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Chapter Text

293 AC

Ned never realized how much he would hate paperwork until he became Lord of Winterfell. He had been raised to be a warrior or at most a bannerman, not the ruling lord of the North. The first couple years had been the hardest adjustment to make, but even ten years later, sometimes the words would run into each other and he wouldn’t be able to hold his yawns in from the boredom inducing reports and ledgers. 

He left his solar late one spring night, intending to go to his room and fall into bed beside Cat. He glanced over the grey walls of Winterfell as he went. This place could seem dull and dour to outsiders, especially southerners, but this was home. He was safe here. Still, an unsettled feeling rested in his gut as he walked the halls. He felt like he was being watched by something or someone. He paused and glanced behind him at the empty corridor. Nothing stirred as his steely eyes perused the area, so he walked on towards his bedroom.

He changed his clothes and used the basin of hot water left by a maid, then made his way to the adjoining room where he and his wife slept. He pushed the door open with a sigh before stopping short at the sight before him. Catelyn was in bed, a coverlet thrown over her legs, but she was not alone. Robb was under her right arm and Bran was resting against her chest on her left side. Sansa and Arya were laying by her knees, Sansa with an arm thrown over a fussing Arya. Jon was at the end of the bed, not touching anyone but still present, curled up into a ball. All the children were fast asleep.

“They were cold,” Catelyn explained when she saw him.

Ned frowned in reply.

“It’s spring.”

“It’s the North.”

Ned almost commented that all the children had ice in their veins, a Northern spring was hardly anything to fuss over, but refrained.

“The children were here first,” she continued, heavy implication in her voice.

“There is much work to be done. I will tell you about it tomorrow,” he decided, crawling into the bed and laying behind Jon, placing a hand on his shoulder so he would relax. Even in sleep, the boy was tensed up. Ned wondered why Catelyn allowed Jon to be here. If he had to guess, Robb brought him along and Arya threatened a tantrum if he was sent off.

Ned moved his hand to Jon’s forehead. He felt warm enough, not too cold either. He reached out and briefly touched Sansa and Arya, who slapped his hand away in her sleep. They all felt fine. His brow wrinkled in worry for a moment. Jon had the pox not too long ago. Ned hadn’t been present for it, but Catelyn said he nearly died. It didn’t usually come back but what if it had and it spread to all the children?

“The fire has warmed them. They still shiver every now and again, but they are well and healthy,” Catelyn reassured him, assessing the worry on his face.

Ned nodded with an appreciative smile. It took time, but they knew each other now and she could read him like a book. He’d like to think he could read her just as well. He laid down, replacing his arm around Jon so he would relax once more. Catelyn shot the pair a discontented look but said nothing. The family settled in, sleep pulling them into its sweet caress.

~*~*~

Robb’s eyes popped open, his heart racing.

His dream had been strange. There was snow, so much he couldn’t see anything else. Then there was chaos. A massacre was happening around him. Men’s throats were being slit and others were being shot full of arrows. Blood was soaking into the snow as red as summerwine. Then he saw a man with a direwolf’s head sown onto his body. He sat upon a throne made of bodies watching the gruesome scene unfold with a dead look in his yellow eyes. It was enough to scare Robb awake. The shaking of his body probably didn’t help.

He glanced behind him, turning away from the soft warmth of his mother’s side to see Bran standing beside the bed, the three-year-old’s eyes wide and imploring.

“What is it, Bran,” he asked quietly so he didn’t disturb anyone else in the room.

“I need to make water.”

“Go then.”

“Come with me.”

Robb sighed heavily. He was comfortable and warm where he was, he didn’t really want to be disturbed. Just then, another voice piped up near his leg.

“I need to go too,” Arya declared, sliding off the bed, disturbing Sansa in the process. 

The younger girl began to shake Jon awake, paying no heed to Father asleep behind him, and demand he take her to her room so she could relieve herself. Robb decided to take charge before the room descended into chaos and their parents woke up.

“Jon can’t take you, Sansa can. Jon and I will take Bran. Let’s go, quickly and quietly.”

Jon carefully extracted himself from Father’s grip and Robb did the same with Mother. When his feet touched the floor, he shivered. He was glad he wore socks and glad all the others did too, otherwise he’d have to listen to their complaints. He didn’t know why it was so cold. He grabbed his robe and helped Bran into his while his siblings did the same and shoved their feet into their slippers. Their mother had been bemused when she saw them appear all wrapped up and claiming their rooms were freezing. Even she wasn’t as cold as they felt.

They trekked down the hall, Robb with a torch in hand to light their way. Bran forced his hand into both Robb and Jon’s so they could swing him while Sansa and Arya walked ahead of them, the two bickering about something or other.

“It’s colder out here than it was in your mother’s room,” Jon pointed out. 

Robb nodded in agreement.

“Maybe there’s something wrong with the pipes. We’ll tell Father about it in the morning, it could be serious.”

The two ten-year-olds shared a nod of agreement before continuing to Robb’s room.

“Here Sansa, take the torch. We’ll wait for you two here.”

The girls barely acknowledged him as they carried on their argument. Robb shook his head. They baffled him sometimes. He didn’t know what it would take for them to get along.

“Maybe I should go to my room,” Jon commented as Bran skipped over to the chamber pot, shivering a little from the cold of the room.

“What? Why?”

“Your mother only let me stay because of you. I didn’t mean to fall asleep there, but I’m awake now. I could just go back—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Your room is as cold as ours, probably colder. It’s warm in my parents’ room. Mother didn’t kick you out and Father seemed perfectly fine with it. You’re staying.”

Jon bit his lip but nodded as Bran came barreling from behind the privacy screen.

“Wash your hands,” Jon ordered.

Their younger brother pouted but used the basin of cold water and the soap bar in Robb’s room. They waited for the girls to come back. They were still arguing when they returned. Bran ran over to Sansa’s side, the girl cutting off her tirade with a smile as her youngest sibling cuddled up to her side. Arya rolled her eyes and walked over to Jon’s side, taking his hand.

Robb took the torch from Sansa and led the group forward back to their parents’ room. As they went, it felt like the halls got colder and colder until he could hear all his siblings shivering or rubbing their hands against their arms to generate warmth.

“Why is it so cold,” Sansa complained.

“I don’t know. Father will sort it in the morning. It’ll be warmer in the room, we just have to…” Robb trailed off as he noticed it was cold enough for his breath to create smoke in the air. 

The temperature was rapidly declining in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

“Something’s not right,” Jon commented, before a strong gust of wind suddenly rushed through the hallway, knocking the five siblings back a few paces. 

The cold was biting and harsh, turning their cheeks red in an instant and causing an unpleasant tingling sensation to settle beneath their skin.

“What is that?”

“What’s happening?”

“I’m scared.”

Sansa, Arya and Bran shouted at once, their voices panicked and fearful.

“Stay close,” Robb said, stepping back as snowflakes started falling over them and the wind picked up. 

The five were huddled together, glancing around the hall for an explanation, when a bright white light all but blinded them. A rumbling voice broke the silence. 

“Beirnes o zidyr!”

Robb looked up with shock. A man appeared out of nowhere shrouded by the light. He was a tall man with a broad chest and white hair interspersed with dark strands in his long mane as well as his beard. He had one grey eye and the other was filmed with a ghastly scar going through it. There was a mace in his left hand and on his right side was a direwolf. The children began clamoring frantically amongst themselves in fright.

“Peace, children of winter. I am not here to hurt you. How could I hurt mine own blood, ones as important as you,” he announced, his voice was heavily accented and his words coming out short and harsh with a deeper northern brogue than Robb had ever heard. It was as if the Common Tongue was not his mother tongue.

Robb managed to gather the courage to speak. 

“Your blood? You’re a Stark?”

“I am, vulk deng. I had a sur orlode, one I fulfilled in my time. But you will not get to fulfill your destinies. Your eyes will be turned south instead of north, where the true enemy lies, the Ragnar o Noc and his army of the dead.”

“But... that’s just fantasies, stories Old Nan tells to scare us. The Others aren’t real. There are no ice spiders or giants,” Sansa protested in a trembling voice.

“If that is so, then I should not be talking to you now and my deeds are but ash. Joramun and I would not have lost as much as we did to banish the Ragnar o Noc to the Lands of Always Winter and free the Night’s Watch from the Others’ bondage.”

Astonishment colored Jon’s face as he recognized the man’s deeds.

“You’re Brandon the Breaker.”

“That is what some call me. The future had been foreseen through the eyes of the Old Ones and it is a bleak one. Death, war, destruction and madness befalls our house. The North will be unprepared for winter and what comes with it. The eyes of House Stark must be set north. The gods have declared their will to make it so, I am only here to warn you before you are taken away.”

“Taken away,” Robb repeated, a panicked hitch in his voice.

“Where you will go is a harsh place, but if you choose right, you will survive and be able to warn your father and the North of what is to come. You will have to learn the hard way that trust is not always to be given to the ones you think. A title and which side of the Wall you were born on does not mean they deserve your trust. King Joramun was born north of the Wall and he defeated the Night King by my side. We will need all those with the blood of the First Men to defeat the evil ahead. Above all else, remember children, when the snow falls and the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

The wind picked up, drowning out anything else that could be said or heard except for the direwolf’s howl. The snow fell harder, obscuring the views of the children until the hall was no longer visible. They huddled closer together against the wind. It felt like it was sweeping them off their feet, taking them some place far away. The roaring persisted until suddenly it died down and there was only silence.

The light receded and the hall stood empty.

Chapter Text

305 AC

The morning dawned clear and cold with a crispness that hinted at the beginning of winter on the day Rickon rode through the wolfswood in the middle of the party of twenty from Winterfell. The white ravens hadn’t flown out of the Citadel yet, but the bite in the air made it clear it would be any day now. 

Rickon was to watch his father perform an execution. At twelve namedays, this was not Rickon’s first execution. The first time, he had been thrumming with nervous excitement, but that went away with the reality of seeing a man’s head be separated from his body. He had understood then the importance of such a task before his father needed to tell him.

“The king has a headsman, as did the Targaryen kings before him. Yet our way is the old way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. If you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die. One day, Rickon, you will be the Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North, and Beron will be one of your bannermen. Your brother will be expected to hold a keep for you and for the king and will have his own duties, but ultimately as Lord Paramount of these lands, justice will fall to you. When that day comes, you must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must you shy away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is.”  

At the time, Rickon wondered what it said about King Robert since he had a headsman, but King Robert was dead, as was his false son, and there was King Stannis now. He had a headsman as well as a red witch who would burn “unholy” people, but he didn’t swing the sword either. The larger implication that Rickon understood was the responsibility he had on his shoulders as his father’s eldest son.

You’re not his eldest,  a traitorous voice chimed in his head. 

That invasive whisper hounded him too often, reminding him of his place. Not first in line, but third. Not the eldest son of Lord and Lady Stark, just the first one born after the mysterious disappearance of the five children that came before him. The replacement child born out of necessity, the Gods’ consolation prize to his parents. 

His mother told him that his birth later the same year of his elder siblings’ disappearance had saved her from falling into a never-ending pit of despair, however, sometimes Rickon felt like the children they lost took most of the love his parents had and only left scraps behind for him, Minisa and Beron. His parents would vehemently deny that if he said so but Rickon would never vocalize the thought because the jealousy he felt brought him shame. His elder siblings were likely dead, what was the point of such envy? Minnie didn’t feel that way about their lost sisters, so why did he? One of their brothers was a bastard who couldn’t inherit anything and Rickon was still slightly resentful of him along with the rest of them. 

He banished the dark thoughts and got back to the task at hand.

He had not been paying attention when Jory said what the man had been arrested for. He vaguely remembered implications that he was a wildling, his sword sworn to the new King-beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder’s elusive successor. The tales Old Nan told he and his siblings came to mind. The wildlings were cruel men, she said, slavers and slayers and thieves. They consorted with giants and ghouls, stole girls in the dead of night like Moira Umber and Princess Branda Stark, and drank blood from polished horns and skulls. They were cannibals, feasting on the flesh of men and beasts alike with teeth like razors and nails sharp as swords. Their women laid with the Others during the Long Night and sired terrible half-human children. Wildlings were all monsters, she claimed.

The man they found bound to the holdfast wall awaiting the king’s justice didn’t seem like a monster in Rickon’s estimation. He was old, ragged and greasy and dressed in the same black furs Uncle Benjen and every other Night’s Watchman would wear, but no sharp claws, no razor teeth, he didn’t look scary at all. Father cut him down from the wall and dragged him before them. He stood solemnly over the man, his graying dark hair blowing in the wind. Mother had the same shock of grey interwoven in her auburn locks. It was the result of stress and grief rather than age. That and the wrinkles made them look older than forty. Melancholy often hung in the air around the two adults like perfume, but there was a different kind of grimness in his father’s eyes today, the grimness he wore when he had to be executioner.

The man was muttering to himself as he was brought before Father and the chopping block. Rickon could not make out the words until he spoke louder.

“I know I broke my oath and I know I’m a deserter. I deserve to die. I should’ve gone back to Castle Black when I managed to flee the Fist of the First Men, but what I saw out there, what we all saw... I saw the Army of the Dead, I saw the White Walkers. Ser Alliser Thorne will tell you what I say is true if you ask him. The Night’s Watch is down to its last legs. A group of Watchmen mutinied, killed Lord Commander Mormont and are holed up at a keep past the Wall. Another group turned cloak and joined the King-beyond-the-Wall. Your brother, First Ranger Stark, went missing some time ago on a ranging. Maester Aemon’s age finally took him. All that is left is Ser Thorne, a battle commander to be sure but a man too stuck in his ways to be effective. Ser Jaime Lannister refuses to take command despite knowing he could be beneficial to the Watch. Lord Janos Slynt is a useless, cowardly dog. The Watch is rudderless and nearly leaderless. Most of the men are thieves or rapists or murderers or worse, the dregs of the realm. Only three keeps are manned with less than a thousand men between them. The wildlings are amassing an army north of the Wall, over twenty clans united under the King-beyond-the-Wall and growing. If they attack, the Wall won’t stand longer than a night. I’m not telling you this to save myself. I know it’s over for me, but people need to know. You need to know what you’ll be faced with when the Wall falls. The wildlings are coming, the dead and the Others are coming, death and winter are coming. I’ll be glad not to be here to see it, speaking frankly. I only ask for one thing, if you could be so kind. You’re a man of honor they say, so I hope you will carry out this small request. Burn my body after you take my head. I don’t want to come back.”

Lord Stark nodded and the man positioned himself in front of the ironwood stump, not waiting for the guards to do so. Rickon felt a pit growing in his stomach as his father drew Ice from the scabbard Theon held.

“In the name of Stannis of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I sentence you to die.”

He lifted the greatsword high and took off the man’s head with a single sure stroke. Blood sprayed out across the snow and Rickon winced, watching the blood soak into the ground and the roots of the stump. The man’s head rolled near Theon’s foot, and he kicked it with a laugh. Rickon rolled his eyes. When he was younger, he idolised Theon as the older brother he never had. He was an expert marksman and attracted women like a honeytrap, but his carefree attitude became grating around the time Father had to ride to fight for King Stannis during the War of the Stags. Theon stayed in Winterfell since he was still technically a hostage, but even with the realm plunged into war and his own father putting his life in danger by attacking the Northern coast, Theon remained unbothered and unburdened by anything resembling responsibility.

“You’re only twelve, and you act as dull as your father, Little Grandpa. Robb was much more fun,”  he would say when he wanted to get a rise out of him. Sometimes, he would oblige him. Rickon’s temper could get beyond him occasionally.

He shot Theon another glare of disdain and joined the guardsmen as they gathered brush and firewood to burn the man’s body. It would be easy to disregard his wish now that he was dead and he was a deserter besides, but Father always told Rickon a man’s word must be law.

Rickon was silent on the ride home, the smell of burning flesh still hanging under his nostrils. He didn’t pay attention to the men’s banter around him or the crunch of the snow under his horse’s hooves. Half of his head was back a few miles with the deserter, pondering on his claims of mythical beings come to life. The other half was somewhere else in the wolfswood. He felt a pull he couldn’t explain to something not too far away. It felt like it was drawing him towards itself, enticing him to come closer. He glanced into the trees to see if there was anything, but there was nothing of interest in sight.

“You’re quiet,” Ned commented to him, riding up beside him.

“Just thinking.”

He looked over at the older man. Sometimes he likened Ned Stark to a giant. He rode tall on a great warhorse, and though his shoulders sloped from the weight of the tragedies he had to bear, he still commanded respect and loyalty in a way Rickon wondered if he ever could.

“What has grabbed hold of your mind, son?” 

He investigated the forest for a moment before returning his gaze to his father.

“The deserter, he died bravely I think.”

“You think so?”

“He could’ve begged for his life or made excuses, but he accepted his fate and he... do you think what he said was true? Do you think he truly saw the White Walkers?”

“The Others have been gone for thousands of years if they ever existed at all.”

“He was lying then?”

“A madman sees what he sees, but fear and inclement weather can also twist the mind. He was beyond the Wall. It is colder there than anywhere else in the realm. On top of that, the wildlings grow in strength and number more and more lately. Mayhaps it was them he saw, and his memory of events have been exaggerated with time, hunger and thirst.” 

Rickon nodded. It was a reasonable explanation but still struck him as wrong. He glanced off into the greenery again as the tugging at the back of his mind persisted.

“Will you write to Castle Black about the deserter? There have been more of them lately. Even if he was lying, Mance Rayder’s death seems to have only united the wildlings even more. It could lead to war if left unchecked.” 

Father gave him a nod of approval.

“You’ve been paying attention. I may have to if I want to get the truth of the state of things. A plan of action may be necessary to fortify the Wall against the enemy.” 

Rickon nodded before whipping his head around as the tugging became most insistent.

“Something else has your attention,” the older man pointed out.

“It’s nothing, just...”

“A pull?” 

Rickon looked back at his father with surprise.

“I feel it too,” Ned admitted. 

He examined the snow-capped forestry pensively before nodding to Rickon.

“Come.” 

The auburn-haired boy hid a grin as he followed his father off the path, the party changing course as their lord did so. Jory rode up beside them.

“Trouble, my lord?”

“Not as such, just curiosity.”

The party trotted along, following the attraction only him and his father seemed to feel. They came upon the riverbank north of the bridge. If they followed the river, eventually they would reach Deepwood Motte, but the Glovers’ keep wasn’t what was pulling him. Rickon froze as the party brought their horses to a halt. 

A family of direwolves was sitting patiently on the bank. There were two adult wolves, a male and a female, with three pups. The male wolf was dark grey, almost black, with grey eyes but his paws were snow white. The female had fur russet brown that looked red in the sunlight with yellow eyes. The pups appeared to be the size of young hounds. One was all black with green eyes, one was black and white with brilliant lake blue eyes, and the last was white with gold eyes. Rickon grinned widely at the sight of them. They sat unmoving, staring at the road like they had been waiting for them. The young lord’s smile only waned when the men started to panic.

“Put away your bow,” he demanded of Theon with more venom than he intended when he took aim at the black pup.

“I take orders from your father, not you.” 

Rickon glanced at the man, but he was stuck in a staring match with the male wolf. Rickon slipped off his horse and began to approach the wolves.

“You have a death wish, Little Grandpa,” Theon exclaimed at him, his bow still in hand.

“Don’t get too close, my lord,” Jory warned him. 

Rickon disregarded their words. Something told him he was safe. The she-wolf watched him approach while the male wolf continued looking at Father. Rickon held his hand out when he was close enough, offering himself to the she-wolf. She stepped forward and sniffed his hand for a moment before seeming satisfied and returning to sit beside her mate. The black pup looked back at its mother before running towards Rickon and jumping up on his leg, running around him excitedly. He chuckled before reaching down to scratch behind the pup’s ear in greeting. He picked the wolf up after he continued to paw at his leg and the wolf settled in his grip.

“Can we bring them home, Father? Please.” 

Lord Stark looked at him quietly before glancing back at the wolves.

“The direwolf is the sigil of our house. There are five here, two adults and three pups, one for each of the Starks of Winterfell.”

“They’re freaks, not pets. They should be put down,” Theon protested, giving the older wolves a wary glance. 

Rickon ignored him and kept his gaze on his father. Father was still looking at the male wolf. It moved then, taking steady steps towards the high lord. His horse became skittish, and Father reigned it in before slipping off, ignoring Jory’s objections. He seemed enchanted by the wolf, like there was no one else there. He stopped a few paces in front of it and took off his glove before offering his hand. The wolf sniffed it and then butt his head against the man’s digits, prompting Father to rub his head. The two shared another long look before Father turned and walked back to his horse, the grey wolf following him.

“I want four men to ride ahead and warn that the wolves will be with us, so the guards should not fire upon them.”

“My lord, are you sure,” Jory asked, glancing at the large wolf next to Father that was easily the size of Beron’s pony if not larger.

“I’m sure,” Ned said with finality. 

Rickon walked back to his horse, triumph lifting his heart. He forgot all about the deserter’s words then and focused instead on the feeling of completeness that filled him while holding his direwolf. He had known he was coming, he could feel him in his bones, had been aware of him through the forest.

“My house words are winter is coming. I knew you were coming. Perhaps that’s a good name for you. Winter.” 

The black wolf nestled between Rickon’s legs when he got back in his saddle. Jory took the white pup, and Harwin took the black and white one.

“There are usually more than three pups in a litter. I wonder where the other ones got off to,” Jory commented as the party set out for Winterfell once more. He gave the larger wolves troubled looks but pet the pup he held in his arms.

“If they weren’t with their parents, I don’t imagine they are still alive,” Lord Stark pointed out.

“How’d they get past the Wall and into the wolfswood,” One of the guardsmen asked. 

Father got a thoughtful look on his face at that. Rickon didn’t care how they got so far south, he was just glad that they had. Something told him he would need them.

~*~*~

Minisa loved the godswood.

It was probably her favorite place in all of Winterfell. It was stretches of ironwoods and oaks, the black trees standing sentinel for the heart tree in the middle, like soldiers protecting their lord, or a kingsguard. Mother had told her she didn’t like the godswood in the past, had thought of it as dark and primal, but she began spending time there more often a little over a decade ago when Minisa’s older siblings went missing. 

