Oathkeeper

Chapter 60: The War To Come

Rickon's bright auburn curls tossed in the breeze he curated as he rushed across the castle grounds. He stumbled over his empty weapon belt which slipped down his waist everytime his cane hit the floor. Both of his boots were untied and something about the lining of the pants he wore underneath his doublet didn't sit quite right. Sapphire followed behind him, her tail raised high and her tongue hanging out as she most likely assumed they were going to play a game.

This was the second time he dragged his feet towards attending to his squirship duties, and after the last, he never wanted to be late again. Ser Malson made him hold two pails filled with water, with his arms extended outwards for what felt like hours. If his elbows buckled, the time restarted. If any water spilled, the time restarted. By the end of the day his arms were rendered uselessly numb, and refused to follow whatever brain signals sent to the dangling noodles. He hoped his injury would grant him a pass, especially being that they were meeting in a different corridor than they did yesterday. Although he could barely remain upright without the support of his wooden stick, Ser Malson managed to find other ways to ensure he continued to progress.

The boy rose on time, but when he went to his mothers' chamber to pick over whatever remained of their breakfast, the two managed to pull him into yet another petty disagreement. Animosity stood between the two. Rickon noticed it, half of the small council noticed it, and even some of the castle workers. For the last fifteen years, whenever they roamed the courtyard, they'd move in unison as their arms were always linked. But ever since the couple returned from Castle Cerwyn, they stood at least a foot apart, silently scowling.

Despite their attempts to keep their squabbles within their own ears, Rickon spent more and more time with the knights of Winterfell. They were the ones who informed him about the events that transpired at Castle Cerwyn. At first he was somewhat shocked to hear that Sansa was the one who possessed that kind of vengeance, then he remembered the state she'd been in since everything transpired that night. He remained unsure of what to think on the matter. He only wished that his mothers' would find their way back to a strong united front, for everyone's sake.

After stopping to tighten his belt he continued on until he finally reached the courtyard. Ser Malson stood alone in the center behind the small groups that passed through the castle ground. His left hand sat over the pommel of his sword, and his helmet was tucked underneath his arm. As the prince and his wolf grew closer, Ser Malsons eyes traveled downwards, almost to the floor.

"What's wrong with your bottoms?" He said only speaking from the left side of his mouth.

Rickon stopped a few feet in front of the man, catching a small glimpse of the black furball as his eyes traveled to his feet. He noticed the lacing of his boots sprawled across the dirty slush curated by the melting snow, but nothing else.

"What do you mean?"

"Look," He physically pointed this time.

His eyes traveled back downwards, now taking note of the awkward distance between the top of his boots and the bottom of his pants. There were short at least three incches, giving the boy a rather foolish look than a proper one. 

"I swear mother just had these made," He scoffed.

"I think they've got your measurements wrong," Ser Malson laughed.

"The last time they took them was the fourth time this year," Rickon rolled his eyes, "I think my legs are growing by the night,"

"You're probably right. The cane makes it hard to tell," He shrugged.

Rickon hated using that stupid cane. His wound had been healing for a little over a month. Yet still, he was bound to it. Grand Maester Horden suggested that it would be a while before he could move without it, let alone partake in any sort of swordplay. His fight with Mikah changed him permanently, and not just physically. It seemed as if fighting and beating someone who possessed so much unwarranted hate for himself, brought about a new form of confidence. He began to like fighting, and not just because he was good at it. Before he always saw himself wielding a sword because his size and name suggested he was meant to. Now, instead of viewing it as a way to prove himself, he saw it as a way to prove them wrong.