Author's Note:
Hey guys, real quick, I just wanted to clear up something I messed up last chapter, Ysilla is actually pregnant, I was kindly reminded that it had first been mentioned in chapter 74, so I wanted to real quick make this note to let y'all know, i have also gone back and edited the last chapter to reflect that in Ned and Yohn Royce's greeting.
Hope y'all like the chapter!
[The North, Winterfell, 3rd moon, 299AC]
The raven arrived in the early hours of the morning, when the light had only just begun to break over the walls of Winterfell and the castle itself was only beginning to stir from sleep, the yard still quiet save for a few early risers and the distant clatter of men beginning their duties, and it was in that stillness that the bird's arrival carried a weight far greater than its small form should have allowed, for the maester's boy came at once, breathless and wide-eyed.
Alys had not yet broken her fast when it was brought to her.
She sat in her husband's solar, a place she had come to favor more in recent days, not for its comfort but for its quiet and comfort. The boy soon entered, bowing awkwardly and holding out the letter with both hands. She knew at once that this was not a message of routine matters or simple updates from the south, but something heavier, something that had traveled with urgency.
"M'lady," the boy said, his voice tight with the importance of what he carried. "A letter has come from the Riverlands."
Alys took the letter carefully, her fingers brushing the seal, noting the sigil pressed into the wax, the Direwolf of House Stark, unmistakable, though there were others impressed faintly alongside it, marks from northern lords who had lent their names to whatever proclamation lay within.
"You've done well," she said gently, and the boy seemed to relax just slightly before bowing again and withdrawing, leaving her alone with the letter and the quiet that pressed in around her.
For a long moment, she did not open it.
Her hand rested against the parchment, feeling its weight, as though she might somehow sense its contents without breaking the seal, as though delaying that small act might delay whatever truth it carried, but she knew better than that, and so with a steady breath she broke the wax and unfolded the letter.
Her eyes moved across the words slowly at first, then more quickly as their meaning took hold.
Her husband, Alaric Stark, was now the first King in the North in three centuries.
Proclaimed before the lords of the North and the Riverlands.
Victorious in battle, he slew the Kingslayer and smashed his host upon the walls of Riverrun.
The war was ramping up as well, with no end in sight, it would seem.
The North no longer would bend the knee to the mangled chair that is the Iron Throne.
By the time she reached the end, her grip on the parchment had tightened without her realizing it, the edges crinkling slightly beneath her fingers as the reality of it settled over her, not in a rush, but in a slow, steady weight that pressed deeper with each passing heartbeat.
"He has done it," she murmured quietly to herself, her voice barely more than a breath.
Her husband had set out as a lord leading men to war in revenge for those he had lost.
And now, he had become a king.
Alys closed her eyes for a moment, the letter still held in her hands, and in that brief darkness she felt a dozen emotions rise at once, pride, fierce and undeniable, followed by fear, quieter but no less present, and beneath it all, a growing understanding of what this meant not just for him, but for her, for Winterfell, for the North itself.
When she opened her eyes again, the room had not changed, but something within it had.
Or perhaps it was within her.
She rose slowly, one hand instinctively moving to rest against the swell of her belly, where her child stirred faintly, as if sensing the shift in her mood, and she allowed herself a small, steadying breath before calling for the household to gather.
For this was great news, the north now has its own king for the first time since Aegon and his sisters came to their shores, but now, they were stronger than ever.
The Great Hall filled more quickly than she expected, word spreading through the castle with haste, and by the time Alys entered, her head held high, but still feeling the strain of late-stage pregnancy as she moved across the stone floor, most of those who remained at Winterfell had already gathered.
The Stark children were there, each standing nearby, Sansa near the front, composed but visibly tense, Arya, as always, was restless, shifting her weight from foot to foot, Bran was quiet and observant, whispering something to Edwyn, and little Rickon was clinging close to one of the servants, his expression uncertain as he looked around at the gathering.
Their wolves were also nearby, never leaving the side of their masters for more than a moment.
Nearby stood Robb's wife, Ysilla Stark, her hands resting lightly against her own belly, her posture careful but her gaze steady as it met Alys's, and there was a shared understanding there, unspoken but clear.
Before she had left for the Great Hall, Alys had run into Ysilla, who had received her own letter from Robb telling of the northern victory in the south, along with Alaric's crowning.
Now, standing in the Great Hall of Winterfell, they both knew what this moment meant for the future of House Stark.
