Why must you do this to me? Plot bunnies, leave my head alone. It's already jumbled enough.

I came to consciousness by the feeling of being pulled. Blearily, I looked towards my wrists. They were tied together by thick rope, dangling by the shoulder of my horse-mounted captor, though I could only see his back. He tugged hard, and I stutter-stepped towards him, following along, hoping that he would not do worse. It was almost instinctive. We walked through lines of men who mounted atop battle-ready horses and wielded spears and shields and toted bows and arrows. They were well armored and dressed to kill, and looked excited for the chance.

It was cold, and the ropes burned my wrists pink. I gamely followed along my captor, not really knowing what was happening, until I was brought to the front of the van and into an open field. Cross-shaped pikes burned skineless men and women against the straw-like grass, and across the way, what felt like miles but was in fact only the equivalent of a three acres, was another army, lesser in number and capability, but more savage looking, more determined. There was even a giant there, snarling a dark thing.

My captor pulled me forth one last time, and then spun around. I stared at him, his mocking, smiling face, those pale blue eyes that showed entertainment. I saw him, and then it came to me.

That was Ramsey Bolton.

And I…

I was Rickon Stark.

I breathed in deeply and squinted my eyes closed as he withdrew a knife from his waist, my head bowed in apparent submission. But that was not the case. Memories piled through my skull hard and heavy, memories of Rickon Stark's life coming quick and filtering through quicker than could be comprehended in full. It was both agonizing and wonderful, and the combative feelings had me shuddering all throughout my body. Ramsey likely thought it was fear, for I could hear him laughing a dark thing my way.

Then, Ramsey's knife dug through my rope bindings, nicking my arm only slightly, a dribble of blood running against the dirt. The rope fell to the ground, and my arms fell limp at my side.

He sidled up to me, his hand on my shoulder. His tone was tender and were I not aware of the monster he was, I would have thought him a kind sort in that moment. But I knew better. The whole of the North knew better.

"Do you like games, little man?" He asked me, soft as silk. He jostled my shoulders in a friendly manner and shoved me forward slightly. "Let's play a game."

He pointed a finger across the field, towards the middling of the enemy army. Stood by the side of a black destrier was a man of below average height, with tied black hair and a long face, the sword at his side bearing the pommel of a white wolf. That was my brother, Jon Snow.

I closed my eyes once more, more memory's, though not Rickon's, flowing through. Memories from my old life? I held no understanding of who I really was, only that while I was Rickon, I was not only Rickon. These memories told me tale of the future of Westeros, of the battles of Dragon and Dothraki in the south, of the White Walkers meant for the North, of the Mad Queens, of Bran the Broken.

Of Aegon Targaryen.

"Run to your brother," Ramsey said. Cousin, my mind emphasized. He was my cousin. The son of my aunt, Lyanna. "The sooner you make it to him, the sooner you get to see him again."

He chuckled. "That's it. That's the game. Easy!"

From behind him, a soldier began to move. "Ready?" He asked, smiling widely. He pushed me forward and uttered one last word. "Go."

And I did.

I ran as hard as I possibly could. I ran and ran and ran. I put my all into running, distracted only by the sight of Jon riding as hard as he could my way and sounds coming from behind me; the twang of an arrow flying loose from a bow. I continued to run straight, ignoring it. Counting; one. The first arrow made it nowhere near my person, closer to one of those cross-shaped pikes than anything.

Another twang sounded from behind me, quieter, but still discernable. Two. The arrow came close that time, some four feet to my left, a few yards ahead of my pace. Ramsey was getting his bearing.

Jon was approaching fast, his horse desperately quick. Fifty feet. Forty feet. Each second brought us closer, and as my mind worked like crazy, I did something that felt not only right, but somehow a long time coming.

I zigzagged to the left.

An arrow peer down immediately next to me not even a moment later, skimming my right shoulder deep enough to cut through the muscle. Three. Had I not moved at that moment, had I just been a half-second off in my adjustment, that arrow would have buried its way through my chest, pierced directly into my heart. I would have died, without question.

Jon caught up to me in that moment, hoisting me up with one arm. "Rickon!" He shouted, breathy and happy and worried all the same. "Ricko-"

"Not now!" I screamed, tugging hard on the back his horse's reins. Jon startled, but did not refute me. Game-faced, he twisted the horse around, making to return to his own army. He snarled and whined alike when an arrow pierced through his leg, but he continued back without pause. Ramsey screamed from behind, mad that his prey had escaped him, yet nothing further happened.

Jon brought us to the back of his van, handing me over to an elderly man with a balding head of white hair and a hand missing some finger parts. Ser Davos Seaworth, my mind supplanted.

"Keep him safe!" Jon told the man.

