feralkingrickon:

_{it had been many long years since he laid eyes on the stone castle of winterfell. it would be longer still since it was rebuilt to its glory. it now remained a husk of its former self, a sad shell of what the Stark legacy had once been. rickon could only imagine his father’s disappointment. how had they fallen so far?}

_{he thought then to his older brother, robb. he and their mother had no proper burial. their bodies dumped in the rivers. his younger siblings had been scattered across westeros, never to be heard from again. he’d left bran to freeze beyond the wall, sansa rotted away in a cell in king’s landing when joffrey had finished and arya vanished like smoke. had jon fulfilled his duties in the night’s watch? died with honor in his veins?}

_{how sad as he stood on the path to his once beloved home that all he could think of were corpses. rickon would not remember this place for the warmth that it brought him but instead all that had been taken.}

_{hiking a bag farther up onto his back he limped toward the heavy iron gates. shaggy walked at his back, nudging him with his mighty muzzle. the small crowd almost immediately knew him from the large beast though many could not believe it; a quiet hush fell over the crowd in the square. but rickon merely walked on, injured and tired. he would deal with idle gossip later. for now this was his rightful home.}

_{it wasn’t until he pushed open the doors of the great hall and stared down at the occupied head of the table did he know just why his return was so shocking.}

_{“…sansa.”}

:: 〖 ❣ 〗――— ::

                      They tell her she’s the last remaining
                Stark. They tell her Winterfell is hers. She
                can’t hear them when sorrow crowds in
                around her, spilling hot tears down pink
                cheeks. She always wanted to be a lady
                of a keep but not like this, never like this.

                There must always be a Stark in Winterfell
                and Sansa trades brown for red, Stone to
                Stark and spine for steel. She is the North.

                       They know her as the lady who kneels
                but stubbornness gives way to real needs
                because winter is coming and the North is
                not ready to fight a second war. There was
                resentment at first but when Sansa proved
                herself in rebuilding Winterfell and ensuring
                the survival through the harshest winter, the
                North accepts her. She is their lady.

                        And their lady she becomes. Through 
                long years and continuous work, Lady Stark
                strives to return the North to its former glory.
                It’s council meetings at dawn and court all
                the way till evening bell toils but she does not
                falter. Not until this stranger speaks her name.

                       Maybe it’s the way he says it, or maybe
                she just knows, recognizes his eyes and hair.
                Sansa can’t help but think he might’ve been
                Robb if Robb had lived. She presses her lips
                into a thin line. Stands up shakily to step down
                towards him. Her eyes seem to glitter, ripple 
                of water in the blues of her iris. Sansa exhales.

                        “Rickon? Is it truly—- What is your name,
               ser. Please, state your name.”