The scent of pine needles and weirwood sap filled the godswood as Rickon knelt before the heart tree, his small fingers tracing patterns in the frost-rimmed moss. He was six namedays now, though the celebration had been a subdued affair, a private meal with Aunt Sara, Alysanne and his father, and a quiet prayer before the old gods. The face carved into the weirwood seemed to watch him with knowing eyes, bleeding sap like slow tears for what was coming.
Winterfell had descended into whispers and fear, the Winter Fever, as Rickon had learnt that it was called was a merciless illness: the first sign of the Winter Fever was a red flush of the face, followed by a fever which would grow progressively worse as time passed. Although cooling the diseased person down with snow and icy water appeared to slow the course of the fever, it was unable to halt it entirely. By the second day, those afflicted would start to shiver violently and complain of being cold, in spite of their fever. By the third day, they became delirious, and would begin to sweat. On the fourth day, either the fever would break and the victim would recover, or the victim would die.
Winterfell had been quarantined. No ravens flew in or out. No travelers passed through the gates. Even the smallfolk who normally brought their goods to market had been turned away, leaving the castle to subsist on what stores remained from autumn's harvest.
Rickon's breath formed small clouds in the cold air as he pressed his palm against the pale bark of the heart tree. The rough texture caught against his skin, familiar and comforting.
The old gods were silent, offering neither comfort nor warning. Rickon sometimes wondered if they heard prayers at all.
The whispers had reached him days ago, even before his father had made the official proclamation. The Winter Fever had leapt beyond the North's borders. King's Landing, that festering cesspit of humanity now burned with the same fever that threatened Winterfell.
Maester Kennet had spoken in low voices with Lord Cregan, but Rickon's keen ears had caught fragments. On the third day of the new year, 133 AC, the first cases appeared in Flea Bottom. By the seventh day, the fever had reached the Red Keep itself. Now, they said, bodies were stacked like cordwood in the streets of the capital, with too few septons to perform the rites and too little space to bury the dead.
"Rickon!" The voice cut through the stillness of the godswood. Aunt Sara stood at the edge of the clearing, her breath forming clouds in the frigid air. She had wrapped herself in thick furs, her dark braid peeking out from beneath a woolen cap. "The Maester is waiting. It's time for your lesson today."
The walk through Winterfell's grounds revealed a castle holding its breath. Servants hurried between buildings with cloths pressed to their faces. Guards stood at their posts with wary eyes, watching for any sign of the telltale flush. In the training yard, where normally the clash of steel would ring out, silence reigned. Lord Cregan had ordered all unnecessary gatherings suspended until the fever passed, or claimed them all.
"Maester Kennet has been brewing potions since dawn," Sara said, her voice low as they crossed the courtyard. "Something with willow bark and honey. Says it might help with the fever, though he won't promise more."
Rickon nodded. "The old texts speak of plagues that swept through the Seven Kingdoms before. Some lasted years." He did not mention the fragmented memories that sometimes surfaced in his dreams, of cities emptied by disease, of pyres burning day and night, of words that made no sense to him like germs and bacteria.
The Maester's tower smelled of herbs and smoke, of ancient parchment and freshly melted wax. Kennet himself stood hunched over his workbench, his chains clinking softly as he measured powders into small cloth packets.
"Ah, young lord," Maester Kennet said without looking up, his weathered fingers nimbly tying off a small sachet. "Right on time. Winter fever waits for no man, and neither should our lessons."
Rickon approached the workbench, standing on tiptoe to see the various herbs and powders arranged in neat piles. The underlying hint of something acrid and medicinal made his nose wrinkle.
"What are these for?" Rickon asked, pointing to the little packets.
Kennet straightened with a soft groan, his chain links clinking against each other. "Willow bark for the fever, honey to soothe the throat, and a pinch of valerian to help the afflicted sleep. Not a cure, mind you, but it may ease the suffering." He gestured to a chair beside his desk. "Sit, Rickon. Today's lesson is rather more practical than our usual studies."
