Author's Notes: This was written for soulshaker91 at got_exchange round 8. The summary is the prompt. Many thanks to my beta coaldustcanary and the mods of the got_exchange for hosting this fest on Livejournal.

Disclaimer: I'm not GRRM, if I were I would obviously be hard at work on The Winds of Winter, killing everyone you hold dear.

Lone Wolf

"Kneeler! Kneeler!"

Rickon gritted his teeth as the chants continued to ring out across the meadow. Hamdyr was leading the taunts as usual. The stupid oaf never lost an opportunity to rub Rickon's origins in his face – or lack of origins. It was not his fault that he could not remember where he was from. Oh, he remembered bits and pieces but that was all it was. Disjointed memories and images that made no sense but left a feeling of longing that haunted him.

"Shut up!" he shouted back.

"Or what?" Hamdyr's mocking voice asked. "You Southerons don't scare a Skagosi. We break our fast with you."

Rickon rolled his eyes, the threat meaning nothing now he had spent near on a year here although that had not always been the way. At one point he had been as apprehensive as the captain of the ship that had brought him and Osha to Skagos, who had been petrified. It was only the presence of Shaggydog that had made him do Osha's bidding. Apparently a near fully grown direwolf was scarier than the prospect of an island full of cannibals.

It was not true anyhow. The Skagosi might have eaten their enemies once upon a time, but that tradition had died out as the traders coming to the island had started to dry up. Trade was a precious commodity more so than man flesh.

Balling his fists up, Rickon approached Hamdyr. "I'm no Southron!"

"You talk like one. You certainly don't sound like someone from beyond the Wall. We had some of them in our village once and you don't sound like they do."

Uncertainty about who he was clouded Rickon's mind. He was different from Osha, their accents testament to that. He spoke a tad too differently to be her son. The fury that was never far from such feelings came, too. He saw Shaggy streaking in from the forest to the left of him and the blood pumped through his veins, roaring in his ears as his anger rose and he willed his large black direwolf on. He could almost taste the blood already as he lost himself in the rage that curled his hands into tight fists and tensed his jaw so tight that his teeth clenched together until they hurt. Osha was always telling him to keep himself in hand, but letting go of his temper was comfortable – something that brought him joy and gave him a small amount of control. It was no secret that the whole village was scared of him and his direwolf; that they only tolerated his presence because Osha and Shaggy were such good hunters and brought in much needed fresh meat now that winter was here. At any other time of the year, Rickon was sure they would have slit their throats and thought nothing of it.

Rickon watched with pleasure as Shaggy brought Hamdyr down with a running leap. The wolf's muzzle was stained red with a kill from his hunt and with his lips drawn back and snarls issuing from his throat, Shaggy looked truly ferocious. I am not some stupid soft Southron, Rickon thought. How could that even be possible with Shaggydog as his companion? A direwolf would not be at his side if he was some weak kneeler.

"Call him off, Rickon," Aenar shouted, looking in fear at the direwolf standing over the sprawling Hamdyr, his teeth showing in a fierce growl.

"Why should I? He started it."

"Shaggy will kill him," Alyn said in a pleading tone.

"So? The village will be better off without him," Rickon said, spitting in disgust before he stooped to pick up a rock to throw at Hamdyr. It hit his mark and Rickon was pleased to see the thin line of blood trail down the side of the older boy's temple.

Good, he thought. That will teach them to call me names and mock me.

He bent to pick up another rock, looking to drew more blood. Mayhap he could put Hamdyr down forever. The thought pleased him, although he knew it shouldn't. He had his arm raised and was about to release when his wrist was grabbed in a rough grasp.

"What are you about, boy?"

Rickon turned around and his anger subsided under Osha's furious glare. Two of the village girls stood behind her, tears streaming down their faces. Their heaving chests made it obvious they had run to fetch her. It was well known that Osha was the only person who could control Rickon when his temper stirred.

He dropped the rock and clicked his fingers to Shaggy, not needing the order from Osha to call his wolf off. He heard the older boy stumbling to his feet but his eyes didn't leave Osha's face.

"Stupid bastard," Hamdyr called to him before taking off, the rest of the village children in his wake.

