Rickon slipped away after breaking his fast, while Aunt Sara spoke with the steward about household matters. No one noticed when he took the small path that wound behind the kitchens, his small boots leaving shallow impressions in the damp soil. The morning air bit at his cheeks, but Rickon didn't mind. The cold was a friend in Winterfell.
Three days had passed since Father had stood before the heart tree with Lady Alysanne. Rickon remembered the ceremony, the way the torchlight had caught in her dark hair, how his father's solemn face had softened when he draped his cloak around her shoulders. There had been feasting afterward, music and laughter that echoed through the Great Hall until Aunt Sara had taken him to bed.
He hadn't seen much of either of them since.
"They're getting to know each other, sweetling," Aunt Sara had told him yesterday, her fingers gentle as she'd combed his hair. Her eyes had held something Rickon couldn't name, something that looked sad. "That's what new husbands and wives must do."
Rickon understood, or thought he did. It was like when he met a new horse in the stables. You had to approach slowly, speak softly, let them smell your hand before you touched them. Perhaps it was the same with new wives.
The godswood welcomed him with its familiar silence. Here, among the sentinel trees and ancient oaks, Rickon felt most himself. The strange thoughts that sometimes filled his head seemed less frightening beneath the red leaves of the heart tree.
Gravity. The word had come to him yesterday while watching a leaf fall from a tree. Astronomy. That one appeared when Maester Kennet showed him how to use the astrolabe. Words that tasted foreign on his tongue, yet settled in his mind like they belonged there.
Maester Kennet had praised him for solving his sums so quickly. "A sharp mind, young lord," he'd said, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Like your father's." But Rickon the numbers simply arranged themselves in his mind, falling into patterns as obvious as the constellations in a clear night sky.
He settled at the base of the heart tree, his back against its white bark. Above him, red leaves rustled, whispering secrets he couldn't quite catch. Rickon closed his eyes and imagined himself soaring above Winterfell, higher than the ravens, higher than the clouds, looking down at the castle that grew smaller and smaller until it was just a speck in the vastness of the North.
"Why is your face so serious, little lord?"
The voice startled him. Rickon's eyes flew open to find Lady Alysanne standing before him, her lips curved in a smile. She looked different from the solemn bride who had stood beside his father. Her hair was loosely braided rather than elaborately arranged, and wore riding elathers and red tunic. Nothing at all like the gowns he had seen her in.
"My father's new wife," his mind whispered, the words strange and uncertain.
She stood with her hands on her hips, head tilted slightly as she regarded him. There was a brightness to her that Rickon hadn't noticed before, as if some inner light had been kindled during the days she'd spent hidden away with Father.
Rickon pulled his knees closer to his chest, suddenly shy under her gaze. The heart tree loomed protectively at his back, its carved face watching over them both.
"I wasn't being serious," he said finally, his voice small against the vastness of the ancient grove. "I was thinking about flying."
Alysanne lowered herself beside him with a grace that reminded Rickon of a swan settling on water.
"Flying?" She tilted her head, studying him with interest rather than the indulgent amusement adults often showed when children spoke of impossible things. "Above the clouds or just among the treetops?"
The question caught him off guard. Adults rarely engaged with such fancies.
"Above everything," Rickon admitted. "Until Winterfell becomes smaller than my hand." He demonstrated, pinching his fingers together as if to capture the castle between them.
Alysanne nodded as though this made perfect sense. "I used to imagine the same at Raventree Hall. I'd picture myself as one of the ravens, soaring above the weirwood, watching my brothers grow smaller until they were no bigger than ants."
A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the rustling leaves overhead. Rickon examined her from the corner of his eye. The guardednes that had marked her features during her arrival had melted away. Here, beneath the heart tree, she seemed different, younger somehow, less guarded.
"Do you like Winterfell?" he asked suddenly.
"It's different from home," she replied, running her fingers through the soft moss. "Colder, of course. Sterner in some ways. But there's strength in these walls that I admire." She looked up at the canopy of red leaves above them. "And beauty, too, though it's not always easy to see at first glance."
Rickon nodded, understanding precisely what she meant. Winterfell revealed itself slowly, like a secret shared in whispers.
"The other children used to say northerners were savages," she continued, her voice lowering conspiratorially. "But my father always told me the Starks were different, that they remembered things other houses had forgotten."
