Mark Smith died with equations still racing through his mind.
One moment he was crossing the street, distracted by thoughts of a particularly elegant solution to the thermal conductivity problem that had plagued his research team for months, and the next.Impact.
A delivery truck, horn blaring too late, tires screaming against asphalt. Pain flared white-hot across his consciousness, then vanished altogether.
Darkness enveloped him. Time stretched in the void, or perhaps it ceased to exist altogether. Mark floated in it, or perhaps it floated through him. The distinction seemed meaningless here.
"Interesting," he thought, with the detached curiosity that had defined his thirty-two years of life. "So this is death." He had always imagined nothingness would be more... nothing.
Until something shifted in the darkness.
A pinprick of light bloomed before him, expanding into a luminous presence that took shape gradually, a figure of indeterminate form, radiating energy that seemed to bend the very fabric of the void around it.
"Mark Smith," the entity intoned, its voice neither male nor female but something altogether different. The words formed directly in his consciousness, carrying neither gender nor accent, merely meaning.
"You are among the fortunate few."
Mark would have frowned if he still possessed a face. Fortunate seemed a strange descriptor for someone recently pulverized by several tons of metal.
"Fortunate?" he thought back.
"Indeed. You have been selected for rebirth. Your time in your realm has ended, but your journey continues."
The darkness around them transformed, coalescing into a chamber of sorts, though its walls seemed to stretch into infinity. Before him materialized three massive wheels, each taller than he had been in life, adorned with countless symbols and images that flickered and shifted as if alive.
"The multiverse is vast beyond comprehension," the entity continued. "Countless worlds exist alongside your own, worlds you glimpsed only through the stories you so cherished."
A pang of emotion swept through Mark's non-existent heart. Those stories, the anime, games, and fictional worlds he'd immersed himself in whenever research pressures grew too intense—had been his refuge. His colleagues had teased him mercilessly about his "childish obsessions," but they'd never understood the elegant complexity, the raw creativity those worlds contained.
"I... have to spin that?" he asked, discovering that thought translated to communication in this place.
"The system is impartial," the entity explained. "Your destination, your power, your lineage, all determined by chance. Three spins will shape your new existence."
The first wheel pulsed with anticipation.
"Begin with power," the entity instructed. "What abilities will you carry into your new life?"
Mark hesitated. His scientific mind rebelled against this impossibility, searching for rational explanation—hallucination, perhaps, or dying neurons firing in chaotic patterns. Yet something deeper recognized truth when confronted with it.
With what felt like a phantom limb, Mark reached out and set the first wheel spinning.
Countless symbols blurred together as it rotated with impossible speed. He recognized some from fiction, a lightning bolt scar, a circular shield with a star, a green ring, while others seemed to pulse with concepts rather than clear imagery. Fragments of images flashed through his awareness: fire dancing across outstretched fingers, shadows bending to will, light condensing into blades, creatures bound to human masters.
He watched, mesmerized, as it gradually slowed, symbols flashing past: a pair of red eyes with comma-like tomoe, a lightning-wreathed fist, a brain pulsing with telepathic waves, metallic spheres orbiting a central point.
With a final shudder, the wheel stopped.
It came to rest on a symbol of a black canine silhouette with glowing red eyes, a sword-like marking on its forehead.
"Canis Lykaon," it murmured, something like appreciation coloring its tone.
"A dangerous gift indeed. One of the Thirteen Longinus Sacred Gears, an Independent Avatar-Type. The Dog God of the Black Blade."
Mark felt confusion ripple through him. "I don't understand."
"Few do, at first," the entity replied. "In its realm of origin, it possesses power sufficient to slay gods themselves." The entity rippled with what might have been appreciation.
"The God of the Bible crafted it from two sources, the cursed King Lycaon of Arcadia, transformed to a wolf by Zeus's wrath, and Ame-no-Ohabari, a divine sword from Shintoism used to slay Hinokagutsuchi. The distortion from merging these disparate elements transformed the wolf into a dog, and the curse tainted the blade, stripping its divinity and creating something... darker.."
"High School DxD," thought Mark.
"The fusion distorted both original elements," the entity continued. "Merging these disparate elements transformed the wolf into a dog, The wolf became a dog, and the curse tainted the divine blade. It lost its heavenly nature, becoming something darker, more primal. In your hands, it may become something else entirely."
Mark struggled to process this information, his scientific mind rebelling against concepts of gods and divine weapons.
"I don't understand what any of this means," Mark admitted.
"You will," the entity assured him. "A Longinus adapts to its wielder, absorbing their abilities and creativity. It becomes a vessel for their desires and ambitions.
The symbol pulsed once, twice, then burned itself into Mark's consciousness. Knowledge flooded him, understanding of what he would become, what power would flow through his veins in his next life.
Images flashed through Mark's mind, a massive wolf with shadow-like tendrils extending from its form, a blade that seemed to drink light rather than reflect it, a bond between beast and master that transcended ordinary understanding.
Suddenly, he returned back to the present. But he felt heavier.
The second wheel loomed before him, massive and intricate. Unlike the first wheel with its abstract symbols of power, this one displayed breathtaking vistas and landscapes, snow-capped mountains piercing cloud-laden skies, dense forests with trees larger than skyscrapers, sprawling desert wastelands, underwater cities glowing with bioluminescence, and urban metropolises both recognizable and utterly alien. Each segment contained entire worlds compressed into symbolic representations, some bearing sigils or crests that Mark recognized from fiction, others entirely unknown.
"The wheel of worlds," the entity explained. "Your destination in the vast multiverse."
Mark's non-corporeal form trembled with anticipation. The scientific part of him, the part that had spent years pursuing rational explanations for physical phenomena, continued to insist this was impossible. Yet another part of him, that section that had devoured stories and imagined other realms since childhood, surged with excitement.
He reached out, setting the massive wheel spinning with a gentle push. It rotated with gathering momentum. The landscapes blurred together, a kaleidoscope of potential destinies. He caught glimpses of impossible architecture, alien skies, familiar skylines from Earth, medieval castles, futuristic cityscapes, and strange symbols he couldn't begin to interpret. He saw a school for wizards, a world where giant humanoids devoured people, a continent where elemental bending was practiced.
The wheel began to slow. Mark watched, breathless despite having no lungs, as the final options flickered past. Then it stopped.
The image flickered, panning across an entire world. Mark saw flashes of a vast continent: desert wastes where bronze-skinned warriors in hoods rode giant lizards, towering mountains where isolated clans kept ancient traditions, sprawling cities with spires and harbors, grasslands where horse-lords thundered across endless plains. Then the view shifted to another continent where dragons had once ruled, stone cities baking under foreign suns, and further still to frozen wastelands where things stirred beyond an immense wall of ice.
