The shadow-walk deposited them at the edge of the Stark encampment. Rickon stumbled slightly as they emerged, the familiar disorientation washing over him. He steadied himself against Canis's solid form, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness after the void.
"Something's wrong," he muttered.
A commotion rose from the center of camp, shouting, the clash of metal, men's voices raised in alarm. Through their bond, Canis sent him a pulse of recognition: Alyn's scent.
"Seven hells," Rickon cursed, breaking into a run.
They rounded a row of tents to find a circle of Northern soldiers, spears pointed inward, surrounding Alyn, Mara, and little Lyra. The boy stood protectively in front of his mother and sister, Rickon's silver direwolf pendant clutched in his white-knuckled fist. The chain dangled from his fingers, catching the morning light.
"Where'd you steal it, boy?" A burly Umber man jabbed his spear forward. "That there's a Stark heirloom!"
"I told you," Alyn's voice cracked with fear but held steady, "Lord Rickon gave it to me! He sent us here!"
"Aye, and I'm the bloody King Beyond the Wall," another soldier sneered. "No Stark would hand over his chain to Skagosi filth."
Mara pulled Lyra closer, her weathered face pale but defiant. "My son speaks true. The young lord with the direwolf—"
"Silence, witch!" A Karstark man stepped forward, his hand on his sword hilt. "We know your kind. Stone worshippers with your blood magic."
Rickon's fury rose like a tide. These were his father's men, sworn to House Stark, yet here they stood threatening a child who carried his token.
Canis sensed his rage and acted. The massive direwolf lunged forward with a snarl that seemed to shake the very air. Men scattered like leaves in a gale, shields and spears forgotten in their haste to escape the black beast's path. Several dropped to their knees, making warding signs or muttering prayers.
Rickon strode into the cleared space, silver-gray eyes hard as winter frost. "Stand down!" His voice cut through the chaos, carrying the unmistakable authority of House Stark.
The soldiers froze, recognition dawning on their faces.
"M'lord," the Umber man stammered, his earlier bravado evaporating. "We found these Skagosi trying to enter—"
"These people are under my protection," Rickon interrupted coldly. "They carry my token. Or did you think the boy forged a Stark direwolf pendant himself?"
The men exchanged uncomfortable glances, shame creeping into their expressions.
Rickon turned to Alyn, his tone softening. "Are you hurt?"
The boy shook his head, relief washing over his face. "No, m'lord."
"Good." Rickon extended his hand. "Come with me, all of you. My father needs to hear what you've told me."
Alyn returned the pendant with shaking hands. Rickon slipped the chain over his head, feeling the familiar weight settle against his chest. With Canis padding beside them, they cut through the camp, soldiers and servants alike scrambling to clear their path.
Mara walked close behind Rickon, her daughter clutched to her side. "Thank you, m'lord," she whispered. "I feared they might kill us before you returned."
"No harm will come to you in a Stark camp," Rickon assured her, though his jaw tightened at how close it had come to being a lie. He'd have words with his father about the conduct of their men later.
Lord Cregan's command tent stood at the center of the encampment, Northern lords and captains streaming in and out with urgent purpose. Two guards flanked the entrance, their expressions grim beneath their helms.
"Lord Rickon," one acknowledged with a nod, eyeing the Skagosi family with suspicion but making no comment.
Rickon pushed through the tent flap without ceremony, Canis at his heels. Inside, his father stood bent over a large map table, surrounded by the lords of the North. Their voices fell silent as Rickon entered with his unusual companions.
Cregan Stark straightened, his weathered face revealing a flash of relief before settling back into its customary stern lines. "Rickon. The boy said you'd gone scouting ahead."
"I have, Father." Rickon stepped forward, gesturing for Alyn and his family to follow. "And what I found confirms everything they told me."
His father's eyes narrowed, taking in the Skagosi woman and her children. "Speak plainly."
"We face an army of stone men," Rickon stated, his voice carrying to every corner of the tent. "Thousands strong, marching toward our position. They'll be here in two days at most."
A ripple of disbelief ran through the assembled lords.
"Stone men?" Lord Karstark scoffed. "Like the one we burned this morning? A few dozen savages with stone paint, more like."
"Not paint, m'lord," Mara spoke up, her voice soft yet carrying a quiet dignity that commanded attention. "True transformation. Flesh to stone through the corruption of ancient magic."
"And who might you be, woman?" Lord Bolton asked, his pale eyes studying her with cold interest.
