Tormund poked Rick's cheek, and without even thinking, Rick batted his hand away in annoyance.
"I still can't believe it," Tormund said, his voice full of disbelief.
"Me neither," Rick replied, his tone flat, as he scooped another spoonful of warm, hearty soup into his mouth.
"I don't care if you believe it or not. I have my mate back, and that's all that matters," Alexstrasza said, a smug, satisfied smirk on her face from the other side of the table. Freyja, sitting beside her, nodded in agreement, her posture radiating pride.
"They think you're a god," Tormund remarked casually, waving a hand to the Free Folk seated around them. The simple folk, most of them still in awe of what they had witnessed, could barely take their eyes off Rick.
"They only needed to see the size of his—"
"Ygritte! That's MY husband you're talking about!" Val interjected sharply, her voice filled with mock sternness.
"I'm not! I'm talking about his—"
"I know, I'm aware. I'm the one taking it every night!" Val shot back, her smirk mischievous and triumphant, as she casually leaned back in her seat.
"I can confirm," Alexstrasza and Freyja said in perfect unison, both of them delivering the line with a tone of pure amusement, their eyes glinting with playful affection.
Rick, his face now a deep shade of red, slammed his spoon into the bowl and buried his face in his hands, trying to block out the teasing. His uncles, cousin, and the others at the table snickered, but Rick said nothing. There was no point in arguing; his face said it all.
The moment of lightheartedness quickly faded as Rick's mind wandered, the reality of the battle and its aftermath creeping back into his thoughts. The victorious feeling was still there, but it was tainted by the immense cost of their triumph. Forty thousand men and women had fallen. A bit more than a third of their entire army. So many lives lost.
Among the fallen were some of the most significant figures in the North's history. Jeor Mormont, the 997th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, had been killed in battle, but not before taking down a White Walker in his final act of defiance. Benjen Stark had been elected his successor in the wake of his death. Rickard Karstark had lost his second son. Mors Umber, Roose Bolton, and his bastard—so many important names had perished.
Rick hardly knew them all personally, but he couldn't help but feel the weight of the loss. Forty thousand dead, and yet it could have been worse. At least his companions, his family, had made it through.
The fallen lords and ladies were given the respect their status demanded. Those who had families and specific burial rites were laid to rest as was customary. For the others, Alexstrasza had burned their bodies with dragon fire, turning them to ash in the fierce, unrelenting flames.
It had been a week since the battle, and life beyond the Wall was slowly adjusting. The Free Folk, many of whom had taken refuge in the Gift and New Gift, were now crossing the Wall in small groups, heading to the lands beyond. Some of them had asked if they could stay in the South, particularly those who had come to respect Rick and his companions. After much negotiation and debate, Greatjon Umber and Ned Stark had agreed to the proposal, but under the condition that they respected the laws of the land while outside the Gift. Inside it, they could follow their own customs. But they would not kneel.
Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, had announced his intention to make Hardhome a true city, a place for the Free Folk to settle and flourish beyond the Wall. He still held the title of king and planned to open trade with the Northern Lords, and perhaps even with Essos, in hopes of giving his people a better future. However, to achieve this, he needed ships. Rick promised to help him, offering his word that he would see what could be done.
Lord Manderly, ever the practical man, had also offered his services, though not without expectation of compensation. The Free Folk didn't have much in terms of wealth, but they had dragon hides and some Valyrian steel to offer. In exchange, they would need cattle and grain that could survive the harsh cold, but it was a fair trade.
The peace between the Free Folk and the Night's Watch was tenuous but holding. It would not last forever. Many clans and tribes had put aside their long-held grudges against the Watch for the sake of the war against the dead, but with the battle won, those old animosities would resurface. Some Free Folk would return to their original dwellings beyond the Wall. Others would stay with Mance Rayder, determined to make Hardhome a thriving settlement. How long the peace would last, no one knew, but for now, it was enough.
