[The North, Winterfell, late 11th moon, 298AC]
The wind that swept across the walls of Winterfell carried the bite of coming winter.
Alys Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, stood upon the battlements, wrapped in thick grey furs, one hand resting instinctively upon the gentle curve of her belly. Five moons now. The child within her stirred faintly beneath wool and leather, as if it too could feel the restless unease that had settled over the castle these past weeks.
Below her, the yard bustled with activity.
It had been less than a week since Winterfell had received a raven telling of the treachery that happened south, and she still couldn't believe the Lannisters would make such a daring and blatant move against House Stark.
The raven they had received was just one of many sent out from White Harbor, according to the second letter she had gotten from her lord-husband, following their landing in White Harbor. He sought to announce the Lion's deeds and question the legitimacy of the royal offspring to the entire realm, similar letters no doubt sitting within many lords' halls.
Pulling herself from her thoughts, Alys gazed down below into the yard of Winterfell.
Men drilled beneath the watchful eyes of the castle's acting master-at-arms, accompanied by veterans of the Grey Cloaks. Spears rose and fell in a steady rhythm while shields clashed in dull, echoing thuds.
Smiths worked their forges day and night in the armory courtyard, her husband's innovation, the blast furnace, as he calls it, roaring to life again and again, shaping steel for battle.
Smiths were hammering out spearheads and rivets for mail. Carts loaded with grain rattled across the yard toward the inner granaries.
Winterfell had not known such restless preparation since the days before Robert's Rebellion.
But this time the war had come without warning.
Alys had known something was wrong long before the ravens began arriving.
The first message had come more than a moon ago. It had borne Alaric's seal and his careful, deliberate hand.
Quietly call the banners.
No explanation. No details.
Just that.
She had obeyed without question.
The lords of the North trusted House Stark. They trusted Alaric most of all. And if he had sent such a message before even leaving King's Landing, then he must have foreseen danger long before it arrived.
So Alys had begun quietly.
Ravens had flown from Winterfell to every corner of the North.
To Karhold, Last Hearth, the Barrowlands, Deepwood Motte, Torrhen's Square, Hornwood, Castle Cerwyn, and even the Dreadfort, among many more keeps and holds of the north.
Each message carefully worded. Not a declaration of war, only a request that the lords of the North ensure their levies were ready and provisions secured.
Most had understood immediately.
The wolves were stirring.
Now Winterfell waited.
And waited…
And waited.
Two weeks had passed without word from White Harbor.
The silence had been unbearable.
Alys rested both hands upon the cold stone of the battlement and looked north across the endless stretch of white-frosted forest.
"Lady Stark."
She turned slightly.
Maester Luwin approached slowly across the wall walk, his chain glinting faintly in the pale winter light.
"Another raven?" Alys asked, perking up in hope that Alaric had broken his silence.
"Not yet, my lady." Luwin replied, giving her an apologetic smile
She turned away, dejected, gazing over the walls.
The old maester stopped beside her and followed her gaze across the distant treeline.
"You should not remain in the cold so long," he said gently. "The child—"
"The child is strong," Alys replied.
Still, she drew her cloak tighter.
Below them, the yard gates creaked open as a group of riders entered the castle. Their horses were lathered and weary from a hard ride.
Messengers again.
There had been many of them.
Most brought rumors.
Robert Baratheon having died
Fighting in King's Landing.
The Lannisters seizing power.
Lord Tywin's burning of the Riverlands
None of it certain, mostly rumor, aside from the Riverlands, story of these events changed from rumor to rumor.
Until today.
A sudden shout rose from the western wall.
Alys turned sharply.
Another voice followed, louder this time.
"Horns!"
The sound came a moment later.
A deep, echoing blast carried across the open air beyond the castle.
Luwin stiffened.
Alys felt her heart leap into her throat.
Another horn answered.
Then another.
Riders rushed across the yard below, calling to one another. Guards hurried toward the gatehouse while soldiers scrambled to the battlements.
"What is it?" Alys asked.
One of the guards on the wall pointed south.
"My lady… banners."
Alys stepped quickly toward the parapet.
Far beyond the outer walls, where the kingsroad curved through the frosted fields, a long dark column stretched across the horizon.
At first, it looked like nothing more than a line of moving shadows.
Then the wind caught the banners.
Grey.
White.
