[The Great Hall, Winterfell, 3rd moon, 294AC]
The great hall of Winterfell was warm with hearth fires and the smells of baked bread, crisp bacon, and honeyed porridge. Alys Karstark sat on the long bench near the high table, her spoon hovering over her porridge bowl, only half-listening as Ser Harald told a tale of the Greyjoy Rebellion to young Rickard and Edwyn Stark across from her. The newborn, Rickon, was swaddled against Catelyn Stark's breast, gurgling softly between tiny snores.
To their right down the table sat Theon Greyjoy, a permanent scowl adorned his face as he heard Ser Harald regale the two boys of how Alaric slew Maron Greyjoy during the storming of the castle.
Alaric Stark sat not far down the table, leaning back in his chair with a slab of ham in one hand and a hunk of crusty bread in the other. His dark hair was unbound today, falling loose past his jaw like a silken curtain. His voice, deep and calm, rumbled pleasantly as he asked Jon Snow whether he had found any new game tracks in the woods. Alys could barely look away.
She tried to spoon her porridge again, but her fingers had gone clumsy. It wasn't fair, truly. Alaric was almost the same age as her, only a year older, and yet, he was a lord, tall and broad-shouldered, and already carrying a sword that could cleave a man in two. But sometimes, when he smiled, she forgot all of that.
Sansa giggled beside her, whispering something to Lyarra Stark that Alys barely caught. Something about needlework. Something about Jory looking at Jonelle Cerwyn, who has stayed in Wintefell since the Harvest Feast, like the greatest thing in the world. Alys gave a small smile but didn't join in. She didn't care about Jory. It was Alaric who made her heart flutter, made her stomach twist like she'd swallowed a snow snake.
He turned his head suddenly, speaking to Ned Stark at the head of the table, and the firelight caught on the silver wolf's head that clasped his fur-lined cloak. Alys looked down into her porridge, cheeks hot. They had spoken many times since she came to Winterfel, but each time he had been kind. Not just polite, genuinely kind. He'd complimented her horsemanship, even remembered the name of her mare, Snowfoot. And when she stumbled during sparring practice, something he hadn't even teased her about, with the other wards, he hadn't laughed. He had helped her up.
"Will you eat that?" Arya asked, eyeing her untouched bacon.
Alys blinked. "What?"
"Your bacon," Arya said. "You're just staring at it like it insulted you."
"Oh. No, here," Alys said quickly, sliding the strip across her plate. Arya snatched it up before anyone else could.
"Thank you," Arya mumbled through a mouthful.
Alys turned her gaze toward the high table again. Alaric had taken up his goblet and was drinking. He looked tired, but content. When he set the goblet down and caught her eye across the table, her breath hitched. He nodded politely. She looked down so fast she nearly knocked over her cup.
"Gods," she murmured, embarrassed. "I'm a fool."
After breakfast, the children dispersed, the boys to train in the yard, the older ones to ride or study, and the girls to one of the many rooms of Winterfell, where Septa Mordane awaited them with pursed lips and the sharp tang of her rosewater perfume. Alys sat between Sansa and Lyarra on the cushioned bench, her needle trembling slightly in her fingers.
Alys had found it odd at first how Alaric had allowed a septa into his home, much less having her teach the girls lessons, but after spending some time with the septa, she was pleasantly surprised that she didn't try and forcefully convert them to the seven, sure she would make a passing remark or two but nothing too severe.
Taking her mind off the septa, Alys returned to her embroidery.
Her embroidery was passable, but she would never match Sansa's delicate roses or Lyarra's perfect wolves. Her own stitching of a snowflake looked more like a lopsided star.
"Lovely work, Sansa," the septa said, hovering like a vulture behind her. "Lady Catelyn will be pleased. And Lyarra, you are quite the little artist."
Lyarra blushed, giving Sansa a conspiratorial smile.
"Alys," Septa Mordane said, and Alys's needle froze.
"Yes, Septa?"
"Mind your edges. See how your thread is pulling too tight?"
"Yes, Septa."
She didn't sigh, though she wanted to. The septa meant well, truly, but she never seemed to remember that not every girl wanted to spend hours making flowers out of thread.
Still, it wasn't all dreadful. Sansa and Lyarra talked softly beside her about the new songs being taught to the bards, and Arya, flanked by the high hill twins, sitting in the far corner, muttered under their breath about how useless all this was while threading a snowman with one eye too large.
At least there was that.
[Later that day, Winterfell's Godswood]
The air was crisp in the godswood that afternoon, the scent of moss and wet earth curling around the ancient weirwood tree. The red leaves shimmered in the dappled light, and the white trunk stood tall and solemn, its face carved long before House Karstark had even been founded.