The night was cold, the fire flickering weakly in the corner of the room, casting long shadows on the stone walls. Rick sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze distant, lost in thought. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, heavier than the armor he'd worn during the battle, heavier than the burden of leadership. Tomorrow, he would leave the Wall. Eddard Stark had called for him to return to Winterfell, and from there, his journey would take him south and then across the narrow sea to Essos. He had to go. He didn't want to, but he had to.
Val sat beside him, her fingers intertwined with his, but even her touch couldn't ease the tightness in his chest. Her presence was all he could focus on—her warmth, her closeness—but even that felt like it was slipping away from him, like sand through his fingers. Tomorrow, they would part ways, and everything felt too final.
"I don't want to leave," Rick murmured, his voice rough.
Val didn't say anything at first. She didn't need to. She knew. She could see it in his eyes, the conflict between duty and desire. She'd known from the moment they'd met that Rick wasn't the type to stay where he didn't belong. He was always moving, always following the call of something greater. And she loved him for it. But tonight, the finality of it stung more than she wanted to admit.
"You have to," Val said quietly, her voice steady, but there was a catch in it that betrayed the emotion she was trying so hard to keep hidden. "You have to go, Rick. You don't have a choice."
He turned to look at her then, searching her face for any sign that she might ask him to stay, even though he knew she wouldn't. She never had. She knew what it meant for him to leave, and she wouldn't stop him from doing what he had to. But that didn't make it easier. Nothing could make it easier.
"I wish I didn't," Rick said, his thumb brushing her knuckles. "But I know I do."
There was a long silence. The crackling fire filled the quiet, but the space between them felt endless. It wasn't just the miles that would separate them. It was the time, the uncertainty of what the future held, the possibility that when he returned, she might not be there.
Val leaned her head against his shoulder, her breath warm against his skin. She closed her eyes, letting the moment stretch out, just the two of them, savoring what little time they had left. She felt his heartbeat under her cheek, steady and strong. She tried to hold onto that, to hold onto him, to remind herself that even though they were about to be separated, nothing could take away what they had.
"I'll wait for you," Val whispered, her voice muffled against his shirt. "No matter how long it takes."
Rick's throat tightened at the words. He wasn't sure if he could keep the promise she was asking of him. He wasn't sure if he would ever be the same again. But one thing he knew was that he couldn't do this without her. He had to go. But in the back of his mind, there was always the hope that they would find their way back to each other.
He pulled back slightly, lifting her chin so she had no choice but to look into his eyes. His gaze was intense, filled with raw emotion as he spoke, his voice low but steady. "Val," he began, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw, "you own me. Heart, body, and soul. And that's why I'll come back to you. One day. Once I've done what I need to do... I will return to you, and nothing—nothing—will ever change that."
Her eyes softened, the walls she had built around herself cracking just enough to let the tears she had been holding back fall. She knew the weight of his words. He was bound to something greater, something bigger than the two of them, but he was still hers. He always would be.
"You better," Val whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she reached up to cup his face. "You better, or I'll come after you and gut you."
Rick chuckled, the sound rough but warm, as he kissed her forehead softly. "I don't think you'd have to. I'll always find my way back to you, Val. Always."
And then, without another word, they kissed—soft and slow, as though they both knew it might be the last time they had the chance to do so. The kiss tasted of salt and sorrow, of everything left unsaid, of promises made and promises broken. When they finally broke apart, neither of them spoke, but the tears in Val's eyes said everything that words could not.
Rick held her close, his hand gently cradling the back of her head, fingers threading through the soft strands of her hair as he pulled her into the warmth of his chest. Her breath, shallow and warm against his skin, mingled with his own, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. The weight of their love, the ache of parting, hung in the air like a heavy, unspoken truth.
He held her as if by holding her tightly enough, he could keep her locked in this moment forever. But he knew, deep down, that tomorrow would come. Tomorrow, he would leave. His duty would take him far from her, and she would remain here, waiting. Waiting for the day when the distance between them would shrink, when he could return and hold her like this again.
Yet, for tonight, none of that mattered.