"How many times have I told you to control that temper and wolf of yours, Rickon? We need these people and you are fast wearing out our welcome."

"No we don't. We can go back to the forest and survive."

Osha took his chin in her hand. "Now listen to me. Winter is here and we don't have the ability to live out in the wilderness. The sooner you realise that the better."

He pulled his face back and wrestled his wrist out of her grasp. "I don't need anyone. I have Shaggy, I'll be fine."

Osha muttered something under her breath.

"Why won't you tell me?" he asked, almost shouting in his frustration.

The older woman tilted her head inquiringly. "Tell you what?"

"Who I am? They were doing it again. Mocking me, calling me names. They know you are not my mother just as I do, so why won't you tell me who is?"

Rickon could not stand the pity that flooded this usually harsh woman's eyes. It happened every time he pleaded with her and he hated it. He did not want pity, he just wanted the truth. He wanted to know what his memories meant, why he got excited when he caught a flash of long red hair out the corner of his eye, why he sometimes dreamed of other wolves, ones that were not black like his Shaggy but were grey or white, and of other children, some with faces like weasels, others smaller and slighter, and then there was the one who he tried to reach out to in his dreams.

"And the other boy? He has hair like mine! I thought once that he was my brother but you tell me I have no brothers. But Shaggy has brothers and a sister. I can feel them sometimes-," he broke off, tears welling in his eyes, knowing that topic was not safe. Osha had warned him many times to never speak of his wolf dreams.

Rickon wiped the moisture away, he would not cry so he stared Osha down, as if his glare would somehow make her talk. She shook her head despondently and he realised he would get no answers from her.

He did not bother waiting to hear any response she may have. Instead, he plunged into the forest that surrounded the village. The snows were piled high now, but Rickon had spent enough time in and around the forest that he didn't need to take heed of his surroundings. He liked it in here; the quiet was peaceful and allowed his mind to rest. He liked it best when he was away from the others – just him and Shaggy.

He and Osha had arrived at the village nine moons ago and he had never really settled. The other children taunted him at every chance they got and the adults trod warily around his direwolf, muttering names and calling his bond with Shaggy unnatural. He had wanted to leave after the first night, but Osha, tired and gaunt, had made it clear that they would not move on despite the fact that they were very much considered outsiders.

It didn't help that Osha was deliberately vague about where they came from. She told the village that they were from beyond the Wall and that they had fled when the Others had begun to rise. Rickon knew this was a lie but she refused to talk about it. About who he was and where he was from. Even when he asked about the older boy, with hair like his, whose image he could just about recall and he was plagued with dreams of stone walls and smoke, and a long dark passage with statues.

This lack of knowledge about his family had not helped him settle into the village. For the Skagosi, your family was all important. It defined who you were and gave others the information they needed to know about you. Rickon's lack of knowledge on this was treated with mistrust by the other children. When they questioned him, all he could tell them was about his journey to Skagos. He kept his vague memories from before quiet. Osha had told him never to mention the other boy in front of others. That was important, he knew, but he did not know why.

By the time he made it to the Weirwood grove, his anger had dissipated, melting away like snowflakes in red hair. Where has that come from? He scowled, hating the fact that he was haunted by images that he could not piece together but he clung to them anyway. One day he would remember and he would know why he had fought so hard not to forget these little pictures into his past.

Rickon had found the Weirwood trees a few moons ago, after yet another confrontation. He had been muttering angrily and kicking snow drifts, thinking up ways he was going to get even when he had stopped and noticed the silence around him. Not a muted silence like that which came after a fresh snowfall but complete and utter silence. No rustling from leaves, no scratching of animals looking for food, not even the noise of a nearby stream. He had looked up and jumped at the semi-circle of Weirwood trees that faced him, their red, weeping eyes boring into him as if they could see into his very soul.

He had run away that day, scared by the intensity of the trees' gaze, but he had been drawn back just a few days later when his temper was up once more.

Now, it had become second nature to come here when he was upset or angry. There was something comforting about the place and despite the deep carpet of snow, he could almost smell the earthy decay of leaves, which again drew memories from deep inside of him. Of a dark, sombre wood, a large Weirwood tree, and a deep reflective pool. Again, he knew it was important but the reason why alluded him.

