The week before their departure to Skagos, Rickon tossed in his bed, sleep refusing to come despite his body's exhaustion. The preparations for the coming expedition to Skagos filled his mind with endless details demanding attention. When sleep finally claimed him, it was not the peaceful oblivion he craved.
He dreamed.
The sea churned beneath a sky black as pitch, waves crashing against jagged shores. Rickon found himself standing atop a cliff face, the wind howling around him with such force it seemed alive. Below, the island of Skagos spread before him.
Mountains thrust upward like broken teeth, forests darker than midnight blanketing valleys. At the center of a crater, stood a massive weirwood tree, its trunk wider than twenty men standing shoulder to shoulder, its blood-red leaves creating a canopy that seemed to breathe in rhythm with the wind.
But it was what lay beneath that made his heart hammer against his ribs.
Deep below the surface, beneath stone and soil, something vast stirred in its slumber. Rickon could feel it, a presence so immense it defied comprehension, a consciousness so alien it made his mind recoil even as it reached for understanding. Ancient beyond measure, powerful beyond reckoning, patient beyond time.
A god. Not of light or life or growth, but of stone and death and endings.
Rickon tried to back away from the edge, but his feet remained rooted to the spot. The presence below sensed him now, its attention shifting like a great eye opening after millennia of sleep. He felt its hunger, its rage, its bitter resentment at being bound and forgotten.
"It stirs," came a voice behind him, high and melodic yet ancient as the stones themselves. "After thousands of years, it stirs again."
Rickon spun around. At the edge of the treeline stood a figure no taller than his youngest sisters. For a moment, he thought it was a child, but as his vision adjusted, he realized his mistake.
The creature's skin was a mottled gray-green, textured like bark yet smooth in places like new leaves. Its face, while humanoid, held features too perfectly proportioned to be human, round and soft like a child's, but ancient beyond measure. Its eyes, disproportionately large and set wider than a human's, glowed a vibrant lime green, seeming to capture and reflect the scant moonlight. No eyebrows framed those unsettling eyes, and its head was crowned with hair like fine moss, hanging past its shoulders in intricate braids adorned with bone beads and feathers.
Its hands were four-fingered, without a proper thumb, and they gestured toward the island. The movement revealing a glimpse of indigo blood pulsing through veins visible beneath the thin skin at its wrists.
A Child of the Forest. A creature out of a storybook, standing before him in flesh and blood.
"Come," the Child said, turning toward the massive weirwood. "We have little time, and much to discuss."
Rickon followed, his dream-self moving with the strange fluidity of nightmares. The ground seemed to ripple beneath his feet, distances contracting so that three steps brought him to the base of the great weirwood.
Up close, the tree was even more imposing. Its bark was bone-white, twisted into faces that seemed to watch him with knowing eyes, expressions shifting when he wasn't looking directly at them. The red leaves rustled overhead, whispering secrets in a language just beyond his comprehension.
The Child of the Forest placed a four-fingered hand against the trunk, and a seam appeared in the wood, widening into an opening large enough for them to pass through. Inside, the heart of the weirwood glowed with soft red light, illuminating a chamber that seemed impossibly vast for the confines of even this massive tree.
"Sit," the Child said, gesturing to a root that had shaped itself into a natural bench. "The Weirwoods remembers you, Rickon Stark. It has been waiting."
Rickon sat, his heart pounding. "Who are you? What is this place?"
"I am Root," the Child replied, its voice carrying the rustling quality of wind through autumn branches. "This place is a nexus, where the old magic runs strong. One of the few remaining."
"Is this real?" Rickon asked, though he already knew the answer. This was no ordinary dream.
"As real as the wolf that shares your soul," Leaf replied, those unsettling green eyes fixed on his face. "You are an anomaly, Rickon Stark. Your soul howled to the world when you awakened, and magic pulsed again throughout the land. We have strengthened because of it, but you have also awakened ancient powers best left dormant."
A chill ran down Rickon's spine. "The thing beneath Skagos."
Leaf nodded, settling cross-legged on a root opposite him. "The Stonefather. God of Stone and Death. In the age before the First Men, it walked the earth, consuming all in its path. Neither living nor dead, but something else entirely."
"What happened to it?" Rickon asked, his mouth dry.