Tonight, they had each other. All the things unsaid, all the words that hung between them like fragile threads, were finally put to rest in the quiet, steady rhythm of their hearts. It was a night that belonged solely to them—a fleeting, precious moment where nothing else existed outside of their shared breath, their shared warmth.
With a low sigh, Rick's lips found hers, a soft, almost tender kiss that deepened quickly, an urgency pulsing beneath it. The soft press of his mouth against hers felt like a desperate promise, an unspoken vow that despite the separation that loomed, they would always find their way back to one another. His hands moved slowly, almost reverently, tracing the curves of her body, memorizing every inch, every contour as though she might slip away the moment he lost sight of her.
Val responded in kind, her hands exploring him as though she, too, needed to commit every part of him to memory. Her fingers traced the hard line of his jaw, the familiar strength of his shoulders, the warmth of his chest that had always been her sanctuary. She could feel the tension in him, the way he held back, as if trying to prevent the inevitable farewell from touching this sacred moment.
But neither of them could hold back for long.
The air between them thickened, charged with something primal, something that only the two of them could understand. Their kisses grew deeper, more desperate, as though they could somehow make time stand still, as though they could defy the world with just this connection. The rhythm of their bodies became one—a delicate dance of giving and taking, of touching and being touched. Every movement, every sigh, every soft whisper of breath was an unspoken promise.
Rick's hands moved lower, his touch searing against her skin, gentle yet demanding. His body pressed into hers, pulling her closer until they were a single entity, intertwined in a way that was far more than physical. It was as if their souls had fused together, as if in this single moment, they were no longer two separate beings but one—bound not by time, not by space, but by a love that could not be severed by any force.
Val's breath hitched as their bodies aligned, a soft gasp escaping her lips, but there was no hesitation. She responded to him fully, completely, her own hands trailing down his back to pull him closer still. They fit together in a way that felt inevitable, as though the universe itself had designed them for this very moment. There was no room for doubt, no space for anything but the pure, raw emotion of being together.
They moved together in a slow, rhythmic dance, the world outside fading into nothingness. All that remained was the sensation of their skin, the heat between them, and the knowledge that this was their final night together—for now. Every touch was a memory, every kiss a promise that they would endure the separation, that they would return to one another, no matter the distance.
And for one last time, they became one.
Their hearts, their bodies, their souls—bound in a love that transcended all. The world could have crumbled around them, and it wouldn't have mattered. For in this moment, they were eternal.
Just before exhaustion finally claimed them, Val reached for her knife. Rick blinked, too tired to ask, but curious enough to watch. She took her braid in hand and, without hesitation, cut it clean at the base.
For a moment, she simply stared at the thick length of hair in her hands. Then, with a sigh, she tossed the knife aside and began tying the ends together so it wouldn't unravel. Once it was secure, she placed it gently in his hands.
"To make sure you never forget," she said softly.
Before he could find any words, she silenced him with a kiss—gentle, lingering, final.
Then she laid her head on his chest, her body curling against his, and after a few quiet heartbeats, sleep found them both.
"So that's Winterfell," Rick said, his voice carrying the weight of awe as his eyes drifted up to take in the vastness of the looming structure. It was more than just a castle—it was a fortress, built to withstand any enemy, from men to the elements themselves. The dark stone walls, towering and impregnable, stretched toward the sky like a monument to endurance. It sat solid and unyielding, much like the people who called it home.
"Aye, it is," Robb replied, standing beside Rick, his posture stiff and proud. The northern chill that hung in the air didn't seem to bother him, though the gusts of wind sent sharp pinpricks of cold against Rick's skin. His eyes were soft, but the pride in his voice was undeniable as he looked up at the family home.
"Looks more like a fortress than a castle," Rick mused aloud, his gaze narrowing as he took in the imposing battlements and the thick, weathered stone. "Impressive fortress, though."
"Second biggest after Harrenhal," Ned responded with the calm, authoritative tone Rick had grown used to hearing from his uncle. There was a certain quiet pride in his words, but also a weight of responsibility that came with managing a place of such importance.