She found Alaric by the pool beneath the tree, sitting on a low stone with Ice across his lap. He was running an oiled cloth along its massive blade, each movement steady and reverent.
"Lord Stark," she said, quietly so she would not startle him.
He looked up, then smiled. "Lady Alys."
She stepped closer, brushing her hands together to fight the chill. "I didn't mean to disturb you."
"You didn't," he said. "I like the quiet here."
She nodded, moving to sit on a mossy root across from him. "You take such care with Ice."
He chuckled, wiping along the fuller of the blade. "Uncle Ned said a sword should be cleaned like a lover. Careful hands. Steady heart."
Alys felt her cheeks go scarlet. She hoped he hadn't noticed.
"Have you ever wielded Ice?" she asked.
"Once. Just to feel its weight. Although most men wouldn't be able to wield such a sword in battle, it would seem the gods have seen fit for me, too." Alaric said with a small smile, the 'boy' of 4 and 10, almost 5 and 10, already standing slightly taller in height than his Uncle Eddard Stark.
(Author's note: Ned is 5'10)
She looked at the blade, so massive it could barely be wielded by two hands, let alone one. "It's beautiful."
He nodded. "It is. In a grim way."
For a while, they sat in companionable silence, the only sound the rustle of leaves and the quiet swish of cloth on steel. Alys found herself watching the way his hands moved, long fingers steady and calloused.
"Do you miss Karhold?" he asked, surprising her.
She blinked. "Sometimes. I miss my two eldest brothers, although Torr has been a comfort having him here. The cold is not so different here."
"Winterfell's walls are older," he said. "But I suppose the cold is the same everywhere."
She smiled. "The snow feels softer here. Like it doesn't bite quite so much."
He gave a low laugh. "You're adapting, then."
"I want to." Her voice softened. "I like it here."
His gaze met hers, warm and steady. "Good. I'm glad."
The leaves rustled overhead. Alys thought her heart might burst. She wanted to say something more, something true and foolish and brave, but before she could, a voice called from beyond the trees.
"Alaric! Alys!" Lady Catelyn's voice rang out. "The evening meal is nearly ready."
Alaric stood, sheathing Ice with a practiced motion. "Shall we?"
Alys rose and followed him through the trees, her heart light, her cheeks warm. She hadn't told him anything, not really. But she had sat with him in the godswood, and he had smiled.
For now, that was enough.
[The Great Hall of Winterfell]
The great hall of Winterfell had grown livelier by the time Alys and Alaric stepped through its doors. The warmth of the hearths pressed against her cheeks as the scents of roasted venison, onion soup, and spiced squash filled the air. The benches were filled with familiar faces.
Alaric peeled off toward the high table, nodding to his uncles Ned and Benjen, who shifted to make space. Alys moved to her usual seat near Sansa and Lyarra, but before she could settle in, a familiar voice rose from behind her.
"So that's where you've been hiding, little sister," said Torrhen Karstark with a teasing grin. He plopped down beside her, his thick fur-lined cloak brushing her shoulder. "In the godswood with the Lord of Winterfell, no less. Should I be worried for your virtue, or has Alaric already written to Father asking for your hand?"
Alys flushed crimson. "Don't be ridiculous, Torr. We were just talking."
"Just talking? At the heart tree, with him polishing that great bloody sword of his? Aye, sounds real chaste," Torrhen said, winking at Robb Stark across the table.
Sansa leaned in with a sly smile. "Truly, Alys, is it just talk? Alaric seems rather… attentive to you."
Lyarra Stark, ever quick to catch a shift in tone, added with a glint in her eye, "He's never taken a girl to the godswood before."
"It's not like that!" Alys protested, trying to focus on her bread as her heart raced.
"So you wouldn't mind if Cersei Lannister sent a princess north for him, then?" Lyarra teased.
"Of course I'd mind! I mean—" Alys broke off, cheeks flaming as Torrhen guffawed.
Before Sansa or Lyarra could press further, a snowball struck Sansa square in the shoulder with a wet splat. She let out a shriek as Arya Stark, grinning from ear to ear, darted behind a pillar with Branda and Berena Stark, the High Hill twins hot on her heels.
"ARYA!" Sansa cried, leaping to her feet, snow dripping down her sleeve.
"You beasts!" Lyarra added, two snowballs hitting her square in the chest, no doubt coming from the twins, chasing after them with Sansa.
"Run! Run!" Branda shouted, laughter trailing behind them as the trio bolted through the hall.
Catelyn Stark rose, trying in vain to still the chaos. "Arya Stark, Branda, Berena, have you lost your minds? This is a noble hall, not a training yard!"
The reprimand did little to dull the laughter. At the boys' table, Robb, Rickard, Harlon, Osric, Jon Snow, Edric and Elric Snow, and even the quiet Dorren Snow were cheering the girls on like it was a tournament.
