The months passed, and winter's grip on the North slowly began to loosen. The Winter Fever, which had claimed so many lives across the Seven Kingdoms, gradually lost its potency. By mid-133 AC, new cases in Winterfell had become rare, and those who fell ill often recovered after a few days of fever rather than succumbing to the deadly fourth-day crisis.
Rickon stood in the courtyard of Winterfell, his arm raised high as Zenith circled overhead. The once-tiny chick had transformed into a magnificent predator, his wingspan casting impressive shadows across the packed snow. Rickon felt a surge of pride as the Snow Eagle tucked his wings and dove, responding to the subtle gesture of his hand.
"Still showing off with that beast of yours?" Edda Snow called from across the yard, her breath forming clouds in the crisp morning air. The steward's bastard daughter leaned against a wooden post, her dark hair escaping from beneath her woolen cap.
Rickon grinned. "He's not showing off. He's hunting." He raised his arm again, the thick leather brace protecting his forearm and shoulder from Zenith's wickedly sharp talons. The eagle responded immediately, banking sharply before landing with practiced precision on the offered perch.
The impact still made Rickon brace himself. At ten kilograms, and with a wingspan of two metres Zenith was heavier than some hunting dogs, his powerful form a far cry from the helpless chick Rickon had rescued over a year ago.
"Good boy," Rickon murmured, offering a strip of rabbit meat which Zenith took with surprising delicacy. The eagle's amber eyes fixed on him with an intensity that still sometimes sent shivers down Rickon's spine. Not fear, but awareness of the wild, untamable nature that remained despite their bond.
"Maester Kennet says he's still growing," Rickon told Edda as she approached cautiously. "And the only one successfully raised by a human."
"Successfully?" Edda raised an eyebrow, keeping a respectful distance. "Didn't 'e nearly take off your father's hand barely a moon ago?"
Rickon winced at the memory. Lord Cregan had approached too quickly while Zenith was feeding, and the eagle had reacted with lightning speed. Only his father's battle-honed reflexes had prevented serious injury.
"That was a misunderstanding," Rickon said defensively. "Zenith was protecting his food. He's much better now."
As if to prove the point, Zenith fluffed his magnificent crest of dark brown feathers, the white underbelly contrasting sharply with the darker plumage of his back and wings. He made a soft chirping sound that Rickon had come to recognize as contentment.
"If you say so," Edda replied skeptically. "Your stepmother still won't let 'im anywhere near the baby, though."
Alysanne had given birth to a healthy girl one moon past, named Sarra Stark after an ancestor from before the Conquest. Rickon's half-sister had his mother's dark hair but the Stark signature grey eyes. Rickon adored her.
"That's just being cautious," Rickon said, though he understood the concern. Zenith was still a wild creature at heart, his instincts unpredictable. "Besides, I wouldn't want Zenith near a squalling infant either. The noise would upset him."
He stroked the eagle's chest feathers, feeling the powerful heartbeat beneath. Sometimes, especially at night, Rickon swore he could sense Zenith's emotions, hunger, excitement, the thrill of flight. He often woke from dreams where he soared high above Winterfell, the world spread beneath him in miniature, the wind rushing through his... no, through Zenith's feathers.
Maester Kennet had listened to these accounts with scholarly interest, making notes in his journal about the bond between boy and bird. "Remarkable," he'd murmured. "The wildlings speak of skinchangers who can see through the eyes of their animals. Perhaps there is some truth to those tales after all."
"Lord Rickon!" a voice called from across the yard. Maester Kennet himself approached, his chain clinking softly with each step. "Your father requests your presence in the Great Hall. The envoys from White Harbor have arrived."
Rickon nodded, turning to the wooden perch he'd had constructed near the armory. "Zenith, stay," he commanded, transferring the eagle to the perch with practiced ease. Zenith settled, his talons gripping the weathered wood, fierce amber eyes watching Rickon intently.
"Will you be long?" Edda asked, falling into step beside him as he headed toward the Great Hall. "I thought we might check on the glass gardens later. The winter roses are blooming early this year."
"I shouldn't be," Rickon replied, adjusting the leather brace on his shoulder. The tanner had designed it specifically to distribute Zenith's weight and protect Rickon's skin from the eagle's sharp talons. It was a masterwork of boiled leather and reinforced padding, allowing Rickon to carry the massive bird without injury.
