rickon

we may look easy pickings but we got some bite, so never kick a dog because he’s just a pup. you better run for cover when the pup grows up rickon stark. 14. scotland

[actuallycannibal]

skype chat/call → shireen (29 september 2012)

[baratheonshireen-blog]

[ It’s been two days, and Shireen is honestly quite surprised by how easily her life falls back into place after talking to Rickon. There is the constant worry for him, naturally, that accompanies her thoughts for her father and mother. She isn’t quite sure when Rickon became that important, but despite everything, he was still a friend. There had been many moments where her finger hovered over the chat box in Skype, but there is being a friend and there is intruding.

Shireen doesn’t want to cross the line. She doesn’t want to lose another friend. 

She is lying on the bed, small white Pomeranian that fits perfectly on top of her stomach, curled up in a little ball. A small weight that is warm and reassuring. The dog huffs softly at the opened laptop by her side table and she grumbles, lifting her head up only slightly before she does a double take. There is a yellow highlight on her open Skype tab and she sits up quickly, fumbling with the wires for a moment before she settles with positioning it on top of her pillows, lying on her stomach with the dog settling down on the small of her back. ]

message : hey! yeah, i’m here :) 

[ The smiley looks almost too much, but she doesn’t know what else to use. What was appropriate text language for someone who just lost his father? ] 

message : you wanna video call or is this a quick hi bye poke?

[actuallycannibal]

[Fuck. Well, no. He’s not nervous. But there it is — he couldn’t help but smile when the message pops up in the screen. The ding notification was enough to make his heart race a little. He knows this feeling: adrenalin, but less… less like wild fire and more like a subtle spark. Shaggy lets out a small yelp and Rickon looks down at him, gives him a disapproving look.

Quick hi bye poke or video call?

He thinks of the answer, hands hovering just above the keyboard but never truly touching. A quick hi bye poke would make him seem cool, indifferent. Why, he wonders, is he even thinking about this? He lets out a soft growl from being too frustrated and annoyed at himself and continues typing. Fuck it]

message: i thought u wanted to Video call

[He looks at the faint reflection through the computer screen. He wonders if his hair was sticking up in different directions. Does he even care if it is? Does she? No one cares. It’s fine.]

message: :)

[actuallycannibal]

skype chat/call → shireen (29 september 2012)

[He swivels the chair around, taps his fingers against the surface of the desk in front of him. Shaggy is sleeping by his foot, and he's got his phone laying beside his laptop. Shireen's last message is open. 

skype sounds good, she tells him, poke me on FB when you're free! He's been free -- for the past two days since they've spoken, texted, rather. He's been free for the past month, the past... several months. He can't quite figure out when time began to stop mattering. He think it's when his father died. He thinks it's when Bran fell. He think it's when he was kicked out of school.

Skype is open. There's the little green bubble next to Shireen's name and he hesitates before clicking on to it. Shaggy stands up from the floor, and rests his head on Rickon's lap. Shut up, he mutters to Shaggy and begins typing]

message: Hey, u around?

[He waits. Hopes that she is. (Partially hopes that she isn't either. He's not sure how to talk to someone yet, after everything)

It would be embarassing if she wasn't.]

[bloodandglory-rp]

character: rickon stark (bio) affiliations: stark group of companies, tully inc cameron monaghan

[actuallycannibal]

someday, my pain will mark you | 26 september 2012, late evening (bran & rickon)

[bransstarked]

He doesn’t know why Rickon is still…Why is he doing this? He turns his head to look directly at him, brows furrowed together so tight there’s a a crinkle in his forehead. It is different when Rickon says the things that Bran thinks in the solitude of his own mind.

It isn’t right, he thinks. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes widen incredulously as his brother continues. Arya could be dead for all we know.

Shut up, it echoes in his mind, but he can’t say it.

Arya isn’t dead, he wants to say, she can’t be, but they just don’t know, and it seems as if they can’t know. Something has happened to her though, but it didn’t feel right, hearing his brother so plainly say that their sister isn’t coming home, and that their other one is dead. 

He hears Summer whine on the other side of the bed as Rickon is turned away from him. He’s only saying these things because…He doesn’t know how to deal with this. That’s what Bran tells himself, but it doesn’t make it any easier for him to hear.

