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Jon knew this dream like the back of his hand. He dreamt of running through Winterfell, unable to find any of his family; his father, Robb, Sansa, Arya, little Bran or Rickon, Lady Stark. Not even Ghost accompanied him on these trips to Winterfell.
He would throw open doors, yelling their names over and over until his voice was hoarse, running through the entire castle. In the way that dreams do, it never seemed he was ever in one place for long, and it never seemed as if it was his own feet that had carried from place to place. One moment, he was at the top of the ruined tower, then in the kitchens, next his own bedchambers.
In the end, however, it always ended in the same place. Always, the dream led him to the open door to the crypts. This part he knew well.
"Why do you always lead me here? I'm not a Stark!"
His words echoed down the cold stone stairwell. He wasn't even sure who he was speaking to. He knew he would have to descend those steps as he always did, but the knowledge never made the first step any easier.
As he made that shaky first step, his hand trailing along the stone wall to guide himself, he felt his breath catch in his throat, feeling more and more like a scream wanting to work its way free as he took step after careful step further down into the darkness.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he felt like this trip into the crypts was different than all the other times. He could still feel the cold, dead eyes of his father's fore bearers following him as he ventured farther into the dank vault, however, their gazes marking him for what he was not.
His breath came in sharp, short gasps, the clouds of fog drifting in front of his face as he walked, the fear only becoming stronger as he realized there was a flickering towards the end of the tunnel, almost like torch light. That was never there in these dreams. He always woke up in the pitch black, his body drenched in sweat, regardless of how cold the night was on the Wall. But now...
His feet carried him forward towards the light, his hand straying to his hip for his sword, only to find it bare of any weapons.
"Is anyone there?" His voice carried through the tomb, the echo covering the shake in his voice. There was no answer. The glow was brighter now, stronger in its intensity, but there was no warmth from it as Jon stepped into the farthest edges of it.
What he found was enough to bring him to his knees.
Robb sat, his sword across his lap, Grey Wind resting at his feet. He was the very picture of the past kings that now called the crypt home. Instead of cold, unfeeling stone, however, Robb sat with blood staining across his chest, shoulder, legs, his eyes watching Jon sadly.
"No... No, it can't be..." Jon choked out, his hand reaching out to his brother. Robb reached out, his fingers closing around Jon's, and his hand was cold, so cold. Lifeless. Robb's lips seemed to move, but no sound came from him, and Jon wasn't able to read his lips well enough in the gloom, even with the glow coming from where Robb sat. "I tried to come to you... I was going to fight with you..." Jon's own words were no more than a whisper, trying to explain his absence to his brother, his fingers grasping tightly to Robb's even as he felt his grip slipping from them as if someone were pulling him away from Robb. He reached out, trying to grab with his other hand, blinking back tears, but all his hand closed around was air.
Robb was gone.
~
Jon jerked awake, his chest heaving for breath, his hands grasping out at nothing before his arms fell. Panting, he sank back against the bed, staring at the ceiling. Ghost lifted his head, silent as ever, and nosed against Jon's hand where it dangled from the bed. Jon curled his fingers tight in Ghost's fur, the dream still running through his mind, and he let out a dry sob.
Robb's dead. And I should have been with him.