[Winterfell, 6th moon, 294AC]
The bells of Winterfell rang low that morning, not in alarm but in quiet celebration. The 6th moon had risen full and bright over the North, casting pale silver light over the thick green of the godswood and the stone walls of the great keep. Ser Torrhen Stark stood just behind his lord, his shadow falling only slightly short of Alaric Stark's tall, imposing figure. At his side, Ser Harald Stark walked with that quiet, grizzled stillness that marked most warriors, and his bastard sword sat sheathed on his waist.
Preparations were well underway for Lord Alaric Stark's fifteenth nameday. Banners were being mended, tables polished, and barrels of Northern ale stacked high in the cellars. The kitchens smelled of baked apples and salted pork. A host of lesser lords and captains were expected within the week, come to honor their Warden of the North.
The Greater lords set to arrive soon after.
Alaric walked with his usual measured pace, one hand resting on the pommel of his longsword. Torrhen recognized the expression on his lord's face, quiet, focused, thoughtful. Alaric had not yet spoken, and neither Torrhen nor Ser Harald felt the need to break the silence.
It was only when they turned a corner near the inner bailey that a familiar voice rang out.
"You walk as if on the way to a funeral, not a feast."
Eddard Stark stepped from a side corridor, his cloak fur-lined against the morning chill. His face bore a small smile, though the lines of wear had not softened with time. He had aged much in the past few years, but there was still a quiet power to Ned Stark, the same that had earned him the respect of both North and South.
Alaric slowed slightly. "Uncle. You've come from Moat Cailin early." Ned chuckled, responding, "Aye, if given the option to choose between celebrating you, nephew, and supervising the stuffy construction, I'd choose to come here every time. Besides, Moat Cailin still isn't set to be finished for another 6-7 years; it can wait." Ned said, clasping Alaric's arm with affection before falling into step beside them.
The four Starks, Alaric, Torrhen, Harald, and Ned, strode together, a formation of blood and steel. There was something comforting in their unity.
"How are the revitalization efforts in the New Gift?" Ned asked.
"Slower than I'd like," Alaric said, his voice steady. "The soil is fair, but many of the villages are scattered and underpopulated. The Watch is helpful in some areas, but even they struggle to keep order and aid the settlers."
"Still," Ned said, "it's a worthy endeavor. Since the Gift returned to our hands after Robert's Rebellion, the Watch has been more open to cooperation."
Alaric nodded. "I've been thinking of granting portions of it to the second sons of various Northern lords."
Torrhen raised an eyebrow, but kept silent.
Ned considered it. "A wise notion. Secure loyalty, populate the lands, build new ties."
"Though," Alaric said, "I'm of a mind to return some of the older claims to the Umbers and the mountain clans. Make peace through land rather than steel. The rest, I may divide among our own blood."
"Bran and Rickon?"
"Aye. Bran has the makings of a steward, and Rickon will need land of his own someday."
"And Jon?" Ned asked, a beat of quiet following the question.
Alaric was silent for a long moment. "That depends."
"On what?"
"On a new crop," Alaric said. "Something my men found in the foothills near Stony Shore. A round, brown root. Hardy. Grows even in rocky soil."
"You mean to test it?"
"Already have. We've grown it in trial plots. It thrives, even in cold. If it holds true, we could rely less on southern grain."
Ned raised an eyebrow. "You think this crop could give us greater agricultural independence?"
"It's a beginning," Alaric said. "If the soil holds, and the harvests are plenty, I may grant lands around Stony Shore to Jon. But I will not send him to barren hills with empty promises."
The group had reached the second courtyard, where younger Stark boys sparred in the yard. Osric Stark and Robb led the drills, their blades clashing as their cousins and companions looked on.
"And what of defense?" Ned asked, his tone lowering.
"I've thought on that as well," Alaric said. "Winterfell has her garrison, but we need a more structured urban force, especially as Wintertown grows larger. Something akin to the Gold Cloaks of King's Landing."
"Lately im even of mind to send a raven to the king requesting a city charter," Alaric said while continuing on
Torrhen blinked. "For Wintertown?"
"And maybe for other strongholds down the line," Alaric said. "I'd call them the Greycloaks. Uniformed, sworn, professional. Veterans of the Greyjoy Rebellion, under thirty, and a cadre of older greybeards to train them."
"A standing force," Ned said. "One loyal to you."
"To the North," Alaric said.
Torrhen exchanged a glance with Ser Harald. There was wisdom in the idea, but danger too. Still, there was no denying the North's growing strength. Under Alaric's rule, the roads were safer, trade flowed more freely, especially with the canal stretching through the lands like a silver artery.
As they approached the Lord's Solar, Alaric turned to a guard. "Find Uncle Benjen and bring him to me."
The guard nodded and moved swiftly.
