[Winterfell, 5th moon, 298AC]
The gates of Winterfell stood tall, their black iron grates freshly oiled and flanked by carved direwolves whose stone fangs gleamed in the morning sun. Rare was such a clear day in the North, even rarer that the sun cast warmth rather than mere light. The sky was pale and sharp above, streaked with thin silver clouds, and the chill wind whispered through the banners of House Stark that fluttered atop the ramparts, gray direwolf on white, ever watchful.
Alaric Stark stood at the center of it all.
His cloak was white, made from snow bear fur, a great beast he had felled just the week prior while out on a hunt with his two direwolf companions, clasped with a brooch of wrought iron shaped like a direwolf's head, its garnet eyes glinting like twin coals. He wore black ringmail beneath a surcoat of deep gray trimmed in white fur, the greatsword Ice was strapped to his back, more so for show, but always ready for anything. He stood still, calm, yet coiled like a drawn longbow. His eyes were locked on the gates, though he heard every breath behind him, every shuffle of boot and rustle of fur.
To his right stood Alys Karstark, Alys Stark, now, and not yet a moon a bride. Her brown hair had been braided into a northern crown, a silver-fur cloak draped over her slim shoulders, the Karstark sunburst brooch gleaming at her breast. Her arm was wrapped around his, a quiet yet warm embrace.
Behind her sat Cinder, the brown-red direwolf with eyes the color of warm honey. She was alert, ears perked, but still as a statue. At Alaric's left, Tempest, his storm-gray male, let out a low breath like a mountain wind. Alaric did not need to look to know the great wolf's ears were forward and his eyes sharp.
To Alaric's left was Eddard Stark, Future Lord of Moat Cailin, and Warden of the Causeway, his uncle, the man who raised him like one of his own. Ned's lined face was stern, though his eyes betrayed the storm beneath. This was no small visit. The king came north not for Alaric, not for the North, but for Ned. Always for Ned. There was love in it, but also wariness.
And next to Ned stood Lady Catelyn, her auburn hair pinned high in the southern style, her expression courteous and composed. Tundra sat beside the two, of a height with Ned when sitting on her hind quarters. Catelyn had insisted that the children be arranged from oldest to youngest. Robb stood proudly beside her, tall and red-haired, Ysilla Stark, once Royce, his own new bride of just three weeks, at his side in a cloak of Royce russet and Stark gray, the two had been practically attached at the hip since their joint wedding.
'It won't be long before a babe is announced.' Alaric mused with a slight smile as he turned from them, going further down the line
Sansa, beautiful and poised in her mother's image, stood near Arya, who fidgeted even now. Bran stood with hands clasped behind his back like a young lordling in court, while Rickon clung to Shaggy Dog's fur. The direwolf pup, like his siblings, was already larger than a hound.
Jon stood at the end of the line, although of age with Robb, he was still a Snow, and yet, Alaric wouldn't allow the boy to be hidden away somewhere, no, whether he held the name Stark or not was of no matter, he still shasred the same blood that the rest of them did, that blood was the blood of Kings
Next to the children sat their companions, Lady, Nymeria, Grey Wind, and Ghost, the direwolves arranged deliberately as Alaric had ordered, so the king and his court would know.
'They go where we go.'
Off to the right, Lord Benjen Stark of Sea Dragon's Point, having stayed at Winterfell following the wedding, stood beside his wife Dacey Mormont, his own great she-wolf, Frost, sat beside them, their children, Rickard, Lyarra, and young Cregan, lined up and still, a miracle where Cregan was concerned. Their wolves sat dutifully beside them, watchful. The sight of so many direwolves together had a gravity all its own. No one who saw the beasts could mistake the blood they represented.
Behind the main line, the assembled retainers, wards, and household guards stood in quiet strength. Ser Torrhen Stark stood like a statue of blackened oak, his son Rodrik beside him. Lord Artos Stark and his brood from High Hill flanked the left, while Benjicot Stark of White Harbor and his children stood proud and well-dressed. Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik Cassel, and Ser Jory Cassel, Ned's future Commander of his Household guard, stood with the rest of the Winterfell household, all waiting.