"Westeros. Essos. The lands beyond the Wall," Mark thought, awe rippling through his non-corporeal form.
"A Song of Ice and Fire," the entity confirmed. "A world of harsh winters, ancient magic, and political intrigue. A curious choice for one with your power. Winter is coming, as they say."
The second wheel's choice burned into Mark's consciousness alongside his newfound power. The black wolf and the world of ice and fire, somehow they would merge, though he couldn't yet imagine how. Canis Lykaon had never existed in George R. R. Martin's world of political machinations and ancient threats.
The convergence of foreign power with native magic creates... interesting possibilities," the entity said, seeming to read his thoughts.
The third wheel materialized fully now. The final wheel," the entity said, "Your lineage and starting position."
This wheel bore countless family crests, sigils, and symbols representing various houses, clans, and bloodlines from the world of Ice and Fire. Some Mark recognized immediately, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, the golden lion of Lannister, the kraken of Greyjoy
"Your blood and birth will determine much," the entity explained. "Though not everything. Even the lowliest can rise, with sufficient will and fortune."
Mark hesitated, his thoughts racing. Where in this brutal world would offer the best chance of survival? The North with its harsh but honorable ways? The political viper's nest of King's Landing? The distant but wealthy shores of Essos? Each had advantages and mortal dangers.
With a final mental push, he set the third wheel spinning, watching as the sigils blurred into a kaleidoscope of potential destinies.
The wheel slowed gradually, a familiar landscape filled the chosen segment: a massive ice wall stretching across a northern frontier, a castle of gray stone built above hot springs, a crimson weirwood tree with a solemn face carved into its trunk, and a dire wolf sigil.
Mark couldn't believe it. If he'd still possessed a physical form, his heart would have pounded against his ribs. Westeros. The North. Winterfell.
"House Stark," the entity confirmed. "A lineage that stretches back thousands of years.
A wild, incredulous joy surged through Mark's consciousness. Of all the possible worlds, this one, the setting of books he had read and reread until their spines cracked, a show he had analyzed episode by episode, a world whose maps and histories he knew better than his own hometown's. A universe he had studied obsessively, analyzing fan theories, debating timeline discrepancies with online communities.
"This can't be happening," he thought, with growing excitement. "Westeros... with a Sacred Gear..."
It was unbelievable, that his luck that would land him in precisely the fictional world he had spent countless hours obsessing over seemed too perfect, too tailored to his secret passions.
"The convergence is... unusual," the entity acknowledged, rippling slightly as if considering the implications. "Your power originates from a different cosmology entirely. Its introduction to this realm will create... interesting distortions."
Mark barely heard the entity's words. His mind raced with possibilities. The political intrigues of King's Landing, the ancient mysteries beyond the Wall, the looming threat of the Others, all would be navigable with the power of Canis Lykaon at his side.
"The wheels do not lie," the entity replied, seeming to sense his thoughts. "Though I must warn you, the reality may differ from the stories you know. The multiverse contains infinite variations, and the narrative you consumed may be merely one interpretation of countless possible Westeros. The timeline you are born it may be unfamiliar to you."
Mark absorbed this caution, but his excitement remained undiminished. Even with variations, even with differences, this was a world he understood at a fundamental level. Its politics, its geography, its dangers, all familiar territory.
"I see you appreciate the wheels' choices," the entity observed, its formless presence shifting slightly. "The time has come. I'll send your soul away now. All the best to you, lucky soul."
Before Mark could respond, the chamber around him began to dissolve. The wheels faded into mist, and the presence of the entity grew dimmer. He felt himself being pulled away, drawn through an invisible veil, his consciousness stretching and compressing simultaneously. The void closed around him, and then there was nothing but darkness and a sense of rushing forward, faster and faster, toward an unknown destination.
As the soul vanished into the ether, bound for its new existence, the entity remained in the void, its energy pulsing with what might have been amusement.
"Truly fortunate," it mused to itself, the chamber now empty save for its presence. "One in countless billions receives such a convergence of desire and destiny."
The entity's form rippled, reconsidering the wheels' selections. While the soul had received exactly what it wanted, there remained unseen complications. The Sacred Gear chosen was not merely a tool or weapon, but something more complex.
"Canis Lykaon," the entity whispered to the empty void. "Of all the powers to bestow upon a soul entering that particular realm..."
The entity recalled the nature of this particular Sacred Gear, not merely a weapon, but a sentient being with its own will, its own desires. Unlike many Sacred Gears that simply obeyed their wielders, Canis Lykaon formed bonds of fierce loyalty with those it deemed worthy. It did not merely serve; it protected, guarded, defended its host's soul with a ferocity that bordered on possessiveness.
The void pulsed around the entity as it contemplated the soul's journey ahead. Would it even survive the awakening.
The introduction of such foreign power into the world of ice and fire would create ripples, distortions in the fabric of that reality. Ancient magics would respond to the intrusion, either in harmony or in opposition. The delicate balance of forces, the old gods, the new, the Lord of Light, the Many-Faced God, the deep magic of the Children of the Forest, all would sense the arrival of something alien to their realm.
"Perhaps," the entity considered, "this is why the wheels chose as they did. Balance seeking balance, even across the boundaries of worlds."
With that final thought, the entity's attention shifted away from the departed soul. There were countless others waiting in the void between lives, countless journeys to oversee. The story of Mark Smith and Canis Lykaon would unfold now without its observation, one more tale among infinite possibilities in the vast, endless multiverse.
_________________________________________________-
128 AC
The chill of winter permeated Winterfell's ancient stones, but another sound pierced the night, a woman's agonized screams echoing through the corridors of the great castle. Within the birthing chamber, Lady Arra Norrey clutched the bedposts, her knuckles white with strain, her body convulsing with the effort of bringing new life into the world. Sweat-soaked hair clung to her face as the midwife urged her to push once more.
Blood pooled beneath her, darkening the sheets with alarming speed. Too much blood. The maester and the midwives exchanged grim glances as they worked, their movements growing increasingly frantic as they tried to stem the bleeding.
When at last the child emerged, a boy, his loud cries filled the chamber, a defiant announcement of his arrival. But his mother's screams did not transform into the expected sounds of relief and joy. Instead, they weakened, fading into shallow gasps as her life force ebbed away with each passing heartbeat.
Lord Cregan Stark, a young man of twenty namedays, who had been pacing outside the chamber door, rushed to his wife's side. His face, normally impassive, crumpled as he took in the scene, his infant son alive and wailing, his wife pale and silent, her eyes staring unseeing at the stone ceiling.