Within the Solar, the fire was lit, and maps spread across the oak table. Alaric moved to them like a commander to his war table. Torrhen stood nearby, helm tucked beneath his arm.
Minutes passed before the door opened again, and in stepped Benjen Stark. His hair was flecked with snow, his leather coat stained from travel.
"You sent for me, nephew?"
Alaric looked up and smiled faintly. "Good. You're here. The reports from Sea Dragon Point came in. The construction is nearly complete."
Benjen stepped forward. "A fine thing. The cape's position gives us control of much of the western approach."
"And more than that," Alaric said. "I mean to grant it to you."
Benjen blinked. "To me?"
"A castle is nothing without a lord. You've done more than your share. You'll be Lord of Sea Dragon Point."
Benjen was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, it was hoarse. "Alaric... that is no small gift."
"The Point will need more than stone and timber. It will need ships. A fleet. The canal brings trade, but we must not only defend, we must move. The North should have a navy, Uncle. You'll raise it."
Benjen let out a breath. "Then I will."
The room fell into a brief silence, each man's thoughts turned to the tides of change.
Alaric looked to Torrhen. "You've served me well."
Torrhen bowed his head slightly. "I serve House Stark."
Alaric nodded. "Still, if this new age is to flourish, it must be built on loyalty, strength, and vision. We are not merely rebuilding the North. We are reshaping it."
"If you ever feel the inclination to have a keep of your own, just say the word, and I shall oblige," Alaric said, a smile adorning his face as he patted Ser Torrhen on the shoulder
'Your son has truly flourished, Brandon, if only you were here to see it.' Torrhen thought with a solemn smile
Outside, the bells began to ring again. Not in alarm. Not in mourning.
But in promise.
And Winterfell stood strong beneath the snow.
[The next week, Winterfell]
A week passed, and Winterfell swelled with guests. Lords and ladies of the North arrived in banners and pageantry, from the windswept hills of Last Hearth to the greenwood of Tallhart lands. The castle walls echoed with the voices of cousins, bannermen, and bards.
On the evening of Alaric Stark's fifteenth nameday, the godswood glistened beneath the dying light. Crimson leaves of the heart tree shuddered softly in the breeze. Alaric stood beneath its gnarled branches, Ser Torrhen beside him.
"Many years ago," Torrhen said, gazing at the face carved into the weirwood, "they say the First Men carved not just faces, but entire histories into these trees. Runes of the old tongue. Some say they worked magic into the wood itself."
Alaric nodded slowly, his eyes lingering on the deep red sap trickling like blood down the face of the tree.
"We've lost much," Torrhen continued. "When the Andals came, they felled the trees. They mocked the old ways, drove the runes into obscurity. I've never been one for magic, but I wonder... if those runes truly did help the North flourish once."
"They did," Alaric murmured, voice distant. "And they will again."
Torrhen turned toward him. "What do you mean?"
Alaric placed a hand upon the tree. "The runes sleep... but not forever. The magic is not dead. It waits. And tonight, when the moon is at its highest, I will wake it."
Torrhen's brow furrowed. "You speak in riddles, my lord."
"Perhaps," Alaric said with a faint smile. "But riddles are how the old gods speak."
Before Torrhen could reply, a horn sounded in the distance, time for the feast.
[The Great Hall]
The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with sound. Laughter rang from the rafters, and the scent of roast boar and honeyed mead filled the air. Long tables groaned beneath the weight of dishes, trout baked in herbs, savory stews, fresh bread, and apple tarts. Lords Karstark, Mormont, Umber, and more shared cups and stories.
Alaric sat at the high table, flanked by his family, Benjen, Ned, Catelyn, and the younger Starks. He rose to toast the gathered.
"My lords, my kin," Alaric began, raising his horn of mead, "you honor me with your presence. Tonight, we feast not just for my nameday, but for the strength of the North. For its past... and for its future."
A roar of agreement echoed through the hall.
Jests flew like arrows. Greatjon Umber wrestled two men in good sport. Maege Mormont slammed her cup down hard enough to crack the table. Robb, Osric, and their cousins exchanged tales of battle drills.
Amid it all, Alaric remained composed, yet there was a distant gleam in his eye.
Ser Torrhen Stark leaned back on the bench, the weight of his sword gone from his hip, but the ache in his shoulders lingering from sparring with Alaric earlier that day. His cup of dark ale was nearly drained, and he motioned for a serving girl to fill it once more. As he watched the wine and foam spill over the rim, his eyes wandered back to the high table, where Alaric Stark, barely fifteen and already more man than boy, sat tall among his kin.
There was something regal in the way Alaric carried himself tonight. Even in laughter, his face held the stillness of the weirwood, ancient, rooted, and unreadable. Torrhen had seen that look before, on battlefields and in crypts. It was not the look of a youth tasting the sweetness of celebration. No, it was the look of a man weighed by visions.
