[The Hills Near Winterfell, 3rd moon, 298AC]
The wind was bitter that morning, a knife-edge carried down from the Wall, keening over snow-packed hills and the dark pines of the wolfswood. Ned Stark pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders as he rode, the black and grey wool rippling like a torn banner behind him. The sun had not yet cleared the eastern ridge, and the frost still clung to the boughs, sharp as glass.
Alaric rode beside him, long-legged Tempest pacing quietly beside them. The great storm gray direwolf kept to his left side, and Cinder, lean and sun-kissed reddish-brown, slinked along the treeline not far behind to their right. Alaric himself was quiet, but that was nothing new. At eight-and-ten, just three moons away from 9-and-10, he was already more man than boy, taller than Ned by half a head, around the same size Robert was at his age, broad of shoulder, cold-eyed and sure. His features were cut sharp, wolfish in the way of the old Kings of Winter. His voice had deepened, slow and deliberate, and when he looked at you, he saw things.
Behind them, Ser Desmond Manderly rode in mail and surcoat, the white merman sigil of his house glinting against the grey steel. Twelve Greycloaks followed, their armor plain but well-kept, the dark cloaks of Alaric's household guard fluttering. These were handpicked men, loyal, seasoned, dangerous. Ned trusted them more than most knights at court.
And behind the Greycloaks came the boys.
Robb, his eldest trueborn son, also broad-shouldered and showing muscle growth, already nearing manhood at the latter part of the year, the Stark blood strong in him. Jon Snow, solemn and observant, rode close, more slender yet still fierce, he too, was nearing his majority, the same as Robb. Osric Stark of High Hill rode like a man, having reached his majority a moon earlier, his back straight, not as grim as his father, yet just as stout. Harlon Stark of White Harbor had a clever look in his eye, always watching, always measuring, a moon away from six-and-ten. Roddy Dustin, wild-haired and fierce, was still a year and a half away from his majority. Dorren Snow, silent and steadfast, was but a fortnight away from seven-and-ten. Edric and Elric Snow, bastards of High Hill, hard-eyed already, yet the most joyous of the lot and the quickest to laugh, were freshly five-and-ten. Torrhen Karstark, brooding and bold, was of an age with Alaric. Smalljon and Derrick Umber, loud and unbothered by the cold, the older of the two being 20 years of age, and Derrick just a year younger. And finally, young Bran and Edwyn, bundled in furs, allowed to ride out under guard to learn the lesson of the North at 10 years of age each.
The lesson all Starks knew.
"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword," Ned murmured under his breath.
He looked sideways at Alaric. The boy, no, the man, had not flinched once when it came to taking a life, not even during Greyjoys' doomed rebellion. His gloved hands held the reins loose and easy, the way a man held a truth he did not need to shout.
Behind them, the boys chattered quietly, their voices muffled by the wind.
"You think he ran for a woman?" Roddy Dustin said. "Bet he did. Southron whore, I'd wager."
"He's a coward," Elric Snow spat. "That's all."
"What if he saw something beyond the Wall?" Harlon asked. "Something that made him flee?"
Osric snorted. "And what would that be? Giants? Shadows? The Long Night?"
Jon Snow's voice came low and quiet. "Men don't break for nothing."
Bran looked between them, his brows furrowed. "Why did he run, Father?"
Ned turned in the saddle. "That's what we're to find out, Bran."
They rode on in silence, broken only by the crunch of hooves on frost-bitten earth and the breathing of the direwolves. Crows took wing as they passed, and a raven croaked from a high pine. The land was stark and unforgiving. The hills rose like old bones, dusted with snow, their trees like claws.
After a time, the holdfast came into view, stone and timber, crouched against the hill, smoke rising from its crooked chimney. Two guards stood watch atop the wall, their spears hoarfrosted and sharp.
As they approached, the gates creaked open, and out rode Master Marvyn Oldwell, a gray-bearded man in a fur-trimmed cloak and weathered leathers. He bowed from the saddle.