"We bound it," Leaf said simply. "My people, alongside your ancestors—the first Starks. We used blood magic and sacrifice to drive it deep beneath the island, sealing it with stone and sea and song." The Child's expression darkened. "But the seals weaken. The magic fades. And now, with power returning to the world, power that you helped unleash, it stirs from its slumber."
Rickon's mind raced. "The Skagosi rebellion..."
"Is led by those who worship the Stonefather," Leaf confirmed. "Stone priests who have felt their god's awakening and seek to hasten its return. They believe it will grant them dominion over the mainland that has so long looked down upon them."
"How do I stop it?" Rickon demanded, leaning forward.
"I know not," Root's expression became solemn. "The Stonefather is a titan of the Old World, and we are not what we once were."
The Child's ancient eyes fixed on Rickon's with sudden urgency. "This is a warning, Rickon Stark."
From behind him, a low growling erupted, vibrating through the ethereal chamber. Rickon felt the familiar presence before he turned, Canis materializing from shadows that shouldn't exist within the weirwood heart. The direwolf's form solidified, his crimson eyes blazing like twin infernos in the dreamscape.
"The Black Wolf," Root breathed, stepping back with sudden wariness. The Child's small frame tensed as if ready to flee. "What are you, Beast of Shadow? Your power is unlike anything I have ever seen before. You are not of this Plane."
Canis's growl deepened, resonating at a frequency that made Rickon's bones vibrate. The direwolf's form began to shift, expanding outward in tendrils of living darkness. Larger and larger he grew, his massive shadow-wreathed body filling the impossible space within the weirwood heart. His head nearly brushed the ceiling of the chamber, jaws large enough to swallow a man whole.
Rickon should have been terrified, but instead, a profound sense of security and strength flooded through him. Standing beside this titan of shadow, this manifestation of Canis's true form, he felt invincible. Power thrummed between them, ancient and terrible, yet comforting in its familiarity.
"We are Longinus," Canis growled. "God Killer."
Begone."
The word boomed through the dreamscape with such force that the weirwood chamber shattered around them. The Child of the Forest's eyes widened in terror as its form dissolved into mist, swept away by the shockwave of Canis's command.
Rickon bolted upright in his bed, gasping for air. His heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum, sweat plastering his nightshirt to his skin. The darkness of his chamber pressed in around him, momentarily disorienting him as the vivid dream released its grip on his mind.
A soft rustling sound drew his attention. Canis lay curled beside his bed, a massive shadow against the stone floor. One crimson eye opened lazily, regarding Rickon with what almost seemed like amusement.
The mental impression floated across their bond—not words exactly, but concepts, emotions, intentions. Rickon felt Canis's disdain for the warnings, his absolute confidence in their shared strength. The sensation carried a primal certainty: Don't care what others say. We are born for battle.
Beneath that, a gentler sentiment: Sleep well. We hunt later.
Rickon chuckled despite himself, the tension draining from his shoulders. He reached down to scratch behind Canis's ear, feeling the soft fur beneath his fingertips, anchoring himself to his companion.
"You're awfully confident for someone who's never faced an ancient stone god before," he murmured.
Canis huffed, the mental equivalent of a dismissive shrug flowing through their connection. The direwolf's absolute certainty washed over Rickon, bringing with it a surge of comfort that pushed back the lingering unease from his dream.
Still, the vision lingered in his mind—the massive presence beneath Skagos, the Child's warning, the sense of ancient power stirring after millennia of slumber.
Starks.
Rickon swung his legs over the side of the bed, knowing sleep would not return easily. The stone floor was cold beneath his bare feet as he padded to the window, pulling aside the heavy curtains. Outside, the encampment surrounding Winterfell glowed with scattered cookfires, thousands of men preparing to march on Skagos at first light.
His army. His first command. His chance to prove himself worthy of the Stark name.
"Stone gods or no," he whispered to himself, "We have our duty."
Canis rose silently, stretching his massive form before padding to Rickon's side. Together they stood watching the fires below, man and beast united in purpose.