It was a sorrowful tale that, when she was of a mood, she would ask Old Nan about. The ancient woman would tell her of how young Robb, Sansa, Arya and Brandon Stark along with Jon Snow had been safe in bed in their parents’ room when the sun set and by the time it rose, they had vanished without a trace. Their father searched long and hard, rode out with party after party, sent alerts to all corners of the Seven Kingdoms, from the Wall to Sunspear, even to Essos for fear slavers had gotten them, but nothing came up. They were simply gone. Their parents had been most bereaved.

“I thought the tears and despair would choke and drown the keep. I thought between the two of them, they would banish spring and sunlight and bring the Long Night back down upon us. It was terrible how they raged at the gods and nearly lost themselves. A horrid thing to lose all your children with no explanation of how or why. If it were not for Rickon’s birth, we would all be lost. Thank the gods for the little lord and for you and Beron as well.”

It brought tears to Minisa’s eyes to hear this tale of woe and yet it was one of her favourite stories. It felt as fanciful and far away to her as the tales of King Harren of Harrenhal, Jonquil and Florian, Symeon Star-Eyes, the Last Hero and the Night King. However, she need only see the world-weary look in her mother and father’s eyes for reality to set in, for her to remember that it wasn’t just a tale. They were real, and they had been lost. It made Minisa sad that she never knew them. She often wondered if they would have gotten along, if they would have loved her and she them. She daydreamed what it would’ve been like to have sisters, someone to brush her hair and tell her how to talk to a boy without blushing, someone she could complain about Septa Mordane to.

Myrcella Hill lived at Winterfell, and Minisa liked her well enough, but the blonde would separate herself from people for fear of ridicule because of the nature of her birth. No matter how much Minisa assured her she would have her mother reprimand anyone who hurt her, the former princess liked to cocoon herself in solitude and silence to block out the cruelty of the world. Myrcella still missed her old life, before she knew she was a product of incest, before her mother and older brother were put to death, and her uncle-father sent off to the Wall. Myrcella’s younger brother was being kept as a ward by King Stannis, though Myrcella would say he was a hostage like her and Theon. Minisa hoped for her friend’s sake that the king was as kind to Tommen Hill as her father was to his wards, but she wasn’t truly that naive.

There was Rickon as well. Minisa would never trade him. Despite the two-year age difference and his being a boy and heir to Winterfell, they had always been close. They knew all the other’s fears and secrets. He knew that she felt she would never be good enough to drive their mother’s sorrow away, that she worried she was not Stark or Tully enough to have a place in the world, that she feared outsiders coming into Winterfell because what if one of them were the ones who took their siblings and would take her too? In turn, she knew Ric wanted to impress Father because he did not want him to wish their older brothers would have been Lord of Winterfell over him. She knew he hated that he was jealous of their lost brothers because their abduction was so devastating for everyone at Winterfell. She also knew that Ric pushed her into learning to defend herself because he feared she would be taken like their elder siblings were and their loss, even though he had never met them, made him just as sad as it did Minisa.

The Starks never got over the disappearance of the missing children, but everyone learned to live with the absence. Minisa was aware there were five holes in her parents’ hearts she wouldn’t ever be able to fill, but she was content with the space carved out for her, mostly anyway. Sometimes her own self-doubt crept in when her mother looked at her. She could tell when her mother wasn’t seeing her but her other daughters because she got a wistful, pained look on her face as she gazed absently at the young girl. Minisa, who shared Sansa’s distinct red hair and Arya’s grey eyes and love of horseback riding. The ten-year-old tried not to cause her mother undue hurt, but it was unavoidable most times so, she would retreat to the godswood, because though her mother loathed it no longer and her father always referenced living the way the gods intended, they both visited the godswood only sparingly. Old Nan said they were fearful of the gods and angry at them as well.

“They each feel like the children’s disappearance was their fault, you see. Penance they had to pay for breaking promises they made.”

Minisa couldn’t fathom what vow was so important that the gods saw fit to take away not just her mother’s four children but Father’s son as well and leave them with nothing until Rickon was born. It seemed cruel to her, but she was too afraid to ask her parents what promise they had broken.

The godswood was snowy as the red-headed girl sat on an ironwood stump. It would be warmer and more comfortable in the small sept, but she preferred the crisp air rustling the red leaves of the weirwood tree and the sound of the disturbed water in the pond over the choking scent of incense and oils. She looked at the face carved into the heart tree. Sap was running down the eyes, creating a haunting effect. The face had scared her when she was younger, but she would like to think she had outgrown such infantile fears. She bowed her head and began her regular prayer. She prayed for the prosperity of the North, for her parents to one day be free of grief, for her deceased siblings’ souls to know peace, for Rickon to have strength and confidence, for Beron to be healthy and happy, for Myrcella to feel accepted and loved, for Theon to gain wisdom and humility, for the realm to remain harmonious and without war so her father didn’t have to ride off again to fight. She prayed for herself to be as safe as possible.

As she sat absorbed in her prayers, she didn’t take note of the footsteps coming up behind her. She let out a noise of terror and fright as she was suddenly hit with something cold and wet. She jumped up and looked in shock to see her younger brother standing there, a broad grin on the seven-year-old’s face, his hand still wet with snow.

“Beron, that’s not funny!”

Snow was melting in his dark hair, and his grey eyes were alight with mirth as he bent down to pick up more snow to hurl at her. She ran behind an ironwood to evade the assault and made a snowball of her own, throwing it at him. She could not contain the giggle when it hit him in his face. He froze in shock for a moment before he started to laugh too. They traded blows for a while, enjoying the tame snows early winter brought, before a maid appeared, tutting in dismay at the wet patches in their clothes.

“Your parents and your brother are waiting for you in the family room,” she informed them, wiping Beron’s face with a handkerchief. 

The two siblings followed her to the family room, unsure what could be needed of them. As they got closer, Minisa could feel a tugging in the back of her mind, like something wanted her to hasten down the hall. Beron was similarly hounded, practically dragging her along until they got to the room.

They both froze when they walked inside. Mother was sat in her chair with stitching in her hands, ever-so-often glancing cautiously at a massive reddish direwolf who was laying down at her feet. Father was leaning against the bookcase with a tome about direwolves in hand while a large grey wolf sat beside him. Rickon was kneeling on the rug by the fire playing with three pups. Minisa gasped as the black and white one ran to her and stared up at her expectantly, wagging its tail. A wide smile broke onto her face as she crouched down and picked her up. Her eyes were so beautiful and vivid, like the waters of Tarth.

“Sapphire,” she whispered.

Nothing had ever felt so right or true as the name she had dubbed her wolf-pup with. Beron was running around the room with the white pup who he was calling Shaggy because the pup had pieces of lint and dust clinging to him.

“Are they ours,” she asked, sitting on the arm of the chair her mother occupied.

“It would appear so,” Catelyn answered. 

She had wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, sometimes her skin looked like it was stretched too tightly across her face and her deep red hair had grey running through it, but she was still beautiful.

“They called to us,” Rickon explained shortly. 

Minisa needed no further explanation.

Over the next two weeks, the pups grew to be the size of the hounds in the kennels. Minisa was surprised at the rapid growth, but the kennelmaster claimed wolves grew faster than dogs. Mother had said the wolves shouldn’t sleep in the bed with them, but Minisa could not help but allow Sapphire to cuddle into her side. The direwolf was so sweet, just like her. Frostfang was solemn and grim like Father. River Song was melancholic but loving and patient towards her pups like Mother. Winter was observant and protective of his siblings but could have a temper when provoked like Rickon. Shaggy ran wild and was as untamed as Beron. The fact that the wolves reflected them was not lost on Minisa. Perhaps it was a sign from the old gods, a herald of something to come, like Rickon felt it was.

One night, she slept soundly in her bed. Her dreams were strange. She was seeing her room, but she was lower to the ground, like she was crawling and then suddenly she was somewhere else. She felt like she was having memories, but the memories weren’t her own. 

She saw snow, high drifts of it that put the snowfall in Winterfell to shame. There were mountains capped with ice, structures built up in the snow that looked like they could blow away with a stiff wind, but she knew they were stronger than they looked. More than that, there were wolves everywhere, more than she had thought possible. Men and women were milling about, and some of them had wolves walking with them or helping them move things or pulling sleds. It was like man and wolf were one here. There were even wolves so large they had to be direwolves and among them also were bears with fur white as snow, golden-feathered eagles flying above. A few people rode on the backs of great elks and she even spotted a shadowcat or two walking with a human companion. In the middle of it all was a tall man. His head was a halo of auburn curls. He had a beard of the same color and familiar blue eyes. He wore a bear pelt and had a sword strapped to his side and a black, glittering dagger the likes of which she had never seen. There was a girl younger than Minisa with brighter red hair beside him, and a wolf-pup beside her. The man’s severe, battle-scarred face transformed into a smile as warm-looking as the snow that melted in his curls.

“What are you doing out here, little one? You should be with your mother so you can keep growing strong,” he told her in a kind voice. 

She tried to open her mouth to speak, but all that came out was an embarrassing whine. The man scratched behind her ear, and she was mortified about the satisfaction it gave her.

“Robb, we need you,” a voice suddenly called out from far away. 

It snapped Minisa out of her daze, and she jumped awake, a feeling of confusion spreading through her. What sort of dream was that? She looked up, and Sapphire was standing in front of her on the bed, staring into her eyes.

“Was that you?” 

Sapphire didn’t answer, but she licked Minisa’s hand once before sitting down before her.

“Is that where you’re from?” 

Minisa didn’t expect a reply, but she did look down in astonishment, wondering if the man from her dream could be the same Robb that was lost. Surely not. It felt like too much of a coincidence. She had always heard of wildlings as savages but the man, Robb, seemed in charge of them. They were organized, they had a community there. Maybe it was just a silly dream, too much of Old Nan’s stories.

She didn’t say anything about the dream, not even to Ric. A week passed with dreams that seemed to be more like memories from Sapphire. She saw a man with the same Stark features and grimness of Father who was called Jon and an unnamed girl who shared his features riding around on the largest of the direwolves, a wild air about her. She saw a woman with vibrant red hair that matched hers, and though she didn’t get the woman’s name, she appeared the age Sansa would’ve been. She saw a boy with reddish-brown hair brushing his forehead sitting among the direwolves and his eyes would roll into the back of his head as he ran his fingers through their fur. She heard others mention Bran was warging again. She would wake from the dreams disconcerted and unsure of what she should do. It could just be dreams and nothing more, but ones as persistent as these? But then what would anyone say if she told them she was dreaming of memories from her direwolf about her long-lost siblings? They would think she was mad. She was partly inclined to agree, so she said nothing until one night both Rickon and Beron burst into her room, waking her up.

“What’s going on,” she asked with alarm.

“Ric doesn’t believe me,” Beron complained.

“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you, I said it’s complicated,” Rickon protested.

“That’s just a fancy way of saying you don’t believe me.” 

Rickon shook his head, and the two argued among themselves. Minisa gave them a confused look before glancing behind them. Shaggy and Winter stood loyally behind Beron and Rickon respectively, but they weren’t alone. There was another wolf. It was a giant, though not as big as Frostfang or River Song, with dark and light grey fur alternating over its coat and yellow eyes that stared at her piercingly.

“Who is that,” she asked, cutting through the argument.

“That’s Shaggy, Sapphire and Winter’s brother,” Beron explained. 

Sapphire seemed to confirm this as she hopped off the bed and greeted the older wolf.

“He is Robb’s wolf.” 

Minisa stiffened at that.

“Robb?”

“Yes, our brother. I’ve dreamed of him. I’ve dreamed of all our brothers and sisters, but Rickon doesn’t believe me,” Beron explained.

“For the last time, I believe you. We can’t just leave though.” 

Minisa jumped up from the bed and stood in front of her brothers with an imploring expression.

“You’ve had those dreams too?”

“See? Minisa believes me. She’s seen them. I’m telling the truth.”

“I know you’re—”

“We have to go get them. We can bring them back to Mother and Father, and then they’ll be happy.”

“We don’t even know where to start,” Rickon pointed out.

“Grey Wind can take us. He’s Robb’s, he’ll know where to find him,” Beron retorted.

Perhaps it was a moment of insanity, but Minisa found herself nodding along.

“We should go.”

Ric stared at her incredulously.

“We know they still live, but even with Robb’s wolf here, if we tell our parents the dreams Beron and I have had, what are the chances they’ll believe us?”

The older boy shifted a little.

“I’ve had the dreams too,” he admitted before quickly continuing,

“But running away without a word is madness. Mother and Father won’t be happy.”

“We’ll leave word. We should get ready now. The sooner we set out, the sooner we’ll be back home. We’ll leave a note in Father’s solar.”

Rickon took a moment to think before nodding once, however reluctantly.

“Come, Beron, we have to get warm clothes if we’re to go north of the Wall.”

Beron smiled brightly and ran out of the room ahead of him. 

Minisa wondered if this was a mistake as she packed a travel bag with warm clothes and pulled on riding trousers, a tunic, furs and a fox-lined cloak with her gloves. She shook the thought away. The gods had sent the wolves for a reason, maybe it was so they would see their older siblings alive and put them on the path of reconciling their family. If that was the task that was set out for her and her brothers, she could not shy away from it. She would simply have to believe the gods would protect them as surely they had protected her older siblings.

She briefly thought of how worried Father and Mother would be before steeling herself. They would be happy in the end, their family would be whole again. That would have to be enough. 

She tiptoed to the room Beron and Ric shared once she was ready, Sapphire following close behind. She wordlessly stepped over to his desk and scribbled a note for their parents while he was packing his and Beron’s things.

“Ready,” Ric asked once she was finished. 

Beron was hopping from one foot to the other in excitement, Shaggy mirroring his exuberant behaviour. Minisa took a deep breath and nodded.

“Let’s go.”

~*~*~

The snow was not as deep or hard on this side of man’s wall. The path he had chosen to take was a long one and filled with danger, but he had decided to take the risk. It couldn’t be more dangerous than on the colder side of man’s wall where the dead ones and the frozen ones roamed. They were the real danger, so he had opted to brave the treacherous journey through the tunnel under man’s wall, avoiding the ones his people called crows, ran through the vast lands where there was not much to eat until he got into the wood and he could catch rabbits and other small things. Then finally he reached the den of his wolfman, the place he called home when he was a pup. He could sense the little ones inside as well as Wolf Mother and her mate.  

It was not hard getting inside. The guards saw him but stepped aside nervously and let him go where he pleased. He was almost surprised, but his wolf-man had his kind’s blood, so they must know he was kin. 

He started for Wolf Mother, but then decided to go to the youngest of his brothers first. They were supposed to stay home, but when Wolf Mother and her mate decided she must go pass man’s wall to be with her river-woman and the Alpha, the little ones went with her even though they were too young. It was good they survived. It meant they were strong.  

He reached the door to where he sensed his little brothers and nosed his way inside. White Brother woke up and began wagging his tail happily. Black Brother woke more sluggishly, but when he saw him, greeted him. They were bigger, reminding him that time had passed. Two humans were in the beds. He sniffed the air before correcting himself, they were wolfboys, not just human. White Brother went over to his companion and began pulling at his hand. He almost stopped him, but the young boy with dark hair and eyes sat up and went to the other boy to wake him.  

“Ric, it’s Robb’s wolf. I told you my dreams were real.” 

The other wolfboy did not get up.  

“Beron, I’m sleeping. You’re dreaming. Our dead brother’s wolf isn’t here.” 

Grey Wind felt indignation at that and padded in front of the older boy so he could see him. He sat up immediately and stared at him wide-eyed.  

“Who…”  

“He’s Robb’s! They’re alive, our siblings are alive. We have to find them. I’m going to go tell Minnie. We have to leave.” 

The younger boy bolted out of the room at surprising speed while the older brother watched him go with some shock. He looked at Grey Wind with a disturbed expression before going after the other boy.  

Robb sat up with a gasp, sweat lining his forehead. He could still taste blood in his mouth from the meal Grey Wind had hunted before he reached Winterfell. He had not been sure of where his wolf had gone after his mother had taken off and taken her pups and mate with her. He thought Grey had outgrown his mother, but he ran after her. He was shocked to see that he had made it to Winterfell and that was where the family of wolves were, the pups attaching themselves to Robb’s apparent younger siblings.

He shook his head, pushing away his shock. He had to tell the others.

Chapter Text

Catelyn was unsure what to think when Ned initially came home with five direwolves, direwolves. He was meant to just go out to behead a deserter, and this was what he returned with. Ned seemed to always bring some strange intruder home when he went off. He came back from Robert’s Rebellion with Jon Snow. He came back from the Ironborn Rebellion with Theon Greyjoy. He returned from the War of the Stags with Myrcella Waters. Now, the latest addition was five creatures thought to be near extinction. The children had no qualms about it. They were delighted to have their new companions. Even Ned seemed content and only perturbed at a supposed “pull” he claimed to feel to the wolf he named Frostfang. Catelyn felt no draw towards the animal that had taken to following her around even when she didn’t want it to, but she couldn’t deny she felt a strange kinship to the russet brown creature.

Direwolves usually birthed more than three pups in a litter. River Song’s other pups must have perished or been lost, just like Catelyn’s. However, the lady was sure that unlike her, it was through no fault of the wolf. 

That day, that terrible day, when she woke to find all the children were gone from her room, she did not immediately suspect divine intervention. She was sure they were playing somewhere on the grounds or snuck into the kitchens, but after the crypts and the First Keep and the godswood and all the towers came up empty, she started to panic. The longer time went on without any word or trace of where they could’ve gone, the more her suspicions had been confirmed: it was her fault. The gods were punishing her. She remembered vividly that day she had broken down and admitted her guilt to Ned.

Catelyn was six months pregnant. Her feet ached, her back hurt and her head was always pounding, but despite Maester Luwin’s warnings that she must rest, she paced her bedroom waiting for Ned to return. He and a party had ridden out south to search for signs of the five missing children. The North had been scoured already. Every barrow, hill, keep, rill, mountain, stone, and tower was turned over, checked and doublechecked and then checked once more with no luck. Ned and Ser Rodrik thought they might find a trail pass the Neck. They could question the crannogmen to see if anyone had tried to gain passage through the marshlands with five children in tow and possibly visit the Freys to see if any suspicious figure had paid a toll to cross their bridge. 

Ned was due back home tonight. Catelyn was hoping that he would not be alone. She longed to see Robb’s bright smile again, have Sansa draw her attention so she could show off her curtsey or needlework. She missed contending with Arya’s wild defiance and trying to combat Bran’s boundless energy. She prayed night and day for her children’s safe return. She even prayed for Jon Snow to come home safely, something that surprised her the first time the plea left her lips unbidden in the sept and then again in the godswood. She prayed to gods old and new for the children. She would pray to red gods, drowned gods, faceless gods, fire gods, horse gods, moon maids, great goats, and stranger gods from the far east. She would beseech the gods worshipped in the Summer Isles, the ones who pirates claimed held dominion over the seas, the ones faded from memory and no longer revered. Hell, she’d pray to the Others if only they could return the children home to her. That was all she wanted. 

She passed the mirror during one of her paces and was startled at her own reflection. She had begun neglecting herself over the last months. Her mind was always on the children, on their safety. Her nights were filled with nightmares of their cold, mangled bodies, and so she got little sleep. Her days weren’t much better. Her imagination was just as vivid, and she couldn’t banish the dark thoughts that all Ned’s efforts and her prayers were for naught because they were already dead. The fiend that took them was skilled enough to leave no trace. Surely, he could kill them and dispose of their bodies with nothing left for the poor parents that conceived them, carried them, nurtured them, and raised them. 

I have become a most morbid woman, Catelyn thought absently.

In her youth, she was taught how to be a perfect lady by her septa. She held to those beliefs her whole life, but she turned from them now. An ideal lady would not be as much of an emotional mess as she was. A lady would stand with her back straight and take this blow on the chin. She would not let the world know she was hurt or phased by life’s injustice. If she were to lose her composure, she would do so quietly and in private and would never let it show so plainly on her person. Catelyn could not put those virtues into practice now. She could not pretend to be what she was not. She took no joy in mead nor meat, and song and laughter had become suspicious strangers to her. She was now a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings. There was an empty place within her where her heart was once. She could not put on a murmur’s show of happiness with that gaping void ever expanding inside of her. It was too ridiculous to even contemplate attempting. 

She turned abruptly as the door opened behind her and Ned walked in. She could tell from the way he dragged his feet, his downcast expression and his drooping shoulders that he did not find them. Catelyn squeezed her eyes shut as tears leaked down her face. She held a hand to her swollen stomach as the babe inside began to kick, displeased at the mood shift, and the other hand over her stuttering heart. She took a step towards the bed, and her legs gave out from under her, sending her to her knees. Ned rushed to her side, but she refused his assistance. 

“I did this. I brought this upon our family. The gods, they are punishing me.”

“No Cat, you mustn’t blame yourself,” Ned protested. 

“It is true, I see it now. I was a wretched woman. I made a promise to them, swore a vow, and I broke it. Now they have sought to punish me by taking all the children away.” 

Ned shook his head once more.

“You don’t know,” she wept. 

“I know you. You are not to blame. If anyone is, it is me. I failed. I didn’t protect them,” 

“It was last year, and you had gone to White Harbor to visit the Manderlys. You left me alone with him and I… I hated him. I hated him because you brought him here and you begged me to let him stay and be raised with our son, made me suffer the indignity of looking into the face of your son with the woman who you loved before me, who you may always love more than me. I couldn’t bear to look at him, so I prayed to the gods ‘take him away, make him die, make Jon Snow die’.”

Catelyn couldn’t look at Ned as she spoke, but she felt him stiffen beside her. 

