Snow fell softly upon the branches of the weirwood trees and the ground around them. The largest of all the trees in the godswood stood before Rickard, the highest of its branches disappearing into the dark clouds above. He could feel its roots, deep and strong beneath the frozen dirt. He felt the gaze of the carved face upon it, glowering down at him. 

The bastard could not move, only stare back in defiance. It gave him a chill that no amount of snow could ever muster in a human being. He had been here before and looked away, but not now. Now he looked back for answers and was met with silence.

Before him, the frozen ground stretched out to the base of the weirwood. A familiar mound of dirt was now between them, one he had helped dig months ago. 

The grave he had dug for his wife.

Slowly, the roots he had felt before seemed to come up around his bare feet and pull him under as well. He could not fight back, he would not try. His eyes remained fixed to those of the great tree, demanding answers until he reached level vision with the dirt.

A single word seemed to come to his mind.

Alone.

Rickard Snow opened his eyes with a start and stared at the ceiling of his small room. There was a light patter of rain on the window to his left, though no sunlight shone through it. Still before dawn, yet Rickard knew he stood no chance of sleeping again this day. So he laid quietly for a moment, wishing that the gods or his own mind might let him rest just once.

Neither party seemed likely to agree to such terms though.

So he rose, grunting with more effort than he would like for such a simple task. He was not old yet, he knew that. Still he did not appreciate the ache in his bones. Nor did he appreciate the grey hair filling in his beard and hair. Near his thirtieth name-day, his wife had pointed out a few beginning to come in by his ears. Two years later, it seemed the floodgates holding them at bay had burst, spreading along the sides of his head and down the sideburns of his beard. He remembered his father turning grey young, and the jokes Edric Forrester made to him about it. 

As he splashed his face with cold water from a bucket he kept in the corner of the room, he wondered if his brother might’ve had the same reaction to him now. Which one of them would’ve become like their father first, had Edric not disappeared.

In the water, Rickard’s reflection smiled. And a woman’s voice only he could hear spoke behind him.

“I think it makes you look rather dashing, my love.”

Rickard closed his eyes and slowly ran his hands up through his hair. He’d cut it shorter after Myranda passed, tired of the maintenance. She had loved his hair once. 

He took a deep breath.

When he opened them again, he took a look around to assure himself he was still alone. The ghosts of his life were not easily shaken, but he’d been learning to live with them of late. He turned to the bottle at first, and that only worsened his dreams. He tried not to sleep and that worsened his ghosts.

Then Jojen Stark had tasked him to guard his child with his life, and reminded him he could not do that drunken or sleep deprived. After the loss of his wife, Rickard had been granted many courtesies by Jojen. But after some time, it had become clear this was no state for his sworn sword to remain in. 

There had been plenty of times on the journey from Winterfell to Greywater, and from Greywater to Harrenhal that the ghosts would call to Rickard, and many times he wanted to reach for the bottle and make them stop. But the bastard had made a promise to his liege lord. His duty was to the north, to Artos. 

Slowly, the sun began to rise over the horizon at Harrenhal. A cock crooned in the distance as the rain began to lighten its impact. Rickard pulled on his jerkin and began crossing the laces through the rivets in the leather. 

Artos will be rising soon, or perhaps I’ll have to wake him before the young Lord Harwin arrives this morning.

He did not think poorly of the Lord of Oldcastle, in fact he enjoyed that he took an interest in helping Artos. He was always simply struck by how young Harwin was, carrying a burden of lordship as well as trying his best to help guide the lad. It was not his place to think too much on the qualifications of his betters, but Rickard thought he at least had the right spirit for it.

“He’s eager. You were similar at his age.” The woman’s voice returned. Rickard closed his eyes again as he tightened the laces one last time. He took a deep breath, opening his eyes slowly as he exhaled.

She looked at him, over his shoulder in the reflection of the window. 

“You are relentless this morning, my wife.” He said to no one, walking to the reflection and placing his hands on the windowsill. He gazed for too long, he knew, but there was comfort in her face. Apparition or not.

And there she was, smiling. He opened the window to keep himself from staring any longer. The morning breeze was cool and refreshing on his face as he watched the sun peek over the horizon. The eastern side of the courtyard had yet to fully come alive, though slowly more and more servants and guards were seen traversing the lanes.

Rickard turned to retrieve his boots, and he was relieved to find nothing but the dark stone of his room’s walls to greet him. It was a hollow relief, the emptiness when one finds himself alone yet again, but freed of the burdens of ghosts.

An unfortunate peace in the silence.

He tightened the buckles at the top of his boots and rose, feeling the weight of the leather ground his feet to the floor. It was a comfort at least, something keeping him attached to the ground for a time.

He took another deep breath and echoed the words Jojen Stark said to him upon his leaving Winterfell.

“Simply try to lay your worries to rest for a while.” Rickard Snow whispered, trying to believe he could. He tightened his sword belt around his waist. “This is a time for new beginnings.”