"I am Mara of the Stone Circle," she answered, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Once a priestess of the Old Gods on this isle, until Kargan Stone-Tongue perverted our ways."
Rickon stepped closer to the map table. "Father, I've seen their army with my own eyes. Kargan has created thousands of these... things. They're gathering at the base of the Smoking Mountain for some kind of ritual sacrifice."
"And they mean us to be that sacrifice," Cregan concluded, his expression darkening.
"Yes." Rickon traced a path on the map with his finger. "They'll come from the west, through this valley. I fought them, tested their strength. Normal weapons will struggle against their stone flesh, but—" he exchanged a meaningful look with his father, "—my shadow blades cut through them."
Lord Glover shifted uncomfortably. "Shadow blades? What sorcery is this, Lord Stark?"
Cregan ignored the question, his eyes never leaving Rickon's face. "You engaged them directly?"
"I had to know their capabilities," Rickon answered. "Canis and I took down nearly twenty before withdrawing. They're strong but slow, except for their leader." He turned to Mara. "Tell them about Kargan."
As Mara described the stone priest and his corrupted healing magic, Rickon studied the faces around him. Skepticism remained on most of their faces.
Lord Karstark's face darkened with skepticism. "Lord Stark we should send out riders to ascertain what you are saying. Before we commit our forces based on the word of Skagosi strangers and—" he hesitated, eyes flicking to Rickon, "—a young boy."
Several lords nodded in agreement, muttering among themselves. Rickon felt a flash of frustration burn through him. Every moment spent in debate was another moment lost in preparation.
"Did you not see the stone man yesterday, my lords?" Rickon stepped forward, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "That was no isolated incident. I have seen thousands more coming our way."
He planted his hands on the map table, leaning forward with an intensity that made several lords step back. "That was not a stroke of luck or chance. There is dark, ancient magic being done on this island."
As he spoke, Rickon deliberately loosened his control, allowing his power to seep into the air around him. It wasn't something he did often - the subtle manipulation of perception that he called Presence. The temperature in the tent seemed to drop. Shadows deepened in the corners, and the torchlight flickered as if disturbed by an unfelt wind.
"And we must do our utmost to survive," he finished, his silver-gray eyes gleaming with unnatural intensity.
The effect was immediate. Lord Umber swallowed hard. Bolton's pale eyes widened slightly. Even Lord Karstark, never easily cowed, shifted his weight uncomfortably.
Beside him, Canis let out a soft rumble from deep in his chest, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath their feet. Several lords glanced at the massive direwolf with poorly concealed fear. A boy of fifteen might not command their full respect, but a boy with an enormous shadow-black direwolf whose eyes glowed red as fresh blood, that was something else entirely.
"But we must be prepared," Rickon continued, easing back on the display of power. "Time is against us."
Mara stepped forward, her weathered face solemn. "The weirwood sap, coating your blades, can harm them, milords."
The lords exchanged glances, some thoughtful, others doubtful.
"But we must not cut down the trees," she added quickly. "The Old Gods would withdraw their protection when we need it most. There is not enough time to arm every man, but we must do the best we can."
Cregan nodded, decision crystallizing in his eyes. "Gather what sap you can without harming the trees. Priority to front-line fighters. Lord Glover, organize collection parties - men who know how to tap trees without damaging them."
"Yes, my lord," Glover replied, already moving toward the tent entrance.
"Lord Bolton, Lord Karstark, establish a perimeter of scouts. I want eyes in every direction," Cregan ordered. "The rest of you, prepare your men. We may have little time."
As the lords dispersed to their duties, Cregan turned to Rickon. "Walk with me, son."
They left the command tent together, Canis padding silently behind them. Cregan led them away from the bustling center of camp toward a small rise overlooking the valley below. For a long moment, father and son stood in silence, watching the activity of the camp as men hurried to fortify positions and sharpen weapons.
"Is it as bad as you've made it out?" Cregan finally asked, his voice low, meant only for Rickon's ears.
Rickon met his father's gaze squarely. "Worse, Father. What I told the lords was measured. The stone men are... unnatural. They feel no pain, no fear. And their leader, Kargan, he's something else entirely."
He described what he'd seen at the ritual site: the altar of black stone, the thousands of transformed followers.
"And the Stone Father?" Cregan asked. "This entity they worship?"
"I believe it's real," Rickon admitted. "I've felt it in my dreams, beneath the island. Ancient and hungry."
