Rickon had just finished changing into fresh clothing and was heading to his father's solar when he heard the unmistakable sound of tiny feet thundering down the corridor. He turned just in time to see a small army of dark-haired girls careening toward him, their faces alight with mischievous glee.
"Rickon!" they chorused, four pairs of grey eyes locked on their target.
"Oh no," he muttered, bracing himself for impact with an exaggerated grimace. "The wolf pack approaches."
Sarra reached him first, her seven-year-old legs propelling her ahead of her sisters. She launched herself at him with the precision of a trained warrior, aiming directly for his midsection.
"Got you!" she crowed triumphantly as he caught her, swinging her around before settling her on his hip.
"You're getting too big for this," Rickon complained, though his grin betrayed him.
Six-year-old Alys approached more sedately, though her eyes sparkled with the same excitement. "You promised to show us how to shoot a bow today," she reminded him, tugging at his sleeve.
"Did I? I don't recall making any such—" Rickon began, only to be interrupted by the twins.
Raya and Myriah, identical four-year-old bundles of chaos, collided with his legs simultaneously, nearly toppling him despite his improved balance. They clung to each leg like limpets, giggling madly as he attempted to walk.
"We caught the monster!" Raya declared, her voice ringing with victory.
"Now we feast on his bones!" Myriah added with bloodthirsty enthusiasm.
Rickon raised an eyebrow at the twins. "Been listening to Edda's stories again, have we?"
"They snuck into the kitchens and stole three honey cakes," Alys reported dutifully, though her eyes darted to the side in a way that suggested she might have been involved in the planning, if not the execution.
"Tattletale!" Sarra accused, wriggling to be put down so she could properly glare at her sister.
Rickon set her on her feet, only to find his arms immediately filled with Myriah, who had somehow scaled his body like a squirrel up a tree. She now perched on his shoulder, tiny fingers tangled in his hair.
"You smell like the woods," she informed him, wrinkling her nose. "And Canis."
"Well, that's because I was in the woods with Canis," Rickon replied reasonably, trying to detach her hands from his hair before she accidentally scalped him. Her grip was surprisingly strong for such a small child.
"The guards says you're going to Skagos to fight cannibals," Sarra announced, her eyes wide with excitement. "Can I come? I've been practicing with my sword every day."
Rickon laughed. "Has he now? And how exactly did you come by this information?"
"We were hiding under his desk during the council meeting," Alys admitted without a trace of remorse. "It was Raya's idea."
Raya, still attached to his leg, beamed up at him proudly. "I'm the sneakiest."
"You're all little monsters is what you are," Rickon grumbled, though he couldn't keep the affection from his voice. "And no, Sarra, you cannot come to fight cannibals. Even if I were going, which I'm not. Yet."
He attempted to walk down the corridor with one child on his shoulder and another on his leg, making exaggerated stomping motions that had Raya shrieking with delight.
"But I want to see a unicorn," Sarra protested, skipping alongside him. "And you said I'm getting good with a sword."
"You are," Rickon agreed, "but you're still only seven. Come back in ten years and we'll discuss cannibal-fighting."
"In ten years I'll be old," she complained.
"Ancient," Rickon agreed solemnly. "Practically decrepit."
Alys rolled her eyes at this exchange, showing a maturity beyond her six years. "Mother is looking for the twins," she informed Rickon. "They're supposed to be having their lessons with Septa Myrelle."
"Boring," Myriah declared from her perch on Rickon's shoulder.
"So boring," Raya agreed from his leg.
Rickon sighed dramatically. "And you've used me as your hostage to avoid your lessons? I'm wounded. Betrayed by my own blood."
"We're not avoiding," Myriah protested. "We're just taking the long way there."
"The very, very long way," Raya added with a giggle.
Rickon couldn't help but laugh. For all the weighty matters on his mind, his sisters had an uncanny ability to pull him back to the simple joys of the moment.
