The voyage to Skagos proved surprisingly smooth. Rickon stood at the prow of the lead galley, watching the island's jagged silhouette grow larger against the horizon. The ship's captain, a grizzled Manderly man named Ben, kept checking the bronze compass in his weathered hands with something approaching reverence.
"Still can't believe this little trinket works so well," Torrhen muttered, tapping the device with a calloused finger. "Cut our journey in half, it has."
Rickon nodded, pride warming his chest despite the biting sea wind. The compass had been one of his simpler innovations he had introduced, but perhaps the most immediately useful. The fleet had maintained perfect formation throughout the voyage, no ships lost to unexpected currents or nighttime navigation errors.
"Land ho!" came the cry from above. "Prepare to make landfall!"
Cregan Stark appeared at Rickon's side, his face grim as he surveyed the approaching shoreline. "Strange," he murmured, narrowing his eyes. "No defensive positions. No watchers on the cliffs."
Rickon followed his father's gaze. The southern coast of Skagos rose before them, wild and forbidding, sheer cliffs giving way to dense forests inland, mountains looming beyond like the spine of some great beast. But of human presence, there was nothing.
"Could they have retreated inland?" Rickon suggested, scanning the tree line for any sign of movement.
"Possibly," his father replied, though his tone suggested he found the absence troubling. "Or it's a trap."
The ships glided into the natural harbor one by one, oars dipping in perfect unison as they maneuvered into position. Garrick's vessel pulled alongside theirs, the young Umber's booming voice carrying easily over the water.
"Where's our welcoming party?" he called, grinning broadly. "I was promised cannibals!"
Rickon couldn't help but smile despite the tension. Leave it to Garrick to joke in the face of potential danger.
The landing proceeded with military precision. Plank bridges extended to the rocky shore, and the northern army began disembarking in formations practiced during the voyage. Horses were led carefully from the larger transport vessels, snorting and stamping nervously after a week confined below decks.
When Rickon's boots finally touched Skagosi soil, the world lurched sideways. He staggered, his legs betraying him after so long at sea. The ground felt unnervingly solid after a week of constant motion, yet somehow his body swayed as if still riding the waves.
"Seven hells," he muttered, grabbing a nearby rock for support. "Is the island moving?"
Garrick stumbled past him, looking equally disoriented. "My legs have forgotten how to leg," he complained, nearly toppling over before catching himself. "Gods, I feel like I've drunk a barrel of ale."
Canis leapt gracefully from the ship, seemingly unaffected by the transition from sea to land. The direwolf's crimson gaze swept across the beach, ears pricked forward, nostrils flaring as he took in the unfamiliar scents.
Rickon's father strode past, somehow maintaining his dignity despite the subtle adjusting of his stance. "Form ranks!" he called out. "Scouts forward! Secure the perimeter!"
As the northern army organized itself on the beach, Rickon's sea legs gradually stabilized. He gazed upward at the massive cliff face looming above them, then at the dense forest stretching inland. Somewhere on this island was the rebellion they'd come to crush, and potentially, if his dreams held truth, something far more ancient and dangerous.
A flash of movement caught his eye, a white shape circling high above. Zenith had already taken flight from one of the supply ships.
Rickon whistled sharply, extending his arm. Zenith descended in a graceful spiral before landing on his outstretched wrist, talons gripping firmly but carefully through the leather of his vambrace.
"Scout ahead," he instructed quietly, stroking the enormous bird's glossy feathers. "Look for settlements, armed men, anything unusual."
With a screech, the bird launched himself skyward, powerful wings carrying him toward the forest. Zenith would nudge him through their bond if he needed Rickon to warg through him.
Turning to Canis, Rickon knelt beside the massive direwolf. "You too," he murmured, burying his fingers in the thick black fur. "Check the surrounding area. Stay out of sight if possible."
Canis's crimson eyes met his, understanding passing between them without words. The direwolf's mind brushed against his own, eager, alert, ready for the hunt. With a soft whuff of acknowledgment, Canis melted into the shadows beneath the trees, his black coat rendering him nearly invisible within moments.
Rickon rose, watching the tree line where Canis had disappeared. Through their bond, he could sense the direwolf moving swiftly through the underbrush, alert to every sound and scent. The forest was alive with small game, rabbits, squirrels, birds, but of human presence, there was nothing.
