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Chapter Text

RICKON 

The cold nipped cruelly at his cheeks, laughing and sneering as he stumbled and tripped. The cold was in him, deep in his bones, but somehow, he still managed to push on, his young face set in grim determination.

Perhaps it was the large, black wolf at his side that made him continue, his lumbering presence the only anchor he ever needed. Or perhaps it was Osha, his protecter, the only constant thing in his life.

Rickon Stark was on the run, once again, only this time, he didn't understand what it was from.

"When can we stop?" He managed to ask, teeth chattering in the cold. He'd lived most of his life in the north, the true north, yet, at times like these, the cold managed to unbalance him.

It's fine, he told himself, my body will go numb soon, and then nothing can touch me. 

"When we find shelter." Came her clipped response. 

He tugged at her cloak persistently. "Why are we running?" He demanded. "I miss Skagos." 

She scowled. "There's nothing there now but death, and if we don't keep moving, you'll find yourself with the brightest pair of blue eyes you've ever seen, dead but somehow still alive." She shook him harshly. "Do you want that, little lord? Do you?" 

It irked him when she called him that. He was not little. He was one and ten now, far from the silly little boy he'd once been at Winterfell. 

He knew the White Walkers were no joke, no silly myth as many believed they were. He'd never seen one, but he'd heard the stories. Rickon could only hope that if he didn't make it through the night, Osha would burn him. 

He gritted his teeth and said nothing. Instead, he turned to Shaggy, tangling a freckled hand in his fur. Shaggydog was thrice the size of any normal wolf and made a feirce predator. 

"Don't go pouting." Osha scolded. "When the wind blows, your face will be stuck like that for the rest of your life."

Childishly, Rickon stuck out his tongue at her. She flicked his forehead in response, smirking at his barely concealed groan. 

They marched on in silence.

***

All Rickon wanted was rest, and when it finally came, he couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned for what seemed like forever, burrowing his face into Shaggy's fur, willing his mind to let him drift off to a better place -  a warmer place.  

His dreams often consisted of an old life he scaresly remembered, of a tall woman with red hair and a sweet voice, of a solemn man with a shadow for a face and a long, great sword. He knew that he had siblings, two brothers, and two sisters - a bastard brother as well. He remembered little of them. The one he remembered the most was Bran, with his broken legs and reassuring smile. Rickon soured at the thought of him, his brother, the only the family he had left, had abandoned him in favour of travelling north of the wall with a gaint of a man and two swamp people he barely even knew. 

What was so wrong with him? Why did the people he cared about never stick around? What was this rot festering within him - the rot that drove people away - and how could he stop it? 

He balled his hands into fists, rubbing furiously at his eyes. The tears burned his eyes, but they never fell. He wouldn't let them. 

He could feel sleep slowly beginning to take him, his tiredness making itself known. Just as Rickon was about to welcome the dark, Osha was by his side, her movements frantic and nervous. "Up, up, up!" She urged him, blowing out the weak fire and grabbing at him from behind. 

He blinked, the sleep leaving him in an instant. Shaggydog rose from his deep slumber, his vicious teeth bared in anticipation, and green eyes shining in the night. He would protect them as he had before. 

"What? What it it?" 

"Soliders, a whole party of 'em. They reek of trouble."

They began their escape, slow at first so the soldiers wouldn't notice them, but only once they were out of sight did they begin to run. 

He was good at this. Running, he meant. Even with the thick snow slowing him down, he was good. Shaggydog was with him, panting heavily, and for a moment, he could pretend that they were back on Skagos, playing in the woods without a care in the world. 

But this was not Skagos, and Rickon's carefree days were long over. He learnt that when he tripped and fell, an arrow embedding itself in the ground next to him. 

Loud, boisterous laughter could be heard in the distance, and he shot up, taking off running as though he had never fallen. He had taken worse hits than that, and if these men thought that that would keep him down, they were mistaken.  Shaggy was right at his heels, large ears flapping in the wind. 

But something wasn't right. He turned to look behind him and was filled with anger so raw that he wasn't quite sure what to do with it. 

One of the soldiers held Osha from behind, a knife to her throat, and whispering filth in her ear. The others surrounded them, egging each other on with sly looks and dumb smiles. 

Her eyes met his, and she nodded. 

Go, the look said, Leave me, find safety with that wolf of yours. 

Rickon wouldn't leave her. Who knew what these men were capable of? They outnumbered them greatly, twelve to three. The odds weren't in their favour, but Riclon didn't care. Not when one of the men began to unbuckle his breeches. 

Before he knew what he was doing, Rickon flew at him, snarling. 

He found the man's throat, and bit, his teeth tearing through soft flesh and finding bone. The man screeched from underneath him, writhing in pain, choking pathetically on his own blood. His eyes were wide with terror. 

"Get him off of me! Get him off!" 

Hands yanked him back, holding him in place even as he kicked and cursed. It took seven of them to capture Shaggy, and even then, he had killed three of them and injured two others with significant speed. 

Rickon smirked, proud. They made a good team, him and Shaggy. 

"Oh, you think this is funny, do you?" The man holding him gave his curls a harsh tug. "That beast of yours killed good men!" 

He scoffed. "So good men chase children and women through the woods in the middle of the night?" 

The soldier struck him. "You watch that mouth, boy. Or I'll do much worse than chase you." 

Rickon opened his mouth to retort, but one sharp look from Osha had him falling silent. She was angry with him for not running, but how could he leave her? And where would he go, without here there to lead the way? 

The man smiled, petting his hair. "Seems like you know how to listen after all." 

Rickon bit him. 

"Fuck!" He roared, cradling his bleeding finger. "You're a savage, you know that?" 

"He's more than a savage." A new voice spoke. "I recognise his accent. He's from that Island near the Wall, Skagos." He spat. "They're like the Wildings, but worse. They eat human flesh." 

Rickon had never feasted on human flesh, but they didn't need to know that. "Aye, it taste good, you know. The meat of your enemies warm in your stomach, a pleasure every man should have before he dies." 

The men holding dropped him in digust, and he crumpled to the cold ground, grateful to be free of their touch. He crawled over to Osha. 

"This wolf is a freak," he gave a chained Shaggy a rough kick, "it's ten times the size of any normal wolf."

"Leave him alone!" Rickon shouted. 

He was ignored. 

"That's because it ain't no ordinary wolf." The solider that Rickon bit said, smiling nastily. "It's a direwolf." 

"Ain't they a myth?" 

"Oh, they was. Until the Starks took them in as pets a couple of years ago..." He sounded thoughtful. 

Rickon tensed. 

"You don't think-" 

The solider took his chin in his dirty hands, tilting his face from side to side. Rickon tried to resist, but his grip was too strong. Osha breathed deeply next to him. 

"What do you think, Tom? Think he has the look?" 

Tom shrugged. "I ain't never seen no damned Stark in my life, but he doesn't have the look. They have dark hair and long faces." He took a step closer. "But his eyes..." 

Rickon Stark's eyes were a slate grey, the colour of an angry, brewing storm. 

Ton swallowed, looking away. "This one's a Stark, no doubt." 

The man finally let go of his face, but Rickon was too fearful to be thankful. They had figured out his secret. Now what would happen to him?

The solider crouched down to his eye level, grinning manically. "Looks like you and me are going on a trip, wolf boy. Don't worry, I think you'll enjoy it." 

Something told him he wouldn't.  

Chapter Text

RICKON 

The journey was long and hard. 

The soliders never told him where they were taking him, and after a while, Rickon stopped asking. 

He quickly learnt the best way to avoid a hit to the face or a punch to the gut was to keep his head down and stay quiet. He mostly did as his told for Osha's sake, but sometimes the men refused to feed him if he misbehaved, and, as punishment, would dangle food right infront of his face, laughing at his rumbling stomach. It was more shame than he could bare, to be treated like some caged animal. 

He missed Shaggy. They kept him chained and bound in the carriage that Rickon walked in front of, day and night. His howls for freedom never ceased. It had frightened the soliders at first, but now it was only irritating them. 

One night, Ben, the soldier Rickon had bit, decided to made his vexation known. "You best make that wolf stop howling." He said, eyes tired from the lack of sleep. 

Rickon tried not to roll his eyes. "It's a bit difficult when I'm tied up like this." 

Ben growled. "Don't take that tone with me." Nevertheless, he dragged Rickon to his feet, undoing the rope that bind his wrists and leading him over to the carriage, an iron-like like grip on his arm.

Ben opened the door and shoved him forward. He raised a stubby finger in warning. "Don't you try anything now. I'll be watching." 

Rickon turned to his wolf, who had quietened at his presence. Shaggy tilted his head to one side, his gaze questioning. 

Rickon sighed, kneeling on the hard floor and stroking Shaggy behind his ears, just the way he liked it. 

"It's okay. You won't be cooped up like this much longer." He pulled away to stare at him, oddly serious. "But I need you to stay quiet, Shaggy. Can you do that for me, boy?" 

Shaggy growled lowly, displeased. 

Rickon scowled. "Stop that. It's only for a few more days. If you keep on making noise, I don't know what these people will do to you." In a rare moment of vulnerability, Rickon threw his arms around Shaggy's neck. "I can't lose you, too." 

Shaggy nudged him with his snout playfully. Rickon allowed himself to smile. 

Not a single noise came from the carriage for the rest of the journey. The soldiers were elated, and some even stopped giving him dirty looks. Rickon didn't know whether he should be relieved or worried. His wolf had never been so silent. It reminded him of another direwolf, this one a great white figure with red eyes and ever so faint in his already fading memories. 

He could only hope Shaggydog was okay. 

***

"And who would this be?" 

Rickon tried to stand with his head held high as he was presented to this so-called Lord, but it proved difficult when he was bound like a criminal. He wished Osha was here with him, but they had been separated when they reached the gates. She had tried to reach out to him and him to her, but they were being led in opposite directions before their fingertips could even brush. He trembled at the memory and wondered if he would ever see her again. 

"This is Rickon Stark, my Lord." Ben was grinning proudly. He was unbelievably smug. It made Rickon want to bite him again. 

Smalljon merely raised an eyebrow in response. "He looks like any other wilding to me." 

Ben nodded his agreement, not in the least bit discouraged by his Lord's disintrest. "We thought so, too, at first. But then we got a proper look at him and that beast of his." 

He's no beast! Rickon wanted to scream. 

"What beast?" 

Shaggy was brought in, growling and snapping at the men who tried to tame him but was mostly unsuccessful due to the muzzle they put him in. He cut an intimidating figure, black fur shining tar in the moonlight and claws at the ready, eager to attack. 

Stand down, Rickon told him with his eyes. 

Reluctantly, Shaggy listened. 

"Gods be good..." Smalljon Umber rose from his seat, eyes wide in disbelief. "So it is." 

"Will we be rewarded for this?" Ben asked hopefully. 

Lord Umber waved him away. "Yes, yes, you shall." Huffing, he made his way to stand in front of Rickon. The Lord was red in the face by the time he reached him, his beard dripping sweat. "You don't look much like your father." 

The comment stung, though he didn't know why. "I don't really remember him." 

He smiled sadly. "No, I suppose you wouldn't, would you? You were but a babe when the war started." 

"I was six!" He said defensively. 

Lord Umber chortled. "Whatever you say, boy." He looked him up and down, frowning. "Now, no highborn lad such as yourself should be seen in such a state. I'll have the maids run a bath for you at once." Smalljon Umber smiled kindly, and, for the first time in a long time, Rickon felt safe. "You came to the right place, Rickon stark. As Ned Stark's bannermen, we are sworn to protect you." 

***

Rickon didn't think he'd ever felt so clean in his entire life. There was no dirt underneath his nail beds, no blood in his hair, and his clothes smelt fresh. He couldn't remember the last time he had touched something so soft. 

He'd saw Osha in the kitchens, working with the other servants. She looked cheerless to be doing the work of kneelers once more, but at least she was alive. They had put Shaggy in the kennels, so Rickon was alone now. 

At his place from the balcony, Rickon watched the people of the Small Hearth go about doing their daily tasks. The process was unfamiliar to him, but it gave him something to do, so he stared, curious. 

"You must be Rickon Stark." Someone said timidly, emerging from the shadows. 

He spun around, heart leaping into his throat. No one had snuck up on him like that in a really long time, and he wanted it to stay that way. He hated being caught off guard. "Who are you?" He demanded, narrowing his eyes. 

The boy shrunk back under his gaze, and Rickon began to feel a little bit of guilt. This boy barely came up to his chest. He had big brown eyes and small hands. He was no threat. 

"I'm Ned Umber." He held out a hand. 

You and my father share the same name, he almost said. 

Instead, Rickon stared at it incredulously before reaching out and grasping his thin forearm, bumping him against his chest. 

Ned let a shout, stumbling. 

Rickon straightened him, pulling away. "Oh? You're the son of the fat lord?" 

Ned flushed. "Well, that is rather rude." 

Rickon shrugged. "Maybe, but it's true." He flashed a cheeky grin. 

He could see Ned beginning to smile, but it was gone before he could point it out.  Ned's face turned pensive. "I don't recognise your accent." 

"You wouldn't." He leaned forward, just to scare him. "I come from an island of savages who would eat you for dinner." 

Ned gaped at him. "You're lying." 

"Why would I lie? I've seen it happen before." He laughed. "But they prefer little boys with brown hair and freckles." 

Rickon reached out to shake him playfully, but Ned dogded his hands, turning a horrid shade of green. Before Rickon could get another word in, the boy ran in the opposite direction, his cloak billowing behind him in the wind. 

"I didn't mean it! I was only playing!" Rickon called out to him. Truly, he was only messing with the boy! When he first arrived on the island of Skagos, the children there had played similar tricks on him. Only, Rickon hadn't run away screaming. 

"Terrorizing the folk already?" 

Rickon sighed, resigned. "It looks that way, doesn't it?" 

