[Winterfell, training yard, 6th moon, 295AC]
The clang of swords echoed off Winterfell's old stone, steel ringing against steel beneath a grey sky. Bran Stark's arm ached as he brought his blunted blade down to meet Edwyn's in another clash, sweat trailing down his brow despite the chill that lingered in the northern air.
"Again," Ser Rodrik Cassel commanded, arms crossed over his barrel chest, his white whiskers twitching with disapproval. "You're dancing like girls at the harvest feast. Plant your feet, boys. You're not prancing about the yard, you're in battle."
Bran bit back a groan and readjusted his stance. Edwyn Stark of High Hill, his distant cousin, older by a moon, and best friend, grinned at him through a sheen of sweat and lifted his sword.
"Try not to fall this time, cousin."
"I didn't fall," Bran shot back. "I slipped."
Ser Rodrik grunted. "You slipped because your footwork was poor. And if you 'slip' in a battle, it'll be your guts that slip out next. Again."
They obeyed, swords meeting with a fresh fury. Bran could hear the thudding rhythm of boots in the far end of the yard, where the wolf pack was at drill. Robb's voice barked commands, joined by Jon's, and the thuds of wooden practice shields and the grunts of exertion echoed like distant war drums.
Alaric was watching them. He stood at the edge of the group, arms folded, flanked by Torrhen Karstark and the two Umber brothers, Smalljon and Derrick. Around them circled the wolf pack in tight, disciplined formations: Robb, Jon, Rickard, Osric, and Harlon Stark, Roddy Dustin, Dorren Snow, Edric, and Elric Snow. The oldest of them were just three years off from being men grown, the youngest, like Jeor Mormont, a new addition to their group, and just into his second decade, but each wore the same hard resolve in their sweat-slicked faces.
Jeor, named after his grandfather, had arrived at Winterfell with his father Jorah and younger sister, Alys Mormont.
Jorah's wife, Lady Elisa Mormont, nee Glover, had stayed behind at Bear Island due to her poor health, something she has battled for many years, yet has still held on.
"Again!" Ser Rodrik barked, dragging Bran back into focus.
He lunged forward, knocking Edwyn back, but his cousin recovered swiftly. Their blades rang again, but Bran's mind wandered.
"They heard it last night," Edwyn whispered between blows. "The howling."
Bran blinked. "What?"
"Robb and the others. Jon said he heard it, too. A wolf's howl. North of the castle, in the woods."
"You believe them?"
"I do."
Ser Rodrik called for a pause to correct Edwyn's grip. As they caught their breath, Bran listened. Robb was speaking now, his voice carrying.
"...like a long mournful cry. And then another joined it. Not a wolf of the woods. Bigger."
"Direwolves?" Harlon's voice, sharp with hope.
"They've not been seen south of the Wall in two hundred years," came Ser Harald Stark's gruff voice. He and Ser Torrhen were sparring with weighted tourney swords nearby, but they'd paused to listen.
Ser Torrhen nodded, his tone firm. "Not since the days of King Jaeharys, and the Starks haven't kept wolves by their side since before the conquest to boot. What you heard was a wind echoing off the trees, nothing more."
"But what if it wasn't?" Rickard said. "My father told me the old tales. The direwolf is the sigil of our House for a reason."
Bran watched Alaric's face, quiet, unreadable. His gray eyes flicked from boy to boy, lingering longer than usual. A gleam sparked behind them. He knew something.
And he wasn't saying.
[Later that evening, the Great Hall]
The feast that night was less rowdy than the nameday celebration the night before, but still filled with warmth and firelight and laughter. Bran sat between Arya and Edwyn, watching the hall swell with banners and cloaks, food and noise.
Lord Rickard Karstark stood tall as the horn of ale was passed back to him, his great beard trailing down like frost-laced ivy. He turned to Alaric, who nodded once, and raised his voice above the clamor.
"My lords and ladies of the North, I bring tidings of good fortune," Rickard called. "My son and heir, Harrion, will take to wife the fair Meliana Hornwood, eldest daughter of Lord Halys Hornwood."
Cheers erupted, goblets raised, tankards slammed against oaken tables. Even Arya whooped, until Sansa shushed her from across the table with a disapproving look.
"About time the Hornwoods married her off," Greatjon muttered, as quietly as he could be anyway. "Else Lord Bolton might've gotten bold."
Bran's eyes flicked toward the dais, where Roose Bolton sat with all the warmth of a grave. His pale eyes blinked once, and he sipped slowly from his goblet. That was the most expression Bran had seen from him in his life.
More betrothals followed. Lord Wyman Manderly's booming voice echoed through the hall as he stood, his belly jiggling with the effort.
"I am pleased to announce that my eldest granddaughter, Lady Wynafryd, shall wed young Cregard Stark of White Harbor once they reach their majority. Their children shall bear the name Manderly and inherit the city and its fleets."