The entirety of House Stark, branch lines and all, would be in attendance for the King's arrival.
The Greycloaks and their officers, the Winter Guard, stood arrayed behind the Starks, a showing of pride and power.
A herald's horn blew from atop the gatehouse, its call echoing off the stone. Then came the cry:
"The King approaches! The royal party enters Winterfell!" A Greycloak shouted from the ramparts
The courtyard hushed. Footsteps shifted. The great gates creaked open.
They came through slowly, the sound of hooves on stone crisp and regal.
First rode Ser Jaime Lannister, gleaming in sunlight. His golden armor shone like the sun itself, his white cloak flowing behind him. Too bright by half, Alaric thought. Jaime's lion-helmed visage turned slightly as he passed through, his expression unreadable, as though every man he saw was beneath his notice.
Next rode a youth, tall for his age, but that was all. His golden hair curled in perfect southern fashion, and the black and gold of his doublet shone with the golden stag and lion, quartered to signify his parentage.
Prince Joffrey.
His face was smooth, his features finely wrought. But his eyes... there was something reptilian behind them. His smile was fixed, but his gaze was sharp and hungry.
Alaric saw his eyes dart, not to Him, nor to the banners, but toward Sansa, Ysilla, and then, lingering a moment too long, Alys.
Alaric did not react. But his hands clenched behind his back.
The wheelhouse came last, too wide to pass through Winterfell's gate. It rolled to a halt outside, and a moment later, the Queen stepped down.
Cersei Lannister, clad in a gown of crimson and gold thread, descended with the grace of a lioness and all the chill of a frost-wight. She wore displeasure like a veil, her eyes scanning Winterfell like one might inspect a beast for fleas. Behind her came the younger children, Myrcella, pretty and pink-cheeked, and Tommen, sturdy and wide-eyed.
And then, at last, came the King.
Robert Baratheon, mounted on a black destrier that snorted and stamped. His armor, once famed, now strained against his gut. He had grown thick as a cask, his black beard shot with gray, his eyes bloodshot but merry. His crown was plain iron ringed in gold, a warrior's crown, at odds with the softness of the man beneath it.
He raised a hand and bellowed, "Ho, Winterfell! By the gods, it's colder than a whore's heart up here!"
The courtyard broke into laughter.
Alaric stepped forward and dropped to one knee. The rest of House Stark followed.
"Your Grace," Alaric said, his voice deep and calm, "Winterfell is yours."
Robert laughed, a sound like thunder across the hills. "Up, up, all of you. We're not in bloody court." He dismounted with a grunt and tossed his helm to a squire. "Alaric Stark, aye? The boy who led the assault of Pyke!" He reached out.
Alaric stood and grasped Robert's forearm.
"I was only ten at the time, Your Grace."
"Then ten grown men owe you their lives," Robert said, clapping his shoulder. "You've got your father's eyes, lad. And your grandsire's demeanor, I hear."
Alaric gave the faintest smile. "I've made it my own."
Robert moved on down the line.
He stopped before Ned, looking him up and down with a frown.
"You've gotten fat." The king spat out
After a long, palpable silence, Ned looked the king up and down himself, shortly after the two men broke out into a hearty laugh
"Ned!" he roared, and the two old friends embraced, Robert nearly lifting his brother-by-blood from the ground. "Gods, you've gone gray!"
"You've gone soft," Ned replied. But his voice was warm.
"And this must be your lovely wife," Robert said, bowing gallantly to Catelyn. "And all these pups, are they all yours?"
"Everyone," she said, a touch of pride in her voice.
Robert ruffled Rickon's hair, slapped Robb on the shoulder, giving a brief greeting to Ysilla as well, sized up Bran, saying he would be one hell of a fighter, and laughed at Arya's scowl.
He greeted Benjen next, clasping arms and throwing a few words in jest about she-bears and cold nights on the coast. The pleasantries passed swiftly, and soon the Queen stepped forward, frost in every movement.
Introductions followed. Prince Joffrey bowed, his eyes flickering again toward Sansa. Alaric did not blink, but he marked the boy deeply.
