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Chapter Text

The winds off the Bite were cold, sharp as a blade’s edge, and biting through fur and wool alike. White Harbor stood tall upon its hill, pale stone glistening under a sky of iron-gray clouds. The city was awake, its people murmuring in the streets and crowding the docks, and out on ships people stood and lay waiting in harbor eager to catch sight of what had been whispered about for days. All eyes were fixed on the skies, where dark clouds loomed over the cold waters of the Bite. The morning air bit harshly at their faces, yet none dared retreat indoors. They had been waiting for days, anticipating the sight of dragon wings above the northern sky. A dragon, they said. The queen herself astride it, flying north where no dragon had flown before.

It shrieked through the clouds like a beast let loose, clawing at Alysanne’s furs, tugging at her braids, and biting at every exposed inch of flesh. The air smelled of brine and pine, of snow yet to fall and seas long frozen. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms gripped the saddle of her dragon tighter and lowered her head against the gust, her silver-gold hair lashing like a banner behind her.
Alysanne could see it now, rising upon its hill like a polished gem, its high walls and watchtowers bathed in the cold light of a sun trapped behind clouds. The white stone of its walls seemed to glow beneath Silverwing’s shadow. From this height, the Queen could see the movement within the city—the bustling harbor filled with ships of thick hulls and swan-carved prows, the crowded streets teeming with cloaked figures, the great steps of the New Keep climbing to its lord’s seat.

They had seen her.

Silverwing roared once, a sound vast and ancient, rolling over the city like thunder. Below, cheers erupted. Bells rang. Pennants snapped in the wind, green and white for House Manderly, and deeper crimson for the crown. From the harbor came the blare of horns, and from the gates of the walls. From the lower harbor of New Castle, Lord Theomore Manderly watched in awe, flanked by his three sons and a bevy of daughters, their faces upturned as if gazing upon the gods themselves. The beast was a thing of legend—larger than any man could imagine, its scales gleaming like molten silver, even against the muted grey of the northern sky. The cold winds of the North swirled fiercely, but neither dragon nor rider flinched as they neared the ground.

She smiled.

“My lady,” she whispered, patting Silverwing’s warm flank. “Let us give them something to remember.”

The she-dragon wheeled in the sky, descending in slow, wide spirals. The city grew larger, closer. Alysanne could see the people now—tiny as ants, flooding into the courtyards and streets. Children waved scarves. Women held up babies wrapped in furs. Men bared their heads despite the cold, some falling to one knee. No southern queen had ever come to White Harbor. No dragon had ever cast its shadow over its walls.

Until now.

With a final cry, Silverwing alighted upon the broad yard before the harbor, the landing was graceful, despite the dragon's size. With a final beat of its wings, the creature settled upon the snow-covered harbor, her wings folding with a rustle like dry sails. With a great huff of steam and smoke. The wind struck her full in the face as she slid from the saddle, but Alysanne did not flinch. She stepped forward, black cloak clasped with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. She moved with a regal grace, her pale eyes taking in the castle and the gathered crowd with the quiet authority that had made her beloved throughout the realm. Her dragon, Silverwing, huffed again, plumes of frost trailing from its nostrils as it settled into the snow, its watchful gaze lingering on the Manderlys.

The square had grown utterly silent after her landing but cheers broke out once more—ragged and honest. Children waved scraps of cloth like banners. Old women wept. Men cheered, some calling out "Long live the Queen!" while others simply stared, as if they could not believe she was real. Some had never seen a dragon in all their years, nor thought they ever would. A man stepped forward from the crowd that—a man large in belly and beard, wrapped in sable-trimmed green and silver, his cheeks ruddy with excitement. His cloak billowed behind him like a sail as he knelt low before her.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice booming with cheer. “White Harbor is yours, if it pleases you.”

Alysanne smiled warmly, her cheeks rosy from the cold. “And it pleases me well, Lord Theomore.” Alysanne replied, extending her hand.

Lord Theomore Manderly rose and pressed his lips to her gloved ring finger, beaming up at her. “My house is humbled and greatly honored by your presence, and I daresay the North has never seen such beauty descending from the heavens—nor heard such music as your dragon’s cry.”

“Let us hope Silverwing does not take that as a compliment,” she said with a soft laugh. “She may sing again.”

The gathered crowd laughed with her, the ice in the air warming with joy. Alysanne’s eyes drifted over Lord Theomore’s household as they stepped forward to greet her: his lady wife, a round-faced woman swaddled in fox-fur; his eldest son Ser Robard, tall and stiff-backed with a sword at his hip; his daughters, three of them with long brown hair woven into northern knots, both curtseying with grace; and younger boys, most are no more than ten, one boy look to be six who peeked at the Queen from behind his mother’s skirts with a mixture of awe and fear.

“I trust your journey was safe, Your Grace?” asked Lord Theomore, his voice cautious.

“The skies were kind,” Alysanne replied. “Though the winds here do not yield easily.”

“We say in the North that winter teaches us what the South forgets,” Lord Theomore said, his tone boasting, though not without affection. “You must be cold. Come inside, and let White Harbor offer you the warmth of our hearths and hospitality. My cooks are near to fainting from excitement, and the mead has been warming since the moment we saw your shadow.”

The boy no older than six who broke away from his mother's gown stepped nervous as his small hand fidgets with his sleeve. “ dragon is-is-is very beautiful.” Edric said shyly, trying not to bow too low, though his eyes flicked with awe toward Silverwing, still looming like a statue behind the hill’s crest. “I’ve read of dragons, Your Grace. I never thought to see one.”

“I pray you remember her kindly,” I said. “She prefers to be admired at a distance.”

“And fed?” he asked, eyes dancing with the start of a jest.

Lord Theomore barked a laugh so loud it startled a passing crow from the castle roof. “Boy thinks every beast is tamed with food. He tried to train a wolf pup once—nearly lost three fingers. I’ll spare you the rest, Your Grace, unless you’ve a stomach for northern mischief.”

“I find northern mischief preferable to southern politics,” I replied dryly, and Theomore laughed again, full-bellied and red-cheeked. As she moved to follow, Alysanne glanced back at Silverwing, who remained still, eyes watching the crowd. The people murmured with wonder, some daring to move closer, others holding back in reverence.

The Great Hall of White Harbor was alive with color and sound. Light from a hundred torches danced across the polished stone walls, while the flames of a dozen hearths kept the frost at bay. Shadows flickered upon the great tapestries that adorned the hall—old works from Oldtown and Norvos, from across the narrow sea and the heart of the Reach, gifts and trophies of the Manderlys’ long history.

The hall smelled of spiced wine, pine, and roasting meat, and rang with music: flutes, fiddles, and the beat of a northern drum. Queen Alysanne sat in the place of honor beside Lord Theomore Manderly at the high table, upon a chair of finely carved weirwood that had been brought up from the crypts below and dusted of a generation’s worth of cobwebs. “We call it the Queen’s Chair now,” Lord Theomore had said with a booming laugh, “though no queen has ever sat in it before. And none shall after, unless you say so, Your Grace.”

She offered him a smile as the feast carried on, her eyes taking in the wealth and pride of House Manderly. Long tables below were crowded with bannermen, knights, stewards, merchants, even well-fed fisherfolk given a place of honor in their lord’s sight. Platters passed hand to hand—honey-roasted duck with orange slices, salted whitefish cooked in clay, steaming oatcakes soaked in butter, and eels stewed in dark ale. Tankards clinked, the mead flowed sweet and heady, and laughter rolled like thunder across the hall. Whenever she needed her cup refilled or any assistance Lord Manderly had his second daughter the young Jessamyn Manderly to be her cupbearer

It was easy, in that moment, to forget the wind and cold outside, the ever-looming harshness of the North. Here, there was warmth—real warmth, drawn not only from fire but from generosity. Lord Theomore laughed often and loudly, his belly shaking beneath his ermine mantle, and his kin followed suit. Alysanne laughed softly, sipping the sweet golden drink. It was thick, strong, and honeyed, with a warmth that crept down to her belly. Her hands were gloved in soft lambskin, though she’d removed the rings that marked her as queen—except one: the ruby-and-gold signet of House

Targaryen, a dragon wound in fire.

“I do not doubt the truth of your mead,” she said, setting her cup down. “Nor the heat of your welcome, my lord. You honor me and the Crown.”

“You honor us by flying so far from your seat. My lady wife says she wept when the raven came.”

“And your lady is not alone,” Alysanne said, watching the crowd. She had caught the eyes of many women that evening—wives and daughters, fishermaidens and smiths’ wives—each of them peering up at her with something between awe and wonder. “Which is why I must ask a boon of you, Lord Theomore.”

“Name it, and it is yours,” the old lord said at once, seizing his wine again.

“I would hold a Women’s Court during my time in White Harbor,” Alysanne said, her voice smooth but measured. “A gathering of the city’s wives, mothers, and daughters. The fisherfolk, the weavers, the merchant’s widows—those who do not often sit in halls such as this. A place where they may speak freely to their queen.”

The laughter around the table quieted, but not in discomfort—only attention. Lord Theomore blinked, and then beamed, throwing his arms wide. “You shall have it! My own solar, if you wish, or the Temple steps, or the great sept we built for the Faith. Wherever you like! Though I think the Temple’s priests may turn green if your dragon roosts upon their roof.”

The hall rippled with laughter again, and Theomore refilled his cup, red-faced and delighted. “A Women’s Court!” he said. “By the Seven, you bring new winds to the North, Your Grace. Mayhap I should hold one myself, though I expect my daughters would scold me too much.”

Alysanne smiled, but it was a smile with weight behind it. “The women of the realm carry its burdens, Lord Manderly. Oft in silence. I would hear their voices—and let them know they are heard by their queen.”

“Well said! Well said!” he roared, and drank deeply.

His lady wife, seated just down the dais, leaned in with a smile of her own. “Many in White Harbor will weep at your kindness, Your Grace. Too few listen to women outside the keep.”

“I have heard it said that men rule, but women endure,” Alysanne replied. “And I mean to ensure they are no longer forgotten.”

The feast pressed on, with boar glazed in apples and thick stews of barley and duck. Singers came to perform old Northern ballads—dirges of winter and honor and the lost kings of old. One girl sang of the last King of Winter kneeling to Torrhen Stark, and another sang of the sea lion of Manderly battling pirates in the Narrow Sea. All the while, Alysanne watched the faces of those in the hall, especially the women, as the promise of her court began to spread in whispered excitement.

By the time the final dishes were cleared and Lord Theomore’s cup was again being refilled by a red-haired squire, Alysanne felt the weight of the day pressing behind her eyes. “Mayhaps I shall need to sleep a moon’s turn to recover from such a welcome,” she said softly.

“You shall have the finest chamber, and my daughter Maegelle shall see to your comfort,” Theomore promised. “I’ve ordered the best linens, and a fire already lit. You’ll not feel the cold tonight, my Queen.”

Alysanne smiled faintly, offering a graceful nod as she rose. The entire hall began to quiet as she did so, hundreds of eyes turning her way. “I thank you all, my lords and ladies, for the warmth of your welcome. The South often forgets how warm the North can be.”

A cheer rose at that, loud and proud, echoing off stone and timber. “And in the days to come,” she said, her voice stronger now, “I hope to meet many more of you—not as subjects, but as people of this land. My court will be open. You need only bring your hearts, your words, and the truth of your lives.”

Another cheer. Alysanne felt it ripple through her chest like music. The night had deepened, and the chill of the northern air seeped into the stone walls of New Castle as the great feast began to wind down. The last remnants of laughter and conversation still echoed in the corridors as Queen Alysanne rose from her seat at the high table. Her presence had commanded the hall for hours, but now, with a gentle word to Lord Theomore and a nod to the gathered lords and ladies, she excused herself. Her footsteps were soft as she moved through the dimly lit corridors, her silver hair trailing like moonlight behind her.

Jessamyn Manderly, her faithful cupbearer, followed close behind, her own steps light as a shadow. The girl’s face was flush with excitement from the evening, her mind still racing from the honor of serving the queen, but she remained silent as they made their way through the castle.

Alysanne had noted her attentiveness, her quiet strength. Now, as they walked back to the Queen’s chambers, she could feel the girl’s curiosity—unsaid, but present, lingering like the frost in the air.
At last, they reached her chambers, a warm fire flickering in the stone hearth. Alysanne paused at the threshold, turning to Jessamyn with a kind smile. “Thank you for your service tonight, Jessamyn. You have done well.”

Jessamyn bowed her head, a flush rising in her cheeks. “It was my honor, Your Grace.”

“Stay with me a moment,” Alysanne said softly, her voice gentle but firm. “I have a letter to write before the night is through, and I would like your company. Fetch me some ink, if you would.”

Jessamyn blinked, clearly surprised by the request, but she nodded quickly. “Of course, Your Grace,” she said, moving to the writing desk set near the fire. She returned with ink, parchment, and a quill, her hands steady as she placed them before the Queen.

Alysanne sat, pulling her cloak around her shoulders as she dipped the quill into the ink. The soft scratch of pen on parchment filled the quiet room as she began to write, her eyes flicking up every so often to regard the girl standing before her. Jessamyn watched with rapt attention, hands folded before her, her face illuminated by the firelight. For a while, neither spoke, the only sound was the steady rhythm of the quill on parchment. But after several minutes, Alysanne broke the silence. “Tell me, Jessamyn,” she began, her voice low and warm, “what do you think of the North? Do you see yourself living your whole life here, or have you ever dreamed of other places?”

Jessamyn’s eyes widened slightly at the question, and she hesitated, as though weighing her words. “The North is all I’ve ever known, Your Grace,” she said finally, her voice soft but steady. “I love White Harbor. The cold, the sea… it’s home.” The girl flushed again, her voice barely a whisper. “I... I only hope to be of service, Your Grace.”

“You have been, more than you know,” Alysanne said, turning back to her letters. As she wrote, she spoke again, her tone more casual, as though speaking to an equal rather than a servant. “My daughter, Daenerys, only five, is much like you—quiet, thoughtful. But there is a fire in her, just as there is in you. She will grow into a woman of great strength, I am sure of it.”

Jessamyn’s eyes brightened at the mention of the royal children. “What is she like, Your Grace? The princess?”

Alysanne chuckled softly, dipping her quill once more. “She is calm, like her father,” she said with a fond smile. “But she has my heart. She cares deeply for others, even when she does not show it. I see so much of her in you, Jessamyn.”

The girl stood a little taller at the words, pride swelling in her chest. “I don’t know if I am worthy of such a comparison.”

Alysanne waved her hand dismissively, her smile warm. “Worth is not measured in titles or crowns, my dear. It is measured in strength of heart and clarity of mind. You are more than worthy.”

Silence fell once more as the Queen returned to her writing, but it was a comfortable silence, the kind shared between those who understood each other without the need for words. Jessamyn watched the Queen in quiet awe, the weight of Alysanne’s words settling deep within her.

After some time, the Queen folded the letter she had finished, sealing it with wax and the mark of her house. She rose then, her silver cloak trailing behind her as she moved toward the fire, her gaze thoughtful as she stared into the flames. “May you send this to the Maester and request him to have the raven leave tonight.” she said softly, without turning. “My husband must know I have arrived and my time here has been quite busy.”

Jessamyn bowed her head, her heart swelling with a mix of pride and humility. “Yes, your Grace.” Jessamyn curtsied once more, then slipped silently from the chamber, the letters clutched tightly in her hands. The castle had grown quiet, the revelry of the night fading.

The snow fell silently, blanketing the land in a thick, white shroud that seemed to stretch endlessly across the North. Dawn had barely broken, the pale light struggling through the heavy clouds, but already the castle of Winterfell stirred beneath its frosted veil. From the towers and the walls, the men on watch kept their cloaks drawn tight against the biting wind, their breath visible in the cold air. Beyond the walls, the world was still, save for the soft pattern of snowflakes descending from the grey sky.

The hall was not the same that had held the feast the night before. It had been changed—cleared of the long tables and benches, the smoke aired out, the banners taken down. In their place had come simple rugs and chairs, cushions sewn with fine wool, and wide braziers burning with sweet cedarwood to keep the chill at bay. It was still White Harbor, but it was also hers now. Her court. Kingsguard Knight Lorence Roxton stood outside and her sworn sword Jonquil Darke stood behind her, the two had arrived early that morning by ship, stood ready to tend the dragon and ensure the curious stayed a respectful distance. Queen Alysanne Targaryen sat on the steps to the floor at the head of the gathering, no crown rested upon her brow, her hands gloved and folded in her lap. She wore her traveling cloak still, though she had changed the red of the dragon for the white and gold of peace. There was no throne, no gilded step. Only the
Queen, and the women of White Harbor.

They came in waves.

The first was a fisherwoman with red, raw hands, who asked if the harbor tolls might be lowered for widows. Her husband had drowned the year past. The next was a girl barely fourteen, who spoke in a trembling whisper of her betrothal to a man thirty years her elder, and how he struck her when she spilled wine. Another spoke of her son, taken to sea against her will by merchants who promised coin and glory. A midwife pleaded for herbs and healing roots forbidden by the city septons, and a baker’s wife spoke of rats in the grain stores and guards who turned blind eyes for silver.

Alysanne listened.

For hours, she sat and listened, her eyes never wavering, her hand rarely moving. Only at times did she speak, and then it was in a voice as calm as deep snow, asking questions, guiding the tale. Her maester took notes. Ser Alan Stokeworth, sworn to her service, stood by the door like a statue. Silverwing dozed in the field beyond the city walls, and the Queen did her work. By midday, the crowd swelled too large for the hall. They moved to the Temple courtyard, where stone benches and low walls formed a natural circle. The women stood shoulder to shoulder in the cold, their breaths fogging the air, their eyes turned to the Queen who had come so far to hear them.

Alysanne had known sorrow before. She had seen war, and cruelty, and the hard price of peace. But the women of the North did not weep easily. They bore their grief like stone. And still they came. A crone blind in one eye asked for better grain for the orphan house. A washerwoman with bruises on her arms spoke of her lord’s son. One woman, clutching a child to her breast, begged for firewood for the winter.

By the time the sun dipped behind the New Keep, Alysanne’s voice had grown hoarse, but her heart was full. She rose to thank them all, speaking not from a throne but from among them. “You have been heard,” she said. “And I will not forget.”

The next morning, as the frost clung to the windows of her guest chambers, Queen Alysanne met again with Lord Theomore Manderly. He found her seated by the fire, dressed once more in her crimson and black, a parchment half-written on her lap. “My lord,” she greeted him, gesturing for him to sit. “I must thank you again for your hospitality. And for the use of your hall.”

“The honor was ours,” he said, settling down with a grunt. “Never have I seen such tears, nor so many women so willing to share them.”

“They have much to share. We forget, in King’s Landing, how far the road runs north. But their burdens are no less heavy.”

Theomore poured himself a cup of wine and offered her one. She took it gratefully. “Will you stay longer?” he asked.

“A week at most,” she said. “My journey continues north. I mean to visit Winterfell before I return to the capital.”

At that, the old lord chuckled. “Then I pity you, Your Grace.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’ll not find Lord Alaric as warm a host as I, I fear.”

“Is he so cold?”

“Colder than the Wall,” Theomore said. “Methinks Lord Alaric has not moved his bowels since he was twelve.” His fool, standing nearby, cackled at that, and even Alysanne laughed, though she hid it behind her cup. “He is a Stark through and through,” Lord Theomore continued. “And the Starks are made of ice. Duty, honor, silence. He’ll not pour you mead nor toast your beauty, but he’ll open his gates. He’s not cruel. Just... Dutiful. I’ve never been able to crack a smile from his lips when I’ve spoken to him.”

That evening, by candlelight, Queen Alysanne took to writing a letter to her husband, King Jaehaerys, her brother and beloved. The parchment was thick and smooth, her quill steady despite the day’s cold. She sat in her chambers, Silverwing slumbering just beyond the window’s ledge.

"My dearest love,

White Harbor has greeted me with such warmth that I wonder if they mean to outdo even the Reach in their hospitality. Lord Theomore is a man of great girth and greater mirth. His halls were thrown open in celebration of my visit, and a tourney was held in my honor. There, our dear Jonquil Darke—ever brave—took up arms and sparred with a wildling woman from beyond the Wall, one brought here in chains but freed by skill and valor. The Northmen roared with approval, and I daresay many hearts now beat for our sworn sword. More precious to me, though, was the Women’s Court I held. Oh, Jaehaerys, the stories I heard. So much grief, so much endurance. The women here are made of iron and patience. I heard of injustice and love, of hardship and hope. I listened, and they knew they had a queen.

I made arrangements while here as well. With Theomore, we negotiated the betrothals of two of my ladies-in-waiting to his younger sons, and a third to his nephew. It was done with joy, and he toasted to new bonds. In return, his eldest daughter and three of his nieces shall join my retinue when we return to King’s Landing. They will learn our courtly ways and—if the gods are good—find honorable lords and knights to wed. It is a small step, but one toward unity.

Next, I ride to Winterfell. Lord Theomore warns me that your Wander of The North, Lord Alaric Stark is cold as the snow he walks upon. His fool even jested, 'Methinks Lord Alaric has not moved his bowels since he was twelve.' I laughed, though I suspect the truth lies somewhere beneath the jest. Theomore tells me I will not find the same warmth in Winterfell as here. That may be—but I am not afraid of the cold. Kiss our children for me. I miss you all more than words allow. I dream of our halls, and of your arms.

With all my heart,

Alysanne"

She set her quill down, folded the letter with care, and sealed it with wax, imprinting the Targaryen dragon deep into the red. Then she rose, peered out into the dark night where snow fell light and steady, and whispered to the wind.

“Soon.”

Chapter Text

The morning air hung heavy with sea mist as Alysanne stood atop the stone ramparts of White Harbor's inner wall. Below her, the courtyard bustled with servants along with her two guards, Kingsguard and sworn sword, making ready for her departure. Silverwing stirred in the field beyond, her silvery scales glinting faintly beneath the veil of pale northern sun. The bells of White Harbor tolled low and slow in the morning mist, their bronze tongues swinging through fog that curled across the harbor like sea-serpents. From the gatehouse to the godswood, the city stirred—footsteps against cobble, wheels creaking over stone, guards standing to attention beneath the fish-tailed banners of House Manderly. Alysanne stood atop the steps of the New Keep, clad once more in the cloak and leathers of a dragonrider. Her silver hair was braided down her back in the Targaryen fashion, the wind catching its ends as she turned to the Lord of the city

Lord Theomore Manderly stood beside her, wrapped in a great green mantle lined with white bear fur, his cheeks red with cold and wine alike. His daughters and nieces, now part of the Queen’s retinue upon her return south, clustered just behind her, faces aglow with excitement.