Osha nodded, a small smile playing on her face. "You have to be gentle with these southerners, Rickon. They're not like you or me."

I used to be like them, he thought, but not anymore. 

He didn't know whether that was a good or a bad thing. 

Chapter Text

RICKON

They had put him in a room with a massive bed to sleep on. He should be pleased, but he hadn't slept in a bed for years. Late into the night, he rolled around in discomfort, missing Shaggy's warm fur. 

Eventually, he gave up and slept on the floor at the foot of his bed. It wasn't the same as sleeping on the forest floor with Osha and Shaggy, but it was easy enough to pretend when his eyes were closed. 

That is how the maid found him in the morning, snoring loudly. She dropped her tray in surprise, gasping at the sight of him. 

Rickon startled, hair messy from sleep. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "What? What happened?" 

"Oh! Oh, I'm sorry, m'lord!" The girl babbled, hands trembling as she cleaned up her mess, the glass shards cutting her soft hands. 

"Stop! Stop it," Rickon snapped, scooting over to help her, "you're hurting yourself."

She sniffled, blue eyes wide. "You shouldn't dirty your hands, m'lord. Leave that work to me." 

"Why? So you can get blood all over the floor?" 

The maid flinched, bowing her head. "I'm sorry." 

Rickon offered her a wobbly smile. "Don't be. My hands have seen worse than pieces of glass, you know." 

She toyed with her bloody hands that lay limp in her lap. "You won't tell Lord Umber of this, will you, m'lord?" 

It annoyed him how often she called him 'm'lord', he was no such thing and hadn't been in a very long time. 

He shrugged. "What is there to say? Mistakes happen." 

For the first time, she smiled. They sat in silence as he cleaned up the rest of the mess. 

***

His breakfast with the Umbers was a disaster. 

It wasn't his fault he didn't know what the correct table manners were! Or that sometimes he forgot to eat with his mouth closed... or that he didn't use a knife or a fork, instead choosing to shove food in his mouth with his hands. It was just easier that way. 

Smalljon had watched him with barely concealed disgust. 

It didn't help that Ned was still scared of him, either. He never looked him in the eye and only spoke to him when absolutely necessary. Smalljon had picked up on his son's reluctance towards him and looked at Rickon with suspicion throughout the entire meal.

Rickon hated this. No one had judged him so harshly at Skagos. 

After their short but torturous breakfast, Smalljon had decided it was time to take him on a tour of the Last Hearth. Ned trailed behind, refusing to get too close to Rickon. 

If Smalljon noticed, he didn't say anything. 

"...and this here is the courtyard, where we train young men like yourself to become strong and honourable fighters." 

Rickon nodded along, watching the fighters hungrily. The sound of metal clashing was the sweetest song he'd heard in a while. "When can I try?" 

He snorted. "Eager, are we?" 

Rickon nodded, head bobbing up and down excitedly. "Yes! But I won't need any of those stupid pads!" 

Lord Umber placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, leading him away from the fighting. 

"Where are we going?" He asked, craning his head back to get one last look at the swords clashing. "I want to stay!" 

Smalljon squeezed his shoulder. "I want to show you something else. I think you'll enjoy this more." 

Rickon slumped, disappointed, but didn't protest any further. Ned scrambled to keep up with them, his small legs working furiously.

"Father? Why are we here?" He sounded confused, so confused that he didn't seem to notice that he was standing right next to Rickon, their shoulders bumping. 

Smalljon scowled. "Quiet now, Ned. Don't make me regret bringing you along." He turned to Rickon, smiling encouragingly. "Right in there is what you'll need to get started on your training. All you need to do is go in there and fetch the equipment."

Rickon bounced on his heels, his curls moving with him. "Really?" 

"Yes, hurry along, lad. The quicker you get them, the sooner you'll start your training." 

Rickon's heart soared at thought. He had been too young to take up sword lessons with the master of arms at Winterfell and instead had to make do with watching his elder brothers compete with one another. Ayra would often sneak out of her lessons to watch them train with him, he recalled. 

The place was narrow and dark, but Rickon wasn't scared, even if Ned thought he should be. 

"Don't do it," he mumbled, catching Rickon's sleeve. His eyes were round and pleading. 

He shook him off, glowering. "Just because you're scared doesn't mean I have to be." 

Smalljon laughed. "Aye. That's the spirit, boy." 

He made his way forward, hesitating only once. 

"You're no craven, are you?" Lord Umber prodded. "There's nothing to be scared of, lad. I promise." 

He was no coward. He had lived half of his life with brutes and savages and lairs. It would take more than a bleak and dingy storage room to unnerve him. 

He swallowed his nerves and walked in. He looked around, frowning. There were no swords on racks, no training gloves, or protective padding. There was only a small yellow light, which sat in the corner, forgotten. 

"What is this?" He called to Lord Umber. "There are no - AHHHHHH!"

He was grabbed from behind, a cloth being shoved up his nose. Whether it was to silence him or blind him, he couldn't say. 

Rickon thrashed like he had never thrashed had before. He threw his head back and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch. The unknown figure loosened their grip on him, and just as he was about to flee, a blinding pain exploded in the side of his head. 

He could vaguely register being thrown over someone's shoulder before his vision went black. 

***

It took a while for him to gain consciousness again, and when he did, it was only for him to find out that he'd been tied up once more and tossed in the back of a carriage like horse dung. 

Tentatively, Rickon reached up to touch his head. It was sore and ached horribly.

"Psst, psst!" A voice hissed. 

Rickon peeked through the thick bars that trapped him and was surprised to find a mop of mousy brown hair and big eyes blinking owlishly back at him.

"Little Umber?" He propped himself up on his elbow, cringing at the pain that the simple movement brought him. "Why are you here?" 

"I'm sorry!" The boy cried. "I never knew that father was planning to do such a thing. It's not right. Your father may be dead, but an oath is an oath. And house Umber has failed in that regard." He rubbed his eyes. "I would've noticed sooner, only I was too busy being..." 

"... a coward?" Rickon suggested. 

Ned's shoulders shook, but he didn't deny it. 

"I was only messing with you," he said after a moment of awkward silence, "it's how I made my friends on Skagos." 

The boy looked up, curious. "Do you miss them? Your friends, I mean." 

"Yes." He admitted softly. "I miss everything about that island." 

Ned bit his lip, looking conflicted. 

"You think too loud." Rickon sighed. 

The boy ignored his comment. "Do you know where my father is taking you?" 

Rickon swallowed, hiding his hands so Ned wouldn't see them shake. "I think I have an idea." He muttered grimly. 

Ned nodded solemnly. "My father is taking you to Winterfell. He is taking you home." 

But Winterfell was no longer his home. The last memory he had of it was one he would rather forget. It started with his broken brother sobbing and ended with the only home he'd ever known burning. Winterfell was now filled with traitors and cravens, and no Stark would be safe there. 

Chapter Text

OSHA 

Osha knew that these men couldn't be trusted. All these lords, they were all the same.

They liked to act all prim and propper in their expensive clothes made of leather and silk, but underneath that facade, they were just like everybody else. Just like the smallfolk. The only thing that made them different was their coin.  All of them were untrustworthy and cheaters... well, mayhap Robb Stark had been different. He had let her stay and serve under House Stark, even after everything that happened in the woods. 

Yes, because being kind and honourable worked out so well for him, she thought dully. 

They lived in a hard and cruel world, and only the ruthless survived - the ones willing to kill and slaughter in order to make it out on top. 

These lords had taken her boy from her, and she could only hope that she'd taught him enough to know that. 

Lord Umber had confined her to the dungeons. It was hard to say how long she had been in here for, as there were no windows, only cracks in the walls where muted light shone through. 

She licked her cracked lips, trying to think of a way to escape. She wasn't thin enough to slip through the bars, and the dungeons were too well guarded for her to run just like that... but then again, a little seduction had never hurt anybody. It certainly hadn't hurt Theon Greyjoy. 

"It must get boring, standing here all day long." Osha peered at the gaurd through her lashes. "You back must ache, I can help you with that, if you want." 

He was only a green boy. She could tell from the way he blushed from head to toe, stampering over his words like a fool. "I - urm, well, I'm not meant to... I'm on my watch." 

She nodded. "I understand. But maybe you could help me instead. You see, I've been havin' some back problems myself, and I couldn't help but notice your strong hands." 

He pinked. "Well, uh, I wasn't always like this. I used to be the skinniest boy you'd ever seen, but as soon as I'd picked up a sword and began my training, all that went away." 

I don't need to know your whole life story. Just drop your pants and get it over with. 

Osha smiled syly. "Perhaps you could show me your sword, and we could both start training. How does that sound, hmmm?" 

He swallowed harshly, eyes glazed over with lust. "I like the sound of that." 

He came closer. Just as she was about to reach for the keys, a set of rushed footsteps approached, and the gaurd jumped away from her as though he had been burnt. 

Osha cursed. If only she'd been quicker! 

A serving girl entered. She had limp blonde hair and pretty blue eyes that were wasted on a plain face. She looked at her feet as she talked, hands clasped behind her back. "I've been sent to clean the chamber pots." 

The guard nodded, clearing his throat and adjusting his collar. "Of course." His face was redder than a tomato. "If you'll excuse me." He avoided eye contact with her as he walked past, obviously fleeing to gain his composure back. 

If there was any in the first place, she thought bitterly. 

She wasn't pleased to see him go, with him went her only chance of freedom. 

Osha turned, burrowing her face into her hands. In a moment of maddness, she mumbled to herself, "I almlost had it." 

"Almost? Well, I'm afraid I'd have to disagree there." 

Before she could even spin around, the dungeon door swung open at the hinges, so loud that she feared the gaurd might hear and come back to check out the noise. 

The serving girl beamed, victorious. She stared at Osha expectantly, spinning the metal keys around her finger, and only then did Osha notice that her hands were bandaged. "Well, what are you waiting for? Let's go!" 

Too stunned to protest, Osha followed, and the girl led the way as they made their careful retreat. 

***

The stables were a welcome sight. The horses ate their food and swung their bushy tails from side to side, blissfully ignorant of their own stench. 

The serving girl coughed and wiped at her watery eyes. Osha was hardly bothered. She had smelt worse than horses. "Why are you helping me?" She demanded, not missing a beat. She had never seen this girl before, not once in her life. It made no sense for her to go out of her way to free her. She wondered if she was being tricked. 

"Why?" The girl began to saddle a horse, a mighty one with brown fur and white markings. "I don't blame you for being weary, and normally I'd never sully my hands to help a Wilding," Osha bristled, "but this is a rare occurrence. Most people don't remember the time when the Starks ruled over the North, but I do." She paused in her work to smile wistfully. "A time of peace, where people weren't being flayed and maidens dishonoured around every possible corner. I thought them marrying that poor Sansa Stark off to that horrid bastard boy was my final straw, but this..." She shook her head, blowing the hair out of her eyes. "Lord Umber was a craven to do such a thing. Trick the boy into thinking he had a place at his home, only to sell him and that wolf of his off the moment he wasn't looking. It's such a barbaric thing to do - to a little boy nevertheless!" 

Osha still wasn't swayed. "That doesn't explain why you helped me." 

The girl frowned. "I'm sure that boy of yours has faced enough cruelty for a lifetime, especially since he deserves none of it." She glanced at her hands. "Yet he is still kind." 

She helped Osha climb onto the horse, which proved difficult with nothing but darkness surrounding them. She had never ridden a horse before and would've fallen off if it weren't for the girls hands, as ruined as they were, steadying her. 

"I helped you because I know you can help him." Her mouth tightened into a thin line as she passed Osha a bag of supplies for the road. "Don't make it be for nothing." 

"Thank you." Osha said. "I know you didn't do it for me, but I'll remember this..." 

"Bessy. The name's Bessy." 

"That's a common name, I'll remember that easily." 

Bessy ignored the comment. "Where will you go?" 

Osha tightened her grip on the reins, her eyes narrowed in determination. "To the Wall. To Castle Black." 

She had never met Jon Snow, but Robb Stark had talked fondly of him at her time in Winterfell. She prayed that he was the great man Robb made him out be. She prayed that he would help get her boy back. 

Chapter Text

RICKON

"Let me out!" Rickon screamed, pounding on the carriage door with all his strength. "Let me out!" 

He had been travelling on the roads for days. The only time they let him out was to relieve himself, and even then, it wasn't enough. He needed space, he needed fresh air, and he needed to stretch his growing legs. 

"I won't stop until you answer me!" He persisted. "Lord Umber!" 

After a few more minutes of this, Rickon was tempted to give up. He had done this before, after all, and was rudely ignored every tine without fail. The result was always the same. These men didn't care about him or his well-being. They only cared for the money and lands his name offered them. 

All of a sudden, the door was wretched open, and he was blinded by the light beaming through. Before he could even speak, a hand was in his hair, dragging him out into the open forcefully. 

"Fine! You don't like it in the carriage, little lord?" Smalljon asked mockingly. "Is it not to your taste? Well, then you can walk like the rest of us!" 

Rickon yelled furiously, struggling against him to no avail. Lord Umber tied his bound hands to a horse so that if he didn't walk, he would be dragged by the Stallion ethier way. 

"I think that is a more fitting position for a savage like you." Smalljon declared, and his men's laughter followed, the cruel sound of it echoing off the trees and ringing in his ears. He hated being laughed at. 

Rickon spat at him. "I feel sorry for your son." He said because it was true. He had had a lot of time to think over the last few days and decided that despite their rocky start, Ned Umber was twice the man his father would ever be. He had been against sending Rickon away and had spoken up about it, even though he was scared. It took courage to stand up to your father. Not that Rickon would know. "He must feel awful, knowing his father is a dirty traitor." 

The men's laughter died. Lord Umber stuck him, his mailed fist coming down so hard Rickon saw stars. For such a fat man, he was shockingly fast. "Don't talk about things you don't understand, Rickon Stark." 

