[Lord's Solar, Winterfell, 3rd moon, 298AC]
The hearth crackled softly in the solar, casting flickering shadows across the aged stone walls. Alaric Stark sat at the long oaken table, his fingers tracing the inked lines of the ledger before him. The scent of parchment and wax mingled with the faint aroma of burning logs, creating a comforting ambiance that contrasted sharply with the weight of the news he had just received.
It had been a week since the execution of the Night's Watch deserter. The memory of the man's frightened eyes still lingered in Alaric's mind, a stark reminder of the responsibilities that came with his name. Yet, amidst the grim duties, life at Winterfell had found moments of joy. Tundra, the she-wolf, had arrived shortly after the execution, and to everyone's astonishment, she had whelped seven healthy direwolf pups.
Each Stark child had bonded with a pup: Robb with Grey Wind, Sansa with Lady, Arya with Nymeria, Bran with Summer, Rickon with Shaggy Dog, and Jon Snow with the albino Ghost. The seventh pup, a dark black wolf with piercing azure eyes, had been given to Dorren Snow, Alaric's younger bastard brother. He named him Shadow.
The pups, though still nursing, had become inseparable from their chosen companions. Tundra herself had taken to following Eddard Stark during the day, her presence a silent testament to the bond between the Starks and the direwolves.
Alaric glanced up from the ledger to see his uncle, Ned, seated across from him, his brow furrowed as he perused another document. Ser Harald and Ser Torrhen lounged on the sofas nearby, engaged in a quiet conversation. By the hearth, Tempest, Cinder, and Tundra lay sprawled, their eyes half-closed in contentment.
"The new iron vein near Moat Cailin shows promise," Alaric remarked, tapping the ledger. "If we can maintain a steady output, it could bolster our armory significantly."
Lord Eddard nodded. "And the silver deposit near Stony Shore?"
"Still in the early stages, but the initial findings are encouraging," Alaric replied. "It could provide a much-needed boost to our coffers."
Ser Torrhen leaned forward. "With the implementation of the four-crop rotation system, our agricultural yields have improved. The earthfruit, in particular, thrives even in poorer soils."
Alaric smiled. "Indeed. The increased production of wheat, turnips, barley, and clover has not only stabilized our food supply but also supported the growth of our livestock. Lord Artos sent a letter expressing his gratitude for the rise in furred cow populations thanks to having an abundance of clover to feed them."
Alaric still found it interesting and even a bit funny how a crop from his past life, the one as a historian, not King of Winter, Potatoes, had gained a different name thanks to the smallfolk.
Ser Harald chuckled. "Never thought I'd see the day when cows became a topic of celebration."
The door to the solar creaked open, and Catelyn Stark entered, followed closely by Maester Luwin. Their expressions were grave.
"Ned," Catelyn began, her voice trembling slightly, "a raven arrived this morning. Jon Arryn is dead."
A heavy silence settled over the room. Ned's face paled, and he leaned back in his chair, eyes distant.
"He was like a second father to me," he murmured.
Maester Luwin stepped forward. "There's more. King Robert has sent word. He intends to visit Winterfell, accompanied by a large party."
Ser Torrhen raised an eyebrow. "The queen and royal children with them?"
"Aye, along with the queen's brothers, Ser Jaime and Lord Tyrion," Luwin confirmed. "Also, Ser Damion Lannister and his son, Ser Lucion."
"Ser Damon's son and grandson, huh?" Alaric said
Ser Torrhen's eyes narrowed in remembrance. "I dueled Ser Damon Lannister after Robert's Rebellion. A formidable opponent, despite being a Lannister. It's a shame he passed away a few years back."
Ser Harald grunted. "Great. A castle full of golden-haired gits."
Ned managed a faint smile. "We'll need to prepare for their arrival."
Alaric leaned forward. "I'm curious to meet Ser Lucion. It's said he follows the Old Gods, like his mother Shiera, a member of a junior branch of House Crakehall."
The conversation continued, plans forming for the impending royal visit. As the evening wore on, the solar's warmth provided a temporary respite from the weight of the news.
[The Next Day]
The morning sun cast a golden hue over Winterfell's courtyards. Alaric stood atop the battlements, watching the bustle below as preparations for the royal visit commenced. Servants scurried about, banners were unfurled, and the kitchens buzzed with activity.
He descended the stone steps, making his way to the training yard. There, Robb sparred with Jon Snow, their direwolf pups watching intently from the sidelines.
"You're improving," Alaric noted as he approached.
Robb grinned. "Jon's been giving me a run for my money."
Jon laughed. "Be careful Stark, you can't let the royal party see you get put on your ass by a bastard."
"Aye, im sure the queen would just love that," Edric shouted with a laugh off to the side as he and Elric sparred.
Alaric chuckled. "Just don't let your heads get too big."