The Great Hall buzzed with activity as Rickon entered. Lord Cregan sat at the high table, Lady Alysanne beside him, little Sarra sleeping peacefully in her arms. Before them stood three men in the blue-green colors of House Manderly, their sea-weathered faces serious as they addressed the Lord of Winterfell.
Rickon slipped into his customary place at his father's right hand, noting the tension in the room. Something important was being discussed.
"The Winter Fever has receded entirely from White Harbor, my lord," the eldest representative was saying. "But the toll on our trade has been severe. Ships from Braavos and even Pentos refuse to dock, fearing contagion."
"The same has been reported from Barrowton and Torrhen's Square," Cregan replied, his voice measured. "Yet we must rebuild. The North endured worse during the Dance of Dragons, and we recovered."
"With respect, Lord Stark," another envoy interjected, "the situation in White Harbor is particularly dire. Our granaries were depleted by the quarantine, and with reduced trade, we struggle to replenish them."
Rickon listened attentively, his mind already racing with potential solutions. The North's recovery from the Winter Fever would require more than just time, it needed innovation, adaptation.
"If I may, Father," Rickon said, waiting for Cregan's nod before continuing. "Perhaps we could offer assurances to foreign merchants. If Maester Kennet were to certify that the fever has passed, and we established a period of observation for incoming ships..."
The Manderly envoys regarded him with surprise, clearly not expecting such a measured suggestion from a boy of nearly seven namedays. But Cregan nodded thoughtfully.
"A sound proposal," he said. "Maester Kennet, what say you to this plan?"
The old maester tugged at his chain thoughtfully. "It could work, my lord. The fever has indeed lost its potency. Those who contract it now rarely perish, and the period of contagion is shorter. I could draft letters with my findings to be sent to the Free Cities."
"See it done," Cregan commanded. "And what of the other matter?" he asked, turning back to the Manderlys.
The lead envoy cleared his throat. "The shipbuilding proceeds as planned, my lord. Lord Manderly believes we can complete the first three vessels by year's end, provided we receive the timber from the Wolfswood as promised."
Shipbuilding? This was the first Rickon had heard of such a project. He glanced at his father, curiosity piqued.
"The timber will be delivered," Cregan assured them. "The North must look to its own defense in these uncertain times."
The meeting continued, with discussions of harvests, taxes, and the rebuilding of Winter Town. Throughout it all, Rickon found his thoughts periodically drifting to Zenith, feeling the eagle's restlessness even from a distance. The connection between them had grown stronger over the moons, sometimes manifesting in shared sensations that Rickon couldn't fully explain.
When the council finally adjourned, Rickon approached his father as the Manderly envoys were being shown to their quarters.
"Ships, Father? Are we building a fleet?"
Cregan studied his son for a moment before responding. "A small one, yes. The Winter Fever reminded us how vulnerable we are when cut off from trade. The North needs to have ships of our own, not just rely on White Harbor's merchants," Cregan explained, his voice lowering so only Rickon could hear. "We lost too many good men during the Dance because we had no swift way to move our forces."
Rickon nodded, understanding immediately. "And with our own ships, we could trade directly with Braavos and the other Free Cities."
A flicker of pride crossed Cregan's face. "Precisely. The Manderlys have the shipwrights, but we have the timber and iron they need." He placed a hand on Rickon's shoulder, the weight of it reassuring. "This is the future of the North we're building, son. Your future."
The responsibility in those words settled on Rickon's shoulders, heavier than Zenith could ever be. He straightened his back instinctively.
"I'd like to see the shipyards when they begin construction," Rickon said. "Perhaps study the designs."
Cregan studied him with those penetrating gray eyes. "You've an interest in ships now? I thought your passions lay with your birds and your books."
"I have an interest in the North, Father," Rickon replied, the words coming easily despite their weight. "In making us stronger."
Something shifted in Cregan's expression, a subtle softening around the eyes. "Very well. When the first keel is laid at White Harbor, we'll make the journey together."
The promise warmed Rickon more than he expected. Time alone with his father had become increasingly rare since Sarra's birth and the demands of rebuilding after the Winter Fever.
