[Winterfell, 7th moon, 295AC]
The morning sun cast long shadows across the training yard of Winterfell, its pale light glinting off the frost-covered stones. Catelyn Stark stood on the balcony overlooking the yard, her hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea. Below, the clatter of swords and the shouts of young men filled the air.
Alaric Stark, now a man grown, moved with the grace and precision of a seasoned warrior. He stood at the center of the yard, surrounded by the younger members of the Wolf Pack, Robb, Jon, Rickard, and the others. One by one, they charged at him, and one by one, he disarmed them with ease. His movements were fluid, almost effortless, as he parried blows and countered with strikes that sent swords flying from his opponents' hands.
Catelyn watched with a mixture of awe and concern. Alaric had always been quiet and reserved, but there was a strength in him that could not be denied. She sipped her tea, the warmth of the liquid contrasting with the chill in the air.
A familiar presence joined her on the balcony. Ned wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.
"He's grown strong," Ned said, nodding toward Alaric.
"Too strong," Catelyn replied, a hint of worry in her voice.
Below, Torrhen Karstark laughed heartily as Rodrik Stark sighed and handed him a pouch of coins. It seemed a bet had been lost on the outcome of the sparring match.
The younger boys retrieved their swords and began practicing against wooden dummies. Alaric, however, turned to a different task. He approached the great sword Ice, its massive blade resting on a stand nearby. Lifting it with both hands, he began to practice his swings, the weight of the ancestral blade testing his strength and endurance, although valyrian steel is lighter than castle-forged steel, a great sword is still a great sword nonetheless.
Ned watched his son with pride. "He's preparing himself," he said.
"For what?" Catelyn asked.
"For whatever may come," Ned replied.
They stood in silence for a moment, watching the training below. Then, Ned spoke again.
"Benjen and Dacey are preparing to depart next moon," he said. "The ceremony to grant Ben his new lands and titles will be held soon."
Catelyn nodded. "It's a good match. Their children will have a strong home, raised to protect the western coast."
"And Moat Cailin?" Ned asked.
Catelyn hesitated. "It's an imposing place," she said. "Not the inheritance I would have chosen for our son."
"But a vital one," Ned said. "The restoration is progressing well. It will be a stronghold once more."
They turned and walked back into the castle, seeking the warmth of the hearth. As they entered the hall, a handmaid approached, carrying a squirming Rickon in her arms.
"He's a feisty one," the handmaid said, handing the child to Catelyn.
Ned chuckled. "The wolf's blood runs strong in him," he said.
"I just hope he's not as hard to manage as Arya," Catelyn replied, smiling down at her youngest son.
They sat by the fire, watching Rickon play with a wooden direwolf toy. The flames danced in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room.
[The Next day, Winterfell's throne room]
The great hall of Winterfell smelled of old stone, smoke, and pinewood. Catelyn sat in her accustomed place to the side of the dais, where the family of the Lord sits.
Alaric was calm upon the high seat, his posture straight but not stiff, the massive blade of Ice at his side like a silent sentry.
The two direwolf pups, while still small, at least small for their species, sit on his sides as well. She could only imagine the scene that shall be in the future when the two wolves are full-grown and sitting flanking the lord's throne.
Catelyn watched him closely, the sharpness of his jawline and the quiet intensity in his pale grey eyes. He had come into himself in the last year, broader of shoulder, taller even than Ned now, his hair thick and dark.
The court session began with a procession of minor petitions, farmers disputing boundaries, a mason appealing for coin to finish repairs in the eastern bailey, and two brothers arguing over a hunting claim near the Wolfswood. Alaric listened to each in turn, his voice level and even, neither rushed nor indulgent. He questioned them with precision, offered compromises where they were due, and in one case, rendered a stern judgment that left the older brother red-faced and bowing low.
Catelyn glanced toward Ned, who stood near one of the stone pillars, his arms folded as he watched his nephew with a quiet smile. Ned rarely smiled so plainly, it was not his way, but in that moment, the pride was unmistakable.
"He's becoming more like you," Catelyn whispered as Ned came to stand beside her.
Ned raised a brow. "You think so?"
"In his stillness," she said. "The calm before the storm."
Ned chuckled under his breath. "The realm might be better with a second patient Stark in the North."
