[Winterfell, 1st Moon, 289AC]
The godswood of Winterfell whispered with falling snow, a slow hush drifting down from grey skies above the bare red branches. Alaric Stark, now 10 years of age, stood before the heart tree, its carved face solemn, ever-weeping, and yet to him, it always looked contemplative. Perhaps even a little tired.
He knelt in silence, gloves off, bare fingers pressing into the cold earth. A small ritual. Not for the gods. Not anymore. But for himself.
He had been Lord of Winterfell for nearly seven years now, his uncle Eddard Stark acting as his regent. And though he bore the title with quiet resolve, the word still settled strangely on his shoulders, like the weight of a cloak worn too long in the rain.
In another life, he had worn a crown and commanded warhosts against Andals and reavers. In another life after that, he had studied histories from another world in dim lecture halls and dusty archives. Now, he walked again in the North, blood-bound and Stark-born, with ancient memories stirring like embers beneath the snow.
A breeze stirred the branches. He let it pass over him, then rose.
Winterfell was waking.
He walked the familiar paths through the godswood, boots crunching softly. The scent of pine and damp earth clung to him even as he emerged into the courtyard, where the clang of steel and snort of horses greeted the dawn.
On one side of the training yard, Ser Torrhen was sparring with his younger brother Edwyle Stark, who had been the Stark in Winterfell during the aftermath of the Rebellion before they had returned.
Back then, Edwyle had been a boy nearing majority at 4 and 10, but now, he was a man grown 1 and 20 years of age.
Alaric continued to watch the two men continue their bout. Ser Torrhen clearly had the advantage with greater strength, skill, and experience compared to his brother, but that was also due to him being 6 years older than Edwyle.
Nonetheless, Edwyle continued to hold on strong as he exchanged blow after blow with his blunted steel sword.
Once Alaric was satisfied with the duel, almost as if he could read his mind, Ser Torrhen finished the duel by bringing Edwyle off balance and tripping him with his sword.
Turning away from the two brothers who were now exchanging friendly banter, Alaric turned toward the side of the yard where young men poised to become future gaurds of Winterfell trained.
The Aspring Winterfell guard trainees trained under the ever-watchful eyes of Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms for Winterfell. Blunted swords cracked against shields. Boys grunted, cursed, fell, and rose again. Off to the side, a pair of children darted between the groups of the sparring men.
Those boys were none other than Winterfell's resident troublesome duo, Robb and Jon.
Alaric paused at the edge of the yard, arms folded beneath his wolf-fur cloak. The two boys were near inseparable these days, though their lives bore different marks. Robb, the legitimate son of Ned and a Stark. Jon, the quiet shadow always at his side, was marked by the name of snow. Jon had taken to swordplay quicker, while Robb was the better rider. But both were stubborn, loyal, and quick to laugh.
At first, Catelyn had been absolutely against the two being raised so close to one another, but after he made his decision and Ned backed Alaric on his decision, she could do nothing but accept it, especially so considering Alaric was the Head of House Stark now.
As Alaric watched the boys run around and cause mischief, it was hard not to see echoes of his past in them.
"Cousin!" Robb's voice rang across the yard. His face was red from the cold and exercise, but his grin was wide.
Alaric raised a hand. "Try not to lose to the baker's boy again," Alaric shouted toward the boys, recalling Robb being caught by young Hardin, the son of a local baker, while they were playing some sort of tag-related game.
"That was forever ago, cousin!" Robb shouted with a childish frown still running from Jon
"That was yesterday," Jon added, smirking, as he continued the chase like a wolf chasing his prey
Robb turned and tackled him into the snow, and the two wrestled with shouts and muffled laughter.
Alaric's lips twitched. He left them to it.
[The Great Hall of Winterfell]
Inside the Great Hall, the warmth of the fire met him like an old friend. Servants bustled about, setting breakfast on the long tables. Breads, furred cows' beef, boiled eggs, and slices of bacon filled the air with comforting smells.
Ned sat near the high table, looking over different expenses and parchments, something that he did before he would summarize them for Alaric as he, unfortunately, was still technically a child. Already halfway through a cup of hot tea and his stack of parchment. He looked up as Alaric entered.
"Early start?" his uncle asked, eyebrow cocked in surprise.
"I slept poorly," Alaric replied.
"You always say that. A boy of your age should be sleeping till the sun's high in the sky." Ned remarked with a smile, his smiling faltering slightly as they heard the door crash open from Robb and Jon, two more early risers.