Alys moved to the front of the hall, the letter in her hand, and as the murmurs quieted, she looked out over those gathered, taking in their faces, some hopeful, some worried, yet all were waiting for her words.
"This letter came at first light via raven," she said, her voice clear, carrying easily through the hall without needing to rise.
She held the letter slightly.
"It is from the south, bringing news of my husband and his campaign against the Lannisters."
That alone was enough to draw every eye more firmly to her.
She did not delay.
"Alaric has been crowned," she said. "Proclaimed King in the North by the lords who stand with him."
The words settled over the hall like a sudden weight, the silence that followed deeper than before, as though the castle itself had taken a breath and held it.
Sansa's eyes widened slightly, her composure holding but strained at the edges.
Arya's head snapped up, her expression sharpening, a wide wolfish grin spreading across her face, no doubt in pride of her older cousin.
Bran did not move, but his gaze seemed to deepen, as though he were looking not just at Alys, but beyond her, beyond the hall, he looked as if he had seen a ghost.
Rickon looked confused, glancing between the others as if trying to understand why no one was speaking.
Alys continued, reading portions of the letter aloud, her voice steady even as the words spoke of battles won, the Lannister forces broken, of how the war that was far from over but had already reshaped the realm in ways none could ignore.
When she finished, she lowered the parchment, and for a moment, no one spoke.
Then Arya broke the silence.
"So he's a king now?" she said, her tone somewhere between disbelief and something sharper. "Just like that?" her smile as wide as ever
Alys met her gaze.
"Not just like that," she said. "It was not given lightly, and he did not take it without reason."
Arya frowned slightly at her words now, thinking more intensely than most thought possible of her.
"And what does that mean for us?" she asked.
Before Alys could answer, Sansa spoke.
"It means everything changes," she said quietly.
All eyes turned to her.
Sansa held their gaze, her voice growing steadier as she continued.
"It means we are no longer just a great house," she said. "We are… more, the Stark Dynasty has been restored to the Throne of Winter."
Alys inclined her head slightly.
"Aye," she said. "The North again has a native king for the first time in three centuries."
Rickon tugged at the sleeve of the servant beside him.
"Does that mean he's coming home?" he asked.
The question cut through the room with a simple honesty that no one else had dared voice.
Alys softened slightly.
"No sweetling," she said gently. "Not yet."
Rickon's face fell slightly, and she felt the weight of that small disappointment as keenly as any of the larger concerns in the room.
"He has more to do," she added, looking around at the assembly. "And so do we."
Later, when the hall had emptied and the initial reactions had settled into quieter conversations, Alys found herself in the godswood, drawn there by something she could not quite name.
The Winterfell Godswood was as it had always been, quiet, ancient, the heart tree watching in silence as it had for generations since the days of the Builder, its red leaves stirring faintly in the wind.
She moved slowly along the path, her hand resting again against her belly, feeling the weight of her child, the steady reminder of what was to come.
"A king," she said softly, testing the word upon her lips, still coming to terms with her new station, and that of their coming child.
She stopped before the heart tree, looking up at its carved face.
"He never asked for it," she murmured. "Not in the way others might."
But he had not refused it either.
She knew that.
She closed her eyes briefly, remembering him as he had been when they had spoken last, focused, determined, carrying a weight he did not speak of but never set aside.
That was her Alaric after all, always carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders in silence, not allowing others to help ease his burdens.
"You've accomplished much in the south, my stoic wolf," she said quietly. "Now I must do the same."
The wind shifted slightly, stirring the leaves above, and for a moment she allowed herself to simply stand there, to feel the stillness of the place, to gather herself before returning to the castle and the responsibilities that awaited her.
That night, as snow began to fall lightly over Winterfell, settling against the walls and drifting across the yard, Alys stood once more looking out over the castle, the letter still close at hand, its words now etched into her thoughts.
Far to the south, her husband fought as a king.
Here, she would hold what he had built.
And when the time came…
When the war reached its end, whatever shape that end might take.
The North would still stand, because it had to, but most importantly, because she would see that it did.
[A few days later]
The day did not begin quietly, but rather, it began with pain.
Within her chambers, Alys began to stir, noticing her ladies and friends sprawled around her on couches and cushions.
Alys had risen early, before the others, as she had done every day since Alaric had ridden south, though rising now was slower than it had once been, more deliberate, every movement measured so as not to strain what already felt stretched to its limit, and she had only just reached the edge of her bed when she felt her water break
For a moment, she said nothing.