The howl that tore from Cregan's throat was primal, a sound of raw anguish that seemed to shake the very foundations of Winterfell. The wolf's blood, they would later whisper in the castle halls. The grief of a Stark is as fierce as their sigil.
Through it all, the infant continued his plaintive cries, oblivious to the tragedy surrounding his birth, to the fact that his first breath had coincided with his mother's last. The midwife swaddled him tightly in wool blankets bearing the direwolf sigil, a small attempt at comfort amid sorrow.
"My lord," a midwife whispered, gently handing the newborn to Cegan the newborn, while the others worked desperately over Lady Arra's still form. "A son. Strong and healthy."
"Rickon," Lord Cregan whispered hoarsely as he reached out to tenderly cradle the child, naming the boy even as tears tracked down his stubbled cheeks. "Named for my father."
In that moment, as the Lord of Winterfell clutched the still body of his wife, something stirred in the godswood beyond the castle walls. The heart tree's carved face seemed to weep red sap, and beneath the frozen ground, ancient magics shifted and realigned. The old gods had taken notice of the child's birth, a child whose arrival had been marked by both joy and sorrow, by life and death intertwined.
Deep within the infant's soul, something else awakened, a presence, dormant but aware, waiting for the proper time to manifest. A shadow that would one day take form, a companion bound to the boy by threads of fate stronger than Valyrian steel.
Outside the castle walls, a wolf howled in the wolfswood, the sound carrying across the snow-covered landscape. Some would later claim it was an omen, a sign from the old gods themselves. Others dismissed it as mere coincidence, a wild creature calling to its pack on a cold winter's night.
None could have known the truth, that within little Rickon Stark slumbered a power unlike any Westeros had seen before, a convergence of magics from beyond the boundaries of their world. A sacred gear, waiting to awaken.
For now, though, Rickon Stark was simply a newborn, cradled against his father's chest, his cries eventually subsiding into hiccupping sobs.
_____________________________-
The castle around them fell into mourning, black banners replacing the gray and white of House Stark, as preparations began for Lady Arra's journey to the crypts beneath Winterfell, where generations of Starks watched with stone eyes from the darkness.
Maester Kennet examined the child with careful hands. "A strong boy, my lord," he confirmed, his chain clinking softly as he moved. "Though born amidst tragedy, he shows no ill effects. The Stark blood runs true in him."
Cregan nodded, his grief momentarily overshadowed by a father's pride and responsibility. "He will need a wet nurse," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "And in time, he will need to learn what it means to be a Stark of Winterfell."
What it meant to be a Stark. The words unspoken hung in the air between them: Winter Is Coming. It always was, for House Stark, in one form or another.
_____________________________________________
Lets goooooo. This is a big project of mine. Really hope you guys enjoy this story. Canis Lykaon is an epic sacred gear, and I'm going to love exploring it in the ASOIAF setting.
And just so you know. Rebirth isn't as straightforward as you think.....Last edited: Feb 11, 2026 Like ReplyReport Reactions:Levky, lingworm, LarmGuy and 239 othersDarkeBonesFeb 10, 2026Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 1: The Awakening - I View contentDarkeBonesKnow what you're doing yet?Feb 11, 2026Add bookmark#20131 AC
Rickon Stark ran his stubby fingers along the cold stone walls of Winterfell, feeling the bumpy, scratchy parts where the Runes were carved deep. The stones felt alive sometimes, all buzzy and warm when he pressed his palm flat against them. The grown-ups couldn't feel it. He asked Aunt Sara once, and she laughed and ruffled his hair.
"Just the hot springs beneath us, little wolf," she had said.
But Rickon knew better. The stones were talking. Not with words exactly, but with feelings that tickled his fingertips and made his tummy feel funny.
Today he was being a shadowcat, stalking through the corridors on tippy-toes. Father was having an important meeting with the bannermen, and Rickon wasn't supposed to listen. But listening was easy when nobody thought you understood.
He crouched behind a tapestry, the dusty fabric making his nose itch. Through the tiny gap, he could see Father's serious face, all frowny and tired-looking.
"The Greens press their advantage," Father was saying. "If Queen Rhaenyra cannot hold King's Landing..."
The words made Rickon's head feel fuzzy, like remembering something he'd forgotten, except he'd never known it to begin with. He saw flashes of dragons in his mind, big and scary with fire coming out of their mouths. But he'd never seen a dragon.
His tummy growled loudly, and one of the men looked toward the tapestry. Rickon held his breath until his cheeks puffed out. When the man looked away, he scampered off on all fours, still pretending to be a shadowcat.
"And what mischief are we about today, young lord?" came Maester Kennet's gentle voice.
Rickon darted away, giggling despite being caught. His small legs carried him swiftly down the corridor, the stone floor cool beneath his bare feet. The maester's chuckles faded behind him as he rounded a corner, nearly colliding with a serving girl carrying linens. She sidestepped him with practiced ease, used to the young Stark's perpetual motion.
In the kitchens, the Mara, the Head Cook gave him a honey cake and a cup of warm milk. Rickon sat on a barrel, swinging his legs and watching the kitchen people bustle around. The honey stuck to his fingers, and he licked them one by one.
The castle was his playground, every nook and hidden passage a new adventure waiting to be discovered. Yesterday he had been a knight battling grumpkins in the kitchens, much to kitchen workers dismay. The day before, he'd been a wildling scout hiding in the stables, watching the stablemen with solemn intensity until Hullen had offered him an apple and a pat on the head.
"There you are, you little scamp!" Aunt Sara, his father's bastard half-sister appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips but smiling. Se was a beautiful young woman of eighteen, her dark hair plaited in a tight braid that hung down her back, her Stark-grey eyes bright with mischief that belied the paleness of her skin. The silver direwolf pin that had once belonged to her mother caught the morning light as it held her practical northern woolens together at her throat. "Been looking everywhere for you."
"I was being quiet," Rickon said proudly.
"Too quiet." She scooped him up, honey fingers and all. "Bath time, and then Maester Kennet wants to see how your letters are coming along."
Rickon wrinkled his nose. "Don't want a bath."
"Don't want doesn't matter," Sara said, carrying him away from the warm kitchens. "Little lords must be clean, especially ones covered in honey."
Later, scrubbed pink and dressed in fresh clothes, Rickon sat at the small desk in the maester's chambers, carefully tracing the shapes of letters with a piece of charcoal. His tongue stuck out the side of his mouth as he concentrated.
"Remarkable," Maester Kennet murmured, watching him form a perfect letters. "Most children twice your age struggle so."