Aunt Sara lingered by the door. "I'll return in an hour, then," she said, eyes meeting Rickon's briefly before she departed.
The maester shuffled to a shelf and pulled down a large, leather-bound tome. Its spine cracked as he opened it on the desk between them. The pages were yellowed with age, covered in cramped writing and occasional diagrams of the human body.
"The Winter Fever," Kennet began, his voice taking on the measured cadence he used for formal instruction, "has visited the North many times throughout our history. The maesters of old recorded each outbreak, tracking its path and toll." His finger traced along a timeline drawn on one of the pages. "The last one in 39 AC was particularly severe, claiming nearly a third of Winterfell's population."
Rickon studied the diagrams. "How did they stop it?"
"Stop it?" Kennet's eyebrows rose above his spectacles. "Nature stopped it, my lord. Like all fevers, it burned until it found no more fuel." He paused, considering the boy before him. "Though there were measures taken that seemed to slow its spread."
The maester turned the page to reveal a map of Winterfell from decades past, with certain areas marked in red ink.
"Isolation," he continued. "Keeping the sick apart from the healthy. Your father has already begun this practice, quarantining those showing symptoms in the eastern section of Wintertown"."
Rickon nodded. He'd seen the guards posted there, their faces grim.
"Cleanliness, too," Kennet added. "Washing hands with lye soap, boiling linens used by the sick, burning the clothes of the dead." He glanced at Rickon, perhaps wondering if such talk was too harsh for a child of six, but continued when he saw the boy's steady gaze. "And the most controversial measure, fire."
"Yes. When the fever reached Wintertown in 59 AC, Lord Brandon Stark ordered parts of the city burned. Entire neighborhoods reduced to ash." Kennet's voice lowered. "Some called him cruel, but fewer died there than in other places."
The implications hung in the air between them. Rickon thought of the crowded streets of Winter Town, the families huddled together for warmth.
"Your father faces difficult choices in the days ahead," Kennet said, closing the book. "As will you, someday. A lord must weigh the suffering of the few against the survival of the many."
Rickon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air seeping through the tower stones. "Is there nothing else we can do?"
Kennet's eyes softened behind his thick lenses. "We can learn, my lord. Observe. Record what works and what fails, so those who come after us might be better prepared." He pulled a blank parchment toward him. "Now, help me calculate how much willow bark we'll need in the coming month."
As Rickon worked through the grim arithmetic, counting potential lives like sums in a ledger, his mind wandered to the fragments of knowledge that sometimes surfaced in his dreams, strange words and concepts that came to him without prompting. Quarantine. Antibiotics. Vaccines.
Perhaps there was more he could do than simply wait for the fever to burn itself out.
"Maester," he said suddenly, interrupting their calculations, "what if we could see what causes the fever? Not just treat the symptoms, but understand why people fall ill in the first place?"
Kennet paused, quill hovering over parchment. "An interesting question, young lord. The Citadel has debated the causes of disease for centuries. Some believe in miasmas, bad air. Others in an imbalance of humors within the body."
"But what if it's something smaller?" Rickon pressed, struggling to articulate concepts he didn't fully understand himself. "Something too small to see with our eyes alone?"
The maester's gaze sharpened with interest. "Like the animalcules Archmaester Aemyrio claimed to see in pond water through his magnifying lenses?" He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "A bold theory, though difficult to prove without better tools than we possess."
Rickon felt a familiar frustration building, knowing things he couldn't explain, couldn't prove, couldn't implement with the resources at hand, and more importantly not even understanding where this information came from; why he even knew this concepts. But before he could respond, a commotion erupted in the courtyard below.
Kennet moved to the window, Rickon at his heels. Below, a guard was dragging a struggling man toward the gate to Wintertown, while another guard kept the gathering crowd at bay.