Catelyn almost smiled. "Patient? You've never been patient, not truly. Steadfast, yes. But not patient."
The court continued. One of the younger Locke sons arrived next, asking for leave to raise a new garrison post along the coast of the White Knife. Alaric approved it without delay and even offered seasoned builders from Moat Cailin to assist with the foundations.
That name, Moat Cailin, still sat uneasily with her.
After the court session concluded and the hall began to empty, she followed Ned toward Alaric, who was exchanging words with Ser Harald and Ser Torrhen, the two ever dutiful sworn shields.
"Aunt Catelyn," Alaric greeted as he spotted her, his expression softening as it always did when he addressed her. He stood taller now, but there was still that ghost of boyish warmth in his voice when speaking to her.
"You presided well," she said. "Fairly. I'd almost think you were born for this."
"I wasn't," Alaric replied, "No man is born for duties such as these, but we learn how to do them all the same
Torrhen snorted beside him. "As much as it pains me to say, you were, however, born to wield a blade, while I like to think im a seasoned expert with a sword, you have me beat all the same, one of the only people who do, might I add."
Ned raised his brow, amused. "I don't remember you being that fast the last time we trained."
"Age," Torrhen grumbled. "It's treachery."
They shared a laugh, even Alaric's lips tugging into a brief smile.
When they parted ways, Alaric returning to his duties with Harald and Torrhen, Catelyn took Ned's arm and the two walked the long corridors of Winterfell together. The torches along the hall sputtered with a soft hiss, and the scent of the smoke brought back memories of the old days, when she had first arrived in this cold place, foreign, frightened, yet determined.
"I still remember the first time I saw Moat Cailin," she murmured as they walked. "Do you?"
Ned nodded. "It was raining. You hated it."
"It wasn't just the rain," she said. "It was the place. Half-sunken and brooding, all moss and stone. Like some dead god's graveyard."
"It will not look like that for long," Ned said. "Alaric's engineers have rebuilt ten towers entirely. And the walls are being lined with Northern blackstone. Even the Great Keep has a roof now."
"I know. I was there." Her voice was quiet. "It is impressive. And formidable. Still… I wish it weren't Robb's to inherit."
"In time it shall become a seat worthy of princes, trust me, my love, I shall make it so."
Catelyn nodded, but her unease lingered. She had nothing against the fortress itself, it was the idea of her son, her firstborn, being burdened with that place. Robb was still young. He laughed easily and sparred with the others like any other boy his age. She feared what Moat Cailin symbolized: a gateway of war, always watching the South.
They rounded a corner, the stone walls warmer now as they approached one of the great hearth chambers. As they entered, a sudden shriek of joy met their ears—Rickon came barreling through the doorway, half-naked and covered in flour.
The handmaid behind him was red-faced and breathless. "My lady! He slipped from the kitchen and, oh, gods, look at him!"
Catelyn stifled a laugh as Ned stepped forward and scooped up their squirming son. "Wolfsblood," he muttered, shaking his head with a grin.
They settled near the hearth, the handmaid retreating to fetch fresh clothes and wipe up whatever mess Rickon had made. The fire crackled as Ned sat beside her, one hand absently stroking Rickon's hair as the child yawned and nestled into his shoulder.
"I worry for all of them," Catelyn whispered. "The world is changing, Ned. The peace we've known... it feels like a lull. A quiet breath before something breaks."
"I know," Ned said. "I feel it too. But our sons are strong. Alaric leads well. Robb will be a good lord. And Jon..."
He trailed off.
"Jon is brave," Catelyn said softly. "Too much like his father."
That drew a flicker of something in Ned's eyes, pain, perhaps, or guilt. But it passed as quickly as it came.
They sat in silence as the fire roared, Rickon's quiet snoring the only sound.
The next morning dawned crisp and cold, though the skies were clear. Winter was not yet upon them, but its breath had begun to whisper through the pines.
Back in the great hall, Alaric stood once more before a gathering of bannermen, only this time, it was not for court, it was to speak of the upcoming departure of Benjen Stark and his family. The plans were set. The lands granted. The new castle, named "Wolf's Haven" by Alaric, was completed sitting vigil over Sea Dragon Point.
Catelyn watched as Benjen knelt before Alaric, and her nephew placed his hand upon his uncle's shoulder.
