𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐟 𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬
________________________

____ The sweet kisses of a delicate breeze drifting across the Northerners camp, some miles beyond the ancient castle known as Riverrun, dances with the banners of the Northern Houses, whom joined together to ride South and save Lord Stark and his daughters. The sun burns bright high above the camp, the bright star some worship as a God ready to begin it's decent into the lands below and sleep through the night. The Northern soldiers walk about the camp, consisting of numerous gray tents, sprinkled with the light morning squall, spread atop the bright green grass, as the ambiance of horses nickering and smiths crafting new swords from the steel of the fallen Lannisters from the night before echoes across the camp.

Meanwhile, a Northern soldier, dressed in the armor of House Starks warriors, walks towards one of the larger of the tents pitched in the middle of the entirety of the encampment, a cream parchment held within his grasp.. with news from the South.

Inside of the gray tent, a handful of Northern Lords & Ladies stand around a wooden table, a map of Westeros placed upon it with the pawns of Houses Stark & Lannister atop it, with the Stark brothers standing at the head of the table, their backs to the entrance flap of the large tent.

The Lady of House Stark sits on the bench closer to her secondborn son, whose arms are crossed over his chest as his handsome features hold a tense look of silent thought, his Northern features sprinkled with bruises and cuts from the battle the night prior, which she noticed didn't seem to bother him as much as whatever was going on in his mind.

The eldest of the Stark brothers' voice is distant to the secondborn's ears, even though he stands beside him, as his thoughts rampage across his aching head.

The thoughts of the dream he had the night before.

The dream had felt so real to him, as if Rikson Stark were actually standing in the crowd of people as Lord Eddard Stark, his father, was beheaded in the capital of Westeros, the land of the Seven Kingdoms.

The secondborn Stark could feel the sea breeze from Blackwater Bay caressing his brunette locks, his cracked heart pounding against the cage of ribs in his heaving chest.. could smell the revolting stench of the overpopulated capital city, the salty waves crashing against the shores of the bay of black water, the fresh blood that oozed from his father's headless corpse like a waterfall of crimson.. could hear the echo of the people's cheering at the death of the treasonous Lord Stark, the culling of the ignorant seagulls above the bay, the broken beat of sorrow in his heart, the desperate wailing of his despaired sweet sister.. could see the ravens soaring away from the slaughter, every drop of blood that leaked from the sword of the executioner's, the smirk of arrogance and pride on the Golden Stag's lips as the executioner held his father's head for all to see.. before all fell into darkness as the young Stark boy's eyes rolled into the back of his head as he collapsed unto the cold stones of the capital's floors, his head hitting the stones with a dull thud.

The Stark had found it difficult to fall asleep after such a dream, therefore, he had remained awake through the remaining hours of the Wolf's moon as his worry clouded itself over any and all of his thoughts, his mind only focusing on his father.

"Lord Tywin would do anything to get
his precious pretty boy back into his hands
again.. we have the advantage here."

"We do.. and we don't. You say Lord Tywin would do anything to get his son back.. it would be wise to assume he wouldn't just sue for peace to get him, he would also attack. He has three times our numbers, some of ours are still wounded from the battle.. we need to act fast, and be vigilant, with our next
move against the Lannisters."

The voice of his eldest brother broke through the cloud of worry inside of the secondborn's mind, whom blinked as he lifted his head to look towards him, silently agreeing with his thought.

"What do you suggest we do, then?" Ser Rodrik spoke, standing beside Lord Umber, whom stood directly across the Stark brothers.

"We wait until the wounded are ready
to ride, and then we march to-.."

The eldest of the Starks interrupts himself when the sound of the entrance flap leading into the gray tent being shoved aside reaches his ears. The Stark brothers turn towards whomever had walked into the tent, as the Northern Lords & Ladies lift their curious gazes towards the soldier dressed in the armor of House Stark.

"Beg pardon, M'Lords and Ladies,
a raven arrived in Riverrun...
from King's Landing."

Robb Stark noticed the way his brother's shoulders tensed as he lowly inhaled a sharp breath when the soldier had mentioned the letter came from King's Landing, the capital, creasing his brows as he glanced towards his younger brother. Knowing his brother, younger than him by only a year, better than anyone else he knew in all of Westeros, the eldest knew the secondborn's mind had been elsewhere throughout the day. He wondered what thoughts were raging through his head and had intended to ask him before they were called for a meeting to discuss what the Northerners next move would be.

The Lords & Ladies did not fail to notice the look of grim spread across the soldier's features as he held the letter towards the eldest of the Stark brothers, whom took the letter into his grasp with a tentative hand.

Bright Tully blue eyes skimmed across the letters of the news from the South, before the bright spark of determination in his eyes faded to a glossy dullness of despair as the eldest of the brothers releases a sharp breath, leaning his back on the table behind him to keep his balance at the shocking news, keeping the letter in his grasp as he looks towards the soldier standing before him, 

"I-Is this true?"

The soldier somberly nods, "It is, M'Lord.. I am so sorry."

"Is what true?" The Greyjoy boy spoke from where he stood across from Lady Stark, creasing his auburn brows in obvious confusion with a hidden worry for his friend in his eyes. Robb Stark did not say anything, just placed the letter in his brother's hand, the person standing closest to him, before he left the tent with hast, tears held within his sorrowed eyes. Rikson Stark stared at his brother's departing form with brows creased in concern, before looking towards the letter in his hand, sparing a glance towards the anxious Lords & Ladies as he began to read the letter from the capital aloud,

"Joffrey Baratheon, King of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, has rightfully charged the Warden of the North with treason and sentenced him-..." The young Stark sharply exhales, licking his dry lips, before continuing, "And sentenced him to death.... A wolf pelt decorates the floors of the true King's chambers, and another shall be added unless Ser Jamie Lannister is returned.. do so now, or suffer the consequences... signed the Maester of King's Landing."