"Strange," he muttered to himself, unease prickling along his spine.
"Something wrong?" his father asked, materializing at his side with the silent grace that still sometimes startled Rickon.
"There's no one here," Rickon replied, gesturing toward the silent forest. "No scouts watching our landing, no defensive positions, not even tracks along the beach."
Cregan frowned, his hand resting instinctively on the pommel of his sword. "The Skagosi may be savages, but they're not fools. They should have at least posted sentries."
A sudden sharp sensation flashed through Rickon's mind, Canis, sending an urgent message through their bond. The direwolf had ranged nearly a mile inland, following what appeared to be a game trail. But something felt wrong. The ground beneath the direwolf's paws vibrated with a strange energy, a pulsing rhythm that seemed to emanate from deep within the earth itself.
Rickon gasped, the foreign sensation momentarily overwhelming him. It felt ancient, patient, and somehow... aware. As if the island itself were sentient, watching their arrival through countless eyes.
"Rickon?" His father's voice seemed to come from far away. "What is it?"
Blinking hard, Rickon forced himself back to the present moment. "Canis," he managed, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. "He's found something. Or rather, felt something."
Cregan's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
"The land," Rickon said slowly, trying to translate the impressions flowing through his bond with Canis. "There's something wrong with it. Something beneath us."
His father's expression darkened. "We make camp here," he decided, turning to issue orders to his captains. "Double the guard tonight. No one ventures into the forest alone."
As the northern army began establishing their beachhead, Rickon remained at the forest's edge, staring into the shadows. Through Canis's senses, he could feel the strange energy growing stronger the further inland the direwolf ventured. It reminded him of presence from his dream. slumbering beneath stone and soil, ancient beyond measure.
Rickon closed his eyes, his consciousness reaching out toward Zenith. The world around him dissolved, his awareness stretching thin like thread being pulled through the eye of a needle. Then came the familiar wrenching sensation as his mind slipped free of his body.
Suddenly, he was soaring.
The transition hit him with a disorienting rush, his human senses replaced by the eagle's in a dizzying flood. His vision sharpened to impossible clarity, the world below rendered in colors he had no human words to describe. The air currents became tangible things, invisible roads he could read and navigate through the pressure against Zenith's feathers.
Rickon flexed Zenith's wings, feeling the powerful muscles respond as his own. The sensation was intoxicating, weightlessness coupled with absolute power. Each minor adjustment of his pinions sent him banking through the sky with effortless precision. He could feel Zenith's heart beating rapidly in the hollow-boned chest, pumping blood through a body designed for the heavens.
Rickon banked Zenith's body through a thermal draft, letting the warm air carry him higher over the island's interior. Zenith's eyes pierced through distances that would have been impossible for human vision, rendering the landscape below in crystalline detail with colors that extended beyond what Rickon could normally perceive.
He scanned the dense forest canopy that stretched for miles in every direction, searching for any sign of human settlements. Nothing. No smoke from cooking fires, no clearings where villages might stand, no paths wide enough for regular travel. Only wilderness, primal and untouched.
The occasional movement caught his attention: a herd of elk moving through a clearing, something large and shaggy that could be a bear or perhaps one of the famed Skagosi unicorns, though from this height he couldn't be certain. But of people, there was no trace.
Rickon turned Zenith's head, focusing the eagle's razor-sharp vision toward the island's center where a massive mountain dominated the landscape. Not just any mountain, but a volcano, its peak flattened and cratered. It appeared dormant, no smoke or lava visible, yet something about it drew his attention. The forest grew more sparse near its base, giving way to fields of black rock, ancient lava flows, perhaps.
The sky was darkening rapidly, shadows lengthening across the land as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Zenith's night vision was better than a human's, but not perfect. Soon, continuing the search would become dangerous.
Through their bond, Rickon felt Zenith's hunger and fatigue. The eagle had been flying since before their landing, and his powerful muscles were beginning to tire. Still, there was something unsettling about the volcano that kept Rickon's attention fixed upon it.
As darkness crept across the island, Rickon thought he glimpsed something near the volcano's base - a flicker of light, perhaps, or movement too coordinated to be natural. But before he could direct Zenith closer for a better look, the eagle's instincts surged against his control. A powerful gust of wind had caught them, pushing them dangerously toward a cliff face. Zenith's survival instincts took precedence, wings adjusting automatically to regain stability.
