While the first light of dawn was seeping through the heavy curtains of Cregan Stark's chamber, casting a soft, golden glow upon the room, his father, Rickon Stark, stirred from his slumber, his eyes blinking open as he slowly became aware of his surroundings. For a fleeting moment, Rickon felt at ease, surrounded by warmth, as he realized he was cuddling up to his young son, Cregan. In that brief moment, Rickon's heart swelled with paternal love unbidden, as he watched his son sleep. Rickon had no idea such love existed until he met Cregan. A bond between a father and a son was a wonderful thing, a source of strength in a world full of hardships, as he has finally learned.
The tendrils of slumber gradually lost their grasp on Rickon's consciousness as he tenderly touched Cregan's black hair for a few seconds with a soft grin tugging at the sides of his lips, and the events of the previous night came flooding back to him like a tidal wave. The visions, prophesies, and foretelling all filled his mind, and the tranquility he had felt was suddenly replaced with an overpowering sensation of foreboding. Winter was coming, and the weight of what lay ahead, the burden of uncertainty felt so heavy on his shoulders. For the first time in his life, Rickon felt unprepared and lacking.
Rickon had always been prepared for his responsibilities as Lord of Winterfell, having been groomed for leadership since boyhood. The burden of House Stark's legacy had been placed on his shoulders, and he had considered himself prepared for whatever hardships lay ahead. When Rickon's father died and all the Lords of the North came to Winterfell to kneel before him and vow their devotion, he imagined that day would always remain the toughest and easiest day of his life, and nothing he would go through would change that. After all, Rickon had been preparing for this day since he was a child, first by his grandpa, then by his father, and Rickon had spent his whole youth bearing the weight of being not only a Stark, but a keeper of the old tales. So, when all the Lords knelt before him in those days, Rickon felt ready for anything and anybody, and when he went to visit Winterfell's Crypts that night, in front of his father's statue, he resolved to be a good Lord of Winterfell and raise a decent heir.
Rickon realized how dumb and arrogant he had been in those days as he watched his son breathe in and out. Rickon had become so preoccupied with the here and now that he had forgotten what he really needed to focus on and prepare for.
The White Walkers.
The Long Night.
The Prince or Princess that was promised.
These were the reasons why House Stark's words, "Winter is Coming," were so appropriate.
These were the reasons why Torrhen Stark summoned his bannermen and stood before Aegon Targaryen with a 30,000-man army during the War of Conquest, and why Torrhen's bastard brother Brandon Snow offered to assassinate dragons with magical Briarwood arrows, but with a single letter from Aegon, Torrhen chose to negotiate rather than fight, and after negotiations, Torrhen knelt without a fight.
For these reasons, when Rickon reached the age of majority, his father Benjen Stark took him to the mighty Weirwood in the Godswood of Winterfell and, with his torch in one hand and his other hand on Rickon's shoulder, tried to explain to Rickon why being a Stark was more important than being a regular lord of the Realm or a king. Even though Rickon did not believe what his father told him that night and thought Torrhen Stark was a cowardly madman, he knelt under his father's insistent gaze and vowed never to forget what he had learned that night and to tell his heir when he came of age.
When they returned to the castle, Rickon was ordered by his father to write down everything that had happened that night so that what he had learned would not be lost, and would be passed on to the next generation, in case something terrible happened to him before he explained to his heir why "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell." But, like every other Stark before him, Rickon had forgotten both the conversation he had with his father under the Weirwood Tree and the involuntary letter he had written to his unborn child, which he had entrusted to Winterfell's trustworthy old maester on his father's orders. Until, Cregan opened his mouth to talk of the white walkers and the princess that was promised.
Rickon kept his attention fixed on Cregan, thinking his son was too young and innocent to be thrown into a destiny beyond his years. If only his son had not been forced to carry the burden of glimpses of a gloomy future. His regrets loomed large—regrets for not shielding his son from the burdens of leadership, legacy, and destiny, for not being able to provide answers and correct courses to choose when they were most required.
''What have we done to you, my son?'' Rickon murmured, his voice worried. ''Is this the price we have to pay for our legacy?''