Rickon didn't look up. Drawing the letters was easy. They looked like the runes in the walls, only simpler. Sometimes when he closed his eyes, he could see all kinds of letters and symbols, dancing behind his eyelids.
That night, tucked into his bed with furs pulled to his chin, Rickon listened to Aunt Sara tell the story of Bran the Builder.
"And he built the Wall so high, higher than the tallest tower of Winterfell, to keep the monsters away," she said, her voice getting quiet and spooky.
"What monsters?" Rickon asked, even though he'd heard the story a hundred times.
"The Others," Sara whispered. "With eyes like blue stars and skin as white as snow."
Rickon shivered deliciously. "Father says Winter is Coming."
"Aye, that's our words. But winter is still far away, little wolf." Sara kissed his forehead. "Sleep now."
But after she left, Rickon didn't sleep. He stared at the shadows on his ceiling, watching them stretch and move. One shadow looked like a wolf, big and scary with eyes that glowed. It seemed to be watching him back.
"Hello," Rickon whispered.
The shadow-wolf's tail seemed to wag, just a little. Rickon smiled and closed his eyes, drifting into dreams where he ran through snowy forests on four legs instead of two, with shadows trailing behind him like faithful friends.
_____________________________
Morning brought a shift to Winterfell's rhythm. Rickon felt it before he opened his eyes, a strange humming in the stones beneath his bed, an unusual bustle in the corridors. He slipped from his furs, the cold floor greeting his bare feet as he padded to his window.
The courtyard below teemed with activity. Men in armor. Horses laden with supplies. Banners snapping in the northern wind, the grey direwolf of House Stark predominant among them, but others too: the merman of Manderly, the chained giant of Umber, the bear of Mormont.
"There you are," Aunt Sara said, entering his chamber with a bundle of clothes. Her face looked tight, her usual smile strained at the edges. "We need to dress you properly today."
"Why?" Rickon asked, though something in his belly already knew the answer. The strange knowledge that sometimes came to him unbidden, like memories that weren't his own.
"Your father rides south today," Sara said, helping him into a fine wool tunic embroidered with direwolves around the collar. "The lords have gathered to see him off."
"Because of the dragons?" Rickon asked.
Sara's hands paused in their work. "How did you, never mind. Yes, little wolf. Because of the dragons and their riders who fight for the throne."
The Great Hall was filled to bursting when Aunt Sara led him there, hand clasped tightly in hers. Lords and ladies in their finest garb stood in solemn rows, their faces grim as winter. Father sat in the great chair, Ice laid across his knees, the Valyrian steel catching the light from the high windows. He looked different today, not just Father, but Lord Stark, the Warden of the North.
Rickon was brought to stand before him, and the hall fell silent. Even the stones seemed to hold their breath.
Father rose, magnificent in his grey armor with its snarling wolf helm tucked beneath his arm. The plates gleamed dully in the torchlight, ancient and terrible. His brown hair fell in waves around his neck. He looked so tall, towering above Rickon like the kings of winter in the crypts.
Then, to Rickon's surprise, Father knelt. One knee touched the stone floor, bringing those stormy grey eyes level with Rickon's own. Behind them, Rickon heard murmurs ripple through the crowd.
"Rickon," Father said, his voice low but carrying in the silent hall. "I ride south with our bannermen. While I am gone, Winterfell must have a Stark to guard it."
Rickon's chest felt tight, too small suddenly for his heart. The stones beneath his feet thrummed with approval.
"Winterfell is yours until I return," Father said, placing a heavy hand on Rickon's shoulder. "You are young, but you are a Stark. The blood of the First Men flows in your veins. Remember our words."
"Winter is coming," Rickon whispered, the words feeling ancient on his tongue.
Father nodded once, his expression softening for just a moment. Then he stood, towering once more, and placed the wolf helm over his head. The transformation was complete, no longer just Father, but the Wolf of the North, as the bannermen had taken to calling him.
The lords filed past, each kneeling briefly before Rickon, pledging to serve faithfully in his father's absence. Their words blurred together, but Rickon stood straight-backed and solemn as the statues in the crypts, knowing this moment was important even if he didn't fully understand why.
Later, from the battlements, he watched the column of men wind away from Winterfell like a great steel serpent. The wind carried their banners high.
"Will he come back?" Rickon asked Sara, who stood beside him with a shawl pulled tight around her shoulders.
"Of course he will," she said, but her grey eyes followed the departing host with hidden concern. "Your father is as strong and stubborn as the Wall itself."
When he slept that night, he dreamed of dragons battling each other and falling from the sky.
________________________________________________-
132 AC
Winterfell felt empty in his father's absence. The great stone halls echoed with each of Rickon's footsteps, making the castle seem larger, colder somehow. The servants moved with hushed voices and quick glances, as if afraid to disturb the heaviness that had settled over the ancient stronghold.
Rickon noticed how people's faces changed when they thought he wasn't looking. The stable master's smile would fall away the moment he turned his back. The cooks whispered when they thought he'd left the kitchen. Even Old Nan's stories had taken on darker tones, tales of long winters and the terrors that came with them.
"Don't fret so, little wolf," Sara would say, smoothing his unruly hair with fingers rough from years of work. Her grey eyes shone with a warmth that contradicted the worry lines etched around them.
Maester Kennet, too, offered reassurances, though his came wrapped in lessons and histories. "The North endures, young lord," he'd say, adjusting his chain with ink-stained fingers. "As do the Starks."
But Rickon knew. Something was changing. The world beyond Winterfell's walls was burning, and the smoke had begun to drift northward.
His fourth nameday came and went with little celebration. A special meal, a new wooden sword, a sweet honey cake with candles. Nothing like the feast his father would have held, with music and gifts from the bannermen.
That night, Rickon dreamed of snow falling on a field of fire, of shadows with gleaming teeth, and woke crying out for a father too far away to hear.
The lessons with Maester Kennet increased in frequency and intensity after that. Each morning found Rickon perched on a cushioned stool in the maester's tower, surrounded by scrolls and maps and books with cracking leather spines.
"House Manderly," the maester would say, pointing to the map spread across the table.
"White Harbor," Rickon would answer promptly. "The merman. Lords of the sea."
"Good. And their words?"
Rickon's brow furrowed in concentration. "A Promise Well Kept."
A smile tugged at Kennet's weathered face. "Indeed. And House Umber?"
"Last Hearth. The chained giant. Death Before Chains."
On and on they went, through the houses of the North: Mormont, Karstark, Bolton, Glover, Reed, until Rickon could recite their seats and sigils and words without hesitation. Then came the southern houses, more numerous and complicated, with their knights and their summer castles.