Rickon reluctantly surrendered to the bird's superior knowledge of flight. Night hunting wasn't worth the risk of injury. With a final glance toward the mysterious volcano, he turned Zenith back toward the beach camp.
The warging connection stretched thin as fatigue set in. Maintaining the bond required concentration, and the longer he stayed within Zenith's mind, the more difficult it became to remember his human self. Already he could feel the eagle's instincts bleeding into his consciousness—the hunger for prey, the territorial awareness, the constant vigilance for larger predatory birds.
Zenith's keen eyes spotted the encampment below—tiny figures moving about like ants, the fires mere pinpricks of light against the darkening beach. From this height, the northern army looked insignificant against the vastness of the island.
Rickon began the delicate process of withdrawal, carefully untangling his consciousness from Zenith's. Too abrupt a separation could disorient both of them, potentially causing the eagle to plummet from the sky. Gradually, he felt himself becoming more anchored in his human body, the weight of his limbs, the coolness of the evening air against his skin, the sound of waves crashing nearby.
With a final gentle push, he released his hold on Zenith's mind, trusting the eagle to return to camp on his own. The separation hit him like a physical blow, his senses dulling painfully as he snapped fully back into his human form.
Rickon gasped, nearly falling backward as his awareness crashed entirely into his body. His limbs felt impossibly heavy, his vision frustratingly limited. The transition back to human perception always left him feeling confined, as though his skin had suddenly
Canis sent a pulse of strength through the bond, stabilising Rickon.
The sun had began its descent toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the beach. The northern army's camp took shape with military efficiency, tents erected in concentric circles, defensive positions established, sentries posted.
Rickon frowned, reaching up and stroke Zenith's crest.
Something was wrong with this island. The abandoned shore, the missing Skagosi, the warning he had received in his dreams.
A war council was called as night fell. The commanders gathered in his father's tent, faces grim in the lamplight as scouts reported their findings.
"Nothing, my lord," the lead scout told Cregan, his expression perplexed. "No settlements within five miles of shore. No tracks, no signs of recent habitation."
"That's impossible," Lord Bolton said. "The Skagosi rebellion mustered at least three thousand men according to our intelligence."
Rickon listened, the strange vibration he'd felt earlier growing stronger as darkness descended. He caught his father's eye after the meeting.
"Get some rest," Cregan told the assembled lords as the meeting concluded. "Double the guard tonight. Something feels wrong."
In his tent, Rickon lay on his camp bed, Canis a warm presence at his side. Sleep claimed him quickly despite his unease, dragging him down into darkness.
He dreamed.
The sensation of flight filled him, wind rushing past as he soared high above the Skagosi landscape. Below, moonlight illuminated a sight that made his heart hammer against his ribs. In a vast clearing stood thousands of figures, arranged in perfect rows They didn't move, didn't shift or fidget as normal crowds would. They stood as still as the ancient standing stones that dotted the island, faces turned upward toward the moon.
Canis flew beside him somehow, the massive direwolf's form as dark as the night sky. Together they circled lower, drawn by an inexorable pull toward the center of the gathering.
There, upon a massive stone altar carved with symbols that hurt Rickon's eyes to look at directly, stood twelve figures in undyed wool robes. Their hands were raised toward the moon, voices chanting in a language Rickon recognized as the Old Tongue, though the words themselves remained beyond his comprehension.
The chant pulsed with power, each syllable sending visible ripples through the air like stones dropped in still water. The ground beneath the gathering trembled in response, the vibration Rickon had felt earlier now strong enough to shake loose stones from the mountainsides.
As if sensing his presence, one of the robed figures turned its face upward. The hood fell back, revealing a face weathered like ancient leather, eyes sunken deep in their sockets. But where eyes should have been, there were only voids of absolute blackness, twin portals into nothingness.
The figure's mouth opened impossibly wide, jaw distending like a snake's about to swallow its prey. From that gaping maw emerged a voice like stone grinding against stone, a sound that should never have come from a human throat.
"Greenseer."
The word struck Rickon like a physical blow, sending him tumbling through the air. Canis howled beside him, the sound echoing across the dreamscape as they plummeted downward, downward—
Rickon jack-knifed upright on his camp bed, gasping for breath. His nightshirt clung to his skin, soaked with sweat despite the night's chill. His heart pounded so violently he could feel it in his throat, taste it like copper on his tongue.