Rickon started to gaze around his son's chamber as he eased himself out of Cregan's embrace reluctantly and gently, the boy's arms slowly releasing their hold as he stirred in his sleep. Suddenly, his heart ached. The room reflected the boy's childhood, a world of imagination and adventure, but regrettably, in addition to Cregan's tremendous ingenuity, the enormous commitments he bore were also on display here.
The room's focal point was a big canopy bed, which Rickon and Cregan were still lying on, wrapped in lush, emerald-green draperies that billowed like the leaves of a great weirwood tree. Small wooden animals of various sizes and shapes were strewn over the floor, awaiting their owner's return. Cregan's favorite among them, a white direwolf, sat on the pillow next to him as a cherished companion and silent guardian of his dreams.
The walls were decorated with maps and sketches, each telling a story of uncharted countries and mythical animals. In one corner, a finely made ship in a bottle stood on a wooden shelf, its little crew permanently stuck in the midst of their daring trip. On the opposite wall, a small, well-worn shelf held a collection of well-worn books, their spines cracked from repeated reads, whispering tales of heroes and quests that undoubtedly belonged to centuries and centuries ago. And a table next to them held additional maps, books, and a wooden practice sword.
Rickon trembled, feeling the weight of responsibility hang heavy in the air, even in this refuge of innocent delight. Then, a few heartbeats later, this was to be expected, he reasoned, because the duty of being the Lord of Winterfell's heir did not come cheaply. It was a role that demanded unwavering courage, dedication, and the ability to navigate the tumultuous currents of politics and power. And it appeared that his son had started carrying it in his pocket.
With these heavy thoughts, Rickon lovingly stroked Cregan's disheveled hair, kissed his son on the forehead, and slowly rose from the bed. As he straightened his own hair and wrinkled clothes, he couldn't help himself but to worry if he would be able to lead the North when he himself did not know how to deal with what had happened and potentially what was to come.
Was this a blessing or a curse?
Why had Cregan been chosen by the Old Gods? Were Rickon and Bennard... not Stark enough?
What exactly had Cregan seen?
What were the Old Gods attempting to change, and what could the Starks have done to fall out of favor with the Old Gods?
Questions...questions...questions...
Rickon blew away a strand of hair that had fallen in front of him in wrath and realized he had to confront the uncertainty of the future as he stepped out of Cregan's room and into the echoed halls of Winterfell. His concerns for his family, his son, and the entire North weighed heavy on him, but he would not falter. The legacy of House Stark demanded resilience, and he would face whatever obstacles lied ahead with unrelenting determination.
To clear his mind and pray, he decided to go to the Godswood first, believing that the Old Gods would be able to aid him with the issues on his mind and the worry on his heart. Ah, he thought to himself, being Lord of Winterfell was a never-ending chore fraught with worry and anxiety.
Rickon wondered what the king of the seven kingdoms and his troublemaker brother were doing now, and if the weight of leadership and obligations, the riddles of prophecies and old tellings followed them like a shadow, as he began walking. He chuckled softly and muttered under his breath, his voice a low growl. ''What burdens? They were most likely sleeping in their comfortable beds right now while I'm trying to deal with this shit. Bloody southerners."
How could he have known that Viserys Targaryen and Daemon Targaryen were already awake, driving a certain Maester nuts with their beheavings? If he had known, he would have been relieved, sincerely relieved, that Winterfell was so far away. Thanks to that, it would take time for the approaching storm and its ramifications to reach the North.
Rickon Stark took determined strides along the dimly illuminated corridors of Winterfell, his boots echoing quietly against the cold stone floors. The flickering torches on the walls formed swirling shadows that appeared to keep up with him, as if the castle itself was aware of his presence and the magic within it was also awakening. Rickon's forehead pinched in concern as he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong. He wasn't prone to unfounded concerns, but ever since he woke up, an unexplainable sense of foreboding has been weighing heavy on his mind.
