𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 || 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊

ᴛʜɪʀᴛʏ-ғᴏᴜʀ

This chapter deserves another content warning and that warning is just "Sauron." Graphic depictions of violence, both physical and mental, though I don't think they're quite as bad as the stuff from two chapters ago.

Anyway, I'm a big fan of Silmarillion fanon Mairon/Sauron and I'm sure it shows. Have fun!

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Images fluttered about Robb’s head faster than he could grasp them. Dreams, memories and things he had witnessed from Grey Wind’s perspective intermingled until he could no longer tell which was which.

Sauron rifled through them all as one would through a particularly dull book. His presence in Robb’s mind was a sharp, burning thing. It was intangible, of course, yet Robb felt his skull was close to bursting from sheer pressure.

Sauron had burrowed himself deep into Robb’s brain. It was as though he intended to carve out a space for his own and settle down there. As though he intended to stay.

Finally, the flood of images stopped. Just a second more of it would have split his head in twain, Robb was sure.

Instead, he found himself back on his knees in a place he had never expected to see again. Around him, frozen in time, stood the Valar. The veiled woman, whose name Robb had forgotten, was by his side once more. Her hand was stretched out towards him, just shy of touching his cheek. Tears brimmed in her deep blue eyes.

Behind her was the one with wings—Manwë, Robb remembered—and the star-freckled woman with skin like the night sky. He had not noticed it back then, but they were looking at him with pity in their gaze. Robb wondered if it was because he had just died or because of what lay ahead: more war, more death, more torture. Certainly no rest.

Without so much as a warning, the Valar unfroze and the scene commenced. Everything was exactly as Robb remembered it—his confusion, their only marginally helpful explanations, the task he had been given. Even those of the Valar he had not regarded closely at the time were there, their forms clearer than any memory could produce.

Still, Robb felt Sauron’s presence. It flickered like flames at the edges of his vision, hissing and chanting and laughing quietly in his ear. When Manwë mentioned his true name, Mairon, heat spread through Robb’s chest. When they spoke of destroying him, it turned into a raging inferno.

Sauron was watching Robb’s memories like a play, and there was nothing he could do to stop him. Robb tried to force Sauron out, to throw his own mind against his, but Sauron was powerful, experienced, and practically a god. Robb was none of those things. His attempts at fighting back were pathetic, so much so that Robb could hear chuckles echoing through his head.

Fine, Sauron seemed to say. Something else, then.

Something else was a collection of dreams Robb had hoped he had left behind after his stay in Lothlórien. As always, it started with Jeyne and himself, entwined in a joyful dance. Suddenly, she was torn from his arms. Walder Frey stabbed her chest and belly until her torso was scarcely more than pulp. Jeyne’s pleading eyes stayed locked to Robb’s the entire time, even as she screamed and sobbed and choked on blood. He watched the light fade from them, bone-deep horror fighting with Sauron’s curiosity in his chest.

Robb stumbled back. His back collided with something—someone. Father. Pale, bloody, his head sewn back on with thick, messy stitches. Mother joined him, her throat gushing blood. Then came Bran and Rickon, burned beyond recognition, followed by his two little sisters. They were bruised and beaten, their eyes lifeless.