"In the name of House Stark," Alaric said, "I grant you dominion over Sea Dragon Point, from the ice coast to the shadow of the Broken Crag. You shall hold Wolf's Haven in trust and protect the waters of the Northwestern coast for the North. Rise, Lord Benjen Stark."
Benjen rose to thunderous applause. Dacey stood beside him, resplendent in silver-and-green Mormont armor, and their children, Rickard, Lyarra, and the toddling Cregan, beamed with pride.
Later that day, as the feast began and toasts were raised, Catelyn sat beside Ned and lifted her cup.
"To family," she said.
Ned touched his cup to hers. "To the North."
And as the great hall of Winterfell filled with music and laughter, Catelyn Stark allowed herself to believe, if only for a night, that all would be well.
[The Next morning]
The smell of baked oats, honeyed bacon, and fresh black bread filled the great hall, warming it more surely than the roaring fires in the hearths. The household was gathered to break their fast, benches lined with Stark children, wards, visiting retainers, and the ever-watchful Greycloaks, most of the castle's garrison and the Household guard having been completely replaced with the new elite force Alaric had raised. Catelyn sat near the dais beside Ned, her hands cradling a steaming cup of elderflower tea.
Sansa's laughter rang like bells across the chamber.
Catelyn's gaze drifted toward her daughter, seated beside Domeric Bolton. The young lordling was impeccably mannered, dressed in fine grey and sable with a silver clasp at his throat shaped like a flayed man, though he wore the sigil with less pride than quiet obligation. He was speaking softly, patiently, as Sansa leaned forward with bright eyes and eager curiosity, no doubt pestering him with questions about the dances at the Redfort or the fashions of Gulltown.
Sansa always did have a heart for southern tales and courtly manners, though lately that heart seemed to flutter most when Domeric was near.
The Bolton heir didn't seem to mind. He met Sansa's questions with an even temper and the faintest curve of a smile, humoring her as he answered everything from the sigils of the Vale's lesser houses to the best wines served at Lord Redfort's table. When Sansa reached out and touched his arm lightly, laughing at something he said, Domeric did not recoil. If anything, he leaned a little closer.
Catelyn narrowed her eyes, not unkindly, but with the caution of a mother who knew well how quickly girls could dream, and how dangerous dreams could be. Sansa was still a girl but growing ever closer to flowering, and already full of tales of romance, music, and noble knights. Domeric was five years her elder and bore none of his father's cruelty, or so it seemed. The boy was polite, well-read, and had a gentle manner that was altogether rare in a son of the Dreadfort.
He was also quite good with the harp.
No sooner had the meal begun to wind down than Sansa, her cheeks pink and eyes alight, clapped her hands. "Domeric, would you play for us? Please?"
Domeric looked momentarily bashful, but then offered a small, elegant nod. "If it pleases my lady, and Lord Stark does not object."
Alaric raised a brow at Catelyn with a faint smile. She gave the slightest nod in return. "I have no objection," he said aloud, earning a flush of joy from Sansa and a few raised brows from those nearby.
A servant fetched Domeric's harp from where it rested against the wall. He strummed it softly at first, tuning the strings with a practiced touch. Then the hall quieted as his fingers danced across the strings, light and quick, weaving a melody that was neither somber nor frivolous, something in between. The tune spoke of windswept hills and cold rivers, of longing and quiet hope.
Sansa sat spellbound.
Arya, across the table, looked unimpressed. "Sounds like dying cats," she muttered, spearing a sausage, the high hill twins, ever the bad influence, snickering by her side.
Catelyn sighed. "Eat your food, Arya."
Yet even she had to admit, the music was lovely.
Across the dais, Benjen was bouncing Cregan on his knee, while Rickard and Lyarra leaned forward with wide eyes, swaying slightly to the music. Alaric, seated farther up, remained composed, sipping from his cup, though she caught the glint of amusement in his gaze as he observed the room.
Catelyn let her eyes return to Sansa, who now watched Domeric as if he'd strummed the very cords of her heart.
She reached for her tea again. It had gone cold.
Ned was right, she thought. The children are growing fast. Too fast.
Her thoughts turned to the future, and all the paths their children might walk, paths that led far from Winterfell's stone walls.
But for now, there was music, and laughter, and the soft glow of hearthlight.
And for now, that would have to be enough.