"Lord Theomore," she said, her voice carrying despite the wind. "You have opened your gates to me with grace and generosity. I shall not forget it." Alysanne descended the steps, and Lord Theomore kissed her hand once more. She clasped it in both of hers.

The old lord bowed, his jowls shaking with emotion. "Your Grace, your visit has brought honor to my house and joy to my family. White Harbor will await your return—mayhap with any luck your king will stand at your side."

"He would love White Harbor and enjoy what your family offers…Please my lord take care of those I leave behind," she said. "They are daughters of the realm, and you are their steward now."

"I will, Your Grace. On my honor." He gently bowed his head down before his head rose once more with a warry smile. He hesitated then, chuckling with a touch of sheepishness. "Though if your great beast returns, I might take to the sea instead. The closer I stand, the less breath I have."

The Queen laughed, not unkindly. "Then stand far, my lord, but with pride. You have hosted a queen and warmed her heart."

She turned away, her cloak billowing behind her, and made her way through the city’s eastern gate. The people gathered along her path cheered, voices rising like gulls over the sea. Fishwives, sailors, smiths and midwives all lifted hands to the Queen. She offered nods, smiles, touches when she passed near enough. Beyond the gate, Silverwing waited. Her two guards followed in suit by her side as they left the city. She stopped a couple yards away from her dragon and waited for her guards to mount their own steads two fine black Northern horses.

"We’ll ride hard," Ser Lorence Roxton said, adjusting the clasp of his fur-lined cloak as he looked up toward the grey clouds above the rolling hills. His voice was as firm as the steel of his armor, but softened by familiarity. "If the weather favors us, we’ll make Winterfell in five days. eight, if the snows worsen."

Beside him, Lady Jonquil Darke had drawn her black hood tighter against her face, the wind tugging strands of raven hair free to whip across her cheek. "And if the snows do worsen, we’ll bloody well ride through them. She’s not going alone."

“Please ride carefully the both of you. I need my sworn protectors at my side alive and warm. I wish to be told that you two froze to death on King’s Road.” Alysanne had said, amused and a kind voice.
Her two guards bowed their heads as she approached her dragon. The dragon was vast, wings folded like sails of smoke, her scales the pale silver of moonlight on water. Her great eyes regarded

Alysanne approached slowly, reverently. Her hand touched Silverwing’s warm flank. Silverwing nostrils steamed in the cold.

The dragon snorted, shifting her massive weight. Alysanne climbed into the saddle with practiced ease, securing the heavy harness and winding her hands in the reins. She leaned low to her mount’s ear.
"Sōvētēs."
["Let us fly."]

With a thunderous cry that echoed from the harbor to the hills, Silverwing spread her wings. The wind roared around them as the dragon leapt skyward, cobblestones cracking beneath her mighty claws.
The city grew smaller beneath them, its towers and roofs cloaked in snow. The cheers faded into the wind, and the sea beyond shimmered beneath the rising sun. Alysanne turned her gaze northward, to the white line on the horizon.

To Winterfell.

They soared above the wide world, past the last farms and holdfasts of the White Knife, where the river narrowed and curled like a serpent through snow-covered woods. Silverwing cut through the sky with ease, each beat of her wings a whisper in the clouds. Below, the world seemed still and frozen, the hush of deep winter lying heavy across the land. Alysanne's thoughts drifted. The women's court weighed on her mind—the faces, the voices, the sorrows. She carried their stories with her now, tucked into her heart like letters sealed in wax. There was power in listening, she knew. The wind now whipped harder against her cheeks, tugging the long silver-blonde braid over her shoulder.

The sky had opened before her like a yawning void, endless and pale, the clouds stretched thin like wool plucked and teased by a northern crone’s spindle. Silverwing beat her wings slowly now, gliding on great gusts of cold air that howled. Alysanne sat astride her, her furs drawn tightly about her neck, her gloved fingers curled against the carved ridges of the saddle horn. Her cheeks were flushed red from wind and frost, her breath steaming before her like smoke from a dragon's maw.

Below, the North unspooled in all its stark and terrible grandeur. An ocean of white blanketed the land—snow overtaking green in long, curling drifts, swallowing the tops of trees, the roofs of scattered crofter’s cottages, the winding paths that once were roads. The earth had yielded, quietly and without protest, to winter's creeping claim. She saw no fields of golden grain, no vineyards heavy with fruit—only frost-hardened soil and bare branches bowing beneath the weight of ice.

It was a different kind of beauty than she had known in the South. Not the sun-dappled golden splendor of Oldtown, nor the shimmering river mists of the Reach, nor even the proud marbled towers of Dragonstone rising from the sea. No, this was a world shaped by survival—harsh and enduring, like the granite faces of its people. It stirred something old within her blood, something ancient and wary, and Alysanne found herself smiling despite the cold that gnawed at her fingertips.

Letting the wind guide them over the great ribbon of water cutting through the land—the White Knife. It twisted below like a serpent slumbering beneath a thin layer of ice, its surface cracked and scattered in places, flashing with silver where the sunlight broke through the clouds. The river ran fast and cold, fed by tributaries from the mountains far beyond her sight. Once, she had read of its history in the library at King’s Landing, where maesters claimed the White Knife had run red with blood in the days of the First Men. She wondered now if that was only a tale meant to chill children’s bones—or if the land itself remembered.

She did not speak aloud, but Silverwing must have sensed the shift in her thoughts, the tension in her body. The old she-dragon let out a low, resonant growl, her wings adjusting to catch a rising current. Together, they climbed higher, soaring into the mist-hung sky. Clouds gathered around them like soft smoke, and for a moment the world vanished—sky and land and thought—all swallowed in pale fog.

The scent of pine and snow hit her senses as Silverwing dipped lower, beginning her descent. And then, through that veil, it appeared.

Winterfell.

Even from this distance, it was a thing of awe. Alysanne had seen great cities and mighty holds—Storm’s End, Harrenhal, the Red Keep itself—but none of them were like this. Winterfell was not built to impress the eye nor dazzle visiting nobles. It was not a lord’s vanity but a fortress hewn for endurance, for siege, for the terrible weight of winters that could last a lifetime. The castle sprawled across the land like some slumbering beast, massive and ancient. Its towers and keeps rose like jagged teeth, their slate roofs coated in fresh snow, while its two great granite walls encircled the heart of the stronghold. Steam curled up from the hidden hot springs within, trailing like ghostly banners into the chill air. It seemed more a thing of the earth than apart from it, as though the land itself had given birth to it—stone birthed from stone, fire buried deep beneath snow.

And beyond its walls nestled the Winter Town, quiet now in the long months of cold, its smallfolk huddled close for warmth, smoke rising from hearths like threads in a weaver’s loom. She wondered if they knew she approached. If word had yet reached them. If they waited in awe or in fear.

Alysanne breathed deeply, and her lungs filled with the taste of snow and smoke and old magic. She thought of her brother-husband, far to the south, and of the message she carried—of peace, of union, of understanding between dragon and wolf. Of the dreams she carried within her, delicate as glass but forged of steel. Silverwing wheeled slowly over the ancient fortress, casting her vast shadow across Winterfell’s high walls and frozen courtyards. The great she-dragon’s wings beat against the northern wind, stirring flurries of snow from rooftops and rousing distant crows to startled flight. Below, the people of the winter town gazed skyward in cheering awe, their breath steaming in the cold as they watched the dragon’s descent—many had never seen such a beast, only whispered of them in tales by hearthfire.

Alysanne leaned forward in her saddle, her long silver-gold braid lashing in the wind behind her, her violet eyes sweeping over the castle grounds and the huddled village beyond. Winterfell stood proud and grim, ringed by its immense walls of granite, stoic and unyielding as the land it ruled. No banners flapped, no horns sounded. The North did not herald visitors with pomp and pageantry. It watched. It waited.

Silverwing circled once more, then descended with slow majesty, her great wings folding as she came to rest in a snow-dusted field a little ways south of the winter town. The ground trembled faintly beneath her talons. Snow and dead grass hissed with heat where the dragon’s breath touched earth, but the beast remained still, obedient to her rider’s quiet word. Alysanne dismounted with practiced ease, cloak swirling around her as her boots touched the frozen soil. The air was colder here than even at White Harbor—sharper, like the edge of a well-honed blade—and she drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

From the direction of the castle came riders—six in number—led by a tall man, all of them garbed in dark leather brigandine over a shirt of fine ringmail. Heavy wool and fur cloaks swayed at their backs, and steel helms but the eyes of the guards who flanked him. Their leader rode with grim purpose, his posture straight and stiff, and though he did not hurry, there was a watchfulness in the way he approached, as if unsure whether this was parley or challenge.

When he reached her, he swung down from his horse in a single motion and went to one knee before her in the snow. “Your Grace.”

“Lord Stark, I presume?” Alysanne said, her voice light and formal.

The man looked up at her, eyes the grey of storm clouds over the sea, and gave a short nod. As he rose, his gaze took her in—dragon and all—before settling back on her face.
“I hope you brought something warmer than that,” he said, voice gravelled and deep.

What a queer thing to say to greet your queen, she thought, though her smile remained polite. Perhaps it was the North’s way—honest, even to rudeness. She found she preferred it to the simpering flatteries of court.

Alaric Stark was older than she had expected, perhaps almost ten years her senior, or maybe a little younger and possessed of a presence that filled the space around him like stone filled a hall. Where Jaehaerys was sinewy and honed, like a sword forged for speed, Lord Stark was broad of shoulder, his form sturdy like the mountains of his realm. His black hair hung past his shoulders in unruly waves, drawn back in a half-knot at the nape of his neck, and a thick beard covered his jaw, streaked faintly with grey.

“There’s no cause for your beast to enter the walls of Winterfell,” he added, nodding toward Silverwing. “It will stay outside the gate. I’ve never seen Harrenhal myself, but I’ve heard enough of what dragonfire wrought.”

Alysanne considered a reply, a gentle retort perhaps, or a reminder that Silverwing had served peacefully at White Harbor and countless other keeps. But in the end, she merely nodded, and he gestured her to follow while two of the guards, who began the task of making a makeshift camp for the dragon beyond the outer gate. Lord Manderly had warned her of Alaric Stark—unbending, proud, cold as the land he ruled. The man before her seemed to live up to the telling.

They rode side by side toward Winterfell, flanked by Lord Stark’s household guard clad in grey and iron. Snow crunched beneath horses' hooves, the only sound in the long silence that stretched between them. Neither spoke, yet much passed between them in glances and breath—the weight of duty, the tension of power unbalanced. They passed through the winter town, its narrow streets frozen and muddied from the snow. Townsfolk looked on in wary silence, bundled in roughspun wool and weatherworn leathers, faces pale from cold and curiosity alike. Smoke rose from chimneys, and the scent of pine and peat fires lingered in the still air.

They came through the market square, a modest cluster of wooden stalls half-buried in snow, their wares long packed away for the season. At its center stood an old stone well, rimmed with frost, its rope stiff with ice. Children stood at the edges, gawking wide-eyed at the dragon still visible beyond the hill, while mothers pulled them back into doorways.mTo her left, Alysanne spotted what must have been the local inn—a squat timbered building with sagging shutters and a crooked chimney that belched thin grey smoke into the sky. A weather-beaten sign swung above the door, creaking on its iron chain. Faded paint depicted a log split and smoldering, and the words beneath it, half-peeled by wind and snow, read: The Smoking Log.

She wondered briefly if it served decent ale.

It wasn’t long before they approached the great gates of Winterfell—ancient and formidable as the land itself. Alysanne drew her cloak tighter seeing two guards standing inspire the wall pass. These men were wearing similar attire as guards who followed her, but they wore white tunic that bore a black direwolf on their chest. The gatehouse loomed ahead, a squat fortress in its own right: two immense crenelated bulwarks flanked a wide stone archway, beneath which a drawbridge spanned the frozen moat. The structure bristled with arrow slits and murder holes, silent sentinels watching the path below. first the outer curtain, eighty feet of weathered grey granite lined with watchful guard turrets.

Behind that, the inner wall soared still higher, a hundred feet tall and ringed with more than thirty stout watchtowers, their high battlements clad in frost. Smoke from the keep's chimneys drifted lazily into the sky, vanishing into the pale mist that hung over the North like a veil. It was a fortress built not for beauty, but for endurance. For siege. For the long, hard winters of legend. As they crossed the drawbridge, the cold deepened. It seemed to live in the stone itself, as though the walls remembered every snowfall, every death, every king who had bent the knee—or refused to. Alysanne felt the weight of that history settle upon her like fresh snow on her shoulders.

The heavy gatehouse groaned as the portcullis rose, and the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms rode beneath Winterfell’s massive stone archway. Snow had drifted into the courtyard, blanketing the worn flagstones in a pale crust, disturbed now by boots and hooves and the scraping of carts. The great yard was alive with figures, gathered to witness the arrival of a dragon queen from the South.
Direwolf banners stirred in the wind, stark grey on white, snapping high from the battlements and poles along the inner walls. The sound was not unlike that of swords being drawn. The scent of cold iron, smoke, and pine clung to the air, mingling with the faint sulfur tang left from Silverwing’s passage.

Men stood in silence—grizzled men with thick beards and tangled hair, cloaked in layered wool and fur. Many were armed, but none made a move for their swords. These were men of the North, sworn to House Stark, and every one of them stood like an old pine in winter—silent, proud, and unbending. Among the sea of faces, she saw the hands of service too: stableboys with flushed cheeks and wide eyes, kitchen servants peering from behind cloaks, women with thick braids and red fingers from their work. The North had turned out in full, and though no one cheered, their presence carried its own weight—a quiet acknowledgment of her station, if not affection.

At the front of them all stood three children. The eldest, a boy near seventeen, bore the unmistakable stamp of his father—tall and broad-shouldered already, with a stoic set to his jaw. His face, however, was shaven clean and his dark hair cropped short, revealing more youth than he likely intended. His grey eyes were guarded, but respectful. Beside him stood a girl, perhaps fifteen, with hair black as ravens’ wings flowing down her back. She had a beauty sharpened by the cold—a graceful bearing that made her appear older than she was. Her chin was high, but her expression was open and curious, her cheeks pink from the wind. She wore a gown of dark blue wool, trimmed in silver-threaded fur, and the sight of her made Alysanne think she might’ve made a fine court lady, had she could come South.

And at the girl’s side, half-hiding behind her skirts, stood the youngest—a small boy no older than twelve. He smiled nervously up at Alysanne with wide grey eyes, his hands clasped before him as if he feared they might betray him. His hair was tousled by the wind, and his cloak was far too large for him, the fur collar rising past his ears. Alaric came to a stop a few feet before the children, his boots crunching through snow. He turned to the Queen with a curt nod, then gestured toward them with a bare movement of his hand.

“My blood,” he said. “My eldest and heir, Torren. My daughter, Alarra. And my youngest son, Weymar.”

The children stepped forward in unison and bowed low, a neat, practiced movement that surprised her given their father's otherwise stony demeanor.

“Your Grace,” said Torren first, voice even and steady. “Winterfell welcomes you.”

“My queen,” Alarra added, curtseying deeply. “It is an honor to meet you at last.”

Little Weymar fumbled his bow, nearly toppling forward in the effort, but righted himself with a grin as red flushed his cheeks. “We-welcome to-to-to Winterfell, my lady…I mean! Your Grace,” he chirped, breath frosting in the air.

Alysanne felt warmth bloom beneath her furs. For all the cold welcome from the Lord of Winterfell, his children showed a gentler heart. She stepped forward with grace, smiling as she extended her gloved hand toward each.

“You are all a credit to your house,” she said. “And to the realm. I thank you for your kindness.”

To Alarra, she offered an extra moment of regard. “Winterfell is yours. I have made preparations for your arrival.” The girl’s eyes widened slightly, though she did not look away. “I hope my father showed all his courtiers,” Alarra replied, a touch of boldness in her tone. “I’ve read about Valyrian customs and dragons, Your Grace. I’ve read all I could.”

Alysanne’s smile deepened. “Then we must speak more, you and I.”

Alaric inclined his head slightly, a sign of approval, though his face remained impassive. “My daughter is fond of histories and words. She will keep you talking for days, if you let her.”

“I welcome it,” said Alysanne, turning her gaze once more to the towering walls and ancient stone around her. “It’s not often I find a kindred mind, and certainly not one so far from Oldtown or King’s Landing.”

Torren said nothing further, but he stood straight as a spear beside his father, watching with an intensity that reminded Alysanne of a wolf pup learning the wind—quiet now, but no doubt sharp underneath. She felt alone in the courtyard full of strangers…Her bright blue eyes and honey-colored curls caused her to stand out like a crow in snow or a dragon in snow. Seems Lord Theomore forgot to mention to me that Alaric children are different from their father. Maybe my time here will be more welcoming than if it was just…Lord Alaric.

Later that evening, the queen sat alone in her chambers, wrapped in silence save for the faint crackle of the hearthfire. The room was built from old cobblestone, damp in the corners, with a ceiling low enough that she could reach up and nearly brush it if she stood on her toes. Yet it was warm, made so by the roaring fire in the broad hearth and the heavy tapestries hung from the walls—wolves chasing stags, winter trees cloaked in white, the great Wall looming in the far-off frost.

Her bed was piled high with grey furs—some thick and rough from northern elk, others softer, with the silvery sheen of mountain hare. Despite the weight of them, the North’s chill still crept in through the stone, curling beneath her dress and across her fingers.

A knock came at the door.

Soft at first, then firmer.

She rose with the dignity of a queen but carried no airs as she crossed the chamber. When she opened it, a man in Maester’s robes stood before her. He was younger than most she’d known, perhaps no more than his late thirties, though silver already touched the edges of his dark beard. His chain of office clinked softly as he bowed low.

“Your Grace,” he said, voice measured and respectful, “I bring word from Lord Stark. He bids you join him and his children for supper, if you are rested.”
Alysanne smiled graciously. “Tell Lord Stark I shall be honored to do so.”

The Maester bowed again and withdrew. The Queen turned back inside, calling to her handmaid to help her dress. She changed from her travel leathers into a new gown—thick velvet the color of dark wine, embroidered with silver thread in the pattern of stars, her cloak lined with gold liner.. Her silver-gold hair was brushed and braided into a crown about her head, set with a circlet of pale sapphires.
When she stepped out into the corridor, the fires in the sconces cast flickering shadows along the stone walls, and the castle was hushed but never still. The halls of Winterfell had a presence about them, as if the ancient stones whispered the voices of kings long dead.

She was guided down winding stairs and across the covered walk to the Great Hall.

The hall quieted as she entered.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was a vast cavern of cold stone, the very air heavy with age. Its long wooden tables stretched beneath towering beams blackened with soot and age, and iron chandeliers hung with unlit candles above them. At the end of the hall stood the high seat of the Kings in the North, carved from granite, its arms wrought with snarling direwolves that watched all who came before them.
Alysanne paused at the threshold.

The Stark family was already present—Alaric seated at the head, his children flanking him on either side. Torches in iron sconces and a roaring hearth gave the room it's only warmth, though the stones beneath her feet seemed to suck it away all the same. When they saw her enter, Alaric rose, followed dutifully by his children and those few retainers nearby. They bowed or curtsied with stiff but proper deference.

“Your Grace,” Lord Stark intoned.

“My lord,” she replied, nodding in return. “And thank you.”

She was escorted to a seat at Alaric’s right hand, opposite Torren, and as she settled into the wooden chair—carved, worn smooth with use—platters were brought forth by silent servants. The meal was plain but plentiful: roasted carrots and onions, stewed venison with dark bread, smoked fish wrapped in birch bark, and oatcakes sweetened with honey. There was no spiced duck, no lemoncakes, no Dornish wines. Instead, the cups were filled with a sour red vintage that bit at the back of the throat and left a dry burn, more useful for heat than for flavor.

Still, she smiled and drank, for the North offered what it had, and she had not come to judge its fare. Weymar sat closest to her and spent much of the meal attempting, with nervous earnestness, to strike up conversation. “Is it true, Your Grace,” he began at one point, eyes wide, “that dragons can see in the dark?”

Alysanne leaned toward him slightly, smiling gently. “Silverwing doesn’t seem to mind flying by moonlight. I’d say yes.”

The boy beamed at that, nearly spilling his wine in his excitement.

Torren, older and more composed, rolled his eyes and gave his brother a gentle shove. “He’s read every book on dragons twice over now. He’ll be asking to hatch one next.”

Alarra, nestled between the two, swatted Torren’s arm with a look of mock severity. “Let him ask what he likes. You just mock him because he’s curious.”

Torren grinned and leaned forward. “And you just like dragons because you think they’re beautiful—like fairy tales. You’d probably ask Her Grace if they cry silver tears and eat nothing but moonlight.”
Alysanne laughed, genuine this time. “If only. They cry fire and eat half a herd of goats if you’re not careful.”

Weymar’s laughter came out as a half-snort, half-choke, and he stammered through an apology, cheeks flushed red. Alarra was quick to pat his back, and even Torren cracked a smile. Lord Alaric remained quiet for much of the exchange, carving his venison and eating with the slow methodical rhythm of a man used to silence. But Alysanne saw the briefest flicker in his eyes—a glimmer of contentment, pride even—as he watched his children bicker and laugh.

Only once did he speak during the first course. “Weymar,” Alaric said, a single word of warning when his youngest was trying to tell the story of Maester being played a fool by Weymar during lessons.
The boy swallowed the rest of his story but grinned all the same. Alysanne only smiled into her wine.As the meal settled into a slower rhythm, Queen Alysanne found herself drawn into quiet conversation with young Lady Alarra Stark. The girl had shifted her seat subtly, inching closer to the Queen with each passing course, her eyes shining with curiosity.

“You’ve lived in King’s Landing your entire life, Your Grace?” she asked, breaking a moment of silence between spoonfuls of warm berry compote. “Is it true the Red Keep is as large as a mountain?”

Alysanne chuckled, dabbing her lips with a cloth. “It feels like one, especially when you’re late to a council meeting and must climb from the royal gardens to the Tower of the Hand.”