Dawn would come soon enough, bringing with it the drums of war and the promise of blood. But for now, in the quiet darkness of his chamber, Rickon allowed himself this moment of peace before the storm.
x____________________x
Rickon drew in a deep breath of crisp northern air as the massive column of men, horses, and wagons stretched out before him like a great iron serpent. Fifteen thousand strong, the combined might of the North moved with surprising discipline, banners snapping in the wind. At the head of the column, his father rode tall upon his destrier, the very image of the stern northern lord.
"Cheer up, Stark! You look like you're marching to your own funeral!" Garrick Umber's booming voice cut through Rickon's thoughts as the giant youth guided his massive horse alongside Rickon's own mount.
"Just wondering if the Skagosi will surrender the moment they see your ugly face," Rickon shot back, grinning despite himself. "Might save us all a lot of trouble."
Canis loped alongside them, occasionally darting into the woods before reappearing minutes later. The direwolf seemed to be enjoying the journey, reveling in the open spaces after the confines of Winterfell.
Three days into their march, the weather had proven mercifully cooperative, though Rickon knew better than to expect that to last. Northern weather was as fickle as a tavern wench with too many suitors, as his father would say.
"I've never seen White Harbor," Garrick admitted, squinting ahead as if he could somehow spot the city despite being days away. "Is it as grand as they claim?"
"Depends on who's doing the claiming," Rickon replied. "It's no King's Landing according to my father, but it's the closest thing to a proper city the North has. Marble buildings, proper sewers, and women who bathe more than once a month."
Garrick clutched his chest in mock horror. "Regular bathing? Sounds absolutely southern and suspicious."
Their laughter was interrupted by the approach of a rider bearing the flayed man of House Bolton. Rickon felt his smile fade as the man reined in beside them.
"Lord Rickon," the messenger said, his voice flat and emotionless, "Lord Bolton requests your presence at the front of the column. He wishes to discuss the new weaponry with you."
"Tell Lord Bolton I'll join him shortly," Rickon replied, keeping his expression carefully neutral.
When the rider departed, Garrick leaned in close. "Want me to come with you? I could accidentally crush his foot with my horse."
"Tempting," Rickon snorted, "but I think I can handle Bolton without resorting to equestrian warfare."
As they rode, the land gradually changed from the dense forests surrounding Winterfell to the more open plains that led toward the eastern coast. Villages grew more frequent, smallfolk pausing in their work to watch the army pass with wide eyes.
"Look at them," Garrick nodded toward a group of children running alongside the column. "Half in awe, half terrified. Bet none of them have seen this many armed men in one place before."
"Let's hope it's not too frequent," Rickon replied, tossing a copper star to a particularly bold girl who'd run up to touch Canis, only to freeze when the massive direwolf turned his crimson gaze on her. The coin landed at her feet, and she snatched it up with a gap-toothed grin before scampering back to her friends.
By the time they reached White Harbor seven days later, Rickon's thighs were chafed raw from riding, and even Garrick had stopped his incessant chatter, reduced to occasional grunts of discomfort. The first sight of the city rising from the coast, white marble gleaming in the afternoon sun, drew a collective sigh of relief from the vanguard.
"Thank the gods," Garrick groaned, stretching in his saddle. "One more day of riding and my arse would have fallen off completely."
"I'm sure the mermaids would appreciate the improvement," Rickon quipped, earning a rude gesture from his friend.
White Harbor bustled with unprecedented activity as they approached. Lord Manderly had outdone himself preparing for their arrival. The harbor teemed with ships, sleek war galleys, sturdy cogs, and fishing vessels repurposed as troop transports. The fleet that would carry them to Skagos was impressive by any standard, let alone for the typically land-bound North.
"Seven hells," breathed Garrick as they rode through the city gates, "it smells like fish fucked a barrel of perfume."
"That's civilization, my uncultured friend," Rickon laughed. "Wait until you see the Merman's Court. Lord Manderly doesn't believe in subtlety."
The streets had been cleared for their procession, though citizens crowded rooftops and leaned from windows, throwing flowers and cheering as the Stark banners passed. Rickon sat straighter in his saddle, acutely aware of the eyes upon him. Canis padded at his side, the crowd gasping and pointing at the massive direwolf.
Lord Torrhen Manderly awaited them in the courtyard of New Castle, though young, he was already displaying the enormous girth his family was famous for. However, his eyes were sharp and intelligent as they swept over the approaching lords.