She had known this would come. The maester had told her as much, the midwives had spoken in soft tones about signs and timings, and her own body had been preparing her for days with aches and tightening that came and went without warning, but this was different.
This was not something that would pass.
Next to her, Sansa Stark stirred first, having remained in the chamber through the night along with a few of the other girls, unwilling to leave Alys alone in her condition, and she rose quickly when she saw the way Alys gripped the bedpost.
"Alys, are you alright?" she asked, her voice already edged with concern.
Alys exhaled slowly, forcing herself upright.
"I can feel it, the baby's ready to come out," she said, sweat already forming.
That was enough.
The room came alive at once.
Lady was on her feet in the same instant, ears pricked forward, her pale eyes fixed on Alys with a steady, knowing focus that made the younger girls step back instinctively, as though the direwolf understood something they did not. From the doorway, Nymeria slipped in silently, her movements sharper, more restless, pacing once along the wall before stopping, watching.
"Jeyne, go," Sansa said quickly. "Fetch the maester. And the midwives."
Jeyne Poole did not hesitate, gathering her skirts and hurrying from the chamber, Beth Cassel close behind her to rouse the rest of the household.
Arya was already awake, already moving.
"How bad is it?" she asked, stepping closer, her usual sharpness tempered now by something more serious.
Alys gave her a look that might have been amused if she had the breath for it.
"It will worsen," she said. "You need not look so eager for it."
"I'm not eager," Arya said. "I just want to see what happens."
Sansa looked at her younger sister sharply, "Arya, that is not helpful."
Alys raised a hand slightly, forestalling whatever argument might have followed.
"Enough," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "There is work to be done."
Soon, the first contraction came, stronger than she would've thought, and this time, she did not try to speak through it. She closed her eyes, breathed through it as best she could, and when it passed, she straightened slowly.
"Help me to the birthing chamber," she said.
Ysilla was there then, entering with careful urgency, her own hand resting against her belly as she crossed the room.
"I heard," she said, coming to Alys's side. "How long?"
"Not long," Alys answered. "But long enough."
Ysilla nodded once.
"Then we move now."
Winterfell shifted with a fierce efficiency.
Word spread quickly, but not chaotically. Servants moved with purpose, fires were stoked, water heated, linens brought, and by the time Alys was settled into the birthing chamber, supported on either side by Ysilla and Sansa, the room was already prepared.
The fire burned strongly, casting a steady glow across the stone walls. Furs and blankets had been laid out, clean cloths stacked neatly, and the midwives arrived not long after, their expressions composed but attentive, each of them falling into their roles without hesitation.
Maester Luwin followed close behind, his chain clinking softly as he entered, his eyes already assessing the situation.
"Good," he said. "You came early. That will help."
"It had better," Alys replied, lowering herself carefully onto the bed.
Lady lay down near the foot of the bed at once, her presence a quiet anchor in the room, while Nymeria remained near the doorway, pacing once, twice, before settling, though her tail flicked with restless energy.
Outside, the sound of movement echoed faintly, Greycloaks changing watch, servants moving through corridors, but within the chamber, everything narrowed.
Everything focused.
Time passed strangely after that.
The pains came and went, each one stronger than the last, taking more from her than the one before, and though Alys bore it with as much control as she could muster, there came a point where control became something else entirely, something more primal, more immediate.
She gripped the bedpost, her knuckles whitening.
"Breathe," one of the midwives said.
"I am breathing," Alys snapped, though she obeyed all the same.
Ysilla stayed close, never leaving her side, speaking to her in low tones between contractions, reminding her to rest when she could, to gather strength for what was coming.
"You've faced worse," Ysilla murmured at one point.
Alys let out a strained breath.
"I have not," she said. "And do not lie to me again, that is an order from your queen."
That earned the faintest smile from Ysilla, brief and amused.
Across the room, Sansa worked steadily, passing cloths, keeping the space clear, her composure holding even as her eyes betrayed her worry. Arya lingered nearer the door, restless but silent now, her gaze sharp, watching everything.
Bran had been brought as close as he was allowed, seated just beyond the threshold, Summer lying at his side, the great wolf still and silent as stone, while little Rickon hovered nearby with Shaggydog, who paced once before settling heavily beside him.
Edwyn remained with Bran, wide-eyed and quiet, sensing the gravity of the moment even if he did not fully understand it.
The hours stretched.
