Rickon raced down the tower steps, his boots slipping on the worn stone as he took them two at a time. His heart pounded against his ribs, matching the rhythm of the commotion in the courtyard. It had bed been half a day since the riders from the Wall had ridden to Winterfell, by the time he reached his father in the Great Hall, Lord Cregan was already strapping on his sword belt, his face grim as stone.
"Father, what's happening?" Rickon asked, breathless from his sprint.
Cregan's grey eyes met his, hard as winter frost. "Wildlings. A large force has breached the Wall at Queensgate. The Night's Watch couldn't hold them."
"How many?" Rickon's mouth went dry.
"Three thousand, perhaps more," Cregan replied, his voice tight. "Led by a savage who calls himself Sylas the Grim. They're burning and pillaging their way through the Gift."
A chill ran down Rickon's spine that had nothing to do with the drafty hall. Three thousand wildlings was an army, not a raiding party. And with the North still recovering from the Winter Fever...
"I'm calling the banners," Cregan continued, fastening his fur-lined cloak with a direwolf clasp. "What men can be spared, at least. The Glovers have already responded, and runners have been sent to the mountain clans."
Rickon straightened his shoulders. "I should come with you."
His father's hand landed heavy on his shoulder. "No. You stay at Winterfell."
"But Father—"
"You're not yet seven, Rickon." Cregan's voice softened slightly. "And if something should happen to me, Winterfell must have a Stark."
The weight of those words settled in Rickon's chest. If something should happen... He nodded, swallowing his protest.
"Look after your stepmother and sister," Cregan added, squeezing his shoulder once before striding toward the door.
"And keep practicing with the sword. The North may have need of such skills before long."
Three days later, Rickon stood at the gates of Winterfell, watching as his father led a column of men north. Beside him, Lady Alysanne held baby Sarra, wrapped tightly against the cold. The infant's face was barely visible beneath layers of fur and wool, but her grey eyes, Stark eyes, peeked out, regarding the scene with solemn curiosity.
"He'll return," Alysanne said softly, her breath forming clouds in the crisp morning air. "Your father is the finest warrior in the North."
Rickon nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Above them, Zenith circled, his massive wings casting a shadow across the snow-covered ground. The eagle had refused to stay in his mews that morning, breaking free with uncanny determination to follow Rickon to the gates.
As if sensing his thoughts, Alysanne glanced upward. "That bird grows more remarkable by the day."
"I wish I could send him with Father," Rickon said. "As a scout."
"Perhaps next time," she replied, adjusting Sarra in her arms. "When you've both had more training."
They watched until the last rider disappeared beyond the horizon, the column of men swallowed by swirling snow and the vast northern landscape. Only then did Rickon turn away, his young face set in lines of determination beyond his years.
"Come," Alysanne said gently. "There's much to be done. Your father left specific instructions for Winterfell's defenses to be strengthened in his absence."
The days stretched into weeks, each one filled with worry and preparation. Rickon threw himself into his duties, dividing his time between lessons with Maester Kennet, training Zenith, practicing with Ser Hallis in the training yard, and learning the practical aspects of running Winterfell in his father's absence. At night, his dreams were filled with snow and blood, the screams of dying men carried on a bitter wind.
Nearly a moon had passed when the first raven arrived, bearing news that Lord Cregan had engaged Sylas the Grim's forces near Long Lake. The battle had been fierce but inconclusive, with both sides withdrawing to regroup.
"Why would they withdraw?" Rickon asked Maester Kennet as they stood in the rookery, the maester carefully removing the tiny scroll from the raven's leg.
"War is seldom decided in a single battle, my lord," Kennet replied, unrolling the message. "Your father likely needs to consolidate his forces, perhaps join with the mountain clans before engaging again."
Three days later, another raven brought better news. Lord Cregan, now joined by the Flints and Norreys, had trapped Sylas the Grim against the shores of Long Lake. The wildling force had been decimated, their leader captured.
"The North remains strong," Alysanne declared when Rickon shared the news, relief evident in her voice. "Your father will return victorious."
Yet even as they celebrated Cregan's victory, troubling whispers reached Winterfell from the south. A trader from Barrowton brought word that the Winter Fever, which they had thought defeated, had resurged with terrible force.
"It started in the poorer quarters," the man told them, his face haggard from his journey. "But now it's spreading through the whole town. Lady Dustin has closed the gates, but it may be too late."
Rickon felt a cold knot of fear form in his stomach. He remembered all too well the ravages of the Winter Fever, the burning skin, the rattling coughs, the bodies piled high for burning when the ground was too frozen for proper burial.
"We must warn Father," he said to Alysanne later that evening as they sat in her solar, Sarra sleeping peacefully in her cradle nearby. "If the fever spreads north..."
"I've already instructed Maester Kennet to send ravens," she replied, her fingers working swiftly at her embroidery. "To your father and to all the major holdfasts between here and Barrowton. Quarantine measures must be implemented immediately."
Rickon nodded, grateful for her quick thinking. "What of our supplies? The medicines that helped during the last outbreak?"
