The banners of House Stark fluttered in the cold wind as Alyssa's caravan rolled through Winterfell's gates. Snow clung to the wheels and hooves, the scent of spice and wool following in their wake. Guards, smallfolk, and servants stopped to stare as wagon after wagon passed, piled high with goods from Moat Cailin—silks in deep jewel tones, bolts of soft Northern wool, chests of polished silver jewelry, crates of spices from the far reaches of Essos, and mirrors so clear they seemed to open into another world.
Robb was the first to reach her, grinning like a boy again as he swung down from the steps of the keep. "Seven hells, Alyssa! You look—" He stopped, eyes flicking over her black-and-silver cloak and the quiet confidence in her gaze. "—different."
"Older?" she teased. "Or just colder?"
"Both," he admitted, pulling her into a hug.
Alyssa chuckled and teased, "Your still the oldest, though."
Robb smirked, "And don't you forget it," before hugging her tightly again, just as Arya darted past and latched onto her waist.
Sansa approached with measured steps, eyes already fixed on a bolt of crimson silk peeking from a chest. "Are those for us?" she asked, with all the hope of a lady and the hunger of a girl who had only dreamed of such things.
"For all of you," Alyssa promised.
Bran and Rickon came next, drawn by the crates of glasswork—little animals, castles, and ships that caught the pale sun. Jon lingered at the edge of the group, a shadow among light. When their eyes met, she crossed the space and pulled him into a brief but firm embrace.
"It's good to see you," she murmured.
"And you," he said, though his voice held something heavier beneath it.
Inside, the hall filled with warmth and noise as the gifts were unpacked. Sansa twirled with her silks, Arya claimed a small jeweled dagger Alyssa had hidden for her, and Bran proudly paraded a glass direwolf along the table. Catelyn stood apart for a time, watching, pride and worry mingling in her expression. Ned's eyes met hers over the chaos, and there was no need for words—their daughter was no longer a child.
One Year Later
Alyssa was twelve name days old when the Neck became a jewel of the North.
The fortress of Moat Cailin was now a hub of industry and beauty. Workshops clanged with the sound of metal shaping into fine blades and intricate jewelry. Glassmakers produced not only windows but flawless mirrors, prized by both merchants and nobles. Perfumes distilled from imported flowers filled gilded bottles, and rich wines fermented in dark cellars. Spices, oils, and new recipes from her past life spread through the markets, giving the North flavors it had never known. She also used her powers to begin growing fruits for wine and cultivating rare spices in the harsh Northern climate, ensuring a steady supply for trade and local enjoyment.
She didn't hoard these treasures. Her prices remained low enough that the common folk could taste, wear, or use them. Surplus grain, wool, and food still traveled to Winterfell and beyond, easing hunger and winning her the love of the people.
Her Inner Circle thrived:
Torran's spy network had grown into a web of informants—dockhands in White Harbor, ferrymen in the Neck, tavernkeepers along the kingsroad, and even a washerwoman in the Red Keep's lower halls—feeding him tidings from the Dreadfort to King's Landing within days. He trained his agents in ciphers, hand signals, and the art of planting false rumors to flush out enemy eyes.
Lysa secured trade agreements with Braavosi and Pentoshi merchants, her charm opening doors beyond her years. She didn't just sign parchment—she traveled with caravans to ports, inspected warehouses, learned the ledgers herself, and negotiated clauses that kept Northern goods flowing even in lean seasons. Her quick wit and gift for languages earned her respect from hardened captains and wary foreign brokers alike, and she quietly built a network of loyal traders who now carried Alyssa's influence far beyond the Neck.
Branric trained new captains, drilling them daily in formation tactics, siege defense, and the use of both traditional Northern weapons and the improved arms forged in Alyssa's workshops. He ensured every captain could command under pressure, rotate duties to prevent fatigue, and adapt quickly to unexpected threats. Under his watch, the Moat's guard became a disciplined, loyal force—honed not only for battle but also for protecting the people and trade routes that sustained Alyssa's growing realm.
Mira had crafted new siege weapons and perfected irrigation that kept crops alive even in bitter frost. At Alyssa's request, she also began designing a proper sewage system for Moat Cailin—one that carried waste far from the walls and fields—ensuring the stronghold would never reek like King's Landing. She oversaw crews digging channels, laying stone, and building covered drains, turning sanitation into a point of pride for the fortress.
Kael, with his perfect memory, became the vault of Moat Cailin's intelligence. He not only kept their secrets safe, encoding all messages so none could be intercepted, but also memorized every trade route, patrol schedule, and covert contact by heart. He trained scribes in layered cipher techniques, created decoy correspondence to mislead potential spies, and could recite entire council meetings verbatim. Under Alyssa's direction, he began building an archive of knowledge—maps, histories, and coded ledgers—that would serve as the Moat's hidden brain should disaster ever strike.
Alyssa's most guarded weapon was herself. With her reality-bending powers, she had reshaped her body into something beyond mortal—combining the raw speed and heightened senses of Teen Wolf's werewolves with the immense, battle-ready wolf form of Twilight's shapeshifters. In her shifted state, she was a towering predator the size of a small horse, though still not yet full grown as she herself was still a child. Her eyes burned alpha red with lethal focus. Her bite could pass on the gift, forging loyalty as deep as blood. She had bestowed this power upon her Inner Circle, making them bound to her not only by trust and magic but by the lifeblood of their Alpha. Like the Twilight shifters, they shared a telepathic link across great distances, able to communicate, coordinate, and warn one another instantly. Each could in turn grant the bite, though those they created never matched the full strength of Alyssa's own transformation. Still, every wolf born of this lineage was bound to her will—unshakable in loyalty, unbreakable in bond.