He smiled through bloodied teeth. "I understand well enough. You wouldn't be so angry if I were wrong." 

Lord Umber breathed deeply, his patience thinning quickly. "If another unwanted word comes from your mouth, I'll gut that wolf of yours and have Bolton shove his head on a spike." 

Rickon looked into his eyes and saw that he was not bluffing. He was deadly serious. 

His breath hitched. He looked towards the black cage they kept Shaggy in. Rickon could sense that he was restless and angry, angrier than he'd ever been before. He growled and paced in his cage, desperate to run and hunt for real food, not stupid scraps. 

Rickon swallowed down his pride. He would keep quiet to keep his wolf safe. He bowed his head. "I'll be quiet. Just don't hurt Shaggy." 

Smalljon inclined his head, appearing satisfied. "You make better company when you're silent." 

The party of men marched on, only this time, Rickon had no choice but to march with them.

***

Before they reached Winterfell, Lord Umber had his soliders place a bag over his head and shackles on his feet. 

The chains weighed him down. He fell more times than he could count but was always forced back up again. Sometimes, it was the soldiers that brought him back to his feet, but most of the time, it was himself. He refused to be dragged through the mud by the horse he was bound to and make a fool of himself. 

"A word of advice, boy." He couldn't see who was speaking, but he knew their voice all too well. "This Bolton boy is said to be insane, I'd watch that tounge of yours if I were you." 

"Well, luckily for you, you aren't." Rickon sneered. "And don't pretend like you care, fat man. I wouldn't even be here if it weren't for you." His words were muffled through the bag, but Lord Umber heard him well enough. 

His words earned him a slap around the head. "Don't say I didn't warn you." His voice held none of its usual heat, and if Rickon didn't know any better, he'd say he almost sounded regretful. 

***

"I've got a gift for you." 

"... a girl, I would hope." Ramsay Bolton smiled thinly. "I prefer redheads." 

"You'll find no girl." Lord Umber grumbled. He turned, nodding towards his men. "Bring him in." 

For once, Rickon went willingly as he was tugged forward, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He couldn't breathe through this stupid bag. 

"But a redhead he is." Lord Umber said, smirking. "A wild one, at that." 

Ramsay straightened, the shark like smile never leaving his face. "I like them wild." 

"He's nice and young too," Lord Umber continued, "just the way Karstark likes them." 

Rickon shivered, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. What did that mean? 

Before he could read into it too much, the bag was taken off his head, and Rickon could finally breathe. He blinked blearily, his eyes taking their time to adjust to its surroundings. 

When he looked at the man in front of him, Rickon almost wished Lord Umber would do him the favour of putting the bag back on his head. 

Ramsay Bolton was an ugly man,  Rickon couldn't help but think, even when dressed in finery. He was big boned and slope shoulderd, with patchy skin and a broad nose. But the thing that through Rickon off was the man's eyes. 

They were as cold as ice, his irises dilating in delight as he looked him up and down in fascination.

"And who is this?" The ugly man asked, leaning in far too close for comfort. 

"Rickon Stark." Lord Umber said confidently. 

Rivkon glared, baring his teeth as Ramssy dared to get even closer. His pale eyes narrowed as he examined him further. "And how do I know this is Rickon Stark?" 

Shaggy entered. Even in his weakened state, it took five men to haul to him by the rope around his neck into the hall, his tail wagging dangerously. Green eyes met grey, and Shaggy howled. 

"You didn't kill the beast?" Ramsay asked, frowning his irritation. 

"No," Lord Umber said, "the boy never would've co-operated if I had." 

Ramasy raised a brow. "Oh? Is that so?" His voice was soft. "I'm sure I'll be able to make the little lord do as his told." 

Rickon gritted his teeth but said nothing. 

"See? He's learning already!" Ramsay clasped his hands together. "Take the wolf to the kennels and put him in chains. Keep him away from my girls." 

Rickon watched Shaggy leave mournfully. 

They're taking him to the kennels. He'll be safe there. 

Ramsay focused his attention on him once more, smiling a smile uglier than his face. "Welcone home, my Lord." 

Before he knew what he was doing, Rickon spat in his face. 

Ramsay didn't even flinch. He merely wiped it away, his eyes sparkling with sick glee. "You'll be a challenge." He bopped him on the nose, laughing when Rickon jerked away. "That's alright, though. Luckily for you, I like a challenge." 

Chapter Text

JON 

For the longest time, the Wall had been one of the few places of sanctuary he'd known in his short life. 

When he first arrived at Castle Black, he was in awe. The Wall was beautiful, a seven hundred foot tall stack of ice glistening proudly in the weak sun. He had never seen anything like it.

But then he had met the men he would be calling his brothers, and was filled with the urge to turn tail and run back to Winterfell. To his real brothers. He had thought that most of these new brothers of his were the complete opposite of honourable men, unfit to bear the proud name of a black brother. Most of them were rapists and thieves and weren't nearly half as good with as sword as he was. 

But then he had taken Tryion Lannister's advice, and things started to look up for him. He made friends with Grenn and Pyp, then later on Sam and Dolorous Edd. His brothers respected him, even after everything that had happened with the Wildings and Ygritte. 

Then he had been risen up to be Lord Commander, where everything changed and he soon met his death. 

Jon shuddered at the memory. He could still feel the kiss of the daggers twisting into his heart, the cold stares of his brothers, men he had blindly trusted. Mostly, he remembered laying alone in the snow, brown eyes wide with terror and choking own his own blood. Jon Snow had hoped to meet a warriors death, but instead, he died alone, too weak to try and call for help. 

Every time he looked out towards the courtyard, he remembered. Jon knew he couldn't stay at Castle Black for much longer. His friends were angry at him for it, but they didn't understand. Even though he had hung all the men that were in on his murder, Jon still felt as though someone was just waiting to jump out of the shadows, a knife in hand and ready to finish the job properly this time. 

"Jon?" Sansa asked, her voice uncertain. "Breakfast is ready, I thought you should know." 

Jon smiled. The last few months had been hell on earth, with the White Walkers and the battle of Hardhome and his death and his unnatural resurrection. He felt like he couldn't catch a moment to breathe. But then Sansa had staggered through the gates of Castle Black, Brienne of Tarth, and Podrick Payne by her side, and all of a sudden, air filled his lungs, and breathing was as easy as it had always been. It had felt good to hold his sister in his arms after such a long time of being separated, finally able to shield and protect her from the world as he should've been doing from day one. As children, they weren't very close, but that hardly mattered when she was the only family remaining to him. 

"I'll be out in a minute." He said. "I just needed a moment to myself. Some quiet." 

Sansa came to sit in the chair in front of him. For a beat, the only noise in the room was the flames from the fireplace crackling until Sansa finally found the courage to speak, frowning at her hands. "I used to think the quiet helped too, but it doesn't." She looked at him. "When I was in Kings Landing, I had no friends - well, I suppose that isn't entirely true. I had my handmaiden, and Lord Tyrion was always kind to me. Margrey Tryell was as well." She smiled bashfully at her next words. "Podrick was sweet, but I didn't really appreciate it at the time. I was too caught up in my own misery to notice..." she blinked, coming back to herself. "The point is that despite these cordial moments, I was alone most of the time. I had to make do with my own company. I was always in that room... trapped with my thoughts." 

She reached for his hand, and Jon allowed her to take it. "Don't be like me, Jon. The quiet is nice for a while, but too much of it will drive you mad." Her grip tightened. "You have people that care about you here. Don't forget that." 

"I won't." He assured her. And he meant it. 

***

Breakfast was a pleasant affair. Tormund was sat by his side, as he always was, laughing loudly at one thing or the other. Dolorous Edd sat on his left, eating his food quietly. Ser Davos sat opposite him, trying to coax a sorrowful Shireen Baratheon to eat her food, but to no avail. The girl had been like this ever since the raven with black wings came bearing the news of Stannis Baratheon's death. Jon fount himself sympathising with her. After all, the same thing had happened to him with Ned Stark. Sansa watched the princess sadly, playing with her soup. Podrick Payne sat next to her, their shoulders bumping casually every couple of minutes. Jon narrowed his eyes at the pair, but no one else seemed to think anything was amiss, so he reluctantly let it go. Finally, Brienne of Tarth sat at the end of the table, chewing slowly and avoiding Tormund's keen eye. 

Ghost laid on the floor, chin resting on his paw as he watched the people above him interact. Jon ruffled his fur, just the way Ghost liked. 

"Sorry about the food," Edd murmured to Sansa, sounding sheepish, "it's not what we're known for." 

His sister smiled politely, forever the bright and propper lady Catelyn Stark had raised her to be. "It's alright. There are more important things." 

Edd seemed grateful by the response. "Aye. In that we can agree, my lady." 

A man entered, holding a letter in his hand. He looked at Jon and Jon only. "A letter for you, Lord Commander." 

Jon's eye twitched at the name. "I'm not Lord Commander." He reminded the man, his voice gruff. 

He shrugged. "Either way, the letter is addressed to you, Lord Snow." He passed him the parchment and took his leave, the door slamming on his way out. 

Shireen jumped at the bang, startled. 

Jon clenched his jaw at the Bolton sigil he saw on the letter, ripping it open with more force than necessary at the sight of it. Everyone around him had stilled to watch him. Jon braced himself, knowing that anything involving the Boltons could never be good. He read aloud: 

To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow, 

You've  allowed thousands of Wildings past the wall. You have betrayed your own kind. You have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard. Come and see. Your brother Rickon is in my dungeons...

Jon trailed off, staring at the paper in disbelief. Surely, Ramsay was bluffing. That monster couldn't have gotten his slimy hands on his little brother... Rickon had been but a babe the last time he saw saw him. His youthful face was wet with snot and tears as he tugged on his leg, grey eyes big and pleading. 

"Please don't go, Jon." He had said, his bottom lip trembling. "Father will be going soon as well, and he'll take Sansa and Ayra with him. Mother never comes out of Bran's room - I never see her anymore! And I know Robb tries his best, but he is too busy with learning how to run stupid Winterfell from Maester Luwin! Theon is no help. He only teases and pokes fun at me when I tell him about my nightmares." The little Stark rubbed at his eyes. "You're the only one I have left. Don't leave!" 

But Jon had left anyway. 

He looked at Sansa. She had turned a sickly pale colour and was gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles turned white. She said nothing, but her eyes urged him to read on, desperate for more. 

His direwolve is in my kennels, chained like the beast it truly is. Come and see. I want my bride back. Send her to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your wilding lovers. Keep her from me, and I will slaughter every Wilding man and woman and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living. You will...

Jon stopped himself from saying the rest out loud. It was all filth, and there was no reason for Sansa to hear such a thing. 

She didn't agree with him, though. "Go on." 

Jon shook his head. "It's just more of the same -" 

She took the letter from him herself, her eyes hardening as she read what he couldn't. 

You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister. You will watch as my dogs devour your feral little brother. Truly, he is more wolf than boy! My girls will enjoy going at him. Then I will spoon your pretty eyes from your sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see, bastard. 

-Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. 

A tense silence follwed, the laughter from earlier forgotten. Brienne fiddled with the hilt of her sword, and Podrick worried at his bottom lip. 

Jon couldn't believe the audacity of this man. "Lord of Winterfell?"

Sansa's face was carefully blank. Some of her usual colour was returning back to her cheeks. "His father is dead. Ramsay killed him, and now he has Rickon."

Jon shook his head. "No. You don't know that." He denied hotly. He would keep on denying it until he was proven wrong. The thought of his brother breathing the same air as that man made his skin crawl. 

"Yes, we do." Sansa protested stubbornly. "Why would he lie about this, as cruel as he is? What would he gain from it?" 

Jon stared at the table in front of him, feeling ill. 

"How many men does he have in his army?" Tormund asked, not missing a beat. 

"I heard him say five thousand once when talking about attacking Stannis' army." Shireen winced at the mention of her father, and Sansa shot the girl an apologetic look.

Jon turned to Tormund. "How many men do you have?"

Tormund snorted. "Men that can march and fight? Two thousand." He gave Jon a pat to the shoulder. "The rest are women and babies and old people." 

Two thousand wasn't enough to take back Winterfell. Everyone at this table knew that, and yet Sansa refused to let that sway her. "You're the son of the last true Warden of the North. You underestimate the loyalty of the Northerns. They'll fight for you, Jon. All you have to do is ask." 

But it wasn't that simple. Nothing was ever that easy. If it was, Robb would still be alive, and none of them would even be having this conversation. 

"You are right, my lady," Ser Davos agreed, "You'll find no one more willing to lay down their lives for their liege lord than the Northerns. It may take a bit of convincing." The onion Knight gave a shrug. "But luckily for you, I'm good at that." 

But I'm not their liege lord, and I never will be. Jon thought. I'm just a bastard. Why would these proud lords with great houses listen to me? 

Sansa reached across the table, grasping his hand tightly. Her eyes held a fierceness he had never seen in them before, a fierceness he wasn't aware even existed in her. "A monster has taken our home and our brother." The light left her eyes, and she was left looking despairing and tired. Her gaze reminded him of Catelyn Stark on the day he had visited Bran before leaving to go to the Wall. Jon shifted uncomfortably, begging his mind to think of anything else. "Our little brother, Jon. We have to go back to Winterfell and save them both." 

Jon inclined his head. "You're right. I'd be a craven to not fight for Rickon and leave what rightfully belongs to the Stark's to a man like Bolton." 

He looked around the table, meeting every single person's eye. Even Shireen's, as withdrawn and miserable as she was. "I will fight for Winterfell with everything I have." 

Chapter Text

RICKON 

They put him in a dismal little cell. The walls were made of unwavering stone, with no windows, only cold metal bars that Rickon had tried to slip through on his first night here. The gaurd, as fast as snake, had caught him, though, and thrattled him so hard his teeth banged together as he was jerked from side to side. He'd given him a warning that he'd have no choice but to tell Ramsay if he ever did something like that again. 