"The fever has found another," Kennet murmured, his face grave. "young Kirk Snow, if I'm not mistaken."
Rickon watched the scene unfold, his small hands clenching into fists.
After the commotion in the courtyard died down, Maester Kennet sighed heavily and turned back to Rickon.
"Your father will want to be informed immediately," he said, gathering his robes. "This makes the fifth case this week."
Rickon nodded, his mind still dwelling on the possibilities of invisible enemies and the fragmented knowledge that seemed both alien and familiar. As they descended the tower stairs, a servant girl hurried toward them, her face flushed from exertion.
"Maester Kennet," she panted, "Lady Alysanne requests your presence at once."
Rickon's heart stuttered. "Is she ill?" he asked, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.
The maid shook her head quickly. "No, young lord. She's just feeling a bit faint. She wishes to consult with the Maester about... her condition."
Relief flooded through Rickon. The pregnancy was still new, barely three moons along. He'd overheard the maids whispering about it when they thought no one was listening. Another Stark child, perhaps a brother or sister for him, though the prospect filled him with both anticipation and dread. Winter was a dangerous time to bring new life into the world.
"Go," Rickon said to Kennet. "I'll find my father myself."
The Maester hesitated, then nodded. "Remember what we discussed today, my lord. Observation and record-keeping are our strongest weapons against this fever."
Rickon made his way across the courtyard, past the guards who nodded respectfully as he passed. The Great Keep loomed before him, its ancient stones radiating a subtle warmth that defied the bitter cold. Inside, servants moved with quiet efficiency, their faces tense with worry.
He found his father in his solar, bent over a map of the North, his brow furrowed in concentration. Lord Cregan looked up as Rickon entered, his stern features softening almost imperceptibly.
"Rickon," he acknowledged. "Your lessons with Kennet are finished early today?"
"There was another case of the fever in Wintertown," Rickon reported, standing straight as he'd been taught. "Kirk Snow. The guards took him to the quarantine area."
Cregan's expression darkened. "I see." He gestured to a chair across from him. "Sit. There are matters we should discuss."
Rickon climbed into the chair, his feet dangling above the floor. The solar was warm, heated by the hot springs that ran through Winterfell's walls, but there was a chill that seemed to emanate from his father himself.
"Lady Alysanne," Cregan began, his voice carefully measured, "is with child, as you may have heard."
Rickon nodded. "The servants talk."
A brief smile touched Cregan's lips. "Little escapes your notice, does it? Yes, she carries a child. She has not caught any fever, but the Maester advises caution. Even at this early stage, she must not exert herself."
"Will she be alright?" Rickon asked, thinking of his own mother, who had died bringing him into the world.
Something flickered across Cregan's face, a shadow of old grief. He was silent for a long moment, his fingers tracing the outline of Winterfell on the map before him.
"Your mother was the same," he said finally, his voice softer than Rickon had ever heard it. "Arra was always concerned for others, even when she should have been concerned for herself."
Rickon sat perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. His father rarely spoke of his mother, and never at such length.
"She was strong," Cregan continued, his eyes focused on something beyond the solar walls. "A true daughter of the North. We grew up together, you know. The Norreys and Starks have close ties. She could outride most men by the time she was twelve, and had a laugh that could warm the coldest winter night."
Rickon tried to picture her, this woman he had never known but whose blood ran in his veins. "What did she look like?"
"Like the North itself," Cregan said. "Dark hair, like yours. Blue eyes that could flash like steel when she was angry. She was small in stature, but never in presence." He paused. "You have her look about you sometimes. When you're thinking hard on something."
A comfortable silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Rickon gathered his courage.
"Father, how did you become Lord of Winterfell? I know Grandfather died when you were young."
Cregan's face hardened slightly. "I was thirteen when my father died, Lord Rickon, for whom you were named. Too young to rule alone, the council decided." His voice took on a bitter edge. "My uncle Bennard was named regent until I came of age."