Rick raised an eyebrow. "How do you deal with the heat in something that big?"
Ned smiled slightly, as if he had answered this question countless times before. "Pipes into the walls. The hot water from the underground hot springs runs through them. Keeps the place warm no matter the season."
"No matter the season, it's always warm inside," Robb added, his voice laced with a note of pride. He had spent his entire life in these cold northern halls and knew no other way.
Rick let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. "The builder was really a genius."
As the group moved forward, the deep rumble of Freyja's bark echoed across the snow-covered fields, cutting through the air like a thunderclap. Rick turned instinctively to look at her, and Alexstrasza, seated atop the massive direwolf, grinned in amusement.
"He was, she said," Alexstrasza replied, her voice both clear and melodic, translating the wolf's thoughts.
Ned blinked, as though momentarily startled by the reply coming from an enormous, talking direwolf. Then, as if this was becoming all too familiar, his gaze softened and he looked up at Freyja. "I forgot you were there at the time, my Lady."
Rick chuckled, his hand running through his hair in a casual gesture. "It's easy to forget when she looks no older than twenty and something name days," he said, his words accompanied by a soft laugh. The sight of Freyja, so regal and powerful in her direwolf form, was something Rick had grown accustomed to, though he knew it still took others by surprise.
"Aye, that's true," Ned agreed with a light smile, his own tone betraying a certain familiarity with the enormous creature. The days of strange looks and confused glances were behind them now. The wild, mythical creature of the North was beginning to feel more like family than anything else.
The group continued forward, the thud of their horses' hooves mingling with the crunch of snow beneath them. The air was heavy with anticipation—Rick knew that behind those massive walls, his arrival was sure to stir up a great deal of attention. There were old friends to see, old bonds to strengthen, and old grudges to address.
"Tell me, Robb," Rick asked with a teasing lilt to his voice, glancing sideways at his cousin, "How deep in shit are you with your mother?"
Robb's dry, wry laugh cut through the tension of the moment. "If I ever set foot outside my chamber before I'm fifty name days, I'd be lucky."
Rick grinned, knowing that Robb's mother, Catelyn Stark, was notorious for her overprotectiveness of her children, especially her eldest son. "Oh, don't worry, she won't be on your hide so much. She'd be on mine," Ned cut in, his voice filled with an affectionate but rueful tone.
"Father, are you well?" Robb asked, his brow furrowing in concern as he turned toward his father. "This is mother we're talking about."
"Yes, I'm well," Ned replied, but there was a slight edge to his voice—a small admission of guilt. "I just forgot to tell her about Rick."
Robb's eyes widened, the realization dawning on him with an almost audible shift. "Oh," he muttered, looking ahead as though lost in thought.
Rick, sensing the sudden shift in the conversation, raised an eyebrow. "That I was coming?"
"No," Ned answered, glancing at Rick with a half-smile, "That you were in the North. She may think you're my bastard, or Brandon's. That, and Lady Freyja in her direwolf form..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I'm going to get an earful."
Rick laughed softly, the sound low and comfortable in the crisp air. "Well, thankfully, that won't last long. Just until you introduce me properly."
"Aye," Ned agreed, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It was a moment of levity, a brief but welcomed distraction from the tension that loomed over their arrival.
They passed through the massive gates of Winterfell, the heavy wooden doors groaning as they swung open to reveal the familiar, snow-covered courtyard beyond. The imposing walls of the fortress loomed over them, casting long shadows that stretched across the frost-kissed ground. The sound of horses' hooves reverberated off the stone, mingling with the crisp northern air as they made their way toward the center of the keep.
As Rick looked around, he felt a strange mixture of nostalgia and trepidation. This place, this ancient home of the Starks, had always felt like the very heart of the North—a place where strength and duty were one and the same. Yet now, as he rode through the gates, it felt more like a chapter that was about to close
As they reached the courtyard, Rick's eyes caught sight of a familiar figure. A woman with bright red hair, standing just beyond a group of children. Her eyes locked onto him, her face twisting in a mixture of disbelief and fear. And then he understood—this was his aunt, Catelyn Stark. What truly captured his attention was the way her gaze was fixed not on him, but on Freyja who he was riding on.
