Fellowship & Fairydust

Meat to Live – Switchfoot

Fumbling his confidence
and wondering why the world has passed him by,
Hoping that he’s bent for more
than arguments and failed attempts to fly.
We were meant to live for so much more.
Have we lost ourselves?

February 13, 300

Sansa stumbled backwards as Rickon snarled at her, snapping his jaws. At a safe distance from her young brother, she took a moment to observe him. He was filthy – even more than Arya had been when she first arrived – and his hair had grown out around his shoulders. As he clung to the back of his direwolf, he had a wild, frantic look in his eyes. Sansa twisted the sleeve of her dress between her fingers. She wasn’t sure what the proper move was when your five-year-old brother showed up at your husband’s name day acting more like a dog than a boy.

Tyrion stepped forward, holding a hand out to prevent Sansa from approaching. Sansa watched him, her gut knotting. Rickon didn’t know him. How could he hope to calm Rickon?

“Hey,” Tyrion’s voice was soft and calming. “Hello. Did you come for supper? It was very nice of you to come on my name day.”

Rickon cocked his head to the side.

“The problem,” Tyrion said, “is that you’re sort of putting on a show right now, and I am rather against using little boys as entertainment at parties. It seems like something my late nephew might have enjoyed, and I don’t care for the comparison.”

Shaggydog lay down on the sand, resting his head on his paws.

Rickon patted Shaggydog’s mangy neck and then slid from his back. He seemed unsteady on his feet, and though he attempted two steps forward, he fell to his knees a moment later and crawled the rest of the way to Tyrion.

“Well done.” Tyrion reached down and gripped Rickon’s hand. He pulled the boy to his feet and walked with him towards a nearby table. “Let’s get you something to eat, shall we? And then we’ll have Clara draw you a bath and get you all cleaned up.”

***

Tyrion had seen the fear in the girls’ eyes when Rickon growled at them. Sansa might not have noticed, worrying about herself, but Arya’s hand had reached automatically for her sword. Tyrion was not about to have things get out of control, and so he had stepped in, holding a hand out to waylay the girls. Tyrion had once had a mad cousin, and he’s learned that the key with madness was to be both calm and confident. It was the key with dogs as well. Tyrion wasn’t sure which he was dealing with, in all honesty, but his confidence seemed to work, calming both the beast and the boy.

He watched with a critical eye as Rickon attempted to walk towards him and then fell forwards. It was clear that Rickon understood the concept of walking on two legs – he hadn’t forgotten that. His muscles weren’t strong enough. When the boy reached him, Tyrion reached down and pulled on his hand, helping him to his feet. Even with the support, he could feel Rickon struggling to remain upright, his small legs trembling beneath his body. What would even cause that? His brain was working overdrive as he led Rickon to the nearest table – no need to prolong the boy’s embarrassment – and sat him down.

Tyrion sat beside him, serving him a plate as Sansa worked to get the party back into full swing. As Rickon leaned forward to dig in with his hands, Tyrion set a hand on the boy’s shoulder, stilling him.

Rickon turned, snapping his teeth at Tyrion.

“You grew up in Winterfell.” Tyrion pressed a fork into the boy’s small hand. “I know you know how to use a fork.”

Rickon barked.

Tyrion hadn’t known children could bark. He felt eyes on him and the boy. But then, he’d had eyes on him his entire life. He ignored the stares, instead nodding at the fork in Rickon’s hand. And after a moment, Rickon stabbed a piece of chicken with the fork and brought the chicken to his mouth.

***

Sansa felt cool as she approached the band that she’d hired for Tyrion’s name day, telling them to play something light and airy to conclude the evening. She heard Arya run up behind her, but she didn’t turn to look. She was sure Arya would have something smart to say about Rickon, but they were in public. For now, Sansa had to trust that Tyrion had things under control. She could weep for her brother later. Right now, they had to be a house united.

“He’s like a dog!” Arya said, her voice too loud.

“Stop.” Sansa’s voice was quiet.

“What do we do about that?” Arya asked. “How did he get here? Why didn’t he recognize us?”

Sansa spun; her eyes sharp. “I don’t know, Arya. Right now, we are at a party…”

“Who cares about the damned party?” Arya snapped. “That’s our brother!”

“Yes!” Sansa replied. She dropped her voice, so it was barely more than a whisper. “Our brother – the rightful Lord of Winterfell with Robb dead and Bran… missing, and we are in public. So, hush. Tyrion has him handled for now. We will assess the situation later.”

Arya swallowed, hard, and took a step back.

“Go talk to Pod,” Sansa said. “Enjoy the evening. It will be over far too soon, and we will do our duty with Rickon.”

***

It was hard to get away from his own name day celebration. When he was sure Rickon had been fed, he brought the boy to Clara. He spoke to Rickon the whole way, his voice quiet. “You need to be nice to Clara. She’s going to take care of you. She’ll give you a bath and get you settled in a nice bed for the night.”

Rickon twisted, reaching towards Shaggydog.

“Your wolf is going to have to stay outside,” Tyrion said, “at least for tonight – at least until we know we can trust him.”

Rickon made a keening sound in the back of his throat.

“I’ll make sure he’s well looked after,” Tyrion said. “With a nice meal like you had.”

Clara was on the edge of the party, dancing with Bronn. She stepped away from him when Tyrion approached, seeming already to know that her services as a nanny were required this night.

“He needs a bath,” Tyrion said. “You can give him one of my shirts to sleep in tonight. Put him in the same wing as Sansa and I, one floor down. And take Bronn with you. Bronn – he’s five. I assume you can handle him if he gets out of control?”

Bronn laughed.

Tyrion turned, placing a hand gently on Rickon’s shoulder. “Be good. Your sisters and I will be in to visit you once you’ve had your bath.”