Alarra giggled softly. “And the people? I’ve read that there are more folk in King’s Landing than in all the North combined.”

“There are more than two hundred thousand, some say closer to three. The streets are never quiet, and the smells—” she made a face that made Alarra laugh again. “Well, some things are best left to the imagination.”

“So is it true,” Alarra asked with wide eyes and a knowing smile, “that the Queen’s apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast have a ceiling of carved gold? And that the walls are hung with tapestries from Valyria?”

Alysanne laughed, setting her cup down gently. “Not quite gold, but yes, the ceiling is beautifully carved. And there are tapestries, though many are so old no one remembers where they came from. But I confess I much prefer the ones in my solar—scenes of the Reach, a gift from the Redwynes.”

Alarra’s face lit up. “You’ve truly been everywhere, haven’t you? I’d love to see the capital one day. All the markets, and the Sept, and the dragons.”

At that, Alysanne gave a knowing smile. “Well, I brought one dragon with me.”

“Yes, but Silverwing is yours. A real queen’s dragon. I meant all of them—your children, too. How old are they now?” Her eyes gleamed with innocent curiosity. “You have… three, don’t you?”

Alysanne’s cheeks colored slightly as the talk turned to her family. “Yes. Daenerys is five now, all curls and stubborn will. Aemon is three, and already trying to be a knight, shadowing his father’s every step. And little Baelon...” She shook her head fondly. “He’s only a year old, but he already demands the world like it belongs to him.”

Alarra let out a delighted laugh. “They sound wonderful.”

“They’re loud, mischievous, and exhausting,” Alysanne replied with a soft chuckle, “but they’re mine. And I love them more than anything.”

Torren, seated across the table, smirked and leaned toward Alarra. “She sounds like Princess Daenerys. Loud, mischievous, exhausting…”

Alarra rolled her eyes and jabbed him with her elbow, though she was grinning. “Says the boy who once got stuck climbing over the kennels chasing a pup.”

“That was years ago,” Torren muttered, but he didn’t deny it.

Alysanne smiled at their teasing, charmed by their sibling bond.

“Mind my brother he’s more of a fool than a knight…Your children…” Alarra said, her expression soft with longing. “I would dearly love to meet them one day.”

“They’d be honored to meet with you I’m sure of it.,” Alysanne said with a gentle smile. “Someday, perhaps, when warmer winds carry us all further south.”

Then Alarra’s tone turned curious once more, if a touch more cautious.

“And the King?” she asked. “His Grace Jaehaerys? Will he be joining us soon?”

Alysanne hesitated just a breath too long before replying. “He was detained in King’s Landing, I’m afraid. Matters of trade with Tyrosh and Pentos. The disputes grow more tangled by the moon. He sends his regrets but he’ll join as soon as he can.”

The words were no sooner spoken than the warmth at the high table began to thin. A shadow crossed Lord Alaric’s face like a cloud before the moon, his mouth a tight line, his gaze fixed on the stone goblet in his hand. “Of course,” he said flatly, not looking up. “The South is always full of important matters.”

The silence that followed was brittle, the clatter of a servant clearing dishes seeming too loud. Alysanne turned her attention swiftly back to the children, shifting the tone.
She turned her eyes back to Alarra, gracefully changing the subject. “But enough of politics. I would much rather hear about the children of Winterfell. Do you have interests, Lady Alarra? Do you read? Or ride?”

Weymar straightened up as if called to battle. “I’m the fastest rider in Winterfell!” he declared with a mouth still sticky from honeyed chestnuts. “Ask Ser Gregor! He tried to race me to the Long Lake and I beat him.”

Torren rolled her eyes, laughing. “He’s twelve and barely sees over the saddle. Gregor let him win. And it wasn’t to Long Lake it was to the King Road.”

“Did not!” Weymar snapped, glaring.

Alysanne held back a chuckle, enjoying the familiar chaos of siblings. “And what of you, Lady Alarra?” she asked. “You strike me as someone with many talents.”

Alarra blushed slightly, brushing a strand of black hair behind her ear. “I keep the castle’s garden, Your Grace. Maester Edric says I have a healer’s touch. I also... I write stories. Though I never let anyone read them.”

“Stories?” Alysanne’s interest deepened. “Then you and I already have something in common. I used to write little tales to amuse my younger siblings and my children. Some were quite dreadful, I admit.”

Torren snorted. “Alarra’s stories always end with some dreamy knight rescuing a maiden from a tower.”

“Better than yours,” Alarra shot back. “Torren writes songs about himself.”

Weymar burst out laughing. “And sings them off-key!”

Torren groaned, though there was good humor behind it. “I’m the heir, I’ll have a bard soon enough.”

“Oh by the gods I wish to not listen about our “Great Warden Torren of how he slew leafs from trees.” Alarra mocked.

Alysanne leaned back, smiling into her goblet as the warmth returned to the table like a fire stoked anew. The laughter of the Stark children echoed softly in the Great Hall, dancing beneath the high rafters like a song that had long gone unsung. In that moment, the cold seemed less biting. The stone walls less stern. She stole a glance toward Alaric, hoping her presence here—her laughter with his children—might soften whatever displeasure sat in his heart. But the Lord of Winterfell had turned his eyes away, staring into the fire as though searching for something in its depths. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms sipped her wine once more.

Chapter Text

The cold bit sharper at night. Not with the cruelty of a storm, but with the slow, creeping persistence of the North—the kind of chill that settled deep into your bones, even beneath fur and leather. It did not howl or lash, but lingered, like a memory you could never quite be free of. Alaric walked beside his daughter beneath the pale stars, their boots crunching softly over frost-stiffened earth. The night air carried the faint scent of smoke and pine, and every breath rose white between them like ghost-sighs. The silence was not total; a raven croaked somewhere on the rookery tower, and the wind stirred the old banners that hung limp above the gates. The torches flared on the walls, casting long shadows across the courtyard of Winterfell. Above them, the carved stone direwolves loomed watchful from the battlements, as they always had.

Alarra said nothing, her face half-lit and solemn, the flicker of the flames mirrored in her eyes. She was tall for her age, lean like her mother had been, with that quiet alertness that reminded him far too often of the dead.

She clasped her hands before her, gloved fingers twisting in thought. Alaric could tell she wanted to speak—her breath hitched like it always did when questions clawed at the back of her throat—but the words lingered just out of reach, held back by either fear or stubbornness. Likely both. She was her father’s daughter, too.

“You’re quiet, little” he said finally, his voice low, rasping against the cold.

Alarra glanced at him, then back down at the frost underfoot. “I’m thinking.”

“That so?” He tried to keep the edge from his voice, but it frayed despite his best efforts. “Of court songs and dragon queens?”

“She’s much younger than I expected, Father,” Alarra said, her voice soft and thoughtful as they passed beneath a low arch of ice-rimmed stone. “And they she speaks like true queen; I thought Targaryen spoke in a more higher above tone”

“Hmp. They are not gods. The bleed the same as rest of us.” Alaric's grunt was noncommittal, but not dismissive.

“The fly on dragons' father if that's not some godly power than the Wall must be melting...Oh the queen she’s kind,” his daughter went on. “She is so brave coming this far all alone! I can’t believe it with my own eyes we have a queen under our roof!”

“Yes, it is our duty.” he spoke, glancing sidelong at her.

“Father a Targaryen has come North!..Though it’s sad for a mother to be away from her children. It must be hard… being so far away from them. Especially the king.”

“She must be stronger than she looks.” Alaric murmured, eyes scanning the black sky. No moon tonight. Just cold stars.
“She said she misses tucking them in every night and telling them stories,” Alarra added gently. “Her eldest is Daenerys, and she’ll be five soon.”

“She told you all that?” he asked, a little surprised.

“Father, you sat at the same dinner table as us, were you not paying any attention? It’s rude to ignore the queen.” Alarra smiled. “She’s much nicer than I assumed would be, Father. I thought queens would be proud, or stern, or… I don’t know. Not like her.”

Alaric didn’t reply. They were nearly to the stair that led to her chambers deep in Winterfell. Alarra paused and touched his arm, her hand small in its wool glove.

“Goodnight, Father.”

“Sleep well.” he said gruffly. She dipped into a small curtsy, then disappeared up the steps, her black hair a glimmer in the torchlight.

Alaric stood still for a moment, watching after her. Then he turned away—not toward his own rooms, but across the bailey toward the tall, round silhouette of the Library Tower.
He climbed the winding stairs slowly, hands tucked into his sleeves, his breath steaming. Inside, the air was thick with parchment and candle smoke, warm and close. The fire in the hearth had been kept low but steady, casting flickering light over the rows of ancient books. Leather bindings, gilt spines, vellum scrolls—half of them forgotten, some in tongues few now spoke.

Alaric pulled a chair beside the narrow window slit and sat without lighting another lamp. His eyes adjusted to the half-dark.

She’s nice, Father. Alarra’s voice echoed in his head.

Nice. Yes. Kind. Clever. Even graceful in a room full of men who barely wanted her there.

He’d expected a queen cloaked in southern vanity—perfumed and brittle and blind to the cold. But Alysanne Targaryen had come draped in dignity, not arrogance. She had laughed with his children, not looked down on them. She’d worn no crown, yet carried herself like one born to wear steel and silk alike.

And yet…

His hand curled into a loose fist.

Why isn’t her king here? Why did the Dragon of Westeros send his wife north alone, like a raven with a message? If this truly mattered—this so-called royal progress—why wasn’t Jaehaerys Targaryen the one walking his halls?

Alaric let out a breath through his nose. The fire cracked again. His gaze lifted to the bookshelves—thousands of words bound in leather and cloth. He found comfort here. His father had taught him to read in this room. His brother had loved the Library Tower more than the practice yard. Walton would’ve known what to say, Alaric thought bitterly. It should’ve been him. He would have been able to entertain the royal progress. Gods he dreaded this whole ordeal since a raven from the capital arrived at the moon's turn pass.

Walton had always been the talker, the one who smoothed tensions and soothed pride. A smile that most Stark men never had but his older brother had. Alaric had been the one with a sword in hand, the one with cold in his blood. But Walton died at the Wall fighting Night Watch deserter. So now the weight fell to him. Winterfell bows to no crown easily. The Starks new that better than anyone else. That had always been the way. And yet, here in grand halls of Winter a dragon queen by his fire, and he couldn’t help but feel like a bear shoved into a courtier’s doublet.

The room whispered with the soft hiss of pages settling in the warmth.

He leaned forward and pressed his palms together, forearms on his knees.

“She’s doing what she can,” he muttered to himself, “even if her king won’t.” Alaric’s eyes narrowed. The queen had come far, yes—but she had come with questions, intentions, and fire in her blood.
And he would meet her with the frost of the North.

Not out of malice—but duty.

He looked toward a dusty, untouched tome in the far shelf—Sword of War, bound in heavy leather, its spine worn with age. The book Walton loved most. He remembered his brother’s voice as clear as the first snow in winter.

“Know their words, Alaric. Know their words.” The Lord of Winterfell stood, his shadow long against the firelight. Tomorrow, he’d speak again with the queen. Not just as warden or host—but as a man trying to understand a woman sent to court the North. But tonight, he stood alone in a tower of books and ghosts, wishing his brother had lived long enough to take this burden. Alaric Stark left the Library Tower with the weight of Winterfell on his shoulders, and the stars still cold above.

Dawn broke slowly in the North, like a weary man rising from sleep. Pale gray seeped over the battlements, washing the stone in silver and blue, as soft frost shimmered on the rooftops of Winterfell. The air was crisp, the sky a canvas of steel, not yet touched by sun. Somewhere far off in the woods, a raven called once, sharp and lonesome. Lord Alaric Stark stood alone on the high stone porch overlooking the courtyard. The thick wolf-fur of his cloak stirred lightly in the breeze, fastened by a plain clasp at his collarbone. He didn’t move, only watched.

Below him, the yard was already stirring with life. His eldest, Torren, stood stripped to the waist, muscles taut as he circled the old master-at-arms, Ser Gregor Snow. Gregor moved with surprising speed for his age, his sword a blur of silver, but Torren matched him strike for strike. The boy was fast, proud, and not half as disciplined as Alaric would like. Still—there was fire in him.

"Step with your hips, not your shoulders," Gregor barked.

Torren snarled something inaudible and parried hard enough that steel rang across the yard. Closer to the covered corridor, little Weymar sat cross-legged on a stone bench, his woolen cloak haphazardly half-off his shoulders. He tugged at the Grand Maester’s robes, whining with all the force of a noble child frustrated by lessons.

“But why’s House Greyjoy’s motto not about the sea? It should say ‘We drown people’ or something. ‘We Do Not Sow’ doesn’t even make sense!”

Grand Maester Edric, a stout man with weary eyes and ink-stained fingers, let out a long, patient sigh. “Because, young lord, their words speak to defiance, to the ironborn way of life. They do not plant crops. They take what they need.”

Weymar scowled. “It’s still dumb.”

Alaric smirked faintly, then—his eyes caught motion. Beyond the training yard and garden path, two figures strolled slowly near the Godswood gate. Queen Alysanne and Alarra walked side by side, heads bent together in quiet conversation. The Queen had draped herself in her riding cloak, trimmed in white lining, though her Targaryen braid still shone like silver fire beneath her cloak. Alarra, smiling shyly, laughed at something the queen had said. Alysanne’s hand touched her arm gently, like a sister, not a monarch.

As they passed two posted guards, the men bowed their heads, hands resting on sword pommels. The Queen offered a brief nod in return, never breaking stride. She walks among them like she belongs, Alaric thought, not unkindly. That unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Alysanne was too graceful, too clever by half. She was warm, yes, but not soft. She saw more than she let on. He had witnessed it the night before—how she measured words, even as she laughed and drank. And now she had his daughter hanging on her every word. That, too, stirred something deep in him. Not fear, precisely. Wariness. The sort a man had watching a slow-forming storm on the horizon.

He folded his arms and watched longer.

“Should we ride out beyond the walls this afternoon?” he heard Alarra ask faintly from the yard below.

“If the weather holds,” the queen replied. “I’d love to see more of the North. Your land has a wild kind of beauty, the sort that breathes.” They turned toward the mews, where ravens croaked and stirred.

Even her tongue flatters like a blade sheathed in honey, Alaric thought grimly. Yet he did not move to interrupt them. He only stood there on the porch, high above the courtyard, as the sun at last touched the top of the Library Tower with its first golden brush. He let his eyes linger on his sons—the proud one, the difficult one—and then on his daughter and the dragon queen who now shared his halls. If only Walton were still alive, Alaric mused again. He’d charm the queen, talk the words I can’t. Gods, he’d probably be halfway to arranging a royal betrothal already.

“Well, well. There stands the mighty Lord of Winterfell, brooding like some statue of the First Men.” Lost in thought, Alaric barely noticed the sound of boots until a voice—familiar, amused, and rough as pine bark—cut through the morning air.

Alaric blinked once, turning to find Benjin Cerwyn, one of the few lords of the North he called friend. They had known one another since they were no younger than Weymar. Benjin approaching up the stone steps with his usual crooked smile. Snowflakes clung to his shoulders, half-melted from the heat of his breath. A sword hung low at his hip, casual for the man, though Alaric knew he'd not let it grow rusty.

“You planning to just glower over the courtyard all morning, or were you waiting for another dragon to fall out of the sky?” Benjin asked, eyes squinting up toward the thinning clouds.

Alaric gave him a flat look. “It was not the first dragon to grace Winterfell.”

Benjin raised a brow and gave a low chuckle. “You don’t say? So it wasn’t a grand arrival then, after all?”

“Aegon the Conqueror came twenty-five years ago,” Alaric said stiffly. “He was received by my grandfather Roderick Stark, who—unlike some—understood the difference between respect and spectacle.”

Benjin put a hand over his heart in mock-offense. “Gods preserve us, Alaric, how old are you again? Seventy-five? Were you serving drinks at that feast?”

“I was a babe,” Alaric said, unamused. “What do you want, Benjin?”

“Only to remind you that a queen is in your hall and half the lords of the North are already sharpening their manners. We should begin preparations for a proper lords’ feast. Word’s travel fast. They’ll want to see her with their own eyes.”

Alaric grunted at that, his jaw tight. “Let them.”
Benjin gave him a side glance. “They’ll expect more than glances across a yard. It’s not every day a dragonrider graces the North.”

“We host her. That’s all.”

Benjin sighed and shook his head. “You always did treat duty like armor. No wonder your bannermen think your halls have frozen over.”

Alaric turned away and started down the steps, his cloak flapping behind him like a direwolf’s tail. “Winter is Coming.” he answered harshly.

Benjin watched him go, his grin fading into something softer. “Starks and their bloody winter's snow will arrive in Dorne before winter comes.” he said under his breath, before following after. What either lord failed to see or knew was Alysanne herself was listening in on their conversation from below; her thoughts to them were unknown. But she still kept her attention on Lady alarra who was asking more questions.

The long table in the solar was scattered with parchments—some neatly rolled, others hastily opened and smudged with ink. A tall clay bottle of maester’s ink stood half-drained, its cork lying forgotten beside a dull-edged quill. Lord Alaric Stark sat hunched over the table, a sheaf in hand bearing the names of the Northern lords who had sent ravens with their intent to come. He rubbed at his temple with the heel of his hand, grumbling under his breath.

“House Glover brings thirty men… all need food, bedding, drink…” he muttered, the knuckles of his fingers whitening as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “And House Umber never travels light.” His tone darkened, as if the very thought weighed down the air. “I cannot have another Forrester and Whitehill brawl in the courtyard. I’ll pray they leave their daughters at home this time…”

He sighed through clenched teeth. "One wrong glance, one drunken boast, and the whole yard turns into a melee." More and more coin gone. More barrels tapped. More mouths to feed, more tempers to calm. And now—southern eyes watching, weighing, judging.

“The Southron queen brings a storm in her wake,” he murmured bitterly, the words half-whispered, as though afraid the shadows might carry them back to her ears. “And we’re the ones left standing in the cold rain.” The parchment before him blurred. He blinked hard, eyes aching from hours squinting by the flickering candlelight and the relentless scrawl of Maester Edric’s hand—small, neat, and maddening in its precision. The ink smudged at the edges from where he’d rubbed his temples too many times, his skin bearing the ghost of every tally and cost scrawled on that gods-damned parchment.

A gentle voice followed:
“May I come in, Lord Stark?”

Alaric stood at once. The Queen herself stood framed in the doorway, dressed not in court finery but a warm lined cloak of deep violet, her silver-blonde hair braided simply behind her shoulders. There was something striking about her—more than beauty, something regal yet warm, like dawnlight glinting off fresh snow.

“Of course, Your Grace,” he said, his voice stiffer than intended. He stepped back and gestured to the table. “Forgive the mess.”

“No need my lord, every time I see my husband his desk is overflowing with papers.” She stepped lightly into the room and approached the cluttered table, her eyes scanning the names and notes. “You’re preparing for the feast, I see,” she said with a slight smile while taking a seat near the table.

“It must be done,” Alaric replied gruffly. “The lords are riding to Winterfell, and I’d not have them whisper the Stark name has grown lax in its duties.”

“Duty,” Alysanne echoed, touching a finger lightly to one of the lists. “You Northerners always return to that word like a prayer.”

“We’re not given the luxury of much else,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “The North is hard. It remembers too”

Her laugh was soft but real, curling in the warm chamber air like a welcomed hearthfire. “Then I hope it remembers a queen who came in peace,” she said. “You’re doing a great deal. I wanted to thank you.”

He gave a stiff nod, saying nothing.

She looked up at him, searching his eyes. “I’ve found your daughter to be very kind. Thoughtful, too. She has her father’s eyes, I think, though not his walls.” Her voice came off with a tease and jesting smile. She added softly, “Your daughter speaks so fondly of you.”

At that, something in his rigid posture softened, if only slightly. He looked toward the fire, the shadows dancing on the old stones behind him.
“She’s a good girl,” he said gruffly. “Better than I deserve.”

Alysanne stepped nearer, her voice more gentle now. “She told me you taught her how to ride. And how to track. She said you once let her hold a bow taller than she was.”

“She hit a tree,” Alaric replied, faintly amused. “Then turned around and asked if the tree had been the target.”

Alysanne laughed. “She has spirit. That’s plain to see.”

There was a long pause, and then the queen spoke again—more solemn now. Something passed across his face then—tightness, but not anger. A flinch of something older. He stared past her for a moment, before she saw him sit down slowly and glance to the hearth.

“My only regret,” Alysanne said gently, “is that we never came earlier. I’m sorry I was never able to meet Lady Stark.”

The words seemed to strike a chord so deep he nearly forgot to breathe. Alaric went still, the mask dropping back into place. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, rougher.
“She was a Mormont, of Bear Isle. Not a lady by your lights, I’d wager. No embroidery or harp strings. But she once took an axe to a pack of wolves when she was twelve. Killed two. Made a cloak from their hides, wore it to our wedding.”

Alysanne blinked, surprised—but not disapproving. He went on.“She gave me two sons who swing swords like she once did… and a daughter sweet enough to make her brothers smile, even when the snows come early.” He paused. “She was…Harth in castle.”

“You misjudge me, Lord Stark,” Alysanne said, her voice warmer now. “She sounds like the very sort of woman I’d have wished to know. Fierce, proud… and loyal. No better match for a Stark, I think.”
Alaric’s brow twitched. Something behind his eyes flickered—regret, perhaps, or sorrow. Alaric looked at her then—really looked. The sharpness in his expression hadn’t left, but the frost seemed to thin, if only slightly.

“Aye,” he murmured. “You might’ve liked her.”

“She’d be proud of Alarra,” the queen added. “She carries herself like a young lady of the court but has the heart of a she-bear. I’ve seen it in her eyes.”

“I named our daughter Alarra for her mother’s sister. The girl… she has her smile, when she forgets to be afraid.” Alaric allowed himself a small breath. “Alarra is… her mother’s daughter,” he said. “And yet—she dreams of cities she’s never seen. Asks about courtly customs and songs I’ve never heard and of gods you do not belong in her thoughts. Your presence has stirred those questions again.”

“She deserves truth,” Alysanne said. “And the freedom to ask.”

“Freedom to ask? What do-…” Alaric stopped himself from speaking, she could see how he closed his eyes for a brief moment before taking a long and purposeful breath. His cold eyes reopened to the world and met hers.