When Rickon continues on to speak of Jon…ending up like Uncle Benjen, Bran can’t halt his words, “Stop it, Rickon. Just stop it.” He faces up to the ceiling to avoid seeing his brother look back at him. “No one else is going to die, alright?” He scrunches up his face and hopes that his words ring true. 

[actuallycannibal]

Rickon turns to his side, his back facing Bran now. He can't look at his brother. Whatever anger was churning up inside him earlier -- whatever anger was left restrained -- had managed to find itself back, and he's afraid that if he looks at Bran, it'll manage to crawl its way to the surface. 

The bed moves, loose screw creaking as he feels the familiar weight of Shaggydog jump into the mattress, circling around before he settles himself next to him. 

It isn't right that Sansa and Jon should suffer and mourn alone so far away from them; that his sister Arya is nowhere to be found, that she could be dead but everyone refuses to say it, except him. It isn't right. And, it isn't fair.

Dad's -- dead -- gone. 

His question to what happens next remains unanswered. Bran doesn't know; or maybe he does, and just like his mother and Robb, they won't tell him. But maybe, he's already got an inkling. 

Dad's gone. Dead.

So what? The whole world continues; whatever his father left behind will go on. Scotland. Independency. Us.

"You don't know that,"  he mumbles. "Ma and Robb had left us before -- they'll do it again." And it'll just be you and me.

[actuallycannibal]

someday, my pain will mark you | 26 september 2012, late evening (bran & rickon)

[bransstarked]

Bran looks at his brother, couldn’t cry, that was different. Did it mean that Rickon had wanted to? Bran just scans his brother’s face, for a hint or anything. He’s looking up at the ceiling, so he can’t really see his brother’s face. He turns his head, just a bit upwards so that he can see both the ceiling and Rickon at the same time.

"What?" He scrunches up his face in confusion as Rickon continues on. "Expected?" He whispers, how could anyone have expected it? He wants to ask his brother about it, but the voice inside his head sounds angry, and misunderstanding. That’s the last thing he wants his brother to hear right now. 

Shaking his head, he swallows heavily, “It was an accident, Rickon. No one could have done anything about it….Or stopped it.” He thinks about his dream he had last night, was that a sign, or some creepy coincidence? He wouldn’t speak of it aloud though; everyone would count it as a symptom of grief, or some ridiculous notion. 

"I don’t know," Bran whispers, his voice thick with uncertainty and fear. They both had no control over what’s going to happen next, Bran can’t snap his fingers and demand things any more than Rickon can. "I don’t know what’s going to happen." He doesn’t smile back.

[actuallycannibal]

Accident. It feels like it should be explanation enough -- that some sort of sense would come to him, settle, and maybe he could understand it a little bit better now that he had lost his father so easily. (That in fact, he could lose his father as easily and as simple as an accident) 

"Yeah…" he mumbles quietly, now looking away from Bran. Furrowing his brows, he grits his teeth together. Maybe, it would be better that he accept that his brother is right, instead of trying to make meaning out of something he can't. He nods slowly and repeats. "Right. An accident. I just --" Why him, he wants to say. Why us.

He falls silent, unsure and uncertain of what to say next. And it doesn't bode well that even Bran (who had known exactly what to say and do when they had been younger) knew just as much as he did. Nothing. 

"Sansa's never coming home," he finally says; his voice sharp and hard and harsh. "I mean, we don't even know where Arya is. She could be dead for all we know --"

It's odd to hear it out loud. He's thought about it before; the possible whereabouts of his sister, of what's happened to her, and no matter how much he tries to convince himself that she's still alive, something stirs inside him that says otherwise . "I wouldn't be surprised," he adds, picking at the corner of his nails. "And Jon… he'll end up like Uncle Benjen." Dead, too.

[actuallycannibal]

someday, my pain will mark you | 26 september 2012, late evening (bran & rickon)

[bransstarked]

It’s that unsureness that Rickon presents him with that leads Bran to believe that his brother isn’t okay. He just hasn’t processed it, that’s what Bran tells himself. Though he had been expecting an answer such as that. Rickon had always tried to be bigger than he was, emotionally and physically. For once, Bran wishes he would just be the youngest and deal with it.