Something stirred in Rickon's mind at her words, a half-formed thought, a fragment of knowledge just beyond his grasp. He frowned, trying to capture it, but it slipped away like mist.
"What things?" he asked.
Alysanne grinned. "That's what I hope to learn, little lord." She reached out hesitantly, then gently tucked a strand of dark hair behind his ear. "Perhaps we could discover those secrets together."
The gesture was so unexpected that Rickon momentarily froze. Aunt Sara was the only one who touched him with such casual affection. Yet there was something in Alysanne's eyes, a genuine warmth that made him think she wasn't simply playing at being motherly for appearance's sake.
"I know I'm not replacing anyone," she said softly, as if reading his thoughts. "Your mother, or your Aunt Sara. But I hope we might be friends, at least."
The word 'friends' hung in the air between them, an offering without demands. Rickon felt something tight in his chest loosen slightly.
"I'd like that," he said, surprising himself with the truth of it.
Alysanne's eyes lit up suddenly. "Do you know what I was doing before I came to find you?" She rose to her feet in one fluid motion, extending her hand. "Come, I'll show you."
Curious, Rickon took her offered hand and followed her through the godswood. They emerged near the archery range where several targets had been set up against hay bales. A finely crafted bow leaned against a wooden post, alongside a quiver of arrows fletched with raven feathers.
"My father insisted all his children learn to defend themselves," Alysanne said, picking up the bow with practiced ease. "The bow was always my favorite."
She nocked an arrow, drew back with perfect form, and released. The arrow whistled through the air, striking the center of the target with a solid thunk. Two more arrows followed in quick succession, each finding its mark with unerring precision.
"Would you like to try?" she asked, her eyes dancing with mischief and delight. "I could teach you, if you wish."
Rickon's heart leapt. He had watched Ser Hallis training the older boys from the shadows of the armory, imagining himself among them. His small hands itched to hold the bow.
"Yes!" he exclaimed, then remembered his manners. "Please, my lady. I've asked Ser Hallis many times, but he says I must wait until I'm older." The words tumbled out in his excitement, his formal reserve forgotten.
Nonsense," Alysanne scoffed, selecting a smaller bow that had been lying nearby. "I was no taller than you when I first learned. The secret isn't in strength but in patience and precision, qualities you seem to possess in abundance, little lord."
She knelt beside him, adjusting his stance with gentle hands. "Stand sideways to the target, feet shoulder-width apart. Good. Now, hold the bow like this, not too tight. The bow is an extension of yourself, not an enemy to be conquered."
Rickon followed her instructions, his brow furrowed in concentration. The bow felt awkward in his grasp, too large despite being the smallest available. When she helped him draw back the string, his arms trembled with the effort.
"Breathe," she murmured. "Find the rhythm between heartbeats. That's when you release."
His first arrow fell short of the target, landing pathetically in the dirt. The second veered wildly to the left. Frustration heated his cheeks, but Alysanne's patient smile never wavered.
"My first hundred arrows never found their mark," she confided. "My brothers laughed until my father silenced them. 'The wolf's teeth grow slowly,' he told them, 'but once they emerge, they never dull.'"
Something about her words resonated within Rickon. He squared his shoulders and accepted another arrow. This time, he took a deep breath, finding that quiet place within himself where numbers arranged themselves in perfect order. The world narrowed to the target, the bow, the tension in the string.
The arrow flew true, striking the outer edge of the target. Not the center, not even close, but it had hit. Pride surged through him, bright and fierce.
"Well done!" Alysanne clapped her hands together. "A natural talent, just as I suspected."
A shadow passed over them, and Rickon looked up to see his father approaching, his face unreadable as always. For a moment, fear flickered in Rickon's chest, was he in trouble? Had he overstepped by handling weapons without permission?
But Lord Stark's eyes softened as he observed them, the faintest smile touching his lips. "Teaching my son your Blackwood skills already, my lady?"
"Someone must," Alysanne replied, a teasing lilt to her voice that Rickon had never heard anyone use with his father. "Unless you wish him to wait until his arms are too stiff to learn properly."
To Rickon's amazement, his father laughed, a short, rusty sound, as if unused to the exercise. "My wife makes a fair point, Rickon. Perhaps it's time we began your training in earnest."
The words "my wife" still sounded strange to Rickon's ears, but less jarring than before. He watched as his father's hand briefly touched Alysanne's shoulder, a gesture so quick he might have imagined it.
