[Winterfell, 6th moon, 298AC]
The smithy fire was already roaring when Ser Torrhen Stark passed beneath the shadow of the old armory. Smoke curled into the morning sky, mingling with mist as blacksmiths bellowed and beat iron into shape. The hammer-song of Winterfell had always comforted him, strong, rhythmic, predictable. Unlike politics.
The Sound of blast furnaces rumbling in the background played like thunderous symphonies, the furnaces being one of many revolutionary ideas Alaric had implemented, helping ramp up the North's iron production.
His sword hung at his hip, freshly sharpened. The grip, wrapped anew in dark leather, sat snug in his palm. He paused beside the open archway, watching as apprentice boys ferried buckets of water and glowing metal. Life still pulsed here, unbothered by golden lions and Southern tongues.
Beyond, the courtyard bustled like a kettle on the boil. The King's men packed wagons and tightened saddles. Lannister gold gleamed beneath the pale Northern sun. Servants rushed. Pages shouted. Horses whinnied. The great host of the South was stirring for departure, and Torrhen, gods help him, was grateful.
He stepped out into the yard, the chill biting less than it had a week before. Spring had finally clawed its way through the frost.
"Ser Torrhen," came a call.
He turned to see Osric, his nephew through his sister, and heir to High Hill, jogging up with two raven-haired squires in tow. The lad of 6-and-10's helm was tucked beneath his arm.
"Father says we're to ride with the escort partway down the Kingsroad. He wants us sharp. You're to drill us before we go."
Torrhen smiled faintly. "You, Edric, and Elric, aye?"
"And Berena," Osric said, rolling his eyes. "She won't be left behind."
Torrhen chuckled. "I'd wager she'll outpace both of you before we reach the Weeping Water."
Osric groaned. "You've no idea how much she brags when she bests Edwyn in the yard."
"I do," Torrhen said dryly, "because she brags to me too."
He clapped Osric's shoulder and dismissed the squires. "Go oil your tack. We'll ride at midday."
As Osric departed, Torrhen turned his gaze to the ramparts.
There, a tall figure clad in dark wool and Northern furs stood beside a woman whose hand was tucked into the crook of his arm. Alaric and Alys, walking slow, speaking softly. Their shadows stretched long in the morning light.
They looked like Winterfell itself, proud, solemn, unmoving.
Torrhen's jaw tightened slightly. Not out of envy. Out of respect. Alaric had grown into his title as though born for it. A quiet storm of a man. Torrhen was proud of his best friend and distant kin's son, though he often wondered if their bloodline was cursed to rule under gathering clouds. Always something, always war, or whispers, or crowns.
He strode across the yard and made for the training enclosure. Robb and Ysilla were there, or had been. The girl's hair had looked wind-tossed as she'd hurried away, blushing not moments ago. Torrhen sighed.
He remembered being 6-and-10. He remembered Maester Bennard's lectures, and when Torrhen had once been caught with his sweet Rowena beneath the willow tree.
"Let them be," he murmured to himself. "There's worse things than young love."
[Later, in the Godswood]
By midday, the Godswood was quiet, still, and green, with red leaves rustling in a hesitant breeze. Torrhen stood alone beneath the heart tree, wiping sweat from his brow. His drills had ended. The squires were at their midday meal. Osric had taken to cleaning his blade with great pride, and Berena had already gone to brag about her parries.
But Torrhen remained.
The old gods had watched over their house for generations. He didn't often pray, at least, not aloud. But here, in this hush, he found comfort.
The whisper of water nearby. The sway of ancient limbs.
And the faint creak of leather.
He turned. Alaric approached, his long stride unhurried.
"Thought I'd find you here," Alaric said.
"I needed quiet," Torrhen replied. "Hard to come by these days."
Alaric inclined his head. "The quiet will pass. The road south waits."
They stood beside one another, gazing at the weirwood. Torrhen saw how the face carved into the bark bled sap like tears.
"You ever feel like the gods see everything," Torrhen said, "and say nothing?"
"Isn't that their way?" Alaric murmured.
A silence passed between them.
"I've spoken with Alys, the sweet girl," Torrhen said as he turned to Alaric, his kin, and once charge.
"She's scared," Torrhen said.
"I know."
"She won't say it, but she looks at you and sees a legend rising. The Great Northern Lord. The one they'll write songs about. And she wonders if she's enough."