Pain blurred into effort, effort into exhaustion, and still Alys pushed, refusing to yield, refusing to falter, because there was no space for it, not now, not with everything that rested on this moment.
And then, at long last, the first cry split the air.
Sharp and strong.
A gods be glad, alive as well, there were far too many stories of ladies entering the birthing bed, only to birth a stillborn child, but thankfully, Alys wouldn't be one of those many today.
"It's a boy, your grace," the midwife said.
Relief washed through the room.
Alys sagged back against the pillows, her breath coming in ragged pulls as the child was cleaned and wrapped before being brought to her.
She looked at him for a long moment, her exhaustion forgotten for that single heartbeat.
"Has a name been decided in advance, your grace?" Maester Luwin inquired from the side, wiping the babe clean now
"My husband and I agreed on a name before he left South, he shall be named Torrhen," she said.
"For the King who Knelt, a man not blinded by his own pride and saved tens of thousands of his people in one act, along with my idiot of a brother, too i suppose," she added softly with a chuckle at the last part, before continuing, more serious now, "and for the man who raised Alaric, stood beside him and supported him until the very end."
Sansa smiled, her eyes bright.
"It suits him."
Alys might have answered.
But she saw it then.
The look between the midwives.
The hesitation.
"Um, your grace," one of them said carefully.
Alys frowned.
"What is it?"
The woman swallowed.
"There seems to be… another babe."
Silence fell.
Arya blinked.
"Another what?" she demanded.
"A second child," Luwin said, though even he sounded surprised.
Alys stared at him.
"No," she said, though her body betrayed her even as she spoke, another contraction already building.
"Yes," Ysilla said quietly, her hand tightening around Alys's. "You've got this, Alys, you're the strongest woman I know."
The second labor was harder.
Far harder.
She was already spent, already pushed beyond what she had thought her limits to be, and yet there was no choice but to continue, no space to stop, no mercy in the way her body demanded more from her.
"Stay with me," Ysilla said.
"I am here," Alys replied, though her voice was barely steady.
The pain surged again, and she bore down, drawing on everything she had, every ounce of will, every memory of strength she had ever known.
For Alaric.
For the North.
For the children, she would not fail.
And then it soon came, piercing through the air, another loud, hearty cry, and yet, softer this time.
"It's a girl," the midwife said, wonder clear in her voice.
Alys let out a breath she did not realize she had been holding, her body finally, mercifully, releasing its hold on the strain that had defined the last hours.
The child was brought to her, small and warm and alive.
"This little pup's name shall be Sarra," Alys whispered.
Ysilla smiled.
"For the she-wolf of old, daughter of Cregan Stark."
"Aye," Alys said. "For her."
'A fitting name,' she thought, remembering the story of the she-wolf who married into House Karstark, her own ancestor and famed for her fiery temper.
The news spread through Winterfell like wildfire.
By the time the sun had fully risen, the castle knew.
The Queen had borne twins.
A son and a daughter.
Born while their father fought in the South as a newly crowned king.
One by one, the children were brought in, having been told to clear out of the room by the Maester so he could fully clean the babes and make sure nothing was wrong with Alys' health.
Sansa came first, gentle and careful, her smile soft as she looked down at the babes, both held against Alys' chest. Arya followed, her usual sharpness tempered by something quieter as she studied them with open curiosity.
"They're small," she said.
"They'll grow," Alys replied.
Bran was brought in next, Summer at his side, the great wolf lowering his head slightly as though acknowledging something new in the room.
"They feel different," Bran said quietly.
Alys looked at him, puzzled, "How so?"
Bran did not answer at once.
"Like something has changed," he said.
Rickon pushed forward, Shaggydog at his heels, peering at the twins with wide eyes.
"Are they staying?" he asked, almost bouncing on his heels, looking at the newborn members of House Stark.
Alys smiled faintly at the boy's question.
"Aye," she said. "They will, Rickon."
[Later in the evening]
That night, Winterfell was quieter.
Snow fell softly beyond the walls, settling over the yard and the towers, blanketing the world in white.
Within the chamber, Alys lay with her children on her chest, Torrhen and Sarra, their breathing steady, their presence grounding in a way nothing else could have been.
Lady lay at the foot of the bed, watchful as ever.
Nymeria lingered near the door.
Summer stood just beyond, a silent sentinel.
The three wolves had chosen to stay with her, even when their masters had left, watching over her and the two new members of the pack.
The North now crowned a king of their own.
And now… It too had its future.