“Then he got the pox, and I knew I was the worst woman who ever lived. A murderer. I’d condemned this poor, innocent child to a horrible death all because I was jealous of his mother, a woman he didn’t even know! So, I prayed to all Seven Gods. I said, ‘let the boy live. Let him live, and I’ll love him. I’ll be a mother to him. I’ll beg my husband to give him a true name, to call him Stark and be done with it, to make him one of us and put this whole business behind us’. I sat with him all night, all through the darkness, listened to his ragged little breaths, his coughing, his whimpering. I made him the Mother’s prayer wheel. I wiped the sweat from his brow and held his shaking hand and told him if he lived, life would be better for him, for all of us. And he lived. And I couldn’t keep my promise.” 

“Cat…” 

“I swore an oath before the gods, and I broke it. Now, this… horror that has befallen us, it’s all because I couldn’t love a motherless child.” 

Catelyn felt like the pain was a tangible thing. It got clogged in her throat, congested itself in her chest, weighed heavy in the pit of her swollen stomach. 

“This wasn’t you. If the gods are punishing anyone, it is me,” Ned said after a long while. 

“Why would they punish you?”

“Because of this. Because I’ve been putting my family through pain for years now and I could’ve ended it so long ago, and I never did. I made vows and oaths and promises. I swore to protect and serve you and our family, my house and its legacy, and everything got so… tangled up, but… no, there are no excuses that I can give you that should matter to you.” 

“Ned, what are you talking about?”

“Jon. His mother… and his father,” 

“His father?” 

“Lyanna begged me to protect him. I found her in that tower, and she was near dead and delirious. She thought I was a dream, but suddenly she sprang to life and told me that I had to keep him safe because if Robert found out, he’d kill him, and I promised I would. So, I did the only thing that I thought would save him from ever having to go through what his half-siblings did.”

“You said he was your son because if Robert got his hands on Rhaegar Targaryen’s child, he would kill him,” Catelyn finished. 

She didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh or cry at that moment, probably both. This revelation did not bring her peace like she had always thought learning the identity of the mother of Ned’s bastard would. She couldn’t even really process it. The shock and anger she would feel otherwise were understudies to the hurt she had been harboring since the day she woke up to find her world irrevocably shattered. The children were still gone, and if anything, it made her feel worse because she spent years hating a child who had lost both his parents. 

“Why did you never tell me?” 

“I didn’t know you when we married. I—” 

“You didn’t trust me.” 

“Not then, no. Then as time went on, it didn’t feel like it mattered as much because Jon wasn’t their son anymore, he was mine. I thought if I never talked about it, I could just forget about it. But I wasn’t paying enough attention to see how much you were hurting, how much Jon could’ve been hurting, and how it was affecting all the children. I didn’t do anything to stop it. So, if the gods are punishing anyone, it is me, my lady, not you. I failed this family, so they took it away. I’m sorry, Cat. I’m so sorry.” 

She had never seen her husband cry in the eleven years they had been married. She had seen him teary-eyed when Sansa was born, had seen him melancholy and grim the few times he talked about his father, Lyanna and Brandon, but never had she seen tears fall down his face until this moment. 

She wanted to be angry with him for this secret, and perhaps later she would be, but for now, she moved and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. 

The two embraced one another and didn’t speak for the rest of the night. 

That moment was when she and Ned’s relationship had further solidified. Catelyn didn’t know if they would have survived the loss of the children intact if they had not put their cards on the table. Then Rickon was born, and they suddenly had another thing to live for other than just the North. They resolved not to spend their days wallowing in pain and misery. They had a child who needed them. They did not stop looking for their other children though, they never stopped thinking of them. Sometimes Catelyn felt guilty, felt like she wasn’t paying enough attention to Rickon, Minisa and Beron, but she made sure to make them know she loved them no less than her other children. It was just a hurt she had not overcome yet and probably never would.

As a result, she could be overprotective of her three remaining children. She did not let people get too close to them. She checked them every night before bed and peeked in on them at least once before daybreak. However, this night slumber fell heavy on the Lady of Winterfell, and she slept until the rays from the rising sun splashed into her room through the curtains and woke her. Ned was still asleep beside her, which wasn’t altogether strange. She usually woke before him, but something felt off in the air as she sat up from the bed. She looked beside her at the moving shape she saw in the corner of her eye. 

River Song was awake and pacing beside the bed. When she saw Catelyn was awake as well, she whimpered before loping towards the door. Catelyn thought she needed to relieve herself and opened the door to let her out, but the direwolf looked at her expectantly. The middle-aged woman sighed and grabbed her dressing gown and slippers before following the russet wolf out the room, leaving Ned and Frostfang sleeping.

A few servants passed her with respectful nods which Catelyn acknowledged. She was beginning to feel ridiculous for following the wolf around when she realized she was leading her to Ned’s solar. Catelyn scrunched her brows in confusion as the wolf looked at the door, waiting for her to open it. She did so curiously, wondering what was so important that the wolf wanted to show her. The room looked silent and untouched as always. River Song trotted inside and stopped at the desk, nosing at a parchment left on the table. Catelyn picked it up with a raised eyebrow and began to read it.

To Mother and Father, 

If you’re reading this, you may have discovered that we are gone. Ric, Beron and I have reason to believe that Robb, Jon, Sansa, Arya, and Bran are alive and living beyond the Wall. We’ve had dreams about them for weeks now, and we’ve gone to look for them. Robb’s wolf came to get us so he will show us the way. We will be back as soon as we can and hopefully with the others. Please do not worry about us too much. We will be fine. The direwolves will protect us. We love you very much, we just want you to be happy again. We hope you are not too upset. 

Minisa 

Catelyn’s hands were trembling as she dropped the parchment and then ran from the room to get Ned.

Not again. She couldn’t be losing her children all over again.

Gods, please have mercy this one time. 

~*~*~

Ned knew the gods had an unforgiving wrath about them. He learned it well enough during the Rebellion. What were the odds that his family would be so viciously ravaged by the end of it all? His father dead. Brandon, dead. Lyanna, dead. Benjen choosing to leave to the Wall. Sometimes, on the darkest of nights, he wondered if a part of his family’s misfortune was to do with his father’s aspirations being directed south. Rickard had been so consumed with making southern alliances to build up the North that he neglected the gods and his Northern roots ofttimes. He meant well, he was just ambitious. His upbringing would allow nothing less. The dominant line of House Stark had fallen to sickness and battle and left only him before he married Ned’s mother and had four children.

Ned, in turn, did his best to honor the gods to make sure he was never dealt such tragedy again, only for his children to be taken away. He had known despair in his time but what he felt then knowing that his children, the eldest only ten and the youngest three, were out in the world alone without their parents to protect them was unlike any hurt he suffered before. Even during the Rebellion, he hadn’t felt as bereft as when the children disappeared. Still, he persisted in his faith, but now he felt his anger at the gods grow once more. No one could find Rickon, Minisa or Beron anywhere.

How could they have gotten so far? When did they leave?

It had already been days. As soon as Cat had run into their bedroom frantically to tell him the children were gone, he had had the grounds searched top to bottom and then rode out with a patrol through the woods in the direction of the Wall to catch up with the children, but to no avail. They didn’t find any tracks in the snow even though a horse was missing from the stables and they found no hints of a trail. It was not snowing heavily, and it wasn’t as if he had taught the children to cover their tracks so as not to be followed. The whole situation was off. 

It had been the same twelve years ago. They could find no evidence that Robb, Jon, and the younger children actually left Winterfell and no trace or trail for them at all, not even with hounds. At least with Rickon, Minnie, and Beron a horse was missing and they had Minnie’s letter. Still, Ned didn’t like the similarities. He did not usually indulge in superstition or anything of the sort, though he had always had a healthy fear of the gods, but he couldn’t help but think that something beyond human was the culprit for the children being untraceable.

“What if we never see them again,” Catelyn lamented, pacing their bedroom. 

Ned returned home empty-handed from another ride out with the guards. They went further towards the Wall this time, but only a few days ride from Winterfell and found nothing again.

“Someone could’ve forced Minnie to write that letter. She said she was having dreams that the children were living beyond the Wall. It’s preposterous. Someone could know how much we miss them and use that to lead us in the wrong direction, take the children somewhere else entirely.”

“That’s why guards have ridden out in all directions and alerts have gone out to look out for the children,” Ned reassured her. 

Cat stopped suddenly, her body sagging.

“Gods, how can we be living this nightmare all over again, Ned? Haven’t we atoned for our mistakes already, haven’t we…” Cat trailed off as tears fell down her worn cheeks. 

River Song rubbed up against her leg and Cat clutched onto the wolf’s fur like a lifeline. Ned couldn’t help but flash back to all the times over the past twelve years he had disappointed Cat. All the times he had to return to Winterfell and tell her that he had nothing to show for all his patrols, all his inquiries, all his efforts. Their children were just gone, and now they were gone again. He approached her and wiped the tears from her face.

“I don’t know why this has happened again. I know you did nothing wrong, you couldn’t have. If this is another test from the gods, we will weather it. If they have been taken, we will find them and bring the ones who may have them to justice.”

“You can’t promise me that. We lost our children before and never got them back, it could happen again.” 

Ned felt a pang in his chest at that. He would always feel like a complete failure for not bringing their children home.

Promise me, Ned, he heard whispered in his head. 

He closed his eyes against Lyanna’s teary voice. He had broken the promises he made, his promise as a brother, a father, and a husband. He was meant to protect his family, raise them in warmth and love and safety and he failed in that. Five of his children disappeared right from under his nose, and now his last three had either run away or been taken. Ned took a deep breath and stilled himself. He couldn’t and wouldn’t fall apart. 

He felt Frostfang brush up against him. He opened his eyes and glanced back at the wolf. It was staring up at him with its unsettling yellow eyes. Ned felt trapped in his gaze like he was that day they found the direwolves. He had felt the pull from the wolf the minute he began riding through the wolfswood and would’ve ignored it if Rickon hadn’t been feeling it too. He felt a closeness to the wolf he couldn’t explain. He didn’t share any dreams with him as Minisa’s letters claimed, but sometimes there were… flashes. Images would flit into his brain, and he knew they weren’t his own. He felt the peculiar sensation now, a fuzzy figure coming into focus in his mind as he continued his staring match with the wolf. The clearer and clearer it became, the more Ned knew what his next move needed to be.

He looked back at his tearful wife and caressed her wet cheeks softly.

“I failed this family once when I didn’t find Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Jon. I failed you, I failed Lyanna, I failed myself—”

“Ned—”

“I won’t fail again, Cat. I refuse. I will bring our children home if I have to chase them to the very edges of the known world. I won’t return to you with nothing to show again, not this time.” 

Cat’s face went through a myriad of emotions: confusion, doubt, fear, sadness, uncertainty but he could also see hope and love.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to go downstairs and tell the men to prepare to ride out again in the morning.” 

Ned glanced back at Frostfang, their shared image still strong in his mind.

“We’re going to the Wall.”

Chapter Text

295 AC

The land was still as the Stark Siblings trudged their way across the snowy landscape. There was no shelter in sight, no people except them. It was better this way. If there were people, it usually meant danger. They had only just escaped the wildling group that had captured them. They had not been as bad as the other groups the children had the misfortune of crossing paths with, but they did not want to stick around for when their benevolence ran out. From where they were now, they couldn’t see the Wall, couldn’t even make out the sun gleaming off the ice and stone on the horizon. They had left the barrier between the lands of the First Men behind long ago. They had trusted the wrong people enough times to know that they could trust no one, not highborn or lowborn, not a northerner nor a southerner, not the Night’s Watch nor the wildlings.

Robb led his siblings on, a stolen sword on his hip that he had gotten from the men at Hoarfrost Hill. He had often wondered what it would be like to kill a man. He knew it would be expected of him eventually, he just thought he would be older and that he would’ve gotten to speak with his father about it beyond the talk they had about performing his duty as Warden of the North. He certainly didn’t think his little sisters would be right beside him slaying grown men with him. The image of Sansa, sweet, innocent, girly Sansa straddling one of the men and plunging a dagger into his neck was a disturbing one. She had been different ever since Stonedoor though, all of them were. They had to be, or they would be dead by now.

Where you will go is a harsh place, but if you choose rightly, you will survive,  Brandon the Breaker had said.

Robb glanced back at his younger sister. Sansa had a blank look on her face as she held Arya’s hand walking in the middle of their party with Jon and Bran making up the rear. When they first were unceremoniously banished north of the Wall, the girls bickered and argued more than ever. Often Jon was the one mediating between them because Robb got frustrated and flustered under the pressure of being the eldest and trying to get his siblings to safety. As time passed, they all realized they were on their own, and they had to rely on each other.

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.  

And so, they survived together. 

They learned to hunt. They stole, swiping food, leathers, skins, furs, and weapons when they could find them. They slept curled together, sharing each other’s warmth. They fought together, doing whatever they needed to do, even if it meant killing. They also shared dreams, which was why they were walking across an iced-over path with no direction except for said dream. Something spoke to Robb, talked to all of them, and beckoned them to come.

Min rokon, min vulk brohr. Wy er krevi v kere. Look for me across the ice sea. Walk the path man calls Skirling, cross the bridge and into the cave with waters burning. Come and join the pack,  the voice had said.

It was a testament to the trust they had built that all Robb had to say was that he had a dream, and his siblings didn’t question him. It made him nervous for them to have such faith in him. He couldn’t get them home. He had been trying for months, fifteen moons to be exact, and failing. Fifteen moons and all he had led them to was darkness and violence, but they followed him anyway.

He felt a tug in the back of his head as he continued walking along the path, which should be Skirling Pass, perpendicular to the Frostfangs if he remembered correctly. The mountain was in view, so he thought he was going in the right direction. Understanding geography north of the Wall was a challenge, but the wildlings that had captured them after they escaped Hoarfrost Hill were friendly enough and would often have conversations with them about the land and its temperament. Robb was sure they were going to sell them as thralls, like the wildlings at Greyguard planned to, though they were not half as nice.

Robb and his siblings speculated amongst themselves why this latest group was so lenient with them, why they left them unshackled when they made camp and told them stories of times long past. They fed them well, clothed them, showed them how to hunt, how to build fire in the inclement weather, which ice was good for walking on, what parts of the animals should be eaten and what to keep for clothes, where to find materials for thread, how to tell time by looking at the sun and direction from the stars. Maybe they hoped the children could escape their captors after they had been sold off. The siblings stayed with the wildlings as long as it was beneficial before they stole what they needed and left. Now they were following this phantom pull.

They had walked across a frozen body of water and the barren vastness of the cold. They had been attacked by wild animals and left those encounters not unscathed. Jon bore the scars of a snow bear attack on his back. Thankfully, it hadn’t been full grown, or they would all be dead. After about a fortnight, they made it to the Pass. 

Skirling Pass led straight into the mountain range, and after a while, it opened up into a valley. There was a waterfall, the crystalline liquid rushing over the side of the mountain into a lake below. The sight stopped them up before Robb glanced to the side. There was a land bridge over the lake connecting to a cave on the other side.

Walk the path man calls Skirling, cross the bridge and into the cave with waters burning.  

Robb felt the tug pulling him towards the cave. He charged ahead fearlessly, and his siblings followed him into the dark. He kept a hand on his sword as they walked into the blackness cautiously with a hand pressed to the wall. He wasn’t sure how long they walked, but it got significantly warmer. Eventually, he could see a light up ahead and hear rushing water and voices. The five children stopped and looked at one another undecidedly, having a silent conversation.

Robb surveyed each of his siblings’ faces. Bran had a look of pure fear and clung to Jon’s waist. Robb thought of Stonedoor. Bran was too young to understand what was going on, but he had become silent after they left that hellhole and didn’t talk much. He was the most mistrustful of anyone who wasn’t them.

Jon had a look of concern and appeared to be straining his ears to hear what was being said before he rose an eyebrow at Robb. Without Jon, Robb would’ve lost his mind long ago trying to keep them all alive, but his brother, his rival, his confidant, his best friend, was with him and that made it bearable. The two boys stared at one another, weighing pros and cons before Arya pinched them both and shook her head vigorously.

In the beginning, she took this all as a game. A grand adventure, a wish granted. She didn’t have to be a lady, didn’t have to take classes on courtesy or listen to her septa about her future as some lord’s wife or be subject to her mother’s scolding for her wild behavior. After the cold set in, after the danger set in, then she realized the seriousness of their situation.

Robb turned to look at Sansa next. He could practically see the thoughts flying through her head before grim determination came over her, and she nodded towards the cave, motioning them to go inside further. Sansa had taken being away from the comfort of home the hardest. She was the epitome of a lady and being forced to live off the wilderness in the cold did not appeal to her. She spent a long time in denial, thinking someone would appear on a white horse to save them. At Stonedoor, reality finally caught up with her. Since then, she didn’t flinch at anything they had to do to survive. 

Robb thought about it before making a decision, indicating for Jon, Bran, and Arya to stay while he and Sansa crept deeper inside. Jon looked displeased but nodded.

Robb and Sansa stuck to the walls as they walked into the cave. The people’s chattering became more distinct, but they were not speaking the Common Tongue, so he couldn’t tell what they were saying. The light got brighter and the air warmed up. Robb stopped as the cave came into view. A man was standing in the entrance staring at them with a shadow next to him, yellow eyes piercing the darkness. Robb felt his heart skip a beat, and his fingers flexed on his sword. The shadow shifted, and its shape became familiar. 

A direwolf. 

The man stepped into the light to reveal a head of brown hair and haunting green eyes. He stared at them for a moment as Sansa’s shaking hand pressed into Robb’s before he smiled at them.

“Hello, beirnes o zidyr, we’ve been waiting for you.”

305 AC  

Rickon felt more and more ridiculous the farther from Winterfell he got. Because this was ridiculous, trekking to the Wall with his ten-year-old sister, seven-year-old brother, four direwolves, some furs, flint, food enough for a month and one warhorse for the three of them.

This is stupid,  he told himself for what felt like the millionth time, but he continued, keeping hold of the reins of the horse. 

They had been riding for weeks already, going back and forth between the kingsroad and the woods. They had an arrangement now. Rickon was usually in the front of the saddle with Beron sitting in the middle and Minisa in the back keeping ahold of their younger brother so he didn’t go sliding to the ground. They didn’t speak much since they left the keep. The adrenaline they felt at making their escape had long worn off. Now they were all dwelling on their decision to leave Winterfell and the possible ramifications of that choice. The decision was irrational, reactionary and based upon a phenomenon they couldn’t explain. Even so, they had only brought it up once between themselves five days after they left.

They had been camped in the woods for the night. Beron was resting his head against Rickon’s back while Minisa was laying on Beron’s other side, an arm thrown over his waist. It was cold on the patch of grass they were laying on, but the wolves were clustered around them, their fur a source of warmth since a fire felt too risky. Three children alone on the road shouldn’t be drawing attention to themselves unless they wanted to run into the wrong sort of man, even with their direwolves there to protect them. Winter, Sapphire, and Shaggy were growing fast, but they were still not even half of Grey Wind’s size.

“Is this a mistake,” Minisa had asked after what felt like hours of silently laying on the ground and staring up at the stars.

“It’s highly ill-advised and reckless. Even if we find them, Mother and Father are going to kill us for leaving home,” Rickon had pointed out.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. No, it  is  a good idea. Mother and Father have spent over a decade wondering, and if our siblings are lost, we can bring them home.”

“Don’t be so naive. They didn’t seem lost. I doubt this has a happy ending.”

“If you are so averse to this trip, why come,” Minisa had challenged.

“I’m your brother, I have to protect you. I can’t just let you roam by yourself to the Wall and beyond. Do you know what happens to little girls who are out here alone?”

“The same that could happen to a boy I’d imagine.” 

Rickon had rolled his eyes but didn’t answer that.

“Why do you think they left? What’s so special beyond the Wall that they would abandon Winterfell,” he asked instead.

Minisa shrugged.

“They didn’t have to leave Mother and Father like that, let them grieve, keep them guessing.” 

There was a bitter edge to his voice. Minisa eyed him from the corner of her eye.

“We did the same thing. We can hardly judge.”

“S’not the same,” he mumbled. 

She rolled her eyes at him.

“Sure.”

Rickon knew that he was being irrational about things, but he couldn’t rein his feelings in. All his life he lived in the shadow of his elder siblings’ memories. He spent all that time competing with ghosts, he was not as eager as his younger siblings to meet them in person. He was certain both Minisa and Beron would be let down. They weren’t all going to fall into place and become one big, happy family. That was the most unrealistic expectation of all. He shook his head.

“Let’s just get some sleep.”

That had been the last significant conversation they had about it. Rickon had lost count of the days that passed as they traveled. It felt like they melted into one another. Time became nebulous, something that slipped into the background. His attention was on the horse beneath him, his surroundings and how it related to them. He focused on how they needed to react if they heard a cart rumbling up the kingsroad, if a rustling in the bushes in the woods was danger or dinner, if Beron’s constant sniffling was an ailment or just a result of the weather, if the huff of the horse’s breath was breathing or exhaustion. Which water was safe for drinking? What berries were good for eating? Which patches of grass could serve for a bed? His life became surviving on the road.

Before he knew it, it had been over three weeks, and they were riding through the Gifts, following Grey Wind’s lead.

This was a large part of how ridiculous Rickon felt. He was following his long-lost brother’s direwolf into uncertain territory because of a dream. He hadn’t had any more dreams since they started their travels and neither had Beron or Minisa. Rickon began to wonder if it had ever happened at all. What if this was all a trap? He hadn’t questioned it before, just accepted that his siblings were north of the Wall and he must find them for his parents’ sake. Had the dreams come from the Old Gods? A gift to end the sorrow of his family? What if it was from a much more sinister force? Old Nan told them stories of dream demons who would lure people in with their deepest desires only for it to lead to their ruin. And the deserter, he had told stories of the Others stirring beyond the Wall. His father had written the man off, but Rickon wasn’t so sure. What if they were all riding towards their deaths?

The Gift did not ease his thoughts. The lands were abandoned, overgrown and wild. When he had ridden to the Wall with his father before, he didn’t remember the Gift being in this state. More people lived here then, it was not as depressing a sight. It certainly wasn’t beautiful, but it wasn’t the virtual wasteland it was now. Many of the settlements they passed were left to ruin and rot or burned. They did encounter a horse-breeder and had been careful to skirt his lands.