"Lord Stark. Lord Eddard. You've come sooner than expected."
"The deserter still lives?" Ned asked.
"He does. But he'll not last the moon. Old, sickly thing. Starved half to death."
"We only need him for the justice," Alaric said quietly.
Marvyn nodded. "He's in the hall. We've kept him bound."
The party dismounted in the muddy courtyard. The boys looked around, Bran wide-eyed, Edwyn nervous. The direwolves stalked like shades between the shadows. Men stepped aside to let them pass. The villagers watched from behind half-shuttered doors.
Inside, the great hall was low-roofed and smoky, the fire burning low. The man was tied upright to a post, his wrists bound in chains, his skin pale and blotched. He was old, older than Ned expected. His beard was white, his teeth mostly gone. He stank of sickness and fear.
His eyes, though, darted quick and wild.
They gathered outside again, around the ironwood stump. It had been freshly scrubbed of old blood, the bark black as pitch. Crows circled high above.
Ned took Ice from Alaric's horse saddle. The Valyrian steel greatsword was as wide as a man's hand and taller than some boys in the party. The runes on the fuller glinted faintly in the dawnlight. He held it for a moment, then turned and offered it to Alaric.
Alaric accepted it with both hands, and the steel did not waver in his grip.
He stepped forward. The boys quieted. Even the direwolves seemed to still.
Alaric's voice rang clear in the cold air.
"By the word of His Grace, Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Alaric Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, do sentence you to die."
He turned to the bound man. "You were sworn to the Night's Watch. You broke that oath. For this, the punishment is death."
He paused.
"Do you have any last words?"
The man opened his mouth, but only a whimper came forth.
Alaric nodded once.
He stepped behind the stump.
Ice rose like thunderclouds gathering.
Then it fell.
The sound was clean, no scream, only the whistle of air and the soft thump of head into snow.
Bran flinched. Edwyn stared, eyes wide. Robb did not look away. Neither Jon, none of the older boys did.
Ned exhaled. The wind took the steam of breath and carried it away.
Cinder padded forward and sniffed the severed head once before walking away.
They buried the body outside the holdfast wall in a shallow cairn. No marker, no name.
The justice had been done.
As the men prepared to ride, Ned lingered by the stables, watching Alaric speak softly to Tempest and secure Ice to his horse's saddle, the Northern Courser, long accustomed to the massive wolves that almost reached its height. The boy's face, no, the man's, was unreadable.
"You did well," Ned said at last.
Alaric did not look up. "He was already dead when he broke his oath."
Ned nodded. "Perhaps. But the sword must still fall."
The others were mounting. Ser Desmond was speaking with Marvyn Oldwell. The Greycloaks stood ready. Bran was rubbing his hands together for warmth, Edwyn at his side, talking in quiet voices.
Ned walked with Alaric back to the horses.
"Do you remember your first execution?" Ned asked.
Alaric glanced at him, one brow raised.
"You mean as the boy Alaric Stark on the battlefield, or as Lord Stark of Winterfell, passing judgment?"
Ned snorted. "As my nephew."
Alaric gave the barest hint of a smile. "I do. It was a poacher. He begged me to spare his sons."
"You said nothing, and did what was needed."
"That was a lifetime ago," Alaric murmured.
Ned laid a hand on his shoulder. "And yet here you are. Still a Stark."
Alaric said nothing, but the moment lingered between them.
They rode out beneath a sky of white clouds and cawing birds, the frost beginning to melt in patches as the sun climbed higher. Bran and Edwyn rode at the front now, peppering Robb and Jon with questions. Dorren Snow whispered something to Edric and Elric, who rode ahead of him. Harlon and Osric spoke in low voices. Roddy Dustin laughed at something Smalljon said. The air was lighter than before.
Behind them, the holdfast disappeared into the hills.
Before them, the road home.
Justice had been served. The lesson had been learned.
In the North, that was enough.