"Welcome to White Harbor!" he boomed, arms spread wide. "The fleet awaits your inspection, Lord Stark, and the city is yours for the night. My cooks have been preparing for days—the feast tonight will be remembered for years to come!"
"We thank you for your hospitality, Lord Manderly," Cregan replied formally, though Rickon detected a hint of amusement in his father's voice. The Manderlys' love of excess was legendary, even by southern standards.
As the lords were shown to their quarters, Rickon found himself sharing chambers with Garrick, much to his mixed delight and dismay.
"If you snore like you did during the march, I'm smothering you with a pillow," Rickon warned as servants brought in their belongings.
"If I snore, it's only to drown out your farting," Garrick replied cheerfully, flopping onto the larger of the two beds and groaning in pleasure. "Gods, a real mattress. I might weep."
Rickon moved to the window, gazing out at the harbor below. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the water where dozens of ships bobbed at anchor. Tomorrow they would board those vessels, beginning the next phase of their journey.
"Have you ever been to sea before?" Garrick asked, his voice uncharacteristically serious.
"Once," Rickon replied. "A short journey to Bear Island when I was ten. You?"
"Never," Garrick admitted. "Umbers don't do well on water. Too much height, not enough balance."
Rickon turned to find his friend looking genuinely concerned, a rare expression on the normally boisterous Umber's face.
"Don't worry," Rickon grinned, unable to resist. "If you fall overboard, I'll make sure they recover your body. Eventually."
"Fuck off," Garrick growled, hurling a pillow that Rickon easily dodged.
The Merman's Court lived up to its reputation that night. Massive chandeliers cast dancing light across walls adorned with scenes of underwater revelry. Merlings and creatures of the deep cavorted in painted splendor while very real lords and ladies feasted below.
Lord Manderly had spared no expense. Platters of steamed crabs, broiled lobsters, and oysters in garlic butter covered the tables. Servants circulated with roasted capons, honeyed duck, and haunches of venison dripping with fat and rosemary. Wine flowed freely, northern ale even more so.
Rickon sat at the high table beside his father, watching the revelry with a mixture of amusement and apprehension. This would be their last night of comfort before the hard sea journey and the even harder campaign to come.
"Enjoying yourself?" Cregan asked, his voice pitched low enough that only Rickon could hear.
"It seems excessive," Rickon admitted, "considering what lies ahead."
His father's mouth quirked in a rare half-smile. "Men fight better on full bellies and pleasant memories. Let them have this night. The sea and Skagos will be harsh enough masters in the days to come."
Across the hall, Rickon spotted Garrick engaged in what appeared to be a drinking contest with several Manderly men-at-arms. The giant youth was red-faced but grinning as he downed another tankard to raucous cheers.
As the night wore on, and as the moon climbed higher, inhibitions lowered with each emptied cup. Rickon found himself in a dimly lit corner of the Merman's Court, considerably more drunk than he had intended to be. Garrick's booming laughter had drawn him away from the high table after his father had retired, and now he sat wedged between the Umber heir and Jon Cerwyn, the latter nursing his umpteenth cup of Arbor gold with remarkable composure.
"And then," Garrick continued, sloshing ale over the rim of his tankard as he gestured expansively, "she takes out these magnificent teats, I swear by the old gods, Stark, they were the size of your head, and just lays them right on the table in front of me!"
Jon chuckled, his normally reserved demeanor softened by wine. "The tavern wench in Torrhen's Square? The one with the birthmark shaped like the North?"
"The very same!" Garrick roared, slapping the table hard enough to send their cups jumping. "You've sampled that vintage too, then?"
"A gentleman doesn't discuss specifics," Jon replied with uncharacteristic smugness, "but let's just say the North remembers."
They dissolved into laughter, Rickon joining in despite the heat rising to his face. The room swam pleasantly around him, the effects of northern ale and Manderly's finest wines creating a warm, buzzing sensation throughout his body.
"Trust me, Stark," Garrick leaned in conspiratorially, his breath a potent mixture of ale and roasted garlic, "there's nothing greater than having your cock enveloped in a wench's warm mouth."
Jon nodded in solemn affirmation, closing his eyes as if lost in particularly vivid remembrance.