A sharp mental tug pulled at Rickon's attention, Zenith was growing impatient. The sensation was becoming more distinct with each passing moon, less like imagination and more like a real connection.
"I should return Zenith to his mews before the midday meal," Rickon said.
Cregan nodded. "Go on, then. But don't forget your lessons with Maester Kennet this afternoon. The man complains you've been neglecting your High Valyrian studies."
"Only because I've been focusing on the Old Tongue," Rickon defended himself. The ancient language of the First Men had become a fascination lately, especially after finding old texts in the library that contained strange runes alongside more familiar lettering.
Outside, the air had warmed considerably, the morning's chill giving way to the promise of spring. Rickon found Zenith exactly where he'd left him, though the eagle's posture betrayed his restlessness.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," Rickon murmured, approaching with his arm extended. Zenith made a low churring sound, then hopped onto the offered brace.
"Your father's planning something big, isn't he?" Edda's voice startled him. She'd been waiting by the armory, her cheeks flushed from the cold.
"Ships," Rickon confirmed, seeing no reason to keep it secret. "We're building a Northern fleet."
Edda's eyes widened. "Real warships? Like the Braavosi have?"
"I don't know the designs yet," Rickon admitted, starting toward the mews with Edda falling in step beside him. "But Father says we'll visit White Harbor when construction begins."
"Take me with you!" Edda said immediately, her excitement palpable. "I've never seen the sea."
Rickon smiled at her enthusiasm. "It's not my decision, but I'll ask."
They reached the mews, a sturdy structure Rickon had helped design specifically for Zenith. Unlike the traditional falcon mews, this one had higher ceilings and broader perches to accommodate the snow eagle's considerable size.
Inside the mews, Rickon gently transferred Zenith to his favorite perch. The eagle settled, feathers ruffling before smoothing down as he accepted a final piece of meat from Rickon's fingers.
"I'll return before sunset," Rickon promised, stroking the soft feathers along Zenith's chest. The eagle butted his head softly against Rickon's palm, amber eyes half-closing in contentment. The sensation of their connection hummed between them, a wordless understanding that transcended ordinary bonds between human and animal.
"He actually seems to understand you," Edda observed, maintaining a respectful distance.
"He does," Rickon replied simply, giving Zenith a final pat before securing the mews. "I'll see about White Harbor," he promised Edda as they parted ways in the courtyard.
With the afternoon stretching before him and his lessons with Maester Kennet not scheduled until later, Rickon made his way toward the family quarters. The corridors of Winterfell were warmer than the courtyard, heated by the hot springs that flowed through the walls. The ancient magic of the Starks, built into the very stones of their ancestral home.
He approached the nursery quietly, pausing at the partially open door. Inside, the room was bathed in the golden light of afternoon, a fire crackling softly in the hearth. Lady Alysanne sat in a cushioned chair near the flames, an open book in her lap.
Across the room, little Sarra lay in her ornately carved cot, the mobile of wooden animals spinning slowly above her. His half-sister's tiny hands reached upward, grasping at the dancing shapes, a soft gurgle of delight escaping her as a wooden direwolf spun into her line of sight.
The sound tugged at something deep in Rickon's chest. He'd never imagined feeling such fierce protectiveness for someone so small, so helpless. Yet from the moment he'd first held Sarra, swaddled and red-faced, he'd known he would do anything to keep her safe.
"Are you going to lurk in the doorway all afternoon, or would you like to come in?" Alysanne asked without looking up from her book, a smile in her voice.
Rickon stepped into the room, his footfalls silent on the thick carpet. "I didn't want to disturb you if Sarra was sleeping."
"As you can see, your sister is quite determined to stay awake," Alysanne replied, marking her place in the book before setting it aside. "She seems to think those wooden animals might escape if she takes her eyes off them."
Approaching the cot, Rickon peered down at Sarra. Her grey eyes, so like his own, fixed on him with surprising focus for one so young. A smile broke across her tiny face, toothless and perfect, her legs kicking excitedly beneath her blanket.
"She recognizes you," Alysanne smiled, coming to stand beside him.
Pride swelled in Rickon's chest. "Of course she does. We Starks always recognize our pack." He reached down, offering his finger to Sarra, who grasped it with surprising strength.
"How was your eagle training this morning?" Alysanne asked, adjusting Sarra's blanket with practiced ease.