"You need to learn which battles are worth fighting for, little prince." Osha had once said to him, her usual distant eyes warm for the first time. This was when they'd split up from Bran, making their way to Skagos. "A lot of people will try and provoke you, but you can't fight everyone and win. Chances are, you'll lose." 

RIckon had just snickered in response, too boyish to ever take anything to heart. "I've never lost a fight." He'd boasted. "And every battle is worth fighting for, even the ones people think aren't important." His grin had dimmed slightly. "Robb understands that. It's why he went off to war, even though I begged him not too." 

Gods, what a stupid boy he'd been. He'd been so ignorant back then, so unaware of how the real world worked. Now, he would like to think he understood what Osha had been saying. It made him sad to think of Osha. Lord Umber had dragged him away without letting him say goodbye, and now he had no idea what became of her. 

Dead most like, a voice in the back of his head said, just like your mother and father. Just like Robb. 

So, he had backed down, ignoring the shame flaring in his chest as he did. "You don't need to tell him anything." He'd said, smiling a sickly sweet smile that he knew made people uncomfortable. "I'll be on my best behaviour, I promise."

The gaurd had rolled his eyes, tossing him back into his cell without a second glance. 

He swallowed, brought back to the present. His throat was dry, and his tongue was heavy. Rats scuttled in and out, and he watched them hungrily. He had eaten rats raw before, when things had gotten really bad... what was one more now? 

Rats weren't all that hard to catch, but it had been a while since he'd tried, and the last thing he wanted to do was cause a scene. The gaurd watched his every move like a hawk. He hoped they were treating Shaggy better than they were treating him. 

He could no longer bear the gnawing pain in his stomach. "When will I be fed?" He demanded.

The gaurd looked at him. "When will you stop being such a pain in my arse?" 

Rickon bared his teeth at him. "When I'm fed. My mood is much better with a full belly." 

The gaurd just laughed. Rickon wanted to punch him until he bled, but instead, he watched him carefully. He was a comely man with thick eyebrows and dark hair and even darker eyes. He had an olive complexion, resembling what Rickon thought could be a Dornishmen. He wasn't certain, though. His knowledge of Westerosi history was practically nonexistent. It only hurt his head to think of the Dornish's, too.

Although, it did make him wonder why he was in the North of all places. But then his stomack growled loudly, and none of that mattered. "Oh, is that so?" 

"Yes, but you'll never know that because I've been stuck in this hell hole for how knows long without any food!" 

The gaurd crossed his arms, looking far to amused for Rickons liking. He wasn't supposed to be enjoying this! "Don't be dramatic, lad. You were given food, even if it weren't to your standard." 

"To my standard?" He repeated, incredulously. "I don't even have standards! They gave me a slice of mouldy bread with rock hard cheese.  I've lived on an island with cannibals for half my damn life, and the food there wasn't near as terrible as it is here." 

He shrugged. "You're still eating better than most smallfolk, believe it or not." 

"I'm glad someone is appreciative around here!" A new voice crooned, and Rickon immediately straightened from where he was slouched against the wall. He knew that voice. The voice that haunted his nightmares and plauged his dreams. "It's seems the little lord is not happy with the food I've given him!" He turned to Karstark. "Can you believe that?"

Karstark merely grunted in response. His beady eyes never left Rickon's. He resisted the urge to avert his gaze. No. He wouldn't cow easily. He glared back ten times harder. "Can you blame me? I feel sorry for your people if that's what you consider good food." 

Ramsay smiled, though it was strained. "You've got a mouth on you, you know that? Your sister spoke out of turn at first, too, but I quickly beat that out of her. She was a slow learner, like Reek, but she learned. They both did." 

"What are you talking about?" He frowned, dumbfounded. Why did Bolton talk about his sister like he knew her? Which one was he speaking of? And who was Reek? His head throbbed at the unanswered questions. "None of my sisters would ever associate with an ugly beast like you!" 

He didn't know much, but he knew that the Boltons and the Freys and the Lannister's all played a part in his mother's and Robb's death. Osha had been the one to tell him. 

Ramasy paused. "You don't know, do you?" He stalked closer, his eyes twinkling gleefully at his sudden realisation. "My, my, you clueless little thing." 

Rickon looked around. Karstark had a knowing glint in his eyes, and even the gaurd from earlier seemed to know what Ramsay spoke of, a grim expression on his face. 

Gods, he hated this. It felt like they were all in on one big joke, refusing to share what was so funny with him. 

He could feel his anger beginning to rise, his mind burning with it. He clenched his fists and worked his jaw. Anger was something he was used to, at least. It was a familiar feeling, something he'd never stopped being since his father had rode south and took his sisters with him, never to be seen again. "Just tell me!" 

Ramsay was so close now that he could smell his rancid breath. But he didn't dare back away, even though his eyes watered at the stench. The gaurd shifted uneasily from his place in the corner. "When your sister escaped Kingslanding, she was taken to the Vale by Petry Baelish and put under protection by him and Lysa Tully. And then... well, your aunt died." He stopped as though expecting Rickon to burst into tears or something. But he had never known his mother's sister and stared back with a blank face. Ramsay continued, clearly disappointed by his lack of reaction. "As a result, there was no place for her in the Vale anymore. So Sansa was taken North, back to her home, where she married me." 

Rickon scoffed. "Sansa wouldn't marry the son of the man who killed her brother. She wouldn't!" Rickon didn't remember much of his oldest sister, but he knew that she had been a dreamer, waiting longingly for her knight to swoop her off her feet and carry her off into the sunset. She never would've found that with Ramsay Bolton. 

Ramsay smiled wetly. "Oh, but she did. Mayhap not willingly, but she did her duty in the end." He reached out to pet his curls softly. "While you were on that island, safe and protected, your sister was here." Ramsay released his grip to lean down and whisper into his ear. "Do you want to know what I did to her?" 

Rickon recoiled away from him. "Stop it," he croaked, blinking back tears, "you've made your point. Just stop!" 

But Ramsay wouldn't. And why would he? He was in his element. He loved doing this to people, making them feel small and worthless. "I played nice at first, but then it was the night of our wedding, and she looked so beautiful in her dress... I just couldn't help myself. I took her on your father's bed while Reek watched. It was -" 

"SHUT UP!" Rickon screamed, not even realising his was crying until he tasted salt and saw tears stains on his clothes. "What is wrong with you? Why would you do all these things and be proud of them?" His body trembled. "You're a demon!" 

Ramsay chuckled. "Is that the best you've got, little man? And here I thought you would prove a challenge, a real one. But you're just as weak as your sister. You Starks are all the same, it's why all these horrid things happened to your house." Ramsay moved to walk away, but Rickon was faster. 

He grabbed his meaty hand, finding his pointing finger and yanking it back until he heard a satisfying crack. Rickon let go,  panting, but grinned all the same at the sight of Ramasy in pain. "How's that for a real challenge?" 

"Fuck!" Ramsay cursed. His finger was at an awkward angle, red and inflamed. But instead of crying like Rickon hoped he would, Ramsay threw his head back, hooting madly. "Oh, you're a fool! You stupid boy!" 

He gestured to the gaurd. "Get him out that cell. We're moving the little prince elsewhere." 

The gaurd hesitated, long enough to make Ramsay turn his icy stare towards him. "Is there a problem, Arion?" 

The so-called Arion bowed his head. "No, my Lord." He approached Rickon gravely, but did as he was bid all the same. 

"I'm going to make you beg for mercy, Rickon Stark." Ramsay said, his voice full of promise. "I'm going to make you scream for your dead mother and father." 

"No, you won't." He replied. 

But he did. It seemed Ramsay Bolton always got what he wanted in the end. 

Chapter Text

SHIREEN 

There was chaos in the courtyard. 

Men of the nights watch bustled about, some saddling horses and other training with wooden swords. Lady Sansa stood with her brother. It seemed as though she was giving him a gift of sorts. Podrick Payne helped Brienne of Tarth into her amour, forever the faithful squire. She spied ser Davos talking to that massive wilding man with the beard - they made an odd pair. They were all preparing to leave, all of them preparing to rally up the houses of the North and seize back Winterfell. 

She watched it all from her spot at the balcony, frozen in place. She was supposed to be leaving with them, but she couldn't get her feet to move. Her grip on the railing tightened, her knuckles turning white. 

A man walking by shot her an odd look. 

Shireen knew that she unsettled the men here, that her presence was unwelcome. The greyscale that scarred half of her face was seen as an ill omen. She was seen as an ill omen. Even though she had been dealing with people's judgemental stares and harsh whispers (the critical stares she had received when she once visited Kingslanding with her father were near unbearable, her cousins, Tommen and Myrcella, were kind to her, though, and did their best to make her stay there enjoyable as possible) all of her life, it was always easier to ignore them when her father was around. He never, not for a second, looked at her differently. He always assured her that she was his daughter and that no scar would ever change that. 

He was dead now, his army deafted by the Boltons. She would never see him again. Shireen felt tears burn her eyes at the thought. 

"Princess Shireen." 

She stiffened. "Lady Melisandre." 

The Red woman came to stand next to her, so close that their shoulders were almost touching. She was taller than her by at least a head. There was a time when this intimated her, but that time had passed. Her long hair was the colour of blood, and it blowed wildly in the wind. She made a beautiful image. The only thing ruining it was that cursed ruby necklace she wore clasped around her neck. It seemed to glow whenever she performed magic. Shireen resisted the urge to move away. The Red woman unsettled her, ever since her father first introduced them to one another... her distrust only grew stronger after her father was proclaimed dead, and she was still alive. 

"You seem on edge." The woman murmured, glancing at her from the corner of her eye. 

"I do? You're a mistaken, my lady. I have never felt better." Shireen said, refusing to look at her.

"Your jaw is clenched. Your hands are white from how hard you grip the railing. You've been standing in the same spot for twenty minutes now. Your brow is furrowed in frustration." The lady tilted her head. "Shall I go on?" 

"No, you shouldn't." Shireen said through gritted teeth. "We both know you didn't come here to talk about my wellbeing, my lady. Besides, I have never been very good at small talk. So let's skip that bit." She turned to look at her. "What is it that you want?" 

She was being blunt and rude, and yet, as she looked into the depths of her cold eyes, Shireen couldn't find it in herself to care. 

Lady Melisandre sighed. "You are angry with me, princess. If this is about your father-" 

Shireen glared. Anger was an unfamiliar feeling to her, but she felt it here. She felt it so fiercely that her heart ached with it. "Of course, this is about my father. You, along with Ser Davos, were his most trusted advisers. My father didn't trust people easily, but he trusted you. I wish he didn't. Maybe he would still be here today." 

"You must understand that I've pledged my life to the Lord of Light, princess. I am his faithful servant, and it is my job to help reunite the realm against the dead. I once thought your father would be the one to fulfil that role... but I was wrong." 

"So you fled? You left him to die like a coward?" 

"I did what I had to do." She said calmly. "Stannis was not the prince that was promised." She turned to look at the courtyard. "I follow Jon Snow now. He is one part of the puzzle that will stop the White Walkers." 

"And what happens if he doesn't turn out be what you thought?" She tilted her chin to look the women in the eye. "Will you leave him as you left my father?" 

Melisandre considered her cooly. "I have made errors before, princess, I will admit that. But I am not wrong about this. If I was, Jon Snow wouldn't be breathing the air that he now breathes. If I was wrong, the Lord of Light never would've brought him back." 

Shireen wasn't sure what to say that. She pulled her scarf tighter around her, shivering. "Do you know what became of my mother?" 

Shireen had never been close with her mother. She was certain that her mother was ashamed of her, but Selyse never dared to say it aloud. Sometimes, her mother would strike her, but she never raised a hand against her again after Stannis commanded her not to. Their relationships was strained, distant at best, but she was still her mother. 

The lady pursed her lips. "Dead, I assume." 

"Why would you assume that?" 

"Some say that your lady mother hanged herself after she found out about her husband's death -" Shireen's breath hitched, "-but others say that she fled before the Bolton men could catch her.  The reports are conflicting." 

Shireen breathed deeply. "And what do you think?" 

For once, there was pity in the red woman's eyes. "I think that she is dead."

Shireen saw that she was not lying. She was speaking the truth. 

"If you'll excuse me, my lady." She gave a nod. 

Shireen walked away, her cloak dragging heavily in the snow. Only once she was out of sight did she begin to cry. 

***

Brienne and Podrick split up from their party of soliders to ride south for Riverrun on Sansa's orders. They were going to treat with the Blackfish to get more men to take back Winterfell. 

Shireen rode with Ser Davos and avoided Lady Melisandre like the plague. 

"I'll be back in a moment, princess." Ser Davos said, smiling. "I just need to discuss something with Jon." 

At her hesitant nod, he rode away. 

Shireen watched him go, sighing. 

"Whatever is the matter, Princess?" Horse hooves trotted over, and before she could even blink, Sansa Stark stood before her. "You look pale." 

"L-lady Sansa." Shireen stuttered, caught off gaurd. "You are kind to worry, but there's nothing wrong." 

"Is it the road? The weather? The North must seem harsh to you southerners." 

"Harsh, yes." She agreed quietly. "But nothing I cant handle." She paused. "I can't wait till we get off these horses, though. I've never really been partial to them." 

Shireen's horse neighed its offence. 

Sansa laughed. "We'll reach Bear Island in a couple of days. There you can rest and bathe." 

Shireen nodded, greatful. "Thank you, lady Sansa, for checking up on me. I must seem miserable to you, but I mean it when I say I'm okay." 

"You're a decent liar, but nowhere near as decent as the ones I faced in Kingslanding." 

Shireen flushed. 

"Don't be embarrassed, I meant it as a compliment." Sansa said, stroking the fur of her white mare. "The court of Kingslanding are some of the worst people I've ever had the displeasure of meeting." 