Before Rick could react, Ned dismounted first, his movements deliberate and practiced. He took a moment to adjust his cloak and straighten his posture, then turned toward his wife, who was now stepping forward from the crowd.
Catelyn's expression softened slightly when she saw him, but the tension in her shoulders was palpable. She had always been a woman of intense emotion, and her love for her family was unwavering, but there was a depth to her fear now—a fear of what her husband had brought home with him, or perhaps, more specifically, who he had brought with him.
Ned took a step toward her, his gaze gentle but firm. "Catelyn," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of both years of marriage and the harsh realities of the world they lived in.
Catelyn's eyes flicked between Rick and Freyja, her hand instinctively moving to the children at her side, as though trying to shield them from whatever the direwolf represented.
Before Catelyn could utter a single word, Ned stepped forward and spoke first, his voice calm but firm. "I brought our son home… but also our nephew, Prince Aemon."
Her eyes widened in stunned disbelief. She looked to Rick, seated atop the massive white direwolf, her expression flickering with confusion, then suspicion. Rick slid down from Freyja's back with practiced ease, landing lightly on his feet. He turned to face Ned, who gave him a quiet, solemn nod.
"We're going to talk about this, Ned," Catelyn said, her voice tight with tension and more than a hint of anger.
"Yes," Ned agreed, "but later. And by the way… our nephew has never been here. Never."
"Wh—" She began, but the look he gave her—the same quiet, unmovable look that once silenced lords and knights alike—froze her words on her tongue. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"…Fine. I'll keep quiet. And I'll make sure the servants say nothing either," she muttered.
"Mother!" Robb stepped in quickly, wrapping his arms around her with relief.
"Oh, Robb. You foolish boy," she whispered, embracing him tightly as though she could shield him from every danger he'd seen. She pulled back, her eyes scanning his face and frame, searching for wounds, for anything missing or broken.
While she clung to her son, Ned moved to his younger children, kneeling to hold them in his arms, his face softening with joy as he looked on the children he hadn't seen in over a year.
Robb gently led his mother back to center, gesturing toward Rick.
"Mother, this is Prince Aemon… though he prefers to be called Rick."
Rick offered a respectful half-bow. "A pleasure to meet you, Lady Stark."
Catelyn's posture stiffened slightly, but she answered with formality. "Likewise, Your Grace. Welcome to Winterfell." She offered a polite curtsy, her eyes quickly flicking between the boy and her husband.
Robb continued. "This is Alexstrasza, the Mother of Dragons," he said, indicating the tall red-haired woman with the ancient, commanding gaze. "And this…" he turned just as the great white direwolf shifted, bones and flesh melting and reforming until a breathtaking woman stood in its place, tall as a northern pine, her white hair flowing like snow in the wind—"this is Freyja, Mother of the North."
Catelyn's mouth parted slightly.
And then, without another word, her eyes rolled back and she collapsed on the spot.
Robb, quick on his feet, caught her before she hit the ground.
"That was so cool!" shouted Ned's youngest daughter, her grey eyes wide with excitement.
"Yeah!" his second son echoed, practically bouncing where he stood.
"You did that on purpose," Rick said, narrowing his eyes at Freyja as he knelt beside his aunt, helping Robb lift her gently.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Freyja replied, her tone flat and entirely unconvincing.
To anyone else, she might have seemed aloof, mysterious. But to those who knew her, the slight tilt of her lips and the too-neutral tone made it obvious—she was lying.
The Mother of the North, ancient and revered, rarely bothered to hide her disdain for the Faith of the Seven. As the messenger of the Old Gods, she had little patience for their rival creed, and even less for its devout followers. Catelyn Stark, ever faithful, had clearly rubbed her the wrong way—without even speaking a word.