The hall shook with a sudden cheer as the Greatjon downed another tankard of mead, his beard wet and wild, his massive hand slamming down like a smith's hammer.
"Seven hells, that's good drink!" he bellowed, throwing his head back in laughter. "And better company! The North is strong tonight, stronger than I've ever seen it!"
Maege Mormont shouted her agreement, hoisting her mug. "Aye, and none stronger than young Alaric. Tell me, lad, when will you be taking a wife? My Lyra's sharp as a spear and twice as fierce!"
That earned more laughter, especially from Benjen, who leaned in to whisper something that made Alaric smirk faintly. Ned, ever the watchful man, kept a hand on his goblet and his gaze on the room.
Torrhen tore a bite from a joint of duck and chewed slowly. He let the sounds of music and fire wash over him, but his eyes never left the high table. For all the merriment, he could see it: a shadow behind Alaric's eyes. Something had happened in the godswood. Something the boy hadn't shared.
"You're brooding again," came a low voice at his side.
He turned to see Ser Rodrik Cassel easing onto the bench beside him. The old knight's gray whiskers twitched as he sipped his mead. "You always do that when you're thinking too much."
Torrhen grunted. "He's changed. Since the campaign against the Ironborn and the assault on Pyke."
Rodrik nodded, not pressing. He didn't need to. They had both seen what the boy was becoming.
A clatter of chairs and mugs pulled their attention back to the center of the hall. The Greatjon had climbed atop a bench, swaying only slightly as he roared:
"Hear me, lords of the North! I've a notion!" He raised his arms high like a priest summoning fire. "Why allow ourselves to kneel before southerners who know nothing of the North? I say we crown him now! Alaric Stark, King in the North!"
For a breath, silence.
Then laughter, hearty and unrestrained. Mugs banged on wood. Lady Maege let out a bark of a laugh. Even Lord Karstark smirked behind his beard.
But Ned Stark did not laugh.
Torrhen saw his jaw tighten, his hand clenched around the stem of his cup.
The Greatjon, for all his thunder, saw it too. He leapt down and strode toward Ned, clapping a hand on his shoulder with the force of a falling tree.
"Peace, Ned," he said with a grin. "It was only a jest! I've no wish to see the boy fed to the Baratheon's dogs."
Ned's lips quirked, more grimace than smile. "Best not speak of crowns in Winterfell, Greatjon. Some jests have long shadows."
The Greatjon laughed again, but softer this time, and turned back to his table, where his men were already pulling him down to wrestle again.
Torrhen shook his head. "He's not wrong," he muttered. Rodrik arched a brow. "About the boy," Torrhen clarified. "He's not a king. But he might be, one day."
Rodrik grunted. "And that's the worry, isn't it?"
Torrhen didn't answer.
The feast rolled on. Harps played, and a young girl from House Tallhart sang a ballad of the Last Hero. Robb Stark and Osric Stark leaned in close, comparing who could down more mead. Arya was already asleep, curled in thick fur, while Sansa looked starry-eyed at the singers and spoke softly with Lyarra about gowns and braids.
Cregard, his nephew, and Ser Torrhen's brother, Ser Benjicot, argued cheerfully with Lord Wylis Manderly about ship design, while Ser Harald Stark had found himself deep in a cup and began singing bawdy sailors' songs, much to Lord Artos' annoyance and Branda and Berena Stark's amusement.
All the while, Alaric remained still. Composed. Watching.
Torrhen rose and moved closer to the high table, pretending to refill his cup as he leaned toward the boy. "You didn't smile at the Greatjon's jest," he said under his breath.
Alaric's eyes didn't turn to him, but he replied, "There was no jest in it."
That stilled Torrhen. "You mean to—"
"No." Alaric's voice was quiet but certain. "I mean that others will not see it as jest. Not always. Not forever."
Torrhen nodded once. The truth settled like stone between them.
"Then you should speak to Ned," Torrhen said. "Before his fears grow heavier."
Alaric's eyes flicked to his uncle. "I will. Tonight."
Torrhen turned to go but paused. "And whatever worries or thoughts you may have, just know, you don't have to bear them alone."
Alaric finally looked at him then, and Torrhen felt the weight in those gray eyes, old eyes, not those of a boy. "I never was alone," Alaric said. "Not in this life. Not in the last."
Torrhen didn't ask what he meant. He didn't want to know.
He returned to his seat beside Rodrik and drained his cup.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," the old knight muttered.
"I think I have," Torrhen said.
The feast burned long into the night. Snow fell outside, dusting the godswood and cloaking the training yard. But within the hall, fire roared and music played, and for this one night, the wolves of the North feasted as one pack.
But in the heart of it, among kin and bannermen and loyal friends, Ser Torrhen Stark watched Alaric and knew that soon, too soon, this peace would pass. The wolf pup who bore the crown in jest would one day wear it in truth. And when that day came, blood and winter would follow.