310 AC

Rickon Stark

Rickon, despite having yet to go beyond the Wall, began to understand the Black Brothers. He had always known of them, of course. And he knew their oath and mission. But it wasn't until he actually stayed with them for many days that he began to truly see what they did.

So stretched they were, that instead of leaving a few days after his arrival, as he had thought, they were here for close to a fortnight. All in an attempt to organize supplies and reorder the Brothers that would remain at the Wall. Lord Commander Mormont refused to give leave to those brothers traveling, until all plans were made to replace them. Understandable, but slowing.

In many ways, Rickon appreciated it. He had only ever shown it to his father, and no one else, but he was terrified. In many ways, he knew not why. He could guess, however. He was scared of dying, but perhaps, it wasn't death itself he feared, but knowing that he'd never see the ones he loved again. On the other hand, maybe it was fear of the unknown, fear of what awaited them. He still thought them stories to scare him, but he couldn't stop to think about what if those stories of Ol' Nan were true, however unlikely. He thought he knew what he feared the most though. He feared failure.

This was his chance to earn his place in the many pages of the books of the Library of Winterfell. Would he be known as Rickon the Rickety? Rickon the Recreant? Or would he be Rickon the Ruin? Rickon the Remarkable? Would he be able to look into his Lord father's eyes upon his return? If indeed he did at all?

This was his true fear, he only hoped that he would actually come back alive, true to his word, and held in regard by his family.

Being delayed also assisted in repairing relations with many Black Brothers; Ser Jaime in particular. They had started out on the wrong foot. But Rickon learned that Ser Jaime was not the same Ser Jaime of the Rebellion. Instead, he was concerned for his men, and that was admirable. He hid it underneath a tone of sarcasm and rudeness, but he could see it in his eyes. Whenever other brothers came back from ranging, or from another holdfast, he was the first to greet and check on them.

He and Ser Jaime had reached an unspoken agreement; Rickon would not jest at the still fanciful tales of Others, and Ser Jaime would not goad Rickon into insults. After this, they began to actually enjoy each other's company. Rickon learned that he shared a great deal of humor with the elder lion. His father and brothers were known for their skill, duty, and honor, and Rickon hoped he would be too, but he had always had the most…inappropriate jests in House Stark. He received more glares over crude japes and sayings than any other type of misbehavior.

Through this, they made many japes, sometimes taking an entire day coming up with short stories in an attempt to make the other laugh harder.

Rickon was too young to go off during the Lion's War, but he had heard stories. He knew not the life of Ser Jaime prior to the Wall, and the man did not divulge the information himself, but so far as he knew the man, Rickon would have considered him a man of great honor and duty. Perhaps he was the only person to think that in this age, but it was his own personal experience. And after all…everyone deserved second chances.

He had also sparred with Ser Jaime. He lost two out of every three matches, but that still meant he beat Ser Jaime once in a while. It was more than many, if not all of the Black Brothers could say they did.

On the few times he'd beat the lion knight, he would hear the knight grumble and mumble about 'Stark strength' and what not. He took pride in it. Rickon was glad to have been trained by Ser Rodrik and his father. He knew of many stories and legends. His own father he knew was considered one of the best soldiers and warriors of the realm. Accounted along the lines of Lord Tarly, Robert Baratheon, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Barristan Selmy.

Rickon hoped that he'd be known for his skill as well.

Other than spending time with Ser Jaime, Rickon would spend the rest either in chambers, seeking counsel from Ser Rodrik or the Lord Commander; or, staying with the maester of Castle Black, learning of all the lore he could. His brother Bran would be proud of him he humorously japed with himself. He would need to tell Bran of all the good books held by the Night's Watch, Bran could practically live here with all the learning.

The maester, a rotund man by the name of Samwell Tarly, was incredibly knowledgeable, but held a stutter, as if he feared to speak at everything. Rickon was not cruel, he did not laugh at others expense, but he did find it innocently humorous. Though a quick death stare from the brother name Pyp shut him up for good. Despite his appearance and character, it seemed that he was held in high regard by most of the Watch, though Ser Alliser was always short with him…then again, he was with everyone.

The brother named Grenn informed him that it was because of Maester Samwell's, known affectionally as simply Sam, was both a deeply knowledgeable lore master, but also one of the best healers. Sam hadn't told him the tale, but Pyp had told Rickon that while training at the Citadel, Sam had conducted the first ever operation that saved a man deeply affected by greyscale. In only a moon's turn later, they had planned on sailing him to the Ruins of Valyria. Regardless, Maester Sam had set enough bones, cleaned enough wounds, driven off enough infections and diseases, that he had truly endeared himself to the Watch.

Rickon could respect that. Having a brother who himself could never again be a great warrior, he learned young that every man and woman has their own strengths. He would not begrudge to each their own.