Bran begins to open his mouth at the mention of his sister and brother. What should he say here? That she knows? Well that would mean she’s more alone than the two boys in the north. She was in truth, all alone, no one but lions and dragons around her. “If she doesn’t, she will. Cersei Lannister won’t let her home though.” He doesn’t know how that thought came to pass, only that his sister didn’t have much choice of where she went. 

He had noticed his brother’s absence of Arya, and thinks against bringing her up. They don’t know where she is, and it’s now more than ever that he wishes she’d call. If she was still alive.

"I think so, didn’t you see his eyes?" He spoke quietly, hands resting atop his stomach. He can recall this afternoon quite clearly, the way their simple game had been changed forever. The way Robb stood in the doorway, his face as grave as Bran has ever seen it.

Bran turns his head so that he can face his brother better. Did he cry? Yes, but it wasn’t…normal. He cried, but felt nothing aside from confusion and anger that he was crying in the first place. Should he lie to Rickon though? It didn’t seem right, and he knew Rickon wouldn’t chide him over it this time. It wasn’t as if it was over something stupid.

"Once Robb left, yeah." He says, even quieter than before. "I wasn’t even sad, I just started crying." He admits, turning his head back to face the ceiling. There wasn’t embarrassment coating the young Stark’s face, only a need to get this weight off of his chest. "Nobody expected this." 

He let the silence fill the room again before asking his brother in turn, “Did you? At all?”

[actuallycannibal]

Rickon shakes his head. No -- he hadn't noticed the way Robb's eyes had looked (maybe red, swollen) when he walked into this very same room earlier. He only remembers a hint of excitement; much too preoccupied with the sight of his older brother entering the room, had even hoped that Robb would join them just for one round in the card game he and Bran had to kill time.  And no, he hadn't cried. "Couldn't cry," he explains, shrugging and gaze still fixed up at the ceiling trying all that he could to avoid any direct eye contact. Couldn't because he wanted to; because tears meant mourning, and mourning meant missing.  Yet, his brother's admittance had eased just some of whatever nerves had remained restless. It's assurance -- lack of feeling at that moment must not mean inability to feel sadness, and by extension, had not lessen the love he had for his father.  "Or maybe we should have expected it," he mutters under his breath. An accident is what they called it. A twist of fate, or some shit like that that he can't wrap his head around -- "If we did, we could… we could have done something. Maybe, stopped it or, I don't know." He bites at the bottom of his lip, knows how ridiculous he sounds. He turns to look back again at his brother, smiling sadly. "What's going to happen now, Bran?" 

[actuallycannibal]

someday, my pain will mark you | 26 september 2012, late evening (bran & rickon)

[bransstarked]

From the very beginning, Rickon seemed to understand something that had always alluded Bran. Those who left, eventually never came back. Whether it was Bran’s sense of a brighter world, or just that glimmer of instinctual hope, he didn’t understand why he even bothered. His outlook on life had considerably darkened since March when the first tragedy had struck this family. 

So why still hope when the universe only has grief in store for the Starks? Bran exhales slowly, knowing that if he too gives into despair and abandonment, there would be nothing stopping from swallowing his family whole. “She will, you’ll see.” She has to. He couldn’t let his little brother have a companion to the abandonment he had always felt. He had to at least voice another view, even though Bran’s initial belief was dwindling.

And why should he not let it fade away? Arya might as well be dead, and Sansa couldn’t come home. She too might be caught in a riot and then it would be Jon next. There were never ending possibilities of horror to become of his family. So why did he still hang on to hope?

The scamper of Rickon’s feet and eventual tax on the springs of his bed was welcome. He lays down on his bed with ease, and Bran couldn’t help but think rather bemusedly, that his brother didn’t have to worry about him kicking his legs in sleep.

Bran himself was in half a laying down and sitting up position, pillows under his back raised him a bit higher, along with the pillow in between his legs to negate hypertension. He looks over at his brother as he spoke again and raises his brow once more. 