Rickon felt his face burning hotter than Winterfell's forge. He'd had opportunities, of course. The serving girls at Winterfell cast him looks that even he couldn't misinterpret, and Edda had made her interest clear enough on several occasions. But between his stepmother's vigilant eye, Sarra's habit of appearing at the most inopportune moments, and his own acute awareness of his position as heir to Winterfell, he'd never ventured beyond a few stolen kisses in darkened corridors.
"I, uh..." Rickon cleared his throat, staring into his cup as if it might offer some escape from this conversation. "I haven't actually..."
"What?" Garrick's roar of laughter was loud enough to turn heads three tables away. "We can't have that! We're off to battle, Stark, where there's no promise of tomorrow. How can a man go to the old gods proudly as a virgin?"
"Keep your voice down!" Rickon hissed, mortified as he glanced around to see if anyone had heard. "It's not like I haven't had chances, it's just—"
"Just that you're too busy playing with your steel and your wolf to notice what's between a woman's legs," Garrick finished for him, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince. "Well, that ends tonight."
Jon leaned forward, his calm expression now animated with alcohol-fueled determination. "He's right, Rickon. It's a matter of honor now."
"Honor?" Rickon spluttered. "How in seven hells is it a matter of honor?"
"Because," Jon explained with the careful precision of the very drunk attempting to sound sober, "no Stark should face battle without knowing the touch of a woman. Your ancestors would be ashamed."
"I'm fairly certain my ancestors would be more concerned with my swordsmanship than my... other skills," Rickon protested weakly.
Garrick stood suddenly, swaying slightly before finding his balance. "Come on. The night is young, and White Harbor is full of willing women who'd kill to bed the heir to Winterfell."
"I can't just—" Rickon began, but Jon was already pulling him to his feet.
"You can and you will," Jon insisted. "Consider it part of your military training."
Before Rickon could form a coherent argument, he found himself being steered toward the door, one massive Umber arm and one surprisingly strong Cerwyn grip propelling him forward.
The cool night air hit Rickon like a slap when they emerged from the Merman's Court, temporarily clearing some of the alcohol-induced fog from his mind. White Harbor glowed with torchlight, the narrow streets near the harbor district alive with sailors, soldiers, and the various enterprising individuals who catered to their needs.
"Where exactly are we going?" Rickon demanded as they navigated the cobblestone streets, the ground seeming to tilt unpredictably beneath his feet.
"The Merry Mermaid," Jon replied, sounding far too knowledgeable for someone who claimed to rarely visit White Harbor. "Best brothel in the North, according to those who know such things."
"A brothel?" Rickon stopped dead in his tracks. "Are you insane? I'm the heir to Winterfell. I can't be seen in a brothel!"
Garrick grinned, the expression wolfish in the torchlight. "Who's going to tell? Every man in this city is either drunk, preparing for war, or both."
"My father—"
"Is probably fast asleep, dreaming of Skagosi heads on spikes," Jon interrupted. "Besides, Lord Stark was young once too. He'd understand."
Rickon seriously doubted that, but found himself being pulled along again before he could voice further objections. The streets grew narrower and more crowded as they approached the harbor, the smell of salt water mixing with smoke, sweat, and cheap perfume.
"Here we are!" Garrick announced triumphantly, stopping before a three-story building with a painted sign showing a curvaceous mermaid holding what appeared to be a very phallic trident. "Home of the finest women north of King's Landing!"
"I can't believe I'm doing this," Rickon muttered, his heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum.
"That's the spirit," Jon clapped him on the back, mistaking reluctance for anticipation.
The interior of the Merry Mermaid was warmer and cleaner than Rickon had expected, with actual glass lanterns casting a flattering glow over the main room. Women in various states of undress lounged on cushioned benches, while off-duty soldiers and sailors occupied tables with cups of wine and ale. A large fireplace crackled merrily at the far end, adding to the surprisingly homey atmosphere.
"My lords!" A woman who could only be the madam approached, her hennaed hair piled high atop her head, ample bosom threatening to escape the confines of her low-cut gown. "What an unexpected honor! We rarely entertain nobility of your stature."
Garrick stepped forward, dropping a heavy purse into her outstretched hand. "We require your finest girls, good lady. And discretion."