"Zenith is responding well to the new commands," Rickon replied, still focused on his sister's grip. "Though Father thinks I spend too much time with him."
Alysanne's hand paused briefly before resuming its task. "Your father worries about your safety. Snow eagles aren't meant to be tamed."
"Zenith isn't tame," Rickon corrected. "He's... a partner." He struggled to find the right words to explain the connection he felt, the dreams of flight, the shared sensations. "Like the direwolves in the old stories."
A thoughtful expression crossed Alysanne's face. "Those old stories... they speak of more than just partnership, don't they? They talk of skinchangers, of men who could see through the eyes of beasts."
The word sent a shiver down Rickon's spine. It was too close to what he experienced with Zenith, too accurate a description of the dreams that felt more like memories upon waking.
"Have you been reading Northern legends?" he asked, deflecting her implied question.
"We Blackwoods have an ancient history ourselves, skinchangers and greenseers have long been born into our bloodline," she replied smirking, reaching down to lift Sarra from her cot. "Would you like to hold her? She's been fed and changed, so she shouldn't soil your fine tunic."
Rickon nodded eagerly, sitting in the chair Alysanne had vacated. She placed Sarra carefully in his arms, adjusting his hold to support the baby's head properly.
"There," she said, stepping back. "A natural, just like with your eagle."
Sarra gazed up at him, her tiny face solemn for a moment before breaking into another gummy smile. Something twisted in Rickon's chest, a fierce surge of love and protectiveness that threatened to overwhelm him.
"I'll keep you safe, little sister," he whispered, too softly for Alysanne to hear. "The world can be dangerous, but you have the wolf's blood. And you have me."
"Your father tells me the Manderlys brought interesting news," Alysanne said, retrieving her book and settling in a chair opposite him.
"We're building ships at White Harbor," Rickon replied, his eyes still fixed on Sarra. "Father says it will help secure the North's future."
"A wise strategy," Alysanne nodded. "The Winter Fever showed how vulnerable we are when trade routes are cut. And the seas hold many opportunities beyond mere commerce."
Rickon looked up, intrigued by her tone. "What do you mean?"
"Knowledge, my dear step-son," she replied, tapping the cover of her book. "The Free Cities have libraries that dwarf even the Citadel's collection. Texts from lost Valyria, scrolls from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai..." Her voice took on a dreamy quality that Rickon rarely heard from his practical stepmother.
"You think Father would allow such books to be brought to Winterfell?" he asked skeptically.
Alysanne's smile was enigmatic. "Your father is a practical man who understands the value of knowledge, particularly knowledge that could strengthen the North." She leaned forward slightly. "And I've noticed your interest in the old texts, the ones with runes alongside the Common Tongue."
Rickon tensed slightly. He hadn't realized his studies of the ancient First Men writings had been observed so closely.
"The Old Tongue is part of our heritage," he said carefully.
"Indeed it is," Alysanne agreed.
Sarra squirmed in his arms, drawing his attention back to her. One tiny hand had escaped her blanket and was reaching toward his face with determined concentration.
"I think she wants to grab your nose," Alysanne laughed, the serious moment broken.
Rickon smiled, lowering his face just enough for Sarra to pat his cheek with her soft, warm hand. The gesture, simple as it was, filled him with a contentment he couldn't quite explain.
"Father said we'll visit White Harbor when they lay the first keel," Rickon said, gently capturing Sarra's exploring fingers. "I'd like to see the designs they're using."
"You've developed quite an interest in shipbuilding suddenly," Alysanne observed. "Any particular reason?"
Rickon shrugged, careful not to disturb Sarra. "I just want to understand. If these ships are meant to protect the North, to secure our future, then I should know how they work, what makes them strong."
Alysanne studied him with that penetrating gaze that sometimes reminded Rickon uncomfortably of Maester Kennet's scholarly scrutiny.
"You speak like a lord twice your age," she said finally. "It's easy to forget you're not yet seven namedays."
"I'll be seven in two moons," Rickon replied, a touch defensively. He hated being reminded of his youth, especially when his mind felt so much older.
"Indeed you will," Alysanne grinned.
They stayed in comfortable silence for a time as Rickon played with Sarra.