Shireen smiled despite her sour mood. "Yes, I remember it all from my stay there when I was little. I hope I never have to see Cersei Lannister and her piercing green eyes ever again." 

Sansa chuckled. "I can't blame you for that." 

Shireen stared at her. Sansa Stark was probably one of the most beautiful women she'd ever seen. She was a striking beauty, the kind that once you looked at her, it was as though you could never look away. Shireen wished she had even a smidge of her fairness. 

"What is it?" 

Shireen blinked. "Nothing, my lady." 

Sansa hummed. "I'd say we're past that now, aren't we? You may call me by my name." 

It took a moment for her to process that. When she did, she smiled shyly.  "Well, in that case, you can call me Shireen. I haven't felt like a princess in a while."

 Sansa looked sad, all of sudden. "I'm sure... with everything that happened to your father." 

Shireen tensed. 

"Having lost my own father I can understand what you must be feeling." She continued. "I was distraught. I avoided talking to people, much like you're doing. But then Joffery... he took me out to see his-" Sansa broke herself off, swallowing harshly. "It doesn't matter. What I'm trying to say is that it gets better, Shireen." 

She played with her hands, avoiding eye contact. "Theres this pain in my chest. A harsh ache. It's been there ever since that I was informed." Shireen blinked back her tears, she would not cry infront of Sansa. "I need you to be honest with me. Will this pain ever go away? Even for a moment?"

"No." Sansa said truthfully. "The pain never goes away, but after a while, it stops hurting as much." 

Shireen looked at her. "I hope you're right." 

They spent the rest of the journey riding side by side, talking about everything and nothing all at once. Shireen talked about the books she had read about Westerosi history, and Sansa listened contently, chiming in every now and then. 

Shireen Baratheon had never had a friend, but perhaps Sansa could be the first. 

Chapter Text

JON 

He couldn't sleep. 

They had secured the support of the Wildings and sent letters to houses Crewyn, Manderly, Reed, Glover, Hornwood, Locke, and Dustin. 

There had yet to be any response. 

Tomorrow, they would reach Bear Island, where they would hopefully secure more men for his army. 

Jon had faith that they would. He still remembered the letter that Lyanna Mormont had sent Stannis. 

'Bear Island knows no king but the king in the North, whose name is Stark.' 

The girl was only young, of an age with Rickon if he remembered correctly, but it seemed to him that she was fierce and was unafraid to make her loyalties known. 

"Brooding is becoming a familiar look on you, little crow. It doesn't suit you." 

Jon scowled. "I'm not brooding." 

Tormund dropped into the seat next to him. "That's all you ever do nowadays. 'Cept when you're with that sister of yours, the one kissed by fire." 

Jon smiled at that. "She isn't the only one. All of my siblings are kissed by fire - well, not Ayra. We were the odd ones out." 

"I like your hair well enough." Tormund assured him. "It's curly and long. Like a girls." 

Jon reached up to flatten his curls. "My hair is nothing like a girls." 

Tormund snorted. "Whatever you say, little crow." 

They sat in silence. 

Jon was the first to break it, turning to look at the burly figure next to him. He could trust Tormund to be frank with him. "Be honest with me. Do you think we stand a chance? Do you really think we can win?"  

"I don't know." Tormund admitted after a pause. "But with you leading us, I know that we have a damn good chance. That Bolton fucker doesn't know what's coming for him." 

"We'll give him a good fight." 

"Aye. I'll toast to that ." 

They clinked their goblets together. Jon drank deeply, the bitter ale burning his throat all the way down. 

"Gods, that's horrible." 

"You southerners wouldn't know how to make a good ale if your life depended on it!" Tormund rumbled, throwing his cup aside in disgust. He reached into his pockrt to pull out a flask, drinking deeply. "I pity you for it." 

"I've heard the Dornish make good wine." Jon commented. "Never tried any myself." 

"Maybe you could. When all this is over." 

Jon gripped his cup tighter. "Yes. Maybe - "

"My lord!" A boy that could be no older than twelve burst in, red in the face and panting. "There's a women outside wanting to see you!" 

Jon exchanged a baffled look with Tormund. "A woman?" 

The boy nodded quickly. "Yes! She just appeared out of nowhere, demanding that she speak to Jon Snow." The boy frowned. "She was rather rude about it, actually." 

Jon sighed. "Does this woman have a name?" 

"I think she said her name was something like... Ria? No, that's not it. It definitely began with an S. I know that. But it ended with an A-" 

Jon rubbed his temples. It wasn't as though he was getting any sleep tonight. "Forget I asked, alright? Just bring her in." 

"Of course, my Lord." He said, giving a strange bow. He ran out of the tent. 

"I feel sorry for whoever has to put up with that boy as their squire." 

Jon snorted into his cup, silently agreeing. 

The boy came back, not alone this time. 

A woman stood next to him, so tall that she dwarfed the squire by at least three heads, if not more. She had a hard face, shaggy brown hair and a lean, tough body. She looked like a Wilding. 

Tormund spluttered into his flask. Jon patted him on the back, slightly concerned. 

"Osha?" Tormund said after he'd collected himself. 

The so-called Osha considered him coldly. "Tormund. I see you still you can't handle your cups." 

Tormund boomed a loud laugh. "I thought you'd be dead by now." 

Her face turned grim. "I should be." She turned to Jon. "Are you Jon Snow? Lord Eddard's bastard son?" 

Jon straightened, nodding firmly. Before, her harsh words would've made him wince in shame, but now he felt nothing because it was only the truth. "Yes, that's me." 

"You don't look much like him." Osha muttered, glancing at him sceptically. "You've got different eyes and hair... but you've got that brooding look about you. So does he." 

Jon was at a loss. "Care to elaborate?" 

"I'm here because your brother Rickon needs your help." The hard lines of her face softened. "You haven't seen him in years, I know. But he's all I have left, and he's a good boy. An angry boy with a soft heart." 

"You know my brother?" Jon asked, heart racing. "How?" 

She shrugged. "When Winterfell was sacked, I was one of the few who helped the little lords escape. Bran went north, true north. I begged him not to, but that ones stubborn." She sighed. "Those Reed children went with him. Then it was just me and Rickon and Shaggy." 

Jon put his face in his hands, pausing a moment to take all of that in. "So you were the one keeping him safe all those years? The one protecting him?" 

"Aye." 

Jon stood, staring at her. "I don't know how I'll ever repay you-" 

"There's no need for any of that." She interrupted. "All I want is to see him safe. I don't want gold or riches." 

"I've rallied the houses of the North for him. To take back Winterfell. My army is not yet the strongest, but I promise that I will fight with everything I have to get him back." He said, his eyes full of earnest. 

Osha looked him up and down, as though she was trying to figure out a difficult puzzle. "Are all you Starks like this? Coming here, I was worried. I didn't think it'd be so easy to convince you." 

Jon's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why would you need to convince me? Rickon is family. I haven't seen him since he was a little boy, but that's no excuse to leave him to rot with Ramsay Bolton." 

For the first time, Osha smiled. It was small and fleeting,  ending so abruptly that Jon thought he'd imagined it, but he knew he hadn't. "We can agree there, Jon Snow." 

The harsh wind screeched from outside, so barbaric and unforgiving that it almost knocked down their tent. The wind was deafening in his ears, taking up selfish amounts of space and demanding to make its presence known.

Winter is coming! It screamed, a jarring trill. Winter is coming, and it does not wait for silly little wars between humans. Are you ready for it. ARE YOU? 

Jon closed his eyes. 

Yes, he thought, I am. 

***

The seat of house Mormont was located on a relatively poor island, where fearsome bears roamed the forest and hunted as they pleased, so many of them there that it had earned the island its name. Overall, it was a harsh environment to live in. Jon supposed it was why this island hailed such hardy and no-nonsense people. They were tough and not quick to forgive, just like their homeland. 

As Jon stood in front of Lyanna Mormont, he realised that she was just as tough, if not  more. 

"Welcone to Bear Island." The girl said with as much courtesy as a ten year old could master. 

Sansa smiled politely. "Thank you, my lady." She looked around the small hall they were in, her eyes lingering on the Mormont's banner, at the proud bear roaring with all its might. 

Here We Stand. 

"I remember when you were born, I'm glad to see that you've grown into a feirce young lady. You were named after my aunt Lyanna. It is a relief to know that you are worthy of the name." 

"It is kind of you to think so." Lyanna replied. 

"My aunt was said to be a great beauty, I'm sure you will be too." 

She raised a brow. "I doubt it. My mother wasn't a great beauty or any other kind of beauty. She was a great warrior, though. She died fighting for your brother Robb." 

Jon grimaced. So many soliders had lost their lives fighting for his brother. If good, strong, brave Robb couldn't take back Winterfell and go home, then what chance did he have? 

A poor one. 

He thought of Rickon, alone and shivering in the dungeons of place that he once called his home. He thought of Sansa, his sweet sister, beaten and bruised from a world she had once believed to be so good and kind. He thought of Bran, once so joyful and full of life, crippled and lost beyond the Wall. He thought of Ayra, scrawny and stubborn, all abandoned without a family to rely on. 

He had to try. For them. He would give his siblings their home back, no matter the price. 

If he died, then so be it. 

"I served under your uncle at Castle Black, lady Lyanna. He was an honourable man and an even greater warrior. He taught me a great deal of things. In fact, I was his steward -" 

"I think that's enough small talk." She interrupted. "Why are you here?" 

Jon blinked, sharing a look with Sansa. Northerns were loyal, aye, but subtlety had never been their strong suit. 

"You sent Stannis Baratheon a letter. He showed me it himself. It said -" 

"I remember what it said. Bear Island knows no king but the king in the North, whose name is Stark." 

Jon nodded. "Aye. Robb is gone, but house Stark didn't die with him." 

Lyanna frowned. "With all due respect, I see no Stark standing before me. You are a Snow. And lady Sansa is a Bolton... or is it Lannister? I've heard conflicting reports." 

"I did what I had to do to survive. I am a Stark. I was born one and I will die one." Sansa said proudly. 

Lyanna smiled thinly. "If you say so." 

Jon sighed. This back and forth business would get them nowhere. "My lady, you've made it clear that you are not a fan of small talk, so I will make this as quick as I can for you." He took a short breath. "House Stark needs your support now than ever. I've come with my sister to ask for house Mormont's allegiance." 

"I see now. You don't just want my allegiance. You want my fighting men." Her eyes were full of scorn. 

"Ramsay Bolton cannot be allowed to keep Winterfell." His voice came out sharper than he meant it to. He reminded himself that he was speaking to a child and softened it. "It is our duty to stop him. Even more so because he holds our brother Rickon Stark as prisoner." 

"Last I heard, Rickon Stark was dead." 

"He isn't." Sansa said firmly. "But he will be if we don't take back Winterfell. Ramsay Bolton is not a man of mercy." 

"I am sorry about your brother." Lyanna said, having the decency to look regretful. "But I am responsible for Bear Island and for all who live here. So why should I sacrifice one more Mormont life for someone else's war?" 

Because the Dead are coming! Jon wanted to scream. Your men will lose their lives ethier way, best they do it fighting living men and not dead ones made of ice.

But he couldn't say that, no matter how tempting, so he said nothing. 

When the silence stretched on for a beat too long, Lyanna sighed impatiently. "Well?" 

"If it pleases my lady," ser Davos took a step foward, "I understand how you feel." 

Lyanna titled her head. "I don't know you, ser...?" 

"Davos of house Seaworth." 

Lyanna turned to her maester. 

"You needn't to do that. My house is rather new." 

She looked at him reluctantly. "Alright ser Davos of house Seaworth, how is it that you understand how I feel?" 

"You never thought you'd find yourself in your position." He said a matter-of-factly. "Being responsible for so many lives at such a young age must take a toll on a person. I never thought I'd find myself in my position. I was a crabber's son, then I was a smuggler, and now I find myself addressing a young lady of a great house in a time of war." 

Lyanna clasped her hands in her lap, leaning forward to listen more closely. Jon had never been more grateful towards ser Davos Seaworth. At least someone around here knew how to make a ten year old take their words to heart. 

"But this isn't someone else's war. It's our war." He hesitated. 

"Go on, ser Davos." Lyanna urged. 

"Your uncle, Lord Commander Mormont, made that man his steward." He pointed at Jon. "He chose Jon to be his successor because he knew he had the courage to do what was right, even if it meant giving his life. Jeor Mormont and Jon Snow both understood that the real war isn't between a few squabbling houses, it's between the living and the dead. And make no mistake, my lady, the dead are coming." 

Lyanna was quiet for a moment. "Is this true?" 

He gave a solemn nod. "Your uncle fought them at the Fist of the first men. I fought them at Hardhome." He flexed his fingers. "We both lost." 

"As long as the Bolton's rule Winterfell, the North is divided. And a divided North won't stand a chance against the Night King." Ser Davos looked at her with sympathy. "You want to protect your people, my lady, I understand. But there's no hiding from this. We have to fight, and we need to do it together." 

She clenched her jaw, silent as she debated with herself. 

"House Mormont has kept faith with house Stark for a thousand years." When she spoke, her voice seemed to echo through the hall, stern and determined. "We will not break faith today." 

The weight left Jon's shoulders. 

He was one step closer to seizing back Winterfell. One step closer in winning the fight of defeating the Dead. One step closer to saving his little brother. 

Just hold on for a little while longer, he thought,  I'm coming, Rickon. 

Chapter Text

RICKON 

"Get away from me! Get off!" 

"Stop struggling." Ramsay snapped. "You're only making this harder for yourself." 

Rickon only squirmed harder. 

Ramsay sighed. "Karstark, put him on the table. Hold him down." 

He fought with all he had, kicking and screaming. But he was weakened from the lack of food and his stay in the dungeons, so Karstark manhandled him on the table with embarrassing ease. 

"It didn't have to be this way, you know." Ramsay said while stalking towards him, twirling a knife around his fingers. "But you just wouldn't listen. And now I have to punish you." 