"Well, the very, very long way is about to get shorter," he announced, bending down to detach Raya from his leg. "Because I have to meet with Father, and you four have to go find your mother before she sends the guards looking for you."
"Can't we come with you?" Sarra pleaded. "I want to hear about the war plans."
"There are no war plans," Rickon said firmly, lifting Myriah from his shoulder and setting her next to her twin. "And even if there were, little ears don't belong in such discussions."
"Our ears aren't that little," Alys pointed out reasonably, touching her own ear as if to confirm its adequate size.
"Figure of speech," Rickon replied, ruffling her hair. "Now off with you, all of you. I'll find you later for that archery lesson, I promise."
"And sword practice?" Sarra pressed hopefully.
"And sword practice," Rickon confirmed. "Though gods know what your Mother will say when she finds out I've already been teaching you to swing a blade."
"She already knows," Alys said matter-of-factly. "She watches sometimes from the balcony when you think no one's looking."
Rickon blinked in surprise. "Does she now?"
"She says you're a good teacher," Sarra added proudly. "And that I have natural talent."
"Well, she's right about that," Rickon conceded, his chest warming with unexpected pride. "Now go on, before I'm late and Father decides I need extra lessons in punctuality."
The girls reluctantly released him from their collective grasp, though not before extracting several more promises about activities for later in the day. As they scampered off down the corridor, Rickon shook his head in fond exasperation. His sisters were exhausting, demanding, and completely irresistible, a whirlwind of energy that somehow always managed to lighten even his darkest thoughts.
With a smile still playing on his lips, he continued toward his father's solar, mentally shifting gears from playful older brother back to the serious matters at hand.
Taking a deep breath, Rickon knocked on his father's door.
"Enter," came his father's deep voice.
Rickon pushed open the heavy oak door to find his father seated behind his massive desk, brow furrowed as he examined a stack of papers. Maps of Skagos were spread across the surface, along with what appeared to be supply inventories and troop numbers.
"Sit," Cregan said without looking up, gesturing to the chair across from him.
Rickon settled into the seat, studying his father's face. The lines around Cregan's eyes seemed deeper than usual, his expression grave as he continued examining the documents. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the occasional crackle from the hearth and the soft scratch of his father's quill as he made notations on one of the maps.
Finally, Cregan set down his quill and looked directly at his son.
"I didn't tell the whole truth at the council table," he said, his voice low and measured. "Regardless of whether the Skagosi surrender or not, we will be taking the island."
Rickon kept his face carefully neutral. "I suspected as much."
"Our army needs to be tested in true combat," Cregan continued, tapping his finger on the map of Skagos. "Bonds forged in battle are stronger than any other and they unite men in ways peace never can. Also, your steel innovations require battlefield testing."
Rickon nodded, unsurprised by his father's reasoning. The North had enjoyed relative peace since the end of the Dance of Dragons, but Cregan Stark had always been a warrior at heart. He understood the necessity of keeping their forces battle-ready.
"There's more," Cregan said, leaning forward slightly. "I'll be taking you with me on this operation."
Rickon's breath caught in his throat. He'd expected this, but to hear it from his father's mouth was different.
"It's time you were blooded," his father continued, his grey eyes piercing into Rickon's. "Time you tested your sword in battle against men, not training dummies. War is the true crucible that forges a man, especially one who will one day lead the North."
"I'll be fighting?" Rickon asked, his voice steadier than he felt. His mind raced with conflicting emotions, excitement, apprehension.
"Aye," Cregan affirmed. "You're fourteen now, the same age I was when I first went to war. You've shown exceptional skill with blade and bow. Your tutors tell me you've mastered the strategies of the great commanders. But book learning and practice yards aren't enough."
Rickon's fingers twitched involuntarily, as if already feeling the weight of his sword. Not the shadow blade he conjured with Canis, but cold steel against living flesh.