He gave a slow nod, then stood again. “You should get some rest, Your Grace. These lords will want to be dazzled on the week, and they’ll watch your every word.” She gave soft smiled and turned toward the door. “Let them watch, Lord Stark. They might learn something.” Her hand gently patted his shoulder, a touch he was unpaired for, their eyes met for a moment before she turned head.

As she left, he returned to the table, but found he could not read the parchment. His eyes had drifted instead to the hearth, where the flames crackled quietly. He remembered her laugh, low and fierce, like a battle cry shared in private moments. Not the laugh of a southern lady, delicate and coy, but one born of salt and wind and hard-won joy. Her hair—brown as fresh-turned soil—had carried streaks of white even in her youth, as if the gods had marked her early for wisdom and worry alike. And the scar on her left cheek… a rough line carved by the tusk of a boar she’d felled to feed the keep in a bitter winter. He had kissed that scar once, and she had said, “It’s not the wound that weakens us, it’s the fear of being seen bleeding.”

He remembered her hands—gods, those hands. Fingers smudged with pitch and pine resin after hours spent teaching the boys to fletch arrows by firelight. Hands that had cradled steel and soot with equal ease, and had carried their daughter, Alarra, wrapped in furs and love, through the worst of the northern nights.

And of what she might have said now, seeing a queen of dragons walking the snowy stones of Winterfell.

“Lorenah what would you think of our Queen?” he muttered to himself, reaching again for the quill.

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered faintly through the high windows of the family solar, casting long golden beams across the ancient stone floor. The chamber, tucked between two towers of Winterfell, was warmer than most in the keep, its hearth fire crackling merrily and the walls hung with old, faded tapestries of wolves and weirwoods. Snow still clung to the ledges outside, slowly melting in rivulets down the glass panes.

Alarra Stark sat curled on a cushioned bench near the fire, sewing a new sleeve to one of Weymar’s tunics, her fingers nimble despite the thick wool. Across the room, her elder brother Torren leaned lazily against the arm of a carved oaken chair, sharpening his wits….Reality no he’s daydreaming. while Weymar sat on the floor, whacking a worn wooden sword against a fur-covered stool with great ceremony.

Alarra watched him fondly before speaking. “Father has been keeping himself more busy than usual.” Alarra said without looking up, threading a fresh length of grey thread into her needle.
Torren grunted. “He’s always busy.”

“No, I mean different. He’s talking more to other’s. Walking about. Even went up to the battlements before breakfast. That’s three times this week.”

Torren snorted. “That’s because he’s worried about the feast. We haven’t hosted anyone since… Since mother died. Not properly, anyway.”

They both fell for quite a moment. The cobblestone fireplace crunched softly. Alarra glanced sideways at her brother. “Do you think it’s because of the Queen? That she came alone?”

“Of course it is genius. What else could it be?” Torren said. “A Targaryen queen riding into Winterfell on a dragon. It’s not exactly a quiet visit.”

Alarra’s needle paused mid-stitch. “It is strange, isn’t it? I barely remember the last time we had a hall full of banners.”

“You were ten,” Torren replied. “The Karstark wedding. Mother was still with us then.”

There was a long moment of quiet. Alarra broke it, folding her hands in her lap and looking toward the window. “Do you think the Queen will stay long? She’s kind. And clever too. She said, "I ask more questions than a maester.”

“You do, maybe I’ll suggest to the king to allow women to become Maester’s. ” Torren said dryly, smirking.

Alarra nudged his boot with her foot. “I was thinking… if she likes me well enough, perhaps she might take me back south with her. As a lady-in-waiting. They do that, don’t they? Southern courts always have noble girls trailing about after queens.”

Torren burst into laughter, nearly dropping his hand on his stomach.“Father would never allow it,” Torren said, shaking his head. “He barely lets me ride to Barrowton alone, and I’m near full-grown.”

Alarra tilted her head. “Well, maybe you should come too. Find yourself a fine southern lady. Or I hear the girls in House Forrester and House Whitehill are still bickering over you.”

Torren groaned. “Gods. Don’t remind me. I think Lysa Forrester tried to poison Meira Whitehill’s tea.”

Alarra laughed. “That’s one way to win a suitor.”

Down on the furs, Weymar looked up from his play sword, his dark curls bouncing. “The Queen is really nice,” he said with childlike certainty. “She smiled at me yesterday and said my curls reminded her of her baby.”

Alarra softened. “That’s because they do. Little Aemon, she said. Only 3.”

“And her dragon is cool,” Weymar added, eyes going wide. “But Father won’t let me see it up close. He says Silverwing is too big and might eat me.”

Torren chuckled. “Wouldn’t put it past a dragon.”

“She wouldn’t!” Weymar said, offended. “And she’s the Queen’s friend.”

Alarra grinned and set her sewing aside. “I’ll ask the Queen if she might let you see her from the gatehouse. So long as you don’t try to poke her with that toy sword.”

“I won’t!” Weymar promised, puffing up with pride. They all looked at one another for a moment, a brief flicker of something rare and warm settling in the room—peace, even joy.

Then Torren gave a mock sigh. “Gods help us if the Queen stays longer…Father might go mad.”

Alarra laughed, rising to tousle Weymar’s hair. “Or grumbling less. I’d settle for that.”

The solar door creaked open, and the smell of parchment and herbal ink preceded the man who entered. Maester Edric, clad in his maester’s grey robes and the heavy chain of knowledge about his neck, walked with precise steps across the furs. He was a man in his middle years, with a hawkish nose and streaks of silver in his thinning brown hair, a man who had served House Stark since before Torren was born.

“Your lord father wishes you all to be prepared for the feast,” Edric said in his usual crisp and measured tone. “And I, it seems, have been given the unenviable task of ensuring you all behave as proper scions of House Stark.”

Weymar groaned from the rug, clutching his wooden sword. “Do I have to learn the mottos again?”

“Yes, Weymar,” the maester said firmly. “You will be seated near the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. You must be able to identify the houses that attend and speak with courtesy. No stories about your boogers this time.”

Torren snorted with laughter.

“Torren,” Edric said without missing a beat, “you will sit to the Queen’s left. Your father expects a show of proper courtesy, not your slight jest. Though I imagine your glances might be mistaken for nobility if you try hard enough.”

Torren rolled his eyes. “My humor is the best feature.”

“I’d say let Torren be the fool court for the Queen.” Alarra, already brushing down her skirts and adjusting her sash, stepped forward.

“Oh shut it, you enjoy my humor!”

Alarra paid no mind to her brother's counter and answered back into topic. “Maester Edric, which houses will attend, Maester?”

“Several of the high Northern houses have sent word. House Dustin. The Umbers of Last Hearth, the Karstarks, Hornwoods, Glover, and Boltons, as well as a few lesser bannermen your father has not hosted in some time.”

He shuffled his parchments. “Lord Harlon Mormont is coming from Bear Island as well. Likely to see your father.”
Alarra blinked. “Our uncle.”

“Aye and your aunt as well,” said Edric. “And you, Lady Alarra, I have no fear you’ll be on your best behavior. The Queen has asked for your presence.”

“She did?” Alarra’s face lit up, brushing away surprise with practiced grace.

“She awaits you in her chamber. You’re dismissed, the rest of you, study your house words before supper.”

Weymar pouted. “Even House Bolton?”

“Especially House Bolton,” the maester muttered.

Alarra walked the keep’s upper passageways briskly, breath fogging slightly in the colder corridors. She found the Queen where Edric had said she would be—in a sunlit chamber with a narrow window, seated beneath a thick tapestry of a weirwood tree. A small iron brazier crackled near her feet, and in her lap sat an open book, her pale fingers gently turning a yellowed page.

“Your Grace?” Alarra asked gently.
Alysanne Targaryen looked up from the book with a soft smile. Her hair was plaited back into a modest braid, and she wore a gown of soft grey and pale blue trimmed with silver thread.

“Come in, Alarra,” she said warmly, closing the book halfway. “I hope I didn’t pull you from anything too exciting?”

“Only the maester’s lessons on proper table seating,” Alarra replied with a small smile.

Alysanne laughed, a gentle, melodic sound. “A worthy sacrifice, then.”

Alarra stepped closer and glanced down at the book resting on the Queen’s lap. She read the faded words etched in flowing script: The Faith of the Seven. “Is that… is that yours?” she asked curiously.

The Queen nodded. “One of the first gifts I received as a child from my septa. It’s been with me ever since.”
Alarra tilted her head. “Is it your favorite?”

“I wouldn’t call it a favorite,” Alysanne said softly, brushing the edge of the page. “But it’s comforting. The words of the Seven remind me of home, of my mother, of times when the world was simpler. Or when I needed it to feel simple.”

Alarra folded her hands in front of her. “Do you still believe in it? The Seven, I mean?”

Alysanne’s eyes met hers thoughtfully. “I do. I believe in wisdom, in mercy, in strength. And I believe they live in people more than statues.”

Alarra smiled, a spark of understanding passing between them. “Thank you,” the girl said quietly. “For asking for me.”

“You’re a bright young lady, Alarra. I wanted to know you better. You remind me of someone I once knew at court.”

“Do you think,” Alarra hesitated, then found her courage, “do you think someone like me could belong at court?”

Alysanne’s smile widened with gentle confidence. “I think someone like you could thrive anywhere you choose to stand.”

The compliment made Alarra blush, Alysanne turned slightly, voice soft. “Your father mentioned your mother yesterday, but he didn’t speak much more. Would you… tell me more of her?”
Alarra looked down for a moment, fingers fidgeting in her lap. “She was a Mormont,” she said finally. “Not a lady like the songs speak of, but… she was fierce. Strong. She once punched a wall so hard it cracked. The whole solar shook.”

Alysanne blinked in surprise, then laughed gently. “Truly?”

“Yes,” Alarra smiled at the memory, wistful. “Torren had taken my doll and dropped it in the hearth. I cried. My mother said something in that Bear Island tongue and struck the stone like it had insulted her personally. Father said nothing… just watched. But he fixed the doll.”

The Queen watched her with a look of quiet affection. “She sounds like a woman with fire in her bones.”

“She was,” Alarra said softly. “More than me. I try to be like her. But it’s different now. Ever since she—” Her words faltered, eyes dropping.

Alysanne reached and gently placed her hand over the girl’s. “She would be proud of the woman you’re becoming.”

A silence passed between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Alysanne’s gaze drifted back to the book, and she said gently, “You seemed surprised to see me reading about the Seven. May I ask… what do you believe, Alarra?”

Alarra’s mouth tightened slightly, and she glanced toward the door as though making sure no one lingered in the corridor. “Truthfully, Your Grace… I don’t know, I was raised by Old Gods but sometimes they do not answer me when I ask.” Alysanne tilted her head.

“There is only one sept here and that down in White Harbor,” Alarra continued, “but most of us keep to the Old Gods. The trees. The gods with no faces and no names.”
“You do?” Alysanne asked, curious. “And do you follow them yourself?”

Alarra hesitated. “I think I… believe in something. The heart trees see things. Feel things. When you stand before one, there’s… a weight. A stillness. It’s like they remember things even the maesters forget.”

The Queen nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve felt that before. Once, long ago, when I passed through the godswood of the Eyrie. It frightened me more than it comforted me.”

Alarra gave her a small, almost conspiratorial smile. “Then you understand why most Northerners don’t take to the Seven.”

Alysanne let her fingers drift over the old leather binding of her book. “I understand. Belief is shaped by the land that raises you.”

“Father would disagree with you and Seven.” Alarra shifted uncomfortably, her fingers brushing the hem of her sleeve. “After the Faith Militant uprising was crushed in the South… trouble reached even here. Eight years ago.”

Alysanne tilted her head. “I know it was put down. Trouble all it was.”

“It wasn’t just trouble,” Alarra murmured, her voice dipping low. “A few old knights from the Watch — Southron men, mostly — began preaching the Seven from atop the Wall. They claimed the North was too pagan, too wild. That we were cursed because we refused to kneel to the Seven.” She paused to steady herself, drawing in a quiet breath. “When the raven came, Father said over seven hundred men of the Night's Watch had turned upon itself. Uncle Walton marched north to answer it. I was six, but I remember the shouting. Mother and Father stood in the middle of the hall, and her voice carried clear across the keep. She said, ‘One mistake, and I end up one of those widows. You’ll not leave me husbandless, nor our children fatherless.’” Alarra’s eyes dropped to her lap. “Father just said, ‘I have to do this.’ He rode the next morning.”

“I’ve never seen Mother so furious. She might’ve chased after him with her axe if she didn’t have Torren and me to mind.”

Alysanne gave a quiet smile. “She sounds more warrior than Lady.”

“She was,” Alarra said, her voice full of pride. “Father was gone nearly a month, and when he returned… Uncle Walton wasn’t with him.” She fell silent. The fire crackled softly behind them.

“Father doesn’t speak of it,” Alarra continued at last, her tone careful. “He won’t answer questions, not even from Maester Edric. Since then, he’s held a deep suspicion of Southern faith. He says little of it aloud, but I know he sees it as a danger — something foreign that took his brother and might take more.”

Alysanne’s face grew solemn. “A heavy price for peace.”

Alarra nodded, her gaze distant. Alarra lingered beside the Queen a little longer, sitting with hands folded in her lap while Queen Alysanne turned the pages of The Faith of the Seven. The Queen’s voice was warm, but softer now, touched by memory.

“You would find King’s Landing loud, I think,” Alysanne said with a knowing smile. “The city never sleeps. Bells toll at all hours. Children in the streets, men brawling over bad debts, nobles gossiping under silk awnings. But I believe you’d enjoy it all.”

Alarra tried to picture it—streets that bent like tangled thread, high walls of golden stone, and ships as far as the eye could see.
“Do you like it?” she asked.

The Queen hesitated. “It’s the heart of the realm. But hearts can be diseased, even as they keep the body alive. There’s beauty there, to be sure, and power. But the best parts of the city are the people who make it work—the healers, scribes, crafters, bakers.”

“Do you have ladies with you?” Alarra asked, shy now. “At court?”

“Several,” Alysanne said, her smile dimpling as she thought. “To name several, Lady Mallia, a wit sharper than any blade. And Elra, quiet as snowfall but sees everything. They’ve served me loyally. You’d like them.”

Alarra tucked a curl behind her ear. “Would they like me?”

Alysanne glanced at her then, thoughtfully. “They would admire you. You remind me of them when they were younger. The way you listen, and ask, and wonder.” She paused. “And that is rare in a court where most only wait to speak.”

Alarra smiled, her heart warm. The Queen always made her feel more like herself. When at last the queen returned to her reading, Alarra excused herself with a soft curtsy and slipped quietly from the chamber, her boots nearly silent against the woven rushes. The heavy oak door closed behind her with a muted thud, muffled by thick stone and distance. The air outside had turned colder still, the bite of it sharper than before. Dawn’s early gold had faded, swallowed by the pale, steel-grey of a cloud-choked sky. It was the color of old iron and forgotten oaths. Snowflakes drifted in lazy spirals, their silence a contrast to the quiet bustle below.

The courtyard pulsed with life—servants hauling buckets of snowmelt, their breath misting as they hurried between kitchens and wells. Stablehands brushed down shaggy garrons, their thick winter coats steaming from effort. From the lower yard came the rhythmic clang of swordplay, where her brother Torren still sparred with the sons of bannermen, steel ringing against steel like distant thunder.
But Alarra sought neither warmth nor kin.

She turned from the inner ward and made her way toward the old stairwell that led to the ramparts, climbing without hurry but with purpose. Her fingers brushed the familiar stone as she ascended, cool and worn smooth in places by generations of hands. Up and around she went, her steps sure and silent. The turns were muscle memory now—etched into her legs, her lungs, her soul.
At last she emerged atop Winterfell’s high battlements, where the wind greeted her like an old friend—cold and unrelenting. It tugged at her cloak and stirred her dark hair, flinging loose strands across her face as she stepped to the edge.

Below her, the North stretched wide and unknowable, ancient in its stillness. The treeless plains beyond the Winter Town lay cloaked in snow, a vast, pale sea broken only by the low shadows of ridges and wind-scoured stones. There was no gentleness in it, no warmth—but there was truth. A beauty that needed no flourish.
She wrapped her arms around herself, less against the cold and more against the weight in her chest.
This land was hers. Its silence, its stubbornness, its stern and shadowed grace. She had been raised in it, by it—by a father who carved his words from granite, and a mother whose hands had known both bowstring and bread.

And yet…

The Queen’s voice lingered still in her ears. So warm. So calm. Speaking of places Alarra had never seen, of tapestries woven with gold thread, of temples lit by colored glass, of libraries that smelled not of old furs and smoke, but parchment and lemon oil. Of questions, most of all. Questions she had long kept silent. Her fingers gripped the stone before her, rough and familiar. How far could questions carry a girl like her? And how much would they cost? And for the first time, she did not know which path was hers. Then, a shape stirred on the snow-dusted slope.

Alarra squinted.

There, stretched like a silver sail fallen from the sky, was the Queen’s dragon.

Silverwing.

The beast lay beside the outer wall, most of Winter Town folk have stayed clear from the beast. Her father ordered a small garrison of men to patrol around its nesting area to make sure no one would be daring or dumb to approach it. She saw her great wings tucked close, like the folds of a colossal cloak. Frost clung to her scaled flanks, steaming softly where her breath warmed the stone. Her long neck curved around a pile of something—something red. Alarra leaned forward, eyes narrowing her hands resting on the cold black stone of the wall to lean forward. The cold snow melted between her fingers.

Was it… a stag?

Its antlers were cracked, and its belly torn open, ribs glistening with dark wetness. The dragon tore into it lazily, tongue lolling and teeth clicking with soft, wet sounds. Crows circled overhead, crying but keeping their distance. A shiver ran down Alarra’s spine. It wasn’t fear—not quite. It was awe. The dragon's eye flicked up, golden and luminous, and Alarra stilled. For a heartbeat, she felt small—no, seen—as if the beast could peer into her soul, past bone and blood, and weigh her like a coin in its claws. But Silverwing only huffed once, low and smoky, then returned to her meal. Alarra exhaled, slow and quiet. She let go of the wall and allowed herself to step back while catching her breath.

"Cool," she whispered, echoing Weymar’s words.

A part of her wanted to go down—just a little closer—to see the curve of those claws, to trace the shimmer of wing-leather stretched like storm-silk between bone and flame. The dragon was beautiful in the way a thunderhead was beautiful: dark, immense, coiled with power barely held in check. It wasn’t fear that stopped her. Not exactly. It was the weight of watching eyes and the echo of her father’s voice in her mind.

Gods, her father would have a fit. He barely tolerated her questions about the Queen’s dragon, let alone the idea of her skulking down to stare it in the eye.
And Queen Alysanne? She wasn’t cruel, but there was something in her gaze—like she was always measuring the world, weighing it, even its smallest parts. What would she think of a northern girl with too much curiosity and not enough sense?

That would be a tale for the ages: the first Stark to be eaten by a dragon, and not even in battle—just a girl being nosy. Alarra stifled a grin. "Here lies Alarra Stark, bold and brilliant and cooked with a dash of ashwood. Too curious for her own good, and far too close to the teeth."

What would Torren say about that? No doubt he’d put it to song. Something half-mocking, half-fond, meant to make the great hall laugh while her ghost scowled from the rafters. "We all knew Alarra wouldn’t go out the simple way," he’d sing, plucking at his harp with callused fingers and that same crooked grin that always won him a second bowl of stew and a kiss from someone’s daughter.

Still… she lingered.

The wind tugged at her cloak like a child’s hand. Snow danced in the air, fine as flour, and somewhere below the dragon let out a low, grumbling huff. The scent of it—the beast—was carried up on the air: scorched stone, hot scale, and something darker. Blood. The chill of morning still clung to the stones when Alarra stirred from her bed. Pale light leaked through the narrow arrow slit in her chamber wall, casting long shadows over the fur-lined blankets and the carved chest at the foot of her bed. Somewhere beyond the walls, a raven cried, and the low murmur of Winterfell waking reached her ears—boots on stone, the creak of old doors, and the clatter of pots in the kitchens below.

She dressed quickly, tugging on a thick woolen tunic dyed the muted blue of House Stark, and lacing her dark hair into a simple braid. A silver wolf pin held her cloak fast at the shoulder. Her fingers hesitated a moment on it before she exhaled softly and turned to go.

The corridor was cold, even with the rushes beneath her boots. She passed two servants carrying kindling for the hall fires and nodded absently before descending the winding stair toward the Great Hall.
She found her brothers already at breakfast. Torren sat sprawled like a half-wild hound at the long trestle table, one elbow braced on the wood, tearing into a thick slice of meat with more enthusiasm than manners. A silver plate of fried bread and onions steamed beside him, nearly untouched. Weymar, younger and slimmer, perched across from him, stirring his porridge with lazy circles and humming to himself between bites. Alarra paused a moment in the doorway, the smells of salt pork, fresh bread, and smoke drawing her forward. The hearth roared at the far end of the hall, flames crackling high, chasing off the morning's chill. She stepped closer, the soles of her boots echoing faintly across the stone floor.

“Morning,” she said as she slid onto the bench beside Weymar.

Torren grunted something between a greeting and a growl, still chewing. A bit of grease clung to his lip.

“Where’s Father?” she asked, reaching for a wedge of apple from the nearby platter.

Torren shrugged without looking up. “Off brooding about coin spending somewhere, most likely.”

Alarra arched a brow. “That narrows it down.”

Torren smirked and bit into another hunk of meat, speaking around it. “Try the battlements, the godswood, or wherever father thinks the spot he stands in will give him answers.”
Weymar snorted into his porridge.

Alarra ignored them for a moment, slicing a bit of bread and laying cheese atop it. Then, after a breath, she asked, “And the Queen?”

Torren didn’t miss a beat. He waved his fork dramatically. “What am I—their master of whereabouts now?”

Weymar giggled, nearly choking on his oats.

Alarra rolled her eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Useless, the both of you.”

“Best get used to it,” Torren said, grinning wide now. “We’re Starks. Being cold, vague, and mildly unhelpful is in the blood.”

“Speak for yourself,” Weymar said, straightening a bit. “I plan to be very helpful when I’m Lord of Winterfell.”

Torren snorted. “You’ll be lucky if you’re lord of the chicken coop.”

