[Winterfell's godswood, 5th moon, 295AC]
The godswood of Winterfell was alive with the sounds of spring. Snow still lingered in patches beneath the towering sentinels, but here and there the earth showed through, dark and wet, rich with the promise of growth. Alys Karstark tread lightly over the soft ground, her fur-lined boots making no more noise than a fox's paw. She had come seeking silence, perhaps some prayer to calm the unrest brewing in her chest. Instead, she found him.
Lord Alaric Stark knelt before the heart tree, his broad shoulders bowed, the red leaves whispering above him. His cloak was set aside, and the rough grey of his tunic clung to his frame. The sword Ice, the very blade of House Stark, rested across his knees. His dark hair, damp with mist, curled against his forehead.
Alys froze behind a gnarled root, heart hammering as if she had stumbled across a wild thing. There was a reverence in Alaric's stillness, something old and grave. She had seen him command men twice his age in the training yard, had watched him argue politics with Maester Luwin and Lord Benjen with the stubborn pride of a king. Yet here, he was silent and small before the old gods.
Alys should have turned away. It was not her place to watch. But she lingered, breathless.
The wind shifted. Alaric lifted his head and turned slightly, as though he sensed her. His grey eyes, so like smoke over a frozen river, searched the woods. Alys's stomach twisted. For a heartbeat, she thought he saw her. Yet he said nothing. Only bowed his head again.
She fled, cheeks burning, the image of him, solemn, strong, so achingly beautiful, carved into her mind.
Later that day, Catelyn Stark summoned her to the solar.
"You have a good head for order, Alys," Lady Stark said, arranging parchments on the table with quick, efficient movements. "And a steady hand. We would have you assist with preparations for my lord nephew's nameday."
Alys smoothed her skirts, heart still fluttering from the godswood. "Of course, my lady. It would be an honor."
Sansa Stark, seated beside her mother, clapped her hands. "We must make it perfect!" the girl declared. "There should be songs, and dances, and lemoncakes, oh, and a cloak for the ceremony, even if there is no betrothal yet."
Lady Catelyn gave her daughter a mild look. "It is not a tourney in the South, Sansa. This is Winterfell. Simplicity and strength are virtues here."
Alys hid a smile. She liked Sansa well enough, but there was a gap between them, between a girl raised on tales of gallant knights and a woman like herself, shaped by Karhold's fierce winters.
"If I may," Alys ventured, "perhaps a feast with Northern dishes, and a small ceremony after? Something fitting for a young lord stepping into manhood."
Lady Catelyn nodded approval. "See to it."
As she gathered the lists of foodstuffs and musicians, Alys allowed herself a sliver of hope. Perhaps, with this task, she could do some small service for him. Perhaps he would see her not merely as a guest, but as a part of Winterfell's life.
[Later that day, the training yard]
That afternoon, she found herself near the training yard, parchments forgotten in her hand.
The clang of steel echoed across the stones. Alaric moved among his men like a wolf among lesser beasts, quick, sure, unrelenting. He sparred with Domeric Bolton and Rodrik Stark in turn, giving no quarter, demanding their best. Sweat darkened his tunic; a thin trickle ran down the side of his face, but his strikes were clean and measured.
Alys leaned against a pillar, pretending to read. Others watched too, Sansa, Alysanne, Lyarra, and even Lysa, giggling behind their hands. Alys felt a sharp stab of something she dared not name.
When Rodrik caught Alaric on the shoulder, the young lord only laughed, a rich, rough sound that made Alys' toes curl in her boots. He clapped his cousin's arm, then turned to lift his blade in salute to those watching.
His gaze swept over the crowd… and caught hers.
Alys's breath stilled. She expected mockery or polite dismissal. Instead, he inclined his head ever so slightly, a warrior's courtesy to a lady.
She fled before her cheeks betrayed her.
[Later that night]
That night, a storm rolled in.
The winds howled against Winterfell's stone walls, rattling shutters and keening through the battlements. Alys lay awake in her chamber, the fire dwindling to coals. Thunder cracked overhead, close enough to make her bed tremble.