Cregan's weathered face grew grimmer with each word. He was silent for a long moment, his eyes scanning the horizon as if he could see the approaching threat.
"Your shadows cut them?" he finally asked.
Rickon nodded. "Like a hot knife through butter. But there are thousands, Father. Canis and I could cut down hundreds and barely make a dent."
"And the weirwood sap?"
"I haven't tested it," Rickon admitted. "But if Mara says it works, I believe her. The stone men are a corruption of nature, it makes sense the Old Gods would provide a counter to them."
Cregan rubbed his beard, deep in thought. "We're outnumbered, then. Fighting an enemy our men have never faced, with weapons that may be ineffective."
"Yes." There was no point in softening the truth.
Cregan clasped his hands behind his back, his gaze sweeping across the valley below. The setting sun cast long shadows, painting the landscape in hues of amber and gold. Rickon recognized the expression on his father's face, the same one he wore before every difficult battle or hard decision.
"We have much to do if we hope to stand a chance at surviving the day," Cregan said finally, his voice low and resolute.
Rickon nodded, feeling the weight of what was to come settling on his shoulders. For a moment, neither spoke, the gravity of their situation hanging between them like an unsheathed blade.
Then, to Rickon's surprise, his father turned and pulled him into a tight embrace. The unexpected gesture caught him off guard, Cregan Stark was not a demonstrative man. Rickon felt his father's strong arms around him, smelled the familiar scent of leather and pine, and for just a moment, he was a child again, seeking comfort in his father's strength.
When they separated, Cregan's eyes held a warmth that belied his grim expression.
"We'll need you to travel to every weirwood you can find and extract sap through your shadow walking," he said, his hand still resting on Rickon's shoulder. "Your ability to move quickly between locations could make the difference between victory and defeat."
"How much sap do we need?" Rickon asked, already calculating the number of weirwoods he'd seen during their march across Skagos.
"As much as possible," Cregan replied. "If even half our weapons can be coated, it will give us an advantage. Mara says the sap must be fresh, harvested within hours of use to maintain its potency against the stone men."
Rickon nodded, his mind racing through the logistics. "I can reach perhaps a dozen weirwoods before nightfall. Zenith has spotted several groves to the north and east."
"Take these," Cregan said, producing several small leather pouches from his belt. "They're watertight, used for carrying rare herbs. They should hold the sap without leaking."
Rickon took the pouches, securing them to his own belt. "What about Kargan? Should I try to—"
"No," Cregan cut him off firmly. "You are not to engage him directly. We need you for the sap collection, and from what you've described, he's beyond your current strength to face alone."
A flash of indignation surged through Rickon, but he swallowed it down. His father was right, he'd felt Kargan's power even from a distance. The stone priest was something else entirely, he was channeling something ancient and terrible.
"I'll leave immediately," Rickon said, checking his weapons. "Canis comes with me."
"Of course." Cregan's eyes shifted to the massive direwolf. "That beast is as much a part of you as your shadow." He hesitated, then added, "Be careful, son. This island harbors more dangers than we anticipated."
Rickon whistled softly, and Canis padded to his side, crimson eyes alert. "I'll return before full dark. Have men ready to collect the sap as I bring it."
With a final nod to his father, Rickon placed his hand on Canis's neck, feeling the familiar surge of cold energy as shadows gathered around them. The world blurred, darkness enveloping them like a cloak as they stepped sideways through reality.
They emerged in a small clearing a mile north of camp, where Rickon had spotted a solitary weirwood through Zenith's eyes. The ancient tree stood sentinel, its bone-white branches reaching toward the sky like gnarled fingers, blood-red leaves rustling in the gentle breeze.
Rickon approached reverently, placing his palm against the rough bark of the trunk. The carved face seemed to watch him, sap like blood tears slowly trailing down its wooden cheeks.
"Forgive me," he whispered to the tree, "but we need your help."
He produced a small knife from his belt, not his shadow blade, which might taint the sap with its essence, but a simple iron blade blessed by the Old Gods. With careful precision, he made a shallow incision in the bark, angling it downward to allow the sap to flow.
Thick, red liquid welled up immediately, viscous and gleaming in the fading light. Rickon caught it in one of the leather pouches, watching as it filled slowly. Through his fingers touching the bark, he felt a strange vibration, almost like a pulse, as if the tree itself was responding to his touch.
Canis growled softly, his hackles rising. Through their bond, Rickon felt the direwolf's unease.
