The Songs of Winter | Robb Stark

Chapter 19

Carlisle Umber

Rickon sits rigid on his horse, gripping the reins so tightly his knuckles turn white. I stand in front of him, my hands resting on the saddle, trying to calm his nerves. Sansa lounges in the grass nearby, lost in her own world as she builds something with sticks and vines, her attention detached from the lesson.

"Okay, Rickon," I say, keeping my voice steady. "The horse can sense if you're afraid, so it's important to trust it. If you tense up, it'll pick up on that. Just relax."

Rickon sighs, frustration clear on his young face. "How can I trust it when I'm the one supposed to be guiding it? Shouldn't it be trusting me?"

I smirk slightly. "Yeah, well, the horse isn't going to trust you if you're terrified of it. Like I said, loosen your grip a bit—no need to pull on the reins like you're holding a wild beast."

He glances down at the horse, uncertainty clouding his expression. His hands tug nervously at the reins, and the horse shifts beneath him, picking up on his discomfort.

"You're holding them too tight," I say, reaching up to adjust his grip. "Give the reins some slack. It's not a tug-of-war. You guide it with gentle pressure, not force."

Sansa's soft laughter drifts through the air as she shapes her little construction of sticks. "Just remember when you used to pretend you were a knight riding into battle. Think of it like that."

Rickon's face flushes, but her teasing seems to relax him a little. His grip on the reins loosens, and the horse stops fidgeting.

"Now," I continue, stepping back, "try again. Take a deep breath, relax your hands, and give the horse a gentle nudge with your heels. Don't force it—just guide it."

Rickon inhales deeply and does as I instruct, lightly tapping the horse with his heels. For a moment, everything seems fine. The horse takes a slow, measured step forward, and Rickon's tense posture begins to relax. He glances at me, a flicker of pride in his eyes.

But then, without warning, the horse's ears flick back, and it suddenly bolts forward, spooked by something. Rickon's expression shifts from pride to pure panic as the horse takes off across the field, galloping wildly.

"Rickon!" I shout, immediately running after him.

Sansa scrambles to her feet, her face pale with fear. "Rickon, pull the reins!"

But Rickon is too terrified to act. He clings desperately to the reins, holding on for dear life as the horse thunders ahead, out of control. His shouts echo through the open space, growing fainter as he races further away from us.

I chase after him, my feet pounding against the mud and dirt of the forest, but the horse is too fast. Sansa, still trailing behind me, stumbles through the field, fear evident in her wide eyes.

Suddenly, Rickon's grip falters. His small frame sways violently as the horse leaps over a small ditch. In that split second, Rickon loses his balance and slips from the saddle. He crashes to the ground with a sickening thud, rolling through the dirt before coming to a stop.

"Rickon!" I shout, rushing forward.

Sansa gasps, her hands flying to her mouth, but she pushes through the shock and hurries after me.

I reach Rickon first, skidding to my knees beside him. "Are you alright?" I ask, my heart pounding in my chest as I gently shake him. He groans in response, eyes fluttering open, but there's no blood. No broken limbs. He's just winded and dazed.

Before I can pull him to his feet, the sound of heavy hooves of horses approaches from behind. Turning quickly, I spot a group of armed soldiers—men from my house. Their faces are hard, their weapons drawn, and their intentions clear.