That, had been the furthest thing from the second youngest Stark’s mind. There has to be a funeral, of course. “Mum would want us to.” He adds, with a silent so would dad, echoing in his head. Though would he? Would Ned Stark truly force his children into stiff clothes for an even stiffer occasion? Naturally, Bran thought yes. “Didn’t you get a suit when you two went shopping?” This is easier, he realized. Talking about arbitrary things such as suits and the like. “I…I don’t think she’ll make you, but it’d be nice, I think.” He nodded once, licking his lips as a distraction to himself. 

The silence surrounds them, and Bran doesn’t like this amounting pressure, knowing it is going to either be him or Rickon who pops the silence with that question. Bran can assume that since Rickon had wanted to stay in here, that he wasn’t alright, not at all. Though it would be good for them to talk about it, right? Without anyone else present. 

"Are you alrigh-" He stops, how stupid was that, he just admitted to himself that he knew Rickon wasn’t okay, and the first thing he thinks to ask him is if he was okay? Rolling his eyes, he tries again, "I mean, do you want to talk…about it." About da dying, was a thought, but he couldn’t bring those words to life, not in front of a brother who he didn’t know how he was taking it.

[actuallycannibal]

The suit his mother had bought him had been meant for a different occasion. A photo-op, he thought then, when the time comes of the family of Scotland's Prime Minister at much more promising occasion, like Scotland winning its Independence or his sisters coming home. Not this -- not as he and whatever family he has left stood by the sidelines watching as they place a casket six feet under with his father's body inside. 

This wasn't supposed to be the way things happened, but they were and it's unfair.

He lets the silence drag on as long as he could with only the sound of Shaggydog whimpering on the floor as the dog tried to find which spot on the hardwood was the comfiest filling the quiet gaps. Bran says out loud what he couldn't find the right words to ask.  He feels alright, he thinks, which is perhaps what's bothering him for the most part.  Shouldn't he feel a bit more sad, a bit more pain than this?  

Rickon settles with, "I'm fine, I think," instead. He wants to ask Bran if he thinks that now Da's dead, they'd let Sansa come home. She has to. Her family needs her as much as she needs them. But there's a sinking feeling a the pit of his stomach and he knows better than to think that way. Too ideal, too hopeful  and even as he remembers his mother saying that England still holds people who they love and love them in return, he knows the South had been nothing but cruel. 

"I wonder if Sansa knows," he mutters. "Or Jon…" Arya too, but who even knows where Arya was, if she was even alive. Probably not too. If it the riots hasn't gotten to her just yet, surely something else will. He thinks about the cold winds, the longer nights -- no, not that. Arya is a Stark still; she was made of thicker skin. 

"I wonder if Robb cried, when he found out," he adds. "Did you cry?"

[actuallycannibal]

someday, my pain will mark you | 26 september 2012, late evening (bran & rickon)

[bransstarked]

The door shuts again, and Bran closes his eyes, inhaling for a moment. Mum hasn’t been home yet today, and Bran doesn’t even want to admit it to himself, but he’s worried. What if something’s happened to her? What if she’s dead, what then? Squeezing his eyes tighter, as a method to forget about that dreadful thought, he looks at his brother, “I’m sure she’ll be home in the morning, or later tonight.” He nodded positively, but it did nothing to lessen the worry in his heart.

He notices harshly, that Rickon takes to sitting on the floor. If it were any other day, Bran would’ve insisted on sitting either on his bed, or in a chair. He finds that it doesn’t matter where Rickon sits, it doesn’t make anything better, so why bother him with a suggestion. 

At his brother’s words, he can’t help but gape at him. Long since were the days of Rickon’s little patter of his feet as he ran into Bran’s room to escape the darkness of his own. Neither of them were children anymore, Bran least of all, but they were still kids. Rickon’s question reminded him of that. 

"Of course," He says, the tone in his voice suggesting that there never really was another alternative. If the brothers of the Stark families had to be paired off, and Jon was Robb’s, then Rickon was Bran’s. It had always been like that. Bran was the one that Rickon came to in the middle of the night. Age hadn’t stopped that, it had just made it more meaningful. 

Besides, who was he to send him away when Bran was craving anything other than solitude? It was unlike him, especially in recent months, and he knows that’s his fault, He let everyone drift apart in his struggles when he should’ve held onto them tighter. Maybe somethings would’ve been different if he had.