Rickon went past a group of servants who had awakened early to attend to their responsibilities as he made his way towards the Godswood. As he arrived, they bowed respectfully, not out of fear, but out of genuine reverence for their lord. Rickon nodded and smiled, a tiny, thankful smile on his lips. The links between lord and servant were strong in Winterfell, and there was a mutual sense of responsibility and loyalty.
The servants clad in practical, warm attire appropriate for the Northern climate, continued with their work, sweeping hearths, carrying fuel baskets, and attending to other daily chores. Their quiet chats came to a halt as Rickon passed, and their gazes followed him until he was out of sight.
Just as he was about to enter the courtyard that led to the Godswood, he spotted the steward of Winterfell, Alyn Poole, overseeing the preparation of supplies for the day's activities. Tall and dignified with graying hair and a stern countenance, Alyn was a loyal and trusted servant of House Stark, known for his keen insight and unwavering dedication.
Rickon approached Alyn with a purposeful stride and greeted him with a nod. "You're up early, Alyn." "I hope everything is in order."
Alyn turned to face Rickon, his expression grave. "Everything seems to be moving forward as it should, my lord, but... are you going to the Godswood? I tried to go there to pray earlier today, but when I got closer, I was filled with a terrible dread I couldn't shake, so I had to come back here. Please forgive me for my audacity, but I believe it would be wise for you not to go to the Godswood alone today. Let me accompany you on the way, my lord.''
Rickon looked at Alyn, shocked, his intuition echoing the steward's comments. "You, too, huh? I also sense something odd in the air. Something ancient, something magical. As if something significant is about to happen or has already occurred."
Alyn nodded gravely. "Indeed, my lord. It's as if the air in Winterfell carries something in it today. I'm not sure whether it's an omen or a blessing."
"Very well, Alyn," Rickon said, his tone firm. "I shall heed your counsel. Come with me to the Godswood. We will seek together any explanation or protection the Old Gods may provide."
Rickon's decision caused Alyn's shoulders to relax slightly, but his uneasiness remained visible. "Thank you, my lord. It gives me comfort to know you are not going there alone."
Rickon burst out laughing. ''You are acting as if I'm going to a battlefield.'' Instead of answering, Alyn shrugged his shoulders.
They continued their journey towards the Godswood together. The snow crunched softly beneath their boots as they strolled side by side. The weight of the moment hung heavily between them, and the normally bustling sounds of Winterfell seemed muffled compared to their shared fear.
Rickon couldn't help but speak up as they approached the Godswood's entrance. "Alyn, what do you think is the source of this unease?" "Do you have any suspicions?"
Alyn's forehead furrowed in thought. "I can't say for certain, my lord. However, it is often assumed that the old gods communicate with humans through signs and sensations. Perhaps they are forewarning us of an upcoming danger or a decision we must make. Or maybe they're preparing to send us a blessing."
Rickon nodded, his gaze concentrated on the heart tree ahead of him. "Then we'll pay attention, Alyn." We'll band together and pray to the gods for guidance. In these times, we must rely on the wisdom of the old traditions."
Alyn nodded firmly.
With those remarks, they entered the Godswood, the enormous weirwood tree looming above them, and felt a tremendous sense of peace rush over them all of a sudden. The ancient trees that stood vigil over the hallowed forest seemed to call them onward. Their snow-covered branches formed a natural archway leading into the heart of the forest.
When the lord and the steward came closer to the heart tree to kneel in the snow and to seek solace and answers in the face of uncertainty, the strange feeling of dread they were both feeling intensified.
Rickon and Alys both frowned as they noticed individuals resting on the ground in the branches of the tree. Then, out of the Godswood's shadows, a white direwolf appeared, and Alys leapt, his eyes darting in its direction. The direwolf's fur was as white as freshly fallen snow, and its sharp ruby eyes sparkled brightly in the dim light.
Rickon's breath became trapped in his throat as the direwolf neared. The presence of the direwolf was both reassuring and unsettling, because it had been nearly a century since the last direwolf was seen, and he was well aware that direwolf appearances were frequently accompanied by momentous occurrences.