Sleep would not come.
She rose, threw a cloak over her nightdress, and crept barefoot into the corridors. The halls were deserted, save for the occasional guard. Torchlight danced along the cold stone.
Drawn by some nameless pull, she found herself in the old library. It was a vast, shadowy place, filled with the smell of vellum and dust. And there, by the hearth, sat Alaric Stark.
He was dressed simply, boots off, a book open across his knee. The firelight caught the sharp line of his jaw, the mess of his hair. He looked up as she entered, one brow lifting in surprise.
"Lady Alys," he said, voice low. "Does the storm drive you from your bed as well?"
She flushed, wrapping her cloak tighter. "I could not sleep."
He gestured to the chair opposite. "Join me, if you wish."
Hesitant, heart racing, she crossed the room and sat. For a time, they listened to the storm together, the silence between them almost companionable.
"When I was a boy," Alaric said at length, "I feared storms more than any sword." A wry smile touched his mouth. "I used to think the old gods were arguing above us, hurling thunder like spears."
Alys smiled, touched by the image. "And now?"
"Now I think they're reminding us how small we are." He closed the book, setting it aside. "Even lords, even kings… are nothing against the forces of nature."
For a long moment, they simply sat together, the fire crackling between them.
Alys wanted to say something, to tell him how fiercely, how quietly, he had come to matter to her. But the words tangled in her throat. Instead, she asked, "Will you fear anything, when you are full-grown?"
Alaric's eyes turned solemn. "I fear many things," he said. "That I will fail those who depend on me. That I will lose what I love. That I will not be strong enough."
Her hand twitched, aching to reach for his.
Instead, she said softly, "You are strong enough."
He looked at her then, truly looked, as if seeing her for the first time. Alys held her breath.
Then, softly, he smiled, a small, rare thing, like snow melting under the first true sun.
"Thank you," he said simply.
And somehow, though the storm still raged beyond the walls, Alys felt warm.
[The Next Day]
The next morning, Winterfell was washed clean.
The training yard steamed where the sun struck wet stone. Servants bustled about the hall, preparing for the nameday to come. Alys moved among them, giving orders with a steadier hand than she had thought possible.
In the godswood, the heart tree's red leaves dripped rainwater like blood. Alys paused before it, offering a silent prayer.
Let him be happy. Let him be safe.
She could ask for nothing more.
As she turned to leave, a shadow fell across the grass. Alaric stood there, arms folded.
"Lady Alys," he said. "I hear the nameday feast will be quite the thing."
She dipped a curtsy, unable to keep the smile from her lips. "We hope to honor you, my lord."
He chuckled. "You honor me every day, Alys Karstark."
Before she could respond, he offered his arm. Startled, heart pounding, she took it.
Together, they walked back toward the keep, two figures beneath the pale, thawing sky.
And for the first time in many moons, Alys Karstark felt hope bloom bright and fierce in her chest, as if spring had come at last to Winterfell.
[The Next week, 1st week, 6th moon, 295AC]
The sixth moon of 295 AC had arrived, and with it, the winds of change swept through Winterfell. Alys Karstark stood atop the battlements, her cloak billowing around her as she gazed upon the horizon. The sun cast a golden hue over the snow-dusted landscape, and the distant sound of hooves echoed through the crisp air.
Below, the gates of Winterfell creaked open to welcome the arriving lords. Banners of various houses fluttered in the breeze, but it was the silver sunburst of House Karstark that caught Alys's eye. Her heart quickened as she spotted her father, Lord Rickard Karstark, leading the procession, flanked by her brothers, Harrion, whom she affectionately called Harry, and Eddard, known to all as Edd.
Descending the stone steps with haste, Alys made her way to the courtyard. The clatter of hooves and the murmur of voices filled the air as the Karstark retinue dismounted. Lord Rickard, tall and imposing with a beard flecked with gray, turned at her approach.