A direwolf on a field of white.
Behind them came others.
The roaring giant of House Umber.
The merman of House Manderly.
More wolves.
Many more.
The Stark host had returned.
Alys did not realize she had begun walking until she was already halfway across the battlements.
By the time she reached the gatehouse tower, the horns had begun sounding in earnest.
Men crowded the walls now, pointing and shouting.
The army approached steadily, thousands strong.
At its head rode a small group of riders.
And beside them, two massive shapes moved across the frozen road.
Even from this distance, they were unmistakable.
Tempest's silver-gray coat shone like storm clouds beneath the pale sun.
Cinder's reddish fur burned like embers beside him.
Direwolves.
Alys felt something inside her chest loosen for the first time in weeks.
"He's finally come back," she whispered.
The great gates of Winterfell groaned open.
Snow crunched beneath the boots of the gathered soldiers as they lined the courtyard.
Lords and knights assembled along the stone steps of the Great Hall.
Alys descended slowly from the battlements, refusing the offered arm of one of the guards. The child within her shifted again, but she ignored the discomfort.
She had waited too long for this moment.
The Stark host began to enter the castle.
First came outriders in grey cloaks.
Then ranks of soldiers.
Northern men in mail and leather bearing spears and axes.
Behind them rode the captains.
Smalljon Umber's booming laugh could be heard long before he entered the yard.
Derrick Umber followed beside him, beard thick with frost.
Ser Desmond Manderly rode behind them in polished plate.
Ser Harald Stark followed, a wounded shoulder bound, but his posture unbowed.
Rodrik Stark rode near the front as well, his face older than when he had last left Winterfell years ago.
Domeric Bolton rode beside him, pale and watchful.
And at the center of them all stood the man she loved, donned in grey steel and leather, a wolf-fur cloak around his shoulder, and flanked by the two great beasts of his… Lord Alaric Stark.
He rode a great dark destrier, his cloak snapping in the cold wind. Ice rested across his back, the ancient blade's pommel rising above his shoulder.
Tempest and Cinder moved beside his horse like silent shadows.
When Alaric dismounted, the yard seemed to grow quieter.
His eyes found Alys immediately.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then he crossed the yard toward her.
The gathered men instinctively stepped aside.
Alys had prepared words during the long weeks of waiting.
Questions.
Reproaches.
Prayers of thanks.
All of them vanished the moment he reached her.
Alaric stopped a few paces away.
His grey eyes softened slightly.
"Alys."
Her vision blurred suddenly.
"You stubborn wolf," she whispered.
Then she stepped forward and embraced him.
He wrapped his arms around her carefully, mindful of her condition. For a moment, the coming war, the kingdom, and the watching lords seemed to fade away.
"You took too long," she murmured against his shoulder.
"I came as fast as I could."
She pulled back slightly and studied his face.
He looked older.
Harder.
"What happened?" she asked quietly.
Alaric's gaze darkened.
"War has come to the north."
The word hung between them.
He rested a hand gently against her belly.
"And our child?"
"Strong," she said, a warm smile spreading across her face.
His expression softened briefly.
"Good."
Around them, the courtyard slowly came back to life.
Smalljon Umber cleared his throat loudly.
"Well," he boomed, "that's a sight worth marching half the realm to see."
Laughter rippled through the gathered men.
Alys wiped quickly at her eyes.
Then she noticed something.
Someone missing.
Her gaze moved across the assembled captains.
Ser Harald, Ser Desmond, Rodrik, and even Ser Benjicot Stark.
But not—
"Where is Ser Torrhen?" she asked.
Silence fell.
Harald lowered his gaze.
Rodrik's jaw tightened.
Alaric looked at the ground briefly.
Alys felt the answer before he spoke it.
"He died in King's Landing," Alaric said quietly.
The courtyard seemed to grow colder.
"Torrhen held the gate of the Red Keep while we escaped." The scene of battle almost replayed within his eyes
Rodrik looked away.
"The portcullis fell before he could withdraw." Alaric finished, closing his eyes for a moment, as if to remember the last moment of his father in all but name
Alys closed her eyes briefly.
Ser Torrhen Stark had been more than a knight.
He had been family.
The man who had trained half the young warriors of Winterfell.
The man who had stood beside Alaric since boyhood.
"And the lions?" she asked.