"Was he a good regent?" Rickon asked.
"He was... ambitious," Cregan replied carefully. "Too ambitious, perhaps. The North needed strength after my father passed, not hesitation. When I reached sixteen, the age of majority, Bennard was reluctant to surrender his power."
Rickon listened intently as his father described the growing tensions between himself and his uncle, the whispered councils, the divided loyalties among the Northern houses.
"By the time I was eighteen, it became clear that Bennard had no intention of stepping aside. He had grown too fond of ruling, and his sons had grown accustomed to the privileges of power." Cregan's jaw tightened. "I had to act decisively. With the support of House Dustin, House Manderly and House Cerwyn, I seized control of Winterfell and imprisoned Bennard and his sons."
"What happened to them?" Rickon asked, both fascinated and troubled by this story of familial conflict.
"They remain imprisoned near the Wall," Cregan said. "Treated well, but contained. Bennard will remain there until his death. His sons may eventually earn their freedom, if they prove loyal."
The implications were clear, a stark reminder of the price of challenging Stark authority.
"After securing my position," Cregan continued, his voice softening again, "I married your mother. Arra had been my friend since childhood, but during those difficult years, she became much more. She stood by me when others wavered. She was the first to call me the true Lord of Winterfell."
Rickon could hear the pain beneath his father's measured tones. "And then she died giving birth to me."
Cregan looked at him directly, grey eyes meeting grey. "Yes. The birthing bed took her, as it takes too many women. But she gave me you, Rickon. Her last gift to the North."
The weight of those words settled heavily on Rickon's small shoulders. He was not just a boy, but a legacy, the product of his mother's sacrifice and his father's ambition.
"Is that why you named me after your father?" he asked.
Cregan nodded. "To honor both him and her. She chose the name before..." He trailed off. "Your mother believed you would be special, Rickon. Even before you were born.
"And your mother was right," Cregan said, his voice growing firmer. "You are special, Rickon. Smart and mature for your age. You are everything I could hope for in an heir."
Rickon felt a warmth spread through his chest at his father's rare praise. He sat up straighter, trying to appear worthy of such words.
"In these troubled times, we Starks must endure and stay together," Cregan continued, leaning forward slightly. "There is an old saying that my father told me: 'When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.'"
Rickon nodded solemnly, committing the words to memory. They resonated with something deep within him.
"I see that you and Alysanne have formed a bond," Cregan said, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a rare show of warmth. The faint lines that appeared transformed his stern face, making him look younger for a brief moment.
"How did you meet Alysanne?" Rickon asked, seizing the opportunity to learn more about his stepmother and father's history.
Cregan's expression shifted, becoming distant as if looking back through time. He straightened the map before him before answering.
"It was during the final days of the Dance of Dragons," he began. "I had led our Northern forces south to support the blacks—Rhaenyra's faction. By the time we reached King's Landing, Aegon II was already dead, poisoned by his own men."
Rickon listened intently as his father described the chaos that followed, the arrests he'd ordered, the swift justice he'd dispensed as Hand of the King during what later became known as the Hour of the Wolf.
"I had Lord Corlys Velaryon in chains for his part in the treason," Cregan continued. "The young king, Aegon III, had pardoned him, but as Hand, I could have executed him regardless."
Cregan's lips curved slightly. "That's when Alysanne approached me. She had fought bravely throughout the war, commanding archers at the Battle of the Kingsroad. Her nephew, Benjicot Blackwood, had broken the flank of Lord Borros Baratheon's forces, and Alysanne's archers had slain the knights and unhorsed Borros himself."
Rickon's eyes widened. He tried to imagine Alysanne, who often read him stories and showed him how to identify the constellations, commanding hundreds of archers on a battlefield.
"She came to me about Lord Corlys," Cregan continued. "Not begging or pleading as others had done, but speaking of honor, of what was best for the realm. She argued that executing Corlys would only prolong the bitterness of war."