Nearby, Arya practiced her archery, Nymeria by her side. Sansa sat under a tree, Lady resting on her lap. Bran and Edwyn played with Summer while Rickon ran wild, Shaggy Dog at his heel.
The sight warmed Alaric's heart. Despite the looming uncertainties, the Stark children found joy in their bonds with the direwolves.
Later, Alaric visited the forge, where blacksmiths worked tirelessly, the clang of hammer on anvil resonating through the air. The implementation of blast furnaces had revolutionized steel production in the North, and the results were evident in the quality of the weapons and armor being produced.
"Lord Stark," the head blacksmith greeted, wiping sweat from his brow. "The new furnaces have increased our output significantly," the blacksmith said proudly. "We've already forged half the spears requested for the garrison, and the steel's finer than anything we've ever produced from Castleforge alone."
Alaric nodded approvingly. "Good. Keep pressing on, but don't push the apprentices too hard. The cold may be easing, but we'll need strong arms and sharper blades come next frost."
[Later that day]
He stepped out into the yard again, taking in the rhythm of life across Winterfell. The courtyard was alive with motion, children chasing each other, hounds barking, and the occasional roar of a direwolf cub startling a flock of ravens perched atop the rookery tower.
Toward the godswood, he spotted a small gathering near the pool where the weirwood's red leaves drifted like blood in water. Osric Stark stood there, hands in fists, while Branda and Berena flanked him with equally sullen expressions. Edwyn, younger than them but no less fierce in temper, glowered at the cluster of direwolf pups lounging across the green grass beside their bonded siblings, Tundra lying beside them.
"I wish I had a direwolf pup," Osric muttered as Alaric approached, his voice low but not low enough to escape a keen ear.
"Aye, i hate it but I cant help but feel envious," Branda added with a bitter twist to her lip.
"They only came in enough number for Robb, Jon, and the rest," Edwyn said, looking at his distant cousin Dorren with open envy.
Shadow, Dorren's black-furred direwolf pup, was lying at his feet, gnawing on a strip of dried meat. Dorren glanced at the others, uneasy under their scrutiny.
Alaric stopped at the edge of the godswood, arms folded, his tall shadow stretching over the group. "You think the direwolves are a reward?" he asked evenly.
The cousins startled. Osric straightened his back, trying to mask his frustration with formality. "No, cousin. Only... it feels unfair."
Alaric studied them in silence for a long moment before stepping closer. "They came from the old magic," he said at last. "They are not pets. They are kin, symbols from the days when the First Men walked with wolves and the gods still whispered in our bones. You weren't passed over. You were spared, for now."
Branda frowned. "What do you mean?"
Alaric knelt beside the black pool, trailing his fingers through the cold water. "When the gods give gifts, there is always a price. You don't choose the wolves. They choose you. And they chose my cousins because they needed them."
His voice lowered, more solemn now. "One day, there may be more pups. Tundra will not be the last. If the gods see fit to give more, and if you prove yourselves worthy, then you may have your chance. But you must be ready, and you must understand that the bond is not one of vanity or pride."
Edwyn blinked. "So we might... still have a chance?"
"Perhaps," Alaric said, glancing toward the clearing where Tundra lounged in the sun with her seven pups nestled against her. "If you show yourselves honorable. Strong. True. Wolves don't bind themselves to weakness. And they never forget betrayal."
There was a beat of silence as his words sank in. Even Berena, normally quick to speak, only gave a slow nod. Osric's jaw tightened, but there was resolve in his eyes now.
Alaric ruffled Edwyn's hair. "Now go. Train hard. Learn your histories. Learn the land and the wind. Perhaps one day, a pup will find you, too."
The children dispersed with renewed determination, though a flicker of longing still danced in their eyes as they glanced back at the playing direwolves. Alaric watched them go, heart weighed with hope and caution in equal measure.
That evening, after supper in the Great Hall, Alaric retreated once more to the solar. The fire burned low, casting soft amber across the walls where old banners and maps were pinned. The air held the scent of woodsmoke, old ink, and a faint note of mead from the untouched cup on the table.
Ned joined him again, quieter than before. He poured himself a small drink and sat beside Alaric without a word.
"They took it better than I expected," Alaric murmured after a long silence.
Ned raised a brow. "The cousins?"
"Aye," Alaric replied. "Jealousy's a strange thing. It gnaws at the heart until only bitterness remains."
"Or pride," Ned offered.
"Same beast, different fangs."
Ned exhaled slowly. "It's a good thing you said what you did. They needed to hear it. Needed hope. You've become good at that."
"I've had lifetimes to practice," Alaric replied dryly, then immediately regretted the words.
Ned glanced sideways at him but said nothing.
Instead, Ned changed the subject. "Do you trust the timing of Robert's visit?"