"You won't be in the vanguard," Cregan added, perhaps seeing something in his son's expression. "You'll command a small reserve unit, with experienced men around you. I don't throw pups to the wolves, not even wolf pups."
Rickon nodded slowly, the weight of responsibility settling over him like a cloak.
"I won't fail you, Father," he said, the words carrying the weight of an oath.
Cregan's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "I know you won't. You're my son."
He stood, indicating their private meeting was concluded. "We'll discuss the details further at tonight's war council. For now, speak of this to no one, not even your sisters, despite their remarkable talent for eavesdropping." A rare smile touched Cregan's lips. "Yes, I know about their little adventure under the council table."
Rickon couldn't help but grin. "They're becoming quite the little spies."
"Too much like their brother," Cregan observed dryly. "Now go. I believe you have some archery lessons to deliver, and I have ravens to send."
As Rickon turned to leave, his father's voice stopped him at the door.
"Rickon," Cregan said, his tone unusually hesitant. "Your mother would be proud of the man you're becoming."
The unexpected words struck Rickon like a physical blow. His father rarely spoke of his first wife, Rickon's mother, who had died bringing him into the world. The pain of that loss still lingered in Cregan's eyes whenever he looked at his firstborn son.
"Thank you, Father," Rickon managed, his throat suddenly tight.
He closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment as he gathered himself. War. Ancient secrets. The possibility of facing whatever mysterious force Brandon the Builder had deemed necessary to seal away beneath stone and sea.
And somewhere in the midst of it all, the lingering question of what he truly was, what he and Canis were together. God-killers, the direwolf had saud. Perhaps Skagos would provide some answers.
Canis was waiting for him in the corridor, those crimson eyes knowing, patient. The direwolf had heard everything through their bond, understood what was coming.
"Well, boy," Rickon murmured, burying his fingers in the thick black fur. "It seems we're going to war."
____________________
"Rickon!" Garrick bellowed, his grin wide as a bear trap. "Heard you're going cannibal hunting!"
Rickon winked at his sisters. "Keep practicing those moves. Remember, quick and low." He handed Alys the practice dagger, then turned to face the approaching mountain of a teenager.
"Last I checked, we were putting down a rebellion, not hunting for our dinner," Rickon called back, unable to keep the smile from his face. Canis, who had been lounging in the shade watching the dagger lesson, lifted his massive head with interest at the newcomer.
Garrick Umber crossed the training yard in a few long strides, his shadow falling over Rickon like an eclipse. The young giant's booming laugh echoed off the stone walls.
"Rebellion, dinner, depends which side you're on, doesn't it?" Garrick clapped Rickon on the shoulder with enough force to stagger a lesser man. "Father's brought three hundred Umber men. Says the Last Hearth has been too quiet lately."
Rickon had spent the past fortnight in a whirlwind of preparations. War councils stretched late into the night, ravens flew constantly between Winterfell and the bannermen, and the castle grounds had transformed into a military encampment. The forges ran day and night, churning out the superior steel weapons and armor that would give the North's forces their edge.
"Your father always did have a strange definition of 'quiet,'" Rickon replied, measuring the taller boy with his eyes. "You've grown again. What are they feeding you at Last Hearth? Small children?"
"Only the ones who talk back." Garrick flexed an arm the size of a small tree trunk. "Though I might make an exception for the Stark who handed me my arse four years ago."
Sarra gasped dramatically at the language, while Alys pretended not to have heard, practicing her dagger strikes with intense concentration.
"Language, Umber," Rickon chided with mock severity. "There are delicate ears present."
"Our ears aren't delicate!" Sarra protested, right on cue. "We hear worse from the stable boys!"
"Do you now?" Rickon raised an eyebrow. "I'll have to speak with those stable boys."
Garrick knelt down to Sarra's level, still towering over the seven-year-old. "Lady Sarra, I humbly beg your pardon for my uncouth language." He placed a hand over his heart with exaggerated formality. "Though I must say, you look fearsome with that dagger. Planning to join us against the Skagosi?"