Numbers followed, scratched onto slates with chalk that left his fingers dusty and white. Rickon learned to count beyond what his small hands could show, to add bushels of grain and subtract men lost to winter. He learned the measures of the stores, how many mouths Winterfell could feed through a year of snow, how many men could be armed from its forges.
"A lord must know the strength of his keep," Maester Kennet explained, watching Rickon's small face pinch with concentration.
The common tongue came next, its letters strange and angular compared to the flowing runes that sometimes appeared in his dreams. Rickon traced them carefully, over and over, until his hand cramped and his eyes burned.
"Your father will be proud when he returns," Aunt Sara told him one evening as she tucked him into bed, his fingers still stained with ink. "You're learning faster than children thrice your age."
Rickon stared up at the canopy of his bed, at the shadows that danced across it from the hearth fire. "When will he come home?"
Sara's hand paused in smoothing his furs. "When the fighting is done, little wolf."
"And when will that be?"
She had no answer for that, only a kiss pressed to his forehead and a whispered prayer to the old gods.
__________________________________________
Where is Mark you may be thinking. Don't worry memories will emerge over time, before the Awakening.
Hope you enjoyed the chapter!! Like ReplyReport Reactions:lingworm, Levky, NeroChevalier and 246 othersDarkeBonesFeb 11, 2026Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 2: The Awakening - II New View contentDarkeBonesKnow what you're doing yet?Feb 14, 2026Add bookmark#34132 AC
In late 132 AC a raven arrived at Winterfell bearing three simple words: "Kingslanding is taken."
The black bird's wings had barely ceased fluttering before the castle erupted into a flurry of activity and gossip.
Rickon stood in the shadows of the Great Hall, watching as servants scurried past with bundles of correspondence. At four namedays, he was deemed far too young to participate in council meetings, yet he was old enough to sense the gravity of what transpired. The whispers reached him regardless, Father had done something extraordinary in the south, something that made even hardened northern warriors speak in hushed, reverent tones.
"The Hour of the Wolf," they called it. Six days when the North held the fate of the Seven Kingdoms in its grasp.
The tales trickled north like melting ice, each raven bringing fragments that Rickon collected with quiet diligence. He learned how his father had marched south with his Winter Wolves, ostensibly to support Queen Rhaenyra's claim to the Iron Throne, only to arrive after her death. How Father had refused to bend to Southern whims, demanding justice even when the war was effectively over.
"A Dance of Dragons", something whispered in his mind.
"He sat at the foot of the Iron Throne," Maester Kennet had told him, eyes alight with unusual fervor. "Not on it, mind you. Lord Cregan administered the realm's justice while the boy-king Aegon watched from Maegor's Holdfast."
The image formed in Rickon's mind: his father's tall figure, Ice gleaming in his hands, northern justice dispensed in southern halls. Twenty-two men condemned for their treachery. The Kingsguard knight who abandoned his post. The Grand Maester who poisoned a king. Lord Larys Strong, the clubfoot, who offered no defense for his crimes.
"Rickon! Rickon!" Edda's voice echoed through the corridor, her hurried footsteps slapping against the worn stone. She rounded the corner at full speed, dark curls bouncing wildly around her flushed face. "Have you 'eard? Everyone's talking about it in the kitchens. Lord Stark—"
Edda's warm brown eyes widened as she skidded to a halt before him. She was breathing hard, clearly having run through half the castle to find him. "They say 'e sat on the Iron Throne.'"
Edda was a young smallfolk girl of Rickon's age who was the bastard daughter of a cook. She had become a playmate of Rickon's.
"Not exactly the Iron Throne," Rickon corrected, though his silver-grey eyes gleamed with unmistakable pride. "Father would never sit upon it. He administered justice from its foot."
Edda bounced on her toes, her short brown hair flopping around face, and her scraped knees visible beneath her woolen dress. "But that's even more impressive, isn't it? Everyone says so! Standing before the throne rather than upon it, like e's saying the North bows to no one, not even when we rule!"
They slipped away from the busy corridor, finding refuge in the small alcove near the kitchens where they often shared secrets. The smell of baking bread wafted around them, comforting and warm against the persistent chill of Winterfell's stones.
"They're calling him the Hand who held a sword instead of a pin," Rickon grinned. "Father condemned twenty-two men to death for their treachery. He executed them himself with Ice."
Edda's eyes widened to perfect circles. "All o' them? With Ice? Jus' like the old ways?"
"Just like the old ways," Rickon nodded solemnly. "The southerners have never seen northern justice before. Father made them watch as he swung the blade himself."
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Another raven arrived a week later. As Maester Ketten read the the scroll, his weathered face drawn into lines of contemplation. "It seems your lord father's campaign has reached its conclusion," he said, his voice carrying across the solar where Rickon sat upon a cushioned stool, legs dangling well above the stone floor.
Rickon blinked, the words washing over him like waves upon a distant shore. These concepts swirled in his mind, half-formed and nebulous. He knew his father had gone away with many men on horses, their breath steaming in the cold morning air as they departed through Winterfell's gates. The memory felt both fresh and impossibly distant, as if viewed through clouded glass.
"Does this mean Father returns?" he asked, his small voice carrying a solemnity that often startled those who served House Stark.
Before the maester could answer, the door burst open and Sara Snow strode in, her face alight with rare animation. "The ravens are coming thick as summer snow now," she announced. "Cregan rides north with the host. He sends word to prepare for his return, and a wedding."
"A wedding?" Rickon echoed, the word familiar yet strange on his tongue.
"Aye, little wolf," Sara said, picking him up and plopping in her lap. "Your father takes a new wife. Lady Alysanne of House Blackwood. The ceremony is to be held in our very own godswood, beneath the heart tree's watching eyes."
The godswood. Rickon felt a curious tingle at the base of his skull whenever he thought of that ancient place. His father often took him there when he was at home.
"When will they arrive?" Maester Ketten asked, already calculating provisions and accommodations.
"A fortnight, perhaps less if the weather holds," Sara replied. "The northern host has disbanded at the Neck, each lord returning to his own keep, but Lord Stark rides hard for Winterfell with his bride's party."
Rickon slipped from his stool, suddenly restless. A new mother. The thought was confusing, he had never known his birth mother, who had died bringing him into the world. What was a mother meant to be? What would this Blackwood lady expect of him?
"Come, Rickon," Sara said, extending her hands. "Let us walk to the godswood. The old gods should hear your thoughts."