"It's always true," the boy of Ten replied
Ned gestured to the seat across from him. "Then eat something. Brooding burns more energy than most think."
With a playful scoff, Alaric sat down, and as he did, the servants swiftly served a plate of furred cow beef, bread, and milk.
"So, how is the construction of Moat Cailin and the Northern Canal coming?" Alaric asked his uncle, referring to the two 'Great Projects' he suggested they should begin around three years ago.
While it took some lengthy convincing for his uncle to believe the words of a 7-year-old, after showing adeptness in numbers and just being overall smarter compared to all other kids his age, Ned finally relented.
"The reconstruction of Moat Cailin is progressing fairly well considering how decrepit it was, but it still isn't estimated to be finished until the earliest being another 10 years or so," Ned replied as he shuffled through his stack of parchemnt and came upon what he was searching for.
"Hmm," Alaric hummed in thought. He honestly was glad it would take at least that long to finish the job; he truly enjoyed having his family all in one place, although, once the grounds for a castle sitting on Sea Dragon's point is finished being cleared, it wont take but maybe 5 years to finish the keep of the planned castle for Benjen and his family to move too.
"And what about the cannal?" Alaric mused, hoping it wouldn't take as long since the amount of trade and coin that would open and flow into the north would be no mere thing to scoff at once the canal connecting the White Knife to Torrhen's Square was completed.
Ned scanned through another parchment before finally speaking, "Well, the reports at least say it should be done within another 5 years at the maximum, and minimun they estimate 3 years. All together, the north should see a boom in trade ushered in once the constrictin is finished." Ned declared with a smile on his face as he placed the parchment down and went back to eating his meal.
Falling back into his thoughts, Alaric studied his uncle, his father's brother, the man who had raised him as his own. Ned bore a face shaped by patience and sorrow, a calm mask that had been tested by too many burdens. Yet there was peace in his eyes this morning.
Alaric still wasn't sure if he would ever call him father, not even in memory. But he respected him more than any man alive.
"You've done well," Ned said suddenly, as if reading his thoughts.
"I haven't done anything yet," Alaric remarked as he finally took some bread and meat. "You seem to have done most of the work, you being my regent and all. Besides, what is it you always say, uncle?"
Letting out a quick chuckle, he then replied, "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives." Ned took another parchment and looked it over before placing it in the stack to his right, but not before being interrupted by the doors opening once again with a bang
Alaric inclined his head to catch a look at who entered, only to be met with the sight of his cousin Rickard, a boy of 6 years, running toward the table, looking like a starved wolf in winter.
The doors opened again; this time it was Benjen who strode in, snow-dusted and laughing, a bundled form squirming in his arms.
"Careful, Rickard! You almost ran into me and your little sister!" Benjen exclaimed, lightly scolding his son as he came to the table with his younger child, Lyarra, a girl of 4 in his arms.
The boy giggled and ran to the table where they were seated. He was nearly six now, sharp-eyed and wild, his hair dark as coal and his smile ever-ready.
Benjen soon sat down, placing little Lyarra next to him as more servants came in with more plates of food.
"Cousin Aric!" Rickard exclaimed as he shot toward Alaric's seat. Despite being able to form complete sentences, he still called Alaric the same childish nickname he used to as a toddler.
Alaric caught him before he could crash into the table, lifting him easily onto his knee.
"Careful," he said, mock-serious. "You might fall and hurt yourself," Alaric told the boy as he hoisted him onto his lap. Despite only being 10 years old, the umber blood inside of him had run its course, and he stood at the same stature as a boy of 14 normally would.
"No!" Rickard protested. "I'm strong like you."
"Are you now?" Alaric asked, teasing his little cousin
"I can beat a bear," Rickard replied, flexing his nonexistent muscles
Benjen sat down with a huff, grinning. "He says that to everyone. Last week, it was the Maester."
Alaric looked down at the boy's bright eyes, full of confidence and mischief. He remembered boys like him, princes, sons of lords, little northern kings in their own minds. Most grew up too fast.
But not this one. Not yet.
"You'll need a wooden sword soon," Alaric said.
"I got one! Mama gave it to me after I beat her in a duel!" Rickard said, puffing his little chest out
'Ah, so the bear in question was Aunt Dacey.' Alaric thought amusingly
He wriggled off Alaric's knee and ran to show it, a thick stick bound with leather, clearly fashioned by one of the keep's carpenters. He swung it with all the grace of a goose, and Alaric nodded gravely.