"What is it, boy?" he murmured, scanning the surrounding forest.
The answer came not from Canis but from the weirwood itself. As Rickon's fingers remained in contact with the bark, images flashed through his mind, stone men marching through these very woods, their hollow eyes fixed on some distant goal; Kargan standing atop the black altar, arms raised as he chanted in a language that hurt Rickon's mind; and beneath it all, something vast stirring in the depths of the island, ancient beyond reckoning.
Rickon gasped, pulling his hand away as if burned. The vision faded, but the sense of urgency remained.
"They're coming faster than we thought," he told Canis, quickly sealing the pouch of sap. "We need to hurry."
The direwolf nudged his leg, and Rickon felt Canis's desire to stay and fight through their bond. He shook his head firmly.
"Not yet. First, we arm our people."
Shadows gathered once more as Rickon focused on another weirwood he'd glimpsed through Zenith's eyes, this one in a grove to the east. The familiar cold embrace of the void welcomed them as they stepped through.
Grove after grove, weirwood after weirwood, Rickon lost count of how many times they shadow-walked across Skagos. Each tree gave its sap willingly, though some showed him visions that chilled him to the bone: the stone men growing in number, spreading across the island like a plague; villages abandoned or converted; and always, the sense of something ancient awakening beneath their feet.
By the time they returned to camp, Rickon's belt was heavy with pouches of weirwood sap, and exhaustion pulled at his limbs. Shadow-walking so frequently had drained him more than he'd anticipated.
The camp had been transformed in the day he had spent travelling. Trenches had been dug, sharpened stakes driven into the ground at angles to impede charging enemies. Archers were positioned on rises, their arrows laid out before them, ready to be dipped in the precious sap.
Cregan met him at the edge of camp, relief evident in his eyes. "You've returned. Good. The scouts report movement to the west - exactly where you said they'd come from."
"How long?" Rickon asked, handing over the pouches of sap.
"Hours, not days," Cregan replied grimly. "We're prioritizing the front-line weapons - swords, spears, axes. The archers will use what's left."
Rickon nodded, swaying slightly on his feet. The toll of multiple shadow-walks was catching up to him.
Cregan noticed immediately, his brow furrowing. "You've pushed yourself too hard. Rest now, we'll need your strength when they come."
"I can do more," Rickon protested, even as black spots danced at the edges of his vision.
"Not if you collapse," Cregan said firmly. "Food, water, and rest- that's an order, not a request."
Reluctantly, Rickon allowed himself to be led to his tent. Canis followed, the direwolf's own fatigue evident in his slowed pace. Inside, a simple meal awaited: bread, dried meat, and water. Rickon fell upon it ravenously, his body demanding sustenance after the energy he'd expended._____________________________________________________Cregan Stark stood at the edge of the northern ridge overlooking the camp, his weathered hands gripping the hilt of Ice. The Valyrian steel felt cold beneath his palms, familiar and reassuring in its deadly weight. Darkness had begun to fall across the encampment, torches flickering to life one by one like earthbound stars.
He watched his son disappear into his tent, the massive black direwolf padding silently behind him. The boy had pushed himself too far today, though Cregan couldn't deny the value of the weirwood sap now being distributed among their forces. Without it, they would face the stone men with nothing but ordinary steel and prayer.
His jaw tightened as he gazed westward, toward the threat marching inexorably toward them. How many more battles? How many more wars? His life had been an endless succession of conflicts since the day he was born.
The memory of Arra's face flashed before him 0 pale and beautiful, even as the life drained from her bringing Rickon into the world. She had been his anchor, his calm harbor in a stormy sea. After her death, he had thrown himself into war after war, as if blood and steel could fill the void she left behind.
The Dance of Dragons. The wildling incursions. The rebellion against his uncle Bennard. Each battle had hardened him further, turning grief into grim resolve, sorrow into steel. And now this, stone men and ancient gods, magic that defied understanding.
And Rickon. His son with powers that Cregan couldn’t fathom, despite his fierce pride in the boy. Those shadow blades, the way darkness seemed to bend around him and his unnatural direwolf. Was this the blood of the First Men reasserting itself? Or something else entirely?
"My lord," a voice interrupted his thoughts. "The men await your orders."
Cregan turned to find Rodrik Cassel standing at attention, his hand resting on his sword pommel. Behind him gathered the lords of the North and their captains, faces grim in the gathering dusk.