Next to her, Alexstrasza let out a quiet snicker, barely bothering to hide her amusement behind a hand.
Ned opened his mouth, then closed it again. What could he possibly say to the Mother of the North? He was a mortal man—honorable, yes, but still just a man. He didn't have the authority, let alone the courage, to reprimand the living messenger of the Old Gods.
"At least young Robb avoided trouble for sure," Freyja added with a straight face.
Everyone turned and gave her the same flat, unimpressed look.
"What the fuck are you doing here?!" Maege roared the moment she spotted the red-bearded nuisance, her hand already on the morningstar at her hip.
"What? Can't I see my little she-bears?" Tormund replied with a grin that could only be described as infuriating.
"They're my little she-bears! Now fuck off back beyond the Wall!"
From the steps of the keep, Dacey, Alysanne, Lyra, Jorelle, and Brenda stood watching in silence. It wasn't often one got to witness this kind of bizarre spectacle—what clearly amounted to flirting between their mother and the wildling who, by blood, was their father.
Maege was all shouts, insults, and lethal swings. Tormund, for his part, dodged the blows with the agility of a much younger man, laughing the entire time and throwing in teasing jabs that only made her angrier.
"So... that's our father," Dacey muttered. She'd seen him once before, briefly, but they hadn't exchanged a single word.
"Yes," Alysanne confirmed flatly.
"A free folk," Dacey added, as if still trying to wrap her head around it.
"Aye. Tormund Giantsbane, Tall-talker, Horn-blower, and Breaker of Ice. The Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods and Father of Hosts... also Sky-Rider," Lyra recited proudly, practically glowing with admiration.
"Husband of bears, huh?" Dacey said with a smirk, clearly amused and impressed by her sire's absurd collection of titles.
"He's great!" Jorelle chirped, and to Dacey's surprise, all her sisters—even little Brenda—nodded enthusiastically.
"Get your ass out of my island!" Maege yelled, taking a wild swing that nearly took off Tormund's head.
"Mother," Dacey finally stepped forward, voice raised, "I'd like to get to know my father first."
"Thank you, little she-bear!" Tormund grinned, placing a hand over his heart.
"You can kill him later," she added, deadpan.
Tormund laughed, hearty and loud, like he hadn't nearly died three times in the last ten minutes.
"Fine!" Maege snapped, turning on her heel toward the keep. "Get your ass inside, you red-bearded bastard!"
"I knew she still loved me," Tormund beamed proudly, brushing dust from his furs.
"Who loves you, you stupid cunt?!" Maege's voice rang out from inside—and a heartbeat later, her morningstar came flying through the air. Tormund dove to the ground with a yelp just in time, the weapon embedding itself in the courtyard wall behind him with a bone-shaking thud.
"That's affection right there," he mumbled into the dirt, grinning like a madman and went on to pick his two youngest daughters in his arms as he went inside the keep.
"Ow, ow, ow! I surrender!" Smalljon Umber groaned, his face mashed into the dirt of the training yard.
Val stood proudly on his back, one foot planted squarely between his shoulder blades and the butt of her spear pressing firmly into the seat of his pants.
"You fight like a dead sheep," she quipped, twisting the spear just enough to make him grunt again.
From the sidelines, Greatjon Umber was howling with laughter, nearly doubled over, while his cousin Morna watched with a smirk tugging at her lips.
"Really?" Morna called out. "Didn't you teach your son that the only thing worse than an Umber was an Umber woman?"
"Aye, I did!" Greatjon wheezed, finally managing to rein in his laughter. "But you and your girl are the first women with Umber blood to set foot in Last Hearth in more than twenty years. The lad probably thought I was full of shit."
"Well, he's learning his lesson now," Morna said dryly, arms crossed.
"Better late than never," the old lord agreed as Val hopped off Smalljon and readied herself for another bout, twirling her spear casually.
Then Greatjon's tone shifted, quieter, more serious. "How is she?"
Morna's smile faded, and she gave a small shake of her head. "What do you think? She's heartbroken. Her husband left to do his duty."
