Rickon couldn't remember Arya back when everyone was alive and well in Winterfell. He couldn't remember if she smiled a lot, or if she was quiet or loud, or if she prefered to be alone or in someone's company. He couldn't remember the way she looked or the sound of her voice. He was too young to remember any of those things.

The only Arya he knew, was the one that came back from only the gods know where with a deadly glare and a sharp mind. The only Arya he now recognized was the one that spoke words in foreign languages, fought in a complicated dance and wandered New Winterfell with her massive direwolf, much like Shaggydog, at her heels. The only Arya he knew was the one that taught him how to fight properly, the one that explained him the importance of having a pack but also the perks of being on your own. The one that talked about control but understood his wildness like no one else did.

The Arya he knew was his dear sister, irreplaceable part of his pack. A leader and a brave fighter. He only listened to her.

When Sansa was struggling to keep him down, when no one knew how to make him calm down—it was Arya, and sometimes Bran, who could make him behave. It was only Arya who could calm Shaggydog down if he wasn't willing to do it. Because no one else understood, but his sister Arya. Sansa was his sister too, it was true, but the only members of his pack were Arya and her direwolf, Bran and his, Shaggydog and Osha.

Sansa would call him temperamental and smooth down his curl with a tender smile pulling her lips. She would tell him to try and be a good boy. She would be charming and kind to him but turn cold and unforgiving with those she didn't trust. She was a wolf in her own way, he knew, but he didn't understand her ways nor did he like them. And she did not understand his ways and he was sure she didn't like them.

It was just how things were.

Somehow he knew things were different. He wasn't sure how, he couldn't even remember how things were back then, when everyone was alive and well in Winterfell, but he just knew they were different back then. He just knew they were different now.

Rickon liked how things were now in New Winterfell, though. He liked living with a pack, he liked being safe, he liked the hunting trips with Arya and the talks with Bran. He even liked Sansa's constant worrying and her endless rules. He liked to have a place to call his own and a family to call his blood.

But he knew things were bound to fate and they kept changing, moving—ephemeral in a world where nothing lasted forever. He bore no power in such things and they escaped his control. However, change was no easier because he knew this things. So when things did change, it bothered him still. It pissed him off because he liked how things were and change was not welcomed.

It happened still. Things changed and it happened when Jon came back.

They didn't call him Jon Snow anymore. Rickon knew that used to be his name, back then. Not anymore, though. Now he was Jon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, born out of tragedy. He had tricked death and for it they feared him and loved him at the same time. People worshipped him like a God, like a creature that did not resemble mere mortals. Jon Targaryen was something else.

And still, Arya called him family. When news reached the North that Jon was coming back, Arya was the first one to know. She was the one to tell him and seemed eager for his arrival, but did not comment any further on the subject. She didn't frown or smile, her reactions were carefully played out, as if she was uncertain of how to feel.

That was the first thing that worried Rickon. Arya was like that when she first came back. Uncertain, guarded, careful. Like a well-trained mummer, she played out a character, a mask, and nothing went through it. To Rickon, that woman was a stranger. The Arya he knew later, his sister, was controlled but genuine. Her face never betrayed her but she showed herself nevertheless. A trained liar that would choose the truth.

But she was slowly drifting inside herself again, locking herself away, and Rickon was losing her. That was the first time he blamed Jon for something. Because he was pushing Arya away without even being there.

Then, he actually arrived. Jon Targaryen reached the North looking painfully familiar. A ghost that was always at the back of Rickon's mind, suddenly made flesh and bones, a breathing creature that talked and walked. He remembered how he felt the same when he first reunited with Sansa, how painful it was to watch her, how familiar but strange she seemed all the time. An illusion played out by an old memory to then become a living person that was truly there. And, still, they weren't the persons they resembled. They brought the pain without the comfort of winning back those who were once so dear. They brought longing, sadness, rage.

That was the second time he blamed Jon. He blamed him for being a reminder of what was stolen from him, from his pack.

They were all out there, ready to greet him. Bran was smiling slightly, his eyes half-closed as if he was seeing too much of the world and wanted to block it all out, as if he wanted to focus solely on Jon for a while. Sansa looked happy, kind and delicate. The smile in her lips and the light in her eyes were the same whenever she looked at him, or at Bran, or at Arya. A loving gesture, a gesture she reserved for family. When he approached to kiss her hand in greeting, she grabbed his hand strongly, holding it tightly. Rickon knew what it meant without hearing Sansa saying the words he knew she was saying.