But now, specifically a council with the Lord Commander, Ser Rodrik, Jon Burley – the unofficial leader of all the mountain men, Rodrik Forrester, and Harrion Cassel & Willam Cerwyn.

"Where was Benjen Stark headed?" Ser Rodrik queried.

Mormont grunted to Ser Alliser. Said knight, in turn, gestured to maester Sam. Grabbing a large scroll, the maester unfurled it, revealing a map of the Wall, and the lands beyond.

Reaching over, Mormont began to speak and point at the same time. "His was to be a great ranging. His task was to report with many other small rangings sent out in many directions. His first duty was to meet up with detachment of half-a-dozen brothers led by Caspor Cox, northeast of here, south of Hardhome, upon Storrold's Point."

Ser Alliser's gruff voice cut in. "We are aware that he made it this far at least; Caspor and his brothers returned to the Wall… 'bout a fortnight ago."

Mormont nodded. "Aye, after, he was to meet with a group of about a baker's dozen of brothers just west of Craster's Keep, here. Led by Godfrey Boggs, this group of brothers were skilled. Of the thirteen of them, seven have been rangers since Robert's Rebellion, another three from just before the War. And two more over since the end of the War."

"Men must learn quickly here it seems." Rickon commented.

"Aye lordling. A man who survives for a year as a ranger, should be considered bloodied. A man who survived for decades as a ranger, should be respected more than me." He gave a humorless laugh. Some of the other lords grinned, though they too held no humor behind them.

"And Godfrey Boggs?"

"A distant cousin to the rest of House Boggs. One of dozens of minor nobles that swore due to their lack of inheritance. He's a good lad, good leader, and the men enjoy him."

"Could use work with his sword arm though." Ser Alliser muttered, though Rickon and others caught it.

"Did my uncle get to them?"

"Aye." Pointing to a scroll behind them on his desk, he began. "A raven came last night. Godfrey's rangers reported that they met with the First Ranger at their agreed upon location, afterwards, Godfrey and his men traveled south along the Milkwater, before finally arriving at Icemark. They didn't travel south immediately however, they were to patrol the valleys of the eastern Frostfangs before returning, hence their longer return."

"So we know he made it that far. And after?"

"After this, he only had one more ranging to report with. At the Antler's Point."

"Antler's what?" Jon Burley added from where he stood.

Ser Alliser pointed on the map, where the two tributaries of the Antler river met up, before flowing into Storrold's Bay.

The wordless exchange ended with the Burley simply nodding.

"The Black Brothers there were the largest ranging, about two dozen. Over half, once more, were good and experienced men; not prone to foolishness or overexcitement. Over half-a-dozen were fairly inexperienced however."

"Why would you send that many green boys that far north?" Ser Rodrik asked.

"Men and boys must learn quick here Rodrik. I once heard a brother use the words, 'trial by fire,' a good description. If a man can return from that, he is usually fairly well prepared for other rangings."

"It's not like we send them alone for the love of the gods." Ser Alliser added less respectfully.

"Who led this group?"

"A lad named Todder, though the Watch knows him best as 'Toad.' He came to the Watch before the War. Over ten years of ranging. This was his first command. Once more, with a large group of many experienced rangers, it is a good setting to do so."

"Have they returned." Rodrik Forrester spoke for the first time.

"…no." Maester Sam added, also speaking for the first time, timidly.

Rickon sensed an air of fear in the room. "And when…when were they supposed to return."

Mormont and Ser Alliser looked at each other before returning his gaze.

"Two days ago."

And suddenly the air in the chamber became very heavy and still.

"How'd the meetin' go?" Ser Jaime approached him as the council disbanded. Ser Jaime was raised speaking noble Westerosi, with a clear and strong voice. But it seemed the time he spent at the Wall allowed him to pick up some…lesser vernacular.

"Well, for the most part." Rickon didn't seem to wish to speak of the sudden bad news at the end of the council. If Ser Jaime picked up in his hesitation, he did not show it; rather, he shrugged and continued speaking. "Regardless, I must thank you for taking Ser Alliser with you. I know the young lads like it when I'm able to teach them arms." He said, surprisingly humble.

"Ser Jaime?"

"Wolfie?" His new name for Rickon, one he hated.

After rolling his eyes, he continued. "Why is Ser Alliser the master-at-arms and acting First Ranger. It appears even the Lord Commander tires of him."

Ser Jaime let out a sigh, and his face took a serious turn. Looking about Castle Black, Ser Jaime affixed his eyes on him once more. He cocked his head quickly. "Walk with me."

And so they did. Shoulder to shoulder. Through structures and balconies, through the postern gates, and to the gate in the Wall. Finally, they ended up at the top of the Wall, staring down far below. Rickon had to stop himself from allowing his breakfast to come up. He learned that he was not fond of being high up in the air.

"A number of years ago, an army of wildlings marched on the Wall."

"Truly? I don't remember my father speaking anything of it."