Alaric's voice hardened.
"They will answer for it."
The wind howled faintly across the walls of Winterfell.
All around them stood the warriors of the North.
Lords, Knights, Captains, men who had marched south beside their lord and returned with war in their wake.
Alys looked across them all.
At the men gathered around him, the various warriors and even the levies who followed from White Harbor.
At the direwolves pacing quietly beside their master.
"The North will hear of this," she said softly.
Alaric met her gaze.
"Aye."
She drew herself up despite the weight of her pregnancy.
"Then we should not keep them waiting."
Beyond the courtyard doors, the banners of the North stirred in the cold wind.
And within the ancient walls of Winterfell, the wolves were gathering once more.
The yard slowly came back to life after the silence that had followed the news of Ser Torrhen's death.
Men began to move again. Horses were led away. Soldiers called to one another as they began unloading wagons and saddlebags. The long march from White Harbor had ended, but the energy of the returning host had not yet faded.
Word spread quickly through Winterfell.
Lord Stark has returned.
The cry echoed through the castle like a rising tide.
Servants hurried through the galleries. Stablehands ran toward the yard. Doors opened along the stone balconies overlooking the courtyard as curious faces peered down to see the returning army.
Children pressed against the wooden railings of the upper walkways.
Alaric barely had time to release Alys before a new voice cut through the commotion.
"Cousin!"
Robb Stark pushed his way through the gathered soldiers, tall and broad-shouldered now, nearly a man grown. Jon Snow followed a step behind him, quieter but just as intent.
Robb reached Alaric first and clasped his forearm.
"You took long enough," he said with a crooked grin.
Alaric laughed softly and gripped the boy's shoulder.
"You've grown."
Robb straightened slightly at the praise, though his eyes already burned with curiosity.
"Is it true?" he asked. "There was fighting in King's Landing?"
"Aye, there was," Alaric replied, his gaze darkening.
Jon stepped forward next.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Alaric clapped him on the shoulder.
"Still brooding like Uncle Ned, huh?"
Jon smirked faintly.
Before he could reply, Tempest moved closer and lowered his great head toward Jon.
The direwolf sniffed him once.
Jon reached out cautiously and scratched behind the wolf's ear.
"Still remember me, do you?" he murmured.
Cinder paced slowly nearby, her amber eyes watching the yard.
From the steps of the Great Hall came a sudden shout.
"Alaric!"
Arya Stark raced across the courtyard like a bolt loosed from a bow. Sansa followed more cautiously behind her, one hand gripping Rickon's sleeve while Bran walked along beside them.
Arya skidded to a halt before the wolves.
"Seven hells," she breathed, staring at Tempest. "They're bigger!"
She turned to Alaric immediately.
"Did you kill any Lannisters?"
Robb groaned.
Sansa looked mortified.
Alaric only smiled faintly.
"A few."
Arya grinned like a wolf herself.
Bran tugged excitedly at Edwyn Stark's sleeve beside him.
"Did you really escape the Red Keep?" he asked breathlessly. "What's it like inside? Are the towers taller than the Broken Tower? Are there dragons—"
Rickon wriggled free from Sansa's grip and ran straight toward the direwolves.
"Wolf!"
Sansa caught him before he reached Cinder.
"Rickon!"
Laughter rippled through the courtyard.
It was a welcome sound.
Another figure stepped forward through the gathered men.
Benjen Stark.
He looked dust-covered and travel-worn, his cloak still marked with frost from the long ride.
He stopped before Alaric and studied him for a moment.
Then he pulled him into a rough embrace.
"I leave you alone with the south for but a moment," Benjen said dryly, "and you start a war."
Alaric snorted.
"Someone had to."
Benjen stepped back and glanced around the yard.
"Good to see you returned relatively in one piece."
"Your family still at Sea Dragon Point?"
"Aye," Benjen replied. "Mormont levies are gathering there. We'll bring them south once they're ready."
Alaric nodded.
Then his gaze shifted toward a towering figure standing quietly nearby.
Walder.
The giant of a man looked almost embarrassed by the attention, suddenly turning toward him.
Alaric walked over.
Walder began to kneel awkwardly, but Alaric caught his arm and pulled him back up.
"I hear you saved my wife's life," he said.
Walder looked uncomfortable beneath the praise.
"My duty, my lord."