A thought struck Rickon as he gently rocked Sarra. The ancient texts he'd been studying mentioned the Blackwoods frequently, often in connection with the old magics of the First Men.
"Lady Alysanne, would you tell me about House Blackwood?" he asked, his curiosity piqued. "The histories in Maester Kennet's library speak of your house, but I'd rather hear it from you."
Alysanne's eyes brightened with interest. She adjusted her position in the chair, smoothing her skirts as a thoughtful expression crossed her face.
"Curious about your stepmother's lineage, are you?" A smile played at the corners of her lips. "The Blackwoods are indeed an ancient house, Rickon. We trace our bloodline back to the First Men, long before the Andals ever set foot on Westeros."
Rickon shifted Sarra to his other arm, the baby now contentedly playing with the direwolf pendant hanging from his neck. "Were the Blackwoods always in the Riverlands?"
"No," Alysanne said, her voice taking on the rhythmic quality of a practiced storyteller. "Family tradition holds that we once ruled much of the wolfswood, right here in the North. It was your ancestors, the Kings of Winter, who drove us south."
"Really?" Rickon's eyebrows rose in surprise. "We drove you out?"
"So the stories say. Maester Barneby translated ancient runes that seem to support this account." She leaned forward slightly. "Does that trouble you, young wolf? That your ancestors might have conquered mine?"
Rickon considered this. "No," he decided. "That's how the North was forged. Through strength."
Alysanne nodded approvingly. "After settling in the Riverlands, my ancestors established themselves as petty kings during the Age of the Hundred Kingdoms. The Blackwoods claimed dominion over the mouth of the Blackwater Rush."
"Like the Manderlys at White Harbor," Rickon observed.
"A fair comparison, though the Manderlys came north as supplicants, while we went south as... displaced royalty." Her tone carried a hint of ancestral pride. "But the most infamous chapter of Blackwood history is our feud with House Bracken."
"I've read about that," Rickon said eagerly. "The longest blood feud in Westeros, isn't it?"
"Indeed. It dates back to the Age of Heroes, when both houses ruled as kings." Alysanne's expression hardened slightly. "According to Blackwood tradition, the Brackens were nothing more than petty lords and horse breeders who hired swords to usurp our rightful rule."
"And I assume the Brackens tell a different tale?"
"Naturally," Alysanne scoffed. "They claim we were their vassals who betrayed and usurped them. As if a Blackwood would ever bend the knee to such men."
Rickon found himself fascinated by the flash of ancient hatred in his stepmother's eyes. It was a side of the usually composed Lady of Winterfell he rarely glimpsed.
"When did this happen? Before the Andals came?"
"By Blackwood reckoning, about five hundred years before the Andal invasion," Alysanne replied. "Though the True History claims it was a thousand years prior. History becomes... flexible... when pride is at stake."
Sarra made a small sound, and Rickon adjusted her blanket, keeping his voice low. "What about the old gods? Most southern houses abandoned them for the Seven."
"Not House Blackwood," Alysanne said firmly. "We have always kept to the old gods, even surrounded by septs and septons. Our heart tree still stands in Raventree Hall, though it has been dead for a thousand years."
"Dead?" Rickon frowned. "How can a heart tree die?"
"The maesters claim it was poisoned by a Bracken king in ancient times," she replied. "Yet it never rots, never falls. And ravens roost in its bare branches by the thousands."
Something in her tone made Rickon look up sharply. "Ravens?"
Alysanne met his gaze steadily. "My grandmother once told me that her father had a special way with ravens. She called him a skinchanger, a man who could enter the mind of a bird and see through its eyes."
Rickon's heart quickened. The word 'skinchanger' again, and so close to his own experiences with Zenith.
"Did you believe her?" he asked carefully.
"Children believe their grandmothers' tales," Alysanne said with a small smile. "But as I grew older... I saw things that made me wonder." She paused, studying him. "The North remembers its magic better than the south, Rickon. Your Zenith and the way he responds to you... it reminds me of the stories my grandmother told."
Rickon swallowed, uncertain whether to confide in her about his dreams, the sensations he sometimes shared with Zenith.
"The Starks have their own legends," he said instead. "Direwolves and wargs and greenseers."
"Indeed they do," Alysanne agreed. "Perhaps that's why the marriage between our houses makes such sense. Old blood calling to old blood."