Rickon felt a deep sense of foreboding hanging over him as they rode on. The closer they got to the Wall, the more it felt like there was a heavy burden upon their shoulders. Rickon kept pushing himself to turn back, but he continued forward regardless. Even Beron must’ve felt it because he was unnaturally quiet. He didn’t complain about having to ride a horse for so long that it caused saddle sores or the fact that they had to ration food. They had well-made furs and boots, but the further north they rode, the more the cold seeped into their skin and made them all shiver, turned their cheeks rosy and their noses runny. It would’ve been more comfortable if they could’ve stopped at inns and holdfasts for rest, but they had no money and any lord that found them would send them straight home. Rickon was almost tempted to let someone find them, but Minisa and Beron would hate him.

In a way, the quiet created a sense of tranquility for him. Sometimes the world around him would fade away. All Rickon felt and heard was the snuffling of the horse’s breath. Beron’s arms wrapped around his waist, the younger boy drawing his snotty nose. Minisa’s quiet humming from boredom. The direwolves’ paws pressing into the snow, the crunch of it underfoot. He could almost feel the coldness in the soles of his feet and in the palms of his hands, feel the vibration of the earth beneath him, sense the movement of creatures far off in the woods. Each scuttle and scamper made his ears twitch. He could hear suitable prey not too far away. Something small with fur that smelled of pine needles, oak, and weirwood sap. He wanted to chase it, catch it, gnash its flesh with his teeth and taste the blood on his tongue. He could even find food for his wolfboy and his packmates to eat. A thump startled him, and he turned to see his wolfboy on the ground, his eyes wide open and sightless.

Rickon gasped and the next thing he knew, he was back in his own body. He was bewildered to find himself on the cold soil, his back stinging from unceremoniously falling from the horse’s saddle.

“Are you alright,” Minisa asked with alarm in her voice.

“I…”

“Your eyes. They were all white, like milk,” Beron exclaimed, almost accusatorily.

Rickon looked at Winter as he sat silently beside him. He was staring at him with a gaze that seemed too intelligent for any animal to have. He knew he had a connection with the wolf, he had shared dreams and memories with him after all, but to find himself thrown into his wolf’s body, sharing Winter’s thoughts even for a brief moment, was another thing entirely. Not just his mind, but his feelings. Rickon could feel the phantom desire to hunt, the bloodlust from his wolf. It made him unsettled, and he shied away from Winter a little. The wolf cocked its head curiously in response.

“It’s like those stories Old Nan tells us about wargs,” Beron said.

“I’m not a warg,” Rickon immediately snapped back. 

The stories Old Nan used to tell them. Beastlings, creatures not fit to be among people, evil things that used animals to murder and rape, men who forgot themselves and became animals as a result. She said they were all hunted down and killed. No, that wasn’t him. Whatever just happened wasn’t what it seemed. Minisa looked down at him doubtfully.

“Maybe—”

“I’m not.”

“I had dreams that weren’t my dreams, they were Sapphire’s. All of us had dreams from our wolves and you just—”

“We’re  not . All of this is absurd enough without thinking we’re skinchangers on top of that.”

Minisa and Beron gave him looks that showed they didn’t believe him. It made Rickon’s skin crawl, like he was being opened and examined by them.

“We should turn back now,” Rickon decided, his discomfort reaching an all-time high.

“Are you kidding? We’re closer to the Wall than home by leagues,” Minisa protested.

“We have to bring the others back. Mother and Father will be so happy. They’ll never cry or have to miss them again, and we’ll all be together as a family. A pack,” Beron chimed in vehemently.

“I wish I could look at all this as simply as you do, baby brother,” Rickon scoffed.

“I’m not a baby, and I’m not simple!”

“Shh, not too loudly. We’re too close to turn back now. I saw Robb and the others with direwolves, and they mentioned that Bran is a warg. We’ll get answers from them, not at Winterfell. We’re going forward,” Minisa replied, her tone strong and unwavering.

Rickon hesitated but swung himself back up on the horse and nudged it forward. He felt chilled to the bone. He hadn’t been before, but suddenly he was afraid of what he might learn about himself when he met his siblings, and the only thing it made him want to do was run away.

~*~*~

The Wall was a magnificent sight.

Minisa had sometimes wondered what it was like. She knew basic things, things she had read and heard from Maester Luwin: that it was 700 ft tall and 300 miles long, supposedly built by Brandon the Builder with the help of the Children of the Forest. It had nineteen castles along it. It was cold, having been made from ice, stone, and earth, but warmer than one thought. It would weep in the sun and refreeze at night. 

Uncle Benjen sometimes would describe it to her in his letters, but Minisa was not prepared for how beautiful it was. It was barely visible on the horizon at first, but the closer they got, the more she could see. It shone like blue crystals in the dim sunlight. Though its beauty captured her, she also had a healthy amount of fear. She knew men like her uncle at the Wall were rare. Most of those exiled there were thieves, rapists, murderers, and traitors. Other than that present danger, the Wall let off a strong sense of… magic. She didn’t know how else to describe the feeling she felt coming off of it in waves, even with the distance between them. Minisa did not say anything out loud because Beron was excitable and Rickon had been silently brooding ever since that episode where he seemingly warged into Winter.

Minisa was both shocked and envious. Rickon saw something like that as a curse, probably because of all Old Nan’s stories. He always took her tales so seriously. If Old Nan were to be believed, the Others stirred beyond the Wall and made mistresses of wildlings so they could make their demon children. Not all her stories needed to be taken so literally. It was true that beyond the Neck, the idea of skinchangers was much maligned. They were hunted, killed and ultimately eradicated from the lands of the Andals. Rickon was a student of history, he would know that. But that was hundreds of years ago. The world was different now. There were rumors that wargs existed on Skagos, but she wasn’t sure. Minisa would not be opposed to having such a bond with Sapphire. The direwolf wasn’t her pet, wasn’t just some hound, Minisa could feel Sapphire in her bones, sense her in the back of her mind. She wondered what Rickon had done to warg into Winter, but she didn’t bother asking him. He would start pouting even more. She didn’t want to deal with him like that.

Grey Wind led them on throughout the day as the winds blew colder and the sun began to fall behind the Wall. Minisa watched in wonder as the crystal blue color of the Wall shifted to beautiful purples and oranges with the sunset. Viewing the structure from the relative safety of the Gifts made it hard for her to imagine that living there could bring anything but wonder to one’s life. She need only read between the lines of her uncle’s letters and hear from Myrcella about the letters from her uncle/father to know the truth. But it was still a magnificent view. 

As the sun set, they decided it was time to stop. They made it to a windmill. Minisa jumped at the chance to sleep indoors for once in weeks. It had been a cruel journey. The long, hard riding had caused sores to form on her thighs, and they hadn’t had the chance to bathe. She didn’t want to complain and be teased for being a girl, but their dirty state made her uncomfortable. She wondered at how her father and no other men from Winterfell had caught up with them. They had been careful, but she was sure they probably left some tracks. She had been waiting to hear the neighing of horses, the barking of hounds and her father’s stern voice calling their names, but nothing. They encountered passersby on the road, but it was mostly smallfolk, and they stayed away from them. The trip had been an uneventful one, but taxing.

Being indoors appeared to reinvigorate her brothers because Beron became instantly chatty and Rickon stopped brooding momentarily so he could tease him. Minisa watched them with a smile. This undertaking had burdened them the moment they left Winterfell. She was glad for the respite.

“What do you think, Minnie?” Beron asked her.

“Hmm?”

“When we get beyond the Wall, and we meet up with our siblings, do you think they can show us mammoths?”

“Mammoths are not real. They’ve been dead for centuries, I told you that,” Rickon interjected.

“You also told me that direwolves weren’t real anymore and that my dreams weren’t real and that you weren’t a warg. All lies, so I’m not listening to you,” Beron replied matter-of-factly. 

Minisa pinched her lips so she did not smile at her younger brother’s petulance as Rickon scoffed.

“Mayhaps we will see mammoths, Beron. We still don’t know what drove our siblings beyond the Wall. They may not have time. And it is dangerous, remember? There are wildlings and direwolves—”

“But they were with wildlings and direwolves in my dreams. Plus, we’ve got direwolves, so it can’t be that dangerous.”

Minisa stopped up there. Her dreams did show her elder siblings surrounded by wildlings. They didn’t seem like they were captured. In fact, Robb looked like he was in charge. But that was just Sapphire’s memories. They may not be correctly recalled.

“Still, caution is essential. It’s dangerous. We have the direwolves, but we have to watch each other’s backs too.” 

Beron nodded before he chewed his lips nervously.

“Are we going to get to the other side of the Wall through Castle Black? If we go there, Uncle Benjen might see us, and he’ll tell Father where we are.”

“Uncle Benjen’s not at Castle Black, but it doesn’t seem like that’s where we’re going. The path Grey Wind has us on is going west of Castle Black. The castle west of there is… is the Nightfort,” Rickon answered. 

Minisa’s eyes widened, and Beron gasped.

“From Old Nan’s stories? We can’t go there! It’s haunted, it’s cursed!”

“Don’t scream,” Minisa warned. 

She looked back at Rickon, an unsettled feeling in her stomach. Old Nan’s stories about the Nightfort were always dark. It was the oldest castle on the Wall, predating Castle Black by centuries, but it was ill-omened. The Nightfort was where the Night’s King reigned with his queen and performed dark sacrifices to the Others, where the Rat Cook broke the law of guest right and was cursed by the gods, where poor Danny Flint was raped and murdered, where the 79 sentinels were carved into the Wall to never abandon their posts again, where Mad Axe lost his mind and killed several of his sworn brothers.

I was denouncing Rickon for taking Old Nan’s stories too seriously, and here I am , she chastised herself.

“Old Nan’s stories are just tall tales meant to scare us. Grey Wind must be leading us there because we can get to the other side of the Wall undetected. It’s abandoned so we won’t have to worry about Night’s Watchmen. It’s probably where Grey Wind passed to get to Winterfell and River Song and the rest of the pack too. It’s a good idea,” Minisa reasoned, not letting on how afraid the prospect made her. 

Rickon eyed her like he could tell her true feelings despite her efforts.

“Aye, it is. We can’t take the horse though. The place is a ruin, she’s too big. She won’t fit inside. There’s no working gate,” Rickon said in lieu of addressing Minisa’s lingering fears.

“We’ll set her running towards where we saw that horse breeder. He’s not too far away. He can care for her,” Minisa replied confidently, but Beron looked at her for further reassurance.

“We won’t touch anything at the Nightfort. We’ll go in, get past the Wall and that’ll be that. Let’s get some sleep now. By tomorrow, we’ll be on the other side of the Wall, and that’s where the real danger lies, little brother.”

Beron listened to her and laid down, Shaggy cuddling into his side so they could sleep. Minisa moved to lay next to Sapphire, but Grey Wind caught her eye. He was sitting in the corner under the window, but he was staring at them intently, almost like he was studying them. 

The direwolf had been mostly quiet and aloof since he showed up at Winterfell. He kept them warm when they were out on the road, hunted along with his younger siblings and brought them back some of his catch, allowed Beron to ride on his back every once and a while and let Minisa scratch behind his ear, but he held back from them too. Sometimes Minisa would wake in the night, and he would be walking away from their encampment. Other times she noticed him just staring at them with keen eyes, assessing them. She was never sure what he was looking for or if he could register who they were. He must’ve if he came for them. She wondered why though. She knew she wouldn’t get an answer. 

She ended her staring match with him and moved in between Sapphire and Rickon to get some sleep.

~*~*~

The stonehouse man called the Fort of Night had a darkness about it that he did not like. It made his hackles rise and put him on alert. He felt like his pack was being watched. The wolfgirl mentioned something about sentinels while they were sending the horse away to possible safety. Perhaps the eyes were theirs, but the half-humans did not seem overly concerned about these sentinels, so the one called Grey Wind remained cautious but calm as he led his packmates into the Fort. 

Grey Wind never paid much attention to what made a quality stonehouse for humans and what did not, but he could tell that this place was not. The air was stale, many walls were falling, the ground felt unstable, and the darkness was thick enough to breathe it in. No, he misliked this place. But even with the undeniable evil settled into every stone, he could feel the subtle aura of the Great Beings, the presence of the ones of the trees, wind and earth, the ones whose eyes were carved into tree bark and leaked sweet sap that resembled blood, the one his packmates called the Old Gods. Grey Wind knew to respect and fear them, but it was also telling that their presence was outmatched by that of the darkness hovering in the air. 

He hastened to reach the exit with the wolfchildren, White Brother, Black Brother, and Blue-Eyed Sister following close behind him. As he led the group, Grey Wind stretched his mind out and reached for his wolfman, his mind touching his familiar’s, but not going inside. He could not enter his wolfman’s mind like he could enter Grey’s. This did not bother the wolf. Walking on two legs with naked flesh devoid of the protection of naturally grown fur and unsharpened teeth never made much sense to the direwolf. He did not want to experience it. His wolfman opened himself and allowed Grey Wind to inform him of the group’s whereabouts as he had been doing since he went to collect their wayward packmates. 

He could feel Wolf Mother’s mate not far behind them on their journey along with the Alpha. Eventually, the Alpha would also be with the pack once more, but Grey did not tell his wolfman that. He acted strangely when the Alpha was mentioned. His emotions got turbulent and confusing, his mind touched Grey’s without his control, and it was erratic and chaotic.

Grey led the group down the rickety stairs to where a medium-sized hole was created in the Fort of Night. It was large enough for all of them to get through. He crawled through the hole, just as he did moons ago. 

The other side of man’s Wall, the side that was home, instantly felt colder but he felt better once he was no longer inside the Fort of Night. That awful place with its dreadful aura and evil darkness was too much for him to bear. The colder side of man’s Wall still had the darkness, but it was spread out and far away in the place where the Wild Ones said hope mourned eons ago. 

Grey Wind turned to make sure all of his pack made it outside the Fort. White Brother and the smaller wolfboy came first, then Blue-Eyed sister and the wolfgirl and then the older wolfboy. He waited for Black Brother, but he did not come.

“Winter?”

Grey Wind stepped up to listen for his brother. He could smell fear coming off of him and anger, hatred, disgust before he started growling a warning. Grey stepped forward and slipped back into the hole. Black Brother was down the corridor, staring at something around the corner. Black Brother’s wolfboy crawled back inside, warning the others to stay where they were. He pulled out a small metal tooth from his waist. Grey huffed in amusement at it but allowed the wolfboy to follow him as he went to see what had caught his brother’s attention.

As he got closer, the darkness started to feel suffocating, cloying at his neck and wafting into his nostrils. Darkness and the smell of death and rot. Grey recognized the aura. It was the Dead Ones. He heard metal scraping on stone and the shambling of staggering footsteps before Black Brother charged forward into danger.

Fool,  Grey thought, running after him when his brother yelped in pain, the wolfboy right behind him.

The Dead One was scratching at Black Brother’s side, drawing blood with a boney finger. Grey Wind charged at him, knocking it to the side. The Dead One let out a screech and clawed its way towards him. Grey bit down on one of its arms and begun flinging the Dead One side to side, knocking him into a wall and ripping the arm off in the process. He charged it again, tearing at its torso as the Dead One clawed at his back, breaking into his flesh. He ignored the pain to rip the Dead One in two. It would be better if his wolfman’s pack and the Wild Ones were here with their black glass or their fire.

Grey yelped as the hand he ripped off grabbed onto his hind leg. He turned around to rip it off and caught sight of the wolfboy staring incredulously at the Dead One. The top half of its severed body still flailed around trying to reach the wolfboy and Black Brother to kill them. The wolfboy shook out of his stupor as the Dead One got close and stabbed it with his metal tooth, but it didn’t do anything. It wasn’t black glass after all. The Dead One grabbed the wolfboy’s leg and dragged him down. Grey Wind clamped onto the half-man and dragged it away. He tore at it with his claws and teeth until it was separate pieces, all moving about independently but less of a danger. The wolfboy sat on the floor still staring at the Dead Ones. Grey was concerned he was injured, but he just looked to be in shock. Grey Wind approached Black Brother to see if he was alright. The younger wolf looked at him repentantly. He was a fool, but he was strong. He would live.

Grey Wind stood up to lead them all back outside. The wolfboy was shaken but followed him. They crawled back through the hole, intending to continue their journey lest any more Dead Ones be lurking, but no one was there when they made it outside.

“Where— Minisa, Beron,” the wolfboy called. 

Grey Wind looked around and lifted his nose to the air. Someone had been here. He could smell human flesh, foul flesh that reeked of stale sweat and blood and semen. One of the Wild Ones perhaps or one of the ones his wolfman called crows. Either way, the wolfchildren, and his packmates were gone.

Chapter Text

North of the Wall was as dark and horrible a place as Minisa had heard it was, and she had only been there for no more than five minutes before it caught both her and Beron in its clutches.

She felt like her stomach was in knots as the men carried her, Beron and their wolves deeper into the woods. The group had been anxiously waiting outside the Nightfort for Rickon, Grey Wind and Winter to come back out. The sounds of a fight had distracted her. She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her until too late. One of the men got a net around Shaggy before he could attack. Sapphire ripped the throat out of one of them before a net was thrown on her as well. Minisa and Beron were shackled and thrown over the men’s shoulders.

There were five of them; men dressed up like Night’s Watchmen. Either they stole the cloaks, or they had gone rogue. She knew not all black brothers had the same honor as her uncle, and the more she listened to these men speak, the more terrified she became. One of them in particular frightened her. He was the one dragging Sapphire behind him. He kept staring at Minisa with this glint in his eye that set her heart racing and made warning bells ring in her head. She tried not to get caught staring, but he made eye contact with her anyway.

“See something you like, girl?”

She didn’t answer him, just looked down and away.

“I like girls with red hair. There are no girls with red hair back at Craster’s.”

His voice was like rusted metal scraping on stone, and when his dirty fingers stroked her hair, they smelled of piss and other rank odors. Minisa recoiled from his touch while the men laughed.

“Get away from my sister, you fiend!” Beron exclaimed. Minisa shot him a warning look to stay quiet.

“Don’t worry, boy. There are men at the keep waiting for the likes of you too. You won’t get lonely.” The one carrying Beron said. She saw the fear in his eyes and sent him a reassuring glance. Rickon would come for them with Grey Wind and Winter. Everything would be okay. She had to believe that.

“Put the wolves in the trap with the other one. We’ll deal with them later.” Minisa watched the men approach what looked like a rock from one angle, but what she realized was a cage fashioned within the roots of a tree. It was covered in snow and half-hidden to the human eye, but something shifted inside, and red eyes appeared. Minisa stiffened before realizing it was another direwolf. It was much larger than hers, about the size of Grey Wind. The wolf looked strangely familiar. She knew it; she knew she did. She watched the white wolf help Sapphire and Shaggy out of the nets and lick the pups when they were shoved inside.

They know each other, she thought.

Could it be—

Would it be too much of a coincidence for the direwolf to belong to one of her elder siblings? A white wolf. It must be Jon's then. She remembered him with a white wolf in her dreams of Sapphire's memories. Maybe she was wrong or perhaps just hoping for a miracle when there was none in sight, but maybe he was close.

The men walked with Minisa and Beron up a small hill to a keep in the clearing. The keep, if it could be called that, was a depressing thing. It sat atop the low hill with a gate decorated with the skulls of a bear, a ram and men surrounding it. Inside the dike, there was a midden heap, a pigsty, and a sheepfold. People milled about. There were men dressed in the garb of the Night’s Watch and women in rags doddering sluggishly. The women, and girls, looked more like walking corpses than people. As Minisa was taken past them, she saw that their faces were sunken and sallow, pale and bruised and lifeless. Not many of them paid the group any attention, but a few shot looks of pity at Minisa and Beron. It chilled the young girl to the core.

The ramshackle dwelling was made with logs and roofed with sod. It looked big enough to hold thirty to forty men at best but stuffed inside were at least 80 people from Minisa’s estimation. The women inside looked as battered as those outside. The men looked just as evil as the ones carrying her. They dropped Minisa and Beron on the floor roughly. The sudden movement startled her. The smack of her body on the ground stung, but she crawled over to Beron and held him behind her protectively. There were too many men. She could never fight them all off.

“Rast, I see you come bearing gifts.”

A man came around the corner with a face comparable to a fish, but the cruelty in his eyes was not something the nine-year-old dismissed. He was dragging a teenaged girl by the hair behind him. She did not cry out or try to fight him, her body was limp as he pulled her across the floor as a child would a toy. Minisa thought for a moment the girl was dead until she blinked. The young girl stared at her as the men exchanged words that she did not listen to. The teen’s eyes were unfocused and shiny, her face was littered with bruises, one of her eyes were swollen, there were bite marks on her neck, but she did not react even as the man moved his hand about, making her head bounce and tugging on her hair with every gesture.

I need to leave this place.

Minisa jerked her head back as the man holding the teenage girl knelt in front of her and stared at her silently, menacingly. She felt Beron shift behind her and Minisa tightened her grip on him, willing him to stay quiet while she tried to convince these men to let her go.

“Please, Ser, we didn’t mean any harm. We were just lost is all. We strayed from our clan. We want no part of any of your business,” she said desperately, trying to speak without the affectation of her highborn accent.

“Strayed from your clan? You’re wildlings, are you?”

Minisa nodded her head while muttering, “yes, yes.”

The man reached out, and she flinched a little as he ran his fingers over her furs and the leathers she wore.

“Fine clothing you’ve got there for a wildling.”

“We stole it off some lord,” she replied, thinking on her feet. The man stared at her for a moment, looking her up and down.

“You’re quick, I’ll give you that. But you’re no wildling. You talk too proper, and no wildling would ever let me call them a wildling without going on and on about how you’re called Freefolk. No, you’re important. Highborn if I had to guess.”

“Karl, they had direwolves with ‘em.” The man who was staring at her before, Rast, said.

“Is that so?” The leader, Karl, looked at Minisa with eyes that were intrigued but also impossibly colder than before.

"Strayed from a clan and have a direwolf with you. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were a part of the King-beyond-the-Wall's group, but even they can't get material this rich. So who are you?"

She didn’t answer.