"Rickon won't let me," she pouted, shooting her brother an accusing look.
"Terrible brother you have," Garrick agreed solemnly. "Keeping you from certain death at the hands of cannibals. Simply unforgivable."
Alys lowered her practice dagger, fixing Garrick with a serious stare that made her look eerily like their father. "Will you bring us back a unicorn horn?"
"If I find one, it's yours," Garrick promised, rising back to his intimidating height. He turned to Rickon, his voice dropping slightly. "Actually, I've been wanting to test something. I hear you've been busy with those new forges of yours."
Rickon's pulse quickened with pride. "The Stark forge is producing steel unlike anything the North has seen before. Want to see?"
"Later," Garrick said, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "First, I want to see if you've gotten soft while playing blacksmith. The yard's filling up with men from all the houses. What say we give them a show?"
Rickon glanced around, noticing that indeed, a crowd had begun to gather. Warriors from Houses Umber, Karstark, Glover, and more mingled in the yard, sizing each other up before they would fight side by side on Skagos. The atmosphere crackled with competitive energy, men testing each other's mettle before blood was spilled in earnest.
"A friendly spar before we face real enemies?" Rickon suggested, already feeling his blood heating at the prospect.
"Nothing builds brotherhood like beating each other senseless," Garrick agreed cheerfully.
"Alys, take Sarra inside," Rickon instructed, already unbuckling his fine leather jerkin. "Tell Ser Hallis I'll be late for strategy lessons."
"But I want to watch!" Sarra protested.
"Later," Rickon promised, ruffling her hair. "This won't be a practice bout like the ones you've seen."
As his sisters reluctantly retreated, Rickon stripped down to his simple linen shirt, rolling up the sleeves. Across the yard, Garrick was doing the same, revealing arms corded with muscle earned from swinging the massive Umber greatswords.
"Practice blades or live steel?" Garrick called, his voice carrying across the yard.
"Live steel, blunted edges," Rickon replied without hesitation. "Unless you're afraid I'll mark up that pretty face of yours again."
"Ha!" Garrick barked. "I've been dreaming of returning the favor for four years!"
The gathering crowd formed a loose circle around them, northern warriors calling encouragement and placing wagers. Rickon caught sight of his father watching from the covered walkway above, his expression unreadable.
Ser Hallis appeared at the edge of the circle, arms crossed over his chest. "If you two are determined to bash each other's brains out before we even reach Skagos, at least do it properly." He gestured, and two squires hurried forward with padded gambesons and blunted tourney swords.
Rickon slipped the protective garment over his head, the familiar weight settling on his shoulders. He selected a longsword from the offered weapons, testing its balance with a few experimental swings.
"Remember, Umber," he called to Garrick, who was hefting a blunted greatsword nearly as tall as Rickon himself, "size isn't everything."
"So the small folk keep telling me," Garrick replied with a wink that set the crowd roaring with laughter.
They took positions opposite each other in the center of the circle. Canis had moved to the edge, his crimson eyes fixed on the bout with predatory interest. Through their bond, Rickon felt the direwolf's excitement and anticipation, mirroring his own.
"To first blood?" Garrick asked, settling into a fighting stance that made the most of his reach advantage.
Rickon grinned, dropping into his own stance, lower, more mobile. "Too boring. First to yield?"
"Your funeral," Garrick replied, his smile wolfish.
Ser Hallis stepped between them, his weathered face stern. "Remember you're allies, not enemies. No permanent damage." He looked from one to the other, then stepped back sharply. "Begin!"
Garrick moved with shocking speed for his size, the greatsword whistling through the air in a devastating horizontal sweep. Rickon ducked under it, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle his hair. He darted forward, aiming a quick thrust at Garrick's midsection that the larger boy barely parried.