Sarra chose that moment to let out a small cry, her face scrunching up as she began to fuss.
"I think she's ready to return to her mother," Rickon said, relieved by the interruption. The conversation had veered too close to matters he wasn't prepared to discuss.
Alysanne took Sarra from his arms, cradling her with practiced ease. "You should go prepare for your lessons with Maester Kennet. We wouldn't want him complaining to your father again about neglected studies."
Rickon nodded, rising from the chair. At the doorway, he paused and looked back. "Thank you for telling me about the Blackwoods, Lady Alysanne."
"You're welcome, Rickon," she replied, her attention on Sarra. "We all should know where we come from... and perhaps what blood flows in our veins."
The words followed him down the corridor, echoing in his mind. Old blood calling to old blood. Skinchangers who could see through ravens' eyes.
___________________
Rickon's brain felt like it was trying to crawl out through his ears by the time they reached the conjugations. Three hours of High Valyrian had left his tongue feeling swollen and clumsy.
"Again, young lord," Maester Kennet insisted, tapping his quill against the parchment where he'd meticulously written out the day's vocabulary. "The present tense of 'to speak' with all pronouns."
Rickon suppressed a sigh. "Ñuha... no, nyke ipradak. Ao ipradā. Ziry ipradās. Mēre ipradā. Īlva ipradā—"
"Īlva ipradaki," Maester Kennet corrected gently.
"Īlva ipradaki," Rickon repeated, the plural form finally clicking in his mind. "Jeme ipradatis. Pōnta ipradātes."
The maester's weathered face broke into a smile, the corners of his pale eyes crinkling. "Excellent, my lord. Your progress is remarkable. Most students take months to grasp these conjugations, yet here you are, mastering them in weeks."
Rickon nodded, not entirely sure if it was a compliment. His mind seemed to absorb languages like water into dry soil. The Common Tongue had come first, whispered in dreams that felt half-remembered. Then the Runes of the First Men, which he'd refined through endless reading. Now High Valyrian, with its intricate dance of tenses and moods.
"Let us review the basic expressions again," Kennet said, pointing to the list before them.
"Yes – issa. Welcome – jiōrna. Hello – rytsas. Goodbye – geros ilas. And – se. No – daor," Rickon recited, the words flowing more naturally now.
"Perfect pronunciation," Kennet beamed, the heavy chain around his neck clinking as he leaned forward. "Many lords twice your age struggle with the subtle inflections of High Valyrian. It will serve you well in diplomatic matters. The Targaryens may rule with the common tongue from King's Landing, but the Pentoshi, The Three sister and Volantis still conduct much business in this ancient tongue."
Rickon traced his finger along the edge of the parchment. "What of Braavosi? Wouldn't that be more useful for trade?"
"In time, my lord, in time," Kennet chuckled. "Your father would have my head if I neglected the classical education before moving to merchant tongues."
A knock at the door interrupted them. Lady Alysanne entered.
"Forgive the intrusion, Maester," she said. "I must borrow my stepson for a matter requiring his attention."
Rickon looked up, curious. Alysanne rarely interrupted his lessons unless something significant had happened.
"Rytsas, Lady Alysanne," he said, testing his new vocabulary.
A hint of a smile touched her lips. "Rytsas, Rickon. Your pronunciation is improving."
"The young lord has a remarkable ear," Kennet said, beginning to gather his scrolls. "Perhaps we could continue tomorrow with—"
Before Rickon could ask what she meant, a sudden commotion erupted in the courtyard below. Shouts and the pounding of hooves echoed off the stone walls. Rickon hurried to the window, Alysanne close behind him.
A small party of riders had entered through the main gate, their horses steaming in the cold air. At their center, a figure slumped forward in the saddle, supported by the rider behind him.
"Wildlings," a man shouted, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. "Wildlings have attacked! We have ridden three days from Castle Black to get here!"
Rickon's heart hammered against his ribs. In the courtyard, the injured man was being lifted from his horse, dark blood staining the snow beneath him.
"Find your father," Alysanne whispered to Rickon urgently, already moving toward the door. "I'll see what news they bring."
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Hope you enjoyed the chapter! I know some of y'all are frustrated with the slow pacing, but don't worry, the actual AWAKENING begins from next chapter 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