Rickon had yet to get close to the trees, not daring to touch them but today, feeling sadder than he had in a long while, he made a little nest in the roots of the largest tree, which grew right in the middle of the crescent. He leant his head against the bone white bark and a few tears slipped down his cheeks.

"Why am I such an outcast?" he whispered. "Why am I so angry?"

He sat like that for a while, muttering his secrets into the Weirwood trunk, unburdening himself for the first time, hoping for answers even though it was just a tree. Soon his eyes closed and he succumbed to the tiredness that always followed in the wake of his anger.

He stood in front of another Weirwood but he knew not where. It was familiar but he could not place it. A head butted against his back and he looked around to face a direwolf. The animal was silver grey instead of black but it felt familiar, as if he knew it. He looked into its yellow eyes and automatically knew that he was meant to follow.

They passed a deep black pool and weaved their way through the trees, coming out in front stone buildings. He looked up and saw great walls surrounding him, tall towers interspersed here and there. He should feel trapped but overwhelming peace settled on him.

"Home," he whispered, knowing instinctively that it was.

Winterfell, the wolf told him.

Rickon heard the clanging of steel upon steel somewhere nearby and the wolf led him through a long building into a courtyard on the other side. He saw two boys, almost men, taking turns to attack each other under the stern eye of a man. Girlish giggles broke out from the covered bridge that ran along one side and he looked up to see a woman with two girls flanking her either side. Nostalgia washed over him.

"My family," he breathed.

Yes, the wolf replied.

And their names flooded into his mind. Father, Mother, Robb, Jon, Sansa, and Arya. This is who he was. Not some angry, vengeful boy stuck in a village on an island in the far north.

"But there is one missing. My brother, Bran. Where is Bran?" he asked, turning frantically around until he faced the direwolf once more, the yellow eyes gazed knowingly at him.

"Bran?"

And the courtyard at Winterfell faded, his family along with it, and Rickon stifled a sob. He remembered now. Everyone left and he was all alone.

I'm here, Rickon. Inside Summer, inside the Weirwood trees, inside the ravens. You are not alone. I am with you.

Rickon stood in a cave, before a tangled knot of tree roots, and there, seated amidst the roots, was his brother, Bran. His skinny, useless legs dangled down but he had a smile on his face. Rickon desperately wanted to run to him, to gather him up in a hug and take him away so he could be with him and Osha, but he could not move.

"This is who you are, Rickon Stark. A wolf of the North. A Stark of Winterfell. Never forget," Bran said.

Summer was there, too, sitting beside Bran and he suddenly leaned his head back and howled.

Rickon awoke with a jump, his heart pounding and sweat beading his forehead with Shaggy next to him, howling so loudly it actually scared him.

"Shush, Shaggy," Rickon said, putting a hand on his wolf's neck and carding his fingers through the thick fur, gaining comfort from the familiar texture.

His rapid heartbeat calmed and he drew in several deep breaths before stumbling to his feet, half leaning on the direwolf for balance as he turned to face the Weirwood. Strangely, he thought he could almost see Bran's face smiling out at him. The leaves rustled high on the branches, almost as a farewell, and Rickon knew it was time to go, that he had received all the answers he would today. He bounded through the wood, feeling lighter and more hopeful than he had in a long while, his bear claws helping him race atop the deep snow. A refrain chanted through his head.

Rickon Stark. I am Rickon Stark of Winterfell. And the Wolves will rise again.

Davos stared down at the village from the hill top, his Myrish spyglass trained on the red headed boy with the black direwolf leaping at his side. He had never met a Stark before or even a Riverland Tully, the colouring little Rickon Stark was said to have inherited. But there was no mistaking that the boy matched the description Manderly had given him. The monstrous beast, too.

He sighed as he put his spyglass away. He had endured a terrible journey to this godsforsaken island but at least it had not turned out to be a wild goose chase. Now all he had to do was extract the boy from the village and return him to White Harbour. No doubt the North would expect King Stannis to return the boy to his rightful place as Lord of Winterfell. But if it brought their allegiance it would be worth the difficult effort of vanquishing the Boltons.