"Don't interrupt." He chastised friendly. "True, your father did not know, as we had not informed him."

"Why?"

"Because according to our scouts, what turned out to be a great army, was reported as a larger than average raiding party, nothing to be concerned about."

"I sense that it was something to be concerned."

"What'd I say?"

Suitably chastised, Rickon merely nodded for Ser Jaime to continue.

"You speak true, when the watchers on the Wall sent word, we learned the true scale. Must've been thousands of them, thousands." Rickon's eyes widened.

"By that point, there was no time to send word to you father or other lords. And so we defended as best we could. Eventually, during a turn of the battle, we lost the Lord Commander, he had been struck in the head and was out cold. Your uncle the First Ranger was atop the Wall, organizing the defense against the hundreds of scalers. So when a giant-"

Rickon was fazed. "Giants?! Surely you jape!" Ser Jaime affixed him with a glare this time. Rickon mumbled a minor apology.

"A giant attacked the gate, the one just below us. We were leaderless, and bloodied. Suddenly, we heard a great rousing cry. Ser Alliser; he rallied us, and we were able to drive the wildlings back."

"And that's why the men follow him?"

"Aye. True, in peace, he is difficult to be around, and most if not all the Black Brothers hate him, but when you step into the shite, he shows his true colors. Maybe he doesn't like his Brothers, but he loves the Watch itself, and would die before he saw it fell."

"I can respect that." Rickon confessed.

"Most do."

The two men stood in silence, allowing the great gusts of wind to tussle their longer hair. No more words were exchanged, both staring out beyond them.

Unknown to Rickon, Ser Jaime was thinking of fear too. He was a good warrior and a good ranger. But he knew what he ran into on his last ranging. He would have to gather himself to face such devilry once more. He feared for himself, for his brothers…even little Wolfie he'd hate to admit. He feared for the Wall, and the realm at large.

As Rickon gazed on, he feared one thing more than anything. It suddenly became so clear to him. His ultimate, true, fear. The fear that he'd never find the deep-hearted love that his parents, or brothers, seemed to be lucky enough for. He wished to be able to be in the arms of someone he loved, to comfort them and be comforted in return.

He didn't want to be alone.

To be alone…that was Rickon's fear.

The Wild Wolf come Again, shivered at that realization.

Robb Stark

He was outside. That was the first thing he noticed when he awoke. The second, was the intense pain in his body. He definitely had a cracked rib, if not two. His legs were bound, and his arms were chained to two posts behind him.

The next thing he observed, was the smell. He had been in plenty of battles, and their aftermath. There was a telltale stench that hung in the air. One that choked the very air you breathe. It was the musk of blood, sweat, and decomposing flesh.

And it smelled just like that here.

Though he knew not where 'here' actually was. It was dark, that was at least one thing he knew of. The only thing he could see was a small fire, as well as a few torches in a ring that he was in. There were bodies…all over the place.

He swung into and out of consciousness for what felt like hours. He was hungry, thirsty, and in oh so much pain. Even when he was injured, he never felt like this.

Then, a scream roused him as awake as he would get.

In the shadows of the camp, a stalking figure. Behind him, he dragged a woman, dragging by her hair, only. Such was his strength that this is all it took.

The woman, so far as he could tell in the darkness, was nude, bruised, and bloody.

"Help! Somebody help!" She screamed out.

The only response was the most sadistic chuckle he'd ever heard in his life.

"No one's coming for you pretty thing."

From where he was chained, he watched as the man threw the woman on top of a table, and with ease, strapped her down from her limbs, easily fighting off her attempts at escape.

Then, the man took out a knife, and slowly began to peel the skin off the bottom of one of her legs. Robb wished he had been born deaf; the screams were unbearable. This is what he had sworn to end when his father dispatched him. And now, he had failed his people. How could he ever regain their trust? Selfishly, he was gladdened that the man was seemingly disinterested in him, perhaps he thought he was still out cold.

His attention was once more pulled to the screaming woman and the horrible man. A terrifying growl. Not a noble or deep one of a direwolf…this was of a mongrel. Robb wished he could tear his eyes away as he watched the man lead a large mongrel to the table; the beast started to sniff the bleeding leg, and the exposed flesh.

In the blink of an eye, the beast leaped and snapped its jaws around the leg and thrashed, chomped, and tore away. The woman's eyes rolled up in pain, back arched, in a vain attempt to run away from the terrible pain unjustly brought against her.

The worst thing? The man was laughing. It started out as a snigger, than grew to a chuckle, and eventually a shrill, psychotic bellow. Finally, the man pulled the mongrel away…with the woman's right foot in its maw.

By now, the woman had passed out from the pain. As the mongrel began to chew on the flesh, the man began to wrap the woman's torn off foot.

"Not yet pretty thing…there is so much more fun to be had." He spoke darkly to himself.

Robb struggled not to gag.