[Back at Winterfell]
They came upon Winterfell at a measured trot, the hooves of two dozen horses crunching softly over snow-packed stone as the great grey walls loomed ahead, their banners snapping in the late-day wind. Ned Stark sat tall in the saddle, the cold sharp in his beard, his eyes drawn to the towers and turrets that had marked home since his boyhood. Steam curled from the chimneys above the Great Keep, and the air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke, pine, and the distant tang of iron.
But it was not the warmth of hearth or home that greeted them at the gates.
The procession slowed at the sight of a great shape pacing in the open yard, large as a small horse, her coat a deep charcoal grey mottled with ash-white streaks along her spine and legs. The direwolf was massive, nearly Tempest's size, and unmistakably heavy with pups. Her ears were pinned back, her yellow eyes wild with warning, lips curled in a snarl that revealed long white fangs. Around her, a ring of twelve Greycloaks had formed, steel drawn, though none dared move closer. Ser Wylam Slate, flanked by Ser Jory and Rodrik Cassel, his blade only half-unsheathed, barked commands.
"Steady! Gods be good, don't provoke her! Keep your distance!"
The she-wolf's growl was low and constant, a rumble that seemed to crawl across the stone like thunder beneath the snow. The Greycloaks looked uncertain, half-formed steps back and forth, blades twitching in the cold air.
Gasps rang out as the returning party approached. Ned could hear Bran's sharp intake of breath, followed by Edwyn's startled whisper.
"What in the gods' names—?"
"Gods help us…" Robb muttered.
"Where did she come from?" Osric asked, pulling up his reins.
The direwolf turned toward them at once. Her growl deepened.
Before anyone could react, Alaric's voice cut clean through the courtyard.
"Put down your weapons."
It wasn't shouted, but it struck the gathered men like the crack of a whip. Ser Wylam turned, surprised. The Greycloaks hesitated, but at Alaric's second glance, their blades lowered, sheathed with care.
Tempest stepped forward first, tail low but ears perked, his great paws crunching softly on the snow-dusted stone. Cinder followed close behind, tongue lolling slightly as she trotted to flank the larger she-wolf, her own hackles raised just slightly. They circled her slowly, their movements deliberate and calm, issuing low huffs and small yips, sounds Ned had never heard from them before.
The massive wolf turned to them, ears flicking back, her breathing ragged and tense. But she didn't strike. Instead, she growled again, softer now, uncertain. Cinder bumped her flank gently, and Tempest stood tall beside her, a rumble of reassurance in his chest.
From the ramparts above, Ned heard the sharp voice of Alys Karstark ring out.
"Alaric, don't! Gods, don't go near it!"
"Seven save us," came Catelyn's voice next, sharp with fear. "Alaric, wait!"
Sansa's voice followed, soft but panicked. "Is she going to kill someone?"
The she-wolf turned her head, eyeing the figures on the walls, then the Greycloaks, then finally the approaching man on horseback. Alaric swung down from his saddle with unhurried grace and began walking toward the beast, his ungloved hand raised in calm.
"She's frightened," he said. "Not hostile. Not yet."
"Alaric, get back!" Catelyn called, voice rising in pitch.
Ned felt the tension around him, the way Robb's hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, the way Jon tensed beside him. Edwyn had stopped breathing. Even Ser Desmond Manderly had taken a cautious half-step forward, one hand reaching for the Halberd strapped to his steed.
"Alaric's lost his wits," muttered Smalljon Umber, though there was no mockery in his voice.
But Alaric kept walking, slow, steady. The direwolf's lips peeled back further at first, her tail low and twitching, but Tempest let out a deep, guttural bark that made her hesitate. Cinder bumped against her side again, a low, rolling croon issuing from her throat.
The wind stilled for one brief breath.
Then Alaric stepped within reach and extended his hand.
Ned held his breath.
The she-wolf snarled once, her body tensed—
And then, impossibly, she leaned forward.
The moment her muzzle touched his palm, the sound left the courtyard entirely. The wolf pressed into his touch, massive head ducking slightly. Alaric stroked the top of her head gently, his other hand rising to scratch behind one ear. She licked his face once, a deep, rasping motion that left snow-melt on his cheek.