Alaric gripped his forearm firmly.
"You have my thanks. And my trust."
The giant nodded once.
As evening fell, Winterfell prepared for celebration.
Torches blazed along the walls, and smoke curled upward from the kitchens as cooks hurried to prepare food for hundreds of hungry soldiers.
By the time the feast began, the Great Hall was alive with noise.
The long wooden tables were packed with warriors, bannermen, and household knights.
At the high table sat the leaders of the North.
Alaric beside Alys.
Ned Stark nearby with his great she-wolf Tundra lying calmly beside the dais, her silver-grey coat gleaming in the firelight.
Lord Wyman Manderly filled an entire chair beside them.
Benjen Stark sat further down the table, laughing quietly with Rodrik Stark and Domeric Bolton.
Smalljon Umber and Derrick Umber occupied two seats that creaked alarmingly beneath their weight.
Below them, the hall bustled with familiar faces.
The Starks of High Hill had arrived earlier that afternoon, Lord Artos having come with his retinue, levies no doubt in tow.
Osric Stark, heir of High Hill, had grown into a tall young man with a steady, thoughtful manner. He greeted Alaric respectfully before taking his seat among the younger warriors, having long been accustomed to Winterfell from his long fostering.
Nearby sat his twin sisters.
Branda and Berena Stark.
The troublesome pair had already found Arya.
The three of them whispered conspiratorially before vanishing beneath one of the tables.
Sansa noticed immediately.
"Not again," she muttered.
Young Edwyn Stark sat beside Bran, both boys deep in conversation about swords and castles.
"High Hill has towers taller than the Broken Tower," Edwyn insisted.
Bran looked impressed.
Further down the table sat Edric and Elric Snow, Ser Harald's twin sons.
The two looked almost identical, though Edric was louder and more boastful while Elric watched quietly with thoughtful eyes.
Their father silenced both of them with a single glare when their boasting about the coming war grew too loud.
Across the hall sat the ladies.
Sansa presided over the table with calm authority.
Beside her sat Alysanne Stark of White Harbor, along with Lysa Dustin, Beth Cassel, and Jeyne Poole.
Robb's wife, Ysilla, sat among them as well.
Her pregnancy had become increasingly obvious.
Sansa leaned toward Jeyne.
"Robb looks terrified," she whispered.
Jeyne giggled.
Arya overheard and laughed loudly from across the hall.
Later in the evening, the various fosterlings of Winterfell had congregated together.
The wolf pack gathered there.
Robb, Jon Snow, Lucion Lannister, Osric, Harlon Stark of White Harbor, Roddy Dustin, Dorren Snow, Edric and Elric Snow, Torrhen Karstark, Smalljon, and Derrick Umber, and of course, Alaric had joined them, enjoying the reunion of his wolf pack.
They passed around cups of ale while swapping stories as the hall was filled with noise.
Smalljon told an exaggerated version of the battle at the Red Keep that somehow involved him personally killing half the Kingsguard.
Laughter roared across the hall.
Then Smalljon glanced toward Lucion.
"Never thought I'd see the day a lion drank with wolves."
Lucion raised his cup calmly.
"Better wolves than the rest of my kin."
More laughter followed.
Rodrik Stark eventually spoke up.
He told them about the gate, recounting the story Alaric had told him.
About his father's last stand.
The laughter faded.
For a moment, the hall grew quiet.
Smalljon raised his cup.
"To the man who held the gate."
Every cup lifted.
"To Ser Torrhen Stark."
The direwolves appeared soon after.
Tempest padded into the firelight first.
Cinder followed close behind.
Grey Wind emerged from the shadows beside Robb, his yellow eyes gleaming.
Summer bounded playfully toward Bran near the doorway.
Lady rested calmly beside Sansa.
Nymeria circled Arya with restless energy.
And beside Dorren Snow moved a dark shape with blue eyes like cold moonlight.
Shadow.
The black direwolf watched the gathering pack quietly.
For a moment, it felt less like a gathering of men and more like a gathering of wolves.
Later that night, when the fires had burned low and the hall had grown quiet, Alaric stood with Alys upon the battlements.
Snow had begun to fall.
Soft and silent.
"The North is ready," Alys said quietly.
Alaric looked south into the darkness beyond the walls of Winterfell.
Toward the lands where lions ruled.
"Then the lions should pray."