Canis stood beside the bed, crimson eyes glowing in the darkness. The direwolf's massive form seemed to absorb what little moonlight filtered through the tent canvas, his outline blurring at the edges as if not quite solid.
"I need to blow off some steam, boy," Rickon whispered, the words emerging unbidden.
Canis's tail swished once in agreement, the direwolf's anticipation flowing through their bond like wine warming his blood. Rickon reached out, burying his fingers in the thick black fur at Canis's neck, feeling the connection between them strengthen with the physical contact.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the shadow magic that had become as familiar as his own heartbeat. It flowed through him, through Canis, between them. Darkness gathered around them, a substance they could shape and control.
The shadows thickened, enveloping them completely. For a breathless moment, Rickon felt himself dissolving, his physical form becoming one with the darkness. Then, with a sensation like stepping through a curtain of cold water, they emerged into the forest miles from camp.
The night air hit Rickon's lungs, crisp and clean compared to the stuffiness of his tent. Here, away from the torches and campfires, the darkness was nearly complete. Moonlight filtered through the canopy in scattered silver patches, illuminating the forest floor in a patchwork of light and shadow.
Canis shook himself, shadows clinging to his fur like cobwebs before dissipating. The direwolf's excitement flooded their bond - freedom, hunt, run.
"Just for a while," Rickon agreed, the lingering terror of his dream already fading in the face of the night's vastness. "We should be back before dawn."
He took a moment to orient himself. Through their shadow-walking, they'd traveled to the base of one of Skagos's smaller mountains, far from the beach where the northern army camped. The forest here was old, trees gnarled and massive, their roots twisting across the ground like petrified serpents.
Canis growled softly, drawing Rickon's attention to a game trail winding deeper into the forest. The direwolf's muscles bunched beneath his fur, eager to run, to hunt, to feel alive after days confined on ships and in camp.
"Lead on," Rickon whispered, falling into an easy jog behind his companion.
They moved through the forest like shadows themselves, Rickon's footfalls unnaturally silent, his movements graceful beyond human capability. Through his bond with Canis, sharing the direwolf's magic, he had become something more than merely human, faster, stronger, keener of sense.
The scents of the forest filled his nostrils, rich and complex, decaying leaves, damp earth, the musk of animals.
They crested a small rise, and Rickon froze, Canis going still beside him. Before them lay a clearing bathed in moonlight, and at its center stood a weirwood tree unlike any Rickon had ever seen. It was near twice the size of the Weirwood Tree in the Winterfell Godswood.
Its trunk was massive, easily thirty feet in diameter, the size of some of the Redwoods he had seen on Earth, its bark bone-white in the moonlight. This tree's face had been carved with unnaturally detail. It's eyes, nose, and mouth looked as ifthe tree had been born with these features rather than receiving them later.
Red sap oozed from the corners of those eyes like fresh blood, dripping down the pale bark in crimson rivulets.
Canis growled low in his throat, hackles rising as they neared the ancient tree. Through their bond, Rickon sensed the direwolf's unease, not fear, for Canis feared little in this world, but a wary respect for power that threatened their own.
"What are you?" Rickon whispered to the weirwood, reaching out a tentative hand toward its bark.
His fingers had barely brushed the smooth white surface when the world exploded into visions.
Rickon gasped as the visions crashed over him in waves. The forest vanished, replaced by a kaleidoscope of images.
He stood upon a vast plain of ice, watching as enormous creatures with too many limbs carved mountains into shapes that bent the mind. The sky above burned green and purple, stars wheeling in patterns he'd never seen before.
The scene shifted. A man with a wolf's head and a sword of living shadow stood before an altar of black stone, blood dripping from his hands as he worked magic older than words. Around him, children with moss-green skin and amber eyes sang in voices that made the earth tremble.
Another shift. The same plain, now verdant with life. Forests stretched as far as the eye could see, and in their midst, a single massive weirwood tree whose branches touched the clouds. At its base, thousands knelt in supplication, their foreheads pressed to the earth.
The visions came faster now, one bleeding into another. A wall of ice rising from the earth. A great beast stirring beneath stone mountains. Wars, famines, long winters, brief summers. Blood and sacrifice. Magic fading from the world like morning mist before the sun.