The crowd approved. Not just for the match, but for the promise of a strong future for White Harbor. Harlon clapped his brother on the back, grinning, while a blond and green-haired girl at the next table giggled at something Jon whispered to her. Wylla Manderly, her cheeks pink with mirth.
Bran followed her gaze and noticed Lord Wyman watching them too, his expression sharp behind his jovial mask. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and Bran realized then that he was measuring Jon, not with suspicion, but with calculation.
It was no secret that Alaric planned to grant Jon lands on the Stony Shore after word of the success of the new crop, "earthfruit" as the smallfolk have dubbed it, reached the ears of the all of the northern lords.
According to Bran's father, Ned, he was even making plans to set aside some land and wealth for his bastard brother Dorren Snow, if he chose to accept that is.
Bran still remembered the conflicted expression his mother had made when she heard the news, and yet, she didn't disparage Jon or even Dorren.
For quite some time now, his mother hadn't berated or shunned Jon, rather, she mostly acted cordially with him, a surprise to many when it first started.
"Lord Wyman's always scheming," Arya whispered beside him, having followed his gaze. "Like a fat cat with mice in his walls."
Bran smirked but said nothing. His eyes were drawn to the dais again, where Alaric sat quietly, fingers steepled. When the toasts began to slow and the music resumed, Alaric stood. His voice was calm, but it cut through the noise like a blade.
"My lords, my ladies," he began, "I thank you all for your presence and good cheer these past days. But tonight, I ask something more of you."
The hall hushed.
"I would have you all, lords, ladies, and household kin, join me in the godswood after the feast."
A murmur rippled through the room. Surprise. Curiosity. Even some unease.
"Why?" someone asked aloud.
Alaric's smile was faint, elusive. "Because some things are best said beneath the eyes of the gods."
Bran felt a chill trace his spine.
[The godswood of Winterfell]
The walk to the godswood was solemn, the night cool and hushed. Torches flickered as they passed under the boughs of ancient trees. The moon was thin above, a pale ghost behind drifting clouds.
The heart tree stood at the center, its weirwood face red-eyed and solemn. Alaric waited beneath it, his long black cloak hanging still as stone. Ser's Torrhen and Harald stood behind him, and Bran's father, Ned, and uncle Benjen at his sides.
The lords and ladies gathered slowly, unsure. Robb and Jon flanked Catelyn and Dacey Mormont. Arya and Sansa stood with the various girls, their breath white in the air.
Alaric raised his voice, calm and slow.
"Too long have we sat quietly while others called our traditions old and worn. Too long have we bowed our heads to the ways of the south, even here in our heartland. The Old Gods remember. The North remembers."
Bran looked around. Lords nodded. Ser Harald stood taller. Even dour Roose Bolton gave a slight incline of his head.
"In the days to come," Alaric said, "we may need that memory. We may need to be who we once were."
He raised his hand, and out of the trees padded a shape. Silent. Massive.
A creature with what looked like… antlers?
No, a man in green, with an antler headdress on his head.
"He arrived late last night when I was in the godswood, a green man from the Isle of Faces." Alaric began, "But he wasn't alone."
As if on cue, two large wolf pups ran out from behind the legs of the green man straight to Alaric, who scooped them into his arms.
One was reddish brown, with streaks of white and eyes of golden amber.
The other was storm gray with white as well, its eyes were two orbs of icy blue.
As each and every person within the godswood stood at a quiet still, the Greenman began to speak, his voice smooth yet deep. "Well met, lords and ladies of the north, my name is Edrin, I come at the behest of the Old gods, they have seen fit to bestow upon Lord Alaric Stark two Direwolf pups, unrelated to one another, allowing breeding in the future."
A hush deeper than any winter night settled over the godswood.
Bran's heart pounded. Not from fear, but something older, something wilder. He looked at the wolves nestled in Alaric's arms. The reddish one nuzzled at his chest like a pup to its mother; the storm-gray stared out at the crowd, utterly unafraid, as though it knew what it was.
A direwolf.
Real. Living. Massive, even as pups. And not one, but two.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Lord Mormont whispered a prayer to the Old Gods. Cregan Karstark's mouth hung open. Arya's eyes shone like stars.
Edrin, the green man, stepped forward. The antlered helm upon his brow gleamed faintly under the moonlight, his cloak stitched with leaves that rustled without breeze. "The gods remember the pact," he said. "Long have they watched the old blood weaken. But with war brewing far to the south, and many whispering of the gods failing power, they have chosen to act."
He turned to Alaric and placed a hand upon his shoulder. "You are the first in generations, Stark of Winterfell, to answer the call in full. Not just with prayers, but with deeds. With truth."
Alaric did not bow or speak, only nodded once, gravely. Bran could feel it again, that strange stillness to him, like the heart of Winter itself. His older cousin had always seemed different, more than just a lord. But now, he knew it.
"The direwolves are not a gift," Edrin continued. "They are a bond reforged. A pact made when the First Men knelt at the heart trees and vowed to uphold the balance. Each wolf shall be raised not as a pet, but as a companion, a spirit-bound creature to those worthy of them."