"Show me again," Lord Stark said, his voice gentler than Rickon could remember hearing it in many moons. "Let me see what my son has learned from the finest archer in the Riverlands."
Rickon stood straighter, determined not to disappoint either of them. As he nocked another arrow under Alysanne's watchful guidance, a curious warmth spread through his chest, not quite happiness, but something adjacent to it. Something that felt, unexpectedly, like the first fragile seedling of hope.
_______________________________
The days that followed brought a change to Winterfell as subtle as the first breath of spring after a long winter. Alysanne sought him out each morning after his lessons with Maester Kennet, sometimes for archery practice, other times simply to walk the grounds and listen to his knowledge of Winterfell's history. Rickon found himself looking forward to these moments, storing away observations to share with her, the way the light struck the glass gardens at midday, or how the shadows moved across the First Keep.
One crisp morning, as frost crunched beneath their boots in the courtyard, Alysanne appeared wearing her riding leathers and a mischievous smile.
"Have you ever ridden a proper horse, little lord?" she asked, her breath forming clouds in the cold air. "Not a pony, mind you, but a true courser?"
Rickon shook his head, eyes widening. Father had promised he would have a proper mount when he turned six, still nearly two years away.
"Then today's the day," Alysanne declared. "Frost is gentle enough, but spirited when given her head." She gestured toward the stables where a groom was leading out a dappled gray mare with intelligent eyes. "What say you? Shall we see the North as horses do?"
His heart pounded with excitement as she lifted him onto the saddle before swinging up behind him. Her arms encircled him securely as she took the reins, and Rickon felt strangely safe despite sitting higher than he'd ever been.
"Hold the pommel just so," she instructed, guiding his small hands. "Feel how she breathes beneath you? That's the secret, you must become one with the horse."
They started slowly, circling the yard as Rickon adjusted to the mare's movements. Then, with a nod from Jord the stable master who was watching them with an approving eye, Alysanne guided Frost through the Hunter's Gate and out onto the open fields beyond Winterfell's walls.
"Ready?" she whispered in his ear.
Before he could answer, she clicked her tongue and Frost leapt forward. The world blurred around them as they galloped across the frosted meadows, Rickon's laughter torn away by the wind. Alysanne's arms remained steady around him, but she gave him the illusion of freedom, of flight.
They rode for what seemed like hours, following the curve of a stream, racing shadows cast by passing clouds. When they finally slowed to rest atop a small rise overlooking Winterfell, Rickon's cheeks were flushed with cold and excitement.
"You ride well for a first-timer," Alysanne said, helping him dismount. "You have a natural seat, a little wolf on horseback."
Pride bloomed in his chest at her words. They sat together on a fallen log, sharing a skin of warm spiced cider she'd brought in her saddlebag. Frost grazed nearby, occasionally lifting her head to watch them with curious eyes.
"Father says I'm too small yet for a proper horse," Rickon admitted, warming his hands around the leather skin.
Your father is cautious, and rightly so," Alysanne replied. "But sometimes we must take measured risks to grow. I'll speak with him, perhaps we can begin proper riding lessons alongside your archery."
The promise in her words made him feel taller somehow, more substantial. As they rode back to Winterfell at a gentler pace, Rickon found himself studying her profile against the winter sky, trying to reconcile this laughing, wind-tossed woman with the solemn lady who had arrived at Winterfell less than a fortnight ago.
When they returned, Aunt Sara was waiting in the courtyard, her brow furrowed with concern that melted into relief at the sight of Rickon's beaming face. Rickon noticed the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes assessed Alysanne with guarded wariness.
"We've had quite the adventure," Alysanne said as she lifted Rickon down. "Your nephew has the makings of a fine horseman."
"I rode a real horse, Aunt Sara!" Rickon exclaimed. "We went faster than the wind!"
Something complicated passed across Aunt Sara's features, pride mingled with a flash of something that might have been loss. She smoothed his windblown hair with a gentle hand.
"Did you indeed? And did Lady Stark ensure you didn't fall off this real horse?" The question held a note of challenge beneath its lightness.
"I would sooner cut off my own hand than let harm come to him," Alysanne replied, her voice soft but firm. Her eyes met Sara's, an unspoken understanding passing between them.
Later that evening, Rickon paused outside the small solar where Aunt Sara often spent her evenings sewing by the fire. The door stood slightly ajar, and through the gap, he could see Alysanne seated across from his aunt, their heads bent close in conversation.