Weymar puffed up in protest, and Alarra leaned back, chewing her bread slowly, letting their teasing wash over her. She can’t believe this is the family of the ancient thousands of years House Stark that are heir to Winterfell and Warden of the North. Only the gods know why this is but she can’t deny her elder brother she loves him dearly and thinks in a few more years he’ll be more mature…Hopefully.

Chapter Text

The fire crackled low in the hearth. Its light cast long shadows across the stone floor, flickering over the writing desk where Queen Alysanne sat wrapped in a robe of deep green velvet trimmed with ermine. Her quill scratched steadily against the parchment, the lines in her hand elegant and purposeful—but the words beneath them held weight. The morning sun had already crept up past dawn and to her surprise she had awoken before the stars in the night sky had vanished. Since starting her stay at Winterfell she had begun waking up earlier and earlier, she contemplated doing something about it but she took to using the time alone to write. She felt A letter stretched before her. The page bore the careful loops and flourishes of her script, yet she had paused twice now—once mid-sentence, once mid-thought.

She touched her quill to parchment again, rereading what she had written.

My love,

The North is a country apart. I had been told as much, but it is another thing to feel it—how the cold seems to press not only upon the flesh but the soul. Winterfell stands vast and grey against the snow, a fortress carved from the bones of the world. There is power here, old as the hills. Lord Alaric Stark is as Lord Theomore warned me. He is a hard man. There is little warmth in him, though he offers no insult. He is duty-bound, iron-willed, a man of stone. His hall is ruled more by silence than song.

But his children, my love...They are a joy. His daughter, Alarra, is clever and bright-eyed, inquisitive and kind. She listens as well as she speaks—a rare gift in any court. Her younger brother Weymar smiles at every dragon-shaped pastry in the kitchens and is forever pestering the Grand Maester with questions about banners and beasts. The heir, Torren,I believe you’d enjoy his company. He reminds me of you in your youth—stern, proud, but still touched by wonder when no one is looking.

I think often of our Daenerys, Aemon, and Bealon. I miss them more than words can hold. To be here, so far from them, is a quiet ache. Alarra reminds me of what our daughter might be in ten years—a young lady of strength and wisdom.

Until we see each other again you are in my thoughts along with our children. Please give them soft kisses on their heads for me, I will send gift from the North soon.

Till next, my Jaehaerys.

She paused, letting the ink dry as she gazed at the flames. Then she folded the parchment neatly, pressed her signet into the soft wax, and sealed the letter. When she rose, she summoned her maids and allowed them to help her into a new gown—thick velvet dyed the color of winter roses, with a bodice laced in silver thread and a cloak clasped at the throat with a dragon wrought in ivory and obsidian. Once ready, she stepped into the drafty corridor beyond her chambers, her boots thudding softly on the stone. Winterfell was alive now, in a way it had not been when she first arrived. Fires crackled in every hearth, smoke curling from the towers, and the sounds of voices—stable hands, guards, servants—echoed through the stone courtyards like breath in a long-slumbering beast. But there was no mistaking it: this was no court of southern splendor. The warmth here was functional, not lavish. Alive, yes—but only just.

It was life bound tightly to duty, to tradition, to the rigid expectations of what a Stark must be. Alysanne had seen the ledgers herself—the thin stack of parchment left open on Lord Alaric Stark’s desk when he had spoken to her late into the previous night. The ink was sharp and economical, like the man himself. Not a copper wasted without cause. Every tally, every coin, accounted for with a meticulous hand. There had been something telling in that—something stern, even proud.

She remembered how Lord Theomore had spoken of it, half in admiration, half in exasperation. “Our Warden of the North spends less coin with each passing year. I swear, if he could pay his men in silence and honor, he would.”

It was the Stark way, perhaps. Stark pride. Stark frugality. A house that endured, not by opulence, but by outlasting the cold of winter she only could guess. And yet Alysanne, ever the queen despite her claims otherwise, saw something else beneath the austerity—an opportunity to finally see past the wall Starks held in front of them. For what held firm for too long, unbending, might yet crack under the right weight. She made her way down narrow halls and broad stairwells, nodding to guards and servants alike. Smoke curled in the air from unseen hearths, and the scent of boiled oats and roasted venison hung low beneath the cold. Eventually, she came upon the Great Hall.

Massive doors of black oak stood open, and inside, the voice of Lord Stark echoed off ancient stone. Alaric Stark sat at his lord’s seat, flanked by his son Torren. Before them stood two men engaged in a bitter argument. She heard their voices from beyond the doors she walked passed.

“My timbermen were first to the grove, and I bloody well will not share the roof under some Forrester! ” Lord Whitehill barked.

“I had arrived with mine at Winterfell first! Your timbermen felled half the grove before mine even arrived, and the land is Forrester land by every old map from the Wall to Oldtown!” snapped Lord Forrester.

Alaric raised a hand to silence them, but the moment he turned his head slightly, he saw her. Queen Alysanne was now in clear view of all who stood in the great hall. Their voices were suddenly at and end, “Your Grace,” Alaric said curtly, rising. His son followed suit, as did the other lords after their eyes widened seeing the queen, their heads bowing stiffly.

“My lords. Lord Stark,” she replied with grace, then turned toward the bickering lords. “I hope I do not interrupt.”

“You are most welcome, may I present my vessels Lord Ragnar Forrester and Lord William Whitehill.” Alaric said, though his eyes were sharp. Lord Ragnar Forrester was tall and lean, wrapped in a cloak of rich green wool embroidered with ironwood leaves. Across from him stood Lord William Whitehill, shorter and heavyset, red-faced from shouting.

“Your grace is a sight for these eyes, it's an honor to meet the fair Queen.” Ragnar spoke with a soft, kind voice, his hand resting on his heart as he bowd.

William glared at Ragnar before returning his light blue eyes to the Queen. “Your grace welcome to the North we hope during your stay you visit Highpoint.”

She walked with calm poise until she stood near the gathering. Torren was quick to open his seat allowing the queen to take his spot. Once she sat fixing her dress her eyes rose to see the two lords.
“Thank you Torren and my Lords, it's an honor to meet the honored lords of the Wolfwoods..”

Her words made both lords blush red and quiet, from it sounded like a few minutes ago from shouting match you wouldn't believe the two lords were capable of being silent. Her eyes studied the two Northern lords curious of the men and how different one another looks. Ragnar Forrester was a tall and slender man, his frame wiry but upright. Draped across his shoulders was a magnificent cloak, masterfully embroidered with the Forrester sigil: a white ironwood tree on a black field, a sword nestled upright in the heart of its trunk. Beneath it, he wore a rich black tunic finely tailored to his narrow build, the fabric lined in white to echo his house colors. Upon his head sat a black hat adorned with a long, elegant feather, its tip curling slightly with the weight of it. In one hand he leaned lightly upon a cane of polished ironwood—its deep red grain catching the light like blood in the snow. Lord Ragnar's face was smooth and clean-shaven, his pale skin well-tended, almost fastidiously so. There was a cold precision to his grooming, a man who expected discipline from others because he demanded it of himself.

Looking on his left stood, Willam Whitehill, by contrast, was broader and heavier in build, with the deep chest and round belly of a man who enjoyed his comforts and did not shy from the feasting table. His thick indigo cloak—almost violet in certain light—was clasped across his broad shoulders, and bore the Whitehill sigil: a stark white pile inverted upon the blue, with an arch of silver, four-pointed stars resting above it like a crown of winter fire. Willam's face bore the shadow of a thick, dark stubble, more neglect than affectation, and his heavy brows formed a shaggy hedge above his small, observant eyes. There was little softness in his manner, despite his girth; he stood with the tense stillness of a man used to standing his ground.

“It seems tempers run high this morning. Mayhaps a listening ear would help still them?” There was a pause. Then Alaric inclined his head—only just.

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

Alysanne turned toward the lords. “Let us begin again, my lords. Lord Forrester, Lord Whitehill—if you please, tell me your grievances with civility, and I shall endeavor to hear you both.”
She listened attentively as both men laid out their claims, her expression one of careful consideration. She asked questions, probed gently into their histories, and spoke with enough grace to soothe even the stormiest mood.

As the talks continued, Alaric Stark watched from his chair, silent. She had taken over the room without force, only presence, and though she had not disrespected him, his jaw clenched tight.
Still, he said nothing. It was her way—to lead or what she believed it to be.

“…a coward’s trick, is what it was!” snarled Lord Ragnar, tall and sharp like a birch tree in winter, his pale beard quivering with each word. “My timbermen found Whitehill axes where none should’ve been—deep in my own groves!”

William Whitehill snorted, a thick man with a wine-splotched nose and a gut that strained against his belt. “Aye, your timbermen found axes, and mayhaps if they hadn’t wandered so far past your own lines they wouldn’t have gotten lost in the first place. Your trees grow like weeds, Forrester, and weeds have no claim.”

Lord Alaric sat between them, brooding and unmoving, fingers laced beneath his beard as he listened with the silence of winter ice. At his side, Torren Stark leaned against the stone dais, arms folded, watching like a bored cat.

Queen Alysanne stepped forward. “That is enough, my lords,” she said, her voice calm but edged with authority. “We are guests under the same roof. Let not your quarrel poison Winterfell’s hearth.”
Both men turned, bows hurried and clumsy, clearly unused to the presence of royalty. Forrester recovered first.

“Your Grace,” he said, his tone softening. “I mean no insult, but the Whitehills—”

“—have long pushed where lands they own,” Whitehill interrupted.

Alysanne raised her hand. “I did not come north to take sides in old feuds, but perhaps new eyes can offer new understanding. Let us speak plainly. How long has this boundary dispute lingered?”

“Since my grandsire’s day,” Forrester muttered.

“And will it still stand in your sons’ time?” Alysanne asked. “Or theirs after them? The North has enough hardship without kinsmen drawing blades over soil and bark.”

Neither man answered.

She turned to Lord Alaric then, but he offered no aid. His dark eyes met hers, unreadable. She could almost feel his disapproval curling beneath his skin. It was not her place to meddle, not without the King—yet he had said nothing. He would let her make the rope and see how tightly it bound.

Queen Alysanne did not falter. She folded her hands neatly her voice calm, carrying clearly through the long hall. “Tell me of these fields that cause such contention.”

There was a murmur among the gathered men, but Lord Alaric’s voice rose first—stern, clipped, and leaving no room for interruption.

“On the eastern plains of the Wolfwoods,” he said, “northwest of here. There’s a small river, fed by snowmelt from the foothills. A bridge crosses it—stone-laid and old. That bridge has long been used as a boundary between House Forrester’s holdings and those of House Whitehill.”

His eyes flicked pointedly to both minor lords standing just off the dais, as if daring them to argue. Neither did. Alysanne listened carefully. She remembered the lay of the land from her view atop Winterfell’s walls days before. Alarra had pointed toward those woods while they walked together along the battlements—her voice soft with memory, speaking of hunting trips and frostbit mornings.
The queen gave a small, polite nod to Alaric in acknowledgment, but his gaze had already turned back to the bickering lords, jaw set like iron.

Alysanne turned toward them.“Then I decree this,” she said, voice ringing clear. “Boundary stones shall be raised thirty feet east of the bridge—on solid, dry ground. Let that mark the new divide.”
A breath passed through the room. The two lords stiffened.

Lord Forrester’s ruddy face bloomed with color, veins twitching at his temple as if he might burst like a wineskin in summer. Lord Whitehill, by contrast, began to grin—tight-lipped and smug, as if he’d just won a wager he hadn’t made.

“Your Grace, you are most generous, I—” Whitehill began, stepping forward with a shallow bow.

“I am not finished, Lord Whitehill,” Alysanne interrupted, not unkindly, but firmly. The weight of a dragon queen’s voice underpinned her words.
Whitehill froze, retreating a half-step.

Alysanne’s eyes moved to Lord Forrester. “The fields beyond the new boundary stone—the slope of the hill that overlooks the valley—shall henceforth belong to House Forrester. As compensation for surrendering the bridge and river access.”

Lord Whitehill’s smile crumbled as swiftly as fresh snow beneath hooves. His face returned to the neutral mask of a man too proud to complain, but not skilled enough to hide the sting.
Lord Forrester, for his part, exhaled slowly, regaining composure. He gave a stiff nod, his temper barely caged, but at least satisfied for now.

Alaric said nothing.

Alysanne turned slightly, casting a glance toward him. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone, but his fingers flexed once on the armrest of his chair. She recognized the tension there. He had allowed her judgment to stand, but it had not come easily. Not in front of his lords. Not in his hall.

Still, he gave no protest.

The matter was settled.

Ragnar smiled thinly and said, "My Queen, I hear your children are the fairest in all of Weteros, Your Grace. Perhaps your daughter would find the North to her liking—my son is nearly of her age."
William gave a short, barking laugh.

“Bah, your son’s about as sharp as a dull axe. My girl is prettier than your dull oak, and she’s better mannered too.” He grinned toward the high seat, emboldened.
“And I’ve a lad as well, just a few years Torren’s junior. Handsome enough, if you’ve a princess in need of a future knight.”

Alysanne’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. She smiled with the practiced grace of a woman who had heard such bartering a thousand times in a hundred halls. Her tone, when it came, was soft as falling snow—pleasant, unshaken, and clear. “My children are far too young to consider such matches,” she said gently. “But during the feast, I shall see to it that both of your daughters enjoy time with Torren. A dance, perhaps—or more, if the minstrels are kind.”

Torren shifted where he stood and let out a low, audible groan, dragging a hand down his face. “Gods help me,” he muttered under his breath.

From across the hall, seated further down near the serving tables, Alarra caught the sound and did not bother to hide her amusement. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand, eyes crinkling with restrained laughter. Her gaze flicked briefly to the Queen, who met it only for a moment—just long enough to share a quiet knowing. Lord Alaric Stark said nothing throughout the exchange. He remained still in his chair, jaw set, eyes half-lidded beneath the weight of age and expectation. Whether the Queen’s words had pleased or rankled him was not immediately clear—but the firm grip he kept on the carved arm of his chair said enough. As the murmurs died and the final scroll was sealed by Maester Edric, the two minor lords—Forrester and Whitehill—stepped back from the dais with stiff bows.
Neither man looked at the other. Not truly. There were polite words, nods, perhaps even the ghost of civility—but the grudges in their bloodlines would not be so easily buried beneath her judgment.

Their boots echoed on the wood floor as they turned and departed, cloaks swaying behind them, resentment following like a shadow. The doors closed behind them with a dull thud.
Queen Alysanne exhaled softly. The momentary triumph of diplomacy lingered like a wisp of smoke—vanishing quickly in the cold.

She slowly rose to her feet, her eyes settling on Lord Alaric, who remained seated in the high seat of Winterfell, one hand now steepled beneath his chin. “I hope the matter is settled to your satisfaction, my lord,” she said, her voice low but courteous.

Alaric didn’t look at her at first. When he did, the steel in his grey eyes was unmistakable. “You made your decree,” he said flatly. “The lords have no choice now but to abide.”

The words were technically agreement—but nothing in his tone held warmth.

Alysanne let the silence settle for a breath, the fire between them snapping in the hearth. Her posture remained composed. Regal. But she did not press further. Not here. Alaric’s grey eyes met hers, unreadable as ever. His fingers tapped once against the carved wood of the armrest, then stilled.

“There is little more to say, Your Grace,” he said, the words flat, clipped—but not cruel. “The lords have been heard.” He rose from his seat slowly, like a man who’d been seated longer than he’d liked, his cloak falling about his shoulders like a wolf’s shadow.

Before she could respond, the heavy doors of the hall groaned open again. This time, Lord Karstark of Karhold entered—tall and thick-shouldered, with snow still dusting the shoulders of his cloak. His beard was dark but streaked with white at the edges, and at his side walked two children—a boy of about twelve and a girl nearly Alarra’s age, with eyes bright and curious beneath her hood.

“My lord Stark,” Karstark greeted warmly, offering a short bow. “And Your Grace.” He bowed deeper for Alysanne, a hand pressed to his chest. “It is an honor. Karhold is proud to be summoned to Winterfell for such a gathering.”

Alaric rose with slow precision and descended from the dais, clasping Karstark’s forearm in a firm grip. “You are most welcome, Rickon. You’ve brought your kin, I see.”

“Yes, my son Raymund and my daughter Serra,” Lord Karstark said proudly, gesturing to each. “They’ve heard enough songs of dragons and queens. Now they’ll see one with their own eyes.”

Alysanne smiled at that, gracious as ever. “Then I shall endeavor not to disappoint.”

Young Harren gave a polite bow, though his eyes darted briefly to the sword at Torren’s hip. Serra, taller and surer, dipped a curtsy, her voice clear.
“I saw one dragon. Is the King here?” Lord Karstark asked, his voice gruff as the wind that rolled off the Last River.

Queen Alysanne turned toward him with calm poise, the soft shimmer of her gown catching the weak northern light. “He remains in the capital,” she replied smoothly, “but he sends his regards—and word that he shall join us as soon as matters of state permit.”

Lord Karstark gave a short, low grunt. “Hmph. Yes… the King must be very busy.” There was a note in his voice—not quite insolence, but near enough to chill the air further. His words were clipped, his tone cool, and though his gaze didn’t linger on the queen, his eyes found Alaric Stark across the courtyard.

They locked eyes. Karstark’s smile tugged wider, thin and knowing.

Whatever warmth might’ve existed in the moment vanished like breath in winter. The conversation moved on, quickly and without her. Lords muttered greetings to one another, furs shifted One spoke of early snowfall in the Dreadfort, another of Wildlings troubling east of Grey Hills. But Alysanne was left standing in place, her presence unacknowledged, as if she were no more than another gust of foreign wind stirring the northern air. She watched them carefully—the way they clustered around Alaric, not her. How their shoulders relaxed when speaking to one of their own. How their eyes no longer flicked up toward Silverwing roosting on the tower above, but instead toward the looming gates of Winterfell, waiting for the true king to arrive. Children glancing shyly at one another. Alaric’s voice threading through it all, firm and unmoved, while the Karstarks fell into familiar rhythms with Winterfell’s cold hall.

But Alysanne felt the shift—the subtle closing of the circle.

She had offered what courtesy demanded. She had spoken with grace. But this was not her table, nor her realm, and the longer she stood there, the more she felt herself becoming a foreign piece on an old wooden board where all the other pieces already knew the rules.

So she withdrew, quiet and unannounced.

Her slippered steps whispered down the stone corridors of Winterfell. She passed between two guards posted near the hearth alcove, their heads bowing deeply but their eyes tracking her all the same. She gave no sign of recognition, only a small nod as she walked on. Outside, the wind greeted her with its usual austerity—sharp and dry, cutting across the courtyard like a blade dulled only by the thickness of her cloak. Her breath clouded as she stepped into the open yard, the sky overhead a lid of dull slate. Snow flurries swirled, light as ash.

She paused at the edge of the steps, glancing across the grounds.

The courtyard bustled in its Northern way—low-voiced, practical, full of the sounds of metal against wood, hooves on packed snow, and the scrape of cartwheels. She watched a blacksmith hammer a horseshoe into shape while two squires from House Tallhart tried not to look at her too long. When they failed, they flushed red and dipped into awkward bows. Further along the wall, banners flapped from the ramparts—grey direwolf of Stark, the white sunburst of House Karstark, the tall pine of Glover, the roaring bear of Mormont, and others. Dozens had gathered for her progress. Dozens had come to see a queen and a dragon. Yet here she was, walking through them, and not one of her King’s Guard in sight.

Where are they? she thought, her eyes drifting beyond the yard to the towers. It’s been almost two weeks since we left White Harbor. She stepped down from the stairs, her boots pressing into the icy ground. Heads turned as she passed—servants, guardsmen, even a stableboy half-covered in hay. Most blinked at her with wide eyes before dropping into clumsy bows or stammered greetings. She offered faint smiles but did not linger.

At the main gate, she paused beneath the shadow of the watchtower, just short of where the great wooden doors stood reinforced with black iron. Beyond lay the open world of the North, snow and stone, and the long roads east and south.

A guard approached, tall and wrapped in a black cloak with a fur-lined helm. “Your Grace,” he said respectfully, stopping a few paces away. “Do you require anything? A message sent? A horse readied?”

Alysanne blinked, then glanced sideways toward the fields just beyond the gate, now thick with churned snow and wagon tracks. She looked back to him, her breath steady. “A warm fire would be nice,” she said with a faint smile, “and perhaps a kettle of mulled wine, if you have one hidden behind that sword.”

The guard blinked, straightened, and made to turn at once. “At once, Your Grace—”

Alysanne held up a hand, amused. “A jest, good ser. Nothing serious.”

The man hesitated, then smiled, sheepish. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I’m not used to queens who joke.”

“Nor are most,” she said softly, turning her gaze back toward the white horizon. She stood a moment longer, her cloak fluttering gently in the wind. People passed behind her—never too close—but always with eyes lingering a moment longer than was proper.

And she looked forward, toward the cold world ahead, and the slow distance forming behind her.

The crunch of a boot on snow broke her reverie.

Alysanne turned slightly—not enough to face him, but enough to glimpse his shadow cast long beside hers in the pale winter light.

Lord Alaric Stark.

He stood silently at her side, arms folded beneath the thick weight of his black wool cloak, the direwolf sigil at his shoulder dulled by frost. Snow clung to his boots and settled in the grooves of his brow, but he paid it no mind. His grey eyes, hard as northern granite, followed hers toward the road that wound through the trees like a scar. She found no warmth in his features, but neither scorn. Only thought. Calculation, perhaps.

Alysanne’s bearing remained still. Regal. Aloof. Her hands, encased in fine gloves stitched with silver thread, were folded before her like marble. She did not break the silence.
“Come to question my thoughts on early snow?” she asked at last, voice mild, yet laced with that court-born coolness that never dulled—even beneath the northern snow.

Alaric Stark stood a few paces away, his furs heavy, a pale wind stirring the gray in his beard. He didn’t smile. Not yet. “No,” he said simply. “I came to speak of your ruling. The matter between House Forrester and House Whitehill.”

Only then did she turn to look at him fully, her chin tilting ever so slightly, as if weighing a new piece upon a cyvasse board. Her eyes—those shrewd, Targaryen lilac eyes—did not blink.
“Wish to speak against my decree?” she echoed. “You did not seem to object earlier, when it counted.”

His gaze drifted to the hills beyond Winterfell’s walls, where pine trees stood dark and motionless beneath the pale weight of snow. “No man enjoys being overruled in his own hall,” he said at length.
“Least of all before the eyes of his bannermen. It shames more than pride, Your Grace. It undermines.”