As they traversed the corridors of Winterfell, servants bustled past with renewed purpose, the news of Lord Stark's imminent return already spreading like wildfire. Preparations for a wedding would soon consume the entire castle. Rickon felt the change in the air, a shift in the rhythm of the great stone fortress that was his home.
The godswood greeted them with its primeval silence, snow crunching beneath their boots as they approached the heart tree.
"The lady comes from the south, but she keeps the old gods," Sara murmured, her breath forming clouds in the chill air. "A Blackwood, descended from the First Men, like us Northerners."
Rickon placed his small palm against the heart tree's rough bark. Something stirred within him, a sensation both familiar and alien, like remembering a dream he had never dreamt. The carved face seemed to watch him, its sap-red eyes knowing.
"Bloodraven," a voice whispered.
"Will she..." he began, unsure how to form the question burning in his mind.
"Will she love you?" Sara finished for him, her eyes kind. "That remains to be seen, little wolf. But remember this, you are the blood of Winterfell, and these stones know you. These trees remember you."
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The fortnight passed in a blur of preparations. Rickon watched as Winterfell transformed itself from a stern northern fortress into something approaching festivity. Banners unfurled from towers, their direwolves snapping in the brisk wind. The scent of roasting meat and baking bread wafted constantly from the kitchens, where harried cooks prepared for the great feast to welcome home the lord of Winterfell and his new bride.
Wintertown, usually dormant until the deep snows of winter, buzzed with activity. Merchants had appeared seemingly overnight, their carts laden with wares rarely seen in the North, bolts of fine southern cloth, exotic spices, and trinkets from distant ports. Children darted between stalls, their laughter carrying on the wind while their parents haggled over prices inflated for the occasion.
On the morning of his father's expected arrival, Rickon woke before dawn, his stomach knotted with a curious mixture of anticipation and dread. He dressed carefully, refusing the help of the serving girl who usually assisted with his formal attire. The wool of his doublet scratched at his neck, freshly embroidered with running wolves in silver thread.
"You look a proper little lord," Aunt Sara remarked when he appeared for breakfast, her eyes softening as she straightened his collar. "Your father will be proud."
Rickon nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat. Would his father be proud? And what of this new lady, this Black Aly from the south? Would she look at him and see only a child in her way, an obstacle between her and her new position?
By midday, Rickon stood at the gates of Winterfell, his small back straight despite the cold wind that cut through his cloak. The household had assembled in formal lines, from the highest steward to the lowest stableboy. Ser Hallis Glover stood beside him, grim-faced and watchful as always.
The distant thunder of hooves announced the approaching party before they came into view. Rickon's heart quickened as the northern host appeared on the horizon, their banners unfurling like dark wings against the pale sky.
His father rode at the head of the column, Ice strapped across his back, its hilt rising above his shoulder like a silent sentinel. The months away had changed him, his hair fell longer around his shoulders, his face more deeply lined than Rickon remembered. Most striking was the thick, bushy brown beard that now covered his jaw, giving him the appearance of one of the wild mountain clansmen rather than the Lord of Winterfell.
And beside him, mounted on a chestnut palfrey, rode a dark-haired woman whose sharp eyes missed nothing as they swept across the assembled household.
"Lady Alysanne Blackwood," Ser Hallis Glover murmured beside Rickon. "Black Aly, they call her in the south. The soon to be Lady of Winterfell."
Rickon studied her with cautious intensity. She sat tall in her saddle, her posture speaking of a lifetime of careful cultivation. But her hair was a mane of thick black curls that tumbled down past her waist. The Blackwood raven was embroidered subtly at the collar of her riding dress, a reminder of her lineage despite her imminent transition to House Stark.
The party came to a halt before the gates. For a moment, silence fell over the courtyard, heavy with expectation. Then Lord Cregan dismounted in a fluid motion that belied his weariness from the long journey. His eyes found Rickon immediately, and something in his stern expression softened almost imperceptibly.
"My son," he said, his voice carrying across the yard.
Rickon stepped forward, remembering his courtesies despite the urge to run to his father like a much younger child. He bowed formally, as befitted the heir to Winterfell. "Welcome home, Father."
Cregan strode forward.
Strong arms encircled him, lifting him clear off the ground in a fierce, warm embrace that smelled of horse and leather and the road. "My son," Cregan's voice rumbled against him, deeper than Rickon remembered. "You've grown."
When his father set him down, Rickon found himself face to face with Lady Alysanne, who had dismounted with the assistance of a southern knight. Up close, he could see she was tall and thin, with a narrow oval face and high cheekbones. Her eyes were a light hazel, a mix of greens, browns, and golds; he could see the careful assessment in her gaze as she regarded him.
"My lady," Cregan said, his voice carrying an unfamiliar note that Rickon couldn't quite identify. "May I present my son and heir, Rickon Stark."
"My lord Rickon," she said, her voice melodious yet firm. She extended her hands, taking his small ones in her own. Her fingers were warm despite the northern chill. "I have heard much about you during our journey north. Your father speaks of you with great pride."
Rickon bowed as he had been taught, though his eyes never left her face. "Welcome to Winterfell, my lady. The North is honored by your presence."
Something flickered in her expression, surprise, perhaps, at his formal manner, before she smiled. It was a careful smile, measured and contained, but it reached her eyes nonetheless.
"The honor is mine, Lord Rickon. I look forward to knowing the North, and its people, better in the days to come."
As the household moved forward to welcome their lord home, Rickon found himself studying the woman who would become his stepmother. She moved with graceful efficiency, greeting each person presented to her with appropriate warmth while missing nothing of her surroundings. Her eyes constantly swept the courtyard, the walls, the people, cataloging, assessing, remembering.
The feast that night was unlike anything Winterfell had seen in years. The Great Hall blazed with torchlight, and the trestle tables groaned under the weight of venison, roast fowl, and freshly baked bread. Musicians played northern ballads interspersed with southern tunes that sounded strange yet not unpleasant to Rickon's ears.
From his place at the high table, Rickon watched the revelry below. His father sat beside him, deep in conversation with Lady Alysanne, their heads inclined toward one another. The lord's expression remained stern as ever, but there was something in his posture, a slight softening of the shoulders, perhaps, that Rickon had rarely seen before.
"She negotiated terms with him, you know," Sara murmured, appearing at his side with a cup of water. "Before she agreed to the marriage. That's what they're saying in the kitchens."
"He spared Lord Corlys Velaryon, for her hand in marriage."
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Dawn broke pale and solemn over Winterfell on the day of the wedding. Rickon stood at his window, watching as the first golden rays filtered through the ancient pines, casting long shadows across the snow-covered courtyard. The castle had fallen into an expectant hush, the revelry of the previous nights giving way to something older, something sacred.
