The Wolf in the Mire
"He who mocks the mire will drown in its silence."
— An old Neck warning
(Edrick Glover POV)
It's been a few years since my wardship with House Stark began, and I can confidently say it's been the best decision my parents ever made for me. Living in Winterfell can be tough—especially with the heir of the Starks. Alaric Stark was everything contrary to the stories I'd heard about the Starks growing up. He doesn't have a face like frozen ice, nor a dire wolf big enough to ride—which he swears is only temporary (and I believe him). He jests, he doesn't take his duties seriously enough, but there is something about him that draws us in.
I'm smart enough to read people—when someone's polite only because they must be, when they're hiding something behind courtesy. Alaric is never like that. Whenever he speaks to us, you can tell he's genuine. When my sister and I were invited to live among the Starks, my mother was worried. I'm, by nature, a peaceful person, tilting more toward scholarly pursuits than martial ones—much to my father's chagrin. So it's understandable that my mother fretted, while my father held out hope his son would finally pick up a sword instead of a book.
When I first arrived at Winterfell, my nerves were obvious—I was more afraid than anything else. But when I saw Alaric Stark for the first time, all that fear vanished, melting away like land in winter. I first saw him hiding from someone—though hiding is the wrong word, it was almost a game. All the household guards were searching everywhere for him, while he sat atop the tallest tower, looking down. The twist was when he actually started searching for himself among them, having no idea that he was the "missing" person they were seeking.
When he finally came down from the tower, he organized search parties and ordered the guards to scour every hiding place. It took those poor guards quite some time to realize that the person they were searching for was the very boy giving them orders. When the truth came out, all the household guards were punished by the master-at-arms for their mistake. But it was even funnier to see Alaric punished by his mother—though you could tell from his face that he wasn't sorry at all. That's when I knew my stay at Winterfell was not going to be unpleasant.
The next time I saw him, it was the training ground. He was sitting by himself on the side-lines, and I was about to greet him. But a soldier stopped me, warning it was dangerous to bother him at that moment. When I asked why, he said it was most dangerous to approach the Stark heir when he was bored—Alaric Stark was infamous among the soldiers for creating mischief to cure his boredom. Just a few days prior, he'd made the Umber heir "fly," and when pressed, he meant it literally. The Umber lad was big, at least bigger than Alaric, so I doubted the story—until I saw for myself how the Umbers could "fly." Alaric called it a miracle, a human flying without the help of dragons. I called it horseshit. To this day, I still don't know how a six name-day-old child could toss a much older and bigger boy through the air.
Next time we met, I experienced that "miracle" first-hand. I was older, bigger, but he was stronger, faster. And then there was the sword. Alaric became another person the moment he picked up a blade. He will look like the most harmless person in the world, with a small smile on his face—a smile so disarming, so dangerous, it made us drop our guard. That's when he would make his move. The sword was an extension of himself; wherever he commanded it to bend, it would. Whenever he moved, it was more a dance than a fight. His smile was hard to read, but whenever he dropped it, you knew it was over. There was no hiding from this ghost of a person. Whenever he was smiling, you could follow his swings. When that smile vanished, not even a shadow would signal his movement. He called it the "selfless state"—whatever that was. Thank the old gods and the new that I only saw it once, during those days when bandits began targeting northern merchants.
(Flashback)
I was one of the party me Alaric brought, but all we did was surround the mountain the bandits camped on. I slept in camp until our sentries were alerted: bandits coming toward us, less than five, tired and incoherent, mumbling about some "ghost" coming to drag them to hell. Before anyone could make sense of it, one of their heads was suddenly gone—severed without warning. The remaining bandits were terrified. One clung to my clothes, bawling.
"He's here, he's here, m'lord, you have to save us, I beg of you. I'll take the black, I'll leave the North, I'll never come back to these lands, m'lord, please save us!"
While I struggled to comprehend, another head rolled off. That's when I saw him: Alaric Stark, standing inconspicuous among the bandits, his blade drenched in blood but not a drop on him. We stood on brittle road where the slightest wind would make noise, but I hadn't heard him; neither, judging by their faces, had anyone else. His usual smile was gone. He lifted his arm, and another head dropped—only two left, both sobbing now. One tried to run, but his legs failed.
He was deathly afraid.
"How pathetic, you were brave enough before—trying to loot House Stark's caravan," Alaric's voice was colder than steel. "But look at you now; even killing you feels disgusting."
Is this still Alaric? No, I had made a mistake. This had always been Alaric. Beneath all the mischief and smiles, he was still The Stark—King of Winter, the one who united all of the North. They didn't win this land through diplomacy alone. They were called the King of Winter for a reason.
He killed every bandit that day. The raid was done alone. Our job was simply to watch out and cut down any bandit who got away from him not that there were any. By the time we left that mountain, there were already tales—stories of the "Ghost of the North," some monster from the bedtime warnings, who would drag wicked to hell and drink their blood and take their heads as trophies. For us—children of northern lords—it was, oddly, a day of joy. Payback for his brutal training, which he said were just "exercises to help us learn the basics." He had us train until we dropped, and by his count, we hadn't even started "real" training.