“I don’t like asking questions twice.”

She looked away from Karl at the girl who still lay lifelessly in his grasp. Minisa gasped as he roughly grabbed her face with his free hand and made her meet his gaze.

“Don’t touch her!” Beron demanded. Minisa shushed him and stared at the man, not letting on how afraid she was.

I must be as brave as Rickon, she told herself.

“I told you who I am. I’m just a girl with her brother lost from her clan. If you let me, I will find them again and say nothing of what happened here, my lord.”

“Milord. Highborns say 'my lord', lowborns and uneducated wildlings say 'milord'. It’s the little things like that that make or break a cover story."

Minisa swallowed quietly but did not let her face betray that she had been caught out. Karl's wormy lips stretched into a wicked grin.

"You see, where I come from, a commoner like me slaps a little lady or lord like you two, I’d lose me right hand. But we’re a long way from home, aren’t we?”

The sting of the slap he landed across her face hurt more than anything Minisa had ever felt. She had never been hit like that before. She heard Beron gasp behind her.

“We’ve had a good thing going on out here ever since we ditched the Night’s Watch, ever since we killed bloody Mormont, Craster and Raydar." Rast spat on the ground near Minisa's feet at the names, and she curled in on herself even more as Karl continued his tirade.

"Only problems we've had have been the bloody wildlings from the king's group, but castle-forged steel takes care of that well enough. It’s been virtual silence. Now, here come the two of you, fancy looking folks north of the Wall creeping through the woods with direwolves claiming to be of a wildling clan. Isn’t that a bit odd?”

“I told you, we’re—” Karl smacked her again and she felt blood trickling from her lip.

“I see you haven’t played this game before. Let me spell it out. A highborn hostage, that’s valuable. But two of them? That’s a lot of mouths to feed for what might not be worth the reward. If I were you, I’d start talking.” Minisa opened her mouth but nothing came out. She couldn’t will the words past her lips.

Her heart jumped into her throat as Beron was suddenly ripped from behind her. She turned around to see him in the arms of one of the other Night’s Watchmen. Beron was squirming in his arms, kicking and screaming.

“No! Please, don’t.” Minisa tried to crawl over and free Beron, but Karl dropped the girl and dragged Minisa back to him. He wrapped his arms around her to keep her in place, grabbed her face with his free hand, and started running the other through her hair. She gagged, and tears ran down her cheeks as he began to smell the strands.

“Rast has always been the one to prefer redheads. I like curly haired ones myself. Nice brown curls.”

“But nice red waves, there’s nothing more beautiful. My sister had red hair. At least when she was still alive.” Rast said, staring down at Minisa like a man would a mutton chop.

“Garth over there likes ‘em young and boys. You’re safe from him, and I reckon from Chett too, but the boy? As you can see, we’ve been running short on little boys.”

“Please, just don’t hurt him.”

“Why not? A couple lost wildlings, what’s the point of keeping you around when we can have our fun and move on. The king won't miss you. Hasn't missed any of the other wildlings.” The man holding Beron started whispering something in Beron’s ear that made him flail even more and tears were running hot down the boy’s face.

“Minnie!” Her younger brother cried, reaching out to her for help and safety.

“Please, I’ll do anything,” she sobbed.

“Who are you?!” Karl shouted in her ear. Minisa exclaimed in fright before answering.

“Minisa Stark! I’m Minisa Stark of Winterfell. Please, just let him go.”

“Stark?”

“The First Ranger’s niece and nephew,” Rast pointed out.

“What about the direwolves?”

“We found them in the wolfswood south of the Wall. We've never met any King-beyond-the-Wall.” The two men shared a look between themselves.

“Chain them up in the corner. We’ll deal with them later.” Minisa felt the barest amount of relief as Rast dragged her to a corner and deposited her next to Beron, tying them both to a pipe. Rast caressed one of her cheeks and Minisa moved away, glaring at him. She contemplated biting him but decided that was more trouble than it was worth.

“Rast! You can fuck her later, let’s go. We need to talk.”

Minisa watched the two men along with a few of the other Night’s Watchmen walk out of the hovel, and she deflated slightly. Her heart was racing, her adrenaline pumping. She was terrified and she had no idea how to save herself. She turned to Beron, who was sobbing incoherently.

“It’s okay, little brother. It’ll all be okay.”

“It won’t.” Minisa turned to see the teenaged girl who Karl had been dragging behind him staring down at her with her unsettling dead eyes.

“None of this is going to be okay,” the teen continued.

“Kissy, leave ‘em,” an older woman in the keep snapped. The teen’s dead eyes didn’t leave Minisa.

“They are going to have you, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. Your best bet is to go somewhere else in your mind. The only thing here is hell.” Minisa shivered as the girl trudged away, but she tried to let her words roll off her.

Rickon was out there. Her elder siblings were perhaps out there too. This King-beyond-the-Wall was identified by having direwolves, so it must be Robb, wasn't it? Or Robb and her siblings were a part of this king's group. Even if that was true, would it matter? The men said the wildlings never attacked them, only stragglers who were dispatched. But Grey Wind was still free, and maybe the wolf in the cage was really Jon's. If the gods were truly looking down on her, then perhaps Robb could feel a pull to him the same way Minisa could still feel a tug towards Sapphire in the back of her mind. But none of them were there right now. Being highborn was the only thing that saved both her and Beron’s lives at the moment. No, she would hold heart. There was still hope, she told herself. She leaned down to press her forehead to Beron’s, despite how uncomfortable it made her bound hands.

“There is hope.”

~*~*~

The snows were piled high this far from the camp her pack and their clan had set up. The large snowdrifts were most annoying. They were so fluffy that they made her paws sink in and got trapped in her fur only to melt and make her coat wet. The one called Nymaine huffed a longsuffering sigh as she ran over the harder snows, the wind blowing her gray coat. She could feel her wolfgirl in the back of her mind, but Nymaine was still in control. She preferred that. Though she did love her wolfgirl and their similar natures hardly ever caused much fuss, Nym liked being in control of herself, free to make her own choices, to be her own self. That was why her wolfgirl's soul called to hers, because they were just the same: wild and untamable but loyal to their pack above all. That was why Nym was running through what man called the Haunted Forest towards an awful destination.

Nym peeled off to the right as she reached the cursed place. She could see the woodhouse just ahead. Nymaine could tell without her girl's stirring mind that it was inadequate and more than that, a place of dark happenings. Nym could taste the darkness in the air surrounding the keep the closer she got to it. It wasn't the same as the darkness of the dead ones. That evil was all encompassing, set her whole body on alert, and made every inch of her uncomfortable. This darkness was manmade, the result of the cruelty humans inflicted upon nature and each other. She could taste the misery and despair in the air as soon as the boundary between the woodhouse and the forest was crossed. She wanted to turn back immediately and also to charge in and start ripping the throats out of those who caused this darkness to prevail over the land, but her girl cautioned her. She was here to watch, to survey the enemy for her pack and to help her brother, who had fallen into a trap set by the humans a day or so before.

She stepped cautiously, not wanting whatever trap that caught him to catch her as well. She crouched among the bushes, sniffing at the air to find the one called Ghost when another scent caught her attention. It was all too familiar. Her baby brothers, the clingy fools. They had run off with Wolf Mother. Figures they would tuck tail and run home. Nymaine was about to melt into the woods to find them and gloat when another scent caught her nose. Wolfchildren. She sent a question to her wolfgirl, but she was just as confused. Nymaine stayed and watched, like she was supposed to. She watched the crows come from the Haunted Forest with two children over their shoulders, wolfchildren, her kin, those of her blood and take them inside the dark place. Nymaine growled low under her breath and felt her wolfgirl reciprocate the anger.

Plan, she heard in her mind.

Yes, plan, and rescue the wolfblooded ones and then she could feast on the crows.

~*~*~

The forest beyond the Wall was vast and had an oppressive feeling about it, but Rickon barely registered the suffocating choke of the snow-capped trees. He was too lost in his own head and his racing thoughts. That... thing that had attacked them inside the Nightfort weighed heavy on him. He could barely describe it, couldn't vocalize it if asked, but it had been a walking corpse, he knew that much. There was no way the man was anything but dead. Grey ripped it to pieces, and it still moved, still flailed around searching for something to hurt. Its ice blue eyes were perhaps the most terrifying thing about it. There was no life there, no feeling, not even intent. It just moved about trying to rip them apart with its bare hands. It was like Old Nan always used to say.

"In the darkness of winter, the White Walkers came with their dead soldiers, flesh sloughing off their bones, eyes as blue as ice, sometimes only bone and yet able to carry a sword, able to rip a man apart with just their hands. Mindless beings only bent on death. Every person that fell to the army of the dead was risen from death to join their ranks and make an eternal night."

The thought made Rickon shiver. He thought of the Night's Watch deserter's warning. He wasn't lying about dead men walking on the other side of the Wall, so he must have been telling the truth about everything else: the fall of the Night's Watch, the increase in wildling activity, the new King-beyond-the-Wall and rogue Night's Watch deserters operating north of the Wall.

I've come to a dangerous place, and all for siblings I've never met or care to meet. Now Minisa and Beron are gone as well.

Rickon's heart was in his throat as he trudged along in the snow behind Grey Wind, who was sniffing the ground to track Minisa and Beron. They had lingered outside the Nightfort to see if maybe they had just gone to make water, but Winter led him to a patch of snow that had droplets of blood in it and he knew they were taken. By who? He couldn't guess. It could've been the deserters from Castle Black or wildlings or even animals large enough to drag two small children away into the woods. Grey Wind seemed to have caught a scent, so Rickon tried not to panic, but it was slow going. Grey Wind was limping from the wound he sustained from the dead man. Winter was walking with his head down, still smarting from his defeat and not providing much help. Rickon noticed some footprints every now and again, but even though the snow was hard enough to walk on with no trouble, there were also large drifts of deep snow that shifted with every breeze, covering up any trail he could see.

I should've never brought them with me, I should've turned back at the Gift like I planned to. He chastised himself.

What if he didn't find them? He couldn't go home without Minisa and Beron. What would he tell his parents? He looked around the forest around him, the trees were dense, and he couldn't see anything other than snow. The men who took Beron and Minisa could be on horseback or make false trails. And when Rickon reached them, how would he get his siblings back? He was one boy with only a dagger for defense. Grey Wind was injured, and so was Winter. He needed a proper heading. He needed help.

He glanced down at Winter undecidedly. He didn't know anything about the terrain north of the Wall, about the people, where was safe, where his elder siblings might be found, if they were close enough to help. He had shared dreams with Winter and saw his memories and had warged into him, whether or not he wanted to admit it aloud, but he couldn't do it at will. It had been an accident. He shook his head, dismissing the idea, and continued to follow Grey Wind.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed as they walked along. Rickon was shivering so much his teeth clacked together. It was colder than anything else he had ever felt on this side of the Wall. He might as well have been wearing his smallclothes for all the good he thought his furs were doing him. On top of that, the sky was turning darker and grey. He could see clouds rolling in. There was going to be a snowstorm, and he couldn’t see the sun to tell what time of the day it was. If it got too late, could he find shelter here in the forest? It was a risk. He may fall asleep never to wake again, or the people who had Minisa and Beron would get too far away for him to find them.

Before he could decide what to do, Grey Wind veered off to the left with his ears perked up. As Rickon followed, he could see the trees started thinning out ever so slightly up ahead but were covered with even more snow than before, obscuring an outside view and making it look more densely populated than it actually was. He crouched low and followed Grey Wind until he got full view of what was going on in the clearing. There was a house there, a dilapidated ruin of a thing. People walked around outside in Night’s Watch cloaks. Rickon momentarily contemplated calling to them before remembering the warning about Night’s Watch deserters north of the Wall. Two men walked out of the house chatting to each other, and Rickon quickly hid behind a tree. They stopped not too far away from him, and he listened to them speak.

"What should we do with 'em?" One of the men asked.

"Just what I said we would. They're Starks, children of the Warden of the North. Thankfully, we're north of the Wall, the laws don't apply here. But it does mean they're worth something."

"Money?"

"Of course, but what's the point of trading them for money on this side of the Wall? No, we can get food for 'em, furs, swords. If the warden knows anything, he'll know there's no point venturing north of the Wall with no leadership at Castle Black and the wildlings as active as they are unless he wants to get captured by them. He'd make a fine bargaining chip for the king. Hold the North ransom: The Lord Paramount of the North in exchange for letting the wildlings pass the Wall. No, he won't come, but once he knows we have his daughter and his son, he'll give us whatever we want."

"Fine, we get what we want, we give 'em what they want, but in the meantime..."

"Do you really want to fuck the ginger that damn bad? Like we haven't got enough of 'em."

"There's no redheads. None of Craster’s daughters have any fight left in ‘em. She’s unbroken and she’s got fire, I can see it in her. I want her."

"Whatever, stop bloody whining about it. Don't do it in front of the men. I don't want them hounding me about the boy if they see you get to have the girl. And make sure you don't forget to feed the fucking direwolves tonight."

"Why are we feeding them anyway? We could be saving food for ourselves."

"We kill some wildling stragglers interrupted over time, the king doesn't take notice. We kill one of the direwolves, they'll know, they'll feel it. You feed it until we can release it."

"When's that?"

"Soon."

Rickon listened to the footsteps recede from earshot and felt himself trembling with rage, disgust, and fear. These men, these cowards, had his siblings holed up in this dump under the threat of rape and brutality. He wanted to leave his spot, dagger raised, and plunge it into both of their necks but somehow, impossibly, a cooler head prevailed and he stumbled back into the forest and out of sight of the house. He turned to follow Grey Wind and try to formulate a plan but as he did, he found himself walking straight into another person. He froze and tensed up, stumbling back a little at the sudden presence. He slowly looked up at the person.

He was not overly tall, but he was broad with shoulders that looked like great slabs of stone and arms like tree trunks that were adorned with golden runed bands. He wore chainmail under his furs but the most distinctive thing was his long red hair and the long beard to match. More frightening than that, he was dressed like a wildling. Rickon opened his mouth but the man covered it with his large hand before grabbing him around his stomach and walking him farther into the woods. His heart beat harshly but as he glanced at the direwolves, they calmly followed the pair without a protest. He tried to relax. If the direwolves didn’t view the man as a threat, then Rickon figured he shouldn’t either but he couldn’t slow his heart or stop the fear that came to him as the man continued dragging him farther away from the keep, away from Minisa and Beron. Rickon tugged away from him a little, trying to escape his grasp.

“Calm down, lad. I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m taking you to my clan. You’ll be safer there.” Rickon pulled his hands from his mouth.

“My brother and sister are back there,” he protested.

“Aye, and are you gonna safe them on your own? Slay the bloody crows and come out alive on the other side?” Rickon was silent at that.

“Be calm. We’ll meet up with King Robb and the others and plan.”

“King Robb? Robb Stark?”

“Aye. That’s him.” Rickon went a little slack in shock. The new King-beyond-the-Wall was his older brother? But the wildlings were attacking the Wall, trying to invade the North. How would Father react if he knew it was his own son trying to bring about the fall of the Night’s Watch, trying to pillage the North.

But why? Did it matter? He knew this was a fool’s errand and he shouldn’t have gone after his missing siblings at all.

Rickon let himself be taken, glancing at Grey Wind and Winter again to see if they deemed the situation safe. Winter met his gaze and if Rickon was insane, he’d say there was reassurance in the wolf’s eyes. The man paused on the outskirts of the property and let Rickon go. The boy paused when he took stock of his surroundings. There was a large silver wolf standing by a hidden cage in the snow. Inside the cage was an adult-sized white wolf along with Sapphire and Shaggy. The wildling man let the wolves out of the cage and Rickon watched Winter and Grey Wind approach them. The five direwolves nuzzled one another and bit each other’s ear, play wrestling for a little while as the man chuckle with amusement. Rickon glanced at him. He grinned widely at the boy, but he didn’t return the gesture, looking away as the gray and white wolves loped over to him. Up close Rickon saw the gray wolf had eyes like melted gold and the white wolf’s eyes were a haunting red like sap from a weirwood tree. Two images suddenly flashed in his mind. A wild teenager with a bow and a spear strapped to her back riding the gray wolf and a grim man who looked startling similar to Beron sitting by a fire with the white wolf by his side. They were his siblings’ wolves. Rickon rose a hesitant hand to the animals.

“I wouldn’t if I were you, lad. Especially not the gray one. Nym only lets Starks close, those with wolf’s blood. She could take a finger if she’s of a mood.” Rickon glanced at the man and stood up straighter.

I am not lost. I am not powerless. He reminded himself.

No matter what side of the Wall I am on, my name means something, my blood means something.

He continued to reach out to the wolves, ignoring the man’s warning. The white wolf accepted his hand, allowing him to scratch behind his ear. The gray she-wolf stared at him for a moment, before bowing her head and letting him pet her as well. He turned back to the man with steely eyes.

“I am wolfblooded. I am Rickon Stark of Winterfell. The blood of the First Men. The blood of the direwolf. I don’t know who you are, but if these wolves are here, that means my older siblings are close. I don’t know them, but if they are the people my little brother and sister hope they are then they will help me rescue them. So, take me to them. Please,” Rickon said, emanating his father’s lordly voice as best he could to be as demanding as he could without offending this man who, realistically, could strike him down if the wolves didn’t stop him.

The man stared at him for a moment before he cracked another smile.

“Oh, aye, you’re a Stark alright. I’d know that gloomy face anywhere. I’m Tormund. I’m allied to your brothers. I’ll take you to them.”

Chapter Text

304 AC

The smell of flesh burning and blood spilling was one that was common to Robb by now, having lived beyond the Wall and faced the hardships it presented. Burning bodies had become a necessity ever since they first realized that flames killed the wights. And blood was a constant in his life. He remembered the smell of blood pouring from the claw marks on Jon’s back from a snow bear attack the first year they ended up beyond the Wall. The smell permeated the ruins of Stonedoor and Hoarfrost Hill after he and his siblings killed their captors and escaped. It filled his tent on the night Anya and their son died. He knew the smell of blood well. Even the taste of it. He would wake from dreams shared with Grey Wind to the taste lingering in his mouth. Still, the blood that had soaked Craster’s Keep was overpowering. He had had to force himself not to vomit when his group retreated from the unearthly settlement. Now he stood among the rest of the clans and lingering Night’s Watchmen and watched a pyre aflame with their dead, burning the bodies of Mance Raydar and Jeor Mormont.

Mance was not someone Robb had thought to find himself calling a friend, let alone looking up to, but the man’s singular focus on the safety of his people inspired Robb. It drew him and his siblings close to the man. They listened to his stories, studied his methods of peacekeeping, learned more about the history of the Freefolk than even their foster father, Gerrick, taught them. Bran fell in with the other greenseers in the group and grew an affinity with the giants. Arya became an outrider of Mance’s forces, joining the spearwives like she always wanted. Sansa was a natural peacekeeper and had an uncanny ability to learn languages quickly, which made her one of Mance’s close advisors and a translator amongst the clans. Robb and Jon moved up the ranks quickly and became two of Mance’s most trusted lieutenants. Mance reminded them of their father, if not as rigidly honorable. He just wanted to save people at the end of the day and that had meant turning his back on oaths and vows he had sworn. He was noble though. A good man.

Lord Commander Mormont was a much more complicated figure in Robb’s eyes. He had met him once when he visited Bear Island as a child before he joined the Night’s Watch. The man reminded Robb of his lord father, of the ideals and goodness in the North. Lord Commander Mormont had become his enemy because their situations necessitated that, but it could not be said that the Lord Commander did not try. When he realized the threat to the north, he reached out to Mance. They set up a parlay at Craster’s Keep but things devolved. Craster had been mistreating the Watch, all but starving them, and when they realized the Lord Commander was meeting for peace terms with the King-beyond-the-Wall, the worst of them ended up starting a revolt. They killed Lord Commander Mormont and Craster and Mance. Robb and the only lieutenants present came to blows with them and several of the black brothers fought with the Freefolk against their traitor brothers, but they had to retreat, and they all fled back to the camp. Most were uneasy with the crows’ presence, but more and more deserters had been fleeing to join Mance lately and so everyone accepted them for now. They weren’t the real enemy.

Robb looked over as a hand pressed into his own. Sansa stood beside him, her wild red locks whipping around her face from the sharp winds, obscuring her face. It was scarred from their rough years and multiple attempts made to steal her but she was still one of the most beautiful women on either side of the Wall. One of her hands were pressed to her stomach, too small to tell that a life was growing inside her. Sansa had become hardened over time, but there was a shadow of fear on her face that prompted him to squeeze her hand in comfort.

“What happens now,” she asked, breaking the somber silence. Robb opened his mouth and then closed it. Mance, their leader and king, was dead. His wife, Dalla, had a little boy, but this was not a monarchy like south of the Wall.

“I’m not sure.” Sansa leaned in closer to him and Robb held her for a moment before leaving her with her husband, Arya and Bran and walking to Mance’s tent where the eldyrs, the leaders of the clans, would meet to discuss what they should do next. 

Inside of the tent stood Dalla, Val, Karsi, Styr, Tormund, Rattleshirt, Gerrick, Yorn, Wex, Isolde, Beck, Rafe and Len of the eldyrs along with several of the crows that joined them over time, Jon and Mag the Mighty sitting in a corner, his hulking form taking up most of the space. Everyone was arguing amongst themselves about what should be done next.

“The proper course is clear – we march on and clear out anyone in our path,” Rafe said, anger clear in his voice.

“The rebels, they’re going to set up at Craster’s. Thorne would never let them inside Castle Black after they killed the Lord Commander. But there aren’t enough men to bring them to justice,” one of the crows, Eddison Tollett, said.

“What about the First Ranger, Benjen Stark?” Jon asked.

“Missing. Has been for a while. We rode out in force to investigate what happened to him and the reports of White Walkers,” Grenn, who had defected to Mance before the parlay at Craster’s, said.