"Almost got you," Rickon taunted, dancing back out of range.
They circled each other, exchanging experimental blows, testing defenses. The crowd grew louder with each clash of steel, northern voices calling encouragement and insults in equal measure.
Rickon felt alive, his senses heightened, every muscle responding perfectly to his commands. This was what he lived for, the pure, uncomplicated joy of physical challenge. No politics, no ancient mysteries, just skill against skill, strength against strength.
Garrick pressed his advantage, unleashing a flurry of powerful strikes that forced Rickon backward. The Umber style relied on overwhelming force, using their legendary strength to batter opponents into submission. Four years ago, Rickon had countered it with speed and precision.
Today, he had something more.
As Garrick's greatsword descended in a powerful overhead strike, Rickon didn't dodge. Instead, he stepped into the blow, catching it on his own blade in a perfect cross.
The impact shot up Rickon's arm, but he held firm. Steel met steel in a deadlock that should have driven him to his knees. Garrick's eyes widened in surprise at Rickon's strength.
Rickon grinned, feeling that familiar tug of recognition. There it was again, that spark, that otherness that radiated from Garrick like heat from a forge. The Umber heir didn't even realize what he was, how his strength far exceeded what any normal man should possess. Rickon had sensed it the first time they'd met, that primal recognition between two beings touched by something beyond the mundane world.
Monsters recognize each other. Like meets like.
Rickon shoved back, breaking the deadlock and sending Garrick stumbling. He could have pressed the advantage, could have channeled just a fraction of what Canis offered him, the shadow-speed, the inhuman strength, but he held back. This was a friendly bout, a test of skill rather than supernatural power.
"Bloody hell!" Garrick swore, regaining his balance. "When did you get so fucking strong?"
"Lot's of milk!" Rickon teased, dancing away from another powerful swing. "And I've always been this strong. You were just too busy showing off to notice."
The crowd roared as they clashed again, blades ringing in a symphony of steel. Rickon felt his blood singing in his veins, the thrill of matching himself against someone special, someone like him, though not quite at his level. Garrick's gift was raw strength and speed, impressive but unrefined. He had no Canis Lykaon whispering ancient secrets into his mind, no shadow blade extending from his soul.
Garrick charged forward with a bellowing war cry, his greatsword sweeping in a devastating arc. Rickon waited until the last possible moment before sidesteping, letting the blade whistle past his ear. He pivoted smoothly, bringing his own sword around in a lightning-fast riposte that Garrick barely blocked.
"Getting slow, Umber!" Rickon taunted, pressing his attack with a flurry of strikes that drove the larger boy back step by step.
Garrick's face flushed with exertion and excitement as he parried each blow. "Just warming up, Stark!"
Through their mental link, Rickon felt Canis's eager bloodlust, the direwolf's desire to see him unleash more of their shared power.
Not yet, he thought back firmly. This isn't the time or place.
The crowd had grown, northern warriors pressing closer to watch the heirs of Stark and Umber test their mettle against each other. Rickon caught glimpses of his father's face from the battlement above, still impassive but watching intently. This was more than just a friendly spar, it was his chance to prove himself before the campaign, to show the assembled bannermen that the young wolf had teeth.
Rickon feinted high, then dropped low, sweeping Garrick's legs from under him with a move Ser Hallis had drilled into him over countless brutal training sessions. The Umber heir crashed to the ground with an impact that seemed to shake the very earth, his greatsword flying from his grasp.
Before Garrick could recover, Rickon was there, the tip of his blunted sword resting lightly against the fallen boy's throat.
"Yield?" Rickon asked, breathing hard but steady.
For a moment, something flashed in Garrick's eyes, something violent and dangerous that resonated with Rickon's own hidden nature. Then it was gone, replaced by a roar of laughter, as the Umber restrained his impulse to keep fighting to the bloody end.
"I yield," Garrick announced loudly enough for all to hear. "This round, at least."