"Our stores are adequate, but not abundant," Alysanne said, her needle pausing. "If the fever strikes as hard as before, we'll need more."
"The glass gardens," Rickon suggested. "We could devote more space to medicinal herbs."
"A wise suggestion," she agreed. "I'll speak with the gardeners tomorrow."
That night, as Rickon lay in bed, the worries that he'd kept at bay during the day came flooding back. His father facing wildlings in the north, the Winter Fever resurging in the south, and Winterfell caught in between. He closed his eyes, trying to find sleep, but his mind raced with possibilities, each more dire than the last.
A soft scratching at his window drew his attention. He rose from his bed, padding across the cold stone floor. Outside, perched on the narrow ledge, Zenith peered in at him, amber eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
Rickon unlatched the window, allowing the cold night air to rush in. The eagle hopped inside, settling on the back of a chair with a soft churr.
"You should be in your mews," Rickon whispered, stroking the bird's feathers. "How did you even get free?"
Zenith merely blinked at him, then closed his eyes as Rickon's fingers found the spot beneath his crest that he particularly enjoyed. The connection between them hummed, stronger than ever, and Rickon felt his anxieties begin to fade.
"Father will be home soon," he murmured, more to himself than to the eagle. "And we'll face whatever comes together."
As if in response, Zenith leaned into his touch, the eagle's warmth seeping into Rickon's cold fingers. For a moment, he thought he felt something more, a flash of height, of wind beneath wings, of Winterfell seen from above, small and vulnerable in the vast white landscape.
Then it was gone, leaving Rickon wondering if he'd imagined it, another dream bleeding into waking life. He returned to his bed, Zenith remaining on the chair, a silent sentinel against the night's shadows.
__________________________
Morning came, and with it a restlessness that Rickon couldn't shake. Father had been gone for weeks, and the waiting gnawed at him. The castle walls, usually a comfort, felt like a prison today.
"I need to get out of here," he whispered to Zenith, who watched him with knowing eyes as Rickon pulled on his simplest woolen tunic and a worn cloak, clothes that wouldn't mark him as Lord Stark's son.
Slipping past the guards was easier than it should have been. They were focused on travelers coming in, not a small boy going out. Rickon tucked a loaf of bread inside his cloak, he'd snatched it from the kitchens, still warm from the ovens, and made his way through Winterfell's gates.
Winter Town sprawled before him, busier than usual despite the threat of fever. People still needed to eat, to trade, to live. Rickon walked through the muddy streets, hood pulled low, observing. The smallfolk looked tired, worn. Many coughed into their sleeves or handkerchiefs.
He turned down a narrow alley between two leaning buildings and stopped short. A woman sat huddled against a wall, her thin frame wrapped in threadbare clothes. In her arms, she cradled a bundle that whimpered softly. An infant.
"Please," the woman rasped, her voice barely audible. "Anything for my babe. We haven't eaten since yesterday."
Rickon's throat tightened. He approached slowly and pulled the bread from beneath his cloak. "Here," he said, offering it to her. "It's fresh."
The woman's eyes widened. She reached for the loaf with trembling hands. "The gods bless you, boy," she whispered.
As she took the bread, she suddenly lurched forward, seizing his wrist. "Thank you," she breathed, pulling him into an embrace. "Thank you."
Rickon stiffened in surprise but didn't pull away. The woman smelled of woodsmoke and something else, something sharp and sickly. When she released him, he caught a glimpse of her face beneath her hood. Her cheeks were flushed an angry red, her eyes too bright.
"You should seek a healer," he said, taking a step back. "For you and your child."
She was already tearing into the bread, feeding small pieces to the infant. "We'll be fine now," she said between bites. "Thanks to you."
Rickon backed away, suddenly uneasy. He turned and hurried through the streets, back toward the castle, his mind racing. The flush on the woman's face... he'd seen it before, during the last outbreak.
By evening, his throat felt raw. When he coughed during supper, Lady Alysanne looked at him sharply.
"Are you well, Rickon?" she asked, reaching across the table to feel his forehead.
"I'm fine," he lied, but her frown deepened at the touch of his skin.
"You're warm," she said. "Maester Kennet should examine you."
By the next morning, he couldn't deny it anymore. His head pounded, his skin burned, and each breath rattled in his chest. Maester Kennet's face grew grave as he examined him.
"Winter Fever," the maester confirmed, his voice tight with worry. "How did you come in contact with it, my lord? You haven't left the castle..."
Rickon closed his eyes, unable to answer through his coughing fit.
Days blurred together in a haze of fever. He drifted in and out of consciousness, aware sometimes of Maester Kennet at his bedside, of cool cloths on his forehead, of bitter medicines forced between his lips. Lady Alysanne's voice reached him through the fog, singing softly as she had when he was smaller.
In his fevered dreams, Rickon flew with Zenith, soaring over snow-covered lands. He saw his father's forces marching home, banners fluttering in the wind. He tried to call out, to warn them about the fever, but no sound came.
"His fever's rising again," Maester Kennet's voice cut through the dream. "We need more snow packs."