“Yes, the low recruitment means that they can’t go against the deserters, but it also means there aren’t enough forces to beat you back if we march on the Wall and demand to be let south,” Samwell interjected. He had shown up with Gilly, one of Craster’s daughters, months ago. That had presented a problem since no one wanted Gilly among them, thinking she was cursed because her father was her husband. Robb had fought against that. It wasn’t Gilly’s fault. She was a sweet girl, and she was pregnant. She wouldn’t survive on her own. Other daughters that escaped Craster’s to try to join Mance were beaten or killed unbeknownst to the king or his lieutenants. Once they learned though, Robb met out justice. He may be more Freefolk than northern, but he still believed a man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.

“Some of the clans have already begun to leave. They are headed for Hardhome since we know the dead can’t swim. They’re hoping to find safety there,” Yorn informed them.

“I’m thinking of joining them soon with my daughters. Seems the best course right now,” Karsi added.

“The water will freeze come true winter. It won’t be safe then. It’s a fool’s errand,” Gerrick pointed out.

“You have a better idea? We have no king anymore. This lot will devolve into squabbling as always. Better to be safe from the Others than wait for the infighting and death,” Styr interrupted gruffly.

“But we can have a king, an heir for Mance,” Jon said suddenly.

“This isn’t your fancy castles where a man becomes a lord because his father was. Bael is a babe. Where are we following him? To his mother’s teat?” Rattleshirt asked.

“I’m sure you would love that,” Dalla retorted.

“Not Bael. Robb,” Jon continued as if she hadn’t spoken. Robb stared at Jon wide-eyed. That was the last thing he expected to hear.

“What?” he asked incredulously as Styr scoffed derisively.

“Are you out of your mind?” Jon spared him a look before stepping up to draw all attention to himself.

“We all have a choice to make now. If we don’t make it soon, we’ll be scattered again. All of Mance’s work will be for nothing. Twenty years just for us to go back to our lonely corners and our hidden caves and war with one another and wait for the Others to come and kill us. Dead or alive, we’d just be killing one another again. Then what would be the point? Is that how we wish to honor Mance’s life, his memory, everything he did for us, everything he made us, what he pushed us to be? He wanted us to survive. No matter how great the odds, he believed we could. His legacy is right here. It lives in all of us. In young Bael, who will grow up with stories of the great man his father was. In our spearwives, who carry his favors on their staffs. In every song that will ever get stuck in our heads from his damned lute playing, even if I never wish to hear "The Dornishman’s Wife" again so long as I live.” That drew a chuckle from everyone.

“But even with all that, we need a king, a ragnar. One who is as dedicated to our cause as Mance was. There is no one here more suited to be Mance’s heir than Robb is. You all know him, you’ve seen him. He embodies everything Mance wanted and more. He has the temperament for leading, the head for it. He has been learning at Mance’s side for five years now. Before that, he was learning at the feet of Gerrick, who claims lineage from another King-beyond-the-Wall. Like it or not, before that he was learning from the teachings of the ancient Kings of Winter, from the Starks of Winterfell. He is the heir of Ragnars o Zidyr, the blood of the First Men, someone who can unite those both north and south of the Wall as Mance wanted. He was born to rule.” Robb stared at his brother, flummoxed. He didn’t know what to say or how to feel.

“Those are pretty words, but at the end of the day, he is a kneeler and so are you,” Styr grumbled.

“And you are a Thenn, hated by most every clan, and you are here and so are we because we know that there is more important things than these long-held enmities. If you want to get hung up on them you can, you can die by them because that’s what will happen to us if we break apart again. He has the blood of the North in his veins and the teachings of both sides of the Wall in his heart. My brother can keep us together,” Jon retorted, fiercely defending Robb’s ability to rule.

“Name someone better who can be king,” Dalla said suddenly. Robb turned to look at her, his breath coming heavier as he realized what was happening.

“Aye, he is a Stark and he wasn’t born on this side of the Wall, but he’s been with us, fighting with us, putting his life on the line with us, trying to defeat the darkness with us," Val pointed out. 

"I know for a fact that Mance wanted to groom him to lead. He is who Mance would have chosen,” Dalla continued.

“And what of you, Tormund? Do you vouch for him?” Isolde asked.

“I look at him and all I see is a pretty boy born of two kneelers, and worst, of a Stark." Robb met Tormund's eyes, blue clashing against steely blue, before Tormund cracked a wide grin.

"But I know him, so I don’t let that cloud my head. I know he’s a fighter. He’s young, but he knows how to lead. He gained Mance’s confidence and my trust over time because of his abilities. He wants the same as we do, to live.”

“I’ve never thought I would look to a kneeler to lead any more than I ever thought I would break bread with a crow. These are troubling times indeed, but I trust Tormund’s judgment. If he is who you think should be king, if he is who can keep us together, then we should follow him,” Karsi said in a sage voice. Robb felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest. The tent shook as Mag the Mighty shifted and looked down at all of them.

"Stark," he said in his heavily accented voice and nodded at Robb. Jon walked over to him and stopped in front of him, grabbing him by the shoulders to ground him to this moment.

“I know this is a surprise to you. I know you may not even want it, but I know you are the only man who could be Mance’s successor. You led Sansa, Arya, Bran and I across miles of ice to get to the safety of the Frostfangs. You’re just and caring, honorable and good but harsh when you need to be. You know what Mance wanted for us and you are the best of both worlds. The way we get past the Wall without bloodshed is your leadership. Will you do this? Will you be king?” Robb stared at him for a moment. Gods above, why would any man want to be king? He remembered the long nights where Mance was at his wit’s end trying to mediate, trying to see a path forward and Robb had the luxury of pitying him from afar. Did he want to inherit that? But anyone who left could well end up in the Army of the Dead and they would be a threat to his people, to his family, to his siblings, to his daughter.

Suddenly, an owl flew into the tent and perched on his shoulder. Robb stared at Hoot, and Anya too he supposed wherever in the bird her consciousness resided. The creature tilted its head at Robb curiously and he found himself nodding.

“Yes. I will do it. I will be king.”

305 AC

The world was grey darkness this far north. Rickon supposed he should’ve been used to it by now, having traveled from Winterfell to beyond the Wall, but the drabness and gloom still felt oppressive at times. The air smelled of pine and moss and frost. The wind kicked up small cyclones of snow from the black earth him and Tormund trekked over towards the camp where he would meet his elder siblings, some of them anyway.

“Someone’s gotta make sure those bunch of clucking hens at the base don’t kill one another. Sansa’s the best at keeping the peace and Bran scares ‘em, so they stayed behind with some of the other eldyrs and clan leaders,” Tormund had said.

Tormund walked the ground with his commanding gait with the direwolves while Rickon rode beside him on Nymaine’s back, which mystified the red-bearded man. Rickon had been stumbling from exhaustion brought on by stress, and the she-wolf huffed before offering herself to him. Rickon had hesitated before getting on.

“You Starks are a mad lot,” the wildling had muttered under his breath.

Tormund was a jovial man, making conversation with Rickon without prompting. He was rough and told the young boy strange stories about she-bears and giantesses that made his ears turn red before Ghost’s huffs of rebuke made the wildling change subjects. After that, he started talking to him about his brothers, Robb and Jon, singing their praises, telling him about their battle prowess and what great men they were. Rickon restrained an eyeroll before asking the question that had been bothering him.

“I thought your king was Mance Raydar.”

“Aye, he was. He was a good man.”

“How did it become Robb? Any wildling I’ve ever met has hated anyone south of the Wall. My siblings might have decided to abandon their home, but they’re still northerners, not wildlings.” Tormund gave Rickon a look that he didn’t quite understand, but his piercing blue eyes made him uncomfortable, and he looked away.

“Mance was a good man. He spent twenty years bringing all the Freefolk clans together, from the giants to the Hornfoots to the cave dwellers and even the bloody Thenns. He had kneeler blood, but the blood of the true North as well. Robb doesn’t share our blood directly, but he spent his later years raised by a respected leader of the Freefolk. Gerrick of the Howl Valley Clan raised the Starks to share the same values, loyalties and virtues Mance held dear, and above all else, keep to the goal of the Freefolk’s survival against the great enemy. The dead.” Rickon glanced over at the man as he grew grave. He hesitated before speaking.

“I saw something while I was at the Nightfort. This thing, this… man, it attacked us, hurt Grey Wind and Winter. Except, it wasn’t alive, at least it didn’t look that way. Grey Wind ripped it apart, but it didn’t stop, didn’t seem to feel pain, it just kept giving this ungodly screech and coming at us.” Rickon shivered as he remembered the harsh blue eyes of the dead man.

“Aye, that’s the enemy alright, their foot soldiers anyway: wights,” Tormund answered, his tone grim. Rickon shook his head to himself.

“But that’s just stories, fairytales people tell children to scare them,” he protested weakly.

“Did it look like a work of fiction when it attacked you?”

“…no.” Rickon looked down at Winter next to him, the blood dried in his fur from the attack.

“The dead are rising, dark forces are stirring, and they have been for a long time now. You kneelers have it easy. You get to hide behind your wall and tell yourself it’s all stories. The Freefolk can’t afford to stick our heads in the snow and feign ignorance. Mance brought us together to help one another, to understand one another, to learn to compromise with each other. Robb will keep us together so we will learn to protect each other, to survive with and for each other. To lead us to safety.”

“Where are you planning to find safety?” Rickon asked, even though he already knew the answer. Tormund spared him a look but didn’t answer. Rickon looked forward, and the two remained silent for the rest of the trip.

As they treaded their way through the scatter of stones, snowdrifts, and line of trees, Rickon could see what looked like a welcoming fire in the distance. His hands flexed in Nymaine’s fur. He had demanded to be taken to his siblings, but now that they were so close, he did not know what to feel. He shook his bitterness and misgivings away.

Minisa and Beron need help, and they can give it. Robb is the king. I will think of it as appealing to a lord, not meeting my brothers and sister. The trees began to start thinning out, and Rickon could make out shapes of people ahead wearing the same heavy furs signifying wildlings. Somewhere above an eagle soared on great blue-grey wings. Rickon glanced up at it. He could swear it was watching him.

As they got closer, voices could be heard, and Rickon was even more on edge.

For Minisa and Beron, he reminded himself. For Mother and Father too. They deserve the truth, the reason for their suffering all these years. He rode forward with new determination.

When he and Tormund broke through the tree line into the small camp, they were met with approximately 30 people. They looked up when they saw them appear but visibly relaxed when they recognized the bearded man. Rickon surveyed the group, 18 men and 12 women, all dressed in seal skins and sheep, wolf and bear furs. One of the men was in a shirt made of bones. They carried axes, flails, spears, lances, and bows for weapons. Only half of them carried swords. Rickon remembered Maester Luwin telling him that iron and steel were not natural resources beyond the Wall so much as stone, wood, and bronze were, and bronze was not resilient enough to make for good sword material. The swords they had were steel.

They must be stolen, Rickon thought.

The idea left him unsettled. The swords were stolen for use on his father’s folk, for the people of Winterfell and Deepwood Motte and the Last Hearth. Swords for the North, so they could take it and pillage and who knew what else. Their king was his father’s son, and yet he had been leading wildlings across the Wall to harass the North. Tormund said he had a good reason and Rickon had seen the threat, but Grey Wind ripped it apart well enough, so could it truly be so bad? Did that absolve the King-beyond-the-Wall and the wildlings of their misdeeds?

Rickon pushed these questions away. They were not important, Minisa and Beron were. He could not let his bitterness and reservations overtake him now; this was for his siblings. For them, he would put aside his feelings.

He jumped off Nymaine’s back as Tormund greeted some of the other wildlings with a boisterous noise that made them rebuke him for his thoughtlessness. Rickon searched the group. One man sat off to the side, his eyes white and sightless like Beron had said Rickon’s were. A warg. Rickon stared at him, disturbed before looking away. Most of the women were fletching arrows or sharpening the blades of their weapons. Two younger teens played with spears, poking at one another and baring their teeth good-naturedly. Three of the men were bald with strange carvings on their heads. Another man beside them had similar carvings on his face but was not fully bald. The side of his head was shaved to reveal tattoos of runes that Rickon had seen in books about the First Men. That group was adorned in bronze over their pelts and held themselves away from the others. Three people were standing a little way from the fire staring at Rickon. He recognized them instantly, but to see them in person was jarring.

Robb was stocky and tall, taller than Jon but not by much. His hair was darker than Rickon’s, red-brown curls cut short but messy atop his head with a beard and Tully blue eyes. Rickon could make out black armor under the fur-lined sealskin coat he wore. Where Robb favored Mother, Jon and Arya favored Father. They both had the Stark grey eyes with dark hair, though Arya’s was dark brown where Jon’s was inky black and in untamed curls to his shoulders. Arya’s hair was cut to her shoulders as well and pulled back from her face, styled with weirwood leaves, beads and a feather intertwined in her braids. They both wore layers of fur, wool, and leather. All of them had battle scars on their faces. As if to confirm his thoughts, Grey Wind, Ghost and Nymaine left him to greet their owners, butting their heads against their bodies and licking their faces and hands.

Rickon took a moment to compose himself, and when Grey Wind stepped away, he approached Robb as confidently as he could and got on one knee.

“Your Grace, I—” Before he could continue, Arya snorted loudly.

“Your Grace? Gods above, I’ve a kneeler for a brother.”

“You’re a kneeler,” the man whose eyes had been white a moment ago, the warg, said.

“I am not,” Arya protested, offense dripping from every word.

“I carry the spirits of Frenya the Fierce, Karsi the Courageous, Willow the Willful, Vella the Vengeful, Ragga the Wrathful, and Nymaine the Noble, the Queen-beyond-the-Wall, in me. I am the blood of the North and the heir of every spearwife before me. I do not kneel. And if I did, it’d be before a man a sight better than you, Orell, and only after he kneeled before me and gave me my fill first. I can’t expect much in the way of that from you according to your past unsatisfied lovers.” Rickon blushed as he understood the implication in her words, but the others in the group chuckled at the warg, Orell’s, expense except for one of the bald men. He was sneering heavily at Rickon.

“Stand, brother. I’m not some flowery southerner; we do not kneel beyond the Wall.” Robb's accent was heavily northern, more like Father’s than Rickon’s was, but there was a rougher, wilder quality to it in comparison to the carefully constructed lilt in Eddard Stark’s voice.

“I’m Robb, this is Arya and Jon, but I’m sure you knew that already. Well met, brother.” Rickon repressed some unknown emotion at the constant reminders that they were brothers as Robb held a hand out to him. He stared for a moment while a voice that sounded suspiciously like Mother scolded him for his manners. He took his wrist and clasped it briefly, exchanging the same greeting with Jon and Arya.

“I thank you for delivering our kin to us safely, Tormund.” 

“No trouble, though he seemed to have a death wish. Found him ‘round Craster’s.”

"What were you doin' round there?" One of the wildlings asked incredulously.

“My brother and sister, the deserters took them. I have to get them back,” Rickon said, not wasting time presenting his issue. The bald man snorted from his position.

“More kneelers,” he mumbled loud enough for them to hear.

"Do you have a problem, Styr?" Arya asked the man boldly.

"And what if I do?"

“Peace, Styr. That brain of yours must be so tired from spending all day knocking around inside your thick skull. Sit and eat.” One of the women fletching arrows advised. The man was unmoved, glaring at Rickon hard enough to kill. 

“The wolfgirl’s got the right of it though. The boy’s a kneeler, a southerner. Might as well be a crow.” Styr's voice was raspy, deep and threatening. It partly scared Rickon but also made him defensive.

“I’m not a southerner,” he objected.

“You’re from Winterfell.” The man said his home’s name as if the castle might as well have been a brothel of the illest repute.

“Which is in the North,” Rickon retorted, his voice clearly conveying how ridiculous he thought this conversation was. Several people in the group scoffed.

“Not the true North. The true North is—” Tormund looked ready to go off on a tangent, but the bald man cut him off, his words sharp as live steel.

“You’re a pampered little lord who grew up behind sturdy castle walls keeping you locked inside, safe and tight. Now you’re here in our world. You’ve no idea, boy. The dangers that could befall a little kneeler like you here—”

“Will be nothing compared to what may befall you if any harm should come to my brother, Styr,” Robb said, his voice low and dominating. The bald man stood up, the bronze scale armor he wore rattling with the motion, and took a purposeful step towards Robb with a hand on the ax hanging down from his waist. Jon’s hand went to his sword and half drew the blade while Arya’s bow was knocked and in hand faster than Rickon’s eyes could follow the motion.

“I’ve no problem testing that, Your Grace.”

“Are you planning to draw that ax on me? My lord father taught me that it is death for a man who bears steel against you with malicious intent, and my clan father taught me such an act requires recompense. Whatever you choose to do next, choose wisely. I will draw blood if it’s the wrong action.”

Suddenly, growling filled the small space. It was coming from all around them, and Rickon glanced around fearfully. Wolves of varying size began to come out of the trees, eight of them in total, all staring at Styr menacingly. Grey Wind, Nymaine and Ghost also had their teeth bared, and Rickon glanced beside him to see even Winter, Shaggy and Sapphire’s hackles were raised, and they were looking at the man as if they wanted to pounce on him. Rickon felt the air grow thick with tension as no one in the clearing moved a muscle.

“It’s alright, vulk brohrs. Doubtless, the Magnar only touched his ax so he could remember that he pledged to join me in good faith and under peace terms of civility until we are south of the Wall. Forgive me, but this seems to be the Haunted Forest, not the Wolfswood in case you were confused,” Robb replied, his voice just the right side of condescending.

“You need your mutts to do your fighting for you,” Styr accused.

“Did I need them the other two times I defeated you?” Rickon felt his heart jumping as the two men stood head to head, neither backing down. He opened his mouth to speak, but Tormund shook his head at him, and he remained quiet. Styr’s grip on the ax slipped away after another heated moment of silence, but he did not back away from Robb, and the wolves did not look any less ready to rip him apart. Instead, the bald man began undoing his belt and threw his weapon down between them.

"Is that a formal challenge?" Robb asked.

"What's it look like?" Styr shot back. Robb shrugged before undoing his sword belt as well. The group of wildlings abandoned whatever they had been doing and stood up to form a circle around the two men who were stripping themselves of their coats of fur to their bare chests. Rickon looked around in confusion as group was practically buzzing with pent up energy before Jon gently pulled him back to join the circle. The direwolves and other wolves stood on the outskirts of the clearing watching the men intensely as they stood across from one another.

"Rattleshirt," Robb called. The man wearing the bones came forward and tapped his staff on the floor.

"No time for you two to kill each other, so you go to first blood. You know the rules, no weapons, bare hands like men. Have at it," the man said gruffly before backing away. Rickon only realized what was happening a second before the fists started flying.

Robb got the first hit, his fist flying towards Styr's face, sending him reeling back into one section of the circle to be caught by a couple of wildlings. The bald man turned back to face Robb, his eyes aglow with bloodlust. He attacked Robb with a barrage of hits, a punch across the face, a quick knee to the gut and a right hook. The wildlings in the group started screaming encouragements to both men to kick each other's teeth in.

"Come on, Robb, don't be a little girl. Rip his fucking tongue out through his arse!" Arya shouted, the loudest of them all. Rickon trembled a little as Robb dodged a left hook from the Magnar by feinting right and then throwing his elbow into the man's cheek. Jon placed what Rickon figured was meant to be a comforting hand on his shoulder as the two men steadily began trading blows, but Rickon shook it off and didn't suppress his disgust at the undignified scene in front of him.

Styr threw a handful of snow at Robb to disorient him but Robb sidestepped it, blocked Styr's knee where he was aiming it at his groin and socked the bigger man in the jaw, snapping his head back. Styr shook it off like a fly and swung twice more at Robb but he crouched low both times to dodge them before landing two body shots on his bare-chested opponent. Styr took the opportunity to lock both Robb's arms in his, drag him close and smash his head into him.

Robb went stumbling and Styr kicked him so he went flying into them, knocking Rickon, Arya and another spearwife to the ground with him.

"Come on then, Stark. You're a wolf, aren't you? And this is what I get. You're not a man of the true North, you're a pretender!" Styr exclaimed at him.

"If you don't want to embarrass us in front of our kid brother, you go out there and show him why you're the Ragnar o Zidyr," Arya hissed in Robb's ear as Jon helped them all up. He whispered something to Robb who nodded before Jon pushed him back into the makeshift ring. The two men sized one another up again. Styr went after him first, ducking a punch to land one in Robb's exposed stomach but he quickly returned with an uppercut that got Styr backing away from him. The man let out a chuckle.

"Now we're getting somewhere," he commented before charging Robb with a savage roar. He tackled Robb around the waist trying to bring him to the ground. Robb stumbled but stayed upright, bringing his elbow down on Styr's back to try to shake him loose. They ended up wrestling through the crowd until Robb was trapped between Styr and a tree. Robb pulled Styr closer, kneed him in the stomach and put his elbow into his spine again before breaking from his hold and changing their positions so Styr was against the tree, still roaring like a madman. Robb cut him off with a punch. Rickon felt weariness and more disgust well in him as Robb wailed on the older man, throwing punch after punch into his face until blood was pouring from the man's nose and mouth. He roared again and let out a uproarious laugh that was cut off by with a cough as blood seemingly went down his throat.

Robb threw him back into the middle of the ring where he went down onto his knees, spitting blood into the snow.

"Third time I've beaten you now, Styr. Does that settle this rift between you and I?" A large glob of blood dripped from the man's nose as he breath deeply before sitting back on his haunches and looking up at Robb, whose skin had turned red from exertion and was bruising already.

"For now but next time..." Styr trailed off with a promise. Robb shook his head.

"Next time, don't go for the face so much. Your daughter likes me best when I'm pretty," the redhead joked as he helped the bald man stand up. The group of wildlings laughed at the joke and Styr raised his middle finger at the victor.

"Oh, fuck you. I still think it's not worth rescuing a couple of kneelers from that forblesmet tir," he grumbled, but his words held less venom in them.