An apology and a welcome. I'm sorry for the past and I'm glad to have you back. This is home, this is family. Pure love and no judgement, the same treatment Arya received when she arrived. With just that gesture, which only lasted a second, Rickon knew Sansa and Jon didn't get along back then. Maybe they fought like Arya and Sansa did, maybe Sansa was unkind to him, maybe Jon was distant. But whatever it had happened, it was swiftly forgotten. Jon smiled, a smile that not only resembled Ned's smile but a smile that was incredibly similar to Arya's, and kissed Sansa's cheek instead of her hand.

He then moved to greet Arya and the world seemed to freeze. Arya tensed and Jon gulped and they stared at each other with an expression Rickon was unable to read. He had become quite good at it, at reading people. Arya had taught him. But both of them right now, faces so similar, were books written in a foreign language he couldn't even identify.

Their eyes travelled over each other's faces swiftly, quickly, as if trying to recognize details and memorize new ones. They weren't moving, still as statues, but they seemed to be frenetic, desperate to grasp something that kept sliding through their fingers. Arya took a deep breath and opened her mouth, but it was Jon who spoke.

"Arya," her name left his lips like a fervent prayer, the voice of a dying man who had just found the will to live. She exhaled in a gasp and there were suddenly tears in her eyes, spilling through her cheeks.

They both moved at the same time and hugged fiercely. His arms came around her frame and Rickon watched as Jon closed his eyes, his brow furrowed as if all the time Arya had spent out of his arms he'd been in pain. Her arms surrounded his neck and her face disappeared in the furs of his cloak. Her voice came muffled when they spoke at the same time.

"I have missed you so much."

There, in each other's arm, they finally relaxed. The air of urgency around them dissipated like a morning mist and Arya sighed happily, her muscles not so tense now. She moved to place her mouth close to his ear, and whispered things that were denied to everyone else's minds. There was something terribly intimate about the way they were behaving. About the way they whispered, about the way the held each other, about the way they reacted when their eyes crossed.

This isn't just brotherly love.

Rickon had a pack of his own, a pack Arya was part of. But seeing them, holding each other as if the world was ending tomorrow, he realized there was another pack too. A pack for only Arya and Jon, where no one else was invited, where no one else was welcomed.

He blamed Jon again. He blamed him for taking Arya away. He blamed him for stealing her heart, her attention, her love. And he blamed him a fourth time, for changing things when they were so good, so perfect. so fitting.

After what seemed an eternity, they parted but stayed closed, grasping each other's arms. Arya was smiling widely, warmly, a smile Rickon had seen once or twice, and Jon was looking at her with a fire in his eyes that could melt all the snow and ice of the north. Then Arya's smiled burned brighter and she turned.

"Oh, Jon, look," she said, guiding him to Rickon. Arya let go of one of Jon's arms and placed hers around Rickon's shoulder. "Look how much baby Rickon has grown."

Her words held love, her words held warmth. But above all, her words held pride. Rickon took a deep breath and looked at his sister just as she turned to look at him. He saw it. She was proud of him, like a mother would be of a son. She was happy with Jon here, happier than he had ever seen her. She was at peace, comfortable and free. She was Arya, unrestricted and true. Not a faceless men, not a mummer, not a liar.

She was complete.

Rickon turned now to look at Jon and he heard him say something about how much he looked like Robb. He saw the pain in Jon's eyes. The longing, the sadness, the rage. He sees someone else too. He sees someone they took from him too.

And Rickon understood and all the blame went away. Jon was no foreigner. Jon was no stranger. Jon was no dragon.

Jon was a wolf. Jon was family. Jon was a part of his pack. Because they shared more than just blood. Because he didn't take Arya away, but brought her true self back. Like if a piece of her was missing until he returned and brought it with him. Because he understood and felt the same, because he belonged.

So Rickon smiled, and willed Shaggydog with his mind to welcome Ghost into the pack, and then said, "Welcome back to Winterfell, brother."

A/N: I haven't written in a long time, so I feel kind of rusty. I haven't published anything of mine, or shown any of my writings to anyone, in an even longer time so... yeah, kind of nervous. So, any constructive criticism is very much welcomed. Any thought, any comment, any kind of feedback. I would really appreciate it.

Thank you so much for reading!