"You wouldn't dare." Rickon hissed. 

Ramsay titled his head, eyes twinkling dangerously. "Oh, but I have dared." 

Ramsay crouched down to his eye level. He grabbed his hand, separating his fingers one by one. "Let's play a game. Which finger do you need the least?" 

Rickon's blood ran cold. "What?" 

"I don't like repeating myself, little prince. Choose, or I'll do it for you." 

Riclon tried to jerk away from his hold. "Just let me go! I'll keep quiet, I promise." 

Ramsay brought the knife to his face. Rickon went still. "It's a bit too late for promises now. You should know by now that actions have consequences. Now pick."

Rickon couldn't believe this was happening to him. 

"I like all my fingers perfectly fine."

"I'm losing patience. Let's start a countdown!" Ramsay clasped his hands together, grinning manically. "Five." 

"I don't know!" 

"Four." 

"I won't be a problem anymore! I'll keep my mouth shut." 

"Three." 

Rickon began to sweat. 

"Two. I'm giving you a chance here, little lord! Don't waste it." 

Begging would not work with Ramsay. It only encouraged him. He was going to lose a finger ethier way. He might as well do it with some dignity remaining to him. 

"One." 

Rickon leaned forward, taking the bastard's massive nose between his teething and chomping down with all his strength. 

Ramsay roared with anger, pushing him away. Karstark held him tighter, his grip bruising, but Rickon was too victorious to care. 

Ramsay grabbed his throat, squeezing until black dots began to cloud his vision. 

At the last second, he let go. 

 Rickon gasped in desperate gulps of fresh air, spluttering and gaping as he tried to regain his breath. Before he could, a blinding pain exploded in his cheek. The tip of the knife carved relentlessly into his face. He screamed in agony. 

Rickon jolted awake. 

He wiped the sweat from his temple, trembling. He could still feel Ramsay's hands on him, content to cause destruction and pain. He stared numbly at his flared finger. 

Ramsay had decided to take his pinkie in the end. 

Rickon didn't think it was possible for him to feel such pain, the pain of skin being peeled away layer after layer, but Ramsay made him realise that it was possible, and that he could do much worse than that, if he wanted. 

His left cheek was on fire. 

Before flaying his pinkie, Ramsay had carved the letter X into his face while Karstark held him down

"All bad pets need to be branded." Ramsay had said after he'd finished, leaning back to stare appreciatively at his work. "That way, any time you think of misbehaving, you'll have that as a reminder not to!" 

Rickon had sobbed at the humiliation of it all, his ears burning. Ramsay had laughed, smiling at him. If Rickon didn't know any better, he'd say he almost looked fond. 

"Another nightmare?" 

Rickon scowled. "Oh, no! I've just woken up from the most lovliest dream. It was full of sweets and unicorns!" His voice was a raw rasp. 

Arion sighed. "Even after everything, you still manage to be a smartass. I have to hand it to you, kid. I'm impressed." 

Rickon had no biting remark for that. 

"The maester should be here soon." The gaurd told him. "Ramsay's cruel, but he ain't stupid. They're still people in this castle who are loyal to the Starks. It won't do any good for them to see Lord Eddard's last surviving true born son in the state that you're in now. It'll hurt more than it'll help." He stopped his rant to chew on some herbs. Rickon's stomach rumbled loudly at the sight. "Besides, Ramsay needs you alive and well for the battle of Winterfell. Well, maybe not well, but you get the gist." 

When Rickon said nothing, the gaurd rolled his eyes. "Quiet today, eh?" He stood up, stretching and yawning. "I'm gonna go take a piss. You don't try anything now." He warned him, though his tone was half-hearted. He knew that Rickon was too weak to be a real problem. 

Rickon watched him leave. A few days ago, he would've jumped at the opportunity to escape. Now, he didn't even move. He was in so much pain. 

He shivered, pulling his knees closer to his chest. He was just going to close his eyes for a moment. Just one. He wouldn't go to sleep, but his eyelids were so heavy. He only wanted to rest them for a little while...

"Robb?" 

Rickon wasn't even surprised. He was a fool to think he could be left to rest in peace. 

Resigned, he opened his eyes. 

A girl stood before him. She had limp brown hair and a small figure, though it was still obvious that she was older than him by quite a couple of years. He supposed she was pretty, though the plain dress she was wearing definitely didn't do her any favours. He frowned in confusion. There was nothing familiar about this girl. But her eyes...

"Oh." The girl said softly. "You're not Robb." She took a step closer. "Rickon? Is that you?" 

At his hesitant nod, she promptly burst into tears. "Oh, you've grown so much!" She said between sobs. 

He reeled back, horrified. "What?" He hissed. "What is it? Be quiet before he hears!" 

Sniffling, the girl composed herself. "Gods, I'm sorry. It's just... well, I thought you were dead. There were whispers that Ramsay had you in his clutches, but I didn't dare believe them." When she looked at him, her eyes filled with tears. "Until now." 

"Who are you?" 

She smiled sadly. "You really don't remember me? Well, I can't say I'm surprised. You were so little when you left Winterfell." 

Rickon looked at her properly this time. Her eyes were big and brown and sad. They weren't full of such of such sorrow the last time he saw them. 

"Jeyne." He croaked. 

She beamed. It was uncanny to see such a joyful thing in this damp and dark place. "You do remember me." 

"Of course I do." Seized by a new strength, he pulled himself forward to grasp her hand. Jeyne let him take it, running soothing circles with her thumb over his knuckles. Rickon could feel tears blur his vision. He almost forgot what it felt like - to be touched without being hurt. "You were Sansa's friend. Her best friend. Well, one of them. They were three of you, weren't there? The other one had blonde hair." 

Jeyne's smile froze. 

Rickon noticed. "Is she....?" 

"Beth died during the sack of Winterfell." Her gaze hardened, and Rickon was taken aback by the hatred in her eyes. "She was slain by Theon Greyjoy's hand." 

While his father's and mother's and sibling's faces had faded to ash over time, Rickon still remembered Theon Greyjoy's smirking face as clearly as a summer's day. 

Rickon had dreamt of killing him more times than he could count. On the paticularly cold and hard nights that Rickon had spent shivering with fever and so hungry that it felt like his stomach was eating itself - he had dreamt of plunging a dagger into his heart again and again and again, until nothing but flesh and blood remained. 

"Theon." Rickon repeated, testing the name out on his tongue. He hadn't said his name out loud in years. "What happened to him?" 

Jeyne's face darkened. "You don't want to know, sweet boy." 

"Don't coddle me." Rickon snapped. "Whatever it is, I can handle it." 

Jeyne said nothing. 

"Please, Jeyne." He pleaded. "I need to know what became of the man that forced me from my home." 

Jeyne sighed. "Rickon, he -"

Footsteps approaching made them jump apart. 

Arion stared at them. 

Rickon's heart pounded wildly. He had no idea what the gaurd would do. He was unpredictable like that. Would he tell Ramsay? Would he keep quiet? He hoped it was the latter. The idea of Jeyne in pain because of him hurt his heart. 

"You best get going." He spoke at last. "Who knows what Ramsay will do to you if he's sees you down here." 

Jeyne scrambled to her feet. "Thank you, ser." 

Arion's nose scrunched up in distaste. "I'm no ser, just a low-life bastard from Dorne trying to make ends meet."

Jeyne's eyes widened. She bowed her head. "I meant no offence." 

"And you gave none, my lady." He assured her.

She looked up suddenly. "I'm no lady." Jeyne said. "I haven't been in a long time." 

Arion smirked, looking at her with a newfound interest. "Is that so?" He took a step closer. "What is your name?" 

Rickon couldn't keep quiet any longer. He didn't like the way the gaurd looked at Jeyne. "Her name doesn't concern a low-life bastard like yourself." 

"Rickon!" Jeyne exclaimed in surprise. 

"What? He said it himself!" He said defensively. 

Arion looked at him coldly. "I suppose the little lord is right. You best get going, girl with no name." 

Jeyne shot him one last fleeting look. "Stay strong." She whispered to him. And then she was gone. 

"A pretty girl." Arion commented after a few moments of silence. "Much too pretty to be stuck down here in the dungeons. What was she doing here?" 

"I don't know." Rickon said honestly. 

The gaurd didn't believe him, but he didn't press for more. 

"You won't tell him, will you?" 

The gaurd sighed. He didn't need to clarify who he was. "I was tempted to when you called me a bastard." When Rickon didn't waver, he scoffed. "What? No apology? You really are an insolent child." He shook his head. "But I've seen what that man does to people who he thinks need to be punished. He's always paticularly hard on the women." 

"So you won't tell?" 

"No. I won't." 

Rickon deflated, relieved. "Thank you." 

***

"... it seems I caught the rot right in time. If it was left to fester for any longer, he would've lost his finger entirely." 

Rickon's eyes fluttered open. He was still in his stupid little cell, but his door was open. A man with dark robes and a massive silver chain loomed over him, looking concerned. 

"How are you feeling?" He asked. 

Rickon blinked stupidly. How was he feeling? What kind of question was that? Had he seen the state of him? 

"It doesn't matter how he is." Ramsay snapped irritably. "All I asked you to do was make sure he wasn't on the verge of dying! Is that too much to ask for, maester Wolkman?" 

The maester gulped. "No, my lord. I'm sorry, my lord." 

Ramsay waved him away. "Yes, you're forgiven." He turned to Rickon, smiling widely. "It seems the prince has woken from his deep slumber!" 

Rickon didn't think he'd ever hated anyone as much as he hated Ramsay Bolton. Not even Theon compared to this moster. 

"When I speak to you, I expect an answer." Ramsay spoke to him like one would speak to a dog. 

Rickon's eye twitched. "I'd rather you not speak to me at all." 

Ramsay struck him, ignoring the maester's weak squawks of protest. "What will it take to get you to learn? Will I have to flay another finger?" He gestured to Karstark, who always seemed to be at Ramsay's side, lumbering like a great shadow. "Will I have to get Karstark to hold you down again? Will I have to kill the beast of yours?" 

He paled at the mention of shaggy. He'd tried to warg into him a couple of times, but Shaggy was kept in complete darkness. Usually, he used warging as a way to escape, to be free and to be one with his wolf. Now, they were both trapped, unable to find comfort with one another. "Shaggydog! How is he?" 

"Good... for now." Ramsay shrugged. "You see, it all depends on your behaviour. I could kill the wolf with a snap of my fingers, but I won't if you behave." 

Rickon peered at him suspiciously.  "How do I know you're telling the truth?" 

Ramsay laughed. "You don't! You're just going to have to take my word for it." 

Rickon growled. 

"Ah, none of that." Ramsay tutted, wagging a finger at him. "Tomorrow is going to be a very exciting day! Do you want to know why?" 

Rickon rubbed his temples, hoping to soothe the headache that Ramsay's voice always caused him. "Why?" He asked flatly. 

"I'm going to have a talk with your bastard brother! And your whore sister." 

Rickon sat up. "What?" 

"Hmm, that's right! You weren't expecting that, were you?" He cackled. "I'll take that wolf of yours with me to make sure they know that I actually have you. But I'm having a bit of an issue... I can't decide whether I should bring the beast alive or with his head on spike. It's all rather difficult. What do you think?" 

"Don't hurt him." He said through clenched teeth. 

Ramsay sighed. "You're going to have to do a little better than that. I know you can beg nicely. You have the perfect eyes for it!" 

Dimly, Rickon took in his surroundings. 

Maester Wolkman looked at his feet, his face troubled as though he would be anywhere else. Rickon understood the feeling. Karstark watched him intensely, his face blank, but Rickon could see the silent eagerness in his eyes. Arion watched it all with a clenched jaw, the grip on the hilt of his sword tight. 

Rickon hadn't begged for anything since he'd last begged Robb to not leave for war when he was six.  Begging hadn't helped him then, but maybe it would now. 

He would do it for Shaggy. 

"Ramsay, please don't hurt him. He's all I have left... I'll behave, just like you want, alright? Just let him live." 

He was met with silence. 

Rickon looked up uncertainty. 

Ice cold eyes met stormy grey, and Rickon wished he'd kept his head bowed. 

"I don't think I heard enough 'pleases' in that little speech." Ramsay murmured, staring down at him expectantly. 

Rickon glared, eyes blazing. But he did as he was told. "Please, Ramsay. Please don't kill Shaggy. Please." 

Ramsay was quiet for a beat, watching him intently. Then he clasped his hands together, the sound so loud it startled almost everyone. "Well, since you asked so politely, I think I can make an exception for you!" 

Ramsay bopped him on the tip of his nose, laughing at his flinch. The beast in hunan form walked away, and Rickon could finally breathe again. Maester Wolkman scrambled after him, eager to leave the uncomfortable atmosphere. 

Karstark lingered, leering at him. He had yet to speak a word to Rickon, and somehow, his ominous silences put him more on edge than Ramsay's blabbering and sick mind games. 

Karstark moved forward. 

A sword met the back of his bulky neck. 

"Take one more step, and I'll gut you like the pig you are." Arion Sand said calmly, looking perfectly at ease. 

"You can't kill me. Ramsay would have your head." Karstark's voice was deep and gravelly. 

Arion howled, throwing his head back. "Oh, will he? You think you're so important, but Bolton can replace you with a snap of his fingers. He won't care to find you dead. In fact, I think he'll be pleased. I overheard him saying that he needs fresh meat for his hounds." Arion leaned forward to hiss in his ear. "You're no different from the rest of us, Karstark. You're worse." 

With that, he sent him sprawling to the cold floor with one well aimed at his lower back. 

"Next time, I won't be so forgiving." Arion warned him. "Now, leave." 

Karstark left with his tail between his legs. 

Rickon didn't speak until his hands stopped shaking. "Why did you do that? Why did you help me?" 