"Bring them to the central fire," Cregan commanded. "All who can hear."
As Rodrik departed to relay his orders, Cregan cast one last look toward Rickon's tent. The boy needed rest, but they needed his powers more. There would be time for sleep when the battle was won, or never, if they failed.
By the time Cregan reached the massive bonfire at the center of camp, hundreds of men had assembled. Northern faces, hard and weathered, illuminated by flickering orange light. He recognized the expressions they wore, the same ones he'd seen before every major battle of his life. Fear disguised as determination. Uncertainty masked by bravado. The quiet resignation of men who might not see another dawn.
He climbed atop a wooden platform erected beside the fire, the heat of the flames warming one side of his face while the cold night air chilled the other. A fitting metaphor for the North itself, fire and ice, life and death, eternally balanced on a knife's edge.
Silence fell as he surveyed the gathered men. These were his people, sons of the North, descendants of the First Men who had weathered thousands of years of winters. They deserved the truth, however bitter.
"Men of the North," his voice carried across the assembly, deep and unwavering. "I will not lie to you. In a few hours we face an enemy unlike any we have encountered before."
He described the stone men as Rickon had reported them - their unnatural strength, their hollow eyes, their flesh turned to living stone. He explained the weirwood sap and its importance, instructing them on application and use.
"Some of you whisper that this is sorcery," he continued, his gray eyes reflecting the firelight. "That we fight against powers no mortal men should face." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "Aye. Perhaps that's true."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"But we are Northmen." Cregan drew Ice, the Valyrian steel gleaming darkly in the firelight. "We are the blood of the First Men, who drove back the Others and built the Wall. Magic flows in our veins as surely as it flows through the weirwoods."
He swept his gaze across the assembled faces, meeting eyes young and old, brave and frightened.
"I have lived a life of struggle and constant war," he continued, his voice lowering so that men leaned forward to catch his words. "I have buried those I love. I have fought for my birthright. I have waded through blood on battlefields across the realm. And I tell you now this fight, this enemy, is why the Old Gods preserved us through all those trials."
The firelight cast his shadow long and stark against the ground behind him. For a moment, Cregan thought he glimpsed another shadow beside his own, taller, crowned with antlers, watching with approval. He blinked, and it was gone.
"Each of you stands here tonight because every ancestor in your line, stretching back thousands of years, survived. They endured winter and war, famine and death. Their blood flows in you. Their strength is your strength."
He raised Ice higher, and the torchlight seemed to gather along its edge.
"For it's always that way with the sacred value of life," he said, his voice carrying to the farthest reaches of the assembly. "We forget it as long as it belongs to us, and give it as little attention during the unconcerned hours of our life as we do the stars in the light of day."
The men were silent now, hanging on his every word.
"Darkness must fall before we are aware of the majesty of the stars above our heads," Cregan continued, gesturing to the night sky where the first stars had begun to appear. "It was necessary for this dark hour to fall, perhaps the darkest in history, to make us realize that freedom is as vital to our soul as breathing to our body."
He lowered Ice, the point touching the platform beneath his feet.
"Tomorrow, we fight not just for our lives, but for what it means to be human. For the right to remain flesh and blood, not stone and darkness. We fight for the North, for our ancestors, and for our children yet unborn."
A low rumble of approval spread through the crowd.
"Prepare yourselves," Cregan commanded. "Sharpen your steel. Coat your blades with the sap of the gods. And remember - we are the North. We do not yield. We do not break."
"THE NORTH!" The cry erupted from a thousand throats at once, echoing across the camp and into the darkness beyond. "THE NORTH! THE NORTH!"
As the men dispersed to their duties with renewed purpose, Cregan descended from the platform.
Cregan felt a familiar presence at his shoulder. He turned to find Roger Cerwyn, his closest friend.
"The men are heartened, Cregan," Roger said. "Your words gave them courage."
"Words are wind," Cregan replied grimly. "Tomorrow will test their mettle more than any speech."
"And Rickon?" Rodrik asked quietly. "Will he fight alongside us?"
Cregan gazed toward Rickon's tent, where a single lantern still burned. "He's earned his rest tonight. But when the stone men come..." He paused, remembering the shadow blades, the way Rickon had described cutting through the creatures as if they were nothing. "When they come, we will need every advantage we possess."
"Including magic?" Roger's voice held no judgment, only curiosity.
"Including magic," Cregan confirmed. "The Old Gods have not abandoned us yet, old friend.”