His father paused, a distant look in his eyes. "She was unlike any woman I had met, fierce as any Northern maiden but with the political mind of a southron lord. We spoke long into the night, debating justice and mercy."
"And you listened to her," Rickon said, understanding dawning. . "Is that why you married her? Because she challenged you?"
A rare, genuine laugh escaped Cregan. "Partly". Cregan admitted. "It was the first time since your mother that someone had challenged me and made me consider another path." He looked at Rickon directly. "Sometimes strength is knowing when not to use your power, son. Alysanne taught me that."
"Did you love her right away?" Rickon asked, curious about this softer side of his stern father.
Cregan considered the question with the same seriousness he gave to matters of state. "Not at first. Respect came before affection. But love grew, as it often does when rooted in mutual regard." He paused. "After losing your mother, I had not expected to find such a companion again."
The fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the solar. Outside, snow began to fall, thick white flakes that muffled the sounds of the castle.
"The Winter Fever will get worse before it improves," Cregan said, abruptly returning to the present concerns. "We must prepare Winterfell. The stores will need to be rationed more strictly. If the quarantine must continue through spring, we'll need to ensure we have enough to sustain us."
Rickon nodded, following his father's shift in focus. "Maester Kennet was teaching me about previous outbreaks. He said isolation helps, and cleanliness too."
"Wise counsel," Cregan acknowledged. "What else did he teach you?"
Rickon hesitated, uncertain how his father would receive his strange ideas about invisible creatures causing disease. "He showed me records from past outbreaks. In some cases, burning affected areas helped contain the spread."
Cregan's expression darkened. "A last resort, but one we may need to consider if the fever spreads further in Winter Town." He studied Rickon for a moment. "You understand what that means? The suffering it would cause?"
"Yes," Rickon said quietly. "But sometimes a lord must weigh the suffering of the few against the survival of the many. That's what Maester Kennet said."
Something like pride flickered in Cregan's eyes. "You listen well. Too many men twice your age fail to grasp such hard truths."
A knock at the door interrupted them. A guard entered, bowing briefly. "Lord Stark, Lady Alysanne asks if you might join her in her chambers when convenient. The Maester has seen to her and departed."
Cregan nodded. "Tell her I'll come shortly." As the guard left, he turned back to Rickon. "You should rest. Tomorrow, I want you to join me as I inspect our stores and speak with the guards at the quarantine zone."
Rickon slid from his chair, recognizing the dismissal. "Father," he said, pausing at the door, "I've been thinking about ways we might better understand the fever. If we could see what causes it—"
"Another time, Rickon," Cregan said, though not unkindly. "For now, we must deal with what we know, not what we wish to know."
Rickon nodded, hiding his disappointment. As he walked through the corridors toward his chambers he was intercepted by Aunt Sara. Her keen eyes studied his downturned face.
Why so grumpy, little wolf?" she asked, ruffling his dark hair. "You look like someone stole your honeycake."
Rickon shrugged, not wanting to burden her with his frustrations. "It's nothing."
Sara crouched down to his level, her weathered hands adjusting his fur collar. "Nothing, is it? I've never known a Stark to brood over nothing." Her eyes softened. "Would a walk in the wolfswood help chase away this nothing? The air is crisp, but the snow has stopped falling for now."
The suggestion banished the clouds from Rickon's expression. His eyes lit up, thoughts of invisible diseases and his father's dismissal momentarily forgotten.
"Can we really? Even with the fever?"
Sara nodded. "The fresh air will do us good. The fever spreads in crowded places, not in the open woods." She tapped his nose playfully. "Besides, a little cold never hurt a Stark."
They bundled up in their warmest furs, Sara wrapping an extra scarf around Rickon's neck despite his protests that he wasn't a baby. Three guards joined them at the Hunter's Gate, their breath forming clouds in the frigid air.
