"My love, come back to me"

The chilling familiar voice made Rickon freeze. He was back in the darkness, tendrils of darkness holding him in place. He felt cold white arms wrap around him, he felt a figure push into his back and cold lips caress the area between his shoulder blades.

"I miss you so dearly"

The feminine voice made shivers run down his spine, and the longer she held him the colder he got as if the cold was reaching deep into his very being once more.

"You and I were always meant to be, just us against those that dare to stand against us. Look, it's right before your eyes"

It was where she told him, the image of them together. The woman had bright white hair like snow, her skin white and her eyes as bright and blue as the stars of the night sky. She wore a loose circlet on her head, the blue jewels resting on her forehead. The gown she had on her was a baby blue with intricate designs of snow at the hem, and it exposed her white shoulders and a considerable portion of breasts, and over it, she wore grey fur.

And right beside her stood him, Rickon Stark, thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. But he looked different. He wore the grey and black armour that he was accustomed to, the black furs over his shoulders. On his head was a crown made of black iron, spiky protrusions reaching towards the heavens, thick and sharp. His face was distorted, the left side of his face was normal but his left eye was white as snow, the right side of it looked pale blue, with skin wrinkled and the right eye bright blue like the woman's.

"Come back to me my love"

Rickon woke with a start, the wood under him creaking from the movement. His breath came out in soft pants, unfocused eyes staring between his legs. That was a dream, it had to be. But deep down he felt that maybe it was more than just that, that maybe she was trying to reach him once more. Maybe being here had opened him up to her again, the place where she once ruled by his side.

Easing her breaths he stood to his feet slowly, dusting himself clean and putting the cloak back on. There was a sort of darkness here, a certain taste in the air. It welcomed him, called out to him to restore it to its former glory. But Rickon knew better than to listen to it. He ignored the calls from the dark and walked out of the kitchens.

His horse was left on the other side of the wall, the gate through the Wall having been sealed with frozen stone and rubble making it hard for him to cross with it. The passage he used did not have the facilities for him to ride through.

From outside the Castle on the South side of the Wall, Rickon stared at what used to be his seat. The once powerful Nightfort was now broken down. Its towers were broken and a maze of tunnels connected its vaults and tunnels. Rickon knew these tunnels like the back of his hand and he scavenged the vaults, but he found nothing of use in them anymore. The bell tower, the rookery, the brew house, the library and the dungeon were all broken down and held nothing of value. The weapons that remained were broken blades and disfigured pieces of armour that can no longer be used. The forge had lost its fire and was a cold place. The Great Hall had only one wall remaining and rats infested it. The yard had become a small forest, a twisted Weirwood growing through a hole in the kitchen, and the stables were overgrown with trees.

Rickon lingered in the yard for a while, staring at the Nightfort. Then he turned around, the hood of his cloak pulled over his head and resumed his journey down South.

The days and nights seemed to pass in a blur while Rickon travelled down the Kingsroad. He had seen through the Weirwood minds how times had changed since his death, but seeing it in person was a different experience altogether. The more places he passed by the more he was reminded of what it used to be, the state of nature, the small villages, the big towns. Faces of people he knew from then came to him and he felt a pang of hurt at the memories of them. These people were strangers, strangers that would not look at him even if he asked for their help. In his time people were kinder, they were more helpful. The years have changed the people and made their hearts close up.

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the snarling of dogs and the sound of a woman's cry. He drifted away from the Kingsroad and into the forest. The closer he got, the more he heard. There were others present, other than the dogs and the woman. Three voices, all male. Rickon got closer and found there to be not three but six men of varying ages.

The oldest was an old man with chains in his hands, for the dogs most probably. Another was a squat and diseased-looking man. One was fair-haired and boyish with a long whip in hand, and another was a man with a sword, smiling a rotten smile that showed off his rotten teeth. One of them carried what looked like small knives on a belt over his shoulder.

The last of the six was most probably the leader of the group with how he held himself. He was an ugly young man with a plump figure and slope shoulders. His skin looked pink with blotches, his nose was broad and his hair long, dark and dry. His mouth was small, but his lips were wide and meaty, worm-like in looks. His eyes were small, close-set and oddly pale.

Five of the six men were relishing in the distress of the woman, who was sobbing and begging them to show her mercy. The oldest of the six simply stood back stoically, not speaking or looking at the girl or the scene before him. He hated being there, Rickon could tell.

"You must feel really brave, terrorizing a girl while the rest of you men stand to watch" Rickon stepped out from the cover of the trees and approached the men from the front. The smiles and laughs died as their eyes turned to him.

"And who is this?" the ugly leader asked, eyeing him in amusement.

"You have any idea who you're talking to right now?" the rotten-teethed one asked. "This is the son of Lord Bolton!"

"Last I heard Lord Bolton's son died" Rickon answered coolly, relaying what he had seen in the trees. "That must make you the bastard that killed the rightful heir and trueborn son."

Tension seemed to form in the air and the amusing mood dropped. The leader's face went from pink to red in anger. "I'm the trueborn scion of the Dreadfort" he snarled.

"And I am the King of Winter" Rickon snorted. The statement made the leader grit his teeth.

"Girl!" he called and the dogs turned to him, "teach this one a lesson will you?"

There were three dogs and were all snarling at him, saliva dripping from their foaming mouths. Rickon stared at them, unmoved even as they slowly approached him. Rickon blinked and the three dogs stopped in their tracks. For a moment their eyes went white before returning to normal.

"Girls! Attack!" the leader shouted. The dogs instead turned at them and snarled. One of the dogs attacked the one with a sword and another attacked the one with the knives. Rickon charged as well, cutting down two more before they could draw their weapon. The old man fell on his ass and scrambled away from the group while the leader gritted his teeth, turned on his heels and ran. But he couldn't get far, being pinned down by the one dog that had not attacked.

"Get off me! I am your master you stupid bitch!" the leader roared. He roared again, but this time in pain when the dog ripped the back of his neck open.

Rickon with his sword bare approached the old man, who was on his knees. "Mercy my Lord! I did not have any part of this. He would have skinned me alive if I did not come with him with the dogs!"

But Rickon did not care, slicing the man's head off in one clean swing. He cleaned the sword on the old man's furs before sheathing his blade. He turned to where the girl was. She was still sitting nude in the snow, shaking from the things she just saw. It must have been her first time seeing such a fight.

"Girl!" Rickon called the girl and jumped to her feet. "Take the cloak from one of them and put it around you. Before you catch a cold" he ordered. He watched the girl just stared at him making him roll his eyes. He snatched the cloak from the old man and threw it at her. "How old are you?"

"Ten and one, my Lord!" the girl blurted out. A young one, made Rickon spit on the body of the old man.

"Do you have a family to return to?" he asked and the girl nodded. "Good, go! And tell no one about what happened here. If anyone comes asking tell them it was a Wildling. If I hear you told them about me…"

"I will not say a word my Lord!" the girl practically bowed. Shakily but hastily she got to her feet and began running away from the carnage, as fast as her legs could take her.

Rickon walked away from the carnage at a sedate pace, leaving the dogs to feed on the dead. He found horses fastened to the trees, most probably belonging to the now-dead Bolton men. He took the biggest of the horses, a red stallion that seemed to be restless and a little temperamental. But when Rickon ran his hands through the stallion's mane, the animal froze and calmed down.

He mounted the horse and began his journey once more. If they were Bolton men, then his destination was not too far away.