Her eyes widened slightly as she weighed the purse, then darted to Rickon with sudden recognition. "Is that...?"
"No one of consequence," Jon cut in smoothly. "Just three friends enjoying their last night before sailing to war."
The madam's painted lips curved into a knowing smile. "Of course, my lords. Discretion is our specialty." She clapped her hands sharply. "Satin! Kyra! Bessa! Attend our distinguished guests!"
Three young women materialized from different corners of the room, each attractive in her own way. The tallest, a willowy blonde, immediately latched onto Garrick's arm. The second, a voluptuous redhead, sidled up to Jon, who accepted her attention with a grin.
The third girl approached Rickon more cautiously. She was smaller than the others, but the prettiest by far. She had blonde hair, and blue
"I'm Bessa," she said, her voice surprisingly cultured as she took his hand. "And you are?"
The third girl approached Rickon more cautiously. She was smaller than the others, but the prettiest by far. She had blonde hair, and blue eyes and was dressed more conservatively than the others.
She took him by hand and Rickon went along, but he was rapidly sobering up.
As they entered a small chamber with a bed covered in surprisingly clean-looking furs, the girl turned around. Something in Rickon's mind cleared instantly, cutting through the alcohol haze.
"Wait," he said, the word escaping before he could stop it.
Bessa paused, her delicate features showing a flicker of concern. "Is something wrong, milord?"
Fragments of knowledge flashed through his mind. Sexually transmitted diseases, that could kill even the strongest warriors, carried from one body to another through intimate contact.
Rickon swallowed hard, trying to gather his thoughts. The room felt too warm suddenly, the walls too close.
"Can you please tell me your name again?" he asked, his voice higher than he intended.
"Bessa, milord," she replied, eyes downcast.
Rickon took her hand softly, the small fingers trembling slightly in his grip. "Please understand, I've been dragged here. I would never do anything without your consent." He fumbled at his belt, detaching a small pouch that clinked heavily with gold dragons. "Keep this."
Bessa's eyes widened as he pressed the pouch into her palm. "Milord, I could never—"
"I insist," Rickon said firmly, closing her fingers around the pouch. "Consider it payment for your time. Nothing more is required."
Something shifted in Bessa's expression, a strange look entering her eyes. She hesitated, then spoke so softly he had to lean closer to hear.
"Milord, I am a virgin."
Heat rushed to Rickon's face, spreading down his neck and chest in a wave of embarrassment. "Bessa, that's fine," he stammered. "Please don't think too much of this. I don't want or need anything in return."
She stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. "You're not angry?"
"Angry? Why would I be angry?" Rickon asked, genuinely confused.
Bessa fidgeted with the coin purse, her knuckles white around the leather. "The madam said... she said you paid for... and that northern lords can be rough, especially before battle..."
She stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. "You're not angry?"
"Angry? Why would I be angry?" Rickon asked, genuinely confused.
Bessa fidgeted with the coin purse, her knuckles white around the leather. "The madam said... she said you paid for... and that northern lords can be rough, especially before battle..."
The implication hit Rickon like a punch to the gut. "Gods, no," he said, taking a step back to give her space. "I wouldn't, I mean, I'm not even supposed to be here. My friends thought it would be..." He trailed off, mortified by the entire situation.
A small smile touched Bessa's lips, transforming her face. "You're not what I expected, milord."
"Rickon," he corrected automatically. "Just Rickon is fine."
An awkward silence fell between them. Rickon glanced around the small room, suddenly very aware of the bed dominating the space. "Do you mind if we just... talk? I can tell them we... you know." He made a vague gesture that he immediately regretted.
Bessa's smile widened, a genuine warmth replacing her earlier wariness. "I'd like that, mi—Rickon." She perched on the edge of the bed, patting the spot beside her.
Rickon sat, keeping a respectful distance. "How did you end up here? If you don't mind my asking."
"I'm ten and nine name days, milord. My father was a fisherman," she began hesitantly. "When his boat was lost in a storm two winters ago, there weren't many options for a girl with no family."
Bessa laughed, the sound surprisingly musical. "It's my first day. The madam bought my contract last year from the tavern where I was working. Said a highborn face would fetch a better price." She glanced down at the purse in her hands. "I never expected this much gold at once."