Bennar Karstark, second son of House Karstark, finally snapped and challenged Alaric on the point of the training's feasibility. That led to him competing at the tourney in Maidenpool, defeating Prince Daemon—whose reputation had travelled even to the North. After that, none of us ever questioned his methods.
"You're deep in your thoughts, Ed. What are you thinking?"
And just like that, Alaric appeared at my side, his odd sword slung over his shoulder.
"Nothing much. Just dreading the next round of training—and wondering why your sword's out?"
He burst out laughing. "Aye, you should dread it, I'm going to put you lot through so much, whatever we did before will seem child's play. As for my sword, I was just checking it for damage—this blade's fought against Valyrian steel."
"How did you even do that?" I asked, genuinely curious. "Isn't it said no normal sword can stand against Valyrian steel?"
"You'd be right—if you went at it directly," he replied with that familiar, smug look before a tale.
"And you're going to explain, right?" when he didn't answer, I prompted with more force "right?"
He grinned. "Well, if you're begging, I haven't much choice, have I?" Sometimes I honestly wanted to punch him, but then I remembered: he's a strong bastard. I just nodded.
"When I was fighting Prince Daemon, I never countered his strikes directly. I parried with as little contact as possible, mostly with the flat of my sword. Quick, minimal—always dodged so my sword never took the full force of his."
"But I never saw you doing that. You looked like you could barely keep up," I said.
He shrugged. "What you saw was what I wanted everyone to see—a mystery knight struggling. Only reason I won was Prince Daemon's mistake, nothing more."
If true, that explained a lot.
"But then—why? Wasn't it fame you were after?"
"I was. I got it—an eleven name day old heir of the North beat Prince Daemon, one of the greatest swordsmen of the Seven Kingdoms. That's all the story anyone remembers."
"But you could have beaten him more easily, instead of tiring yourself out!"
"That was the plan at first. But the moment I saw him, I realized: if I won easily, his pride would be stung. The king himself might not have liked to see his brother humiliated by a boy. So I made certain they all thought I only won because Daemon was tired and made mistakes."
Now I understood why nobody questioned his unlikely victory.
"So, are we going back to Winterfell? I can't wait to see your "punishment" when we arrive."
He grimaced. "That'll have to wait. I'm off to Greywater Watch to meet with the Reeds. Got important business with them."
I was curious but didn't press. "Then see you at Winterfell." He nodded and returned to his sword.
(Alaric Stark POV)
I'm starting to hate bogs. There are all kinds of insects feasting on me—mosquitoes, leeches, and who knows what else—and that's the least of my problems. Since the moment I set foot here, I can't shake the feeling I'm being watched. It's the same as at Harrenhal: not malice, just... curiosity.
I wonder if the Reeds can help me with my problem. Ever since Harrenhal, I've had dreams—not nightmares at first, but now every night feels like someone is hovering over me, trying to wake me up or drag me somewhere. It's become both annoying and, honestly, a bit creepy.
"How much longer till we get there, Lord Reed?"
"We'll be there in an hour, milord," he replied.
I'll admit, he gives me the creeps—a little shorter than me, soft spoken and earlier he startled me by appearing silently at my back. He might as well have spawned from the bog itself. I nearly beheaded him out of instinct. I apologized, of course, and he forgave me, but I suspect he's being petty by taking the most roundabout route possible.
The travel reminded me why the Neck is the North's first line of defence. The land is all swamp—hard to cross, harder to invade. Lizard-lions, frogs with the most beautiful colours nature could conjure, leeches that smell blood better than hounds, and the mosquitoes… gods, the mosquitoes. By the time your army gets to Moat Cailin, half of them will be dead. Lord Reed swears by his "bog myrtle and marsh laurel," some concoction that keeps most of the biting things at bay. We travelled in a light skiff. The deeper we went, the quieter the bog became—not peaceful, but something I can't put my finger on.
Evening found us at last at Greywater Watch—floating on the very swamps that hid it, moving a little at a time. According to Lord Reed, I'm the first Stark to set foot in these lands in centuries.
"We are here, milord. Greywater Watch. I hope you'll let us welcome you properly."
"Aye, I don't mind, milord. Even I'm tired from this… long journey. Some sustenance would be much appreciated."
I don't know if he caught my sarcasm or not, but he didn't react much and just ordered his people. What followed was mundane: we ate eels, fish, and frogs and made small talk. The food tasted of marsh and brine, alien to my northern palate. Lord Reed spoke of the old days, of green men and crannogs, and I felt less like a Lord of Winterfell and more like a tourist in a land that time had forgotten.
The conversation ended, but the silence did not. It was a living thing, full of the croaking of frogs and the buzz of unseen insects. I was here for a different kind of power, a power that didn't come from steel or stone, but from whispers and dreams. And as I sat in the floating castle, its walls of mud and reed shifting beneath me, I knew that the man who left Winterfell was not the same man who would return. This place would change me, for better or worse. Tomorrow, we would talk business, and I would learn if this journey was worth the price.