"Bah, Ned, Alaric, bring me to the Crypts, I wish to see her." And with that, the trio left for the crypts. The rest of the royal party was shown to their quarters and set up for their stay.
[Down in the crypts]
The flames from the torches flickered as the heavy iron door groaned shut behind them. The noise of the moving groups above faded until it was swallowed whole by the weight of earth and stone. Down here in the crypts, it was cold and silent, save for the drip of water echoing in the distant dark. Alaric breathed deep, the scent of earth, old stone, and memory filling his lungs. His boots struck hollow against the flagstones as he descended into the tomb of kings, fathers, and ghosts.
Robert Baratheon's heavy footfalls echoed behind him. The king had stripped out of his finery and now wore only a thick leather jerkin, a fur-lined cloak draped over his meaty shoulders. Eddard Stark was between them, his grey eyes fixed ahead, jaw tight. In the flickering light, he looked like a statue already carved for his own resting place, stern, cold, full of solemn Northern pride.
"I've not been down here in near twenty years, not since I visited with Ned as boys," Robert said finally, his voice reverberating off the crypt walls. "I'd forgotten how bloody cold it gets. You could freeze your balls off."
Alaric smirked but said nothing. The crypts were always cold, as they should be. The dead needed no warmth, only remembrance.
Ned gave a ghost of a smile. "We dress for it better than most."
Robert snorted, glancing around at the stone statues watching them from alcoves, the faces of ancient kings of Winter now half-worn and cloaked in shadow.
"They all look the same. Somber. Bearded. Grim bastards. Your lot's never changed."
"Time does not touch the North as quickly as it touches the South," Alaric replied quietly. "And the faces you see are the faces that built the Wall, who fought the Night's King, who ruled as kings when the South still warred with bronze blades. They were not carved to smile."
Robert grunted at that, slowing as they passed Lord Rickard's statue. The torches painted his stone face with flickering shadows, making it seem almost alive. Beside him, his eldest son Brandon, the Wild Wolf, stared ahead with stony defiance, and below him, Lyanna. Hers was the only face carved in youth, soft-featured and wild-eyed.
Robert stopped in front of her.
"She was more beautiful than this," he said. "Even stone cannot do her justice."
Ned didn't answer. Alaric looked to his uncle's face, but found only the same stoicism there, a man who bore burdens like another might carry wood for the fire. Ned had spoken little of Lyanna in the years since the Rebellion, and when he did, it was always with the air of someone speaking of the dead as they truly were, not as one wished them to be.
Robert turned his head toward him. "You remember her?"
"I do," Alaric said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was a boy, but even then, I understood she was not like the others. She had the wolf's blood in her."
"Aye," Robert murmured. "She did."
There was a long silence. The air in the crypts felt heavier now, pressing down on the three of them as though the weight of Winterfell itself bore upon their shoulders.
Robert broke it first, as he always did, with his restless energy. "You've done well, Alaric. The North is stronger than I've ever seen it. They say you brought Moat Cailin back to life, made the North come closer to agricultural independence, and have even swelled the coffers of not only Winterfell, but all of the North."
Alaric inclined his head. "We are still wolves. But it helps when the pack runs in the same direction."
Robert laughed. "Seven hells, Ned, your nephew's more of a king than I am."
Ned looked to Alaric, then to Robert. "He's a Stark. And he's built the North to endure what's coming. That's all I ever wanted."
"What's coming?" Robert asked, frowning.
Alaric turned his gaze down the length of the crypts, where deeper shadows gathered. "The world is shifting, Your Grace. The Wildlings speak of dead things walking beyond the Wall. I have received letters from Maester Aemon at Castle Black. He senses it too. The long night stirs again."
Robert made a dismissive sound. "Tales for children. Ghost stories."
"I used to think that," Alaric said, his voice steady. "But then I watched the sea freeze in the North in midsummer. I heard the wolves howl in Moat Cailin for three nights without pause. And I felt a cold wind blow out of the east that had nothing to do with snow or ice. I may be young, but I remember what I was before I was born. Some things should not be forgotten."