Alysanne raised a brow, just so. “If you took issue with my words, you should have said so then. Why now in the yard like some brooding pup denied his supper.”

“You are my queen,” Alaric replied, his voice edged in frost. “Speaking against your judgment is as if near treasonous as questioning the King himself.”

She stepped forward then, the hem of her velvet cloak brushing against the old stone. “As if”, my lord,” she said coldly. “You know well that while my husband sits the Iron Throne, I wield power in his absence. I do not act without thought. Nor without right.”

He held her eyes now. “And I do not say you did. But when you pass judgment upon northern blood feuds—matters with deep roots and deeper wounds—you should do so with more than southern parchment and the counsel of courtiers.”

“This is far from the first blood feud I’ve been forced to step into. The wrath between the Blackwoods and Brackens burned hotter than any quarrel your minor lords have brought before me. Generations of hatred, with swords drawn at every harvest—and still, I did not flinch. I listened, I judged. Just as I have here.”

“Judged,” Alaric repeated, his breath misting in the cold air, grim and heavy. “And what rule of law do the Whitehills know? For a generation they’ve taken from the Forresters—land, timber, honor. Always inching, always grasping, and never held to account. You grant them a share of the woodlands, and mark my words—they will not stop. They will take your ruling as permission to press further, not a limit.”
Alysanne’s tone sharpened like drawn steel. “And if I had ruled in favor of the Forresters instead, would you now be standing here questioning me?”
Alaric hesitated for only a breath. Then, with the blunt honesty the North was known for: “No. I wouldn’t.”

His gaze met hers, steady and unflinching. “But that is the nature of men, Your Grace. We praise justice when it suits us, and curse it when it doesn’t. What feels fair depends far more on where one stands than what is right.”

Alysanne studied him, the faintest trace of breath escaping between her lips.

“You admit your bias, then,” she said.

“I admit my blood,” he replied.

Alysanne’s breath showed in the cold. She looked at him—not as queen to lord, but woman to man.

“I came north to bring the realm together, Lord Alaric. To remind your people that they are not forgotten. That the Targaryens do not rule only from a distance, but in person, with care.”

“And you have been received with honor,” Alaric said.

“And I do not forget duty,” she replied. “Which is why I do not regret the ruling.”

A pause fell between them. Then, softer:
“You are a proud man, Alaric Stark. But do not let that pride become a blade between us. If I am to bridge the realm, I need your trust, not your silence.”

He looked at her for a long moment, snow beginning to fall once more—light, like ash.

“You’ll have my loyalty,” he said finally. “But trust… trust is slower to earn.”

Alysanne gave a quick snark. “Then let us hope spring comes swiftly.”

Alaric was silent for a long moment, the wind threading through his hair like a whisper. When he spoke again, his voice had softened—not weak, but low and measured, as if he meant her to hear it alone.

“You are not what I expected,” he admitted.

“And what did you expect?” she asked, her tone curious now, tempered with a touch of challenge.

Alaric turned toward her at last, and she met the full weight of his gaze—steady, unreadable, and something more. Something is just beginning to thaw. There was something in his voice—quiet, not yet tender, but no longer so guarded. The distance between them shrank. Just an inch. But it felt wider than the winterroad, and narrower than a heartbeat. That earned a flicker of something from him. Not a smile. But close—a softening at the corners of his mouth, a shift in his stance, the first breath of something unspoken.

And then—like a thunderclap in still air—

“GATE OPENING! RIDERS FROM THE EAST!” came the shout from above.

The moment shattered. Iron groaned and chains rattled as Winterfell’s great gates creaked open. A gust of wind swept in, sharp as a blade, as hooves thundered against packed snow.
The riders came fast, snow-dusted and sharp-shouldered, cutting through the pale light like black arrows. At their head flew a banner—pink, and red, and horrible. A man flayed, skinless and upside down. The flesh-ribbons flapped like bloodied pennants in the wind.

The flayed man of House Bolton.

Alaric stiffened beside her. His breath left him in a slow, cold hiss. “They’re early,” he muttered, the chill in his voice no longer from the weather.
Alysanne’s eyes narrowed as she studied the riders.

Their leather was rough-polished and battle-worn. Their cloaks stiff with frost and travel grime. Some were young, with narrow jaws and hard eyes; others grizzled, their faces seamed by old scars. None bore smiles. None seemed pleased to be here.

The man at their head rode a tall, pale-colored courser. His pink cloak was lined with red wolf fur, clasped at the throat by a brooch shaped like a snarling flayed face. He reined in hard, snow kicking up around the horse’s hooves. He was quick to dismount followed by the rest of his company dipping his head—not low enough to be proper, but just enough to observe the fiction of respect.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice rasping like rawhide. “My Lord, sorry for my delay, the early spring snow caught us.”

Alysanne held his gaze with practiced stillness. She did not speak at once.

“Lord Karne Bolton, you are early if my time is right.” Alaric pointed out

Bolton only smiled—a thin, mirthless thing. “Your grace may I have the pleasure to introduce the delight of Dreadfort my daughter Reina Bolton. The girl who stepped forward looked barely of age—sixteen, perhaps seventeen, with pale milk-white skin that seemed untouched by sun or wind. Her cloak hung heavy around her narrow shoulders, and beneath its fur-lined hood, a face of quiet beauty was framed by ash-black hair bound in braids tight against her scalp.

It was her eyes that struck Alysanne.

One was a clear, icy blue. The other a shade of green so deep it looked nearly black in the shade. Reina Bolton lowered her head in a bow—low and proper, as custom demanded, but held just a second longer than most lords’ daughters would have dared.

“Your Grace,” she said softly, her voice carrying no tremor. “It is an honor.”

Alaric shifted beside her again. She felt his tension like a silent cord drawn taut. “And your company seems larger than expected,” he said, tone mild. “I was not informed of any others arriving from the east.”

“Indeed,” Karne said, gesturing toward the rear of his column. “We had... unexpected guests join us on the road.” Two more figures rode forward, both on lean destriers, their white cloaks trailing behind them—dirtied with road and snow, but unmistakable. The sun caught the polished steel of their armor, and their gilded helms shone faintly even under the gloom of the northern sky.

Kingsguard.

Alysanne blinked—then stepped forward as the first of them dismounted and removed his helm, revealing a familiar face. Ser Lorence Roxton square-jawed and dark-eyed, with a salt-and-pepper streak in his beard. Behind him, Jonquil Darke cloak her more white than she last saw.

“Your Grace,” Ser Lorence said, bowing deeply. “You’ve no idea how glad I am to see you alive and well.”

Her chest eased with relief she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Ser Lorence. Jonquil.” She stepped forward and placed a hand to her heart. “I feared the worst after the storm. You were separated?”

“Roads were treacherous,” Ser Jonquil said, her voice a little hoarse from the cold. “And the maps... less than accurate. We lost the main road, rode too far east, and came upon Lord Bolton’s company by sheer chance.”

“Though not before finding ourselves on the wrong end of a spear,” Ser Lorence added, glancing sidelong at Jonquil. “Your lord was cautious. As he should be.”

Lord Bolton dipped his head, unbothered. “These are strange days, Ser. One can’t be too careful with guests that appear out of the snow.”

“Be that as it may,” Alysanne said, her voice firm, “I’m grateful you took them in.”

She turned to the two knights, her posture easing just enough to show warmth. “It is good to have you back. Both of you.”

Ser Jonquil bowed again. “At your service, my lady. And until death.”

Chapter Text

Torchlight danced across the ancient stone walls, casting flickering shadows behind the mounted antlers, swords, and direwolf banners. The scent of roasted meat and honeyed root filled the air, clinging to fur cloaks and mingling with the sharper tang of spiced wine. Laughter rolled in waves, deeper near the ale barrels, thinner near the nobles. And above it all, the harp and pipes played soft under the murmur, strings trembling with songs older than memory.

His eyes scanned over the high table, his goblet half-full, the meat on his trencher torn in deliberate, careful bites. He chewed without tasting. His eyes were elsewhere—scanning the crowd, counting the banners, watching the men who watched his family. To his left, Alarra leaned forward, speaking quietly to Weymar, whose face was lit with boyish delight. She looked more Southern tonight, he thought—her hair neatly braided in Queen Alysanne’s style, her voice just a shade more careful. She didn’t even scowl when Weymar dropped a piece of fruit in his lap.

To his right and at the middle sat the Queen herself, poised and brilliant as ever. Her silver-gold hair shimmered like pale flame under the hall’s light, and her smile—always gracious, always measured—never quite reached her eyes. She was watching the hall, too, though not the same way he was. She was watching the people.

And on her left, seated in quiet, was his father. Lord Alaric Stark, who drank little, spoke less, and whose face might as well have been carved from the old stones of Winterfell. Every so often, Torren caught his father glancing across the hall to the Boltons, seated like coiled vipers among the gathered lords.

Torren took a slow drink of wine.

Alarra said nothing to that. She reached for a small loaf instead, tearing it apart slowly, as if lost in thought. Torren leaned back in his seat and looked down at the assembled hall. Lord Glover was already drunk, holding court with two of the Cerwyns. Lord Karstark at quieter, his daughter nowhere to be seen—perhaps with the Master-at-arms son. Near the hearth, younger squires and noble sons began forming the edges of a dance, the minstrels now playing lighter tunes. He was Lord Alaric’s son and heir. Every look, every nod, every awkward half-bow aimed his way meant something. Every word he said could be repeated a dozen times by dawn. It was like breathing through a helm—tight, heavy, and impossible to forget.

Then the Queen rose.

She did not raise her voice, but she didn’t need to. Her presence gathered the hall like wind before a snowstorm. “My lords. I am honored,” Alysanne said, “beyond words, to share meat and mead with so many loyal bannermen of the North. In a hall so storied, and among hearts so steadfast, I find myself humbled. My thanks, for your welcome-Lord Theomore Manderly spoke true about Northern hospitality.”

The crowd murmured, hands thudding gently on tables. Alarra smiled faintly. Weymar clapped three times, unsure if it was right. Even Lord Alaric nodded once.
Torren took a drink, letting the warmth chase some of the tension from his shoulders.

Then he saw them.

Two girls seated at a lower table—one with auburn curls pinned tightly back, in the forest-green colors of House Forrester, and the other, blonde, pale as snow, with the silver-threaded gown of House Whitehill. Both were chatting with the daughters of House Cerwyn and Hornwood, but every now and then their eyes drifted—to him.

Torren slouched immediately.

Old and New Gods help me.

As if summoned by instinct, Alarra leaned in, eyes sparkling.

“They’re looking at you,” she whispered. “Probably fighting over who gets the first dance.”

Torren sighed through his nose. “Maybe they’ll fight to the death. That would spare me.”

“Oh what happened to my oh so confident brother? Be brave, I can have my dear friend Serena Hornwood take you by the hand.” she teased.

Before he could retort, he felt it—the slight shift of his father’s gaze. Lord Alaric turned his head just enough. No word passed his lips. None were needed.

Torren swallowed.

He stood.

The bench creaked as he rose, drawing the eyes of nearby guests. His feet felt too loud, his shoulders too wide, and his stomach too hollow. He walked down from the dais into the open floor of the hall, where the minstrels struck up a gentler tune—one meant for dancing.

He hated this part.

Not swords.

Not duty.

This.

He moved toward the gathering of young ladies like a man walking to the executioner’s block. Ever since reaching manhood—and with no shortage of Northern lords eager to see their daughters matched to a Stark—Torren had been hounded by letters, glances, and whispered schemes. It had become a sport, he swore. Courting him wasn’t romance—it was warfare in silk. At this rate, he often threatened to forsake it all and ride for the Wall, take the black, and live out his days in peace among crows. But then what? Leave Winterfell to his little brother Weymar? Seven hells, he’d mutter, only when the Wall melts and Dorne bends the knee without a fight.

With a practiced bow and the stiff formality drilled into him by his Maester —and his mother before she died—he extended a hand toward the auburn-haired Forrester girl first.
“My lady,” he said, voice calm though his gut churned, “would you grant me this dance?”

The Forrester girl’s hand was delicate in his, her gloves fine-spun and soft. Her name—Sylana, he thought—had been whispered to him before the feast by Queen Alysanne, he had overheard a brief comment by Queen to his father of marriage proposal between of the daughters but as usual his father was quick one word answer "no" in truth Torren was thankful he had no interests in marrying into that rivalry. but out of repect and Queen request he dance with lady of the houses, he already it felt as though it belonged to someone else. Someone more at ease than either of them. She was blushing furiously, her cheeks pink as northern apples, her eyes wide as she tried to hold his gaze and avoid it at the same time.

“I-I didn’t think you would ask me first,” she stammered as he led her into the gentle rhythm of the dance. “Not that… not that I mind, my lord. I mean—Torren. I mean—your lordship.”

Torren gave a strained smile, trying to seem older than he felt. “Just Torren’s fine. I’m not a Maester’s scroll.”

She gave a high little laugh—half nerves, half relief—and nearly stepped on the hem of her gown. Torren steadied her with a gentle hand on her back, and she flushed even deeper, eyes darting.
They turned slowly through the hall, just two figures in the soft hum of music and firelight. From the high table, Torren saw Alarra watching them, biting her lip so hard to stifle a giggle that her shoulders shook. She lifted her cup and gave him a mock salute, eyes twinkling with unholy glee. Beside her, Queen Alysanne sat with one hand wrapped around a silver goblet, her expression warm—amused, even—as she watched the heir of Winterfell struggle through the dance as if he were walking on ice.

And just beyond them, at a lower table near the end of the hall, he saw her.

The Whitehill girl.

She was sitting stiff-backed, a goblet untouched in front of her, her face flushed—not with wine, but with barefaced jealousy. Her pale fingers tapped lightly at the table’s edge, eyes narrowed just enough to betray her thoughts. When Torren met her gaze, she looked away immediately—too late to pretend it hadn’t happened.

He swallowed.

New and Old above, he thought, what did I do to deserve being the spoils of petty house squabbles?

Sylana Forrester leaned in just enough to whisper, her voice faint and trembling. “You dance better than I imagined.”

Torren blinked. “Is that a compliment or did you just dare to insult me?”

She flushed again. “Yes! Wait no, no, no I just—I mean you seem so serious, my lord—I mean, Torren—and you look like you hate dancing.”

"I...I was only jesting my lady."

The admission made her laugh again, this time more genuinely, and for a moment, the stiffness between them eased. The dance drew to a gentle close, the minstrels letting the final notes linger like drifting snowflakes. Sylana Forrester dipped in a small, awkward curtsy, her face still warm with color. Torren bowed in return, ready—eager, even—to retreat to his cup or the quiet shadows beyond the firelight, where he could nurse his pride in peace. The music still lingered in the air like smoke, but the warmth in his limbs was cooling fast.

He had just turned away when a soft hand brushed the back of his cloak, fingers lingering—not by accident, but with clear intention. The touch was featherlight, but it landed like a thrown gauntlet.

“Leaving so soon?” came a voice—low, smooth, and laced with mischief and memory.

He froze.

Turning, he found her.

Reina Bolton, stood before him in a pink gown of deep crimson silk trimmed in dyed wolf-fur, the color of blood cooling in snow. Her black hair, darker than flame but bright as coals, was bound in an intricate braided crown that gleamed beneath the hall’s torchlight. She smiled like a cat who’d just found a bird with a broken wing.

“My lady,” Torren said stiffly, dipping his head in guarded politeness. But before he could add anything more, her gloved fingers slid down his arm, coaxing his hand into hers once again.

“Oh no,” she purred. “Don’t ‘my lady’ me. Not after all the letters you forgot to send.”

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a tilt of her head and a sly look. “When was it we last spoke? Three moons ago?” she asked, lips curving into a mock pout. “What was it you used to call me… or was it what I called you?” Her eyes sparkled like garnets caught in candlelight. “Ah yes. My little snowfang.”

Torren’s face went redder than the wine in his cup. “I don’t—uh—I wouldn’t—”

Reina laughed, a soft, throaty sound that turned a few curious heads from the nearby tables. It wasn’t shrill, like a court lady’s laughter, nor cruel—it was richer than either, and it wrapped around him like a noose made of silk. “Gods, Torren. You really are still sweet under all that Stark frost.”

She pulled him back into the rhythm of the next slow melody, her hand light on his shoulder, his resting awkwardly on her waist. The fabric of her gown was slick and cold beneath his fingers, like ice-slick silk left out beneath a winter moon.

“You’ve grown,” she noted lightly as they circled. “Taller. Broader. Still terrible at letters, though.”

He exhaled through his nose. “The ravens fly south faster than I can write.”

“How convenient.” Her voice dipped in mockery. “And yet, you danced with that Forrester girl well enough. Twice, I saw.”

“She asked.”

Reina arched a single eyebrow. “Did she now?”

He didn’t answer. The heat in his cheeks did that for him. Her attention drifted over his shoulder, toward the high table where Queen Alysanne now sat speaking softly with Lord Glover, their expressions intent. Silverwing’s rider—mother of heirs, queen of queens. Reina’s voice dropped to a murmur.

“Quite the guest you have. What’s it like, sharing a roof with the Dragon Queen? Dose she snores fire? Does she take breakfast atop her beast?”

Torren fought not to smile. “She’s… graceful. And sharp. She listens and she speaks wisely.”

Reina’s brows rose with theatrical interest. “Mm. Careful, Stark. You sound almost enchanted.”

“I respect her,” he said quickly, too quickly.

She chuckled, low and pleased. “I'd hope so. Be a shame if you only saved that for southern ladies.”

Their steps turned sharper as the tune deepened. Torches flared along the pillars, casting wild shadows across the stone floor. The ruby pins in her bodice caught the light, winking like small, watchful eyes. He risked a glance toward the high table. Alarra’s brows were raised in clear amusement, her mouth twitching. Weymar looked baffled. And his father… his father watched, unmoving, his expression unreadable.

Torren’s thoughts raced faster than his feet. What did Reina want? What game was she playing? And why now? The dance softened again, the music shifting like the tide, slower and softer. Reina moved as if born to such transitions, every step and sway deliberate. “Your footwork’s improved,” she murmured near his ear, the warmth of her breath sending a shiver along his neck. “You didn’t trample me once this time.”

Torren chuckled, quiet and genuine. “I’ve had practice.”

“I noticed. The Forrester girl looked like she might faint in your arms.”

“She nearly did,” he said dryly.

Reina’s lips curled into something sly and knowing. “Perhaps she thought you’d sweep her off her feet like the Stark Kings of old—ice-eyed and solemn, carrying her away into snow and steal her maidenhood.”

Torren exhaled sharply, eyes rolling as he adjusted his hold on her waist. “She can keep the snow please and the crown. And are you jealous now? I didn’t think Boltons were capable of emotions beyond smiling while flaying their enemies.”

She gasped, hand to chest in mock offense. “My lord! For your information, my house hasn't flayed anyone in... oh, a few thousand years.” Her voice dropped low as she leaned in, her breath brushing his ear. “And if I ever felt jealous over a girl, believe me—my blades would speak long before my heart ever did.”

Torren's grip tightened slightly on her back as she leaned away again, spinning with ease, her long hair spilling over her shoulder like a dark silk banner. She let it fall just enough, a calculated move, before tilting her chin up and rejoining the rhythm of the dance. He narrowed his eyes with a half-smile, half-sigh, “I’ll count myself lucky,” he muttered, “so long as I don’t wake up with one of those skins as a blanket”

Reina arched a brow. “Then don’t give me a reason.”

They turned beneath the flickering glow of a hundred candles, brushing near the lower tables where noble daughters sat watching like perched falcons—some whispering, some glaring, others already composing imagined futures in their minds.

And then it came.

A voice—soft, but sharp as frostbitten steel, laced with venom behind silk. “I hear by rumor Reina is o true Bolton but a bastard Snow, playing dress-up as a lord’s daughter.” The words sliced the air clean—precise, cruel, and practiced for maximum damage. Reina faltered. Just barely. But Torren felt it. The slight hitch in her step. The faint, instinctive clench of her fingers in his. Her spine straightened like a drawn bow, as if willing herself not to break beneath the weight of that single sentence.

He turned—slowly, calmly—but just enough to see where the poison had come from.

The Whitehill girl. Sitting beside her cousin like a queen of snakes, her golden hair coiled into perfect, glinting rings. A glass of Arbor Red dangled from delicate fingers, untouched, gleaming like fresh blood. She didn’t look their way. She didn’t have to. Her stillness was too composed, too immaculate to be innocent. But the slight curl at the corner of her mouth betrayed everything.

She wanted the cut to land.

And it had.

Reina’s hand slid from his shoulder—careful, graceful, like she was afraid any sudden movement might betray how deep the blade had gone. She took a half-step back, not quite retreating, but pulling away from him all the same.

“I think,” she said, her voice flat and distant as wind over a frozen lake, “that I’ve imposed enough.”

“No.” Torren stepped forward, too fast, too late. “You haven’t.”

But she laughed—a brittle, beautiful thing that cracked like thin ice underfoot. It didn’t reach her eyes.

“No, my apologies my 'lord” she said quietly. “I’m used to it.”

Before he could speak, before he could say anything that mattered, she turned. Her chin lifted with the precision of a practiced retreat. Pride stitched into every thread of her composure. She didn’t glance at the Whitehill girl. She didn’t glance at him. She simply walked—no, glided—back into the crowd, her gown trailing behind her like a bleeding sunset swallowed by dusk. Torren stood there, fists clenched, jaw tight, heart pounding louder than the music.

He didn’t know if he wanted to chase after her… or rip down the Whitehill banners and set the whole godsdamned table on fire. Instead, with the music fading into a slower, softer air, he turned and made his way back toward the high table. Every step felt heavier, slower—as if the weight of eyes on his back had turned to stone.

“My lord, I see your hand is free,” came the honeyed voice, sharp as chilled wine. “Might I show you what House Whitehill can offer—something finer than this sad little lot? I promise, I’m not nearly as stiff as that oak tree the Forresters call home.”

Lady Elissa Whitehill stood before him, her gown a sweeping cascade of white piled over indigo, the arch of four-pointed stars embroidered across her bodice catching the torchlight like ice. Her hands, delicate but firm, pressed against his shoulder with an unmistakable intent—guiding, coaxing, not requesting but claiming. There was pressure behind that touch, more than she let on. Not enough to bruise—but enough to warn. To shove her hand away would’ve been simple. But insulting the daughter of House Whitehill before the eyes of half the North? That wasn’t just a snub. That was how feuds started.

