"Mi-lord! Mi-lord!"
The boy's voice echoed urgently as he ran through the great hall of Winterfall, excitement and exhaustion from the trip bearing upon his voice.
Rickon Stark did not look up at first.
He sat at a long wooden table in the centre of the room, beneath the carved stone direwolves of the house, shoulders hunched slightly as he worked through a stack of parchment that seemed never to lessen, no matter how many he finished. His quill scratched steadily across the page, each stroke patient, enduring and silent in the way only a Northman could be.
"Yes, boy?" Rickon said at last, voice even, eyes still fixed on the parchment before him.
The young runner skidded to a stop several paces away, boots scraping against the cold stone floor. He bent forward, hands braced on his knees, chest heaving as he tried to pull in air.
"I-" he gasped. "From the rookery, mi-lord."
Rickon's quill paused.
He lifted his head then, eyes sharp beneath dark yet aging brows. "Stand straight," he said calmly. "And speak."
The boy obeyed at once, straightening despite his shaking legs and heaving chest. He raised one clenched hand, revealing a tightly rolled scrap of parchment, creased and crumpled from being gripped too hard.
Before Rickon could reach for it, a smaller figure toddled forward.
Cregan Stark, no more than a few years old, had abandoned the bench beside the hearth and made his unsteady way toward the messenger. His steps were clumsy, boots too large for his feet, but his purpose was clear.
Rickon turned slightly. "Cregan-"
Too late...
The child reached up with both hands, grasping the parchment with fierce determination. He nearly lost his balance in the effort but recovered, clutching the note triumphantly as if it were a trophy won in battle.
The gathered maesters smiled indulgently.
Cregan puffed up his chest and, in a voice far too loud for his small body, declared:
"Prince Amon, Firstborn of Prince Baelon and Princess Alyssa Targaryen, Rider of the Black Dread Balerion, has returned!"
The words rang through the hall.
Then-
Silence.
The scratching of quills ceased. A chair creaked as someone shifted unconsciously. Even the hearth seemed to be quiet, the fire settling into a low crackle as if listening.
Rickon did not move.
For a long moment, he simply stared at his son.
Then his gaze lifted, sharp and searching, to the parchment still clenched in Cregan's small hands.
"Give me that," Rickon said quietly.
A guard stepped forward at once, gently prying the note from Cregan's grip and passing it to Rickon. The boy protested briefly, then lost interest in the overpowering guard.
Rickon read the parchment.
Once.
Then again.
The letter was short. Bare. Written in the tight, efficient hand of a southern ravenmaster who understood the importance of speed over poetry.
Prince Amon Targaryen, firstborn of Prince Baelon and Alyssa Targaryen, has returned atop Balerion the Black Dread, with his six women of red veil.
Rickon's fingers tightened around the parchment.
Gilliane Stark rose slowly from her seat near the hearth, crossing the hall to stand beside her husband. She leaned in, eyes scanning the words, her breath catching softly.
"Gods," she whispered. "After all this time…"
Rickon read it again.
Seven years.
Seven years of humiliation of those who seemed to belittle the strength of House Stark. Seven years of antagonization and secret discrimination by the small council and the king for supporting the eldest. For seven years, the North held their oath, for seven years the North remembers Amon.
Around them, the hall stirred.
Some guards exchanged uncertain glances. A few older men, veterans with silver in their beards, straightened, faces tightening with something like fear and anticipation.
Others looked confused.
Rickon stared at the parchment for a long moment.
Then his mouth twitched.
It was a small thing, barely noticeable, but Gilliane saw it at once. In all the years she had known him, she had learned the difference between surprise, worry, and something far rarer.
A smile
Rickon looked up, eyes bright in a way they had not been for years.
"You were not here," he said to the younger maester and guards who had given questioning looks previously. His tone was not unkind. "That is no failing of yours."
He took the parchment, smoothing it between his fingers as though grounding himself in its weight, almost thanking in a way that the paper was real and this was not a dream.
"But you will understand soon enough," he continued. "Because this is not just southern news."
He looked around the hall.
"This is a decleration"
Gilliane stepped closer, searching his face. "You always said he would return," she said quietly.
Rickon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "I believed he would, and I prayed each day to the old gods that he would."
He lifted the parchment slightly. "We swore an oath," he said. "Not to a crown. Not to a council. But to a man who came north in winter."
His gaze drifted, as if seeing another time layered over the present.
"He didn't come with banners or demands. He came with questions. He wanted to know who we were when the land was cruel and the nights long."
Several older men shifted, remembering stories told by fathers and grandfathers.
"When we wielded him as the king of the seven kingdoms, he didn't smile, hec,k he didn't even show excitment instead, he looked like the conqueror."
Rickon lowered the parchment.
"When, instead, that foolish Viserys was crowned. I, along with the prince of Dorne were shocked. Even the paramounts of other regions showed it."
His jaw tightened. "From that day onwards, the attitude of those Southerners turned, the resentment by Viserys, the so-called 'young king', made trade with anyone but the vale and Dorne made many die within the winter following."
The words settled into the room, heavy but familiar.
Rickon turned then, fixing the rookery boy with a steady gaze. "Go," he said. "Tell the maesters to be ready."
The boy swallowed. "Ready for what, mi-lord?"
Rickon did not raise his voice.
"For when the word comes," he said simply.
He returned to the table and picked up his quill.
"The raven says Prince Amon has returned," Rickon said as he wrote. "It also says that when he calls, those who swore are to answer."
Ink scratched across parchment. One letter became two. Two became many.
"So we will be ready," Rickon said. "We shall go to the South and bow before the rightful king."
The hall was very still now.
Guards watched him write. Maesters exchanged quiet looks. Gilliane stood beside him, one hand resting lightly on his back.
By nightfall, the work was done.
Wax was melted. Seals were pressed. The direwolf stamped its mark again and again.
Outside, the wind had picked up, cold and familiar.
The rookery doors opened.
One by one, then in a sudden rush, ravens took to the sky. Their wings beat hard against the dark, scattering north, east, west, and south, carrying the Starks' words to every holdfast that still remembered what it meant to be honourable to their oaths.
Rickon watched until the last of them vanished into the night.
The Conqueror's Dragon has returned, and with it the North shall answer.
(AN: Right, wiki and Google are saying completely different things, so Rickon = Cregan's father done.)