"I kill him in my sleep every night."

"It is done, your Grace. The Targaryens are gone."

"Not all of them…"

"They are beyond the sea, no longer a threat to you or yours."

"Wouldn't I love to believe that…"

The fat king and the silent lord walked away from the statue of the maid. From the shadows emerged Rickon, his hood pulled down and his eyes trained on the backs of the two men. His eyes moved to the statue when the two were gone.

The statue was of Lyanna Stark, the current Lord's younger sister. The Stark tombs were only for Kings, and Lords now. To have a statue of her and of that of the current head's brother, Rickon was not sure how he felt. His eyes moved to the statue's hand, where a single feather rested. It was a thing Robert Baratheon did even when the girl was alive, he remembered seeing it in the trees.

"A man who has not moved on from his grief" he muttered, picking the feather off the statue's hand. He observed the feather closely, some summer bird he was sure. He crushed it in his hands and threw it aside, walking away from the statue of Lyanna Stark. He had intended to go deeper into the crypts, but a wall of stone blocked his path. The crypts had caved in, in a few places. One of these places happened to be where his brother and father were buried. He gently touched the stone wall, eyes shut. He slowly opened his eyes and decided to walk out of the Crypts.

Winterfell had changed a lot since he had last been here. Even through the Weirwood trees, he saw only the major events that had occurred while he had died. He didn't have the time to look at every detail, at every minute change. He had now and he couldn't help but feel saddened and out of place. Parts of the castle had been abandoned with new structures built to replace them.

Rickon blended in well with the sudden influx of soldiers. The royal camps thought he was a Stark man while the Stark men thought he was someone from the royal camps. It was to his advantage, it gave him anonymity and the freedom he needed. He made his 'home' in the First Keep, a squat and round drum tower. It was the oldest surviving part of the castle but it was no longer in use. It was where he had a place to sleep when he was young and then when he would come down from the Nightfort to visit. His old room was empty now, the floor solid still. It was enough, a roof over his head was enough for him.

He waited until the sun had begun setting before he left the First Keep. He kept to the shadows to sneak into the Kitchen to steal food for him to eat before making his way to the Godswood. It was the one place that he felt was the same, as if the years had not touched it. He found the comfort he needed here, the sense of belonging. He had come here a lot as a kid, with his parents and his brother. They would pray to the Old Gods and offer sacrifices to them. Their ancestors sacrificed their enemies to the deities. They mostly sacrificed animals, but there were times when someone would rise in rebellion and would be smashed and sacrificed here. The Boltons were the majority of them. Thinking of the Boltons made him sigh in frustration.

Roose Bolton was the current Lord of the Dreadfort, and he had every bit of the ruthlessness of his ancestor. It was a shame on Eddard Stark's part that he did not keep a closer eye on the man. If he had he would have dealt with him by now. He'd have to personally take care of the man when the time was right.

Hand extended he touched the bark of the Weirwod tree, reaching out to perhaps the Greenseer in case there was anything else he could tell him.

The Greenseer was not there, just the Children of the Forest. Their numbers were great, but not massive as an army could be. More so a big family.

"The Greenseer is dead" the one that had brought him his sword spoke, "what did you need?"

"Nothing of the utmost importance, just some information" Rickon explained, a little deflated that the person he was looking for had passed away. "I have seen things leading up to my awakening, but a lot more has happened."

"You cannot see the future. That is not the gift you were born with" the Child shook its head. "But you have been given an opportunity not many get. Impact the present to prevent a bleak future. The fate of the world is in your hands" it paused, "you've done well so far. Do not doubt yourself, even if the darkness tempts you."

Rickon nodded, frowning slightly. "I need your assistance still."

"In what way?" the Child asked.

"The Darkness, the Great other, keep an eye on their movement. There's very little I can do about it from this side of the Wall. Keep an eye out for them and help in any way you can. Be it the Wildlings or the Watch."

The Child gave a nod in reply. "The Greenseer has left you one final gift."

"He spoils me."

"He is arming you to fight the coming darkness. There is no spoiling" the Child said sharply. "Now off with you. You have work to do."

Coming out of the Weirwood trees he frowned at the conversation he had with the Children of the Forest. The conversation itself wasn't something that bothered him much, it was the tone in which they spoke to him. They did not trust him and were probably helping him because of the Greenseer. He did not blame them for not trusting him. He had fallen for the temptations of the Darkness before, and it was reaching out to him once more. He was sure that they were aware of that fact. For all he knew, they already had contingencies in case he fell on the wrong side once more.

A sharp cry interrupted his thoughts, making him look up at the branches. A lone raven sat staring at him, its beady eyes holding a form of intelligence that Rickon have never seen in a bird. It cried once more, taking flight and circling him over his head. It perched on his shoulder and stared him in the eyes. A flash of recognition went through Rickon and he chuckled. His eyes went white, as did the raven's eyes, and following them, a thousand ravens sang in unison.

The hour of the wolf was on them when Rickon snuck out of his chambers in the First Keep. The entirety of Winterfell was asleep, barring the guards that patrolled the grounds. It was easy to avoid them, walking in the shadows of the night. There was a stick in his hand, thick and large. One end of it was wrapped in a cloth.

The place he was headed to was not abandoned as he had hoped, a lone man knelt before wooden figures of seven. The man heard him enter and turned to him with a smile.

"It's not always I find someone coming to worship at this hour," the man said, "something terrible must be plaguing your mind."

"It is, Septon," Rickon said softly. "I tried to ignore it but I just couldn't sleep."

"Come, my boy. Tell me what is bothering you" the Septon welcomed him in. "This is a house of the gods. Whatever you say will remain here."

"House of the gods…" Rickon's words hung in the air for a moment. "This far in the North, do you feel they belong here?"

"The gods are everywhere," the Septon said. "The North still has its old ways fascination. But with Winterfell welcoming the Seven, I'm sure in the future more of the North would accept the light of the Seven. Was that what was bothering you?"

"It was" Rickon admitted, lowering his hood. "The North is no place for the Andal heathens. Eddard made that mistake, and I'll be fixing it."

The Septon looked confused for a moment before gurgling when blood seeped out of his mouth. Rickon pulled back the knife from the Septon's throat, the one he had swiped from the kitchens on his way from the Godswood. He wiped the thing clean on the Septon's robe, walking over the man's corpse to the seven statues. He ignited his stick from the torch in the room and one by one he put the statues to the flames. He also put the Septon's body to fire and placed the burning stick beside him on his way out. From the door, he watched the flames slowly spread, the decorative cloths and what else catching on fire. He heard screaming soon and then the sound of feet rushing. He took that as his queue to leave, sink into the shadows and return to the First Keep.