The yells of rage from the Lords and the breaths of sudden shock from the Ladies fell upon deaf ears as the secondborn Stark let the letter fall from his trembling hands, the ice inside of his eyes melting beneath the flames of sorrow as tears welled inside of them.

His father is.. dead.

The man he looked up to his whole life, the man whom taught him almost everything he knew about swordsmanship, the man that never truly gave up on him... gone.. dead.. wasted away.

Knowing the lone tear of sorrow that fell from his eye, sliding down his pale cheek with a glow of despair, would be seen as weakness.. or so the boy always lets himself believe.. Rikson Stark rushes out of the gray tent and through the Northerners' camp. The secondborn rushed towards the forest laying beside the camp, before beginning to sprint into the heart of the woods blanketed with low whistling trees and damp grass sprinkled with fallen leaves, not even hearing the running paws following behind him.

The Stark didn't even know the reason behind why he ran through the forest like a spooked stallion in war.. was he running from something?

Running from his grief? Running from the news from the South?... Running from the truth?

The despaired Stark didn't see the rock before he roughly fell onto the floors of the forest, ripping the skin of his palms and scrapping his knees as blood began to trickle from the small wounds. Though, the waves of burning pain soaring from his hands and knees and into his body could never hope to compare to the suffocating pain that ripped him apart from his mind to his soul and then his heart. Heart-shattering and soul crushing sobs of sorrow escaped from the crack in the secondborn's heart weeping tears of despaired blood as the tears of despair falling from his dull eyes landed on the floors of the forest with silent splashes.

The secondborn son of House Stark wept on the soft grass of the forest.

Wept for the death of the father he lost at such a young age.. the father whom shaped him into the young boy he is now. The father he would never get to see or hear advice from again.. ever. Wept for his sweet sister all alone in the Lion's den.. the sister that needed him now more than ever... and he can't be there to protect her, to hold her, to comfort her. Wept for his youngest brothers that lost their father at such a young age, as well.. the brothers without family to comfort them. The brothers that would have to live their young lives without a father.. an honorable father accused of false treason that will forever stain his name.

The grief-stricken boy falls to his side on the ground, a never ending fall of tears streaming down his cheeks that burn with every streak his salty tears leave upon the pale skin, as his chest heaves with every sharp breath he desperately takes into his heavy lungs, feeling as though he has lost the ability to breathe.

Rikson, then, feels a warmth leaning against his back, that shakes with every desperate breath, before a whimper fills his ears, that rings underneath the depths of the waves of sorrow consuming him, and he knows it is his direwolf, Alysanne, laying beside him.  Alysanne curls her large body around the backside of her weeping Stark, her tail curled around his legs as her head lays behind his, lowly whimpering as the body of her Stark trembles with his sorrow. The Stark and the direwolf lay there on the floors of the forest, the boy weeping for his father as the wolf silently cries for his grief.. the Stark praying to the Old Gods and the stars that one day this burning, suffocating, and all consuming pain would fade away into an old scar instead of a fresh wound.

ꕥ 𓅓☽𓅓 ꕥ

His unforgiving anger, forged in the frozen breath of the winter winds, was better than salty tears that stung his cheeks.. better than his grief that left a crack on his fierce heart.. better than his guilt, blaming him for not being fast enough to rescue his father. Therefore, as the golden rays of the sun leaning towards the lands below broke through the branches of the tall trees in the forest beside the Northerners camp, the secondborn son of House Stark found himself thrashing his sword against the trunk of the first tree he saw.. though tears of anger fell from his blue eyes nonetheless, he couldn't keep them away no matter how desperate he were to.

The direwolf, Alysanne, sits beside her brother, Greywind, whom stands beside a tree some distance away from the grief-stricken Stark. A gentle breeze flows through the ebony black and sky gray fur of the direwolves as their ruby and citrine eyes stare at the Stark with ears drooped in sorrow. The black direwolf could feel the pain built upon layers of sorrow resulted from his grief drifting across their Warg bond, and she whimpered with every wave of sorrow that radiated from the boy whom knew too much grief for a boy of six-and-ten.

Another thrash against the trunk of the tree before him sends splinters of wood across the breeze, the Valyrian steel sword cutting through the air like an arrow as the anger brought upon by grief flows from the Stark, swinging the sword, like a flame on wood.

"Keep your shield up, Rikson.. or they'll
ring your head like a bell."

The voice of his late father's echoes across his aching mind, and Rikson halts his sword above his head, his brows creased as his chest heaves, before bringing Wrath upon the bark of the tree, once again, as memories of his father consume him...

ꕥ 𓅓☽𓅓 ꕥ

A whispering morning breeze drifts across the grounds of the training-yard surrounded by the strong walls of Winterfell as a sword crafted in dull steel cuts through the winds and meets with another of it's kind that refuses to surrender, though it falls from the young boy's grasp as the Kraken kicks him to the ground, an arrogant smirk forming on his lips.

The young Greyjoy chuckles, "I win
again, Riky.. why not just quit now, save
yourself the embarrassment?"

The young boy of eleven years, Rikson Stark, rolls his blue eyes as he pushes himself to his booted feet, taking the dull sword, used for training, into his right hand as he rolls his shoulders, challenging the Greyjoy, whom exaggerates a dramatic sigh at the stubborn Stark boy refusing to back down, like the young Wolf he is.

The brothers of the Stark, Robb & Jon, stand to the side of the ring made of rocks in the soft sand as blue and brown eyes watch their brother duel the Greyjoy boy once again only to yet again fall to the sand with a dull thud, making his worried sister, Sansa, gasp as she stands on the observation balcony above the training-yard.

Rikson growls as he jumps to his feet, his impatient frustration almost getting the better of him as he eyes the sword on the ground, wanting to shove it through the arrogant Greyjoy's annoying grin of pride, before his father's voice halts his violent thoughts,

"Rikson.. come here."

