Rickon

Chapter 1

I know that something is wrong as soon as I open my eyes. My bedroom ceiling is not grey nor is it made of such stones. But in the haze of having just woken up, I don't immediately react. Instead, I breathe deeply through my nose and stretch my limbs out on a bed that is incredibly unfamiliar. However unfamiliar it may be, a part of me does not want to have to face the reality that there is something off about my entire five seconds of being awake. And so I stay positioned like a sea star on the unfamiliar yet comfortable bed until my mind is finally ready to discover exactly what is strange.

There's always that first millisecond of relaxation before hell. My body finds my current position very natural, and that is part of the reason why my train of thought stops for a good minute. I have never owned a bear fur rug. I have never been in a four poster bed. I have never had a fireplace in my room.

The grey walls of stone seem to stare at me as I struggle to organize the bewildered thoughts in my head. I can't think straight, and little whispers enter my mind, telling me the cold, harsh truth: You do not belong here.

Because I don't. I don't. I don't belong in this place, but my legs refuse to move and words don't formulate in time for the first pang of actual fear creeping into my very being and a sudden a gasp of air and I find enough strength to shift to my side to just curl up into a ball and just die. I'm alone, I'm fucking alone, I'm for god's sake alone in a foreign environment I can't adapt to and it has only been three minutes but I feel like I'm suffocating. In my mind, there's a dark chasm of emptiness that's enclosing me that I have no clue how to deal with. Most people look at people like me and feel a pang of pity, except no one knows how much it really hurts to feel completely emotionally secluded until they encounter their own personal experiences and become bitter and jaded and absolutely jealous of the people who don't have a care in the world and play freely without any worries about how they will have to deal with emotional upheavals later on all alone and crying.

My panic is interrupted when there's a knock on the door. I become aware of the snot and tears on my face and the spot on the bed my face had been laying on. My back is to the door, so I am unable to see whoever enters the room. I'm closing my eyes because a childish aspect of my mind still believes that if I close them then all my troubles will disappear, and if I can't see the scary monsters, then they can't see me. Also because I realize that I am facing two large windows and I'm not ready to see anymore of this foreign place.

"Rickon? You must get ready now - remember that Maester Luwin is going to be teaching you and Bran about... Rickon?"

It is voice I have never heard before, but the person who had just spoke spoke to me as if we are supposed to be familiar with each other. There are footsteps, and the person is suddenly at my side, placing their hands on my arm.

"Rickon, are you still sleeping?" I deduce that this is an old woman based on her voice.

Warm old hands touch my face in a comforting manner, and before I know it, I have jumped into the old woman's startled embrace and weeped. There's a confused gasp, but she rubs soothing circles on my back. "Oh, my poor little lord," she whispers into my ear. Part of me still doesn't understand why I'm being called such a title, but the most scary part is that the pieces start to click together after she calls me a "little lord."

"Rickon dear," the woman almost sighs. "Was it a nightmare?"

And in that split-second, I steel my nerves and tone down my shaking. "Mhm... It was just a nightmare."

The beginning of one, at least.

Rickon's memories slowly trickle into my mind after I've fully awoken. The old lady who woke me up was Old Nan. Rickon is six years old - there was a name-day celebration not that long ago. Rickon has two sisters and two brothers... no, three... no, four? Anyway, Rickon loves his family very much.

I am now Rickon.

My brain still isn't working properly, but all I can think about is that I used to be someone else. I don't remember my previous name or any important shit like that and that makes me feel more confused when I can acutely recall other things. I had watched a lot of television, I had two cats, I had paid enough attention in my classes to know that where I am right now is an older age than before. Dark ages? Not quite...

I try not to show my weaknesses as much as possible, so once the tears were shed, they disappeared from my face completely. There's nothing that I can do now, so I allow myself to seriously think about my situation.

The main intrusive thought I have is that everything seems so much more familiar than a few seconds ago. I don't dare to believe it, but the possibility that I am trapped inside a fantasy story is too much for me to handle. The name "Rickon" immediately makes me think of the youngest Stark son of the TV show 'Game of Thrones.' Of course, the book series is what started it all, but I never read the books. However, in believing that I have entered the fantasy world dreamt by George R. R. Martin signals that I need to take a step back and reanalyze everything in front of me.

After dressing in what I assume to be the normal clothes of Rickon's world, I step outside of the temporary safe haven that is the bedroom and into a hallway also made of stone. Torch holders line the walls, and only muscle memory leads me to where breakfast is.

And after meeting the people at the table do I realize that there is no going back.

Attempting not to scream and run away from a thirteen year old Robb Stark is harder than most people think. My voice is caught in my throat and I clear it to reply with good mornings in order not to stand out. Because if anybody finds out that Rickon is not Rickon anymore, then I will not be able to have a safety net. The Amish had been a group to consider for safe havens, but in this fantasy universe, there is fear, fear, and more fear. A Ned Stark begins the breaking the fast, but food is the last thing on my mind right now.

I look to my left and to my right.

Ned Stark.

Catelyn Stark.

Robb Stark.

Dead.

Then I stare at the small loaf of bread and fried egg and think about how I am also supposed to die.

Me.

I don't want to die. I want to live. I want to be happy and healthy and safe and away from the chaotic darkness that always takes, takes, takes, and never gives.

Rickon Stark is going to die.

But I'm Rickon, I think, and that foreign and absurdly wrong sounding sentence just makes no sense. I can't be Rickon. Westeros and Essos and the fourteen seas in this world are far too dangerous but I can't do anything.

But I don't want to die.

"Rickon, why aren't you eating?" A young Bran Stark asks.

Jon Snow.

Theon Greyjoy.

Sansa Stark.

Arya Stark.

Brandon Stark.

They all survive. They live. That's no fair. Why do they get to live, but not me?

It takes a moment, but I reply back to Bran. "I am," I say, still not over the high pitched voice of this six year old body. Eating has never been more of an arduous task than right now, but eventually my plate is clear of any crumbs and I have resolved an issue.

My name is Rickon Stark and I want to live.