Three days had passed since his father's return, three days of feasts and introductions, of northern lords arriving to pay homage to their liege and witness the union. Yet today would be different. Today was for the old gods.
When Rickon made his way to the godswood, the path had already been cleared of snow, revealing dark earth beneath. He followed the winding trail, his footsteps silent against the soft ground. The air grew still as he ventured deeper into the ancient grove, the sounds of the castle fading until all he could hear was his own breath, forming small clouds in the cold morning air.
The heart tree waited at the center, its bone-white bark gleaming in the filtered sunlight, its blood-red leaves rustling despite the absence of wind. The face carved into its trunk seemed more alive today, its sap-weeping eyes watching as the small procession began to form around its massive girth.
Lord Cregan stood before the weirwood, clad not in finery but in simple northern garb of leather and wool, the Stark colors muted against the white bark. Ice was unsheathed, its Valyrian steel blade catching the light in ripples of darkness as it rested point-down before him. The great sword seemed to drink in the shadows cast by the heart tree's canopy.
Beside him stood Lord Cley Cerwyn, his father's closest friend. He would be conducting the ceremony today.
Rickon found his place at his father's side, feeling the weight of the moment press upon his small shoulders. The godswood had never felt so ancient to him, so aware. The carved face in the weirwood seemed to watch him with peculiar intensity, and he felt a strange tingling at the base of his skull, as if something were trying to reach out to him through the bark and sap.
"The old gods are watching today," his father said quietly, his voice barely carrying beyond Rickon's ears. "They remember when the First Men came to these lands, when the Children of the Forest carved these faces. They remember the pact made in those days, sealed in blood and promise."
Before Rickon could respond, a hush fell over the gathered witnesses. Lady Alysanne approached through the trees, her path lined with winter roses and weirwood leaves. She wore no maiden's cloak in the southern fashion, only a simple dress of Stark grey with subtle Blackwood embroidery at the sleeves. Her dark hair hung loose down her back, adorned only with a crown of weirwood leaves, their red stark against her black tresses.
She moved with measured grace to stand before the heart tree, her eyes meeting Cregan's with unwavering directness. There was no septon to speak the words, no elaborate ceremony as in the south. In the North, marriage before the old gods required only truth, witnessed by the heart tree and those gathered.
"Who comes before the old gods this day?" Lord Cerwyn asked, his normally boisterous voice subdued in the sacred space.
"Alysanne of House Blackwood," she replied, her voice clear in the stillness. "A woman grown and flowered, of noble birth and noble blood. I come to be wed."
"Who claims her?" Lord Cerwyn continued.
"Cregan of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North," his father's voice rumbled, deep as the roots beneath their feet. "I claim her."
Lord Cerwyn nodded, then asked, "Lady Alysanne, do you take this man?"
"I take this man," she answered without hesitation.
"Lord Cregan, do you take this woman?"
"I take this woman," Cregan affirmed.
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the rustle of the weirwood's leaves. Then Cregan lifted Ice from where it rested against the heart tree. The great sword caught the light filtering through the canopy, its dark ripples seeming to move like water across its surface.
"The old way," he said, "requires blood freely given before the gods."
Rickon watched, transfixed, as his father turned the great sword in his hands, presenting its edge rather than its point. With deliberate care, Cregan drew the blade across his palm, opening a clean line that welled with dark blood. Without flinching, Lady Alysanne extended her hand to receive the same mark, her eyes never leaving the carved face of the heart tree as the Valyrian steel kissed her flesh.
Their bloodied hands clasped together before the weirwood, red drops falling to the dark earth at the base of the ancient tree. The wind picked up suddenly, sending the heart tree's leaves into a frenzied dance above their heads, a whisper of countless voices seeming to rise from the rustling canopy.
"Blood of my blood," Cregan intoned, the words ancient and binding.
"Bone of my bone," Alysanne responded.
Together they pressed their joined hands against the white bark of the heart tree, leaving a stark red handprint that mingled with the weeping sap of the carved face. Rickon felt a shiver run down his spine as the blood seemed to sink into the bark, absorbed by the living wood of the ancient tree.
In that moment, the godswood itself seemed to hold its breath. The air grew heavy with something Rickon could not name but could feel pressing against his skin, old and watchful. The carved face of the heart tree appeared to shift slightly, as if truly seeing the union before it, remembering and recording it in ways beyond human understanding.
His father unwrapped a length of cloth from his belt, Stark grey, and bound their wounded hands together, tying them with a knot that would leave them joined until the ceremony's conclusion. Blood seeped through the fabric, marking the binding in crimson testimony.
"What the old gods witness cannot be undone," Cregan declared to the assembled lords and ladies. "Lady Alysanne Blackwood is now Lady Stark of Winterfell, under the protection of myself and my house."
A solemn murmur of acknowledgment passed through the gathered witnesses, northern lords nodding with grave approval at the adherence to the old ways. Even the southerners among Lady Alysanne's retinue seemed touched by the primitive solemnity of the ceremony, so different from the pageantry of the Faith.
As they turned from the heart tree, still bound by the bloodied cloth, Rickon caught Lady Alysanne, now Lady Stark, watching him. There was something assessing in her gaze, but not unkind. She inclined her head to him slightly.
The procession began to move back toward the castle, where a feast awaited to celebrate the union, but Rickon lingered for a moment, drawn by some inexplicable urge to remain in the presence of the heart tree. As the others departed, he approached the ancient weirwood, gazing up at the carved face with its sap-red tears.
The handprint left by his father and new stepmother remained vivid against the white bark, the blood already darkening as it mingled with the tree's sap. Rickon reached out his small hand, not quite touching the mark but hovering near it, feeling a strange warmth radiating from the spot despite the winter chill.
"The old gods remember," he whispered, echoing his father's words. The tingling at the base of his skull intensified, and for the briefest moment, he thought he felt something, someone, reaching back to him through the ancient wood.
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The great hall of Winterfell blazed with light that evening, a hundred tallow candles casting their golden glow upon the weathered stone walls. Rickon sat beside his father at the high table, watching as servants weaved between the crowded benches bearing platters heaped with steaming food. The scent of roasted meats mingled with the sharp tang of wine and the earthy aroma of fresh-baked bread, creating a heady perfume that filled the cavernous space.
Before him lay a feast fit for the gods themselves. Venison haunches glistened with honey glaze, their edges charred and crackling. Whole trout from the White Knife had been baked in clay with winter herbs, their flesh flaking at the touch of a knife. Platters of roasted root vegetables, glazed with butter and sprinkled with salt harvested from the Bay of Seals, sat alongside bowls of steaming pease porridge thick enough to stand a spoon in. The kitchens had outdone themselves with meat pies sealed with golden crusts, their centers revealing savory fillings of rabbit, pigeon, and wild boar when broken open.