The young boy huffs, straightening his shirt stained in sand and dirt, before walking towards where his father stands some distance behind the ring the four boys had made long ago as younger children when they first began sword-training. 

"What is it, father?"

The father of the young Stark boy, Lord Eddard Stark, softy sighs, "You need to calm down, Riks.. getting all riled up won't help you."

Rikson sighs, "I know.. but, I can't help it whenever I see that annoying grin of Theon's whenever he beats me in a duel, or anything really."

Eddard chuckles, leaning down to lay his hand on his secondborn son's shoulder and look into his blue eyes that always reminded him of his sister, "I understand wanting to be upset about such things, Riks.. but you must'nt let small things like that get to you."

"It's easier said than done."

Once again, the father of the Stark chuckles, "I know, Riks.. but do you know what I've noticed?"

The young boy shakes his head, his brows creased in both confusion and curiosity, as his father says, "I've noticed.. that Theon always grimaces before he lunges."

Young Rikson Stark chuckles, his father giving his son's shoulder a pat before straightening himself, "Now, keep your shield up, Riks.. or he'll ring your head like a bell."

The young boy nods, the ghost of a smirk on his lips, as he turns to walk towards the arrogant Kraken of House Greyjoy, Theon, bringing the dull sword, used for training small boys, into his hand, rolling his wrist and shoulders as he inhales a deep breath to settle his anger forged in the unforgiving breath of winter's winds.

Theon rolls his eyes with an exaggerated non-caring look on his Greyjoy features as he walks back into the ring, having been conversing with young Robb whilst Rikson talked with his father, and just before the boys begin their final duel for the morning, the sister of the Stark brothers, Sansa Stark, shouts to her brother below the deck she stands upon,

"I believe in you, my sweet Riky..
you can do it!"

Rikson looks towards his sweet sister, giving her a nod accompanied by a smirk, followed by a wink, causing the young girl to giggle at her brother, before the young boys begin to circle the other around the ring.

The brothers of the Stark, Robb & Jon, watch Rikson Stark duel Theon Greyjoy once more, though with the advice from his father echoing inside of his mind, the brothers smile in pride when their brother trips the Greyjoy to the ground, the sand flowing into the breeze as the boy grunts with the impact upon his back, going to stand before the tip of a sword is pointed towards his neck.

"I win, Greyjoy.. why not just quit now,
save yourself the embarrassment?"

The brothers of Rikson bursted into laughter as they walked towards their brother, patting his back in praise as the Greyjoy stood, huffing in annoyance at his loss as he straightens his clothes, before returning his sword to the rack with muttered curses aimed towards the young boy he had loathed ever since meeting him.

"Well done, Riks." His eldest brother, Robb,
praised, earning a shy smirk from his younger brother, whom always looked up to him.

"You did great, Rik.. next time, I'll take you
on." Jon says, and Rikson snickers as
he responds, "You're on."

Robb, then, ruffles his younger brother's hair, that glimmered almost dirty-blonde underneath the warm rays of the golden sun of the ending dawn, earning himself a huff of playful annoyance as Rikson shoves his hand away. The eldest Stark laughed as he walked away with Jon, his and Rikson's training swords in his grasp, the brothers going to place the swords in the wooden rack.

The sound of rushed footsteps approach the young boy of eleven from behind, and Rikson has but a moment to turn around and catch his younger sister in his arms, the siblings spinning from the impact as they giggle like the young children they are.

Sansa kisses her, most adored, brother's
cheek once she releases him of her
hold, "You did it, Riky!"

"I couldn't have without your
support, sweet sister."

Sansa giggles, kissing her brother's cheek, once more, and gives him one last embrace, before she skips off to her sewing lessons with Septa Mordan.