Alaric frowned.
"She is," he said firmly.
"She is," Torrhen agreed. "But say it to her. Often. More than you think you need to."
Alaric nodded, eyes fixed on the tree.
"I've seen lords break themselves chasing legacy," Torrhen said quietly. "Don't forget to live."
Torrhen lingered in the godswood long after Alaric had gone. The red leaves rustled like parchment, whispering secrets of ancient Starks who had passed this way before. Men like Brandon the Shipwright, who'd dared the sea. Like Cregan, the Old Man of the North, who brought down his enemies with nothing but cold steel and colder will.
But their ghosts were quiet now. The old gods said nothing. As ever.
He left the stillness behind and returned to the sound of men preparing to move.
[Training Yard, Early Afternoon]
Rodrik was in the yard, shirtless and glistening with sweat, driving his opponent back with relentless strikes. Domeric Bolton was quick on his feet, graceful in the way of a cat. But even grace had its limits, and Rodrik had strength on his side. The lad was 9-and-10 now and built like a true Stark.
"Rodrik, you're letting your elbow flare," Torrhen barked from the fence.
Rodrik adjusted, parried low, then feinted left, only for Domeric to pivot away with a smirk and tap his practice blade against Rodrik's hip.
Torrhen grunted, mildly impressed.
"Lucky," Rodrik muttered.
"Clean," Domeric corrected with a grin.
The boys lowered their blades. Torrhen stepped into the ring, arms crossed, brow stern.
"You need to press your advantage when you've got it. Hesitate and you're dead."
"Yes, Father," Rodrik said.
Domeric gave Torrhen a half-bow. "I'll remember that too, ser."
Torrhen nodded toward him. "You always do."
Truth be told, Domeric Bolton was everything his father wasn't, courteous, clever, measured. Torrhen had agreed with Alaric's decision to take the young man as a ward following the bastard of Bolton's death, more out of suspicion than charity. He had half expected to see the flint of cruelty in the lad's eye. But there'd been nothing. No malice. Just… longing.
And now, Domeric and Rodrik were close as brothers.
Torrhen studied the pair, sweat-slicked and breathing hard. A father's pride crept up despite his best efforts to suppress it.
"Take the rest of the hour. You ride with the escort at first light. No bruises where the southern girls can see."
Rodrik looked up. "Girls?"
Torrhen arched a brow. "Alaric and I have had talks. You're reached and to some, are past the age of when you should have wed, much less be betrothed."
Rodrik groaned audibly, and Domeric snorted.
"Have you been scheming about my wife behind my back?"
Torrhen smirked. "That's what fathers are for."
Domeric added, "I suppose we should hope she's not from the Vale, having been witness to your… escapades," the heir of House Bolton exclaimed, knudging Rodrik
At his friend's words, Rodrik's ears went red, no doubt recalling a maiden or two from their time in the Vale
Torrhen chuckled.
"We'll find someone with a good head, a strong back, and no love for Dornish fashions. That's all you can ask for in a match."
Rodrik rolled his eyes, but Torrhen saw the twitch of a smile beneath the fatigue.
[Solar of Ser Torrhen Stark, Late Afternoon]
Torrhen sat near the hearth in his small solar, a courtesy given to him by Alaric following his promotion from Sworn Shield to Chief Advisor, parchment spread across the oak table before him. Scrolls from High Hill, from the Ryswells, from House Tallhart. Some offered supplies, others inquired about trade routes or alliances.
One, from Lady Barbrey Dustin, writing to them about the growth of Barrowton trade on behalf of her husband Willam, was as sharp and scornful as he remembered.
Alaric entered without knocking. He never needed to.
"Word from White Harbor," he said, tossing a folded raven scroll onto the table. "Ser Wylis writes that the newest round of vessels has been completed, bringing our naval power to just over what the Lannisters could muster before Greyjoy's Rebellion."
Alaric eased into the chair across from him, legs stretched out.
"Have you thought more on Rodrik's prospects?" Alaric asked, taking a sip from Torrhen's neglected wine cup, much to his amusement, mostly toward how relaxed Alaric was when not at court or around others outside of the family.
"I have," Torrhen said. "Lyra Mormont is fierce and Northern. But I won't tie him to Bear Island unless he's willing to live there half the year."
"Lyanna Glover, Lord Glover's cousin?" Alaric suggested.