Arion looked at him, pushing a mass of thick hair from his eyes. "You're a real pain." He said finally. "And I know I'm no honourable knight, but even I have morals." 

Chapter Text

SANSA 

The air was crisp and cold in her lungs as she breathed it in. Snowflakes landed in her braided hair, only coming down harder when she tried to shake them out. Her fingers were numb, and goosebumps rose on the back of her neck as she trudged deeper into the white whirls of snow. 

Sansa smiled to herself. She had missed this.

The cold. 

Kingslanding had been sweltering and hot. When she had first arrived, naive and hopeful, she had enjoyed the heat - favoured it, even compared to the harsh push and pull of the icy winds of the North. But after her father's death, all the heat did was bring back unwanted memories of a crowded execution block, of screaming and begging to a cruel king for mercy that would never come.  

They had dressed her in fine silk and done her hair up all pretty and lady-like in southern hairstyles, but Sansa had never forgotten where she came from. She was of the North, and no matter how hard Cersei tried, she was never able to take that from her. 

Sansa was almost disappointed when she reached her pretty white mare. Walking aimlessly through the snow reminded her of her childhood at Winterfell, of walking arm in arm with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel, gossiping and dreaming about valiant sourthen knights to marry. 

She hadn't thought of her old friends in years. It hurt to remember what she had lost, so she had told herself it was better not to think of them at all. They had most likely died during the sack of Winterfell... when Theon seized the castle and took her brothers captive, only to lose them a few days later. 

She winced. Theon had committed the most atrocious crimes. He had hurt her family, lost her little brother's, betrayed Robb... but he had suffered so greatly for his mistakes. The things Ramsay put him through made her sick to even think about. She had seen the scars on his back once. It was an accident, and she only caught a quick peek, but she wished she hadn't. The skin had been twisted and gnarled, whip marks and knife carvings everywhere, some in precise lines, others messy and disorganised as if a child had been the one doing it. 

She hoped Theon had reached the Iron Islands safely. She hoped his sister had taken him in. She hoped he was okay, wherever he was. 

"Hello, girl." Sansa said to her horse, stroking her fur softly. She was an impressive creature, graceful yet steady,  prepared to carry her owner's dead weight to the end of the world. A loyal one. Sansa had considered naming her but eventually decided against it. The thought of growing close with another animal after Lady was a sour one. It had been years since her death, and yet Sansa's wound had not scabbed over. It remained gaping and oozing, refusing to heal.

During her time in Kingslanding, little Tommen had tried to gift her a kitten from his latest litter. It was a sweet gesture, and the boy had been so earnest, smiling up at her expectantly as he held out his plump arms, softly hushing the grey kitten that squirmed relentlessly in his grip. "This is for you, lady Sansa. She's a little one, but I'm sure she'll grow to be as big as your Lady was." He had said. "Your wolf scared me and Myrcella, but she was your wolf nevertheless. I wouldn't know what to do if Ser Pounce died." 

It had taken a while for her to find the words to respond. "You are sweet, my prince... but I'm afraid I can't take her. You're right. She is little. I wouldn't be able to take care of her properly." 

The words were lies, of course. It had felt like she would be betraying Lady to take another pet so soon after her passing. It wasn't right. And not even Tommen's sad green eyes, full of dejection, could make it so. 

She had felt guilty, though. The child had hung his head, clutching the kitten to his chest. "My sister likes cats." She'd blurted when the silence stretched on. "She is always chasing them, the poor things. Mayhap, you could gift the kitten to her instead." 

He'd smiled hesitantly. "If that's what you wish, Lady Sansa. She lost her wolf too, didn't she? I think she'll appreciate this." 

It was difficult to believe that now that very same boy sat the Iron Throne, ruling over the kingdoms. She wondered if the throne ever cut him like it cut Joffery. She hoped not, Tommen was a pleasant child. 

A voice broke her from her reverie.  "M'lady." 

 Sansa turned.

The Wilding woman stood before her, unkept hair blowing wildly in the wind. Sansa was used to being taller than the girls that surrounded her, but this  was a woman grown, and she stood taller than even her. 

Sansa inclined her head politely. "Good morrow, Osha." 

In truth, Sansa didn't know what to make of the Wildings. From a young age, she had been taught that they were savages and untrustworthy, that they stealed young girls from their beds and slit the throats of sleeping children. Jon trusted them, though, and Osha had been the one to keep her little brother alive all these years. She supposed there was nothing to be frightened of, but it was best to keep a sharp mind around them. People smiled were quick to smile at your face, but given half the chance, they would stab you in the back without a second thought. Cersei Lannister had been the one to teach her that. 

"We ride to meet Ramsay Bolton." Osha told her, keeping her distance. It seemed she didn't trust her, either. "Jon Snow sent me to tell you." 

"You're coming with us?" She asked, surprised. 

She nodded firmly. "Didn't travel all this way for nothing. I want to see if my boy is alive." 

My boy? 

She wondered what her mother would make of that. Rickon had been young when Catelyn Stark left Winterfell. Sansa had been close with her mother, and yet, despite herself, her face was slowly fading in her memory as the days passed by. She couldn't imagine to think how Rickon must be faring. He had spent so little time with his mother, with all of them, really. He most likely didn't remember much about his family - about her, his elder sister who used to sing him songs and tell him tales of honourable knights. The thought made her sad. 

"He is alive." Sansa assured her. "Ramsay won't kill him yet." 

Osha eyed her reluctantly. "They say this bastard is a monster in human skin. You wedded him, didn't you?" 

Sansa tensed. "It - I didn't know what he was at time... I had little choice in the matter, that I know for certain." 

Osha shrugged. "I ain't judging, m'lady. It's a tough world, and you have to do tough things to survive." 

She offered her a hesitant smile. It was a relief to know that some people understood why she did what she did. "That is very true." 

Osha didn't smile back, but she did take a step closer. "We should get going. The sooner I meet this man, the better." 

You do not want to meet him, Sansa thought. He is more beast than man. I dread the moment I have to look into his soulless eyes again. 

But she had to do it. She had to face him. She had to show him that he had not broken her, no matter how hard he may have tried, and that she would stop at nothing to have him at her feet, begging and spluttering and crying out for mercy. 

She wanted him to know what it felt like to be hunted, to feel like prey, like a deer caught in an inescapable trap. 

She wanted Ramsay Bolton to feel helpless and truly perturbed, as he had made her feel so many times. 

***

The weather grew colder, and the winds blew harsher as the day wore on. 

Their group was a small one. It made her slightly anxious, to face Ramsay with little men. She and Jon rode side by side, talking occasionally and leading the cluster of people behind them. Tormund had brought some of his own men along. They rode with him and Osha, who was grim faced and silent. Ser Davos' horse trotted on behind them, Lyanna Mormont's own one following closely. Two of Jon's men were at very back, carrying Stark banners, the grey and white drirewolf growling menacingly in the wind. 

Her mare's hooves halted. 

"You don't have to be here." Jon reminded her for what must've been the umpeeth time. "You could turn your horse around right now, and no one will judge you. I promise." 

She stared across the white mass of neverending snow, her gaze travelling up and up and up towards the towering castle that was Winterfell. It was defended by two lumbering walls of grey granite, both of them eighty feet tall with a wide moat between them. 

"I will not run." She said, even as her heart pounded madly in her chest. It felt as though it was about to burst, flesh, and blood and all. 

I will not run. 

I will not run.

I will not run.

"I will not run." Sansa repeated. Whether she did so to assure Jon or herself, she was not sure.  

Jon eyed her warily. 

Ramsay took his time approaching. Him and his group of men creeped closer inch by inch, agonisingly slow. He was doing this on purpose, she knew. He was trying to put her on edge - put all of them edge. It made her want to scream. Even now, he couldn't stop with his sick mind games. Even now, when she was free of him, he still found some subtle way to torment her. 

She despised him. She had so much hate for this man that she wasn't entirely sure what to do with it. 

A large carriage travelled with his group, so large that it took three horses to drag it to meet them. The horses seemed weary, slapping their hooves on the ground and looking ready to bolt at any loud noise made. 

Sansa wondered what unsettled them so greatly. Horses spooked easily, but these were war horses. They were trained and prepared to face blood and gore and death.

What was in that carriage? 

Whatever it was, it was clearly a threat. A great danger to them all. 

"My beloved wife!"

It seemed as though she'd blinked, and now he was before her, grinning his shark-like grin. His nose was red and swollen, as though someone had recently bit it. Sansa was glad to see him in pain. Whoever caused it had her thanks. 

"I've missed you terribly." He said, smiling widely. 

Sansa said nothing. She had no words to say to this man, no false courtesies. 

Ramsay seemed unbothered by her silence. "Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely. It means a great deal to me." 

"I have no care for what means a great deal to you." Jon replied coldly. 

To her surprise, Ramsay just laughed. It was loud and ugly, just like him. 

The bastard shook his head, still smiling. "You amuse me, for that I will look past that comment you made. Now, dismount and kneel before me. Surrender your army and proclaim me the true lord of Winterfell and warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the nights watch, bastard. I will pardon all these treasonous lords for betraying my house." 

That will never happen, Sansa thought, Jon will never kneel to the likes of you, and neither will I. 

It seemed to take Ramsay a while to realise this. When it finally dawned on him, he sighed as though this was all some big nuisance. "Come, bastard. You don't have the men, you don't have the horses, and you don't have Winterfell. Why lead all these poor souls into a battle they can't win? That's just cruel, don't you think?" 

"These men stand with me because they want to." Jon said. "Not because they've been forced or threatened. Can you say the same?" 

Ramsay tutted. "It makes no difference how I required my men, not when I have more than you. There's no need for a battle. All you have to do is get off your horse and kneel. I am a man of mercy." 

Have more untrue words ever been spoken? 

Jon smiled thinly. "A man of mercy? If that's true, then I'm sure you'll have no issue proving it. Right here, right now. Thousands of men don't need to die. Only one of us. Let's do this the old way. You, against me." 

Sansa knew Ramsay would never take the bait. Jon could beat him easily, but Ramsay would never give him the chance, not if he could help it. 

Ramsay chuckled, wagging a stubby finger. "I keep on you hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people talk about you, well, you'd have thought you were the greatest swordsman to ever walk. And maybe you are!" He shrugged. "Maybe you're not. I don't know if I can beat you, but what I do know is that my army can beat yours. I have six thousand men. You have, what? Half that?" 

Even when being reminded of their unfortunate predicament, Jon looked perfectly at ease. He had come a long way from the quiet and sullen boy he'd been at Winterfell. He was a man grown now, ready to fight for his home. 

"It's like I said before. My men are truly loyal to me. I know they won't turn tail and flee when the battle turns sour. They'll stay and fight because they believe in our cause. What do your men believe in? From what I can see, you inspire nothing but fear, and from my experience, that always turns out badly in the end." 

Ramsay clenched his jaw, silent for a moment. Suddenly, he smirked, evil eyes gleaming. "Tell me, bastard. Will you let your little brother die because you're too proud to surrender? Won't it hurt, having a child's blood on your hands?" 

Jon flattered at that. 

From behind her, Osha straightened, listening sharply. 

Sansa gritted her teeth. "How do we know you have him?" 

He laughed. "I'm so glad you asked, dear wife." 

He nodded towards his men. 

The two of them got off their horses and made their towards the carriage. They seemed reluctant but opened the carriage latch ethier way. 

Sansa's breath caught in her throat. 

He had been small the last time she saw him, the mere size of any common dog. He had been an angry thing, even back then, the first of his brothers and sisters to cause trouble, and the last to back down. He used to follow Rickon around like a lost puppy, sniffing and nipping playfully at his legs. 

Now, Shaggydog was thrice the size of any normal wolf. His black fur was matted and dirty and tangled, his green eyes wild and full of rage. He was alone, no master in sight. He paced and prowled in the cage that bind him, furiously trying to rip the iron bars apart with his robust teeth. As the two men drew closer, he sent them scuttling back with one fierce snarl of warning. 

Shaggydog looked up suddenly, pausing in his frantic movements. Green eyes met Tully blue, and the direwolf threw his head back and howled. 

The sound of it caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand up. 

"Yes, he does that quite a lot. You get used to the beast's noises over time." Ramsay told them, helplessly amused at their shock. "But it does give me quite the headache. Karstark, silence the creature." 

Karstark locked the latch door shut, and Shaggydog's lumbering figure disappeared out of sight. He still howled persistently, though the sound of it was muffled through the wood. 

"He kept Shaggy alive." Osha muttered to herself. "I didn't think he would." 

Ramsay heard her. "I wanted to kill it. The thing is unnatural, after all. But the little Starkling begged for his wolf's life so nicely." He placed a hand over his heart. "People call me cruel, but I'm not cruel enough to deny a crying child his wish." 

Jon glared, eyed blazing with hatred. 

"Don't look at me like that, bastard. You still have a chance to save your little brother's life. Best hurry, though. I don't think Winterfell's dungeons agree with him." 

It wasn't right that Rickon lay rotting in the place that was once his home. Her little brother stayed suffering, and for what? 

"We will see how Winterfell's dungeons treat you after the battle is won." Sansa said cooly. "Something tells me your stay there won't be very enjoyable." 

If he was expecting her to say anything, it clearly wasn't that. Ramsay reeled back in surprise, blinking.

He smiled like he always did when someone or something caught him off guard. It was a dangerous smile, a smile that promised pain and punishment. "You're a fine woman. I look forward to having you back in bed." 

"That will never happen." Jon spat. 

Ramsay ignored him. "And you're all fine looking men. My dogs are desperate to meet you! I haven't fed them for seven days. They're ravenous!" He hummed. "I wonder which parts they'll try first. Your eyes... or your balls. We'll find out soon enough." 

Jon's eyes were so clouded with fury that they were almost black. "I suppose we will, bastard." 

Ramsay's smile dropped. "I look forward to tomorrow." He said softly. "House Stark will be truly dead and buried once and for all, and no one shall ever be able to challenge me again." 