The young Stark boy turns to his father, whom still stands some distance beyond the ring his boys had created years ago, with a smile of pride on his lips as his son's eyes met his, a bright smile of victory and pride that could lighten the darkest night forming on the boy's lips as he silently thanks his father, whom nods towards him with a wink, before going off to his Lordly duites as Warden of the North.

~~~

The distant howl of the midnight hour's
breeze echoes throughout the ancient crypts
beneath Winterfell, as the sound of light
footsteps walking across the dirts
accompanies the wind.

The young secondborn son of House Stark walks beside his aged father, Eddard Stark, as the shadows of the flames in the torches, scarcely nailed onto the stones, dances across their Stark features.

The father of the boy of one-and-
ten, then, halts before the stone statute
of his own father, with his brother,
Brandon Stark, beside Lord
Rickard Stark.

"Do you know who this is, Riks?"

The young boy, whom reached just above his father's waist, shakes his head as his blue eyes, that remind Lord Stark so much of his sister, observe the stone statue of his late grandfather.

"That is my father, Rickard Stark.. your mother
and I almost named you for him."

Young Rikson lightly chuckles, before his smile falls as he speaks in a soft voice, scared to wake any of the ghosts of past Starks, "How did he die?"

Eddard Stark releases a breath, the reluctance
to speak of his late father and brother's deaths
noticed by his clever son, whom almost says
his father doesn't have to tell him,
before the father says,

"The Mad King burned him
alive with Wildfire."

The young boy had heard all of the stories about the Mad King. Rikson Stark knew all about the past Targaryens, and their dragons.

What young boy didn't?

The Targaryens were extraordinary, terrifying.. they rode the beasts that brought the whole world to heel.. they conquered Westeros with Fire & Blood.. built a dynasty that would last centuries.

Rikson Stark had always wanted to see a dragon, and had been devastated when he had been told the last dragon died a century ago.

He knew that Wildfire had been the Targaryens source of power after the death of the last dragon, and how the House fell into a decent of madness ever since the end of the Dance of Dragons.

Though, none had ever been crueler than
the Mad King... and all knew it.

"The same fate met my brother,
Brandon Stark, as well."

The voice of his father brings the boy out of his daydreams of seeing a dragon, as his eyes lift from the dirt below and onto the stone statue beside his grandfather. The statue of his late uncle.

"Remember this, Riks.. we Starks don't fair well when we ride south, our place is in the North."

Rikson, then, removes his gaze from the statues
and onto his father, whom looked more serious
than he had ever seen, therefore, the boy
nodded, "I will, father."

A silence befalls the Stark father & son, whom
begin to walk across the crypts, once more, before
the father notices his son's creased brows of
thought, knowing something was
on his mind,

"What's on your mind, Riks?"

Rikson glances towards his father, then, focuses his blue eyes onto the grounds below, as he continues to speak in a soft voice, "What happened to the Targaryens after the Mad King fell?"

Eddard halts in his path, resulting in his son doing the same, as he turns towards Rikson, his shoulders lifting with a heavy breath as he prepares to tell his secondborn son of the fall of the greatest dynasty the world has ever seen,

"When Ser Jamie Lannister put his sword through the back of his King, Aerys Targaryen, his father, Lord Tywin, commanded the Mountain to kill Elia Martell and her children, Rhaenys and Aegon, after King Robert killed Rhaegar Targaryen at the Battle of the Trident."

Rikson's eyes widened at the story, believing the Lannisters and Baratheons were the more evil of the Houses at the moment, considering the babes and mother were innocent of any wrong.

"Rhaella Targaryen, the Mad King's sister-wife, fled to Dragonstone after the death of her husband, where she died on her birthing bed. Her last son and twins, then, fled across the Narrow Sea."

"Where did they go?"

"No one really knows, Riks."

Rikson creases his brows, believing someone must know something about the twins and their brother if they knew they sailed across the sea, but didn't give it much thought as he spoke, "But why murder a family for the crimes of a father?"

"In war there are no rules, Rikson.. the enemy will do whatever it takes to win the battle. That is why you never turn your back on your enemies."

"But it's not fair!.. Why do Rhaella's children have to hide just to keep themselves alive, why did the Lannisters kill Elia and her children?"

The father of the secondborn son leans down to lay his gloved hand on his shoulder, softly grinning at his gentle hearted son, "You have a good heart, Rikson.. but the Targaryens are gone, they have been ever since the last dragon died a century ago."

"What do you mean, father?"

Eddard Stark softly sighs, still keeping himself at eye-length with his son, "When the Targaryens fought each other in the Dance of Dragons, they began to loose themselves. Their dragons began to die, and their riders fell into madness... Westeros may have prospered underneath their reign long ago, but not anymore."

Rikson moves his blue eyes away from his father and onto the ground beneath their boots, a low breath falling from his lips. A moment of silent thought passes over the Starks, before the boy says, "Do you think the Targaryens could come back?"

"If the Gods are just, they will wither
away like their dragons did..."

Rikson Stark softly nods, though he doesn't feel like he fully agrees with his father, the man whom fought to overthrow the dynasty they talked about, on the matter of blaming a family for the crimes of one bad member... although, maybe one day the young Stark boy would come to understand that thought process, he hoped not.

The Stark father and son begin to walk through the ancient crypts, once more, a silence in the breeze around them, accented by the distant echo of howling forest creatures and the whisper of whistling winds that sent a chill down the boy's spine.

Lord Stark halts before another stone statue, carved into the delicate features of a beautiful woman, and his son stops just beside him, lifting his thoughtful gaze onto the statue of his late aunt.

"Who's that?"

The aged father of the son sighs,
"... My sister, Lyanna Stark."

".. How did she die?" Rikson asks in
his soft voice, both scared of the ghosts
and nervous to upset his father.

"Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped and raped Lyanna.. I found her as she bled to death... she was scared and didn't want to die.... but she was the bravest and fiercest woman I had ever known... You are just like your aunt, Riks."

The secondborn son looks up at his father beside him, swearing he could see a faint layer of tears held within his Stark brown eyes, but chose not to mention it, as he spoke, "What was she like?"

"She loved to ride through the Wolfswood, guessing the names of the birds that sang... she loved archery, and would always beat Bran and I in competitions between us.... She was wild and fierce, but gentle and loving... just like you, Riks." Lord Stark turns towards his son, "You are a Stark, Riks. You have my temper, but Lyanna's Wolf Blood, it seems.... You even look more like her than me."

The young boy didn't know whether being told you look more like your late aunt than your father should be taken as a complement or not, but looking into his father's eyes that held tears within them, the boy chose not to think on it and gave his father a smile that reminded him so much of his sister, only proving his words that Rikson Stark was more like his aunt, Lyanna Stark, than himself.

"I wish I could have known her."

"Me too, Riks... She would
have adored you."

Rikson Stark smiles, a bright smile that lights up the crypts better than any torch, before the Stark father and son begin to walk across the ancient crypts, once more, the boy less afraid of the ghosts of the past when he feels his aunt's Wolf Blood running through him.

~~~

Inside of the vibrant Godswood of Winterfell's, the trees dancing to the whistling winds as their leaves tremble with the cold or sink to the grass below as the critters of the forest sing their noon songs, Lord Stark walks beside his secondborn son.

The secondborn son of four-and-ten, whom stands to just below his father's shoulders, wonders why his father had called him to the sacred forest of the Starks as his blue eyes drift across the beautiful art of the forest surrounding him.

The distant echo of deer trekking across the dry leaves, the birds singing between the other from their homes in the trees shared with squirrels and other rodents the cats in Winterfell loved to hunt for. The rays of the sun peeking through the cracks between the numerous trees connecting to the blanket of grass spread across the Godswood's floor, kissing the Stark's skin with comforting warmth. The cold breeze of Westeros' northernmost Kingdom that the young Stark's body welcomes like an old friend.

Rikson Stark's eyes, then, land upon the ancient Weirwood tree older than even his deceased ancestors that lay in rest in the crypts beneath their ancestral home that none would dare take.