The wolfswood stretched before them, ancient sentinels and ironwoods dusted with snow. Rickon felt the tension leave his shoulders as they walked beneath the towering trees. Here, away from the worried whispers of Winterfell, it was easier to breathe.
"Did Father tell you about Lady Alysanne?" he asked as they followed a narrow game trail.
"That she's with child? Aye, the whole castle knows by now." Sara smiled joyfully. "She'll make a fine mother."
Rickon kicked at a pinecone, sending it skittering across the snow. As Rickon was about to respond a faint sound caught his attention. He stopped, head tilted.
"Did you hear that?" he asked, turning toward a dense thicket of brambles.
Sara frowned. "Hear what?"
There it was again, a weak, high-pitched chirping. Without hesitation, Rickon darted off the path, plunging through the snow toward the sound.
"Rickon! Stop!" Sara called after him, alarm clear in her voice. "There could be anything in those bushes!"
But Rickon was already on his hands and knees, pushing aside the snow-laden branches. At the base of a gnarled ironwood, he found the source of the sound. A tiny bird, no larger than his palm, chirped feebly in the snow. Around it lay the frozen bodies of three others, its nestmates, he realized with a pang. The nest itself was half-buried in snow several feet above, knocked from its perch by wind or some predator.
"Oh," he breathed, carefully scooping the small creature into his cupped hands. It had a bald head and its grey feathers barely grown in, eyes still cloudy blue. Its tiny heart fluttered against his palm like the beating of a moth's wings.
Sara caught up to him, the guards close behind, hands on their sword hilts. Her expression softened when she saw what he'd found.
"Poor little thing," she murmured. "It won't last long out here."
Rickon was already opening his furs, creating a warm pocket against his chest where he gently placed the chick. It chirped again, a sound so fragile it might break.
"Please, Aunt Sara," he pleaded, looking up at her with wide eyes. "Let me take care of it. I can keep it warm in my room, and Maester Kennet might have something to feed it."
Sara sighed, looking from the boy to the tiny life he sheltered. "Rickon, it's very small and weak. Chicks need their mothers to survive, especially in winter. We don't even know what kind of bird it is."
"I can be its mother," Rickon insisted, his voice determined. "Father says I'm smarter than most grown men anyway. I can learn what it needs."
A smile tugged at Sara's lips despite her reservations. "Are you now? And when did Lord Cregan say such a thing?"
"Today. He said I was everything he could hope for in an heir." Pride colored Rickon's voice as he carefully adjusted his furs to keep the chick warm without crushing it.
Sara's expression softened. "Did he now?" She shook her head, relenting. "Very well, little lord. You may try to save your bird. But if it dies despite your care, you mustn't take it too hard. That's the way of nature sometimes."
As they made their way back to Winterfell, the tiny bird nestled against his chest, Rickon felt a strange connection to the creature, a kinship born of shared vulnerability. Like him, the bird had lost its mother. Like him, it was small but determined to survive.
"What will you name it?" Sara asked as the walls of Winterfell came into view.
Rickon considered for a moment, feeling the flutter of the chick's heartbeat against his skin. "Zenith," he decided. "Because someday this one will fly high enough to see everything."
Sara smiled, though her eyes held a touch of sadness. "A fine name." She squeezed his shoulder gently. "Let's get Zenith to Maester Kennet before he freezes or starves."
______________
"It is a Snow Eagle," Kennet exclaimed, adjusting his spectacles as he examined the frail creature in the wool-lined box. "Look at those talons beginning to form, and the distinctive grey patterning on the wing stubs. Quite rare this far from the highest peaks of the Northern Mountains."
Rickon leaned closer, studying the tiny bird with newfound wonder. "A Snow Eagle? Like in Old Nan's stories?"
"The very same," Kennet nodded, his weathered face creasing with concern. "Though I must warn you, young lord, they are notoriously difficult to raise by hand. In all my years studying at the Citadel, I can scarcely name any which have been successfully tamed by humans."