Rickon withdrew his sword and offered a hand, which Garrick clasped firmly as he pulled himself to his feet. The crowd erupted in cheers and groans as silver changed hands, wagers settled.
"Good fight," Garrick said, clapping Rickon on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him. "You've improved."
"So have you," Rickon replied honestly. "Though you telegraph your overhead strikes."
Garrick raised an eyebrow. "Do I now? We'll have to work on that before we face the Skagosi. Speaking of which—" he leaned closer, lowering his voice "—I hear they have some kind of stone priest leading them. Old magic, they say."
Rickon's attention sharpeneds. "Where did you hear that?"
"One of our hunters. He trades with the fishermen near the Shivering Sea, who've been seeing strange lights on Skagos at night." Garrick shrugged massive shoulders. "Could be nonsense, but..."
Ser Hallis approached, cutting short their conversation. "Decent form, both of you," he grunted, which from him was high praise indeed. "Rickon, your father wants you in the armory. Something about explaining the new equipment."
Rickon nodded, exchanging a quick clasp of forearms with Garrick before retrieving his jerkin. As he walked toward the armory, Canis fell into step beside him, the direwolf's massive presence parting the crowd like a ship's prow through water.
"That was fun," Rickon murmured to his companion.
Canis growled low in agreement as they approached the armory. Rickon could hear voices echoing from within, his father's deep baritone rising above the others. He straightened his jerkin, still buzzing from the spar with Garrick, and pushed open the heavy oak door.
The armory blazed with light and heat from multiple braziers, illuminating the gleaming products of Rickon's metallurgical innovations. Rows of breastplates, helms, and weapons lined the walls, each bearing the distinctive smoky-silver sheen of Stark steel.
His father stood at the center, surrounded by the most powerful lords of the North. Lord Hother Umber, a giant nearly as massive as his son, stroked his wild beard as he examined a breastplate. Lords Glover and Karstark clustered nearby, their expressions ranging from skepticism to admiration.
And then there was Lord Bolton.
Robert Bolton stood slightly apart from the others, pale eyes fixed on Rickon the moment he entered. Those eyes reminded Rickon of ice over deep water.. Unlike the other lords' animated expressions, Bolton's face remained a mask of perfect stillness.
"Ah, here he is," Cregan announced, gesturing Rickon forward.
Rickon approached, Canis padding silently at his heel. The direwolf's hackles rose slightly as they neared Lord Bolton, a reaction that didn't escape Rickon's notice.
"My lords," Rickon greeted them with a respectful nod, forcing himself to meet Bolton's gaze directly.
"We were just discussing these remarkable advancements," Lord Glover said, tapping a gauntlet with his knuckle. "Hard to believe steel could be improved upon after thousands of years."
Cregan lifted a sword from the table, the blade catching the light with an almost ethereal glow. "My son has combined old knowledge with new techniques. The result speaks for itself."
Lord Hother Umber bellowed a laugh, clapping Rickon on the shoulder hard enough to buckle his knees. "The boy's a bloody marvel! First he outfights my son, now I learn he's outsmarted our smiths!"
"Not outsmarted," Rickon corrected quickly. "Just... found a different approach."
"Humility doesn't suit a Stark," Lord Bolton said softly, his voice barely above a whisper yet somehow filling the room. "Your ancestors would have claimed divine inspiration."
Something in that quiet voice sent a chill down Rickon's spine. His father's lessons echoed in his mind. ancient rivalries, flayed skins decorating the halls of the Dreadfort, centuries of rebellion and bloodshed between their houses.
The Boltons had bent the knee, yes, but a thousand years meant little to houses as old as theirs. The old saying drifted through his thoughts: "A naked man has few secrets; a flayed man, none."
"No divine inspiration, Lord Bolton," Rickon replied carefully. "Just careful observation and experimentation."
Bolton's thin lips curved into what might generously be called a smile. "Indeed. How... practical."
