Chapter Text
Catelyn Stark was folding laundry in the living room when the phone rang.
“Mom!” Arya hollered from the kitchen. Judging by the noise, she was apparently kicking around a soccer ball, and Cat would've reminded her daughter about Stark house rule number seventeen (no soccer balls indoors) if she hadn't been facing mountains of unfolded laundry at the moment. “Phone!”
“I’ll get it!” shouted Bran, ever-so-helpful. Cat heard him roll his wheelchair to where the cordless phone rested on the kitchen counter. “Hello, you've reached the Stark residence. To whom would you like to speak?” Cat smiled to herself; her twelve-year-old son answered the phone more formally than her husband did.
There was a pause. “Just a minute,” said Bran, his voice sounding somewhat nervous. Cat knew Bran had an uncanny sense of foreboding; she had a feeling that whoever was on the other end wasn't calling with good news. More wheels rolled until Cat finally saw her son enter the living room. “It’s for you, Mom,” Bran said, tentatively holding out the phone.
“It’s Mr. Baratheon,” Arya called, “and he sounds angry!”
Cat’s stomach plummeted. She was ninety-nine percent sure she knew why Stannis Baratheon would be calling her at this moment. And she was ninety-nine percent sure she’d have to give her youngest son yet another talking-to. She stepped toward Bran, preparing herself for the sure-to-be unpleasant conversation with Stannis.
None of the others were biters, Cat thought begrudgingly. Why Rickon? And why now?
As a baby, Rickon Stark was adorable- the kind of baby you’d see on the cover of Parenting magazine. His cheeks were chubby, his red hair was perfectly curled, and his blue eyes sparkled. When Cat brought baby Rickon out in public, countless strangers stopped to pinch his cheeks and gush over him using nonsensical baby-babble (which led Arya to ask worriedly, “Did people do that with me?”)
He was also a complete terror.
Rickon’s crying kept Ned and Cat awake countless nights. He was unhappy unless he was being held or nursed. And he was always hungry. When he learned how to crawl, at least two Stark siblings had to be on Rickon Duty at all times- for if no one was looking, Rickon would venture off on an exciting journey around the house and get stuck under things, put random objects in his mouth, or (one horrible time) fall down the stairs. However, the real trouble began when Rickon got his first teeth.
His first victim was, of course, his mother. Rickon was about a year and a half old at the time, and Cat was feeding him his favorite food, mashed beets (despite Robb’s persistent comments about how they resembled blood). Cat spooned the same amount of beets she fed Rickon every day into his open mouth. But today was no ordinary day. Rickon seemed to know he wasn’t getting any more food when Cat put a lid on the jar of beets and put the spoon into the dishwasher. When Cat took out a washcloth and attempted to wipe away the red stains the beets had left on her youngest son's face (Robb did have a point regarding the beets’ appearance), Rickon sunk his tiny teeth into her hand and Cat had a bandage around her finger for a week.
Bran, who was closest to Rickon’s age and his main playmate, was next. During a game of Thomas the Tank Engine, the then-six-year-old-Bran refused to let go of Henry the Green Engine, Rickon’s favorite train. To make a long story short, Bran cried for two hours, Cat reassured Bran that his hand wouldn’t fall off multiple times, and nobody but Rickon ever touched Henry the Green Engine again.
As Rickon continued to grow, he continued to bite. And as he grew more teeth, his bites became harder. One by one, the rest of the Stark family fell prey. Sansa, when she was putting Rickon to bed and refused to read him Where the Wild Things Are for the fourth time in a row. Arya, when she hid Rickon’s favorite stuffed wolf as a joke. Jon, when he’d come home from school in a bad mood and wouldn’t play catch with Rickon. Robb, when he forgot to change Rickon’s diaper (although even Cat admitted he deserved that one). Ned, when he tried to feed Rickon vegetables for the first time; this was not attempted again for several weeks. Even Theon Greyjoy, Robb’s best friend and an omnipresent being in the Stark household, discovered he’d underestimated Rickon’s capabilities of damage during an intense game of Truth or Dare.
The kids eventually got used to Rickon’s ways and made jokes about it, calling him “the Cannibal”. Cat, meanwhile, assumed the biting would stop when he got older. And, in some ways, it did; Rickon eventually learned to use his words when asking for seconds. In fact, he rarely bit anyone in the family anymore-he was smart enough not to bite in front of Cat, and his siblings were usually too busy to provoke him. But, as Cat had learned from the four impromptu parent-teacher conferences she’d had this year, Rickon continued to bite other students during school, as well as at friends’ houses (a similar incident with the Baratheons had happened last month). And, despite her valiant efforts, she’d so far been unsuccessful in talking him out of it.
The car radio was set to Ned and Cat’s favorite oldies station, but it did nothing to lighten the mood during the drive home from the Baratheons’.
“Rickon, are you listening to me?” asked Cat exasperatedly. She’d given Rickon yet another lecture on the evils of biting; it had mainly been a reiteration of her past four lectures ("biting is not socially acceptable", "biting is for animals, not for people", "do you see your father and I biting each other? of course not"), and as she’d expected, did not seem to have any effect. “Mr. Baratheon has made it quite clear that if you ever bite Shireen again, you won't be allowed in his house anymore.”
“I wasn’t trying to hurt her,” Rickon mumbled. “We were playing tag.”
“It doesn’t matter what you were playing,” Cat replied. “Biting isn’t appropriate for third-graders. You need to find another way to express…whatever you want to express.”
“Shireen didn’t mind,” insisted Rickon. “I didn’t even break the skin this time. She was more upset that her dad made me leave.”
Cat sighed. “Well, her father minds, and so do I,” she said as the Starks’ van pulled into the garage. “And I agree with him. If you bite Shireen again, you can't play with her anymore.” She looked at her youngest son, expecting an apology or a promise or at least an explanation.
However, Rickon continued to look annoyed. He got out of the car, ignoring his mother. “Shaggy!” he called, running off into the backyard to find his monster of a dog.
Cat watched her youngest son disappear into the wilderness, off to play with that dog of his who bit more people than he did. She was beginning to realize that her five anti-biting lectures had been a waste of time; she couldn’t get through to Rickon, not on this matter. Cat was seconds away from abandoning all hope and letting her son run with the wild beasts forever…until it hit her.
She couldn’t get through to Rickon. But perhaps somebody else could.
About three hours later that night, each of the Stark children (except for the Cannibal himself) found a note under their door.
Family meeting tomorrow night in the living room at 10. I know you’re all free, so don’t be late.