"A fine blade. Use it well." Ned told the boy, who flashed him a smile, missed a few teeth
Benjen watched with something like pride, no doubt happy to have such a large family again. His pride was interrupted by little Lyarra throwing a roll of bread at him and giggling like she was told the world's funnies jest
"Are you planning to go to the training yard and teach Robb, Jon, and Rickard how to wield a wooden sword?" Alaric asked him.
Benjen blinked, then nodded. "I suppose you'll be doing something elsewhere instead of coming to see your dear old uncle best all of Winterfell's guards?"
"I'll be in the library," Alaric said off-handedly as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Of course you will," Benjen replied with a slight smirk. "Reading more about those dusty old runic texts left behind by our ancestors?"
Alaric snorted. "You mock me, but I've found records of runes that were used to enhance bronze weaponry dating back to the time of Theon Stark."
Ned gave his younger brother a sidelong look. "Let him enjoy his books, Ben."
Benjen raised his hands. "Enjoy away. Just don't forget we're all down here, living life, my lord." Benjen said, adding the last part with a deep bow as a jest toward his nephew
Alaric, deciding to take the high road, said nothing of the jest and went back to eating and messing with Rickard, much to Benjen's chagrin.
The day passed as the North always did, slow and steady, measured in tasks and temperatures.
After spending quite some time in the library brushing up on the history of his homeland since his first death, Alaric walked the walls, checking the repairs on the eastern watchtower. He spent an hour in the rookery with Maester Luwin, discussing ravens and ancient tongues. He trained with the guards in the yard, his sword swift and sure, drawing nods and wary respect. Although his form was still awkward due to being in a younger body, he was swiftly improving back to his previous skill.
He visited the crypts, as he often did, pausing before the statue of Brandon Stark. His father.
The face was youthful, carved from memory. Not his memory. He did not feel grief. Just a strange, low ache of absence. Like a door left open to a room he'd never enter.
He was no stranger to parents dying, having this be his third go around of it, but it was never easy, especially as thoughts of his 'currents parents' being dead brings back painful memories from his time as King of Winter all those centuries and even mellenia ag.o
By evening, he returned to the hall. The fire was roaring. Robb and Jon were playing cyvasse with squinting focus, Jon biting his lip, Robb smirking like a lordling on a bet.
"Check," Jon muttered, sliding a dragon across the board.
Robb scowled. "You can't—"
"You weren't watching your spearmen," Jon said.
Alaric leaned over. "Jon's right. You left your flank open."
Robb sighed. "I thought I could win fast."
Alaric nodded. "A Stark wins with patience."
He ruffled their hair as he passed. Jon bore it with quiet pride. Robb tried to scowl again, but he didn't mean it.
Later, after the meal, when the hall dimmed and the servants cleared away the dishes, Alaric stood at one of the arrow slits and looked out toward the north. The air bit colder than before. The snow would come heavier soon. He felt it.
Ned joined him.
"The boys look up to you."
"I know."
"You're good with them."
Alaric didn't reply. He thought of the men he had raised before, sons, relatives, wards, and soldiers. Many had died before him in his first life. Some had become kings. Others had forgotten him or even been forgotten to time.
But these boys, his cousins, might grow under his watch. They might be better.
"You've found your place," Ned said.
"Have I?"
"You carry the North with you. People see it. Even if you don't, while I may be your regent, you have suggested many of the plans that are now unfolding, and the people know it; we all know it."
Alaric looked away from the darkness beyond the wall. "I see it, although you still are my regent, so take some pride in yourself as well, uncle," Alaric replied, tapping his uncle on the shoulder a little awkwardly due to their height difference.ce
"Damn child body," Alaric muttered under his breath, much to Ned's confus.ion
Then he turned and walked the halls of Winterfell until all the torches burned low, and the keep slept, and only the wolves howled beneath the moon.
He passed Robb and Jon's shared room, something that Catelyn had thrown a fit befitting a demoness over when he told her of the arrangement, cracked the door open.
Both were asleep, sprawled across their furs, limbs hanging everywhere. Wooden swords adorned the sides of both of their beds.
He stepped inside and straightened their covers. Then turned to leave.
In the hall, he paused again.
He was Alaric Stark. Son of Brandon "The Wild Wolf". A Reborn king. Historian of earth. Lord of Winterfell.
But here, now, in this life, he was more than all of that.
He was the culmination of all of his past experiences.
And that meant more than thrones or histories or even the ghosts that walked in his memory.
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Authors note
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