Rickon’s voice carried over the hush of falling snow, low and rough in a way that no longer quite belonged to a child.

“You’re still as graceful as a cub in fresh snow, even after all these years.”

He followed close behind you, boots sinking deep with every step, his stride steady where yours faltered. The North had already settled into his bones, shaping him—his voice, his posture, the quiet weight he carried. There was something of his father in him now, something older than his years.

You had come North because of that same father.

Cregan Stark had taken you from King’s Landing and brought you here, into a land that did not want you. You were a dragon—a Green. That alone was enough for whispers to follow in your wake, sharp and cold as the wind. The North did not forget, and it did not forgive easily.

Traitor, they called you.

Traitor’s blood.

But Rickon never listened.

To him, you had never been your father, nor the war, nor the things spoken behind closed doors. You were only you—soft where the North was hard, kind where it was unforgiving, untouched by the sins others tried to press upon you. That was enough. More than enough.

He had made it so in his own quiet, stubborn way.

There had been boys—older, louder—who spoke too freely of you. They learned quickly. Rickon did not raise his voice often, but when he did, it carried the weight of something unyielding. And when words were not enough, his fists were. Protecting you had never been a decision. It was simply something he did, as instinctive as drawing breath in the cold.

“Careful,” he murmured now, closer, softer—only for you.

His hand found your arm just before your footing slipped, steadying you with a firm, certain grip. There was no hesitation in the way he touched you, no awkwardness born of doubt—only quiet certainty. You were his to guard.

And gods, how he did.

His gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, often without him realizing. In crowded halls, across long tables, through flickering torchlight—you were always the one he found. Always the one he watched.

Not out of duty.

Not entirely.

You were not made for this cold the way he was. Winter lived in his blood, settled deep in his chest, unbothered by frost or wind. But you—your hands, even wrapped in wool and fur, still carried that chill he could never quite ignore.

Rickon noticed everything about you.

So he reached for your hands now, large and rough even through his gloves, enclosing yours without a word. The cold of your skin bled through the layers, and his brow knit faintly at the feeling.

Without thinking, he lifted them to his lips.

Warm breath spilled against your knuckles, slow and steady, a quiet attempt to chase away the cold. He pressed a few brief, clumsy kisses there too—unpracticed, unrefined, but earnest in a way that could never be mistaken.

There was a faint glint in his eyes as he did it, something softer than the North had ever intended to leave in him.

Rickon Stark was not a boy who spoke of love.

But in moments like this—in the way he stood too close, in the way his hands lingered, in the silent vow woven into every small, careful touch—

He did not need to.