Awakened Wolf
"The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives." – Eddard Stark
(Third Person POV)
It had been a month—or a moon, as the Westerosi say—since Alaric awoke from his three-day slumber, and life in Winterfell had largely returned to normal. Due to his coma, Alaric had missed his proper nameday celebration. What they had instead was a modest gathering with simple food to mark the occasion. All the attending lords partook—except for Alaric, who was limited to porridge after being unconscious for three days. Everyone noticed the young lord struggling to swallow, a grimace playing on his face with each spoonful.
Some lords lingered an extra week, but those from distant lands departed within two days, eager to return home after being away for so long. Not long after the lords left, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch arrived, summoned by Lord Rickon Stark to discuss a deal regarding the New Gift lands. Alaric had also been asked to attend the meeting.
The Lord Commander was hesitant to accept any of Rickon's terms. The negotiation was on the brink of collapse until Alaric interjected with a blunt observation.
"You are already stretched thin maintaining the Night's Watch," he said. "The once-mighty order tasked with protecting the realm of men is being reduced to common stewards of land. Wouldn't your men be better used protecting us from dangers north of the Wall? Why not focus on the duty you were given—and let us handle the land south of it?"
Rickon immediately reprimanded his son. "Boy, don't speak to the Lord Commander that way. The Watch has existed since House Stark itself. Show respect to his station."
Alaric's expression grew sullen. He was about to apologize when the Lord Commander raised a hand.
"There's no need for apology, lad," he said. "You reminded me of my duty. Aye, I'm the Lord Commander, sworn to protect the realm of men from threats north of the Wall. Since Queen Alysanne gave us the New Gift, our numbers have dwindled along the Wall. Raids by wildlings have increased. You could say we've already failed our main duty."
He turned to Rickon then, shoulders heavy with guilt. "Forgive me, Lord Stark. I haven't been entirely honest. The New Gift increased our income through taxes, but at what cost? I was blinded by greed and didn't see the harm we were doing to the North. I was born here. I don't want to be the reason harm comes to it."
Rickon accepted the heartfelt apology. The negotiations resumed, and the new terms were clear: House Stark would manage the land. They would keep eighty percent of the profits, while twenty percent would go to the Watch. Since the land technically belonged to the Night's Watch, only House Stark could make such an arrangement. Any lesser house doing so would be seen as a direct insult to the Iron Throne.
As soon as the deal was finalized, Rickon wasted no time in spreading word across the North. It was as though a great weight had lifted—food production from the New Gift would finally let the North breathe.
(Alaric Stark POV)
It's been a month since I got my memories back. I wish I could say it was a productive month, but aside from that meeting with the Lord Commander, nothing noteworthy happened.
The commander, to be blunt, was a dull man. Overweight, unkempt, and reeking of liquor—you could smell him from miles away, or maybe that was just me. Ever since regaining my memories, I've noticed my senses have heightened. My mind feels like four brains running in parallel. Maybe that's an exaggeration. Then again, I try not to think too deeply about my rebirth. It was bizarre enough as it is. If I start unraveling that thread, who knows what I'll find.
From the second I saw him, I understood the type of man he was—greedy, yes, but not a snake. More like a poor man who'd won a lottery and indulged in the basics: food, drink, and sloth. He wasn't evil. He just needed a sharp reminder of what was at stake.
That's the beauty of the North—not the landscape, but the people. They know hardship. They know what it's like to wake each day not knowing what new burden they'll face. And yet, they help one another when they can. That sort of nobility is rare. Before this life, I'd only seen it in people who had everything figured out—those capable of carrying others without expecting anything in return. But here, even those with little still offer what they can. It's beautiful.
Of course, after the meeting, Father reprimanded me harshly for how I spoke to the Lord Commander. But it felt hollow—like he was doing it for appearances' sake, not out of genuine anger. That was... unsettling.
Afterward, just as I'd been promised, I was allowed to visit the training yard. Mother tried to delay it, citing my health, but I convinced her otherwise. How I did it? I'll take that secret to my grave.
