Rickon scanned the room yet again; it was beautiful, he supposed, if you liked that sort of thing. He didn’t, however, as he predicted. There were flowers everywhere; pink, yellow, red, orange, all different colours, mostly roses, but some others as well: he found himself quite overwhelmed by the scent. The walls and ceiling were a mass of marble, gilded gold and delicate paintings of a variety of things: flowers, children, lakes, trees, all in gentle, but warm, colours. There were a wide variety of costumes and masks on display, many in bright, vibrant colours, covered with jewels, some more sedate, with dark or pale colours.
Rickon himself felt quite uncomfortable in his outfit, brand new and stiffly starched, fiercely clean but rather itchy; nothing that gave him anywhere near the freedom of movement he was used to in his hunting clothes. The leather of his boots was stiff, and the mask felt unpleasant on his face; and he didn’t like having lost his peripheral vision; perhaps he didn’t need it now, but it was disconcerting no matter the circumstances for a hunter.
Shaggy beside him was no more comfortable with the situation; his fur was fluffy and soft, and a lot less matted than usual, thanks to his having been given a thorough wash and comb this morning. It felt strange to Rickon’s fingers when he stroked Shaggy’s fur. It was true that Shaggy often bathed in the pools in the godswood at Winterfell, or in the streams throughout the wolfswood, but it was never anything like the thorough scrub he had been given with warm water in a tub this morning, with all the creams and oils and soaps that had been rubbed through his fur. It had, naturally, not been Rickon’s idea, and Rickon himself had disapproved when he first heard, but the maid who had suggested it, knowing about Rickon and Shaggy’s attendance at the ball d persuaded Rickon to coax Shaggy into it, with promises of a nice roll in the mud tomorrow. The same maid, who had helped Rickon to wash Shaggy, hadn’t believed that Shaggy could understand him, but Rickon knew he could. She would most likely have lost a hand or arm if she had tried to wash Shaggy without Rickon there too.
So far, Rickon had not done much. He had spoken briefly to Joseph, and had spent a while hovering alongside Robb and Sansa. He watched all the people dancing, not feeling the slightest desire to join in: there was fabric of all different colours swishing about everywhere to the light, happy, fast music being played by the musicians. The light from the candles and torches glittered wonderfully on all the masks. Rickon had discovered that the matter of everyone wearing masks, despite the physical discomfort of wearing one, rather positive. He enjoyed not having to look at people’s faces, not having to look at expressions of judgement, shock, or smirks, as their features were obscured. He enjoyed people not being able to look at his face too.
He looked out of the window at the wide, pitch black sky with the bright, pearly moon and stars, and the trees being swept by the wind, wishing he could feel it on his skin himself. He wondered how long it would be before it would be considered acceptable to sneak out.
He sensed a figure approaching behind him. He turned, and asked, “do you know if there’s any more ale?” Rickon asked. There was far more wine than ale at the ball, and all the ale jugs Rickon had checked were empty already; ale was far more to Rickon’s taste than wine, especially red, southern wine, so very different to the sharp white wine served in Winterfell.