The five-pointed leaves shimmered like crimson gems beneath the sun's glares as they trembled through the cold of the winds that swept around the tree's white bark marked by the Children of the Forest, a face that weeps the tree's sap that appears as blood that glimmers under the sun, and moon as Rikson had come to notice.

The father of the young boy sits upon the rock, covered with a light coat of bright green moss, laying before the Weirwood. A pond lays before the rock, the waters gently rippling with every stray leaf that fell upon it's surface, before the waters dragged the leaf into the black abyss underneath it's surface. Edward Stark looks to his son, a faint expression of pride on his aged features, as he pats the spot beside him, and Rikson sits beside his father, still quite confused on why his father had called for him.

Though, before the son can ask his father why he had brought him to the sacred forest of the Starks, Eddard reaches for something behind the rock, bringing it onto his lap. Rikson recognizes the sword as Ice, his father's greatsword made of Valyrian steel, a rare steel ever since the Doom of Old Valyria. 

The father of the Stark boy, then, begins to tell his son the story of how he obtained his greatsword, the sword having been passed down from generation to generation of the men of House Stark. Eddard tells his son how his father gifted the greatsword to him, months before he died to the Mad King.

Although hanging onto every word his wise father speaks, the Stark boy's mind still rages with one question, why was his father telling him all of this?

"Father, why are you telling me this?"

"Because House Stark was gifted with plenty of steel for two swords.. our ancestors melted down the Valyrian swords from people whom no longer had need of it, and House Stark was gifted with two Valyrian swords."

Rikson creases his brows, the sun resulting in his wavy locks that reached just above his shoulders appear more dirty-blonde beneath it's rays, "But why are you telling me this?"

Eddard lays the Valyrian greatsword beside the rock he and his son sit upon, before laying his hand on his son's shoulder, whom glances towards it before looking into his father's proudful eyes with his confused ones, as Eddard begins to speak,

"I don't say this to you enough, Riks.. but as your father, I am so proud of you. Even though you are stubborn, arrogant.. reckless, at times.. you have always made me proud. Living with the title of secondborn son can't have been easy on you.. I know this, Riks.. but you hold yourself strong, like a true Stark. You are the best swordsman, out of your brothers and Theon, and archer.. although, I assume you get that from your aunt. You work hard for everything you want, and you've earned everything you have, Riks... as a father, I couldn't be more proud to call you my son.. secondborn or not..."

Rikson Stark could feel tears form inside of his eyes, releasing a sharp breath to hold back a choked sob as he closes his eyes and lowers his head, before blinking back his tears and staring into his father's eyes, whom swears a wolf was looking into his soul rather than his son looking to his proud father, whom continues, "And I can't see anyone more deserving of this, than you..."

The father of the secondborn son, then, reaches behind the rock they sit upon, revealing the second Valyrian sword belonging to House Stark, and Rikson Stark sharply, though lowly, inhales a cold breath when his eyes land upon the sword in it's sheath. The sheath made with black leather with shadows of light-brown and dark-cream leather accents.

Lord Stark stands from the rock, placing himself before his secondborn son, whom looks up at him with lips partly gaped in shock and wide blue eyes filled with disbelief and wonder. Eddard unsheathes the sword from it's sheath, the steel glimmering beneath the rays of the bright sun, and extends his arms, with the sword laid on them, towards Rikson Stark.

Rikson stands on his legs trembling with nerves, looking to his father for permission to hold the sword, whom grins as he nods, therefore, Rikson takes the beautiful sword into his shivering grasp.

The secondborn admires the sword in his hands, crafted in the beautiful steel of the Valyrians that shimmers beneath the sun and moon of the sky. Running a gloved hand over the smooth steel, feeling the sharpness of the steel even with the shield of leather between his skin and the sword, a bright grin forms on Rikson's lips, his eyes drifting across the sword, before landing on the handle, the pommel crafted into a howling, black wolf..

The Midnight Wolf of House Stark.

Before the secondborn lifts his head towards his father, whom grins at his son with pride inside of his brown irises, "Why me?.. Why not Robb.. or anyone else, really?"