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. 

Her father had been the one to teach her that. Somehow, they would survive this. She knew it deep in her bones. Winterfell belonged to the Starks, as it always would, and no bastard like Ramsay Bolton could ever change that. No matter how hard he tried to bend and twist the rules to his whim. Winter won out in the end, and it would never accept such a vile man as its ruler. 

Chapter Text

JON

"Thank you for making this journey to help fight our cause, my Lord and Lady." Jon said. "Words will never be able to express my gratitude." 

Howland Reed simply nodded. "No gratitude is needed. It is only my duty. The North knows no ruler but Stark." The man smiled thinly. "Besides, Ned Stark was not only my liege Lord, but my friend. A friend who saved my life. I owe him a great debt." 

"I must thank you again." 

"Me and my men have travelled a long way to get here. We came as soon as your letter reached us. In truth, we are a small army. Swamp people don't breed the best of warriors, but I promise you we will fight with every last bit of strength we have." 

Sansa smiled. "I now understand why my father spoke so fondly of you, my Lord." 

Reed hesitated, opening his mouth to say something but closing it again. 

Of course, Sansa noticed. She raised a brow,  voice tittering on the edge of concern. "Is there something wrong, my Lord?" 

Reed took a deep breath. "There is, my lady. I do not know if you're aware of this, but my children were guests of Winterfell during its sack." The man seemed to waver. "Has there been any word... does anyone know of their whereabouts?" 

Jon's eyes turned grim. Why was he always the one who had to inform people of topics as sensitive as these? "All I know is that your children escaped Winterfell with my brothers and travelled North - true North - with Bran and his direwolf." Jon met Reed's eyes to show his sincerity. "There is still hope for your children. If my brother Rickon was able to survive,  I do not see why your children won't." 

Reed closed his eyes. "I see. It's my own fault for letting them go... but my son was so persistent." He sighed, bowing his head. "I must go prepare my men for the upcoming battle. May I -" 

"Of course." Jon said. "Thank you again, my Lord." 

Howland Reed bowed, then promptly made his exit. 

Jon turned to greet the other figure that lurked in the corner of the room. She had been silent the entire time, her lips curled into a sneer as she surveyed the people around her. Despite her wrinkles, she cut a handsome figure, tall and unbent. 

Jon eyed her warily. "Lady Barbrey." 

The woman inclined her head. "Jon Snow, is it? I've heard stories about you. Eddard Stark's bastard, Lord Commander of the Nights Watch. I wonder why a sworn brother has deserted his post." 

A man of the Nights Watch is only bound to serve once in his life. Nobody said anything about the second. 

Not letting his thoughts show on his face, he simply said: "It's my duty to defend the kingdom against what lays beyond the Wall. I can not do that with a divided North." 

Lady Dustin hummed. "And what is that lays beyond the Wall but the Wildlings?"

Oh, only the White Walkers. They'll most likely destroy all of humanity as we know it. But yes, we should certainly worry about the Wildlings. Jon barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Gods, these people were so caught up in their hatred that they refused to see the obvious enemy in front of them. 

Her steely gaze turned accusing. "Wildlings, I see you now fight alongside with."  

Sansa interrupted before the conversation took a turn for the worst. "I must say, my Lady, I am rather surprised to see you here considering your relation to the Boltons. I remember hearing once that you were rather fond of your nephew, Domeric." 

The woman pursed her lips. She hid her displeasure well, but Jon glimpsed the brief fury that flashed through her eyes. "Ramsay is no true Bolton. I have no love for that boy, no more than his father, who was stupid enough to raise the boy as his own." 

"I see." Sansa said. "So it would seem we have something in common, then." 

"It would seem so." Barbrey smirked. "After Domeric's death... I had my suspicious. But I knew it was him who committed the crime the moment I looked into his eyes. There was not a glint of remorse in them." Lady Dustin took a step forward. "I've grown to become a bitter woman in my later years. It's true. But only because I have been denied the justice that should've been served years ago time and time again. I was not fond of your father, but if you give me justice, I desperately crave... then house Dustin and house Stark may become true allies once more, with no bad blood between us." 

Jon and Sansa exchange a loaded look. This was more than he could've hoped for. With the two thousand Wildlings, a giant, sixty two Mormont soldiers, two hundred Hornwoods, another two hundred Reed men, one hundred and forty three Mazins and now two thousand Dustin soldiers... it almost seemed as though they had a fighting chance. 

He wouldn't allow himself to grow overconfident. The Boltons still had six thousand fighting men. They still had his little brother. 

"You will get your justice." Jon said. "As long as we get your fighting men." 

"Then you shall have them." Lady Dustin said without hesitation. "I look forward to seeing how the Stark bastard will carry out justice." 

Jon clenched his jaw. What could he say to that? If they really did win this battle and Ramsay ended up surviving till the end of it... would he execute the man by his own hand? His father had taught him and Robb that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword - but could he really take that away from Sansa? From Rickon? From all the people Ramsay Bolton had wronged in his lifetime? 

Jon resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall. He had so many questions, so many doubts. But nobody was there to answer them.

In the end, he supposed it didn't matter. As long as Ramsay Bolton ended up dead, then all would be well. 

"...We must thank you again, my Lady." Sansa was saying, her tone as courteous as any Queens. "House Stark is grateful to have house Dustin by our side." 

Lady Dustin nodded. "As am I." She clasped her hands in front of her, the heavy bags under her eyes suddenly all too noticeable. "As much as it pains me to admit I am getting old. As much as I wish to, I can no longer stand for quite so many hours." 

Sansa nodded in understanding. "Of course, as our honoured guest, you'll be escorted to your quarters at once." Then she paused, her brow furrowing as though she'd just tasted something paticularly sour. "Ah. It's my most apologetic regret to inform you, but we do not currently have the quarters a lady of your station would usually be befitted of." 

"It is a time of war. I understand." 

Sansa relaxed a little at this. "I will see you on the morrow, my lady." 

The woman's lips quirked to resemble what Jon thought could be a shadow of a smile. "You shall, lady Stark." 

She turned to Jon, nodding curtly. "Lord Snow." 

Then she was walking away, her clipped heels ringing in his ears. 

"I must thank you again." He called to her retreating back. 

The woman stopped. 

"It is not thanks I require." Lady Dustin said coolly. She didn't even turn around to spare a backwards glance at him. "Only Ramsay Snow's head on a spike." 

Jon watched her leave. Ramsay had made a grave mistake when making an enemy out of her. Even if they did not win this battle, Jon was sure the woman seized a knife and slit Ramsay's throat herself. 

But only if they lost. 

***

Jon paced the length of his makeshift tent, pausing to rub a tired hand down his face and then promptly starting again, his steps becoming more brisk each time. 

"Will you stop that?" Sansa eventually said, exasperated. "You're making me anxious, Jon." 

Tormund rumbled his agreement. "The little lady's right. Stand still, little crow." 

Jon scowled but complied. He came to rest at the head of the cluttered table, his hands coming to grip the edges of it. He let his eyes fall over the battle arrangements of the maps and the countless toy soldiers. 

"If he were smart," Jon began,  "he'd stay in Winterfell's walls and wait us out."   

Ser Davos shook his head. "That's not his way. He knows the North is watching. If the other houses sense weakness on his behalf, they'll stop fearing him. Fear is his strength." 

"But it's also his weakness." Jon mused. "Most of his men are forced to fight for him, but if they feel the tide turning..." 

"It's not his men that worry me, but his horses." Tormund said. "I know what mountain knights can do to us." He jerked his head in Davos' direction. "You and Stannis cut through us like piss through snow." 

"We're digging trenches all through our flanks. They won't be able to hit us like Stannis hit you." Jon assured his friend. "They won't be able to hit us from the sides." 

Tormund gave a sharp nod. "Good." 

"It's crucial we let them charge at us first. They're got the numbers, and we must have patience. That is Vital." Davos insisted. "If we let him buckle our centre, he'll pursue. And we'll have him surrounded on three sides..." 

Tormund peered over at him, leaning over to ask: "Did you really think that cunt would fight you man to man?" 

"Of course not, but I wanted to make him angry." He turned to look at all of his closest advisors. "I want him coming at us full tilt." 

Davos sighed, stretching his old bones and stifling a yawn. "We should all get some sleep for the long day ahead of us tomorrow." 

Tormund placed a big hand on Jon's shoulder, shaking him gently - well, as gently as a man like Tormund could manage. "Rest, Jon Snow. We need you sharp for tomorrow." 

"And you. We can't have you falling asleep on the battlefield, can we?" 

Tormund snorted. "I'll stick to my cups, little crow. Maybe talk to Osha for a little while. It's worked for every battle before." 

Jon watched him leave, his ears catching the little snippets of conversation between him and Davos as they made their way towards the exit. 

"I still think we should've brought WunWun with us when meeting with that Bolton cunt." Tormund grumbled. "The look on his face would've been a sight to see." 

Ser Davos shook his head. "It's best that we didn't. The giant will be a good way to catch their army off guard and give us the advantage. Most men are of the belief that giants are extinct..." 

Sansa lingered long after the meeting ended. She played with the ends of her hair, something he had not seen her do since she was a small child. 

"Sansa?" He questioned, unable to keep the worry from his voice. "What troubles you so?" 

Sansa halted in her anxious movements, turning to eye him with reluctance instead. "There's something I wish to discuss with you." 

Jon frowned, even more concerned now. "What is it?" 

Sansa took a breath as though steeling herself for something. For what, Jon could not say. "Quite recently, I went to meet with Petyr Baelish -"

Jon felt a flash of anger run through his veins at the mention of that man's name.

"What?" 

Sansa held up a placacting hand. "I know, alright? I know how it sounds. Just please let me explain." 

"This is the same man who sold you to the Boltons as though you were some board piece in his sick game to play with when he pleases." Jon said slowly. "I told you if I ever saw that man again, I would kill him, did I not?"

"Yes, I remember quite well, believe it or not." 

His eyes narrowed. "Then why meet with him?" 

Sansa huffed an irritated breath. "Well, in case you hadn't noticed, that's what I've been trying to tell you." 

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it. He flushed. "Ah. Sorry." 

Sansa rolled her eyes fondly. If that were even possible. "It's fine." 

She sighed, moving away from the entry to instead stand closer to him. "Lord Baelish holds the Vale in his hands. It would seem he is Lord of the Vale in all but name. Robin is a sickly child, I truly worry for his health... if something were to happen to him, say he passed away..." she trailed off. 

Jon barely held back a scoff once he grasped her meaning. "That's ridiculous. The Lords and ladies of the Vale would never stand for it." 

Sansa hummed her agreement. "No, they wouldn't. But Littlefinger is a cunning man. It wouldn't surprise me if he found a way." 

Jon rubbed his temples. Politics, politics, politics. It seemed as though that was all he ever talked about nowadays. "What does any of this have to do with you meeting him?" 

"The point is that Petyr Baelish is the key to the Vale army." Sansa answered. "Robin is rather fond of the man, and the same Tully blood runs through our veins. If Littlefinger were to talk to him, I hardly believe it would be terribly hard to convince the boy." 

Jon couldn't help the doubt that crept into his voice. "And why would Lord Baelish agree to help us?" 

"Because he loves me." Sansa said a matter-of-factly. 

Jon gave a grimace of disgust. "He's twice your age." 

Sansa shrugged. "When has that ever stopped anyone?" 

Jon winced. He tried to imagine a younger version of his sister speaking in such a crude way and found that his mind came up blank. He felt a pang of white hot shame jolt through him. If only he'd been there to shield her from the horrors of this world... then maybe she wouldn't have grown to become so indifferent to them. 

Sansa continued to speak, oblivious to Jon's inner turmoil. "When I met with him, he said he would do anything to win my forgiveness." Sansa glanced up at him. "The Vale army was my price." 

Jon exhaled softly, barely believing it."This... you've done a great thing, Sansa. The Vale army is forty thousand men strong. I never allowed myself to fully believe it, but now we truly will be able to go home." 

Sansa smiled despite the tears in her eyes. "It was a great price to pay, but it was worth it." 

Jon nodded firmly. "You needn't worry about Littlefinger. If he even looks at you funny, I'll kill himself myself." 

Sansa looked away from him. "I couldn't take any chances." She murmured. "I know trusting Littlefinger is a foolish move, but going into a battle where the odds aren't in our favour is even more foolish. I don't know much about battles, but I know that much." 

Jon managed a weak chuckle. 

"Littlefinger will be a problem." Sansa said. "But right now, he's not our main focus. Winning this battle is." 

"When will the army arrive?" He asked. 

"Tomorrow at noon at the latest." 

Jon nodded to himself, a plan already forming in his mind. "They will be our surprise attack. We'll just have to stall the battle until they get here." 

"Ramsay will try and bait you." Sansa warned him. "You cannot under any circumstances let him, Jon." 

He nodded, half paying attention as his mind was sill on tactics of the battle. He'd have to arrange another meeting to inform everyone of the latest updates. Most would not take to be woken up from their beds well, but once they heard the news, surely - 

"Jon!" Sansa snapped, coming to stand in front of him. 

He blinked, startled at the vexed expression on her face. "Whst is it?" 

"I meant what I said. I don't know what I'll do with myself if I lose you too." 

Jon softened, pulling his sister into an assuring hug. "I can't promise that I won't die tomorrow." He said, continuing on despite the way Sansa stiffened. "But I can promise we'll get our home back." His Stark grey eyes glistened with clear determination. "We'll get Rickon back, too."

Sansa closed her eyes, unable to stop the tear that fell down her cheek. "I fear Ramsay will kill him." She whispered. "As long as he's alive, Ramsay's claim to Winterfell will always be unstable. Rickon is a bigger threat than me, a girl, or you a bastard." 

Jon couldn't argue with that. 

"Dead or alive, at least he'll be free of that monster."