Dreams of Fire and Snow
Nights were seldom quiet for Alyssa anymore. In the stillness between one heartbeat and the next, the world would thin—snow turning to ash, wind to warm desert air—and she would stand beneath a sky split between winter stars and burning constellations.
This time the dream felt sharper, more present. Footprints marked the snow beside hers before she turned; a girl stepped into view, silver hair loose about her shoulders, violet eyes bright with surprise and something fiercer.
"You," the silver-haired girl breathed.
Alyssa smiled before she could help it. "I keep hoping you'll be real when I wake."
The girl lifted her chin in careful defiance, like a kitten pretending to be a lion. "I don't want to forget you."
"Then don't," Alyssa said gently. "Remember the name when it comes."
They walked—no need to ask where. A dragon's shadow swept across the snow, and far off, a direwolf's howl answered. The girl glanced at Alyssa.
"Do you ever feel… called?" she asked. "As if the world is turning us toward the same place?"
"All the time," Alyssa admitted. "I'm building something that lasts. For when we finally meet."
The girl's smile broke through, brilliant and shy. "I'm learning. For when we do."
The dream thinned; the horizon trembled. Alyssa reached out, and so did the girl; their fingers did not quite touch, but the warmth lingered.
"Soon," Alyssa promised.
"Soon," the girl echoed. And as she faded, a whisper came like a vow: Daenerys.
Alyssa woke with the name on her tongue and a certainty in her bones. She would change the future—she would not allow what she had seen in the show to happen to Daenerys, or to her own family. She would save who she could… or more truthfully, who she wanted.
---
The Summons
The raven came at dawn, its message sealed with the royal stamp. Alyssa read it once, twice, then a third time.
By order of Queen Cersei Lannister, Lady Alyssa Stark of Moat Cailin was summoned to the Red Keep to present her wares to the royal court.
She understood immediately—this was not just about trade. It was an invitation into the heart of Southern politics, the lion's den itself. She knew from the show how cunning and dangerous Cersei and the Lannisters could be, so she would have to tread carefully. Her magic stirred within her, almost as if reminding her that it would be there to protect and aid her if needed. The goods she had crafted—mirrors, jewelry, perfumes, silks, wines—would dazzle the court, but they could just as easily draw envy or danger.
Before leaving with the caravan for the long road south, Alyssa first turned her path toward Winterfell, seeking counsel from her parents before stepping into the South's political snare.
---
Winterfell
Ned was in the solar when she arrived, the early light filtering across maps and ledgers. Catelyn sat beside him, her hands folded but her gaze sharp.
"You've been summoned to King's Landing?" Ned said after she explained, his voice even but heavy.
"I have," Alyssa confirmed. "And I don't know if it's an opportunity or a trap."
"It's both," Catelyn said without hesitation. "The court is a place where smiles hide knives. Your skill will impress them, but your youth and independence will unsettle them."
Ned leaned back in his chair, studying her. "You'll go," he said finally, "but you'll go prepared. Speak little, watch much. And never let them see fear."
"I don't intend to," Alyssa replied, though she suspected it would be harder than her father hoped. She knew her age, her influence, and the wealth she had built would draw eyes and tongues. Many would press her for her secrets or attempt to bind themselves to her, and she doubted she could remain silent for long.
Catelyn's eyes softened, though worry still lingered. "Send word often. And if they try to bind you to their games, remember—your roots are here. You are Stark of Winterfell before you are anything else."
"I'll remember," she promised, her voice steady though her mind already spun with strategies and contingencies for what lay ahead.
Ned nodded once, then asked, "How many guards will you be taking with you, and when do you plan to set out?"
Alyssa answered with certainty, naming the number of her most trusted guards and the morning two days hence as their departure. She added that she had plans for King's Landing—plans to quietly gather as many orphans as she could find and spirit them back to Moat Cailin, along with bringing extra food to hand out among the poor to win the favor of the common folk. If possible, she would also recruit skilled or willing souls into her service, strengthening her influence even further.
That night, as she prepared to leave, Robb clasped her arm in the yard. "You'll come back?"
"Of course," she said with a smile. "The South can keep their gold. My heart's here." Then she tilted her head playfully and asked, "Is there anything you'd like me to bring back for you, Robb?"
Robb smirked, thinking for a moment before answering, "Just you, safe and sound… though if you happen to find a sword worthy of a Stark, I wouldn't turn it down." They embraced tightly, neither wanting to let go too soon.
That night, she spent time with her younger sisters in her chambers, turning it into a true girls' night. Giggles and laughter drifted through the corridors, and for once, Alyssa let herself act her actual age, free from the weight of titles and responsibilities.
She slept one last night beneath Winterfell's roof and dreamed again: a pale girl standing in warm wind, candleflame dancing in violet eyes. *Soon*, the dream said. This time, Alyssa thought, it wasn't only a promise. It was a direction.
And with that, the Wolf of the Neck returned to Moat Cailin to prepare her caravan and men for the journey, ensuring every guard, wagon, and crate was ready before setting out toward the Red Keep—and whatever waited within its walls. As they finally rode out, Alyssa allowed herself a smirk, knowing deep down that King's Landing was in no way prepared for what was coming.