And through it all, a presence watching, waiting, remembering.
"Greenseer," whispered a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. "You have come to us."
Rickon tried to speak, but found he had no mouth, no body in this place of visions. He was consciousness without form, adrift in a sea of memories not his own.
"Who are you?" he thought, directing his question toward the presence he could feel observing him.
"I am the heart of Skagos," the voice replied, ancient and patient as the stone itself. "I am the memory of what was and what will be. I am the guardian of the old ways, the keeper of ancient pacts."
Images flashed again, the Children of the Forest dancing beneath a blood-red moon, their songs shaping the very earth beneath their feet. The First Men arriving on shores of black sand, their bronze weapons gleaming in strange light. A pact sealed with blood and magic, binding something vast and terrible beneath the island.
"The Stonefather stirs," the voice continued, a note of urgency entering its timeless cadence. "The seal weakens. The old blood calls to it, and it answers."
Rickon felt a chill that had nothing to do with physical cold. "The Skagosi rebellion?"
"A sacrifice," the voice confirmed. "The stone priests believe they can control what they awaken, use its power to conquer the mainland. They cannot. None can."
"What is the Stonefather?" Rickon asked, though part of him dreaded the answer.
The vision shifted once more, and Rickon found himself staring into an abyss so deep it seemed to have no bottom. Within that darkness, something moved, vast beyond comprehension, ancient beyond reckoning. He caught glimpses of limbs like mountain ranges, eyes like frozen lakes, a maw that could swallow cities whole.
"Before the Dawn Age, before the Long Night, before men or Children walked these lands, they ruled," the voice explained. "Titans of stone and ice and fire. The world was theirs, until the coming of Those Who Sing the Songs of Earth."
The Children of the Forest appeared again in Rickon's vision, thousands strong, tall, beautiful, their magic at its apex. They stood in circles around the thing in the abyss, their voices raised in a song that bent reality itself. Slowly, painfully, the titan was driven down, down into the earth, sealed beneath stone and sea and spell.
"But such power cannot be destroyed," the voice whispered. "Only contained. And now the containment fails."
Panic gripped Rickon. "How do I stop it? How do we fight something like that?"
"You cannot fight it," the voice replied simply. "Not with steel or fire or armies. The old magics are needed. Blood magic. Sacrifice. The power of earth and tree and stone, wielded by those who understand its cost."
Canis stepped next to him, a companion even in this dream crimson eyes gleaming in the darkness.
"Anomoly" the voice whispered in Rickon's mind. "From where have you come, Wolf of Darkness. How is it you have bonded with child of this plane."
Canis howled in response. "Power surged through Rickon's, dark and ancient, filling him with a strength beyond mortal men."
"Perhaps," the voice continued, seeming to come from the shadows themselves. "Perhaps you shall have the power. But know this, Stark. It is Stark blood which must face this threat."
Rickon staggered as the voice faded, leaving behind an echo of its ancient presence.
"What was that?" he whispered, though he suspected Canis knew no more than he did.
The direwolf huffed softly, nudging Rickon's hand with his massive muzzle. Through their bond came impressions rather than words, urgency, purpose, a sense that something momentous approached.
"We need to go back," he whispered to Canis, his voice hoarse. "Father needs to know what we've learned."
The direwolf's crimson eyes met his, understanding passing between them without words. This was bigger than a simple rebellion, bigger than the North itself, and more importantly, bigger than them keeping their power a secret. This was an awakening of something primordial, something that could destroy everything they knew.
Rickon placed his hand on Canis's neck, feeling the coarse black fur beneath his fingers. The shadows gathered around them once more, darkness solidifying like cloth being woven by invisible hands. The familiar sensation of cold water washing over him, and then they were stepping out of the darkness near the edge of the northern camp.
Dawn was still hours away, the camp quiet save for the movement of sentries and the occasional whinny of horses. Rickon moved silently between the tents, Canis a dark shadow at his side. The guards nodded respectfully as he passed, though their eyes lingered on the direwolf with poorly concealed unease.
His father's tent stood at the center of the encampment, larger than the others and marked with the direwolf banner of House Stark. A single guard stood at attention outside, hand moving instinctively to his sword hilt at their approach.
"I need to speak with my father," Rickon said, his voice low but firm. "It's urgent."
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