"Shame that," Greatjon muttered.
"Aye. But he's the gods' champion. They've got use for him, and he can't exactly tell them to piss off. Not after everything…"
"I still can't believe they brought him back from the dead," Greatjon said, rubbing his jaw. "How maddening is that?"
"I know. Some of the free folk have started praying to him. Dumb cunts," she muttered.
"You said it, not me," Greatjon replied, rolling her eyes.
"Daughter!" she suddenly shouted, lifting her voice so Val could hear. "Stop playing around with your food!"
Smalljon, still wheezing in the dirt, groaned something unintelligible about never insulting women with spears again. Val just grinned.
They could have heard her from anywhere in Winterfell.
Catelyn Stark's voice tore through the ancient stone like a thunderclap in the middle of a quiet snowfall. It came from the solar—meant to be private—but it was anything but. The sound of her fury echoed down the corridors, bouncing off bannisters and hearths, shaking the still air of the old keep. Even the glass garden, delicate as it was under the heavy Northern sky, seemed to shiver under the weight of her rage. No one dared approach. No one needed to hear the words to know that the Lady of Winterfell had reached the peak of her fury.
After that tempest, Catelyn kept her distance—especially from Freyja and Alexstrasza. Something about seeing a direwolf shift into a stunning, ethereal woman had unsettled her deeply. It was unnatural, uncanny, and ancient in a way that touched something primal. She didn't speak much to either of them after that. Had she seen the dragon's true form, she might've gone quiet for good.
Still, Rick and his companions were treated with respect, and given a proper tour of the Stark stronghold.
They walked the worn paths of the godswood, where the red leaves whispered in the wind and the white bark of the heart tree stood like an old sentinel. Freyja had knelt beneath it, pressed her palm to its trunk, and closed her eyes for a long time. When she rose, she looked to Ned Stark with something like approval.
"It's the prettiest heart tree I've seen in eight thousand years," she said, voice soft as snowfall but heavy with memory.
Ned had blinked, visibly taken aback. But Rick saw the way his shoulders straightened, how he ducked his head like a boy given a rare compliment from his mother. For a man like Ned Stark, praise from a living memory of the Old Gods was no small thing. It was like hearing the voice of his ancestors and knowing he had done right by them.
That serenity didn't last.
Freyja's peace shattered the moment she laid eyes on the small sept—built modestly, yet purposefully, for Catelyn's southern gods. Her regal stillness gave way to a rage that boiled just beneath her skin. Her teeth bared. Her eyes gleamed with wild fury. A low, growling snarl rose from her throat, so primal and guttural it made the hairs on Rick's neck stand up.
Alexstrasza had to restrain her from behind, arms wrapped tight around her waist, murmuring something in Valyrian that sounded like an old lullaby. Freyja's form didn't shift, but her rage nearly set the stones alight.
"She's the messenger of the Old Gods," Rick explained carefully. "She doesn't… tolerate the others. Especially not the ones who cut down the heart trees. Their priests weakened the magic of the Wall; delayed her awakening by thousands of years."
He didn't say what he wanted to—that the Seven were a southern illusion, a construct of kings and conquerors, not divinities. That wouldn't have gone over well. Not with Catelyn. Not here.
In the meantime, Rick found comfort in the company of his cousins.
Robb was quick to laugh, good-natured and sharp. There was a joy to him, a light in his eyes that reminded Rick of the kind of boy he might've been, in another life. Arya was a little wildling in all but name—barefoot, stubborn, with fire in her blood and mischief in her smile. Rick liked her immediately.
Bran followed him like a shadow, full of dreams of knighthood and glory. He begged Rick for stories of the North and the wars beyond the Wall. The boy had a thirst for stories of the dead, as if drawn to them without knowing why. Rickon, still young, was already following in Arya's bare-footed footsteps, half-feral and twice as fierce.
Only Sansa grated on him.
Prim and polished, she clung to songs and stories like they were gospel. She pestered him endlessly about court life, the South, and the royal family—especially the crown prince. Rick gave her the same answer every time: he hadn't been to the South since he was seven.