"I will." Ser Davos said, holding me tightly.

"Wait!" I shouted, catching Jon's attention.

"I'll see you soon brother." Jon said, gripping my shoulder. "I'm sure you've stories worth sharing." He made to pull away, but I grabbed his arm with both my hands.

"Not that." I said. My mind worked hard, and a quick idea came to mind. Lies came easily, especially if it saved both mine and my cousins life. "Ramsey wanted to fight now because he heard from his ravener that a southern army was on its was soon. The Vale, he thinks. Or the Tully's. He liked to brag to me when I was in my cell. It's real, Jon. Just wait."

His eyes were blank, and then they went wide and mad. He snarled Sansa's name under his breath, but after breathing out his anger for what seemed a minute, he nodded a short thing my way and ordered his men to keep steady.

Ramsey was unusually quiet. For him, at least. He brought prisoners forth, women and children and wildlings, and burned and skinned and killed them for sport in front of us all. Taunting us. Jon wanted to rush forward and stop him, but then Ser Davos and a ginger haired beast of a man dressed in heavy rags – Tormund Giantsbane – held him back. The battle was soon to come, and if my warning was not made true soon, Jon would hurry out regardless.

Luckily, what I believed to happen did happen. It was quicker than expected, even by the memories available to me. Twenty minutes was all it took, perhaps twenty-five. Thousands upon thousands of mounted knights piled through from the south, their horses cantering and braying in between us, polished armor gleaming against the cloud-stained sky. An old knight with bronze armor led them, and with a long-drawn sound from a warhorn strapped to his chest he pulled his army of knights our way, integrating them into our ranks with a practiced sort of seem.

Then Jon roared, and they all charged.

Ramsey's archers were gamely in their assault, his cavalry hard in their defense. Good soldiers, following orders to the letter. But good soldiers did not mean victory; numbers made the difference, turning the tide as they had once before in those recollections in an even more decisive manner. Blood and guts and bodies all were mushed through as the Bolton army was felled, but the prize that Jon and his army wished for was not to be found. Ramsey had retreated back to Winterfell during the initial melee, its gates now closed and barred from entry. It would do little good.

The combined armies under the command of Jon Snow and Bronze Yohn Royce made for the gates of the great castle. Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun, the Last Giant, uninjured, had taken a boulder from the earth and rushed it through the gates as if it were a great shield, smashing those ironwood slabs open with one great burst of force.

Arrows pelted at the boulder, and though some archers from the upper ramparts hit Wun Wun's back, he was spared much of the pain that could have been. Men filed around the giant, slaying and capturing the men all around, and quickly, there was only one enemy of note left in the yard.

Ramsey was surrounded on all sides, wielding just a bow and quiver of arrows, and though he was in a position of clear defeat, he held a smug stride. Jon was at the front of the army now, rage in his face.

"You suggested one on one combat, didn't you?" Ramsey asked, smiling still. He peered around, looking at those sword and spears pointed his way, and with a grandiose sort of flair returned his attention to Jon, as if a kind keeper to an unruly dog. "I've reconsidered. I think that sounds like a wonderful idea."

He pulled an arrow from his quiver then, and Jon dashed to a Vale knight by his side. He stole the man's shield and got it up over his face just in time to stop an arrow rushing straight for his brow, Longclaw falling into the muck. Mud splashed over his face, and Jon walked forward towards Ramsey with a grim determination. Another arrow was shot, another arrow hitting a shield. Jon dashed at Ramsey after the third arrow was shot, and hit the edge of his shield against the throat of the Bastard of Bolton.

Jon's fists came easy and willing. He hammered down onto Ramsey's face, knuckles tearing through the leathers of his gloves against the chin of his enemy. Each blow brought a weak groan from the Lord of the Dreadfort, and for a moment, I thought Jon was going to kill him. The thought did not bother me in the slightest.

But then he stopped, his head craned to his left. I was sat behind Ser Davos, still atop his own horse, and did not have a good angle. But then I saw a long head of red hair, and knew.

Sansa.

My body moved before my mind did. I hopped down from Ser Davos's filly and walked towards her. She was staring at Ramsey's bloody muzzle, her face a mask. Then she peered her gaze around, eyeing the men that had helped her distrustfully, only to stop on my form.

We were silent as we stared at one another. Words had little meaning, yet they would have been grand. But no, speech did not occur. It was simultaneous, our movement. We rushed one another, bodies brazing against each other, arms encircling sibling. I was tall for my eleven years, only a couple inches shorter than Sansa was, and I was able to bury my head into her shoulder with just as much ease as she could into mine.

The fall of the banner of the Flayed Man occurred from behind us. The raising of the Grey Wolf of Stark was next to come.