“You’ll get your fill of crow Styr, even though you've gotten your ass handed to you again, so stop your complaining. You sound like a crotchety old crone,” Jon joked, drawing more laughs from the crowd. Styr sent a glare his way, and Jon met it with his own. The bastard didn't appear as forgiving of the rivalry between his brother and the defeated man as everyone else did, Rickon noted. Even Arya, who laughed and heaped praise on Robb still looked at Styr distrustfully but the wolves relaxed, so Rickon figured that little display was over now. He wasn't sure how to feel. Wildlings were rough, uncivilized folk, but he supposed he hoped his siblings would rise above it. Father would be hurt to see them like this, but Mother would be devastated. Minisa and Beron were mad to think they could go home with them. They were too far gone. They weren't northerners anymore, they were wildlings.

"We will head out soon to Craster's Keep to deal with the deserters as we planned to do anyway. We will be extra careful so we can rescue my baby sister and brother and bring them into our folds safely. Then, we can burn whatever is left of the crows,” Robb announced to the group.

“You’re outnumbered. I couldn’t see everything, but outside alone 40 men were milling about,” Rickon pointed out doubtfully.

“Each wolf is easily 5-10 men, we have archers, we’ll have the night on our side and the element of surprise. Not to mention, once Craster’s daughter-wives see it’s us, some of them will take up arms to fight. They’ve been denied freedom too long, it’s time they get it. No more bullshit superstitions to keep them confined and out of our ranks,” Arya replied fiercely as the circle disbanded and the wildlings returned to their previous activities. Rickon looked at her with confusion.

“Some of the united clans have protested helping Craster’s daughters. The man who lived there before the deserters would marry his daughters and they’d have more daughters for him to marry and on and on. The Freefolk believe that women who wed brothers, fathers, or clan kin offend the gods, and are cursed with weak and sickly children. If done enough, the curse can spread to others and so saving the women has been delayed over and over due to creating enmities in our ranks. But we are all cursed anyway so long as the Others stir and march out of Hopemourn pushing south more and more every day. And so, we must push south too and take everyone we can with us. We cannot leave anybody behind to become one of the Night King’s soldiers,” Robb said. There was something in his voice, something Rickon couldn’t put his finger on, but it sounded so distinctly like Father that it made him irrationally angry at the older man. The king didn’t seem to notice but Rickon caught Jon staring at him with a scrutinizing expression. He looked away as Tormund spoke up.

“This one met one of the wights at the Nightfort.” Robb looked surprised.

“So far south?” Rickon shrugged.

“Winter went after it. It hurt him and Grey Wind.” Robb had a serious, thoughtful expression on his face before shaking his head.

“Sit and eat, brother. Get your strength up. We will attack Craster’s in a matter of hours,” Robb said before he picked up his furs and walked towards the trees, Grey Wind following after him. Winter licked Rickon’s hand before following the pair.

“Come on. We should eat. In the meantime, you can tell us what all has been going on in Winterfell, little brother,” Arya said, though she didn’t let him decide. She dragged him to the fire, sat him down beside her and shoved a bowl of soup under his nose before staring at him intensely.

Rickon sighed, looking off into the trees for a moment towards where his siblings were being held before he cautioned patience to himself and turned back to his bowl to satisfy Arya’s request.

~*~*~

Not too far from the clearing where the group had set up was a frozen over pond that the group had made holes in so their wolves could drink. That was where Robb found himself now, using the cold water and a cloth to wash the dried blood out of Grey Wind and his younger brother’s fur.

Winter, Robb reminded himself, my little brother has named him Winter.

Winter was currently rolling around in the snow, the white fluff melting in his newly cleaned dark fur, while Robb tended to the wounds on Grey’s back and his hind leg, all the while ignoring the sting in his hand from his fight with Styr. Styr was the biggest contrarian of them, always doubting the leadership of the king. He'd been the same with Mance.

Robb’s mind was not just on the task at hand though. He was surprised to learn that a wight had been at the Wall. Most of them were with the Night King, marching south apart from some stragglers who wandered away from the Others’ army and ran into the clans. Then again, the black brothers had mentioned that some of their dead had reanimated at Castle Black and attacked them and the Nightfort had always had a strange aura about it. It featured in many horror stories, both south and north of the Wall, and was ill-omened by the Freefolk. They all stayed away from it because of its history and fear of what lurked within the crumbling walls. Perhaps the necromancy that the Night King used to resurrect his soldiers was already in the air north of the Wall. The Wall itself was magic and magic was stronger in the far north according to Gerrick and some of the eldyrs than in the south. Robb wasn’t sure, the only magic he knew of in the south was connected to the dragons who died out decades ago and other creatures that were confined to myths and legends. But there was his banishment with his siblings from their home. That was the very definition of magic and divine intervention, so he did not question its existence.

Home. Winterfell. Robb could scarcely remember what it looked like before he saw it in Grey Wind's memories, and even then, it was dark, and he couldn't make out the highest towers or the godswood or the First Keep, but it was his home, once anyway.

It has been longer than I realized.

Sometimes keeping track of the years that passed by was hard unless one was a stickler about it. Seeing Rickon in person and Minisa and Beron through Grey Wind’s eyes brought to Robb's attention how much time had truly passed. Enough time for his parents to move on and have more children. He didn’t see his parents through Grey Wind’s eyes, so he didn’t know what they looked like now. He wondered if he would recognize them, if they would look the same or if his memories were radically different from reality and the images of them in his head weren’t accurate at all. When he thought of them, he mostly saw older versions of Jon and Sansa and the features melded together so that he couldn't be sure if he had made it up. Was his father's hair truly curly or was that just Jon? Was his mother's hair the same vibrant shade of red that Sansa had, or did he misremember that? Had they thought of them? Did they look for them? Did they rally the North to find them? When did the Lord and Lady of Winterfell give up on them? Was it quick? It had to be. From the way Rickon looked, he couldn’t have been born too long after Robb, and his siblings ended up beyond the Wall.

Can I truly be angry? I stopped trying to get home long ago; we all did. We chose to live here; we decided to make our lives here. I have a daughter now, I had a wife. Jon is married. Sansa is married. Bran and Arya don’t remember anything about home and could never go back to living like a proper lord and lady. We moved on too. Robb reminded himself, but there was still something in the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite grasp, some emotion he couldn’t name.

He looked up as the iced over leaves rustled, and he watched Jon approach him with Ghost preceding him.

“Is he alright?” Robb asked, nodding at Ghost as Jon kneeled by one of the holes in the ice and ran the water through his dirty ivory fur.

“They didn’t touch him; they wouldn’t dare. The crows were too afraid we’d notice a missing wolf and attack them. As if we didn’t notice the missing men they killed as well,” Jon replied with a wry smirk. Robb shook his head, untangled a knot of blood from Grey Wind’s fur and shot the direwolf a warning glare when he bared his teeth at him before scratching behind his ear to soothe the pain.

“The deserters are prideful fools who think themselves untouchable now that they’ve killed the men who gave them orders. We’ll show them how wrong they are,” Robb replied simply. They would fall upon Craster’s Keep and snow would bury the bones of those men who had killed Mance, who destroyed their chance at a peaceful recourse with the Night’s Watch, who now held his younger brother and sister hostage. Robb didn’t know his youngest siblings, but he knew what kind of men held them and he could never in good conscience leave anyone with those rapists, let alone his own kin.

“We’ll leave sooner than later. The longer we wait, the longer we leave our kin and Craster’s daughters in the hands of those craven sygerriks,” Robb assured his brother.

“How long do you think it’ll take before Ygritte and the others contact us?”

“They climbed the Wall weeks ago; they should already be in the south. If they lost the warg, they might not be able to send us the raven, but we’ll still look out for Hoot once we hit Craster’s. Once that business is done, Orell will give the signal and Karsi, Sansa and Bael will lead the bulk of the army towards the Wall. We’ll have them surrounded, but we take this one step at a time, Craster’s Keep first.”

“Aye, we’ll end this tonight and then we can move on to next thing, even with the… complications Grey Wind brought back with him.” Robb looked up at Jon who had a troubled look on his face.

“What are you brooding over now?” Robb asked teasingly but he kept his attention on his brother, his right-hand man.

“Why did Grey bring them here?” Robb glanced at his direwolf.

“He knows what we’re doing; he knows how delicate it all is. One wrong move, one thing we don’t account for, and it could doom us all.” Robb rose an eyebrow at the direwolf for an explanation, reaching his mind out to connect with the wolf. Grey had let him in on his intent but not his reasonings and Robb had not been able to sway his direwolf against his decision, hadn’t been able to convince him he had no time to deal with a family reunion while he was trying to save the Freefolk from the personification of death. It wouldn’t have mattered though. Grey Wind was as stubborn as Robb was when he felt what he was doing was the right thing.

“Lone wolves die, packs survive,” he heard Grey Wind say in his head. Robb’s brow furrowed.

“We are not lone wolves here and neither are they.”

“One pack, not two. The younger ones are unlearned but have proven they are strong. They can endure. They must learn what they are, as you did. They must not be just boys and girl; they must be vulk beirnes. They must be pack. They must accept who they are, and you must accept who you are too.”

“And I haven’t done so? I know who I am,” Robb retorted, his thoughts edged with amusement at Grey Wind’s accusation.

“You do, and yet you do not. You are Ragnar o Zidyr, but you are not Alpha.”

Grey Wind allowed him to feel his bond to the Alpha. The aura was strong and edged with iron and steel and stone; it felt unbending and unamenable, rough and reserved and full of unquestioned authority. It felt cold like ice, but there was something comforting about the frigidness of it. It felt familiar and safe. Robb knew it immediately.

Father.

“The Alpha is coming north with Wolf Mother’s mate, the Alpha’s familiar. We must be together to be strong, to defeat the Dead Ones. We are stronger together.”

Robb stared at Grey Wind in shock. He figured his father would probably chase after his young children, but he didn’t expect that he would already be heading to the Wall, towards them. If he was coming to the Wall, would he track the children to the Nightfort or would he go to Castle Black? If he went to the headquarters of the Night’s Watch, then they would eventually meet, and it might not be the reunion either hoped for, if his father cared to reunite with him one way or the other.

“Robb?” He looked up at Jon as Grey Wind pushed him out of his mind, grumbling about Robb’s emotional instability.

“Father’s coming,” he replied shortly. Jon’s face went through a series of complicated emotions before he settled back on trouble.

“To Castle Black?”

“I’m not sure. Grey Wind says he can feel him coming, but he didn’t say where. He said we’re stronger together.”

“Our plan—”

“Will remain the same for now. We’ll try to settle things amicably with the Watch, we’ll try to convince them to let us pass. But if not… if not we march on Castle Black. We can’t sacrifice the entirety of the Freefolk for one man, even if he is our father.”

Jon nodded after a moment and looked away. Robb looked down, trying not to think of it. The last thing he wanted was to end up holding a sword to his own father, but they needed to be south of the Wall.

“Maybe we won’t have to fight him.” Robb looked up at Jon at his words. There was a look on his face equal parts reluctant but determined.

“We have men of the Watch who know Castle Black better than any of us ever will, their defenses, their numbers, their food stores, and Thorne knows that. He also knows the truth about the wights, and even if he can’t see sense enough to make peace with us, maybe he’ll tell Father.”

“You think Father will ever believe him? I don’t remember him being a superstitious man.”

“Aye, but if Thorne of all people tells him, he’ll believe. That bitter old crow is a lot of things, but not a liar. Maybe Father will parlay with us since there is no lord commander. And if not, well, we have the heir to the North and soon we’ll have all three of his children.”

“You want to use Rickon, Minisa, and Beron as bargaining chips,” Robb realized.

“I want us to survive and all the better if we can do it without losing necessary lives in a battle. I hope it doesn’t come to it. Maybe it’ll be enough that it’s us and he’s our father, and he’ll listen us. But maybe he’ll think we’ve been gone too long, or we’re pretenders, or we’ve been poisoned against the North. We’re not kinslayers, we know we’ll never hurt them but if having them gets us through the gate…”

“Yeah.” Robb nodded and then sighed. There were many times in the last few months that he wondered if it was a mistake to accept being king. He knew he would have decisions to make, moral dilemmas that weren’t easy to untangle and there would be nights when he went to sleep troubled.

I promised I would lead my people to safety no matter the odds, whatever it takes. And I must. I will.

Chapter Text

Craster’s Keep was not too far from the clearing where the Freefolk had set up, but by the time they reached it, the sky was dark and wet. Blowing snow was falling, lashing at Robb’s face, turning his skin red and soaking into his furs. He was used to weather like this from living in the mountainous regions of the Frostfangs. Sometimes, large storms would form over the mountain and let out a maelstrom of rain, sleet, hail, and snow. Strong winds would blow large rocks from the higher peaks to fall down and crush anyone who didn't know what places to avoid when the storms got that bad. Gerrick had taught his adopted children how to traverse adverse weather, but this squall was nothing more than a trifle compared to those autumn tempests. Robb glanced at Grey Wind and restrained a grin at the grumpy look on the direwolf’s face. He hated being wet and this kind of snow, the type that bordered on rain, was the kind the wolf hated the most. He glared at Robb as if he was the one that summoned such weather and bared his teeth in the direction of the keep shrouded by brush and leaves.

Craster’s Keep was just as Robb remembered it: a bleak, unholy dump built on blood and bones and misery. It was a good day when Craster got a knife in the back. Gerrick had warned Robb and his siblings about Craster growing up, told them to steer clear of the place.

“Craster's blood is black, and he bears a heavy curse. He marries his daughters and obeys no laws of the gods. There are rumors about dealings between him and dark forces, and he makes friends with crows on top of that. Don’t find yourself anywhere near Craster’s if you can help it.”

Robb had thought Gerrick told them that story to scare him like the ones Old Nan used to tell. Then he thought better of it. His upbringing with his clan had not been so restrictive as it was in Winterfell. He had already been on the cusp of teenhood when he found Gerrick and Bogan, so he and Jon had much more freedom than their younger siblings. They got to explore and range the Frostfangs and beyond with Gerrick’s elder children often. The Freefolk didn’t have the luxury of telling stories to children to frighten them into burying their heads in the snow, they needed to be able to protect themselves, and that meant knowing the lay of the land and being able to get by on their own. On top of that, wargs needed to have a strong connection to nature, so the clan frequently made trips into the wild where they had a greater chance of running into animals that could become their skins. Thus, Robb was only slightly surprised to learn all of what Gerrick said about Craster was true. He was a dirty bastard of the worst ilk. He was literally a bastard, gotten on a wildling by a ranger from Castle Black. It was one of the black brothers proclaiming Craster to be a bastard that caused the conflict in his keep that saw to his death. The only downside of it was that Mance and the Old Bear were taken as well; otherwise, the Freefolk might’ve already been south of the Wall and out of the direct path of death.

The men who killed them will die tonight. We’ll stake their heads around the gate, spit on their ashes, and leave what’s left for the birds. When we’re leaving Craster’s, we’ll burn the keep to the ground, return it to the dirt, maybe even salt the earth. Robb thought to himself. There didn’t need to be anything left of that hellhole when they moved on to Castle Black.

Robb looked up as Rickon approached him. He was surprised. The boy had been avoiding any contact with him or Jon and Arya since they met. He had found a comfortable place by Tormund’s side as they traveled to Craster's. Tormund was more familiar to Rickon than any of his family was, but only by a few scant hours. That seemed to make a difference to the boy. Tormund, for his fierce reputation as a fighter, was popular with children. Robb’s daughter loved the man like an uncle. Still, it was disconcerting. Robb wasn’t sure what he was expecting or hoped for from Rickon, but he hadn’t done anything to make him not trust him, not yet anyway, maybe not ever. He caught the boy giving him looks of disdain all throughout the journey to Craster’s.

“How are we going in?” Rickon asked, all business. Robb rose an eyebrow at the words and his tone.

“Once our scouts are back with a clearer view of the defenses and the numbers and where the kids are, we’ll surround the place and attack from as many sides as possible. You, however, will stay out here with the younger direwolves.” Rickon’s face screwed up in distaste.

“I’m fighting with you.”

“You’re not,” Robb replied flatly.

“They’re my siblings!”

“They’re mine too.”

“You don’t even know them.”

“Which makes me more objective than you while still having a personal stake in this. I’ll make sure Minisa and Beron get out of this alive, but I can’t be worrying about you too.”

“I don’t need you to worry about me. I don’t need you. I never needed an older brother before, I got by just fine on my own. Minnie and Beron will be looking for me, not you. They don't know you. They don't trust you,” Rickon replied stubbornly.

Robb restrained an eyeroll at the petulant tone in his voice, aware that everyone was staring at them. He was the King-beyond-the-Wall, not a title he ever wanted, but an honor he accepted. It was tenuous at best. Mance had been the one to unite the clans, not Robb. He was named Mance's successor by the Eldyrs and the united clans would follow the Eldyrs' decision, but Robb was constantly judged and tested. His leadership skills were questioned, his loyalties were doubted, his resolve examined and his effectiveness at keeping peace met with skepticism.

"A common enemy can bind two quarreling men together more than shared blood can sometimes, my boy," Gerrick had told Robb.

So Robb decided to follow in Mance's shoes. The ultimate enemy was the Others, and they always would be, but to keep the army together and focused, he presented a more urgent enemy to them in the Night's Watch and offered vengeance for Mance Raydar. That had gotten everyone back on board with him, but Robb knew they still watched him with reservations. They didn't believe in him or trust him as much as he would like. To many, he was just a southern boy playing at being a wildling, a boy who wanted adventure and ran away from his sheltered home and then was stuck dealing with the consequences. The more superstitious of them felt the Old Gods banished him and his siblings beyond the Wall as punishment. They thought his soul was marked as foul and damned and he would lead the Freefolk to ruin. He had to prove them wrong and that meant he couldn't have his younger brother tread over him in front of his men. If he couldn't quell a young boy, how could he quell an army 100,000 strong?

“Once we go in, we have to pull this off without a hitch. You would get in the way.” Rickon looked offended at the notion.

“I’ve been trained practically my whole life for combat, I’m not a liability.”

“Have you ever seen any actual combat? Have you ever killed a man? Ever faced more than one opponent anywhere other than the courtyard of Winterfell?” Rickon opened his mouth before closing it.

“That’s a no then. This isn’t for play, you understand that, right?”

“I know it’s not a game, I’m not stupid.”

“Then stop acting like you are.” Robb regretted the words as soon as he said them as Rickon’s face turned even redder. He sighed to himself and switched gears, using the placating tone he used on Eddara when she begged to join him on his trip to Craster’s rather than stay with Sansa and Bran.

“Bringing you may be the difference between life and death. If things go wrong, Minisa or Beron could die, one of us could die, you could die. Once we’re in, we’re in. The only thing we can be aware of is the enemy in front of us and behind us. My focus will already be split between the battlefield and linking my mind with Grey Wind. On top of that, I’ll be looking for Minisa and Beron and trying to make sure Craster’s daughters don’t get caught in the crossfire and making sure none of the black brothers get away. I can’t be worried about you too. So, you will stay here with Winter, Sapphire, and Shaggy. Jeg and Padfoot will stay with you as well for protection.” Robb continued, waving at one of the spearwives and the wolf at her feet.

“You all can keep a lookout for stragglers. Any Night’s Watchmen trying to escape, stop them.” Robb pulled out his dagger and held it out to the younger boy. Rickon stared at him before taking the blade and stomping away, Winter on his heels. Robb sighed to himself before glancing up as Jon appeared over his shoulder.

“He hates you, you know?” Jon commented.

“Oh really, I hadn’t noticed.” Robb shot back sarcastically.

“It’s this glint in his eye when he looks at you. I recognize it. I used to get that look, the jealousy.”

“Jealous? Why were you ever jealous of me?” Jon gave Robb a look that told him that question was stupid. Robb shook his head, realizing it was.

“But he’s the trueborn son of our father, probably the heir to Winterfell by now. What’s he got to be jealous of? It’s not like we’ve been living in beds of roses these past years.”

“I could never actually get myself to hate you the way I wanted to. I knew you. I grew up with you. You were my best friend, my rival, my closest confidant. Him though? There’s nothing to break up that jealousy, no relationship between the two of you, only hate. He had time to let that hate and jealousy fester. Who knows what’s been going on at Winterfell while we’ve been gone. Or maybe it’s just fear that you would show up one day, take over his position. Who knows? Can’t think about it right now, but you should deal with it later. We don’t need that carrying over once Father gets here.” Robb nodded as he watched Arya approach Rickon and show him moves with his dagger, how to hold it, where to strike to inflict the most damage as quickly as possible. He was less frosty to her than he was with Robb, but was still standoffish. Robb sighed to himself.

“Tomorrow’s problems. Let’s focus on today.” He decided.

The drama could wait until after this fight. Maybe saving Minisa and Beron would bridge this gap between them. Allies were necessary for the war against the Night King. If he couldn’t become allies with his own blood, then they were all doomed.

Robb looked over as the scouts returned to them and steeled himself.

No more dawdling, time to fight.

~*~*~

Craster’s Keep was a place where darkness reigned supreme, so Minisa barely noticed when night fell.

Many of the men were already asleep, their snores filling the room, but a few of them were up drinking and grabbing at the sullen girls lounging around the place. Minisa and Beron remained tied to a pipe in a corner. Beron’s face was tucked into Minisa’s shoulder, and he breathed steadily in his sleep. It had been a rough day full of tears and fear, so she was not surprised that exhaustion outweighed the adrenaline coursing through their veins and knocked him out. It didn’t help that Karl forced wine on them and it made Minisa’s head feel like she was swimming, the room wobbling before her blurry eyes.

The men here had no shame, grabbing any one of the women in the keep and taking them in full view of everyone. Most of the women had no fight left in them, laying lifelessly while the men did as they pleased and the women who did have the barest hint of defiance were beaten within an inch of their lives. It turned Minisa’s stomach. She had already brought up what little food she had in her body, causing the men to laugh at her with amusement.

They came up to her and taunted her and Beron frequently, their sour breaths making the children gag. The leader, Karl, would warn the men away from them. Minisa knew he only did so because they were highborn and he wanted to ransom them, but she didn’t delude herself. Beron was a boy and much more valuable than she was. He could grow to be a lord or a knight, he could one day raise castles or win battles or advise kings. He would be a Stark, now and forever. Minisa’s lot in life was to marry some lord, take his name, and raise his children. Her parents loved her, but she was expendable in a way Beron was not.