Bran and Edwyn also joining in the cheering from further down.
"I've two silver stags on Arya!" Osric bellowed.
"She's too fast for Sansa," added Rickard with a wicked grin.
At the high table, Ned Stark simply shook his head. "Every moon, they get wilder."
Benjen chuckled while Ser Torrhen Stark offered a rare smirk. Beside them, Ser Harald was doubled over in laughter. "It's the wolf's blood in them, isn't that what Lord Rickard always used to say?"
"Aye," Ned replied, a nostalgic smile adorning his face.
Alys couldn't help but smile. Her earlier embarrassment was forgotten in the warmth of laughter and family.
But the door burst open with a gust of cold wind and a booming voice.
"WE ARE READY!"
Heads turned as Smalljon Umber and his younger brother, Derrick, stomped into the hall. Both were red-cheeked from the cold and flushed with ale.
"Tomorrow," Smalljon declared, pointing at Alaric, "we put your legend to the test. You've dueled one at a time, but let's see how you fare with two Umbers at once!"
Laughter, cheers, and groans erupted all at once.
Alaric, unfazed, leaned back in his chair and raised his goblet. "I accept. Try not to hurt yourselves."
[Next Morning, Winterfell Training Yard]
The air was sharp with frost, the sky clear above the Winterfell courtyard. The ground had been swept of fresh snow, packed tight underfoot. Spectators lined the wooden fences around the training yard, lords and ladies, guards and smallfolk alike. The duel had drawn the entire household.
Alys stood near the edge, clutching her cloak tightly. Beside her, Sansa, Lyarra, and even Catelyn watched with guarded curiosity. The boys, meanwhile, had already begun placing bets.
"Ten silver stags on Alaric," said Jon.
"You're mad," said Harlon. "I've seen the Umbers wrestle bears. Alaric's good, but not that good."
"I'll wager he knocks them both down," said Osric with a confident smirk.
"You lot have too much coin," muttered Robb.
"I say Alaric wins," Alys said, before she could think better of it.
All heads turned.
"Do you, now?" Rickard asked, arching a brow.
"Aye," she said firmly. "He's clever. Strong. I've seen him train. He won't lose."
"Or perhaps it's his eyes she's seen," teased Jon Snow.
Alys shoved him lightly, but even she couldn't help the smile tugging at her lips.
In the yard, Alaric stood in dark leathers, his long cloak pinned at one shoulder, Ice sheathed upon his back. Across from him stood Smalljon and Derrick, both stripped to their tunics, wielding blunted longaxes.
Ser Harald stepped forward. "This is a friendly match. No blood drawn, no broken bones. First to disarm or land three clean strikes wins."
Alaric nodded. "Understood."
Smalljon grinned. "Not even going to draw Ice?"
"Too sharp," Alaric said calmly, placing the still sheathed great sword across the rack, drawing a blunted steel bastard sword from the rack.
The crowd fell silent. Then Ser Harald dropped his arm. "Begin!"
The Umbers charged as one, flanking wide like hunting wolves. Alaric moved fast, sidestepping Derrick's heavy swing and ducking under Smalljon's axe. The ring of steel echoed as Alaric parried, spun, and reversed his grip to jab Smalljon in the ribs.
"One!" Ser Harald shouted.
The crowd roared.
Derrick came at him with a low sweep. Alaric leapt back, snow spraying up beneath his boots. He struck Derrick across the thigh, not hard, but clean.
"Two!"
The Umbers regrouped, circling.
This time, they pressed hard. Smalljon swung high while Derrick came low, trying to split Alaric's focus. But he was quicker than either expected; he ducked, rolled, and came up behind them, catching Derrick square in the back.
"Three! Alaric wins!"
The yard erupted in cheers.
Smalljon groaned, hands on knees. "That wasn't a duel. That was a dance."
Derrick lay on his back, arms sprawled. "I think I saw three of him."
Alaric offered a hand to each. "Come now, we'll drink to your defeat."
The boys clapped and jeered. Alys smiled quietly to herself.
[Later That Day]
Following the swift duel, the household returned to their duties. The warriors to their drills, the ladies to their stitching, the maester and his acolytes to their ravens. The cheer of the duel lingered in the air like firelight.
Alys walked along the stone paths outside the walls, her breath misting in the cool air. The snow crunched beneath her boots as she looked toward the ancient forest beyond Winterfell.
In the distance, a deep, lonely howl echoed over the frost-tipped trees.
She stopped.
Somewhere, a wolf, or maybe even something bigger, was calling.
And she felt, just for a moment, that the snow had never tasted sweeter, nor the fire of her heart burned brighter.