Wine flowed like water, northern strongwine for the lords and sweet arbor gold for those with southern palates. Even the smallfolk seated at the lower tables received generous portions, their cups refilled whenever they emptied. The celebration of his father's marriage demanded nothing less than abundance, a display of Winterfell's prosperity under Stark rule.
Rickon observed his father and Lady Alysanne, Lady Stark now, seated together at the center of the high table. His father's stern countenance had softened somewhat, his weathered face occasionally breaking into what might almost be called a smile as he conversed with his new wife. Lady Alysanne herself cracked jokes and laughed loudly, though Rickon noticed how her dark eyes constantly surveyed the hall, missing nothing of the dynamics playing out before her.
The heat from the great hearths made the hall uncommonly warm, and the din of conversation grew louder as the wine took effect. Rickon picked at his food, his stomach fluttering with nervous anticipation. He had been practicing for days, sneaking away to empty chambers with Aunt Sara to prepare his gift.
During a lull in the music, when the minstrels paused to rest their fingers and wet their throats, Rickon gathered his courage. He turned to his father, the words catching briefly in his throat before he managed to speak them.
"Father," he said, his voice soft enough that only those nearest could hear, "might I perform a song for you and Lady Stark?"
Cregan turned to him, surprise evident in the slight raising of his bushy eyebrows. "A song, Rickon?"
"I have been practicing," Rickon added, his silver-grey eyes meeting his father's darker ones. "With Aunt Sara's guidance."
Something passed across his father's face then, an emotion Rickon couldn't quite name. After a moment's consideration, Cregan nodded. "Very well, son."
A hush fell over the hall as Rickon rose from his seat, all eyes turning toward the small figure of the Stark heir. He moved to stand before the high table, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged bird.
He took a deep breath, centering himself as Aunt Sara had taught him, and began to sing. His voice, high and clear as a mountain stream, filled the great hall with unexpected sweetness. The song was an old northern ballad of love and loyalty, of a warrior who returned from battle to find his beloved waiting faithful through the long winter.
The melody wove through the smoky air of the hall, touching something ancient in the stones themselves. Rickon's young voice carried emotion beyond his years, each note pure and true. As he sang of winter's end and spring's promise, he saw his father's expression transform, the stern lines of his face softening into something vulnerable and unguarded.
When the final note faded into silence, the hall remained still for a heartbeat before erupting into appreciative murmurs and applause. Rickon's cheeks flushed with pride as he bowed, first to his father and Lady Alysanne, then to the assembled guests.
"Well done, little wolf," Lady Alysanne said as he returned to his seat, her voice carrying a warmth he hadn't heard before. "You have a gift."
His father said nothing, but placed a heavy hand on Rickon's shoulder, squeezing gently. That silent gesture spoke volumes, conveying more than any words could have expressed.
Later, as the evening drew on and the younger children were escorted to their beds, Rickon lingered, watching the changing dynamics of the feast. The formality of earlier hours had given way to something looser, more genuine. Northern lords now mingled with Lady Alysanne's southern retainers, sharing stories and comparing martial skills with the easy camaraderie that wine often fostered.
A raucous noise erupted from the lower tables. Lord Beron Umber rose to his full, imposing height, his massive frame swaying slightly with the evening's indulgences, his voice thundering across the hall like a storm breaking over the Wall.
"MY LORDS AND LADIES! The hour grows late, and our Lord has a new bride waiting!" His enormous fist pounded the wooden table, sending cups jumping and wine sloshing. "TIME FOR THE BEDDING!"
The hall erupted into cheers and howls, benches scraping against stone as men and women leapt to their feet. Rickon's eyes widened as he watched the transformation come over his father's face, the stern Lord of Winterfell suddenly broke into wild, uninhibited laughter, his head thrown back, teeth flashing through his thick beard.
In one fluid motion that belied his size, Cregan vaulted over the high table and swept Lady Alysanne into his arms. She let out a startled gasp that melted into laughter, her dark hair tumbling down as her carefully arranged braids came undone. For a brief moment, Rickon glimpsed something he had never seen before, his father's eyes alive with boyish mischief, the weight of lordship temporarily cast aside.
"If you want a proper bedding, you'll have to catch us!" Cregan roared, and then he was moving, his long legs carrying him and his bride through the hall with remarkable speed, her skirts billowing behind them as they fled toward the stairs.
The crowd surged after them like a wave breaking against the shore, ladies reaching for Lord Stark while men pursued Lady Alysanne with good-natured jests. Rickon found himself pressed against the wall as the revelers streamed past, their faces flushed with wine and excitement.
"What's happening?" he asked, tugging at Aunt Sara's sleeve as she appeared beside him, her eyes dancing with amusement.
"The bedding ceremony, little wolf," she explained, keeping her voice low. "An old tradition. The men will escort your father's bride to the marriage bed, removing her garments along the way, while the women do the same to your father. It's meant to bring luck to the marriage."
Rickon watched as the last of the crowd disappeared up the spiral staircase, their bawdy songs echoing down the stone corridor. The great hall felt suddenly empty, abandoned cups and half-eaten food scattered across the tables. Only the oldest lords remained seated, too dignified or too weary to participate in the raucous tradition.
"Come," Aunt Sara said, gently guiding him toward the exit. "This part of the celebration is not for children's eyes. It's time you were abed as well."
As they walked the quiet corridors toward his chambers, Rickon could still hear distant laughter and singing from above, the sounds growing fainter with each step. Something strange stirred in his chest, a mixture of happiness for his father and an unnamed melancholy. The world was changing around him, shifting like the shadows cast by the torches against Winterfell's ancient stones.
In his chamber, as Aunt Sara helped him prepare for bed, he gazed out the narrow window at the godswood beyond. The heart tree would be standing sentinel in the darkness, its red leaves rustling with secrets. He thought of the blood that had been pressed against its bark that morning, his father's and Lady Alysanne's mingled together, absorbed by the ancient wood.
"Will things be different now?" he asked as Aunt Sara tucked the furs around him.
She paused, considering his question with the seriousness it deserved. "Some things will change, yes. Lady Alysanne will bring new customs, new ideas. But the important things, your father's love for you, your place here at Winterfell, those remain as solid as these walls."
Rickon nodded, though uncertainty lingered in his mind. He had seen how his father looked at Lady Alysanne, a softness in his eyes that Rickon had rarely witnessed before.
Would there be room in his father's heart for both of them?
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