"What will you do with it?" Rickon asked, genuinely curious.
"Leave," she said without hesitation. "Before the madam realizes I haven't... earned it. Maybe take a ship south find honest work there."
"You don't have to go south," Rickon said suddenly, the idea forming even as the words left his mouth. "Come to Winterfell instead. Wintertown is growing fast, and we need literate people. With your background, you could find honest work there easily."
Bessa's eyes widened. "Winterfell?" She rolled the word around her mouth like an exotic delicacy. "I might do that, milord. People are saying Winterfell has changed now. That it's becoming... different. Better, even."
"It is," Rickon said, warming to the subject. "We've expanded the glass gardens, improved the forges. There's a new system for heating the castle that's being extended to Wintertown. And we've started a small school for the smallfolk's children." He felt a flush of pride describing the innovations he'd helped implement.
Bessa studied his face with curious intensity. "Milord... are you going to war? To Skagos?"
"Yes, we are," Rickon confirmed, his voice growing serious. "And please, call me Rickon."
x—-LEMON TEASER—-X PLEASE SKIP IF YOU DON'T WANT TO READ
"Rickon," she repeated, testing the name. Then a teasing light came into her eyes. "Milord." She emphasized the title deliberately. "I may be a virgin, but I know a young man such as yourself has needs. An heir deserves to leave with some compensation."
Before Rickon could process her words, Bessa trailed her hand down his chest, past his stomach, and right over the front of his breeches, her touch feather-light but unmistakable.
"I—what—you don't—" Rickon stammered, his body betraying him instantly as blood rushed south with alarming speed. Her hand remained there, gentle but insistent.
"Shh," Bessa whispered, leaning closer. "I'm not offering what the madam would expect. But a man going to war deserves a pleasant memory to carry with him."
Rickon's breath caught in his throat as her fingers began to unlace his breeches with surprising dexterity. His heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum, every sense heightened to an almost painful degree.
"You don't have to," he managed, his voice strangled.
"I want to," she replied simply. "You've shown me kindness when you could have demanded everything. Let me give you something freely."
The rational part of Rickon's mind, the part that worried about propriety and consequences and his father's disappointment, was rapidly losing the battle against the part that was fourteen and male and had never experienced a woman's touch before.
Her hand slipped inside his smallclothes, and coherent thought abandoned him entirely.
"Oh—!" Rickon gasped as Bessa tugged his breeches down with surprising strength, exposing him fully. The cool air of the room against his heated skin sent a shiver racing up his spine.
"Gods," he gasped, his head falling back as her cool fingers wrapped around him, or tried to at least. Her small hand couldn't wrap entirely around the base.
Bessa's eyes widened, her lips parting in a soft gasp. A blush spread across her cheeks, painting them a delicate pink. "The Young Wolf indeed," she whispered, her voice filled with growing lust. "You're so... big."
"Gods," he gasped, his head falling back as her cool fingers wrapped.
Rickon's face burned hotter than Winterfell's forge. No one had ever seen him like this before, vulnerable, exposed, wanting. His heart thundered in his chest like a war drum.
"Would you like to touch my teats, milord?" Bessa asked softly, her fingers already working at the laces of her bodice.
Rickon could only nod mutely, his voice trapped somewhere between his racing heart and dry throat.
With tantalizing slowness, Bessa unlaced her top. The fabric parted, revealing smooth, pale skin before her breasts spilled free, full and perfect, topped with soft pink nipples that pebbled in the cool air. Rickon found himself absently wondering how something so magnificent had been hidden beneath such modest clothing.
x_______LEMON TEASER END ------------------------------------
When she finally pulled away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Rickon collapsed onto the edge of the bed, his legs no longer able to support his weight. The room spun slightly, whether from the lingering effects of the ale or the mind-shattering pleasure, he couldn't tell.
"That was..." he began, then stopped, finding words inadequate.
"Was that satisfactory, milord?" she asked, a teasing lilt in her voice.
Rickon laughed, the sound bursting from him unbidden. "I think you know the answer to that." He reached for her hand, pulling her to sit beside him on the bed. "Thank you."