The maester's chain clinked softly as he shook his head. "Their diet is specific, fresh meat only, never dead more than an hour. They require heights from which to survey their domain. And their temperament..." He trailed off, eyeing the chick dubiously. "Snow Eagles are not pets, my lord. They're wild creatures, proud and fierce. Even if it survives, it may never truly bond with you."
"What about the falconers?" Rickon asked, thinking of the hawks and other birds of prey kept in Winterfell's mews. "They train birds."
"Those are goshawks and peregrines, bred for generations to accept the glove," Kennet explained. "Snow Eagles are different. They've been known to attack their handlers once full-grown. Their wingspan can reach eight feet, and those talons..." He gestured to the tiny pinpricks that would one day become deadly weapons. "They can pierce boiled leather as easily as parchment."
Rickon carefully stroked the chick's head with one finger. It chirped weakly, its beak opening in silent demand. "I'm not afraid," he said simply.
Kennet sighed, recognizing the Stark stubbornness that had taken root. "Very well. I'll show you how to prepare its food properly. But remember, the likelihood of success is... minimal."
He provided Rickon with a small box lined with wool scraps and for the next hour, Kennet demonstrated how to how to feed the chick a mixture of moistened bread and raw meat paste with a small wooden splint.
"It will need to be fed every three hours, day and night." He instructed.
Rickon absorbed every instruction with intense concentration, asking questions that impressed even the old maester with their insight.
"How often have Snow Eagles been successfully tamed?" Rickon asked as he successfully fed the chick its first morsel of food. The chick greedily snapping at it and swallowing it before chirping for more.
Kennet stroked his beard thoughtfully. "There are stories, mostly legends. The wildlings beyond the Wall speak of supposed skin-changers who could bond with eagles. And there was one account, from the reign of Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf. A Stark daughter supposedly raised a Snow Eagle that fought beside her against Andal invaders." He adjusted his spectacles. "But such tales grow in the telling."
I'll name it Zenith," Rickon declared again, watching as the chick settled back into its nest of wool, its tiny crop now bulging with food.
"A grand name for such a small creature," Kennet remarked dryly. "Remember, you must feed it every two hours, day and night. Your sleep will suffer."
Rickon nodded solemnly. "I understand."
As if to emphasize the point, the castle bells began to toll the hour of evening meal. Rickon carefully placed the box containing Zenith near the hearth in his chamber, ensuring it was warm but not too close to the flames.
"I'll be back soon," he promised the sleeping chick, before hurrying to the Great Hall.
The evening meal was subdued, as all gatherings had been since news of the Winter Fever reached Winterfell. Lord Cregan sat at the high table with Lady Alysanne beside him, her face paler than usual but her smile warm as Rickon approached. Aunt Sara was already seated, saving a place for him.
"How fares your little foundling?" she asked as he slid onto the bench.
"It's a Snow Eagle," Rickon replied, unable to keep the excitement from his voice despite the somber atmosphere. "Maester Kennet says they're very rare."
Sara's eyebrows rose in surprise. "A Snow Eagle? Here in the wolfswood? They usually nest in the highest peaks."
"Perhaps it was blown off course in the last storm," Rickon suggested, helping himself to a bowl of hot stew. The savory aroma reminded him how hungry he'd grown during his afternoon with Kennet.
"Or perhaps the gods guided it to you," Sara said softly, her eyes thoughtful. "The old gods work in mysterious ways."
Rickon considered this as he ate, wondering if there was some purpose to finding Zenith. The old gods rarely spoke clearly, but sometimes they sent signs. A direwolf appearing south of the Wall. Ravens carrying unusual messages. Perhaps a Snow Eagle falling into his path was another such sign.
After the meal, he approached the high table to bid goodnight to his father and Lady Alysanne.
"Maester Kennet tells me you've found a bird," Lord Cregan said, his expression unreadable.