Before he could speak, a voice cut through the tension like a blade.

“Torren!” Alarra called brightly, loud enough for all nearby tables to hear. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Lady Elissa—but the Queen wishes to speak with my brother!”

Relief bloomed like spring melt behind his ribs. Torren gave a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, stepping back with a bow that was stiff but serviceable. Just enough not to be scandalous.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lady—duty calls.” He didn’t wait for her reply. Didn’t give her the chance to throw another barb wrapped in silk. He pivoted like a soldier on command and made his retreat toward the high table. A heartbeat later, he slid into the seat beside Alarra.

“Remind me to buy you something expensive,” he muttered, still catching his breath.

She only sipped her wine and smirked. “Well, you owe me” she said immediately, watching him over the rim of her goblet. “Dancing with Reina Bolton I wish to know more.”

Torren rolled his eyes and grabbed his goblet. “Just dancing.”

“Mmhm,” she said, not buying a word of it. “Father wasn't please...I'm sure you saw."

"I could feel his eyes burn through my skull."

The music played on, but for Torren, the warmth of the hall had cooled. Before he could speak his eyes spotted a figure in blue and red approached the high table.
It was Joran Glover, youngest son of Lord Glover, no more than seventeen and flushed with the kind of boldness only youth and wine could conjure. But beneath his youthful bravado lay a loyalty as steady and true as the ancient trees of the Wolfswood.

Joran was more than just a friend to Torren—he was the closest thing to a brother he had. Their friendship stretched back nearly a lifetime, forged in the wilds of the Wolfswood where they had hunted side by side since they were boys chasing deer and dreams beneath the canopy of towering oaks and whispering pines. He stepped in front of Alarra and gave a respectable bow. Joran caught Torren’s eye across the hall and grinned, a mischievous spark lighting up his face. “You planning to keep all the fun to yourself tonight, Stark? Or will you let a friend steal a dance or two?”

Torren smirked, shoulders relaxing. “If you manage to keep your feet under you, maybe I’ll consider it. Never took you to be the bold one to fight here and now in court. Wishing to be humiliated in front of the Queen?”

laughed, unapologetic. “I prefer to think I added some excitement. But no. I wish to steal your sister's hand for a dance.”

The two Stark’s eyes widened in unison, each stealing a glance at the other before turning back to Joran.

Torren’s surprise was deeper than he expected—had Joran truly meant what he just said? Could he be serious? The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Joran had never once mentioned this side of his feelings—never spoken aloud about his younger sister in any way. And Torren himself had never seriously thought to consider his friend was ever going to pursue her. Now, confronted with Joran’s ask, the familiar dance of friendship shifted subtly, catching Torren off guard. For a moment, Torren’s mind raced with questions. Was this a test? A confession?

“My lady,” he said, clearing his throat once. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”

Alarra blinked. Once. Twice. The flush rising in her cheeks could’ve warmed the whole North. She glanced wildly at Torren, then back to Joran. “I—I—yes. Yes, of course.”

She rose so quickly her goblet nearly toppled. Torren caught it with one hand, smirking as he brought it to his lips. “Careful,” he murmured as she stepped away, “You might trip over your tongue.”
She kicked him sharply under the table. Hard.

Torren struggled to hold back his laughter, while she shot him a deadly glare—ruined somewhat by the furious blush still climbing her throat—before slipping toward Joran. The boy offered his arm with all the pomp he could muster, and together they vanished toward the dance floor, torches glinting off the red threads of Alarra’s sleeves as she passed.

“I see the young Glover has taken to your sister,” Queen Alysanne said, her tone pleasantly amused. She had turned from her quiet talk with Torren and now addressed his father Alaric, who sat on her other side.

Alaric’s jaw ticked slightly, his mouth full of stern disapproval. “They’re children.”

The queen’s eyes twinkled. “So were we once.”

“I’ll not speak of marriage pacts at a feast table,” he said curtly. “Not while there's meat on my plate.”

Queen Alysanne merely hummed, tilting her head. “Of course not. That would be indecent. We wouldn’t want roast boar and dowries to mix.”

She returned her her gaze then, Torren, who was trying—and failing—to disappear behind his goblet. Her smile curved again. “Reina Bolton,” she said lightly. “A curious dancer for the heir of Winterfell and lady of the Dreadfort.”

Torren nearly choked. “We—we knew each other as children, Your Grace. That’s all.”

“Mm,” she said, her tone somewhere between knowing and kind. “She carries herself well. Sharp, too. I find it interesting. If I've read correctly, were the longest feud of Starks had until the Last Red King bent the knee.”

Weymar, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet since Torren’s return, suddenly leaned in with a crooked grin. “They kissed in the godswood once,” he said loudly.

Torren snapped his head toward him. “We did not—!”

Queen Alysanne arched an eyebrow. Weymar just shrugged and leaned back, the picture of smug innocence. “Torren was twelve. He had blackberry juice on your chin while they ran away into godswood.”

“We did not,” Torren said firmly. “It wasn’t even blackberries—it was elderberry, and that’s beside the point. How did you even see all that you were like 5?!”

The queen laughed—laughed—softly but truly, and the sound felt like sunlight cracking through heavy snow. Even Alaric’s frown seemed to twitch, though he quickly reached for his goblet.

Torren stared at the table for a long moment, cheeks warm, before muttering, “It was nothing. Old… childhood foolishness.”

“She’s hardly a child now,” the queen said gently. “And not foolish.” Her words were simple, but they lingered—like a spark not yet kindled, tucked beneath a blanket of snow. Across the hall, Alarra and Joran moved through the dance—awkward, a little out of step, but laughing all the same. The great hall of Winterfell was alive with music and flickering torchlight, the notes of a harp weaving through the chatter and clatter of a Northern feast.

Torren didn’t answer.

Alarra’s blush, which had earlier stained her cheeks like a sudden sunrise, had faded into bright-eyed delight. Her laughter was light and genuine, bubbling up like a hidden spring, and her eyes sparkled as she stole shy glances at Joran. He, in turn, wore a broad grin, the kind that came from a boy who felt suddenly larger than the walls that surrounded him—like he’d been handed the keys to Winterfell itself.

Every now and then, their feet faltered—Joran stepped too far forward, Alarra twirled a moment too late—but the missteps only deepened their shared amusement. When Joran stumbled slightly and caught himself with a sheepish shrug, Alarra’s laughter softened into a teasing smile. The flickering torchlight caught the crimson thread woven through Alarra’s sleeves, casting it in shades of fire as she moved. Her dress swirled around her ankles, a rich fabric that whispered secrets of her House as she spun. Joran, in his simpler doublet, felt suddenly nervous—as if the weight of the hall and its centuries of history pressed on him with every beat of the music.

Torren sat back in his chair, one hand wrapped loosely around his goblet while his gaze remained fixed across the hall. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows on the stone walls, but all he could see was Alarra and Joran moving clumsily through the dance. There was something both endearing and strange about watching his closest friend—awkward smiles, hesitant steps, and laughter that seemed to grow more confident with each passing moment. The ease between them was new, unpolished, yet undeniably genuine.

Torren’s eyes narrowed slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’d known Joran since they were boys running wild through the Wolfswood, and to see him like this—vulnerable, hopeful—was a quiet kind of revelation.

He wondered if Alarra saw it too: the earnestness beneath Joran’s boldness, the rare softness in his fierce loyalty. Maybe, for once, Joran wasn’t just the reckless youngest son, but someone ready to stake a claim on something that mattered.

Torren sipped his wine slowly, feeling a rare warmth in the cold hall, “Joran you better be careful…Maybe with any luck I can see what dragon fire looks like..”

Chapter Text

The warmth in the Great Hall was not for her; it clung to the rafters and hearth like a memory rather than an invitation. The fire blazed high in the long hearth along the wall, logs crackling, embers leaping skyward like sparks off a smith’s anvil—but it gave her little comfort. It felt more like a dutiful feast than a welcoming one, a table set out of obligation rather than joy. The toasts were made, the bread broken, and polite words passed around like stale bread too dry to swallow. Almost all the lords had greeted her earlier with the required formalities: stiff backs, flatteries that fell too quickly from their tongues, eyes that flicked away before the smile reached their mouths.

She had smiled in return, graceful and measured, like any queen should. But deep down, something within her recoiled. She hated to admit it, but perhaps Manderly had been right all along. “The North remembers,” he had said once, after a goblet too many in the warm halls of White Harbor. “But she does not always forgive.” And tonight, she wondered if his words rang more like prophecy than warning.
Alysanne sat amidst flickering torchlight and the low hum of laughter, her goblet of mulled wine cradled delicately in one hand. The other rested on her lap, hidden beneath a cascade of velvet and foxfur. Her smile—visible, gracious, practiced—masked the tension humming beneath her skin. She wore warmth on her face and frost in her veins. For it was not the chill of Winterfell’s ancient stone that unsettled her, nor the snow-thick winds battering the walls outside, but the weight of a hundred northern eyes—watchful, cautious, withholding.

The northern lords did not jeer. They did not challenge. They did not mock her openly, nor voice doubts about her crown or her dragon. But they did not embrace her, either. She had known more openly hostile courts—the greenblooded disdain of Oldtown, the veiled threats and honeyed lies of the Westerlands. But this was something else. This was steel beneath silence, cold beneath courtesy. The way these men sat so stiff in their seats, their mouths careful with their praise, their toasts as hollow as broken horns—she felt as though they were feasting with a blade at their throats.

Her eyes shifted to Lord Alaric Stark, seated beside her at the high table. He was a carved thing in wool and fur, broad-shouldered and grim, with a face set like granite and a gaze that swept the room like a drawn sword. His goblet remained untouched. He had scarcely spoken since the feast began, except to order his retainers or nod at his children when they passed by. He watched, always. Not like a man at celebration—but like a commander in the moments before dawn, awaiting the first horn of battle.

Earlier, when the meats had been cleared and her patience thinned, Alysanne had attempted to draw him out. “You keep a quiet hall, Lord Stark,” she had said with a touch of levity, not enough to offend, but enough to prod.

His reply had come without humor. “We feast best with mouths full and minds clear.” Not quite a rebuke. But not an invitation either.

She had let the moment pass, but it lingered in her mind like smoke in a closed room. He had no warmth for her. No curiosity for the queen who had flown half the realm on a dragon’s back to reach his halls. No awe for Silverwing. No reverence for the Iron Throne. No trust, she thought. Not for her. And certainly not for dragons. The laughter of the hall surged as the Glover boy stumbled into a dance with Alarra Stark, causing a ripple of amusement across the long tables. Alarra’s face flushed with life, her laughter high and unburdened. Alysanne watched her spin, radiant in wolf-grey and blue, her eyes sparkling with youth and fire. For all her brother’s sternness, that girl had life in her.

But even as she looked, the joy felt distant. Alysanne sipped her wine and wondered—not for the first time—if her dream of uniting realm and crown, fire and frost, was a dream meant for another age.
Then came the sound of boots. Not the measured tread of a court lady or the whisper of a chambermaid—but heavy steps, deliberate, echoing off stone like hammer-strikes. A hush spread, subtle but noticeable, and several heads turned toward the source.

She turned as well.

A woman approached—not one of the silk-draped daughters seated below, but a tower of flesh and muscle wrapped in black leather and dark chainmail. Her hair was braided tightly back, black as a raven’s wing, her jaw strong and square. No earrings adorned her ears, no paint touched her cheeks. A broadsword rode at her hip. She looked more like a captain than a noble lady.

“Lady Mormont,” Lord Alaric said, his voice low and even, barely more than a breath.

The woman inclined her head in return. “My Lord Stark.”

Then she turned to Alysanne, her eyes sharp as obsidian, and gave a bow—not the kind of curtsy the queen was used to, but a warrior’s salute: fist to chest, chin lowered in respect. “Your Grace,” the woman said, her voice as rough as bare stone.

Alysanne inclined her head with interest. “And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“Deranna Mormont. Lady of Bear Island.” Alaric Stark was quick to answer, his tone was polite yet firm. The name struck a chord, and understanding bloomed in Alysanne’s eyes. She remembered now—Deranna was the sister of Alaric’s late wife. She must be the younger sister seeing how young face by her features.

“Lady Mormont, I have heard tales of the women of Bear Island.” the queen said sincerely, softening. “Your sister was spoken of kindly. I am sorry for your loss. I had only wished I had the honor to meet her.”

Deranna’s brows twitched at the mention of her sister, but she pushed the sentiment aside with a blink and a nod. “She was a proud and stubborn woman. Refused any help even on her death bed. I for see her daughter being the same if Lord Alaric allows my niece to ward on Bear Island.”

Alysanne followed her gaze, once more finding Alarra among the dancers. “I see the North raises strong daughters.”

Deranna’s lip curled ever so slightly. “We raise bear daughters, Your Grace. Strong’s the only kind that survives.”

There was no bravado in her tone—only iron certainty. Alysanne believed her. Her eyes flicked to the woman’s attire—chainmail beneath a plain wool cloak, a bear-paw brooch of iron where a lady might wear sapphires or silver.

“You wore armor to a feast,” Alysanne said before she could stop herself, half-amused.

Deranna grunted. “Would you have me wear a gown, Your Grace? I own one. Fits like wet wool and tears when I breathe.”

Alysanne laughed, genuinely this time. “I imagine your sword is more useful than silk in a northern winter.”

“More useful than silk in a lot of places,” Deranna replied with a shrug.

There was a quiet moment between them—not awkward, but laden with mutual regard. Then Deranna said, “Your dragon must’ve stirred every hunter in the forest. Half the hall thought the end times were upon them when they heard her cry.”

“Silverwing’s voice has always been… persuasive,” Alysanne said lightly. “She means no harm, unless given reason.”

“Let’s hope no reason’s given,” Deranna muttered.

It wasn’t a threat. Just a reality. Another piece of northern plain-speak—rough and honest. But there was no malice in Deranna Mormont’s words, and for the first time that night, Queen Alysanne felt something like ease. Not comfort, not warmth. But respect. Perhaps it is not trust I need to win, she thought, watching the Bear Island lady. Perhaps it is understanding.

She raised her goblet slightly. “To daughters,” she said.

Deranna raised hers—a battered horn cup filled with dark ale. “And to the women who raise them.”

Their cups touched with a soft clink, and the fire crackled. Lord Alaric remained silent, but his eyes flicked toward the exchange. Just once. Just enough. It wasn’t much. But in the North, Alysanne suspected, it was the beginning of everything. Then, a rare flicker passed across Lord Alaric’s weathered features—something that might have been familiarity, or even warmth. He shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing Deranna’s as he turned more fully to her.

“How fares Bear Island?” he asked, his voice lower now, almost gentle. It was not the voice of a lord speaking to a bannerman, but of a brother speaking to his sister-in-law. “Any news from raids?”

Deranna gave a short breath through her nose. “Always.” Her eyes softened with pride. “The sea’s meaner than ever, but the girls gut their catch and sharpen their spears all the same.”

A small pause, then she added, “Uncle Harlen sends his regrets. Couldn’t leave. There was a wildling party sighted off the Bay of Ice. Just a few rafts, they think—skinny lads with knives and more salt than sense—but he wanted to see to it himself.”

Alaric nodded once, slowly. “He’s right to. The sea never sleeps.”

“Nor the shore,” Deranna said, lips quirking slightly. “But we’ve got eyes on the cliffs and steel on the docks. They won’t find soft landing.” Their words were quiet, but steady—two northerners speaking in a rhythm as old as the snows, as if no years had passed between them. As if the great hall and the crown and the dragon outside were all distant things.

Alysanne remained silent. When Alaric said “Could you please take a few Winter Rose’s for Lorenah…I won’t be able to deliver my promise for sometime, I am preoccupied by my duties.” She saw then right now a weakness, softness in Alaric's eyes. She couldn’t believe it. The cold Warden of the North shows his heart. Her goblet hovered near her lips, but she did not drink. She sat upright, regal, her expression composed. But inside, something twisted. It wasn't an offense—no sharp cut of pride or injury. It was something more elusive. More subtle.

She knew diplomacy. She knew how to read a table, how to stir silence into conversation, how to command a room without raising her voice. She had practiced these arts in courts from Oldtown to the Vale, had won over lords with nothing but a knowing glance and a clever word. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms sat a foot away from the Lord of Winterfell, but tonight she may as well have sat a hundred leagues off, watching through snow and glass. She did not interrupt their quiet exchange. She would not insert herself where trust had already been earned by blood and loss and winter. So she sipped her wine and turned her gaze toward the hall, to the music and the laughter and the girls spinning in wool dresses under wolf banners.

Torren Stark sat hunched at the high table like a man expecting to be struck by lightning. Shoulders slightly slouched, goblet in hand, gaze distant—he wore his discomfort like a second cloak. Alysanne had seen many young men in courts across the Seven Kingdoms, from proud knights of the Reach to gold men of the rock but rarely one so plainly caught between the twin pressures of title and adolescence.

She smiled faintly. Poor boy. The dance had ended, and his awkward return to the dais had not gone unnoticed. Even now, his sister’s laughter echoed faintly from the hall below as she spun awkwardly through another circle with her flushed Glover suitor. Alysanne did not need to guess what sort of teasing remarks Alarra would share once they were behind closed doors. The bond between those two siblings was tighter than most—and sharper.

She rose, slow and deliberate, her goblet still in hand. The lords nearby shifted uncomfortably, some sitting straighter, others averting their eyes. She passed behind Lord Alaric without a word; the man hadn’t moved for the better part of an hour, rooted to his seat like the weirwood in the godswood beyond. Torren noticed her too late. He stiffened, turned slightly, then made the unfortunate choice of trying to slide lower in his seat as if the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms might overlook him like a boy caught sneaking honey from the kitchens.

Alysanne set her goblet on the stone tabletop and smiled, eyes full of polite mischief. “Lord Torren,” she said sweetly. “Are you hiding from your duties, or only from your dancing partners?”

The boy groaned quietly and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I was just… resting.”

“Resting?” she echoed, placing a hand delicately on the carved arm of the high seat. “From what? Political alliances or blushing girls?”

“Both,” he muttered, before catching himself and sitting upright. “I mean—”

But before she could reply, a voice behind them cut through the noise like a sword splitting a log. Deep. Gravelly. Feminine. “Beggin’ your pardon, my lady Queen—” it said. “But I was lookin’ for the young future lord of Winterfell.”

Alysanne turned.

And blinked.

Towering above the noble tables, parting the crowd like a ship through the sea, strode a young woman who might as well have stepped out of Old tales. She was easily six and a half feet tall—if not more—with shoulders as broad as a smith’s and hips that moved with the swaying gait of someone used to bearing armor, not silk. Her hair was black and thick, braided behind her in a long tail, and her brown eyes were warm, wide, and… very much focused on Torren Stark.

The Queen had never seen a girl like her.

The court ladies in King’s Landing might have fainted dead away from the sheer presence of her, but here in the North—where the blood ran thick with old strength—Alysanne only watched in muted astonishment.

Torren, for his part, seemed ready to die on the spot. “Lady Umber,” he mumbled, his voice cracking like a boy of ten instead of a lordling nearly of age. “I didn’t know you were—uh—attending tonight.”
The girl—no, the woman—shifted on her large feet and offered an awkward half-curtsy, the chainmail beneath her thick wool surcoat clinking softly.

“Lady Helletta Umber,” she said, with more dignity than many court ladies twice her age. “Daughter of Hother Umber of Last Hearth. Your Grace, my kin and I are honored by your presence.”

“Helletta,” Alysanne repeated, testing the name on her tongue. “It suits you.”

The girl flushed a deep, ruddy pink beneath her freckles. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“I must say,” Alysanne added with a flick of her eyes, “you may be the first woman I’ve met who makes even my husband’s Kingsguard seem small.”

Helletta looked down at her hands. “I’ve been this way since twelve. Outgrew half the men at our holdfast. Beat most of them at sword, too.”

That, finally, made Torren snort softly into his cup. Helletta turned toward him like a hound catching scent. Her expression brightened—not with certainty, but with something softer, more dangerous: hope.

“Lord Torren,” she said, clearing her throat. “I… I saw you were alone.”

“Yes,” he replied, his tone flat with dread. “Alone. Quite.”

She ignored the sting. Or didn’t notice. Her eyes flicked to Queen Alysanne, then back to him. “I thought, maybe…” she began, hands suddenly unsure at her sides, “you’d walk with me. Just a bit. My brother’s come down from the Wall, and he’s waiting near the kennels. I’d like him to meet you.”

Torren blinked. “Your brother from the Night’s Watch?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “He took the black six winters past. Says he hardly remembers what real meat tastes like. But he was always proud I trained with him. I told him you were a good sort.”

Alysanne looked between them—Torren’s frozen grimace, Helletta’s flushed cheeks, her posture trying to be strong, but her eyes betraying every tremor of a young heart opened just a little too wide.
There was something endearing in it. Something fiercely Northern. No courtly coyness. No fluttered lashes. Just open want, pressed under the hide of a bear.

Torren groaned again, visibly wilting.

Alysanne touched his shoulder with a single finger. “You’d be a poor host to refuse, Lord Torren.”

He shot her a brief, pleading look. She arched a regal eyebrow. He stood hiding his swallow. “I… yes. Of course. It would be an honor.”

“Wonderful,” Helletta said, too quickly, and then, suddenly remembering herself, turned to the queen. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I meant no disrespect. I— I didn’t expect to see you speaking with him.”

Alysanne smiled, gently. “You were perfectly polite. And I confess—I would not mind meeting this brother of yours, nor sitting at your table a while. I’ve had more than enough quiet Lords tonight.”

Helletta Umber blinked. “You—You’d come with us?”

The Queen laughed softly. “Why not? I’ve danced with Lord Manderly when he was sweating like a boar and spilled wine on my skirts. I’ve flown through Stormlands during their worst rainy season.”

Helletta stammered something like “Yes, Your Grace,” and turned so sharply to lead the way that her boot scuffed the floor with a loud thud. Torren rose with all the stiffness of a boy heading to a whipping, but followed, face redder than his cloak.

Alysanne came last, her steps measured, flowing down the dais with the grace of a courtier and the poise of a queen. Her presence, quiet though it was, drew the attention of the hall like a change in wind.