She smiled, a genuine expression that reached her eyes. "It was my pleasure. Truly." She glanced at the pouch of coins still clutched in her other hand. "Though I should be the one thanking you. This is enough to start a new life."
"Remember what I said about Winterfell," he told her, reaching to tuck a strand of golden hair behind her ear. "There's a place for you there, if you want it."
Bessa nodded, her expression thoughtful. "I'll consider it, milord." She hesitated, then added, "You should return to your friends before they come looking for you."
Rickon grimaced at the thought of facing Garrick and Jon. They'd never let him hear the end of this. Still, he felt different somehow, older, perhaps, or simply more complete. Another step on the journey from boy to man.
He stood, adjusting his clothing with newfound awkwardness. "Will you be alright? The madam won't punish you for..." He trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence.
"For not truly earning these coins?" Bessa finished for him, her smile turning wry. "She need never know the details. Besides, I won't be here come morning."
Rickon nodded, relieved. "Safe travels, then. Or perhaps I'll see you in Winterfell someday."
"Perhaps you will, Young Wolf," she replied, the nickname sending a fresh wave of heat to his face.
A sudden commotion from the hallway broke the moment, loud voices, heavy footsteps, the unmistakable sound of Garrick's booming laughter. Reality came crashing back, reminding Rickon of where they were and what awaited him tomorrow.
"I should go," he said reluctantly, reaching to lace up his breeches. "The fleet sails with the morning tide."
Bessa helped him dress, her fingers nimble and efficient. When he was presentable again, she surprised him by rising on her tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his cheek.
"Come back alive, Rickon Stark," she whispered. "I'd like to see Winterfell someday."
The door burst open before he could respond, revealing Garrick's massive frame filling the doorway, his face flushed with drink and whatever activities he'd been engaged in.
"There you are!" he bellowed, swaying slightly. "Time to go, Stark! Your father's men are looking for you!"
Rickon's blood ran cold. "My father sent men?"
"Don't look so terrified," Garrick laughed, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him. "Just a routine check on the young lord's whereabouts. I told them you were inspecting the harbor defenses with me."
"And they believed that?" Rickon asked incredulously.
"Of course not," Garrick grinned. "But what are they going to do? Call the heir to Last Hearth a liar to his face?"
Rickon turned back to Bessa, finding her already retreating to a respectable distance, her expression composed once more. "Thank you," he said quietly, hoping she understood the depth of his gratitude extended beyond the physical pleasure.
She curtsied, the gesture oddly formal given what had transpired between them. "Safe travels, milord."
As he followed Garrick into the corridor, Rickon felt a strange mixture of emotions, satisfaction, embarrassment, and an unexpected pang of something that might have been regret. Behind them, the door to Bessa's room closed with a soft click.
Jon waited at the bottom of the stairs, looking considerably more disheveled than when they'd arrived. "There you are," he slurred. "Your wolf's outside, scaring the piss out of everyone who tries to enter."
Sure enough, when they stumbled out into the night air, Canis lounged in the shadows across the street, crimson eyes gleaming like coals in the darkness. The massive direwolf rose to his feet as Rickon approached, radiating smugness through their bond.
"Don't you start," Rickon muttered, burying his fingers in the thick black fur. "Not a word."
Canis huffed, the mental equivalent of laughter flowing through their connection. Images flashed between them, Bessa on her knees, the taste of her skin, the sound of her moans. The direwolf's approval was unmistakable, primal and uncomplicated.
"Gods, I need sleep," Garrick groaned as they made their way back toward the New Castle. "How am I supposed to fight Skagosi with this headache brewing?"
"You should have thought of that before challenging those Manderly men to a drinking contest," Jon pointed out, his words slurring slightly.
"Well?" Garrick boomed, slinging a massive arm around Rickon's shoulders. "How was your first taste of womanly delights?"
Rickon couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. "A gentleman doesn't discuss specifics," he replied, echoing Jon's earlier words.
Their laughter followed him into the night, three young men on the eve of war, stealing one last moment of carefree joy before duty called them to bloodier pursuits. Tomorrow would bring the sea, and beyond that, the unknown dangers of Skagos. But tonight, for a few precious hours, they were simply young men with their whole lives ahead of them.
"Tomorrow," Rickon murmured to the night sky, "we go to war."
X____________________X
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