He gestured to the crowd. "More remain, still hidden, somewhere in the vast North. The gods do not give them to the unworthy. But in the years to come, they will find their kin."
A murmur swept through the gathered Northerners, one of awe and fear. Roose Bolton's pale gaze flicked from wolf to weirwood, unreadable. Lord Wyman's face was grave now, all joviality gone. Dacey Mormont laid a hand over Benjen Stark's, and even Catelyn seemed unnerved.
Bran's breath caught. More remain. Only the gods know how many that is, and yet, he couldn't help but hope they would find them.
His eyes darted to Robb, then Jon, then Arya. He could see it written in their faces: the wonder, the fire. He felt it, too.
Robb stepped forward, voice clear. "Will they come to us? The rest?"
"They will come," Edrin replied, "to those with the blood and the heart to call them."
Bran's legs trembled, not from fear, but longing. He couldn't explain it. Just that something called to him, something old and vast. He looked up at the red eyes of the heart tree. Were they watching? Judging?
Alaric let the wolves down. They padded across the snow-blanketed ground, sniffing at the roots of the tree. The red one barked once, high-pitched but bold. The gray sat beside Alaric's boots, regal and still.
"What will you name them?" Jon asked quietly.
Alaric answered without hesitation. "This one," he nodded to the red pup, "is Cinder."
"And the other?"
Alaric looked down at the storm-gray wolf with those frozen eyes. "Tempest."
Hearing those names, Bran stilled. He could feel Edwyn off to his side doing the same as they looked to one another, recognizing the names.
'The Crypts…' was all he could think of at that moment
Before he could even muster another thought, Bran caught Alaric's gaze, his mouth curling into the slightest grin, so slight and brief that he couldn't tell if he imagined it or not.
Bran glanced again at the adults. Ned's jaw was clenched, his expression unreadable. Benjen wore something like pride and sorrow all at once. Even Ser Rodrik looked awestruck, fingers tightening around the pommel of his sword.
"This changes things," said Lord Karstark softly.
Lord Dustin nodded. "The Old Gods speak again."
Alaric stepped forward, not to address the lords, but to kneel at the heart tree. He pressed his palm to the carved face and closed his eyes.
"We are your sons still," he murmured. "Your daughters still. Let us prove worthy."
And a split second later, Alaric pulled a knife from a sheath and slid it across his wrist, much to the horror of the gathered crowd, and yet, he stayed kneeling, letting the blood flow onto the roots of the Heart Tree, the red leaves of the various Weirwoods growing brighter, almost glowing.
"Do not worry, for the gods shall never allow one of their champions to perish such a shallow death." The Greenman spoke as he assuaged the various lord's worries, Alaric also holding up his free hand, no free of the knife he used to cut himself.
"Come, and kneel before the gods," Alaric said in a cool, yet welcoming voice
No one moved. No one dared.
Then, one by one, the lords of the North stepped forward. Not with pomp or ceremony, but quietly, reverently. Lord Wyman Manderly bowed his head, although a worshipper of the Seven in name, House Manderly had slowly yet surely moved toward the Old gods, keeping both in their hearts. Greatjon knelt, muttering in shock under his breath but doing it all the same. Even Roose Bolton inclined his head, though he looked more like a man calculating risk than honoring gods.
Bran couldn't move. Something thick caught in his chest. He looked at Robb and Jon, both of whom seemed just as affected. Arya's face was pale, but her eyes shone like silver under starlight.
"We will return to our roots," Alaric said as he stood. "We will not forget the gods of our fathers, nor the strength that once ran through the bones of our house."
All could see the wounds across his wrist now rapidly healing, a gasp of shock and maybe even veiled fright came from Bran's mother as she stood still as stone from the whole scene.
He turned, facing them all now. "Winter is coming. But we will not face it kneeling. We will rise. And the North will stand as it once did, proud and fierce and whole."
Bran's hands clenched at his sides. He didn't know how, but he knew that this moment would be remembered. That this night, in the shadows of gods and wolves, the old North was being reborn.
And in his chest, he felt it too. A pull. A calling. The Old Gods were watching.
And they were waiting.
[Later, in Bran's bedchamber]
Bran couldn't sleep.
He tossed under his furs, heart still hammering from the godswood. His mind was full of wolves and weirwoods, of old magic and long-lost bonds. He rolled over and peered out the window. The sky was clouded, but the moon still cast a faint glow over Winterfell's towers.
And then he heard it.
Not the wind. Not a dog.
A howl.
Low. Long. Mournful.
And then another.
And another.
They came from beyond the walls. From the woods. From the hills.
Bran rose and pressed his face to the cold glass. In the distance, he could just make out movement, shadows in the snow, slinking, slithering between trees.
The wolves had come.
Not just two.
More.
The North remembered. And so did they.
Just as suddenly as they arrived, the shapes moving throughout the trees disappeared all the same, and yet, in his heart, Bran knew this wasn't the last he would see of them.