The direwolf approached Rickon calmly, its gaze never leaving him. Rickon extended a shaking hand, and Direwolf softly nuzzled it, the warmth of his touch cutting through the chill of the morning air.
Alyn, on the other hand, took a step back, his eyes wide with terror. "My lord, this is...this is unnatural. Direwolves do not come to us in this manner. Not ever since...'' When Rickon turned towards him to raise an eyebrow, Alys cleaned his throat. ''Well, you know, maybe we should summon the guards?"
Rickon returned his gaze to the direwolf, who appeared more concerned than threatening. "We might need some guards, but not for the direwolf, Alwyn. Something very important has brought it and the others here. However, it would not hurt to be prepared for the worst."
''How can you be so calm, my lord?'' wondered Alyn. ''It's almost as if you were expecting something like this.''
''Oh, if you only knew,'' Rickon exclaimed, raking his fingers over the wolf's fur in childish awe. ''Do these folks belong to your pack, little wolf?'' Rickon asked quietly as he caressed the wolf. As if in response, Ghost turned and looked toward a small group of people sleeping on the ground nearby. They were cloaked in the shadows of the Godswood, their faces obscured by branches of the tree.
Alyn's anxiety grew as he peered at the mystery individuals. "Who are they, my lord?" he asked, alight with curiosity. "What exactly are they doing here?"
Rickon's voice was cautious yet firm. "I'm not sure, Alyn. But let us proceed with caution."
As they got closer, one of the figures stirred and began to awaken. A man slowly emerged from the folds of shadows, his face marred by the wounds of a hard life. He stared Rickon in the eyes with eyes that contained a profound and old understanding, a knowing that transcended time and space. Until that is, he opened his mouth.
"Where the fuck-" the guy muttered, his voice as ancient as the stones of Winterfell itself. "-am I?''
Alyn took another step back, his hand going for the hilt of his blade. "My lord, we must depart immediately and summon the guards. These folks cannot be trusted."
Rickon paused, his instincts guided by the direwolf's presence and an unexplainable sense of destiny. "Not at all, Alyn. There's something I need to comprehend here. I'm not leaving until I have answers."
As Rickon continued to keep a careful watch on the stranger, the direwolf approached him and licked his palm. The man, who was still lying on the ground, drew his hand back in disgust. ''Really, Ghost? You know I hate when you do shit like this. Where has your owner vanished to? Where is Visenya? Do you know? Do you, good boy?''
In response, the direwolf whimpered, bent its head, and laid down.
''You little-''
Rickon cleared his throat. The man immediately raised his hands in a gesture of peace. "I mean you no harm. I just want to know, are we still in Winterfell?''
''Yes?'' said Alyn, feeling confused, his hand gripping his sword even harder.
''Who the fuck are you, then?'' the furious man asked, ''And where have the white walkers gone? Where the fuck-'' the man halted to glance around rapidly, and when he noticed people laying on the ground, he let out a relieved sigh. ''Oh these fools are here, thank God,'' he mumbled, turning back to Rickon. ''But where the heck is Visenya? How did we get here?''
''Are you seriously asking us?'' said Alyn.
''I'm going to kill Brandon Stark if he is not dead already''
''Brandon Stark?'' asked Alys. ''What in the hells-''
Rickon cut in, silencing both men by raising his hand. His gaze shifted from the man to the direwolf, who was obviously named Ghost, and back to Alys. He knew he was facing a pivotal moment, one that would require all of his courage and wisdom. So he mentally counted to three, took a deep breath, let it out, and then, in a firm voice, started to speak again. "Very well," he said, his voice firm. "My name is Rickon Stark. The Lord of the Winterfell. And this is my loyal steward, Alyn Poole. And you are at Winterfell's Godswood. I do not know who is this Visenya person is or how did you get here but how about you introduce yourself first?''
''Before that, may I ask which Rickon Stark you are? Because the one I knew was young and, as far as I know, he died as well, and we even held this wonderful burial for him, Visenya even-'' the guy halted and his eyes clenched in rage. ''Shit. I'm not the right man for this,'' he grumbled as he turned around to cast a brief glance at the others, who were still sleeping, and kicked one of the nearest ones in the side. However, he did not awaken, only stirred.