"Are you going to sleep on the floor?" He cocks an eyebrow at his brother across the room, feeling as though they were four and seven, but Bran’s spirit still weighted heavily making him feel a lot older than his fifteen years.

[actuallycannibal]

He's nibbling on his nails, restless and quiet. I'm sure she'll be home in the morning, or later tonight. If that was his brother's attempt at comforting words, it fails and it leaves Rickon with only a sinking feeling that that won't be the case. For all the people who have walked out of Winterfell, few have come back if not at all. Robb is still there, but he knows in time he'll have to leave like the rest of them. 

Did his brother really believe what he said or was it for Rickon's own sake?

"No, she won't be back," he muttered under his breath with just a hint of bitterness, and hoping that Bran had heard it clearly enough. The earlier they accept now that this was how things were going to be, the better it would be for both of them. (The more important it was for both of them to keep close with one another. The pack, his father had always said. The pack survives.)

He shifts a little on the floor, considering for a moment that maybe he could sleep on the floor that night, head buried in Shaggydog's fur and salvage the pain in his lower back come the next morning. Or not. He pushes himself from the floor and scrambles towards Bran's bed, loose screws ringing as jumps on top.

Rickon lies down on his back, looking up at the ceiling. There's something in the room -- an elephant, a gray cloud of sorts. A part of him wants to ask how Bran feels, what he thinks, but how does he go about it exactly. "What'd you reckon," he starts, turning to look at Bran sidelong an eyebrow raised. "You think we'll have to wear proper suits for --" The funeral. He shrugs. "You know?"

[nmimarks]

[actuallycannibal]

someday, my pain will mark you | 26 september 2012, late evening (bran & rickon)

[bransstarked]

When Robb had left soon after Rickon’s abrupt departure, Bran stayed in place, sitting up on his bed. Numb wasn’t the correct word for how he was feeling, but it was the closest thing he could feel at that moment. As soon as the door clicked shut, he was left alone with himself, and his thoughts. Bran had understood what his brother had told him, but he couldn’t help the confusion and the denial that followed. 

It couldn’t be real, it shouldn’t be real and yet, when he put his legs to the task, they couldn’t move. In dreams, they always moved. And then, his sight was blurred by tears, but there wasn’t any emotion behind them. It was as if his body was sadder than his mind, and he furiously wiped them away. Glad for his brother’s closing of the door, he slammed the palms of his hands up into his eye sockets. 

The bed jostled underneath him and Summer’s presence was felt by his side. Warmth radiated off from the animal, and Bran looked at his dog, Summer’s golden eyes mirroring an emotion that Bran couldn’t describe. Though Summer was here, always here. Bran grabbed a fist full of the dog’s fur, and wondered why things were still being taken from him. 

This whole year had been one after another after another. It hurt Bran to realize this. As he had been finally cleared for treatment, and was going to get better. None of it mattered now. What was the point in working to get better if his father would never see him stand again? It was selfish, but Bran couldn’t help it as he buried his face in his dog’s fur, the tears coming unbidden from his eyes. He couldn’t help but think that this was all against him. Benjen died because of him, and now his father was dead, and it didn’t make any sense for him to blame any of it on himself, but it would’ve made things easier. It would’ve had him and Rickon both go down with the rest of the family like they ought to have. They would’ve had more time together. Bran felt as though he hadn’t seen his father in months, and for the most part that was true, but if he hadn’t fallen, there would’ve been more time.

Night fell eventually, as it was prone to do, and although Bran had stopped himself from crying, he couldn’t stop the heaviness of his chest. He had fallen asleep sometime between the two points and was woken when Summer jumped suddenly from the bed. He wondered if it was his mother, coming in to check on him, doing the rounds, but at his brother’s voice, Bran felt at the least bit relieved. He had had enough of being alone this afternoon. “Yeah, Rickon. I’m up.” He said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and dried tears off his cheeks. Had his brother cried at all? For some reason, Bran hoped so. 

As his brother came into his room, Bran didn’t know exactly what to say. ‘What’s up’, didn’t quite cut it, and ‘how are you doing’, was not a question he himself wanted to answer so he settled for, “Have you seen mum yet?” 