Maybe it was the wine making her more maudlin or the sorrow-soaked air of the keep, but she couldn’t help but think of poor Danny Flint, raped and murdered after posing as a boy to join the Night’s Watch. She lived a life a lot crueler than Minisa's, which prompted her to run to the Wall. Minisa wondered if she crossed Danny Flint’s ghost at the Nightfort. Would she have warned Minisa away from continuing her path beyond the Wall? Would she have told her that the world she wished to foray into was a cruel and dark one and never did girls like them any good? Would she have told her to go home to her living parents and her warm hearth and safety? It seemed so ridiculous now, running away from Winterfell on a whim to find siblings she’d never known and who didn’t know her, didn’t love her, had no reason to save her or Beron or any inclination to care one way or the other if Minisa ended up as nothing more than a sad song.

“Oh, Danny Flint, you'll never escape the fate the Gods have written. And life must seem the cruelest jape. Oh, Brave Young Danny Flint,” she mumbled to herself, her voice quavering as her eyes felt droopy and her throat burned.

“You have a nice voice.”

She startled, and felt her heart quicken when she saw Rast standing above her. She didn’t answer him and glanced at Karl behind him, Rast looked at him too.

“I want to question her some more about the King-beyond-the-Wall,” Rast said. Minisa could tell from the tone of his voice that that was a lie. Karl stared for a moment before waving him off. Minisa felt fear erupt anew in her chest as Rast untied her and picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder. She fought minimally, not wanting to wake Beron and have him see her this way. Rast didn’t throw her to the ground of the keep. Instead, he began walking outside with her. Once they were past the door, Minisa started fighting. She kicked her legs and beat her hands against his back, wriggling her body to try to get loose from him. She felt like she was moving through water. Her arms and legs didn’t respond as fast as she wanted or with as much strength as they should, the wine slowing her down.

“Yes, fight, that makes it better,” he said before she felt him smack her behind. She yelped, and tears came to her eyes. This couldn’t be happening to her, not this. She should be home where her father would hug her tightly and her mother would brush her hair, where she and Beron would get into snowball fights, and Rickon would show her how to shoot a bow and arrow. She should be sharing lemon cakes with Myrcella and listening to Old Nan’s stories and Maester Luwin’s grandfatherly advice. She should be safe, not here. There were a few men outside standing around a fire, but they would be no help to her. They glanced at the pair with amusement and shouted lewd words after them.

“Don’t wear her out too much, Rast.”

“I might want to try her.”

“Yeah, don’t be selfish.”

“Get your own,” Rast retorted before taking her fighting form to a hut not too far from the keep and threw her onto the floor. Minisa pushed herself up to her knees as he turned to close the door and tried to get to her feet, but Rast pushed her down. She whimpered as he crawled on top of her and grabbed a fistful of her hair.

“You have such pretty hair. The wildlings call it being kissed by fire. They’re savages but they have the right of it.”

“Don't touch me,” Minisa ordered him.

“You left your daddy's castle looking for trouble, didn't you? No dresses for you, no featherbed. You like it rough, don't you? You like it in the gutter.” Rast continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

“Get off me, now!” Rast chuckled.

“You’re used to giving orders, men falling at your feet. Not here, not beyond the Wall. Here, I can fuck you bloody and no one can do a thing about it. I’m beyond the laws of men here. And the gods on this side of the Wall don’t give a fuck about some highborn prissy lady.”

“Pl-please just… l-let me go, I’ll do anything. I’ll give you any-anything.” Minisa begged, her words coming out slurred and stuttered. Her tongue felt heavy and dry.

“I only want one thing and I already have it.” 

Minisa cringed as he licked the side of her face, his breath making her wretch. She began bucking to get him off of her, but he just chuckled. He grabbed her hair roughly and forced their lips together. Minisa contemplated what she should do next. She could just take it, it would be easier. One of Craster’s daughters had advised her as much.

“When the moon is high in the sky tonight, you'll be raped. More than once, probably. None of these men have ever been with a noblewoman. You'd be wise not to resist. They'll knock your teeth out. You fight them too hard, and they’ll kill you. The boy is more valuable than you, they might decide you’re not worth the trouble. Let them have what they want. It’ll be over quick. You just go away in your mind to a better place, to a happy place, and you can survive it. All of us have,” she had said.

Minisa supposed it would be easier to take it and hope for it to be over soon, but she couldn’t do that, couldn’t submit. Everything in her told her that she was not so easily bent. She was a Stark of Winterfell. She was a wolf. She would not be brought so low without a fight. If she had to die, she’d do so fighting.

Rast was on top of her, rutting himself against her and still kissing her, but his movements left some space for her to maneuver. She moved so her knee was near his groin and bit his lip as hard as she could. He reared back, and she planted her knee into his balls. He let out a squeal of pain, and she crawled out from under him, making for the door of the hut. Just as she reached it, she felt him grab her foot and drag her back to him. He punched her across the face, and she felt like she saw stars, her already light head even loopier. He hit her again. She tasted blood on her tongue.

“This could’ve been nice and easy for us both, but you ruined that. Now I’m gonna make sure you feel sorry.” She sobbed as Rast got back on top of her and started tearing at her clothes. She needed help from someone, anyone. Just as he got her furs off and made to work on her leathers, a loud shout rung in the air and made them both freeze. More cries started, and then the clanging of swords came. Minisa took that moment to crawl out from under him and push herself as far away from him as possible. The two of them stared at one another before a howl broke through the night, followed by another and another. 

All of a sudden, Rast's face crumbled into a mask of pure fear, and Minisa felt a shiver go down her spine. She wasn't afraid, the howls boosted her, made her feel confident, safe. Rast couldn’t lay a finger on her now. Rast was going to die tonight, she was sure of it. She told him as much.

“You’re going to die tonight. I can see it, I can see it so clearly. You’re going to die.”

“Shut up,” Rast ordered her, glancing at the door tensely.

“I can see it, I can see. You’re going to die.” Minisa continued frantically. She felt like she was barely in her own body, like her mind was slipping away from her.

“Shut up."

“The wolves are going to gorge on your flesh and carrions are going to pick at your eyes,” she envisioned. The words didn’t feel like they were coming from her mouth nor her mind. Everything was clouded in anger and vengeance and bloodlust. It was all so disconcerting. She was becoming less and less aware of herself.

“Shut up.”

“The snow is going to bury your bones, and you’ll be forgotten. No, that’s too easy. I’m going to sink my teeth into your groin and rip it off you while you’re still living and stuff it down your–”

“Shut up!” Rast shouted before he lunged at her, his hands wrapping around her neck and squeezing tightly.

Minisa felt herself slip away even as he squeezed tighter. She couldn’t feel it, his hands on her body or the air leaving her lungs. She wasn't in the hut anymore, she was somewhere else.

~*~*~

Jon wielded his sword like a demon, dispatching man after man. Whoever came before him fell, and he felt no remorse for it. When he was younger, he had a head full of dreams of joining the Night’s Watch, becoming a black brother. His father always told him that he was too young and they could discuss it in a few years, but he never told him the truth of what it was like. It was tantamount to a prison, a dumping ground for the dregs of the world, those who were unwanted or had no place to call home. Jon found his home beyond the Wall with the Freefolk and his pack and while he never found it in himself to hate the Night’s Watch as much as the other Freefolk did, he had no love for these men. These men killed his king, were most probably raping Craster’s daughters in the interim, destroyed their chance at peaceful reconciliation with Castle Black and now had his youngest siblings captive. They were his blood, his pack, it didn’t matter if he knew them, he was their older brother.

Their battle plan was simple but these deserters weren’t exactly great thinkers. They hit them from the west and the east. Jon, Robb and Styr charged in first, killing the lookouts in seconds before moving on to the next men. Eight of them were slain before the men were alerted and began pouring out of the keep to fight. Jon let himself let go, trusting his body to know what to do. He leaned on the years of teaching from Ser Rodrik and then from Gerrick along with his natural skill. He cut through men like butter, chopping limbs and deflecting blades, sinking thrusts into chests and slicing throats. Blood splattered across his face, warm and sticky, but it was a familiar feeling by now. As familiar as Ghost in the back of his head. He could feel the phantom sensation of his direwolf’s teeth sinking into sweaty flesh, leaving crows as nothing more than gory corpses.

Several of Craster’s daughters were running among the battlefield, some trying to find safety and others picking up swords and daggers of fallen men and fighting alongside the Freefolk. Jon directed those who weren’t fighters to the trees in the direction of Rickon, Jeg and the wolves. He grabbed one of them before they could run.

“A little boy and a girl, they were brought here today. Where are they?” The girl pointed shakily to the main keep before running away. Jon made his way there, cutting down any foolish to try to stop him. He entered the keep. It was largely empty, a few women were laid on the floor lethargically. They looked like they had been beaten and were unable to run. A whimper from a corner of the room drew his attention. There was a young boy handcuffed to a pipe staring at Jon fearfully.

“Beron?” The boy’s eyes widened further.

“How do you know my name? Where’s my sister?”

“I’m not sure. My name is Jon Snow. I’m here with the King-beyond-the-Wall, Robb, and Rickon. We came for you.”

“Y-you’re my brother?” Jon nodded wordlessly, approaching him to untie him. He used his dagger and cut the knots. They left burns on the boy’s wrists. Jon rubbed the skin soothingly just as Beron shouted a warning at him. Jon glanced up as a man was charging them. He grabbed Beron and sidestepped the man's attempt to stab him.

Jon stared at the man across from him. He carried two knives in his hands and wore the black leather of the Night’s Watch.

“Prince Snow,” the man started mockingly, giving Jon a bow.

“Have you come to bring me before the king, put me to trial?” Jon sneered at the man in response.

“We had a good thing here. We were free men. You know what that’s like, and you want to take that from us. We could’ve worked together, could’ve allied ourselves, could’ve taken the fucking Wall.”

“Maybe once. Killing Craster was probably the only good thing you ever did in your miserable life, but you got Mance killed, you killed the Lord Commander, you killed members of our army and you held my brother and sister hostage.” Karl glanced down at Beron who cowered behind Jon. Karl paused before letting out a bitter chuckle.

“I should’ve cut their throats as soon as Rast brought them here.” Jon grit his teeth.

“Hide Beron.” The boy paused before scurrying away. Jon held his dagger and sword in a surer grip and beckoned Karl to attack him.

Jon kept his distance, taking swinging arches at Karl which he parried with his daggers. They were too far away for him to land a blow on Jon.

“Did you learn to fight in a castle? Some old man teach you how to stand?” Karl sneered coming at Jon again, he got closer this time, fighting into Jon’s space and making his sword more of a hinderance. He sliced at Jon’s leg but it was largely protected by his heavy furs so the cut was not deep, still Jon groaned.

“They teach you how to fight with honor?” Karl asked, still close to Jon. They grappled for a moment, Jon dropped his sword, kicking it away and grabbed one of Karl’s hands, twisting it so he dropped his knife. Karl managed to get his other hand free of their tangle of limbs and sliced at Jon’s face. He reared back but still felt the blade slice his skin down his cheek.

“You know the problem with honor?” Karl spit at Jon but he saw it coming from all the scuffles he had gotten into living beyond the Wall. Men rarely fought with honor there. The spittle landed on his cheek instead of eyes. He headbutt the man, sending him reeling away from Jon.

“I did have some old man teach me how to stand, then I had another man teach me how to deal with scum like you,” Jon retorted, holding up one fist and his dagger in a defensive pose. Karl eyed his wayward dagger behind Jon before mirroring his pose, cracking his neck in the process. The two sized one another up for a moment, Karl faked a lunge but Jon stayed ready for him. He slashed at Karl’s stomach, but he dodged it, twirling behind Jon’s back to try to land a blow. Jon crouched low and slashed his calf before he could stab him, drawing a groan from the man before he put space between them again. Karl charged him, switching his knife mid-charge to try to throw Jon off. He used his momentum against him to deflect his arm to the side. Karl used this to his advantage and spun around before burying his knife into Jon’s side. He grunted and backed away from him.

“That was a mistake,” Jon hissed, pulling the bloodied knife out and facing off against a now weaponless Karl. His sword and another of Karl’s daggers were on the floor but Jon wouldn’t let him reach them. He approached Karl, both hands raised and attacked him with both. Karl was largely on the defensive, trying to avoid a slash here and a stab there but Jon was relentless, dodging punches and cutting into Karl’s flesh again and again. Karl managed to back away from him, blinking roughly as blood dripped into his eyes. Jon took advantage of his distraction and charged at him, knocking him onto his back. Karl wriggled and bucked, fighting to live to the very end. Jon pressed the daggers to his neck and slashed them both, cutting an ‘x’ into his throat. Karl’s eyes widened as blood began to gush out of the wound. He writhed beneath Jon, desperately clawing at his neck. Jon stared down at him as the light left his eyes and he went still.

He stood up once he was sure he was dead, holding a hand to his side. It didn’t feel like the stab hit anything vital, but he’d still need to see a healer to be sure. He stumbled away from Karl’s corpse and glanced at Beron who was cowering in a corner with one of Craster’s daughters holding him. Jon approached the two of them.

“Are you alright?”

Neither answered him. The girl stared at Karl’s body while Beron stared at Jon with a look of wide-eyed wonder on his face before the boy threw himself at the man's legs, hugging them tightly as he started crying. Jon stood awkwardly for a moment before patted the boy’s back comfortingly.

“It’s okay. Everything will be alright now.”

~*~*~

Minisa wasn’t in her own skin anymore, she was running through the trees, the snow crunching under her feet and falling in wet balls from the sky. Her fur was already wet, soaked through from the downpour, but her mind was only on one thing. The hut, she had to get to it. Her teeth itched with the thought of ripping into flesh and bathing in blood. She wanted to stain her white and black fur red with the life essence of her enemy, her wolfgirl’s attacker. 

Beside her, the one they called Shaggy had his teeth bared too. On her other side, the one they called Winter was also frothing at the mouth, seeking redemption after losing to the Dead One at the Fort of Night. Winter's wolfboy had run after them, leaving the Wild Woman and her wolf to hunt the Crows that tried to seek refuge in the woods but the boy was not fast enough to keep up with them.

The woodhouse came into view, and the one called Sapphire felt her mouth watering for the hunt even as she felt her connection with her wolfgirl slipping away. She pushed herself further, ignoring the fighting between Wild Ones and Crows as she burst out of the trees and made a beeline for the hut. She felt Shaggy peel off from them, joining in man's fight and seeking his wolfboy while Sapphire and Winter dodged iron claws until they got to the dilapidated structure. 

She burst inside the hut, knocking the door down. One of the Crows were inside. His eyes widened in fear when he saw her. Her wolfgirl was on the ground, her eyes barely open showing milky white irises. Sapphire could still feel her lifeline, could feel her heartbeat and her breathing, however shallow. A blinding rage overtook Sapphire as the man backed away and pulled out a small iron claw from his waist. The young she-wolf bared her teeth and charged him, trying to rip his throat out, but he evaded her, kicking her so she went flying to the side. Winter was just behind her, and the man didn't have time to ward off her brother's attack. He tore at the man’s raised hand, taking fingers with him. The man screamed, the scent of his blood filling the air, but he used his iron claw and stabbed Winter so her brother skittered away from him.

The man stood up and held his iron claw out at them. His hand was shaking. Sapphire smelled the stench of urine coming from him, a sign of his fear. She relished the smell, it made this all so much sweeter. She would rip this man apart for daring to lay a finger on her girl. Just before either she or Winter could attack the man, Sapphire felt her wolfgirl stirring, felt her wake up and felt the flare of anger and vengeance inside of her and knew they were of one mind in a way Sapphire had never felt. Sapphire was used to the tickle in the back of her mind that made her always aware of her wolfgirl. In sleep, the young direwolf could feel her girl slip inside her, like opening a door. This bond felt different. Sapphire felt like a part of her was being drawn out of her body and pulled into her wolfgirl. The better part of the wolf knew she ought to turn away from this new feeling, push her wolfgirl out or resist her lure to unleash her darker nature, but she didn't see a reason not to give into the anger or the need for vengeance in a battle.

You are a wolf, be a wolf. Sapphire told her wolfgirl.

Minisa felt more rage than she had ever felt in her entire life. There was never cause to be as angry as she felt at this moment. She also felt indignation.

You are a direwolf. Your pack is that of bloodlines thousands of years old. This Crow is not what will kill you. You must make him bleed so everyone will know who you are, what you are. Make them fear your bite, she heard a voice say in her head.

Minisa pushed herself up. She didn’t feel vertigo like she did before, didn’t feel the effects of the wine but she still didn’t feel like she was in her own body. Her hackles raised, her eyes narrowed into slits and her teeth itched to inflict damage on her opponent. She bent her knees and lunged at Rast’s back, locking her arms around his neck before sinking her teeth into his throat. He let out a yelp followed by a roar of pain as the taste of blood exploded onto her mouth as her teeth broke through flesh.

She let out a growl and clamped down harder as he flailed around trying to get her off him before she ripped a chunk of his neck out, blood pouring from the wound. She felt like she was in a frenzy as the scent of blood carried through the air, both outside the hut and inside. She could still hear the clash of swords outside, the screams of dying men, the growls and howls of her littermates and packmates ripping through their enemies with claws and teeth and swords. Winter latched onto one of the man’s legs, tearing through fabric and flesh and sinew and sending him crashing to his knee. Sapphire brought him down on to his back and both of them crashing to the floor. Some distant part of Minisa came to the realization that she was not actually in Sapphire's body, she was in her own body, she had jumped onto Rast's back and she had been the one biting him, she was the one ripping his neck out, not Sapphire but it didn't feel that way. She felt like she was seeing through Sapphire's eyes as well as her own, smelling with the wolf's nose, feeling the same urges and deadly instincts as her companion. It was confusing, she couldn't keep anything straight in her head.

She crawled out from under Rast as the wolves continued to attack him, ravaging the man, tearing at his face and his neck and his arms and torso, anywhere they could get. Blood splashed over them and onto Minisa, staining their furs and their muzzles and her face. This went on until the man was nothing more than a pile of unrecognizable gore.

Sapphire returned to her side and licked Minisa’s blood-soaked face. The young girl could still taste Rast’s sour flesh, feel skin stuck between her teeth. It should disgust her, turn her stomach. Maybe once she regained her wits, it would, but right now all she felt was an overwhelming bloodlust overtaking her sense and better nature. She could smell blood in the air, the blood of her enemies and those of her comrades, her brothers. She had to fight, she needed to kill as many Crows as she could so she could protect her brothers and sister. They deserved to die. They had to.

Her legs didn't feel like they were her own as she stumbled out of the hut, Sapphire by her side. Her teeth itched and fingers flexed with the need to hurt something. She didn't know she was capable of feeling anything like this but it felt good to let go and let this frenzy control her, let Sapphire steer her. It took a few tries before she managed to stagger away from the hut and into the night. Blood seeped into the snow outside too. It was everywhere, and she could smell it and taste it. She couldn’t escape it, it invaded her nostrils and called to her to join in on the bloodshed too. The moon was full in the sky, peeking out of the clouds. Minisa felt a fresh wave of bloodlust as the battle raged on.

There were men standing over the bodies of Night’s Watchmen. They wore the furs of wildlings.

Allies, she heard Sapphire whisper to her.

One of the black brothers cut down a wildling and moved on to attack another. Sapphire charged the man and Minisa followed after her. They both jumped on him and sunk their teeth into him. Minisa used her hands and clawed at him as well until the man was still beneath her. The wildling stared down at her, but she ignored him and followed Sapphire to their next victim with Winter behind them. Time felt like it moved different as she used her teeth and hands as weapons, her body as much an extension of Sapphire's as the wolf was an embodiment of all the negative emotions Minisa felt festering inside of her for the whole day trapped inside of the wretched melancholic din of Craster's Keep watching the women inside be raped and brutalized, feeling the weight of Rast's lecherous eyes on her promising the same treatment, knowing in her heart that there was every chance that her status would not save her and she would be killed for the crime of being a girl in a place that didn't see her as a valuable commodity, leaving Beron without her protection. She had been hopelessly powerless all day, but now she was anything but. She could bring these urchins low, make them fear her. Next to Sapphire and Winter, she felt invincible. It was an intoxicating feeling.

She didn't know how many fell from attacks made by the girl and the two direwolves, using the cover of night and the various distractions of battle to take Night's Watchmen by surprise. By now, Minisa was drenched in blood. She got up off her latest victim and moved to go to her next when a hand grabbed her arm. Minisa lashed out, knocking the offender to the ground and growled in their face menacingly.

"Minnie?" A voice exclaimed full of fright. Minisa stared at the face. For a terrifying moment, she didn't recognize him but after a pause, she knew him.

"Rickon?" He was staring at her with frightened, horrified eyes. She didn't know what to say to him. She moved off of him and stared back as he stood up, neither saying a word. He reached out to her and she couldn't help but bite at him warningly. He pulled back and continued looking at her uncertainly. She wondered if she should get up and run, but just then a black brother came up behind Rickon. Minisa felt her bloodlust come anew and she growled deeply, ready to pounce. Sapphire and Winter immediately went on the defensive, ready to rip the man apart, but suddenly an arrow went through the man’s eye, and he fell down dead. Minisa stared at him for a moment before looking up. A short, brunette woman was standing there holding a bow and arrow. The woman approached Minisa and she tensed up. The woman stared at her before shooting her a smile of reassurance. She looked vaguely familiar but Minisa could barely make her out in the darkness.

"I thought we told you to stay in the woods with Jeg," she said to Rickon.

"The direwolves ran off, I followed them. What... what's wrong with her?" he asked, glancing back at Minisa cautiously as she remained crouched in the snow. The woman stared at her for a moment, before looking at Sapphire. She said something to her in a language Minisa didn't understand, her voice intense and commanding. After a while, Minisa felt like she was slipping back into her body, like she had control again. She slumped down into the snow, feeling exhaustion overtake her. The woman got down next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

“It’s alright, little sister, you’re safe now.”

Sister? Minisa thought before the world faded around her and she knew nothing anymore.