The man turned back towards Rickon in disappointment. ''Well. Here is the thing folks.'' he eventually muttered, scratching the side of his cheek with his finger, ''I am a friend of Starks … even though I have no idea who the fuck you are.''
Rickon nodded in agreement, and the tension in the Godswood appeared to lighten slightly. But Alyn stayed alert, his fingers hovering over his weapon, ready to defend his lord at a moment's notice.
As the other figures started to stir slowly as well, Rickon couldn't help but feel that the gods themselves had brought them together on this fateful day. In the heart of the Godswood, surrounded by the ancient weirwood, the destinies of Rickon Stark and these enigmatic strangers were about to intertwine in ways none of them could have foreseen.
''By the way, my name is Tormund.'' he stated proudly, before adding, ''-of Free Folk.''
''FREE FOLK?'' shouted Alys, his brown eyes darkening at the sight of the lower levels of fury. ''A WILDLING?! MY LORD!''
''And I don't think either myself or my pals belong here,'' the man continued, as if he hadn't heard Alys shouting. ''Something had to have gone horribly wrong. Or totally right. That will be decided later. Let us simply wait till the others wake up, the man who claims to be a Stark.''
Rickon let out a deep sigh.
"MY LORD!" You can't possibly-'' said Alys
Rickon took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The Old Gods must be laughing at him and relishing his suffering somewhere upstairs right now.
MEANWHİLE, at Raventree Hall…
Brynden Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall, sighed deeply and scratched his temples. "Are you certain, Samwell?" he asked, turning towards him, '' Are you certain about this? Because you must be certain,'' the Lord urged sternly.
Samwell enthusiastically nodded his head up and down. "I'm certain, father. I'm certain of what I witnessed.''
Brynden Blackwood sighed again and turned to face the maester. ''What about the godswood of Raventree Hall?'' he asked.
''Still the same, my lord. The ravens afre leaving and the tree had begun to heal. Its leaves are regrowing, vibrant, and green, and the air around it feels… charged with an otherworldly energy. I have never seen anything like this.''
''May the Old Gods watch over us'' murmured Brynden, ''Maester, bring me a scroll. I'll write to Lord Rickon personally, in my own hand.''
Brynden returned his gaze to his son as the Master bowed gracefully and departed the chamber. ''It appears that the moment has arrived to once again stand with the Starks. Finally. I hope they remember why we were placed here as we do. ''Or else, my son, we're completely screwed.''
Samwell smiled and caressed the hair of his sleeping sister Alysanne who was right next to him. The Old Gods' scheme had already been set in motion.
While Daemon Targaryan and Maester Gerardys sat in silence listening to King Viserys' nonsense, Rickon Stark was ignoring Tormund and Alys, who were still arguing, and the Blackwoods were making plans for a bright new future, Rhea Royce, Lady of Runestone, had already mounted her horse and rode with her men to Dragonstone. Naturally, after sending Rickon Stark a single message with the raven.
"We remember.''
Notes:
Just wait for the scenes where Rhea shows up at Dragonstone to fuck up Daemon's 'How to seduce Visenya plan' lol. Everyone is pretty much gonna try to cockblock Daemon, the guy is gonna have a hard time convincing Visenya to anything.
Still no Visenya but at least one of the strangers woke up. The last person who should have woken but still ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ .
Remember ch. 3 where Viserys saw his dream there was this thing: ''...a gray rat whispering a less charitable reading of a letter to a man's ear to sway his decision while the another one is burning a letter that was written for the the Winterfell's next heir'' . The second one was about Walys Flowers, the maester of Rickard Stark (Lyanna and Ned's father). Just another nod to The Maester's Conspiracy.
Tell me what you think about the chapter, please. I want to thank everyone who sent a comment or favorited and followed this story. All of your feedback really encourages me to write more! ^^
The next chapter: Winterfell finds itself full in chaos when more strangers wake up. Daemon is pissed after all the things he has heard and all the things he hasn't.