[actuallycannibal]

"No," he mutters a reply, shaking his head. Shaggydog's fur brushes past his legs as the dog enters the room and rushes towards Summer before jumping up at the bed next to Bran. Rickon instead remains stood by the doorway, hands still gripping at the doorknob. 

What does he say now? It was so much easier before to admit that he needed Bran's company and now, he's left mustering some lame excuse in his head. I wanted to check how you were, he thinks but that's not exactly it. It's much more true to think that what he really wanted some sort of comfort that neither being alone in the dark or letting that familiar rage swell in his chest could ever provide. 

"I don't know where she is," he adds as the door shuts behind him, gaze fixed down on his feet.

Rickon is careful as he crosses the room, sitting nearer towards the wall rather than making his way closer to the bed. The room is lit only by a dim bedside lamp, it's far too cloudy outside to be able to make out the moon or any faint scattered glint from stars. He finally looks up when Shaggy nuzzles his cheek, and tries to make out Bran's expression. Had his brother been crying? Maybe it's just the lighting. For Rickon, he would hate it if anyone ever mentioned seeing him cry. For Rickon, had it been his brother who had showed up at the doorway, he would probably have refused Bran.

He's thankful now that his brother had let him.

"I couldn't sleep," he says, scratching Shaggy behind his ear. "Can I -- uh, stay here for the night?"

[actuallycannibal]

someday, my pain will mark you | 26 september 2012, late evening (bran & rickon)

There's no telling how long he's kept to himself, with only Shaggydog close by his side. He's measured time by the way the afternoon sun had dipped into the horizon, and blue skies bleeding a deep orange and a deeper purple until there was nothing but black. In the dark of his own bedroom, he waited for sadness to come. Even just a hint, a small inkling, a sharp pang in his chest, tears scratching at the back of his throat -- but none has, only void. 

He had stormed off shortly after the conversation with Robb, slamming the door behind him, and when Old Nan, Hodor, and one of the Stark drivers tried to get him out of his room, Shaggydog stood by the doorway, nails digging into the hardwood, growling under his breath. Any step closer, the dog would not hesitate to attack, tearing skin between his teeth, and Rickon would not have the heart or mind to stop and control him. 

Death was not unfamiliar; it had come and gone earlier in the summer with the news of Uncle Benjen caught in the riots. But even for that, Rickon had felt near to nothing which he had mistaken for sadness then, not just emptiness. No, this is should be different, he knows. Da's -- dead? He couldn't say the word just yet -- gone, he managed to repeat once and a couple of more times in his head, thinking maybe if he says it enough, it would sink in that he would never see his father again, that he hadn't even had the chance to say a proper goodbye.

Shaggydog is laying at the foot of his bed, one paw over the mangled old wolf stuff toy that used to be his until his dog had claimed it as it own. It had been a present from his dad, he remembers now; a toy he clung on to on nights when Old Nan would tell him and Bran stories about long winter nights that lasted days, about the Others. He'd stay with Bran then; because Bran would understand.

Rickon pushed himself out of bed, barefeet against the cold wood, before gesturing Shaggydog to follow him out his bedroom and down the hallway. They passed by Bran's old bedroom before his brother was moved down to the first floor, before the accident and everything turned to shit. He looked over his shoulders, taking a quick glance at his parent's bedroom. Probably empty. He doesn't know where his mother is.

"Bran?" he whispers, carefully pushing the door ajar. "Are you --" He stopped, nibbling at the bottom of his lips. "Are you awake?"

[brynden-the-blackfish-blog]

You read a book that thought it could read your mind [ Brynden & Rickon; 1st September; morning ]

[brynden-the-blackfish-blog]

He saw the look on Rickon’s face and laughed softly, " Yes i know i find it hard to believe i was young once too," He said, and continued in a softer voice, " I’ve been old for too long," He wondered if a fourteen year old Brynden ever imagined himself as a sixty-three year old. He hoped that he had imagined someone other than what he had become.