Whispers stirred among the gathered watchers.
"Is she his now?" Roddy Dustin murmured.
"She at least seems to like him," Elric Snow said, wonder in his voice.
"She's pregnant…" Jon said softly, brow furrowed.
Then the direwolf turned, those golden eyes locking on Ned where he still sat astride his horse.
She walked toward him.
Every muscle in Ned's body tensed. Red Rain rested at his hip, the Valyrian steel bastard sword he'd carried since being granted the blade by his nephew, but his hand hovered away from it, unsure.
"Uncle," Alaric called. "Dismount. Keep your hands clear."
The wolf was approaching fast. Even pregnant, her stride was graceful, powerful.
Ned swallowed hard. He dismounted, boots crunching in the snow, cloak falling about him. The direwolf was almost his height, her breath fogging in the cold air. She stopped just before him.
Every eye was on them. The courtyard held its breath.
His wife Catelyn shrieked.
Then she stepped forward, placed her snout beside his cheek, and licked him once.
Ned blinked, frozen.
She pressed her body to him, her thick, coarse fur enveloping him, and he lifted a hand slowly, cautiously, until he was scratching behind her ears and running his fingers down her flank.
"I'll be damned," he murmured, barely above a whisper.
She nuzzled him once more, then let out a quiet chuff, settling herself near his feet and lowering her bulk to the ground.
The wolf had chosen. Not Alaric. Him.
Ned looked up to the ramparts where Catelyn still stood, hand over her mouth, and beside her, Sansa's eyes were wide with wonder, and Alys Karstark looked as though she were about to faint.
Only Arya grinned like a wolf herself.
[Later, in the Great Hall]
The warmth of the hearth did little to soften the buzz of voices that echoed through the high-ceilinged stone chamber. A dozen fires crackled in the braziers, shadows dancing along the walls. The long tables had been cleared of supper, but pitchers of mulled wine and sweet beer remained, and the boys clustered at one end of the hall, voices raised in excited bursts.
"She licked him! Like a pup licking her pack!" Edric Snow crowed.
"First, Alaric, then Lord Eddard! She knows who we are," Elric agreed.
"She's a direwolf, not a lapdog," Osric muttered, though his eyes gleamed.
"She didn't even growl when Bran stepped close," Edwyn said, half in awe.
On the raised dais, Ned sat beside Alaric at the high table. Catelyn was quiet, sipping wine, her brows still drawn in concern. Across from them, Ser Wylam and Maester Luwin spoke in low voices, while Ser Desmond Manderly gnawed absently at a roasted wing.
"She's still outside," Alaric said, glancing toward the doors.
"I ordered the guards not to provoke her," Ned replied. "She hasn't moved from the base of the weirwood."
"She'll whelp soon," Alaric said. "You can see it in the way she lies, restless, protective."
Ned nodded. "And she'll stay?" His tone almost pleading, surprising even himself
"Of course. Tempest and Cinder have accepted her. Plus, she has accepted you, Uncle, that matters more than anything."
"What name will you give her?" Catelyn asked, voice hesitant.
Ned thought for a moment. "Hmm, well, how about taking after the environment she no doubt thrived in, I shall call her… Tundra."
Alaric looked over at him, brows lifting. "Tundra?"
"Her fur is ash and silver. She comes in silence, and she brought her children with her. A gift from the old gods, maybe."
"She's a sign," Alaric said quietly. "Edrin the Greenman did say there were more Direwolfs south of the wall, waiting to come to us."
He didn't need to say more.
Catelyn's lips thinned. "Superstition."
"Perhaps," Ned said, though he wasn't sure he believed that anymore.
The hall was alive with voices and laughter, but Ned's mind was distant, turning over the events of the day. The deserter. The sword. The wolf.
Justice. Death. And now… something old waking beneath the snow.
Outside the wind howled like a song sung by wolves.
And Ned Stark could not help but wonder what storms were still to come.