He transferred Rickon’s hand to Bronn, nodding at Bronn to keep the boy upright.

***

Bronn frowned at the charge he and Clara had been left with. The boy struggled to stand, and Bronn was sure it would be an impossibly long walk to the third floor of the East wing, for a boy who could barely keep himself upright across the beach. He’d watched Tyrion with the boy. After his initial snarling and snapping, the child had calmed down considerably, and it seemed to Bronn that perhaps he had been putting on a show, to begin with, to keep people at a distance. He’d fought with people like that – they made a lot of noise to make up for the fact that they couldn’t swing a sword to save their lives.

“You got him?” Clara asked, her dark eyes shining with concern.

Bronn nodded. To Rickon, he said, “Don’t worry, lad. You only have to stay upright until we get inside. Then I can carry you and no one will be any wiser.”

Rickon turned, his eyes looking past Bronn’s, but there was a small smile on his grubby face.

Bronn helped the boy walk up the beach to the castle. He hadn’t noticed before how damned long a walk it was, but stooped half over and walking at the pace of a five-year-old, he noticed it. He wasn’t sure who was happier when they finally reached the castle, and he could lift the child into his arms. Rickon rested his cheek against Bronn’s shoulder, tucking his hand up near his mouth.

“You’re so sweet,” Clara said to the boy. “We’ll get you washed up in a jiffy, and then your sisters will come up to say goodnight to you before you go to bed. That’ll be nice, right?”

Bronn frowned. He wasn’t sure why she cooed at him like that. It wasn’t like the boy was apt to talk back. He’d noticed Tyrion doing the same thing – chattering away the whole time the boy ate. How would Tyrion have liked it if Bronn had nattered at him constantly? He wouldn’t. Clara wouldn’t either.

Tyrion had directed them to a floor, but Clara chose the room. She selected one that faced towards the beach. It was clearly done as a guest room, the bedding an impersonal shade of blue and the furniture basic, sturdy wood.

“This is the room for the Lord of Winterfell?” Bronn asked dubiously.

Clara rolled her eyes. “I’m sure Lord Tyrion will have it decorated to the boy’s tastes as soon as he is able to tell us what his tastes are – just as he did with Lady Arya’s room. In the meantime, this one has been cleaned recently and has good lighting.”

“All right.” Bronn deposited the boy on the floor. He leaned back, his rear end against the boy’s bed, and cocked his eyebrow at Clara. “Now what?”

“Never an ounce of patience with you.” Clara shook her head at him.

Bronn watched as Clara hauled bucket after bucket of hot water to the boy’s tub, filling it deftly. She dumped an amount of salts into the water, and the water turned a pretty shade of purple. Bronn wrinkled his nose. “He’s not a girl.”

“Oh, really? I wasn’t aware.” Clara shook her head at him. “The salts will make him smell good.”

“You want to smell good, boy?” Bronn looked at the child.

Rickon rolled onto his back on the carpet. His hair spread fanned out around him.

“C’mon.” Clara walked towards him. “Clothes off and into the tub with you.”

Rickon growled at her, rolling onto his hands and knees and baring his teeth.

Clara rolled her eyes, unafraid. “Yes. A five-year-old who’s not fond of a bath – very original. You’re filthy. You can either take your clothes off yourself and step into the tub like a little lord, or Bronn can yank them off of you and drop you into the water like a stinky trout, but you’re getting in the water.”

The boy eyed her for a moment and then, to Bronn’s shock, he sat back and fumbled with his tattered shirt, trying to get it over his head.

***

Sansa was thrilled when the party ended, and she could finally walk back towards the castle, her hand clasping Tyrion’s. She felt exhausted, though whether it was from the pregnancy or from the length of the day was hard to tell. Maybe some combination of the two. Part of her wanted to crawl into bed and sleep the month away, but it wasn’t an option. She had her brother to look after.

Rickon.

She’d thought he was dead. Seeing him snapping at her like a rabid dog, there was a part of her that wondered if she would have been better if he had been dead. She hated herself for thinking it. But the wild thing that had arrived on the back of Shaggydog hadn’t been the brother she knew. He was a broken thing.

He was the rightful Lord of Winterfell. He may well be its downfall.

Arya walked behind them towards the castle. She hadn’t said another word to Sansa all evening, and she didn’t now. She walked with one hand on the hilt of her little sword and her chin in the air, looking more like a bodyguard than like Sansa’s baby sister. The war had changed all of the Stark children, Sansa realized. She wasn’t sure if any of them had come out the other side better.

Bronn stood outside of a door on the third floor of the wing that Sansa and Tyrion shared, his body marking the room her brother was in. She smiled at him before pushing past him into Rickon’s room. Any number of expectations crossed her mind in the moment before she opened the door, from Rickon growling in a corner to him fighting with Clara.

She didn’t expect to see him sitting upright, calmly, in his bed, his blankets pulled to his waist. He was clean, his long hair falling around his shoulders in gentle waves. He looked just like Bran had at that age. Sansa dropped Tyrion’s hand and walked closer to Rickon. She sat at the foot of his bed.

“You’ve grown up so much,” Sansa said quietly. “You’ll be a man grown soon.”

Rickon stared at her through weary eyes.

Arya stepped forward. “Shaggydog’s okay. Tyrion gave him steaks.”

Sansa licked her lower lip. “How did you get here, Rickon? And where’s Bran?”

Rickon shook his head. He looked away from them. His lips were pressed in a straight line.

Tyrion tugged lightly on Sansa’s hand, a soft look in his eyes. To Rickon, he said, “We’re glad you’re here. We’ll come back in the morning after you’ve had a chance to sleep.”

Sansa slid from the bed, letting Tyrion lead her towards the door. After a moment, Arya followed.

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