" No, no i don’t," He smiled faintly, beating the batter, " I wish i was though, sometimes at least- But that’s what happens when you make mistakes and learn from them, i suppose. You change, and you grow up, and i would like to think i did so for the better,"

He waved a hand dismissively, " Ah, you’ll also end up talking about wishing you were young when you get old. I’m waffling on now, sorry,"

Brynden nodded, " Yes, she told me," He paused for a moment and watched as Rickon grinned and laughed when Shaggydog tugged on the bone in his hand and when he spoke again, Brynden raised his brow, interested, " Was that what got you expelled? Because you broke someone’s nose?"

" And why did he deserve it?"

[actuallycannibal]

He doesn't think about it too much and in that moment when he did, only indifference comes to mind. He'll eventually grow old, that he could accept and dwelling on something else other than inevitable seems futile. He's young now and really that was all that mattered -- only fourteen which really doesn't feel any different from yesterday when he had only been thirteen.

"Well!" He stressed the word, grins widely as though he was holding back some excitement else it would burst into just nonsense. "It was sort of the reason why I got expelled… but there's more. You know --" Rickon shrugged nonchalantly.

"They call it bad behaviour and stuff like that. Breaking the kid's nose was just the last straw. Guess they couldn't handle me anymore." It's still there on his mind, the disappointment in his parents' faces and all Rickon could manage was an elated feeling of triumph. He could only think about how he no longer had to spend eight hours everyday sat on a chair being told what to do every minute. He was free and he couldn't understand why no one else saw that but him.

He scoffed, taking a quick glance at Shaggydog who was still too preoccupied with the bone on the floor. "Well, of course he did!" he chided. "He kept making fun of me, that asshole. You should have seen his face when I hit him -- bloody and crying." He smiled briefly, out of pride before he caught his uncle's eyes and he just frowned. Whatever he's done, they may call it a mistake. But Rickon has always worn his bruises and scars and mistakes like prized possessions. 

"Anyway, school's shit. I'm glad I'm out of it so, it doesn't matter."

[baratheonshireen-blog]

text message → rickon {september 27th}

[baratheonshireen-blog]

Message : i wasn’t supposed to sen

Message : rickon u r the actual worse omg

Message : omg yes uwu

Message : yeah, skype sounds good! poke me on FB when you’re free :3 

Message : that does not look like a butt come on

[actuallycannibal]

message: how do i poke on fb?

message: alright

[baratheonshireen-blog]

text message → rickon {september 27th}

[baratheonshireen-blog]

Message : if you say so! i’ll still worry tho, i’m a worrier

Message : take care

Message : talk to u soon! <3

[actuallycannibal]

message: <3 looks like an ass

message: wanna skype

message: we should skype

message: skype?

[baratheonshireen-blog]

text message → rickon {september 27th}

[baratheonshireen-blog]

[ Her fingers are positioned to type something silly, something to make him forget, since she was never good at expressing her concern anyway, but the last message makes her pause. There is a horrible nauseating feeling at the pit of her stomach and she wants to toss the phone away. She’s angry, for a brief second.]

Message : rickon D:

Message : i probably wouldn’t be talking to anyone. might go in a killing rampage if the mood strikes me, but don’t get any ideas

Message : i’m sorry for bothering you :( i was just worried, that’s all. i’m very bad with emotions, sorry.

[actuallycannibal]

message: i really didnt want to kn-

message: thanks anyway

message: dont worry about me. i've got shaggy

message: :)

[baratheonshireen-blog]

text message → rickon {september 27th}

[baratheonshireen-blog]

Message : i can totally read sarcasm ur just bad at being sarcastic

Message : are you really okay tho D: gotta text whee

Message : i’m ok! dealing with homework and other boring things. wbu? still biting people in school?

[actuallycannibal]

message: sounds awful

message: no im not

[He stop -- deletes and retypes the same message over and over again. What does Shireen want? If this is her idea of distracting him, of making him feel better, it isn't working.]

message: look. if your dad died, would you be ok?

message: leave me alone

[baratheonshireen-blog]

text message → rickon {september 27th}

[baratheonshireen-blog]

Message : you are surprisingly ok with thi

Message : well, it’s good to know everything is ok!

Message : shut up i’m bad at geography hOW ARE YOU STILL A DI

[actuallycannibal]

message: it really sucks you can't read sarcasm

message: what do u want?

message: how r u