Chapter 14
It wasn't fair, Rickon thought. Ever since Bran's accident, no one had paid any attention to him. They cared more about that stupid game than him, their son or brother, or master. They spent more time playing with a game than with him. It wasn't fair.
I will care about you, a voice whispered in his mind.
Rickon cocked his head. He had never heard this voice before.
"Who are you?"
Come and see.
With Shaggydog at his side, Rickon took the steps down to the playroom.
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They hadn't cared about him. The house had been burning and no one had come to save him, no one but Shaggydog. Bran had gotten what he deserved, like the game had promised.
Theon had gotten what he deserved. Suffering unending at the hands of a worm of a man. Ramsey Bolton was a nasty man, slimy like Rickon thought snakes were, but he had rebuilt the mansion and hired new servants, none of whom knew who he was. Rickon was alone, but now he was alone because he wanted to be. It was just him and Shaggydog. They did a few chores and no one messed with Rickon because no one could get too close to Shaggydog.
Shaggydog didn't like the game. He refused to be around Rickon when he used it, when he clutched the special pieces and thought of the punishment he wanted doled out. Death was the worst thing Rickon could think of. Nothing could be worse than death. Only the people who hurt him the most got death.
For years, he had watched Theon with glee, imaging that the same was happening to Sansa somewhere. Theon had never really been bad to him, but he had also never paid any attention to Rickon, just spent all of his time with Robb. Anyways, he wasn't Rickon's real brother.
Now, Jon was back. Rickon had seen it with his own eyes. Shaggydog had seen Jon, too. He was really there. He hadn't died in Afghanistan.
But Ramsey Bolton had, and the game had done it. Rickon had known it the second he heard the news.
The game had called to him when Theon threw it in the sea. It wanted to be brought back. So he went and gathered up the pieces; put them all back in the box and carried it all back to the storage locker. He knew where Theon hid the key. Shaggydog had helped him sneak into Easystore.
Everything had been so wet, Rickon had thought the game's power might be gone. But the game still had some power. It still whispered to him, telling him it had been too long since it had last feasted on blood.
It wanted his blood, but one couldn't play the game alone. There had to be other players.
Somehow, Jon got to the game before Rickon could. He learned how to use the game, and now he had killed Bolton. He would find out that Rickon hadn't died and what Rickon had done.
Worst of all, the game would not listen to him anymore. Dad, Mr Burton, Joffrey, Robb, Mum, Bran, all those people it had killed for him, maybe even Arya and Sansa, too. But not Jon. And now it answered to Jon.
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Rickon covered his eyes with one dirty hand, staring up at the stone walls of the mansion. Bran had loved climbing these walls, loved climbing everything really, but especially the stone walls. He would go all the way to the top and run around the roof, up where no one would follow him.
He never invited Rickon to climb with him. He always said Rickon would get hurt. But it was Bran who got hurt.
Bran was the one who should have played with him. They were the closest in age, both boys. Bran should have been his best friend. Instead, Bran ignored him. When everyone else was gone and Bran was the only one left, Bran still didn't think to play with Rickon.
All Rickon had wanted was to play with him.
He had never climbed the walls. Not once.
Shaggydog licked his hand, whining softly. Rickon rubbed his head. Shaggydog was half-wild. Rickon almost never fed him, just let the wolfhound hunt rabbits and birds on the hills and anything that lived among the trees. Shaggydog would be okay.
Rickon just wanted to climb.
So he did.
Hand over hand, he went upwards, getting that much closer to the top. He was going to run on the roofs just like Bran used to. He was going to climb until he reached the sky.
The stones, slick from moss and the recent rain, made it slow going. Rickon tried to be careful, but he had never done this before. He thought he could do it.
Then he slipped, and he was flying.
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Rickon's twisted body lay on the ground. He had fallen, just like Bran had years ago.
The boy smiled, coughing a great, wracking, wet cough full of blood. He did not know it, but two of his ribs had snapped, one of them puncturing a lung. Badly concussed, his skull was filling with blood.
Rickon knew none of this. He looked up at the sky, blinking slowly. Was this what Bran had seen? It must have been. The sky was so bright, so beautiful.
When he woke up, everyone would pay attention to him. When he woke up, everyone would love him again. When he woke up…