"Alys," he greeted, his stern features softening. She embraced him tightly, the familiar scent of pine and leather bringing a rush of memories.
"Father," she whispered.
Harry and Edd followed suit, enveloping her in warm embraces.
"It's been too long, little sister," Harry said, ruffling her hair.
Edd chuckled. "You've grown since we last saw you."
Lord Rickard observed her with a discerning eye. "And how have you found Winterfell, Alys? How do you and Lord Alaric get along?"
Alys felt a flush rise to her cheeks, and she averted her gaze.
Lord Rickard's eyes twinkled with amusement. "That tells me all I need to know."
Later that day, Alys led her kinsman, Ellard Karstark, through the halls of Winterfell. At one-and-twenty, Ellard was eager to prove himself and had expressed a desire to join the Greycloaks or even the elite Winter Guard.
They found Lord Alaric in the training yard, overseeing sparring matches. His presence commanded respect, and the men under his watchful eye moved with precision and discipline.
"Lord Alaric," Alys called out, approaching with Ellard in tow.
Alaric turned, his gaze settling on them. "Lady Alys," he acknowledged with a nod.
"This is Ellard Karstark, my second cousin. He seeks to enter your service, perhaps among the Greycloaks or the Winter Guard."
Ellard stepped forward, bowing deeply. "My lord, I offer my sword and my loyalty.
Alaric studied him for a moment before nodding. "Prove yourself, and a place among the Winter Knights may be yours.
Ellard's eyes lit up with determination. "Thank you, my lord. I won't disappoint you."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the courtyard, Alys found herself walking alongside Alaric. The air was crisp, and the scent of pine lingered.
"Thank you for considering Ellard," she said.
Alaric glanced at her. "He has potential. Time will tell."
They walked in silence for a moment before Alys spoke again. "Winterfell feels different with my family here."
Alaric nodded. "The presence of kin can change the atmosphere."
Alys looked up at him, the fading light highlighting the sharp angles of his face. "I'm glad they're here."
He met her gaze, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "As am I."
[Later that night]
That night, a storm rolled in, blanketing Winterfell in a thick layer of snow. Alys stood by her window, watching the flakes dance in the wind. A knock at her door drew her attention.
"Come in," she called.
Alaric entered, a cloak draped over his shoulders. "I thought you might be awake."
She smiled. "The storm is mesmerizing."
He joined her by the window, the two of them standing in comfortable silence.
After a while, Alaric spoke. "Your father mentioned the possibility of a betrothal."
Alys felt her heart skip a beat. "And what did you say?"
He turned to face her, his expression serious. "I said I would consider it."
She met his gaze, her voice barely above a whisper. "And have you?"
He reached out, taking her hand in his. "Yes."
The storm raged outside, but within the room, a quiet warmth blossomed.
[The Morning after]
The next morning, preparations for Alaric's nameday feast were in full swing. The Great Hall buzzed with activity as servants decorated the space with banners and garlands. Alys, alongside Lady Catelyn, oversaw the arrangements, ensuring everything was perfect.
As the day progressed, guests began to arrive, their laughter and chatter filling the halls. The aroma of roasted meats and spiced wine wafted through the air.
That evening, the feast commenced. Alaric sat at the head table, his presence commanding attention. Alys sat beside him, their hands occasionally brushing, sending sparks up her spine.
Toasts were made, songs were sung, and the night wore on in merriment. As the festivities continued, Alys felt a sense of contentment settle over her. The future was uncertain, but in that moment, surrounded by family and newfound love, she felt at peace.
In the days that followed, life at Winterfell returned to its usual rhythm. Ellard began his training with the Greycloaks, his dedication evident in every swing of his sword. Alys and Alaric spent more time together, their bond strengthening with each passing day.
One afternoon, as they walked through the godswood, Alaric turned to her. "I've spoken with your father. The betrothal is agreed upon."
Alys felt a surge of emotion. "Truly?"
He nodded. "Truly."
She smiled, the future unfolding before her like the petals of a blooming flower. Together, they would face whatever storms lay ahead.