That last line made Ned glance at him sidelong. Robert, for his part, gave a puzzled grunt.
"You speak in riddles, lad."
"Perhaps," Alaric said. "But riddles are all we have, for now."
Robert stepped forward and laid a hand on the stone slab beneath Lyanna's effigy. "I would have married her," he said. "I would have loved her. If she had only lived…"
"She didn't want that," Ned said suddenly, quietly but firmly.
Robert turned his head, frowning. "What are you saying?"
Ned met his gaze. "I'm saying Lyanna was not a prize to be won or a crown to be placed on her brow. She was not yours to claim."
Robert's hand fell away from the stone.
"I loved her," he said, his voice low.
"And yet you didn't know her," Alaric said, not unkindly. "She might have loved you, too, in another life. But the gods wove a different thread for her. And for us all."
Robert scowled, but said nothing.
The torchlight shifted as Alaric stepped past them, down toward the deeper crypts where kings slept in unmarked darkness. He stopped before one shadowed alcove where the statue of his great-grandsire, Edwyle Stark, rested. And beside it, the space prepared for Alaric himself. A cold wind swept through the tunnel, though no door had opened.
"Do you still dream of the Rebellion?" Alaric asked softly.
Robert and Ned joined him in the shadows.
"Every night," Robert said. "Of Rhaegar, of the Trident, of her. Always her."
"I don't," Ned said.
That surprised both of them. Robert arched a brow.
"No?" the king asked.
"No," Ned said, his voice quiet. "I dream of snows melting, and the realm prospering."
Robert gave a humorless chuckle. "You're both too grim by half."
"We are Starks," Alaric said, looking at the statues one last time. "And Winter is coming."
They stood there for a long moment, three men, shaped by war, ruled by memory, staring into the long dark of death and legacy. Then Robert clapped them both on the shoulders with his great, meaty hands.
"Well, enough ghosts for one night. There's roast boar and a dozen casks of ale calling my name."
Ned gave a faint smile. "You'll find them and more once the feast is fully prepared."
The king turned and made his way back up the steps. Ned lingered for a heartbeat, then followed.
Alaric stood alone for a time longer, the silence wrapping around him like a shroud. He looked upon the face of his father and grandsire, their visage frozen in time.
Then, torch in hand, he turned and followed the sound of his kin's footsteps back toward the world of the living.
Later that night, the Great Hall]
The Great Hall of Winterfell had been dressed in finery unseen in years. Fires roared in every hearth, and the banners of both House Stark and House Baratheon hung side by side. The long tables groaned under furred cow, venison, trout, and turnips. Honeyed duck, racks of lamb, and blood sausage sizzled in butter. Even the new hearty earthfruit was now present at the tables, slathered in butter and steaming. Casks of Arbor Gold and Northern Mead had been opened in Robert's honor.
Alaric sat at the high table beside Alys. Ned and Catelyn were to his left, with Robb and Ysilla just beyond. On Robert's right was Cersei, her expression souring with every Northern dish laid before her.
Robert was already deep into his third tankard of mead, red-faced and sweating, his laughter booming through the hall.
Alaric sipped sparingly from his own cup, eyes sharp beneath a calm brow. He watched everything.
Watched the way Joffrey whispered to Myrcella while his eyes strayed again and again to Sansa.
Watched the way Jaime Lannister said little, eating like a man inspecting the cut of a blade.
Watched how Cersei drank little and smiled less.
"Your lady is as fierce as she is fair," Robert said, leaning toward Alaric.
"She is of the North, and a Stark now to boot," Alaric said simply. "That says enough."
Robert grinned and raised his tankard. "To House Stark, old wolves and young! May you never bow!"
"To the King," Alaric replied, lifting his own.
As they drank, Alaric leaned slightly toward Ned. "He's changed."
Ned nodded slowly. "Aye. We all have."
But Alaric's eyes did not leave the Crown Prince, nor the Queen.
Something rides with them, he thought. Something more than pride.
The North had opened its gates. But Winter, too, had eyes, and Alaric Stark would not be blind.