When the lords of the North returned from war, Winterfell threw open its gates. Torches burned along the battlements, and the great hall rang with feasting. The banners of the houses who had marched with Lord Stark hung in proud display, patched and worn from campaign but whole. There was laughter in the hall again, though it was tempered with sorrow, for many seats were empty, and many cups were raised to absent names. Yet still they feasted, for the North had endured, and the Ironborn had been broken.
Among the throng of men come home was a bard, no lord nor knight, but a singer with a harp slung over his back and a voice that could still a hall. At first he sang of war — of Pyke's black walls, of kraken banners burning, of Robert Baratheon's hammer breaking shields, of Lord Eddard Stark striding through surf and salt. The lords cheered, pounding the tables, some raising cups, others thumping their fists. It was the music of victory, of battles survived and enemies crushed.
But then his fingers slowed, plucking softer, stranger chords. The hall grew quiet. The laughter dwindled, voices hushed. Even the hounds stretched on the rushes lifted their heads as if they sensed the change.
His voice lowered, rich and haunting.
Stone by stone the walls did rise,
Under northern, watchful skies.
A city born from grief and flame,
Alitha stands, remember the name.
Where rivers meet the mountain's side,
The stranger came, with none beside.
No crown he wore, no lordly hand,
Yet people came to till his land.
With axe and pick, his banner flies,
Green the field where hope still lies.
The hammer rang, the towers grew,
And hearts found strength, both old and new.
When raiders came with fire and steel,
The city's stones refused to kneel.
For though no king had claimed the throne,
Aether's work was all their own.
So sing, O North, of walls so fair,
Of ships that sail with northern air.
Alitha stands, her people free,
A promise carved in history.
No one moved. The great lords and grizzled men-at-arms who had faced axe and fire on Pyke sat as still as children at their nurse's knee. The harp's notes echoed through the rafters, filling every corner of the hall. Some frowned, uncertain. Others leaned forward, lips parted, caught between disbelief and wonder.
The bard sang of harbors full of white-sailed ships, of streets swept clean where children laughed, of markets brimming with food though the realm was at war. He told of towers rising as if the earth itself obeyed, and a castle at the city's heart that grew by night when no man watched. He gave the city a name: Alitha. The word rolled heavy and strange, neither of the First Men nor the Andals, but something older, rooted like the deep stones of the North.
Lord Rickard Karstark scoffed under his breath, muttering of fancies and lies, but he did not rise. Lord Manderly leaned close to his son, his eyes sharp with curiosity. Some of the younger squires crossed themselves for fear it was sorcery. But still they listened, for the song held them, binding the hall tighter than chains.
At the high seat, Lord Stark sat in silence, his face unreadable. Yet his grey eyes never left the bard. He had seen enough of the world to know that rumors often clothed themselves in song long before men gave them credence. He did not speak, but he did not dismiss the tale either.
When the last note faded, there was no cheer, no roar of approval. Only silence, heavy and long, as if the hall itself held its breath. Then, slowly, men stirred. Tankards were lifted again, talk returned in murmurs, and the bard bowed his head, retreating into the shadows as though his work was done. Yet the song lingered in the air, clinging like smoke, carried on lips and whispers long after the harp was quiet.
And so Alitha lived not only in stone and labor but in song — a city unknown to most, yet now carried in the minds of the North, half-believed, half-dreamed, but never forgotten.