes - safely returned to her by the old gentleman - consisted of nothing but a thin cami and high waist leggings.

There's not a single doubt in her mind that she'll catch hypothermia, if she hasn't so already.

Her body aches. The girl's never been very active, but she's not used to such physical restraint.

There's not much to do in such a small space. She's caught herself simply pacing for hours, lost in her thoughts, wading through her memories for even the slightest inclination as to what event brought her here. All she comes back with is that same date: June 18th.

She'd finished the book Maester Luwin had given her and he'd granted her another. Though it seemed a little too Austen for her liking. Some story about social dichotomies influencing courting couples in some rich sound neighbourhood in Volantis. Typical Austen stuff.

Just when she thought she'd go off her head from boredom, the little munchkin shows up. Rickon had been taken by her… oddity? That seems the most appropriate word. Like she's some shiny new toy that he's taken with. He'd sneak every day since their first meeting, even just for a couple of minutes to say - and bring her a treat (only the pigeon pie she refused to eat). He'd tell her about his day, his latest ventures through the castle. Shaggydog would be there by his feet, happily wagging his tail and barking every so often as if to give his input. Nadia has to admit, his childish tales were truly interesting. Especially the one of how he scared the milkmaid. It's almost bittersweet, his innocence. She envies it. Not for the first time, she wishes she could go back to that age and stay like that. When studies and career and money and parents and relationships - rather lack thereof - weren't a problem. When things were simple. Perhaps somewhere along the way she wished too hard. Gone now is all of that, save for the lack of relationship.

Mood suddenly dampened, she turns into her pillow i.e. a small, somewhat soggy, pile of hay. Saying her nightly prayers, she pleads particularly for untroubled sleep. But when has fate ever been good to her?

Something soft brushes her face. She ignores it, curling deeper into herself. A few second pass and then again. There it is. That light, feather-soft touch. And again. Flickering her eyes open, white blurs obscure her vision so slightly. They rest upon her eyelashes. Blinking furiously, they disperse, floating seamlessly away.

It's then she realises she's not longer in her bleak little cell.

She lies in a field blanketed by snow. Snowflakes continue to fall from a grey sky. For miles around there is nothing but snow. Hugging herself nervously, she realises she wears nothing but a short silver sundress and yet she can't feel the cold. The ice beneath her toes is warm.

Furrowing her brows, she slowly clambers to her feet. Her feet feel heavy. She only manages a few steps before her knees give way. Bracing herself, Nadia takes slow, deep breaths, then forces herself to her feet. She calls out for someone, anyone. She calls for her parents. Nothing. She calls for her friends, for Alyssa and Stefan especially. Still nothing. Finally, feeling all her other options exhausted, Nadia calls for Robb. But no response comes.

Nadia has no idea how long she walks. Seconds. Minutes. Hours.

Then she sees something. A gaping hole in the distance. A door. She can't see what's on the other side. Every fibre of her being tells her to close the door. Yet she can't help but feel drawn. A light wind picks up. A strange rhythm is heard. What she hears next makes her stomach drop.

Whispers.

She turns to run. But her legs are pulled out from under her. Her nails bleed as they claw at the ground but the force dragging her backwards towards the door is too strong. She screams, begs to be released but she's soon overwhelmed in a darkness that's beginning to feel familiar.

"Hello?" her voice trembles. Quaking with fear, a slight chill curls it's way up her spine.

Shadows drift around her, encircling her. Tripping over her own feet, Nadia lands in the wet snow. Something warm sticks to her fingers. A bitter taste fills her mouth. Her breathing grows ragged. The stench penetrates her senses. She wants to scream but it catches in her throat.

Blood.

Everywhere.

Kneeling in a pool of crimson, it soaks through the silk of her clothes, staining her skin.

"In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall…" a voice whispers in the dark.

Her eyes dart everywhere, but she sees nothing. Only blood.

"In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall…"

"Who are you!" She yells.

"In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall," more voices join. "In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall. In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall. In Fire. In Smoke…"

Hands fly to her head, trying to block out the chorus, but it penetrates. Blood drips from her hands, staining her hair, her face. "Stop, please, stop. Leave me alone," she begs, her voice small. Something wet trails her cheeks; she's uncertain whether it be tears or blood.

"In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall. In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall. In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall. In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall. In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall. In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall."

"STOP!"

Arms wrap around her. She struggles. She fights. But she's drowning. In darkness. In blood. In the voices.

"Nadia, stop!"

That voice.

"Stop, Nadia! It's okay. You're with me. You're safe!"

'I know it.'

"Nadia!"

Mahogany meet sapphire. For a long moment, something holds her there, afraid to look away.

"You're okay. You're safe," he consoles. She tears her gaze from his, head frantically searching their surroundings. They're in her small cell. His arms are locked around hers, as if to hold her in place. She realises it's a familiar position. She'd seen nurses restrain patients in mental wards like this when they'd lashed out. Her eyes drop to her hands, splayed against his chest.

"There was blood. Everywhere," she whispers, voice trembling with fear.

"There's no blood. It was just a nightmare."

"But it felt so real…"

"It wasn't." But she doesn't hear him. He shakes her slightly, "Hey, hey. Look at me. Nadia look at me." She does. "It wasn't real," Robb repeats, more firmly. He takes on her hands and gently squeezes. "This is real. I'm real."

She stares at their joined hands, as if trying to force his words to sink in. But all she hears is that insipid chanting echoing through her mind. Clenching her jaw, she closes her eyes.

A serpentine voice hisses, 'The Bell Tower.'

"The Bell Tower," she repeats airily. Eyes opening, she musters all the determination she can. "Take me to the Bell Tower.