Rickon nodded. "A Snow Eagle chick, Father. I'm going to raise it."
Cregan exchanged a glance with Alysanne before responding. "Eagles are not dogs or horses, Rickon. They're wild creatures."
"I know," Rickon said firmly. "But this one needs me. It would die without help."
"And what will you do when it's grown?" Cregan asked. "A full-grown Snow Eagle could take a child's arm off with one strike."
Rickon hadn't thought that far ahead. "I... I'll build a proper mew for it. Learn how to handle it safely."
Alysanne placed a gentle hand on Cregan's arm. "Let him try, my lord. The responsibility might be good for him."
Cregan studied his son's face for a long moment. "Very well. But if the bird becomes dangerous as it grows, you will release it back to the wild. Understand?"
"Yes, Father," Rickon agreed, relief flooding through him.
"And your other duties come first," Cregan added firmly. "Your lessons, your training. The bird cannot become a distraction."
"It won't," Rickon promised, though privately he wondered how he would manage the frequent feedings Kennet had prescribed while maintaining his normal schedule.
That night, as the castle settled into silence, Rickon sat beside the small box near his hearth, watching Zenith sleep. The chick's tiny chest rose and fell rapidly, its life so fragile it seemed a miracle it survived at all.
When the hour came for another feeding, Rickon carefully prepared the meat as Kennet had shown him, warming it slightly in his hands before offering it to the chick. Zenith's eyes, still cloudy blue, opened at the smell of food, its beak opening wide in silent demand.
"There you go," Rickon murmured as the chick accepted the morsel. "You're strong. You'll grow big enough to soar above the tallest towers of Winterfell."
Outside, snow began to fall again, thick flakes that drifted past his window and accumulated on the sill. The Winter Fever continued its silent spread through the North, and beyond the walls of Winterfell, danger lurked in many forms. But here, in this moment, Rickon felt a strange peace as he cared for the tiny creature that fate had placed in his hands.
The pattern continued through the night, sleep for two hours, wake to feed Zenith, sleep again. By morning, Rickon's eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but the chick seemed stronger, its chirps more insistent when he approached the box.
"You've named it Zenith?" Alysanne asked when she visited his chamber later that day, her curiosity piqued by the unusual addition to the household. She moved carefully, one hand resting on her still flat stomach in an unconscious gesture of protection.
"It means the highest point," Rickon explained, proudly showing her how the chick now recognized him and responded to his voice. "Because Snow Eagles fly higher than any other bird."
Alysanne smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "A fitting name." She watched as Rickon fed the bird with surprising dexterity for a child of six. "You have gentle hands. That's good."
"Maester Kennet says Snow Eagles are hard to tame," Rickon admitted, his voice betraying a concern he couldn't quite hide.
Alysanne settled onto a low stool beside him, her movements careful and deliberate. "The hardest creatures to tame are often the most rewarding, Rickon. Look at your father." A conspiratorial smile played at her lips. "Some would say the Lord of Winterfell is as untamable as any Snow Eagle, yet here we are."
Rickon couldn't help but return her smile. The comparison between his stern father and the fierce birds of the mountains seemed oddly fitting.
"Does Father... does he talk about my mother often?" The question slipped out before he could reconsider.
Alysanne's expression softened. Her fingers, long and elegant, folded in her lap as she considered her words carefully.
"Not often," she admitted. "Grief can be like a wound that never fully heals, especially for men like your father who believe they must always appear strong." She reached out to brush a strand of dark hair from Rickon's forehead. "But when he does speak of her, his voice changes. Becomes gentler. Your mother was his first love, Rickon, and nothing can ever change that."
Rickon nodded, digesting this. As Alysanne brushed his hair the excitement of the day finally caught up to him and he slowly fell into deep sleep.
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Hope you enjoyed the chapter!
Extra long chapter coming up next, and maybe little Rickon might just get a companion xD
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p a t r e o n . c o m / D a r k e B o n e s