Rickon's father handed the sword to Lord Karstark, then moved to a mannequin displaying a full suit of the new armor. "The steel is lighter than traditional plate, yet stronger. It can turn aside a crossbow bolt at thirty paces."
"Impressive if true," Lord Bolton murmured. "Though I find it curious that such knowledge should suddenly appear in a boy of fourteen."
Rickon felt his heartbeat quicken. There was something probing in Bolton's tone, an implication lurking beneath the surface.
"My son has always had an affinity for such matters," Cregan said smoothly, but Rickon caught the warning glance his father shot him.
"An unusual affinity," Bolton persisted, those pale eyes never leaving Rickon's face. "Almost... unnatural."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Lord Hother shifted uncomfortably, while Lord Glover suddenly became very interested in examining a nearby helmet.
Canis growled, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. Rickon placed a steadying hand on the direwolf's neck, feeling the muscles bunched beneath his fingers.
"Is there something you wish to say directly, Lord Bolton?" Cregan asked, his voice deceptively calm.
Bolton's expression remained unchanged, that same bloodless almost-smile fixed in place. "Merely an observation, my lord.
"Then you'll be pleased to know there's nothing unexplained here," Rickon interjected, forcing a confidence into his voice he didn't entirely feel. "I'd be happy to demonstrate the process for you. The key lies in the limestone flux and the shape of the furnace."
He moved to a nearby table where diagrams were spread out, deliberately turning his back to Bolton.
"You see," he continued, tracing the outline of the pear-shaped furnace with his finger, "by forcing air through these channels while the metal is molten, impurities are burned away more efficiently."
"Fascinating," Bolton murmured, leaning over the diagram. "And where did you learn of this technique?"
Before Rickon could answer, his father intervened. "My son has spent countless hours studying with Maester Kennet, experimenting in the forge, and corresponding with craftsmen as far away as Qohor. His methods may be innovative, but they are hardly mysterious."
Lord Hother boomed his approval. "Who cares where the knowledge came from? If it gives the North stronger steel, I'll drink to that!" He slapped the breastplate appreciatively. "How soon before my men can be outfitted?"
The tension broke as the conversation shifted to practical matters of production and distribution. Rickon exhaled slowly, grateful for Lord Umber's timely intervention. Throughout the remainder of the demonstration, he felt Bolton's gaze on him, clinical and assessing.
When the lords finally departed to prepare for the evening feast, his father held him back with a hand on his shoulder.
"You did well," Cregan said quietly. "But be wary of Robert Bolton's interest in you."
Cregan's eyes darkened. "The Boltons have always been too clever for comfort. They collect secrets like others collect taxes." He squeezed Rickon's shoulder. "Remember what I taught you about them."
"Never turn my back. Never trust them," Rickon recited.
"And one more thing," his father added, glancing toward the door through which Bolton had departed. "Never underestimate them. The Red Kings may be gone, but their blood still flows in Robert Bolton's veins."
Rickon nodded, a chill running down his spine despite the forge's heat. "Do you think he'll be a problem on the campaign?"
"The Boltons have always been loyal in battle," Cregan said carefully. "But their loyalty is to the North first, House Stark second, and only when the two align." He picked up one of the new swords, testing its balance. "Keep Canis close when we reach Skagos. And watch your back."
The direwolf pressed against Rickon's leg in response, a solid presence of warmth and strength. Through their bond, Rickon felt Canis's assessment of Bolton, danger, cunning, and something else, the smell of fresh blood. The man reeked of it to Canis's senses.
"Come," his father said, returning the sword to its rack. "We have a feast to prepare for, and you still need to bathe. You smell like the training yard."
Rickon grinned, grateful for the lightening of the mood. "I thought that was the proper scent for a warrior preparing for battle."
"Perhaps for an Umber," his father replied with a rare smile. "Starks, however, are expected to at least attempt to be civil before dinner."
________________
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