Eddard Stark smiles, a soft chuckle falling from his lips, as he lays a hand on his son's shoulder, "Why anyone else but the boy standing before me?"

~~~

Shinning bright in the midnight sky is the Wolf's moon, the stars beside it winking down at the slumbering inhabitants of the lands below, as a night's breeze drifts across the silent grounds of the ancient castle, Winterfell.

A light snowfall dribbles from the black blanket that is the night's sky and kisses the Northern lands below with it's cold breath, a blanket of it coating the archery training-yard of the castle, where Lord Stark and his young son stand on the viewing-deck above the yard.

It had been some weeks since the secondborn son's eventful return from beyond the Wall, and he still barely left his chambers, especially during the hours of the sun.

Rikson was like a wolf, only seen in the
hours of the moon... his moon.

The father of the young Stark of five-and-ten worried for his son. Rikson Stark had dark circles underneath his dull and sunken eyes, all signs of his lack of sleep ever since his return. The boy had gotten skinner since his return, also, and his father guessed it had something to do with the servants that told him the boy would refuse any food given to him. Eddard also noticed how his son would sway on his feet every now and again, almost like a newborn deer, and worry for his son only grew the worse he became. 

Therefore, Lord Stark had, practically, dragged his secondborn out of bed, when the sun had set and everyone had left to sleep through the night, and took him to one of his favorite places in Winterfell, the archery yard.

"Why have you brought me here?"

"Because I am worried about you, Rikson..
everyone is worried about you."

The secondborn rolls his blue eyes, not entirely caring if his father noticed, he didn't really care about anything anymore, "There is nothing to worry about.. you and mother should be happy now that Ad-... she's gone. You have your precious son back to marry into some House to strengthen House Stark."

"Rikson, do not say such things... You would break your mother's heart if she heard those words
coming from you, of all her children."

Rikson huffed, keeping his eyes away from his father, some part of him knowing his father was right but the other half deciding to silently disagree with him.. the grieving half of the young Stark boy.

"I already broke her heart when I
married "the bastard" as the both
of you so kindly called her."

"Rikson.. look at me."

The secondborn son refused to look his father in the eyes.. the eyes he knew would be full of disappointment.. the eyes he couldn't ever look into again, for his shame coursed through him like a raging storm over the unforgiving lands of winter, killing everything it touched with it's frozen hands.

Killing his steel courage.. killing his arrogance.. recklessness.. carelessness.. his vibrant happiness.. his warming joy... leaving only the hateful eyes of grief in their places.

Eddard laid his gloved hand on his son's arm, squeezing it to try and make his son turn towards him, but Rikson Stark refused as he closed his eyes and lowered his head away from his father.

The father of the Stark, then, grips both of his son's arms and turns his boy towards him, though, Rikson keeps his eyes closed with his head lowered, the stubborn and broken wolf inside of him showing itself, but the evermore stubborn father places his hand underneath his son's chin, on the side of his neck, and gently lifts Rikson's head with his thumb, whom allows it without much defiance, he was too tired.

"Riks.. look at me... please."

Rikson Stark, then, inhales a low, sharp breath of the cold winds surrounding them, letting the cold comfort him as it always did.. it was the only thing that never failed him by always being there.. before letting his dull eyes flutter open, a glossy layer of tears held within the blue shade of ice.

The young boy began to speak as soft as the whispering winds, a shake to his words as his lips began to tremble, "... I'm sorry, father... I-I disappointed you, and mother.... I d-don't deserve Wrath..."

When his father laid a comforting hand of parental warmth on his trembling shoulder, Rikson broke.. he couldn't hold the storm anymore.. and fell into his father's arms as he began to sob all of the melted waters of grief weighing his heart down out.

Eddard Stark laid his chin on his broken boy's head of wavy, brunette hair.. the same shade of his aunt's, Lyanna Stark.. wrapping his arms around his trembling boy's skinny frame, as the jacket beneath his cloak became soaked with his son's tears as Rikson clung to his strong father as if his life and sanity depended on it.

Perhaps, they did.. because with every tear of grief, hate, and suffering that fell from his eyes, the more the weight of grief lifted from his heavy heart.

The father of the weeping Stark begins to soothe his hand in circles around his boy's shivering back, whilst the other lays in his hair and strokes the soft locks, like his wife would always do whenever their boy was upset and needed comforted, hoping to ease his weeping son as best he could.. not aware that just by holding him in his weakest moment, he was already easing the boy.

A silence falls over the Starks, accented by the muffled weeping of the secondborn son whilst the night's breeze dances with the flakes of snow resting upon the grounds of Winterfell and the Starks' brunette hair, a lone wolf's howl heard in the distant Wolfswood as the creatures of the night slumber away.

After a moments pass, the secondborn son's sobs lessen into sniffles and hiccups, before releasing himself from his father's embrace, removing his comforting warmth, as well. Rikson wipes his eyes with a hiccup bouncing from his chest, a slight redness to his nose being the only sign he were just sobbing his heart out.

"Rikson..."

The young boy looks to his father, another hiccup bouncing in his chest, the gentle flakes of pure white snow laying their comforts upon his hair, as if sensing the boy's emotions of grief.

"You deserve Wrath.. You deserve mine and your mother's pride... You have made mistakes in the past.. and, so have we. It was wrong of us to judge you for wanting to be with a girl that made you happy.. not because she was a bastard... I am sorry it took her death and your torment from it to realize that, Rikson... so from now on, you will choose who you marry.. whether it be a lowborn girl, a highborn girl.. or another bastard... whoever makes you happy will have our blessings, Rikson.. you have my word."

Rikson nods with another sniffle, wiping his dry eyes that seemed just ever brighter underneath the glow of the Wolf's moon, "I don't think I'll be falling in love anytime soon, but thank you, father... I do hope I can make you proud of the man I'll become one day".

Eddard softly grins whilst nodding his
head, "I know you will, Riks."

The sound of an arrow thunking against wood drifts across the air below the viewing-deck the Starks stand upon, earning their attention as they turn their heads and lean over the wooden-railing, soft grins forming onto their lips when their eyes land upon young Arya Stark in the ring below.

The youngest of the Stark sisters is oblivious to her father and brother silently watching her from above as she releases her one arrow numerous times, determined to hit the bulls-eye. Every time she misses, and every time she retrieves her arrow and shoots it, never giving up.

She knew what she was doing was against the rules, as the flakes of snow planted themselves on her head of brunette hair, but she did not care.. she wanted to be like her brothers, she wanted to ride horses through the woods and fight like a Knight.. not sit in pretty dresses and sew clothes like Sansa.

Little Arya didn't know how much time had passed, minutes.. hours.. before her one arrow finally lands in the red dot painted on the middle of the wooden target, and she smiles to herself... before she begins to hear slow clapping emitting from above her.

The youngest of the Stark sisters turns towards the viewing-deck above her, and her Stark brown eyes land upon her father and older brother, Rikson Stark, smiling down at her, whilst her father clapped for her...

He proudly smiled at her, and clapped...
He didn't scold her for doing something
everyone knew she shouldn't be...

And Arya, then, realized what she
did, what she accomplished, wasn't
wrong, the rules were wrong.

"You keep at it, little wolf, and one day
you'll be better than me."

Little Arya smiled so wide her cheeks began to hurt, but she did not care, as her brother, the brother she had barely seen in weeks, smiled at her as if nothing was wrong in the world.

"Will you teach me, Riky?"

"I will, little wolf.. but it'll have to
be in secret, or course."

And for the year before the war to come, the brother and sister, Rikson and Arya Stark, would sneak to the archery training-yard in the hours of the Wolf's moon.. no matter the weather, rain or snow.. and the brother would teach his sister how to protect herself with bow, sword, or whatever she wished to use that night. The Stark would never realise, but those nights with his sister began to heal him of the wounds left by the death of his sweet Addy.. and little did the siblings know, but their father would always watch over them every night they trained together, watching over his pack like the alpha wolf he is. 