It wasn't a full lie. That locked room in the Red Keep didn't count as the South. It didn't count as living.
Sansa had been disappointed, but wisely dropped the subject. Robb always found a way to steer the conversation elsewhere, having learned about Rick's childhood and the shadows that came with it. He understood. So did Catelyn, once Ned had told her. That was part of why she had shouted so furiously. Born a Tully, her creed was Family, Duty, Honor—and she couldn't imagine a mother treating her own son with such cruelty. She'd been ready to march to King's Landing herself and slap her good-sister for it.
When Rick asked about the realm, Ned gave him a rundown of royal affairs.
Prince Aegon was set to marry his elder sister, Princess Rhaenys. In time, he would also wed his younger sister Visenya. The dragon way, Ned had muttered, clearly uncomfortable. Prince Viserys, Rick's uncle, was married to Arianne Martell of Dorne, but the rumors were bleak. No children. No warmth. And whispers of mutual hatred behind closed doors.
Princess Daenerys, Rick's aunt, remained unwed and lived in quiet isolation with Dowager Queen Rhaella on Dragonstone, far from court intrigue.
And as for Rick?
No word, no mention, no marriage betrothal. Not even a whisper.
Ned had looked pained as he said it. The truth hung in the air like a winter mist—no one had checked if the boy in the tower was still breathing. Either they'd forgotten… or they simply hadn't cared.
Rick said nothing.
One day, they would care.
One day, the Targaryens would answer for what they'd done.
And justice—true justice—would come. Not dressed in silk and songs. But in steel, in snow, and in fire.
The time to go had come. The wind carried the chill of the North, as if trying to cling to them one last time. Rick stood at the gates of Winterfell alongside Freyja, Alexstrasza, and Melisandre—who had been making herself scarce ever since she'd brought Rick back from the dead. Their path lay across the sea now, into the heart of Essos. First stop: Braavos, where Rick planned to speak with the House of Black and White and make them an offer few would dare to voice. After that, Valyria awaited—a ruined kingdom, a graveyard of dragons, and perhaps the resting place of knowledge long buried by time and fire.
"You'll always be welcome in Winterfell, nephew," Ned said, his voice low and steady as he stood beside his saddled horse, the Stark banner rustling behind him.
Rick nodded, his chest tight. "Thank you, uncle."
He embraced the man—warm and firm—then turned to Catlyn, whose face had softened over the past week, though her eyes still held caution. He hugged her too, then each of the children in turn. Arya grinned like a wolf pup, Bran beamed with awe, Rickon clung to his leg, and Sansa, thankfully, held her tongue.
"Are you certain you don't need an escort?" Catlyn asked, her brow furrowed with worry.
Rick gave her a faint smile. "I'm quite sure, my aunt. I have the greatest protector in the realm by my side."
She glanced warily at Freyja, who stood nearby in her towering human form—regal and ancient, white hair dancing with the breeze. Despite everything, Catlyn remained unsettled in her presence.
"Uncle. Robb," Rick called out, just before he turned away.
Both men looked up. "Yes?"
"You may want to hold onto Aunt Catlyn."
He didn't explain. Just smirked.
Alexstrasza stepped forward and, without a word, reached for Rick, Freyja, and Melisandre. Her form shimmered with heat and power, her skin glowing like molten ruby. Wings sprouted, stretching skyward as her body twisted and lengthened, limbs turning into mighty claws, and her face elongating into the majestic snout of a dragon. She rose—massive and glorious—her scales gleaming crimson gold, her eyes like twin furnaces.
With a powerful beat of her wings, she soared into the sky, her passengers steady on her back as the winds screamed and fire rippled from her breath.
The courtyard stood in stunned silence.
Even Robb and Ned, who had seen her transformation before, found themselves struck dumb by the raw majesty of it.
Thud.
"Father," Arya said dryly, looking down at the sprawled figure beside them, "Mother fainted again."