"Will he..." Lady Alysanne's voice broke. "Maester, tell me true."
"He's young and strong," Kennet replied, but the uncertainty in his tone was clear. "And a Stark. The North runs in his blood."
More time passed. More dreams. Rickon stood in the godswood, but the heart tree wept blood that turned to ice as it fell. He walked through Winterfell's crypts, where a black direwolf with red eyes stared at him.
______________________________
Maester Kennet hadn't slept in three days. His hands trembled as he mixed another batch of willow bark tea, adding a precious pinch of dreamleaf to ease Rickon's suffering. The boy's breathing had grown more labored with each passing hour, his thin chest heaving with the effort to draw air into fever-ravaged lungs.
"More cold compresses," he barked at the serving girl hovering nearby. "And send someone to the godswood for fresh snow."
A commotion erupted in the courtyard below, shouts, the thunder of hooves, men calling for their lord. Kennet barely registered it, his entire being focused on the small figure thrashing weakly beneath sweat-soaked furs.
The door to Rickon's chamber burst open. Lord Cregan Stark stood there, still in his travel-stained armor, frost clinging to his beard. His eyes, usually hard as iron, widened with shock as they fell upon his son.
"What happened?" he demanded, crossing the room in three long strides.
Kennet looked up, exhaustion etched into every line of his gaunt face. "Winter Fever, my lord. It came on suddenly, five days past."
Cregan knelt beside the bed, his large hand engulfing Rickon's burning one. "How?" The word came out as a growl.
"We believe he slipped into Winter Town," Kennet said, voice cracking. "There was a woman there, with a sick child..."
Tears welled in the maester's tired eyes, spilling down his hollow cheeks. "My lord, I have tried everything, willow bark, dreamleaf, snow packs. The fever burns too hot. His body is..." Kennet's voice broke completely. "I am not sure if he will make it through the night."
Cregan's face hardened into a mask of stone, but his hand tightened around his son's. "Leave us," he commanded.
"My lord, he needs—"
"Leave us!" Cregan roared, then softer, "Please, old friend. Just for a moment."
Kennet bowed stiffly and backed from the room, shoulders slumped in defeat. Outside in the corridor, he leaned against the cold stone wall, listening to the low rumble of Cregan's voice as he spoke to his unconscious son.
Inside the chamber, Cregan bent close to Rickon's ear. "You will not die," he whispered fiercely. "Do you hear me, son? Starks do not yield, not even to fever."
Rickon's eyelids fluttered, but didn't open. His breath rattled wetly in his chest.
The door opened, and Maester Kennet returned, his face drawn with exhaustion. He placed a gentle hand on Cregan's shoulder.
"My Lord, it is up to the gods if he survives this night, and we cannot afford to lose both of you. You must rest. The wildling campaign has drained your strength."
Cregan shrugged off the maester's hand. "I will not leave him."
"At least take some food. Lady Alysanne has had a meal prepared in your chambers."
Reluctantly, Lord Stark rose, casting one last look at his son's fevered form before following the maester out.
In the stillness that followed, something stirred within Rickon's burning body. A presence, ancient and wild, unfurled in the depths of his consciousness. His eyelids flickered, though no one was there to witness it.
Hours later, when moonlight streamed through the window and the castle had fallen silent, Rickon's eyes snapped open. They were glassy, unseeing, yet somehow focused on something beyond the stone walls of his chamber. He rose from his sweat-soaked bed, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.
The night guard dozed at his post, head nodding forward onto his chest. Rickon passed him like a ghost, bare feet padding silently on the cold stone. His thin undergarments clung to his fevered skin, darkened with sweat.
"Black wolf," he mumbled, his voice a cracked whisper. "Coming."
The corridors of Winterfell seemed to bend around him, guiding his stumbling steps. No servants crossed his path; no guards intercepted him. It was as if the very stones of the ancient fortress conspired to ease his journey.
The night air hit him like a physical blow when he stepped outside, yet he felt nothing through the haze of fever. Snow crunched beneath his bare feet as he staggered toward the godswood, leaving a trail of uneven footprints behind him.
The heart tree waited, its bone-white branches reaching toward the star-filled sky. The carved face seemed to watch him approach, its features twisted in an expression somewhere between sorrow and welcome. As Rickon drew closer, he saw that red sap oozed from the carved eyes, thick as blood in the moonlight.
His legs finally gave way. He collapsed before the ancient weirwood, his forehead pressed against its rough bark. Above him, the red leaves rustled though there was no wind.
"Help," he whispered, the word barely.
A drop fell. One perfect crimson tear from the carved eye tracked down the pale trunk, gathering momentum until it fell directly between Rickon's parted lips. The taste was copper and earth and something older than both, something that spoke of deep roots and endless winters.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then his eyes rolled back, showing only whites, and his small body went rigid. His heart hammered against his ribs with such force it seemed it might burst through his chest. His soul, or something deeper still, lurched as if pulled by an invisible hook.
Thump Thump Thump
The weirwood's face continued to weep, but now its tears fell to the snow around the boy's prone form.
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