"...fear I've overstepped," Alysanne was saying, her fingers twisting in her lap. "It was not my intention to usurp your place in his affections."
Aunt Sara's laugh held a trace of bitterness. "You are his father's wife. I am merely the bastard sister, tolerated out of duty."
"Is that truly what you believe?" Alysanne leaned forward, clasping Sara's hands in her own. "My husband considers you his sister, and that makes you mine as well. Rickon adores you—, anyone with eyes can see it. You have been his mother in all but name."
Silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken fears and hopes. Rickon held his breath, sensing the importance of this moment though he couldn't fully understand it.
"I never thought I'd say this..." Sara's voice grew thick with emotion. "But I'm glad he has you."
Her hands trembled in Alysanne's grasp. "When Cregan brought you home, I feared... well, I feared many things. That you'd find me uncouth. That you'd want me gone. That Rickon would..."
"Love me more?" Alysanne finished gently. "A child's heart isn't a cup with limited measure, Sara. It expands to hold all who truly care for him."
Rickon leaned closer, his small fingers pressing against the worn wood of the doorframe. Something warm and unfamiliar bloomed in his chest.
"He needs us both," Alysanne continued. "You know the boy's heart as I never could. You've shaped him into the thoughtful child he is. And I..." she paused, searching for words. "I can teach him things he might need for the world beyond Winterfell."
Sara wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "He's special, isn't he? Not just because he's Cregan's heir. There's something in him..."
The floorboard beneath Rickon's foot creaked, loud as thunder in the quiet corridor. Both women turned toward the door.
"Rickon?" Sara called. "Is that you, sweetling?"
He considered fleeing, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot. The door swung wider, revealing him in his nightclothes, small and suddenly uncertain.
"How long have you been standing there?" Alysanne asked, gently smiling.
"Not long," he lied, then immediately felt guilty for the deception. "I couldn't sleep."
Aunt Sara opened her arms, and he went to her, burying his face against her shoulder as he had done since he was small. Her familiar scent of lavender enveloped him.
"What troubles you, little wolf?" she asked, stroking his hair.
Rickon hesitated, weighing his words carefully as the shadows lengthened across the chamber. The question that had been gnawing at him all evening finally escaped his lips.
"Were you and Lady Alysanne fighting? About me?"
Sara's hand paused in his hair, then resumed its gentle stroking. Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath beneath his cheek.
"No, little wolf. Not fighting." Her voice was soft, measured. "Sometimes grown people have... different ideas about what's best. That doesn't mean we're fighting."
Rickon frowned, unconvinced. "Will you sing to me?" he asked instead, seeking comfort in the familiar.
Sara smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "Of course. Which song would you like?"
"Jenny's song," he replied without hesitation. It was an old melody, haunting and sweet, that always seemed to quiet the strange whispers in his mind.
Sara shifted, settling Rickon more comfortably against her as she began to hum the opening notes. Her voice, though untrained, carried a natural warmth that filled the chamber.
"High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts..." she sang softly, her fingers continuing their rhythmic movement through his hair.
As the melody wove around them, Rickon felt the day's worries begin to loosen their grip.
"Why did she stay with the ghosts?" he murmured, his eyelids growing heavy. "Wasn't she afraid?"
Sara paused in her singing. "I think sometimes memories can be as precious as they are painful," she answered thoughtfully. "And perhaps Jenny found something with her ghosts that she couldn't find elsewhere."
"Like belonging," Rickon said, the word slipping out unbidden, laden with meaning beyond his years.
Something flickered across Sara's face, surprise, perhaps, or recognition. "Yes, like belonging," she agreed, and resumed the song.
As she continued through the verses, Rickon's thoughts grew hazy. The melody seemed to shimmer in the air around them, mingling with the shadows cast by the dying fire. The song spoke of loss and remembrance, of dancing through seasons until walls crumbled to dust, and somewhere in his drowsy mind, Rickon wondered if the walls of Winterfell would one day fall as well.
His eyes grew too heavy to keep open, and the last thing he was aware of was Sara's voice, gentle yet somehow sorrowful, singing of Jenny who never wanted to leave.
In that space between wakefulness and dreams, Rickon thought he heard another voice join Aunt Sara's, a man's voice, deep and resonant, singing from somewhere far away. But before he could grasp at the sound, sleep claimed him fully, and he sank into darkness cradled by the song's melancholic embrace.
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