Alaric's eyes narrowed. "Jon Arryn's death and Robert riding north soon after? I don't believe in coincidence."
"Nor I," Ned admitted. "But if he comes, we'll host him with honor."
"And prepare for anything."
Ned nodded, then finished his cup and stood. "Try to rest, Alaric. The days ahead will be long."
When he had gone, Alaric remained seated by the hearth, watching the flames dance like memories he couldn't hold. He glanced out the solar window, past the ramparts and the stables, to where the direwolf pups curled together in the night beneath the heart tree. The moon hung low, silver and solemn, above the still towers of Winterfell.
A storm was coming. He could feel it in the air, like breath before a howl.
And the wolves, his wolves, would need to be ready.
[The Next day, the Godswood]
The stillness of the godswood blanketed the world in quiet. Beneath the red leaves of the ancient heart tree, Alaric Stark sat beside Alys Karstark, their backs pressed against the heart tree. The white bark behind them bled crimson in the moonlight, its carved face weeping into the pool below.
Alys sat with her gloved hands folded on her lap, her thick sable cloak drawn around her against the chill. Her dark brown hair, bound back with a simple bronze pin, glinted as the wind stirred it. She looked up at Alaric with steady grey-blue eyes, so similar to his own.
"Do you ever get used to the way it watches you?" she asked softly, her voice barely louder than the rustle of the trees.
Alaric followed her gaze to the heart tree's face. "No," he said. "But it helps remind me I'm not the first Stark to bear a heavy name."
Alys gave a small smile. "My father used to say the godswood in Karhold was colder than the Wall. Here, it feels... gentler."
"That's Winterfell," Alaric replied. "Cold in the stone, but warm in the bones."
She laughed lightly, the sound soft and genuine. "You sound like my grand-uncle Arnolf. He always said the gods had sense in the North, but none at all in the South."
"Your grand-uncle isn't wrong," Alaric said, smiling faintly. "In the South, the gods wear gold masks and dance to politics. Here, they listen in silence."
A pause fell between them, but it was a comfortable one. The kind of silence born of shared understanding. Alys leaned slightly toward him, studying the pool.
"They've started preparing the yard for the royal family's arrival," she said. "Lady Catelyn was beside herself with the thought of Queen Cersei entering through the muddy bailey."
Alaric made a noise in his throat, half amusement, half disdain. "If the queen doesn't like mud, she can return to her lions' den. It's the North. We don't put down rushes to please southern boots."
Alys grinned, amused at his bluntness. "Still… It's strange, isn't it? That the king himself is coming here. I know it's because of Lord Arryn's death, but—"
"It's more than that," Alaric said, his tone more serious now. "Jon Arryn kept Robert balanced. He was the only thing standing between the king and the abyss. Without him, Robert flails. And he'll reach for familiar things. Old friendships. Old loyalties."
"Like your uncle Ned," Alys said quietly.
"Aye. And perhaps... the strength of the North."
They sat in silence a moment longer, until Alys turned to him. "Do you ever wonder what our lives will be like after the wedding?"
Alaric looked at her then. Not the Karstark daughter promised to him in the godswood by solemn oaths, not a piece on the board. Just her, the young woman who rode with her hood down even in the wind, who practiced with bow and blade, who asked questions not out of fear, but curiosity.
"I think about it often," he admitted. "When the feasts end, and the words are spoken, and the guests return to their halls… it will just be us. Husband and wife."
She nodded slowly, then added, "Do you think we'll like each other then?"
Alaric didn't hesitate. "I already do."
Alys flushed slightly and looked away, brushing a stray leaf from her skirts. "I suppose I like you too," she said. "Even if you talk more like a maester sometimes than a Stark."
"Comes from reading too much," Alaric admitted with a rare laugh. "But I'll make you a promise, Alys. You'll always have a seat at my side. You'll ride when I ride, speak when I speak, and if the day comes when you want to rule from Winterfell while I'm away, I'll not stop you."
Her eyes softened, but there was a glimmer of mischief behind them. "And if I want to take up the sword again and join the training yard?"
"You'll have to best Arya first," he said, deadpan.
She laughed again, and this time leaned her head briefly against his shoulder. The moment was innocent, but it was also the beginning of something far more ancient than courtship or alliance, companionship forged in the old way, beneath red leaves and Northern sky.
"I'll try not to embarrass you at the wedding," she murmured.
"Only if I fail to embarrass you first," he replied.
The moon rose higher as the two remained there beneath the old gods' gaze, not yet husband and wife, but already something more than betrothed. In the stillness of the godswood, where the old blood of the First Men still whispered through the trees, a new bond began to take root.
And when the South came riding north, with their lions and their masks and their golden lies, they would find Winterfell not divided, but steady. And the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, when they came to it, would meet the world as one.