~~~

After the secondborn son of House Stark said farewell to his bastard brother, Jon Snow, Rikson Stark made his way towards the gates of Winterfell, where he knew his father would be, preparing to ride south.

The sun shone brightly above the ancient castle as the inhabitants of said castle bustled about, all anxious to their Lord's leave, knowing Starks didn't fair well when they ventured south.

Rikson found his father beside his black stallion, securing the reigns onto the horse, before noticing his son walking towards him, therefore, the father of the Stark boy turned towards him,

"Sansa couldn't convince you
to come with her?"

Rikson snickered as he halted himself before his father, "No.. we both agreed that I belong in the dreary North instead of the warm South.. though, she did say she wanted me to walk her down the aisle when she is married to her handsome Prince."

"That hurts." Eddard chuckled, making his secondborn son snicker, once more, before an air of seriousness surrounded the Stark father and son.

"... Do you have to go south, father?.. You once told me, 'we Starks don't fair well when we ride south, our place is in the North'.. why are you going south?"

Eddard Stark releases a low breath, lowering his head for a moment before looking his son in his wolf eyes and laying a hand on his shoulder, "One day, Riks, you will understand why I must ride south and protect the King." Rikson rolls his eyes at the mention of the fat, boar-hunting King. "But I need you to promise me something?"

Rikson creases his brows whilst licking his cracked lips, his old habit of nerves, as the curls covering his head gently sway with the cold winds, his father's eyes hold nothing but seriousness as he says,

"A war is coming, Riks.. I don't know when, I don't know who will be fighting in it... but it's coming.... Winter is Coming, Riks.. we must protect ourselves. Promise me you will protect this family?"

"Always, father.. I swear it...
no matter the cost."

The father of the Stark smiles in pride for his son before him.. his son with the strength of a wolf that has been put through hell and came out stronger.. and pats his shoulder, before pulling him into an embrace. An embrace that feels like the last for both of the Starks, therefore, Rikson holds his father tighter than he ever has, breathing in his scent of forest-pine and dry leather, before the Stark father and son release from their embrace. And, with a gut wrenching feeling he would never see his son again, Eddard Stark kisses his boy's head.

"Take care of yourself, Rikson..
and remember what I've taught
you... always remember."

Rikson Stark firmly nods his head of wavy hair, that gently flows with the cold breeze, as the wolf of winter winds fills his ice-born eyes.

"I will protect this family, father...
no matter the cost."

ꕥ 𓅓☽𓅓 ꕥ

The gloomy sky of the South weeps a light squall as a summer's breeze drifts across the Northerners camp, the ambiance of the encampment filled with a silence of somber as the death of their Lord, Eddard Stark, reaches the Northerners ears.

The Lady of House Stark, Catelyn, walks through the aisles of numerous tents, every Northerner bowing their heads in respect to the grieving widow, whom holds herself tall as she walks with her head high, hiding her broken heart from the men. Though, once the widowed Lady of House Stark walks into the forest, laying beside the camp, far away enough from the curious eyes of the men, she leans herself on the first tree she saw, small sobs of grief falling from her lips as tears leak from her eyes.

Mourning the loss of her dear husband for some moments, as a gentle breeze drifts through the leaves of numerous shades signifying the coming winter accented by the dusk sun descending into the land of the Seven Kingdoms below, before the silence of grief is filled with the sound of a sword thrashing against the thick trunk of a tree.

Lady Catelyn, with her tears of mourning faintly staining her cheeks, begins to walk deeper into the silent forest, towards the origin of the sound, and her Tully blue eyes soften in, even more, sadness when they land upon her secondborn son.

Rikson Stark, relentlessly, thrashes the wrath of his Valyrian steel sword against the wooden trunk of one of the tall trees in the forest around them, with salty tears of grief and anger streaming down his cheeks like a waterfall of the deepest, drowning sorrow. Whilst walking towards her son with slow steps hinted with a wariness, that echo with the crunch of heeled boots meeting with fallen leaves, Lady Catelyn notices her despaired son seems to be completely ignorant of the world around him as he doesn't seem to hear her coming towards him, therefore, she speaks,

"Rikson... Rikson.... Rikson!"

Once the worried mother of the despaired Stark shouts his name with desperation, does the secondborn boy come out of his grieving trance. Rikson turns towards his mother with a choked sob falling from his lips, another tear slipping down his cheek and rolling across his cracked lips, the boy tasting the salt in the droplet of sorrow as he licks his lips with a heavy breath that shakes as he inhales the cold summer's breeze drifting through the woods. The young boy notices his mother's hesitance to approach him with the Valyrian steel sword still held within his trembling hand, therefore, Rikson, numbly, lets his sword fall from his gloved hand, before stumbling towards his mother, whom meets him halfway and brings him into her arms.

Lady Catelyn hushes sweet nothings to her boy, beginning to caress her hand through his soft, wavy brunette locks, as he buries his head on the cloak wrapped across her shoulders, the muffled whimpers falling from his lips squeezing the mother's heart in more sorrow.

The gentle breeze flowing across the floors of the forest sweeps through the direwolves' black & sky gray fur as they remain where they had been for hours now, keeping their sorrowed ruby & citrine eyes upon the grieving Stark boy melting like ice into the warm, comforting embrace of his sweet mother.

".. I-I will kill them all... every one of t-them....
I will kill them all."

The mother gently hushes the boy, soothing away his flaming anger as she softly caresses his hair and begins to rub soothing circles on his back that trembles in both sorrow and anger.

"My beautiful boy.. they still have your
sisters. We have to get the girls back...
and then we will kill them all."