"Too meek," Torrhen said, rubbing his brow. "He'd tear her heart without trying."
"There's the Poole girl," Alaric mused. "Sensible. Clever."
Torrhen nodded slowly. "Jeyne? Perhaps. I like her."
The fire crackled behind them. Neither spoke for a while.
Alaric, at last, leaned forward. "You raised me, you know."
Torrhen looked up.
"You and Uncle Ned taught me sword and saddle. You kept me steady when my father passed. Through the years, always by my side."
Torrhen met his eyes. "You were always mine, in all but name."
"The day Brandon had ridden out to call for justice following Lyanna's disappearance, he made me promise that if anything happened to him, that i would raise and take care of you as if you were my own, and i would like to think I did just that, in his honor and memory."
Alaric smiled faintly. "That's why I asked for you to become my chief advisor. Help me shape Rodrik's match wisely. I'll have sons and daughters soon. They'll need plenty of allies."
Torrhen stood, poured another cup of wine, and handed it back.
"We'll find the right one," he said. "And she'll have to be strong. Because Rodrik's heart is loud."
"Loud like yours."
Torrhen smirked. "And yours."
[Evening, Great Hall of Winterfell]
The evening meal was lighter than the royal feasts of the days past. Most of the guests were already packing. The Queen had taken to her chambers early. The King was sprawled drunk in his solar. And the servants buzzed like bees, loading wagons and folding banners.
Torrhen sat at a side table with Rodrik, Domeric, and his nieces and nephews from High Hill. Osric had grown sharper this year, more observant. Berena teased Edric endlessly, her voice carrying clear across the hall. Elric was quiet, always watching.
"This one," Torrhen murmured to Rodrik, gesturing at Elric, "he'll be a killer."
"Maybe," Rodrik said. "He stares like a cat ready to pounce."
Torrhen watched his son. A bit broader than him now, but the same square jaw. Same set to his shoulders.
He put a hand on Rodrik's shoulder.
"I'm proud of you," he said.
Rodrik blinked. "You don't say that often."
"I don't feel it often," Torrhen teased. "But I do now."
"And gods only know, your mother would be damn proud of you as well."
Rodrik smirked, but behind it, Torrhen could see it meant something.
[Later That Night, Courtyard of Winterfell]
The stars were cold pinpricks above, and the wind had turned sharp again. Torrhen walked the courtyard alone, watching men pack the last of the wagons. Horses whickered. Guards rotated off the wall.
Alaric was there, speaking with Lord Cerwyn and Benjen. Their words were hushed, but Torrhen could guess supplies, defense, and who stayed behind to be the Stark in Winterfell, ruling in his name.
As Alaric parted from them and approached, Torrhen asked, "You've chosen your steward?"
"Alys will hold court in my name, Uncle Benjen shall stay and be the designated Stark in Winterfell, ruling with Alys" Alaric said. "Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik Cassel, and Old Gared will counsel her."
"She'll be fine," Torrhen said.
Alaric gave him a look. "You're riding with me, aren't you?"
"Aye," Torrhen said. "You think I'd leave you to court alone?"
Torrhen scoffed. "And leave you alone in a den of lions? Your father would come back alive just to wring my neck out."
They both laughed.
Then Alaric grew still.
"There's a storm coming, Torrhen," he said softly. "Not from the sky, from men. The South is shifting. I feel it."
"I know," Torrhen replied. "But wolves don't flee the storm. We outlast it."
Alaric's eyes shone in the moonlight.
"You always said that when I was a boy."
"I always meant it."
[Dawn, Day of Departure]
Winterfell stirred before the sun rose.
The banners of Stark, Baratheon, and Lannister rippled in the early breeze. The procession stood ready, wagons loaded, horses groomed, lords armored in light mail and fine cloaks. The King's Road awaited.
Rodrik rode up, helm in hand. Torrhen adjusted the boy's gorget, fingers lingering a moment.
"Don't ride with your pride ahead of your sword," Torrhen said.
Rodrik nodded. "I'll remember."
Alaric mounted Shadowmane, the two great beasts Tempest and Cinder trotting to both sides of him and his mount, the black charger long accustomed to the wolves. Torrhen swung into his own saddle.
Domeric was already mounted beside Rodrik, laughing at some jest from Berena.
The gates opened.
And the North began to move south.