A/N - So, yeah here's an update. I'm still working on Chapter 8, so don't get you're hopes up for a quick update after this, cause I'm back at work now and busier than ever so... yeah. A couple things though: To the Anon entitled Ramsey's Son, I just want to point out that in the description it clearly says that this is a mixture of book canon, head canon and tv canon. I haven't read all the books, and like I said in the previous author's note, I genuinely can't think up a way to include Dany and do her justice at the same time. I'm just not smart enough, so I'm playing to my strengths here. If that bothers you, or if you deem that an unfair approach to these characters, then I'm afraid you're just going to have to live with, cause I can't say I'm sorry for something I don't really deem an offence. This story is entirely meant to revolve around the Starks and how I see them in an slightly AU setting and how they rise to power. If I have omitted something, it will either be because I have to for the sake of the characters as it is (Dany and her arc and Arya's development), or it's because I don't know about it (pretty much everything you've asked about in your review; side note, I'd appreciate it if you logged in or sent me a PM so I can answer you privately and not in an absurdly long AN) or it's because it's necessary for the story to continue the way I see it (sacrifices must be made, ie Tyrion being the Hand of the King, Tywin's murder notwithstanding). Please note, there are certain characters that won't be getting POV chapters who did in the books: Samwell, Theon (obvs), Dany, Davos, Tyrion, etc etc. The ONLY POV characters are Sansa, Rickon, Bran, Tommen, Saran and two others who I won't reveal yet because I want to surprise you guys.

So sorry about that ridiculously long note, hope it doesn't put you off. Here, have some violence!

"What is it y'call a flock of crows?" Osha kicked at the scarlet snow, then waved her torch from side to side so as to cast the light as far as possible over the clearing. Rickon drew his sword as he counted the bodies. There were seven in total, all dressed in black fur and thick wool, with aged swords and broken axes: there could be no doubt that the dead men were Watchmen. Three were missing heads; two were bloodless by the looks of their sagging skin and hollow eye sockets; one was nothing more than a frozen torso; and the last one Rickon couldn't rightly say, it being too far away, half hanging over the opposite banking. There was a dark gouge in the snow from where the man had obviously tried to crawl away. From what, Rickon wondered.

"A murder," he replied, speaking more to himself than Osha. Warily, he started to walk the tree line, his own torch and sword pointed out in front of him. Whatever he had felt in the air when they left the Frostfangs had tripled its presence in the wild wood, so much so that Rickon swore he could almost taste it. On the tip of his tongue it sat, not heavy enough for him to tell what it was, but enough for him to guess. It was like a nervous tension, amounting to something close to fear, and it was unwelcomingly bitter.

What little natural light they'd had faded and gave way wholly to the darkness, but there seemed an edge to it. It was something sinister that whipped at his clothes and threatened his flames. It was a whisper was on the wind, carried by the trees that surrounded them, by the spontaneous snow flurries that spun around them, by their own steaming breath. Rickon loved it not, as did, he suspected the rest of the wildlings, Osha most of all. She was still fidgeting on the banking. Rickon was halfway around the clearing now, almost to the man he hadn't been able to see before.

He felt like someone was watching him; though to be fair, he'd felt like that all day.

Robb had snuck him into the kitchens once, back before Rickon could even sit a horse without his father behind him. They had crept in through the back where Gage, the old cook, had kept all the sweets meant for after dinner, and Robb had stuffed as many as he could fit into his and Rickon's pockets while Rickon played lookout. The whole time, Rickon felt like even the bricks and the paintings were watching, frowning and ready to run off and tell their mother. He felt like that, but there was no excitement in it and now there were much worse things to fear.

Off in the distance, a wolf howled. It was loud though, too loud in the tight clearing, and Rickon shivered. Let it be Shaggy. Let it be Shaggy.

Rickon saw movement out the corner of his eye, and for half a second he thought it was Osha. It was not.

He meant to yell, to call out in warning, but the words died in his throat as something big and beastly tackled him to the ground. Snow filled his ears and nose as he landed face down; his sword went flying, clattering into a tree and landing with a wet thump in the snow. And the thing that had flung itself at him sunk its huge, heavy jaws around his shoulder and tugged.

Rickon had experienced pain before. He was no stranger to a burning poker, used to cauterize a wound and seal it off once the Maester had done all he could. He had felt the sting of the cold, having lost a toe or three to frostbite when winter first fell upon them. He could recall in perfect detail the way a well-placed lance could shred through skin and bone like a knife through a girls doll. But as the beast ripped the flesh from his body, he screamed so loudly that he felt something in his throat pop. The pain was fierce. Blood welled in his mouth, and he spat it out as best he could, most of it spattering on his chin and neck, dribbling down the side of his face. The beast snarled, its head whipping from side to side as it chewed on the sizeable hunk of Rickon between its teeth. Rickon struggled to keep his eyes open, everything in his body fighting for sleep. In a mammoth effort worthy of knighthood, he forced his eyes open wide and stared at the beast that mauled him.

It was a wolf, half the size of Shaggydog, who was matched with garron horses, but large for its species. It was a vicious, mean looking thing with one blind eye and a missing ear. It was completely black. In the dark, all Rickon could see were two bright pinpricks, one white and one ice blue. Ice. My father's sword. The King's Justice. Valyrian steel. Fear cuts deeper than swords, Arya had said in a letter to him once. She isn't wrong.

In his panicked state, Rickon had forgot about Osha, so when she skewered the wolf into the ground with Rickon's own sword, he jumped, trying his hardest to crawl away and back into the clearing. As he did, he left his own red gorge in the snow.

Osha twisted the blade again, then pulled it free with a sickly squelch. She cast a disgusted, sorry look at what was left of Rickon's shoulder, and came over to him, discarding his sword in the snow.

"You all right?" she asked. Despite his current state and the fact that she had practically raised him, he couldn't help but want to kiss her. He didn't, but he still wanted to.

Instead, he shot her a withering glance and said, "Peachy." She frowned.

"No need to be rude. Y'think y'can walk?" Gently, she tucked her hands under his arms and helped him onto his feet. He nodded tightly, grimacing at the pain. He felt faint; I've lost too much blood. Osha let him lean against a dying ironwood as she scooped up his sword and tucked it into her waistband. Coming over to him again, she tucked herself under his good arm and tugged, taking his weight as they shuffled out of the clearing, leaving the dead wolf and watching whispers behind them.

It was an hour before they made it back to their camp, but by that time Rickon was so delirious, he wouldn't have known it. Osha set him down as Grumm pulled him onto one of the fallen weirwoods they'd been using as a bed. His blood dripped into the eye sockets, looking like ugly, red tears. For a moment there was nothing but stunned silence. Rickon was a staple in their lives, had fought for them for so long and had helped them so much, it was strange to think they might have to bid him goodbye. But then it passed, and everyone set about gathering what was needed. Half awake and half-mad with pain, Rickon tried to follow the conversations they had above him.

"The Wall," someone was saying. "Let's get him to the wall. They'll have someone, a maester, or a healer - they'll have someone who can help." Whoever it was sounded desperate and angry. Rickon's head felt thick, his heart felt heavy and his blood was black in his body. There was oil under his skin, nasty, viscous oil that pooled in his lungs and filled up his mouth. It leaked from him, infecting the very air with its sickness.

"We can't," said someone else. "The Wall is still three days away, he'll never make it in time." This person said something else, but Rickon was too far away to hear it. He was sinking, sinking, sinking, into blackness where he heard nothing and no one.

There was no wind here; there were no walls and no woods; there were no men and no beasts. Only blackness. And Rickon.