ꕥ 𓅓☽𓅓 ꕥ

Late into the hours belonging to the brightly glowing Wolf's moon, whilst a night's breeze drifts across the Northerners' camp accented by the songs of the creatures of the night, the Northern Lords & Ladies have gathered inside of a ruined stone fort some miles beyond the ancient castle, Riverrun, to discuss the matter of which Baratheon King they will hold themselves towards for support in the war still to remain.

The eldest of the Stark brothers, Robb Stark, is seated on the wooden bench across the table where his younger brother and mother sit opposite him, his darkened Tully blue eyes looking up at the Northern Lord that begins to speak his opinion as he slowly paces before the table the Starks sit at,

"The proper course is clear.. pledge
fealty to King Renly and move south
to join our forces with his."

"Renly is not the King." Robb responds, raising his voice to allow every Northern Lord & Lady inside of the stone-fortress to hear him speak. And the same Lord responds, "You cannot mean to hold to that cunt Joffrey, My Lord.. he put your father to death." It was the secondborn Stark that spoke up from where he sat beside his mother, "That doesn't mean Renly is the true King... He's Robert's youngest brother. If I can't be Lord of Winterfell before Robb, then Renly can't be King before Stannis."

"Do you mean to
suggest we declare
for Stannis?"

Before the secondborn Stark could respond to the Northern Lord of a House he couldn't remember the name of at the moment, another Northern Lord shouts from where he sits in the crowd of Lords & Ladies, "Renly is not right!" Before another shouts, "If we put ourselves behind Stannis-.."

"My Lords!.. My Lords!"

The voice of Lord Greatjon Umber raises itself above the chatter of the Northerners whom had begun to argue amongst one another, though, silence themselves as Lord Umber continues on as he stands from the bench he'd been sat upon, "Here is what I say to these two kings," The arrogant Northern Lord proceeds to spit on the dirt, resulting in light laughter from the Lords & Ladies around him and a smirk from the eldest of the Stark brothers, "Renly Baratheon means nothing to me, nor Stannis neither.. Why should they rule over me and mine from some flowery seat in the South?.. What do they know of the Wall, or the Wolfswood? Even their Gods are wrong!" The Northerners, once more, burst into a light fit of laughter at the arrogant, and respected, Lord, "Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we bowed to, and now the dragons are dead!"

Lord Greatjon of House Umber unsheathes his sword and points it towards the eldest of the Stark brothers sitting behind him, "There sits the only King I mean to bend my knee to.." Turning towards the Stark behind him, Lord Umber falls to his knee, "The King in the North!"

Robb Stark lowly inhales a breath as a look of shock holds itself on his handsome features, before the young Wolf awakens inside of him as the true strength of a Stark fades onto his features as he stands from the bench he sat upon, holding himself tall and proud.

Lord Rickard of House Karstark stands from where he sits in the crowd of Northern Lords & Ladies, "I'll have peace on those terms.. They can keep their red castle, and their iron chair too." Lord Karstark unsheathes his sword, and kneels before the Stark, "The King in the North!"

Theon of House Greyjoy stands from his seat, resulting in Robb Stark turning his head towards him as he begins, "Am I your brother, now and always?"

"Now and always." Robb affirms as he firmly nods his head towards the boy whom truly was like a fifth brother to him, and Theon wastes no time in unsheathing his sword and kneeling before his friend.. his brother, "My sword is yours, in victory and defeat from this day until my last day."

"The King in the North!" Lord Umber shouts, and every Northern Lord & Lady unsheathes their swords, the steel glimmering beneath the glow of the moon, before kneeling for their King.. King Robb of House Stark, whom proudly smiles as his eyes drift across every Lord & Lady kneeling to him, promising himself he would earn this title and loyalty gifted to him until his last breath. The brightened Tully blue eyes of the King in the North's, then, land upon his younger brother, Rikson Stark, whom still sits beside their mother, Lady Catelyn, as she softly smiles at her eldest boy in pride with tears in her eyes. Robb Stark looks to his brother, with cuts and bruises accompanied by faint traces of tears along his pale cheeks accented by his darkened eyes resembling the Shivering Sea, and silently asks him to speak.. the eldest needing to know what his brother thought on his new title.

Rikson Stark's young, and handsome, features are unreadable, even to his sweet mother, as he stands from the bench he sits upon and walks to stand directly before his eldest brother. For a moment, Robb Stark is worried his brother might be angered, jealous even, before his doubts melt away when a smirk forms on his brother's lips, before Rikson of House Stark unsheathes his Valyrian steel sword, the steel glowing brighter than the Wolf's moon.. the Stark's moon.. as he says,

"The King in the North!"

Before Rikson Stark kneels before his eldest brother, whom looks upon him with creased brows as tears fill his eyes, both relived his brother harbored nothing against him for this and discomforted to see his own brother kneeling before him, though, the smirk of pride on his brother's lips, as the chants of the Northerners echoes throughout the Whispering Woods and their camp accented by the direwolves' howling for the eldest Stark, reassures Robb of House Stark "The King in the North" as he stands tall with his head held high, like the Wolf he is.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

~ Author's Note ~

This is it, the end of *season 1* for my baby boy, Rikson Stark ( i cri ༎ຶٹ༎ຶ ) imma miss my boi whilst I write the Targaryen Twins *season 1 & 2* .. and I realize that I didn't write much ( or anything really
• ◡• with Rikson and his father, Eddard, so I put some flashbacks in this chapter so u lovely readers can understand how important his father was to him ( my poor baby boi ᗒᗣᗕ .. and we all know this is just the beginning of the sorrow for the Starks )

Anyway, now that I have finished this Part, imma now go back and re-write *season 1* for my Targaryen Twins ( hopefully, won't take too long, we'll see ) and then FINALLY I can get on with *season 2* with the BABY DRAGONS!!!

And, THANK U lovely readers for staying on this ( very long ) journey thus far and know that this
isn't even the beginning for my Stark boi and
Targaryen Twins with their dragons!!!

And the gif was made by me, btw ◕◡◕