The training yard was... disheartening. Brutal, even. There was no foundation. Recruits were handed swords and thrown into bouts. No discipline. No structured body conditioning. Just shouted instructions mid-fight. It was all reaction, no rhythm. The Yoriichi in me wept.
No wonder only a handful of knights in Westeros stand out—Ser Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy, Jaime Lannister. Their greatness comes from talent, not training. If this is how they're all trained... no wonder. I need to intervene before they toss me into the same mess.
I was pulled from my musings when a bout ended. One recruit was thin as a stick—he looked like a breeze would knock him over. The other was stocky, built like a bull, gloating as if he'd just won a tourney.
Why pair them? It didn't take long to figure it out. They were trying to break the skinny boy's spirit—drive him away from knighthood. But the lad's face remained defiant, despite the humiliation. Curious.
"What's his name?" I asked Ser Darren, my sworn sword.
"If memory serves, that's Jonnel Snow from Wintertown," Darren replied. "His mother was a maid in Winterfell—died of fever. Lady Alisa Stark gave the boy a place here out of kindness. But from the looks of it, he won't last long."
"I wouldn't be so sure," I muttered, stepping toward the lad.
He was seated on a bench, wiping blood from his lip. When he noticed me, he scrambled to his knees.
"Forgive me, milord. I didn't see you."
"Relax," I said. "Now answer me—why fight like a bull when you lack the strength of one?"
He blinked. "Milord?"
"I mean it. Why charge straight at someone stronger than you?"
He hesitated, then admitted, "I didn't know how else to fight, milord."
"Then use your brain. You're human, not some wild beast. Think before you act. Make him wear himself out, then strike."
He nodded, unsure. "My... brain, milord?"
Was that all he heard? I sighed. "Yes. Think. Be clever. Outsmart, not outpunch."
I left him with that.
The yard was still chaotic. Most fought like animals—probably trying to impress me, hoping for a place at my side. It got old quickly. But then it was Jonnel's turn again. His opponent this time was older, clearly experienced. Another setup, no doubt.
But this time, Jonnel didn't attack first. He dodged, throwing off the knight's balance. He didn't strike, likely from inexperience. He missed chances, yes—but the improvement was obvious.
His opponent grew frustrated. Eventually, a feint caught Jonnel off-guard, ending the bout. Still, the air had changed. No longer was he the target of scorn. That was good. Now it was up to him and his will.
I was pulled from my thoughts by an approaching knight. "Milord, Lord Stark has summoned you to his solar."
"Then let's not keep him waiting," I replied, with Drakkan shadowing my steps.
I knocked and was swiftly called in.
"You summoned me, Father?"
"Yes, Alaric. A raven came from King's Landing—summoning us to celebrate the birth of Prince Baelon Targaryen's granddaughter."
"I see. But why summon me, if we're all going?"
Rickon's face was tight, like we were marching to war. "The last time House Stark was summoned to King's Landing was to swear fealty to King Jaehaerys. Since then, we've received no such letters—not even for royal births, deaths, or when Baelon was named heir. Now, suddenly, we're being called for a celebration? I don't think that's all this is. Something else is at play."
If I were a lesser man, I'd call it paranoia. But even I felt unease.
"New Gift," I said.
Rickon frowned. "What do you mean?"
"It's the only thing that makes sense. You informed them about our deal with the Night's Watch. Someone didn't like it. They either want to question us—or pressure us to undo the agreement."
"Are you certain?"
"It's the only thing that stands out. Why else would they suddenly care about our presence?"
"You may be right," he said, nodding. "But assumptions alone won't guide us. We'll go to King's Landing to learn more."
"You're right, Father."
"Go now. Your mother and I will discuss how best to handle this. Get some rest."
"Of course," I said, leaving the solar.
So we're going to King's Landing.
Since learning the Targaryens rule Westeros, I've been curious. Will they all have that silver hair, those violet eyes, and dragons? I'd only seen them on a TV screen. Now I'll see them for real.
Still, I can't let excitement cloud my judgment.
The Starks never fare well in the South—and I'm a Stark, too.