Conversations slowed. Cups hovered. Even the minstrels began to soften their tune as she passed. The Lords of the North stared—some openly, others with barely masked curiosity. Lord Cerwyn’s jaw tightened. Lord Tallhart tilted his head as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Lord Glover, halfway into a drinking game with his son and two Forrester cousins, dropped his cup with a splatter of ale and stood halfway out of his seat, mouth hanging open.

Queen Alysanne held her chin high and said nothing.

Let them look.

Let them see.

At the far end of the hall, the Umber table sat near the hearth—spacious enough to fit its inhabitants, who looked more like a row of shieldbearers than a noble family. The men were massive—truly massive—with broad chests, wild beards, and arms like tree trunks. The women were little smaller, clad in thick wools and leather, with axes on their belts and meat in their hands. Their laughter had been the loudest of any table just moments before—but it died the moment Alysanne approached.
Silence struck like a hammer.

A great, towering man—bearded, bald, and nearly seven and a half feet tall—was in mid-laugh when he saw her. He stopped. Blinked with one eye as the other covered with black eyepatch. And then belched thunderously.

Alysanne, stunned, arched her brow. “Was that in my honor?” she asked calmly.

The man wiped his mouth on the back of his furred sleeve and laughed. “Beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace. It was the boar’s fault. Tougher than a man skull.”

Helletta flushed scarlet. “That’s my father Lord Harran He—he forgets his manners.”

“Don’t need ‘em,” Harran muttered, standing anyway. “She’s the dragon queen. Any woman rides a beast like that deserves her own place at the table.”

Alysanne grinned despite herself. “I’ll take that as welcome.”

She seated herself between Helletta and Harran, while Torren eased into the bench across from them, beside a shorter (but still boulder-like) Umber woman who whispered something to her sister and giggled into her mead.

Helletta’s voice dropped to a soft whisper. “You must think us strange, Your Grace.”

“No,” Alysanne said truthfully. “Not strange. Just honest. I find that rare in halls like these.”

Torren had gone nearly mute, answering questions with nods and yes-my-ladys. The Umber women, however, peppered him with sly smiles and teasing jabs. One elbowed another. One nudged Helletta beneath the table. It was impossible not to notice how the girl’s eyes kept darting to him, as if to ensure he was still beside her.

Alysanne leaned in slightly, her voice low enough to feel like a secret rather than a statement. “He doesn’t seem to mind your company,” she murmured, the corner of her mouth curling in gentle mischief.

Helletta’s reaction was immediate—her face flushed a deep, ruddy crimson, so fierce it nearly matched the dragon embroidered on the Queen’s bodice. She dropped her eyes to the wooden grain of the long table, fingers fumbling briefly at the edge of her goblet before she caught herself. “I—he’s very—he dances better than I thought,” she said, the words tumbling out in a rush, too fast, too loud, then softening into almost a whisper by the end.

Alysanne’s smile deepened. “You and every other girl in this hall, it seems,” she replied with quiet amusement, watching the way Helletta’s eyes flicked toward Torren even now, as if just to confirm he hadn’t vanished. “But you speak to him plainly. That’s something rare.”

Helletta tilted her head slightly, as though unsure whether she was being praised or teased. Then she allowed herself the barest smile—a crooked thing, warm and real. “He’s kind,” she said after a moment, her voice steadier now. “But he walks like he’s already wearing the Stark duty, like it weighs on him even when no one's watching.”

The Queen followed her gaze, her eyes resting once more on Torren Stark. He sat rigid but attentive, hands folded, head inclined slightly as he listened to an older Umber woman whisper something to him between bites of meat. He answered with a nod, as if any fuller reply might betray something. He was not unaware of the room, nor immune to the attention he drew—but he bore it all with a quiet stoicism that reminded Alysanne, faintly, of another Stark she had once met, years ago in a different winter.

“He’ll wear it one day,” Alysanne said softly, her voice dipping into something near reverence. “And when he does, I believe he’ll wear it well. My son Aemon becomes King. He will be honored to have such a strong Warden of his North.”

Helletta turned toward her, something like pride shimmering behind her wide brown eyes. “His North,” she repeated, tasting the words as though they were rich wine. “A Southern king—if he wants the North, he should be warded here.”

Alysanne laughed, soft and musical, not unkind. “If my husband allows it, I would hope Aemon could spend time in White Harbor.”

“Ah, that fat oaf Theomore Manderly could barely survive a soft winter, let alone a harsh one,” muttered Lord Harran Umber, his deep voice like distant thunder. “If you wish your boy to grow strong, send him further north—to a real Northern house.”

“And give him to the bloody Glovers?” spat an older Umber woman, her cracked lips slick with ale. “That’ll be the day. The Dorne better sprout snow before I let a Glover—or even a Karstark—have the honor of raising the Queen’s son. Over my dead body!”

Alysanne watched the exchange with amused interest. Even here, where they called one another friends and bannermen, the rivalries of the North burned just beneath the surface—embers under fresh snow. The Umbers boasted proudly of their giant’s blood and booming voices, their presence as large as the legends they claimed. When Seise Umber joined the table, Alysanne felt smaller still—though she thought with no small amusement that if she sat atop Silverwing, the she-dragon might meet the Umbers eye to eye. Then again, if Harran Umber had the chance, he’d take it as a challenge. The Umbers had a “Giant-slayer” in their line—no doubt they’d relish the chance to add Dragon-slayer to their titles.

Their moment was interrupted by a loud clatter and a booming voice that rolled across the Umber table like a drumbeat. Lord Harran Umber, halfway into a flagon of black ale and gnawing at what remained of a roasted boar’s thigh, raised his horn high above his head. “To the Queen!” he roared. “To meat! And to ladies too fine for such grim halls!”

Alysanne laughed aloud, delighted by the man’s complete lack of refinement. She raised her cup in turn, meeting his toast without flinching. “And to men too loud for their own skulls!” The table erupted in a cheer, mugs and horns slamming into the wood, ale spilling, and laughter breaking like waves across stone. Helletta’s eyes lit with surprise at the Queen’s ease. Even Torren cracked a reluctant smile.

Alysanne turned slightly in her seat, angling herself toward Lord Umber. “Lord Harran, from how you boast I’d assume you’ve conquered winter itself.” she said with gracious formality—though the twinkle in her eye betrayed her curiosity. “I must say, you and your kin are... memorable.”

The great man grunted, thudding his goblet onto the table and wiping his beard with the back of his hand. “We try not to be forgotten,” he said, the words as blunt as a cudgel but not unfriendly. “I have and froze my entire eye off.”

“I imagine so,” Alysanne said, leaning forward slightly, still smiling. “Tell me, Lord Harran—what do you make of Silverwing? Did she frighten your horses, or did your girls run toward her with spears?”

“Both,” Harran said without hesitation, letting out a wheezing laugh. “The old bitch roared like a mountain falling, and three of my sons nearly wet themselves. Helletta here didn’t flinch. Just squinted at her and said, ‘She’s not that big.’” He patted his daughter on the back so hard she nearly spilled her cup.

“Father! Language in front of the Queen!” Helleta protest earning a hall of laughter form the surrounding Umbers

“She’s brave, and please I prefer this open honesty than what I have been dealing with.” Alysanne said,

Lord Harran leaned back in his seat with a loud creak of wood and leather, the great horn still half-full in his hand. He squinted across the table toward the Queen, then gestured broadly with his free arm, nearly knocking a trencher of meat off the edge. “I don’t blame you, truly,” he added, leaning in with a conspiratorial tone that was anything but quiet. “The Last River has more personality than Lord Alaric Stark. Man’s a cold brute. Looks like a block of granite carved by a blind man. I feared his son’d be the same—stiff and silent, like he was born with ice in his guts.”

He turned his massive head toward Torren, who stiffened instantly under that thunderous gaze. “But the lad here…” Harran squinted, then grinned. “Well, he speaks better. Even if he looks like he’s about to pass out.”

Before anyone could interject, Harran’s massive paw came down like a hammer on Torren’s back.

THUD!

Torren lurched forward with a surprised gasp, his goblet jerking in his hand, wine spurting from his mouth as he choked and coughed violently, crimson liquid splattering across the stone table like a battlefield wound. “Gods—!” Torren sputtered, eyes wide and watering, face flushed with embarrassment and mead.

The Umber table howled with laughter. Even Helletta looked half-aghast, half-amused as she patted her brother on the shoulder and muttered something about “breaking the heir to Winterfell.”

Alysanne covered her smile behind her goblet, her eyes gleaming. “Careful, Lord Harran,” she said lightly. “You may slay the boy before he’s old enough to inherit.”
“Bah! If a tap from me knocks him out, he’s not fit to wear wolfskin,” Harran grunted, reaching for a fresh slab of meat. “Better he learns now than when some wildling puts an axe to his ribs.”
Torren wiped his mouth, trying to regain dignity as he sat upright, his voice hoarse. “If I survive this feast, it’ll be a miracle.”

“Torren is a good young man and will make North proud. Lord Umber, your daughter is braver than any knight in court I’ve seen. Most won’t dare to stare down a dragon.” Alysanne said her gaze lingering on the girl beside her. “And plain-spoken. I think I rather like her.”Helletta, struck dumb, stared at her own cup. Harran guffawed again. “Then you’ve better taste than half the South, Your Grace.”

But as the cheer died down and the Queen glanced back toward the high tables, her expression shifted. The warmth from the Umber table stood in sharp contrast to the frost lingering elsewhere in the hall. Lord Cerwyn’s mouth was drawn tight like knotted thread. Lord Whitehill sneered openly, whispering something to a bannerman beside him. Lord Bolton—aloof and pale—did not even deign to look her way.

“Is everyone Southern to you?”

“Ha bloody well yes! We're the last Castle before the Wall! We're the furthest House in the North compared to all the rest.” He boasted his massive fit pounded on his chest.

Alysanne’s smile held, she knew that Bear Isle on maps shows them being the furthest House but in argument she could see argument made for them being of the mainland Umber would answer. So she mentions nothing of the sort just letting them boast. She turned back to Helletta, who was still red-faced and silent beside her. As the laughter slowly died down around the Umber table, the thrum of drums and faint clink of goblets echoing from across the hall, Helletta cleared her throat, eyes darting to her father, then the Queen. “Your Grace,” she said with a sudden earnestness, her voice louder than she meant, “I—I just wanted to say…”

Alysanne brows gently arched.

“You’re…” Helletta hesitated, the word caught behind her teeth, then she powered through. “You’re beautiful. I mean, truly. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone wear silk like that. It glows like firelight. You look like… like the queen from the old tales. The ones where the dragons sleep under the mountain and the snow stops falling when she walks.”

Alysanne blinked, stunned for a moment—not by flattery (she had heard enough of that from lords and ladies across a hundred courts), but by the sheer honesty of it. There was no simpering, no pretense. Just admiration, plainspoken and sincere, from a woman who could probably lift a horse over her shoulder. She smiled warmly, touched in a way she hadn’t expected. “That is a rare compliment, Lady Umber. One I shall treasure. And one I believe more for how plainly you give it.”

Helletta flushed again, trying not to grin. “It’s just the truth. You make every other lady in the hall look like they’re dressed in drapes.”

Lord Harran barked a thunderous laugh. “Careful, girl. You’ll have the Karstark girls crying in their cups.”

“Let them cry,” Helletta muttered with a shrug, then quickly added, “I mean—no offense, Your Grace.”

“None taken,” Alysanne said, laughing, her hand lifting to rest against her chest, the warmth of it blossoming through the cold layers of formality she wore like armor. “Though I dare say I’ve never been compared to a snow-stopping queen before. It’s... charming.”

Helletta reached beneath the table, drew out a thick glass bottle the color of dark pine sap, and held it up like a war banner. “Then you must have a proper Northern drink, Your Grace. None of that perfumed Reach swill. This here’s fermented goat-root, mountain berries, and a splash of red snowmelt from the Shadow Range.”

Alysanne eyed the bottle with amused skepticism. “Goat-root?”

“Strong enough to make your tongue forget your name,” Harran said proudly, already sloshing a generous portion into a carved antler horn. Helletta poured a smaller cup for the Queen, then passed it carefully across the table with both hands, as if offering a sacred relic. Alysanne accepted it with grace, swirling the dark liquid, catching a whiff of something pungent, earthy, and sharp.

She took a sip—just a sip.

And immediately gasped, her eyes watering slightly as the heat roared down her throat like wildfire in her chest. She coughed once, delicately covering her mouth with the back of her hand as she turned away, trying to keep her composure.

Harran let out a belly-deep laugh. “Aye! That’s the bear’s blood, right there!”

“I—” Alysanne’s voice cracked slightly as she regained herself, blinking rapidly. “Gods, that could strip the bark off a weirwood.”

Helletta looked mortified. “I—I’m sorry, Your Grace. It’s probably stronger than—”

“No,” Alysanne interrupted, waving her hand as she coughed one last time. “No, it’s… invigorating. Gods help me, I think I can taste the mountain.”

Lord Harran raised his horn and took a swig with a satisfied grunt. “Puts hair on your chest and steel in your belly.”

“I’m hoping for neither,” Alysanne said, her tone still light but teasing, “though I see how it’s kept your family thriving.” She took a breath to steady herself, then glanced around the table—and noticed a man sitting quietly a few seats down, clad in all black. He wore no sigils, no fine cloak, just boiled leather and a black wool cloak, simple and worn. A longsword rested at his hip. His face was broad and clean-shaven, his eyes sharp and steady, and his presence silent but not forgettable.

Alysanne’s gaze lingered. “And you,” she said, addressing him directly, “you must be Helletta’s brother. You’ve the look.”

The man looked up, meeting her eyes without flinching. He inclined his head respectfully. “Aye, Your Grace. Harl Umber. Sworn brother of the Night’s Watch.”

“You came down from the Wall?” she asked, intrigued. “That’s no short ride, nor an easy one.”

“Not for just anyone,” Harl replied. “But Helletta sent word, and my Lord Commander granted me leave. I’d not seen my kin in two winters. And I’d not met a dragon queen before.”
His tone was dry, almost unreadable—but there was no hostility in it. Merely fact.

Alysanne studied him for a moment, curious. He held himself like a man who’d fought, who had learned stillness out of necessity. “And how fares the Night’s Watch?”

“We stand,” Harl said simply. “The Wall holds.”

“And the wildlings?”

“More rafts lately. More eyes in the woods. But we patrol.”

Alysanne nodded solemnly, folding her hands on the table. “I mean to see it soon. The Wall.”

That drew surprised glances from several Umbers. Even Harran paused mid-drink.

“The Wall?” Helletta echoed, wide-eyed.

“Yes,” Alysanne said. “I’ve come to the North not only to mend ties—but to know it. And there’s no knowing the North without standing on top of that wall of ice. I would see it with my own eyes. My great Grandshire Aegon The Conqueror saw the very wall himself, I shall do the same.”

Harl Umber inclined his head again. “Then you’re braver than most Southerns.”

Alysanne smiled faintly. “Let’s hope I’m wiser, too.”

“Hah! I’d call you bloody mad—but you’re a dragon queen, so by all the hells, take the damn Wall if you like. I won’t stop you. You’ve earned my respect.”

Chapter Text

The hearthfire had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows against the stone walls of Winterfell’s Great Hall. Most of the lords had either staggered off to their guest chambers or taken to snoring at their benches. The mead-hall clamor of the earlier evening had softened into the dull murmurs of servants and the faint scraping of platters being cleared. Yet Alaric Stark remained seated at the high table, unmoving, carved from the same cold granite that built his house.

Weymar had long since been dragged off to sleep, drooling against his own shoulder barely awake while helped from a squire. After collapsing face-first into a tray of honeyed apples he counted his son had only four cups of win. Torren lingered for a while, but his attention drifted quickly toward his friends—Jonan Glover, the Reed boy from Greywater, and one of the Forrester lads with unruly hair and a love of strong ale. His daughter, Alarra, had vanished to the far end of the hall with young Lady Hornwood, heads together, whispering behind raised goblets and barely stifled laughter. The future of
House Stark scattered like wind across snow, and Alaric—once again—was alone at the heart of his hall.

He sipped from his untouched wine only once, more out of obligation than taste. Still too warm. Still too southern. His gaze drifted across the hall, not seeking anything—but inevitably finding her.
Queen Alysanne Targaryen glided between tables like a dancer born to silk and light. Not a single step she took faltered, not a single word seemed wasted. There was grace in her, yes, but more than that presence. She didn’t dominate the room by speaking loudly or laughing first. No, it was subtler than that. Like snowfall blanketing a quiet wood, inevitable and all-encompassing.

Her dress shimmered like dusk, deep crimson fading into smoky silver, edged with fine thread that might have been valyrian steel spun into silk. Southern finery, he thought. Ill-suited for the frost, and yet—somehow—she wore it as though she'd always belonged beneath Winterfell’s gray sky. Alaric watched her pause at Lord Ragnar Forrester’s table. The man had been the warmest toward her throughout the evening, eager to parade his kin before her like hounds before a hunt. His wife curtsied deeply; his sons bowed stiffly. Alysanne knelt—not fully, but just enough—to meet the youngest Forrester child eye to eye, and said something that made the girl giggle and hide behind her brother. Forrester’s cheeks turned red from pride.

Alaric saw it plainly. He drank again, and the wine still tasted burnt if that was even possible..

Something about her unsettled him. Not the crown, nor the dragon she rode in on. He’d made peace with such things long ago. No, it was something quieter. The way she looked at people as if seeing past what they offered, past their fear or ambition, and into something truer. That was dangerous. And oddly… fascinating. He hadn’t expected her to return. Not now. Not when the feast had thinned, and the power plays had played out. But then she was walking back toward him alone this time, her steps deliberate, slow, not seeking attention, but commanding it all the same.

He shifted in his seat barely. But his eyes followed her every step.

She stopped before the high table and tilted her head just so. “Have I outlasted even the Warden of the North?” she asked, her voice low and laced with dry amusement. “Or do you simply sit in silence to make the rest of us seem frivolous?”

Alaric leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the carved arms of his chair. “A Stark does not abandon his hall while guests still drink in it.”

“A lesson for the other lords perhaps,” she murmured, stepping up beside the table. “I’ve seen lords stumble out of banquets long before the candles died.”

“You’ve seen too much of southern courts,” he said. “Up here, we hold honor and duty. While watching.”

Alysanne gave a small smile—less for charm, more for acknowledgment. “You watch everything, Lord Stark.”
He didn’t deny it.

The last echoes of song had faded, the drums long stilled. Only the sigh of the hearth and the faint clatter of plates being cleared remained. Most of the hall was empty now. The rowdier lords had vanished, dragging their laughter into corridors and courtyards; others had slumped in place, faces pressed into half-eaten trenchers, snoring. The once-roaring feast had thinned to a slow-burning ember.

Lord Alaric Stark rose from the high seat. The weight of the day, of the feast, of every glance and every judgment, settled on his shoulders like the snow outside. He cast one more glance down the length of the hall. Reed and Glover had taken Torren off to some lesser mischief, and Alarra was no doubt still deep in hushed conversation with Lady Hornwood. All accounted for. Queen Alysanne remained beside him. Silent, composed, not demanding—only watching. Her gaze trailed the movement of servants, the hush of wind pressing against the ancient glass.

He turned to her. "Your Grace," he said, with a quiet gravity, "may I escort you?"

“You don’t have to trouble yourself, my lord,” she said, polite but cautious.

“I never trouble myself,” he replied. “But you’ve wandered my hall enough for one night. Allow me the dignity of seeing a guest to her door.”

There was a faint curve of her lips—not quite a smile, not quite refusal. She stood, the silks of her gown whispering softly as she gathered her cloak. “Then I accept,” she said.

They walked slowly down the long hall, the banners of direwolf and dragon shifting in the fire’s glow. No page followed. No guards hovered. Just the two of them in the stone stillness of Winterfell. Their footsteps echoed faintly, her silks whispering against the floor, his boots firm and steady. “Your vassals are a curious tapestry,” she said after a long silence, her voice carrying the ghost of amusement.
"Lord Umber nearly shattered my wine cup with his toast. I believe he thinks volume is the same as valor.”

Alaric gave a small grunt, his version of amusement. “He’s more bear than man.”

“Some would say your late wife was more bear than lady. I heard of a tale from Lord Glover where she broke the hand of his brother when she was 2 and ten on the idea of marriage.” Alysanne spoke, her eyes glistening when her words left her lips.

“Hmp, Samwell Glover, a second son, being bold as he was he had laid his hand on her waist in hopes to spin but ended with a broken nose as well with his hand broken.”

Alysanne gave a soft giggle like a gentle breeze of wind. “I fear she’d take my Husband in a duel for a challenge and I’d fear for his life…Lord Stark I must ask about the Reeds,” she went on, a faint smile touching her lips. “They sat as still as stone. The daughter barely looked up from her cup. I thought perhaps she’d drifted into a vision.”

Alaric’s mouth twitched, a rare thing. “The Neck breeds quiet folk. Their words are few, but they often see more than they say.”

Alysanne tilted her head slightly as she glanced at him. “I don’t mind quiet. But tonight, even the air around them felt heavy as if they were listening for things no one else could hear.”

There was a pause as they walked. Their footfalls echoed between the ancient stones, and the castle felt older somehow in the silence. “Lord Karstark,” she said softly, “made a point of mentioning marriage. Not for himself, of course. He glanced at me, then at the young nobles at the tables. It felt more... calculated than idle conversation.”

Alaric’s stride slowed just slightly. His face remained composed, but his tone dipped lower, more weighted. “My brother, Walton,” he said quietly, “was once promised to Karstark’s sister. The match was struck before the Night's Mutiny. He fell at the Wall before it could be fulfilled.”

Alysanne slowed too, the torchlight catching the silvery strands in her braid. “I’m sorry, Alaric. I wish more could have been done. Alarra mentioned it to me in one of our many conversions.”

“No reason you should.” His words were clipped, but not unkind. They resumed walking, a quiet stretching between them—not strained, but settled, like snow blanketing the ground. She didn’t press further, and he didn’t retreat behind silence as he often did.

"Honest," she repeated. "You do seem to favor plain words."

"I don’t have much use for gilded ones."

She smiled faintly at that. "I believe you could use some gilded ones. Many of your lords claim you to be bland."

His steps slowed. “I am not here to win favors of my vassals. I speak plainly to the point.”

She tilted her head. "Forgive me for prying. But earlier in your conversation with Lady Mormont, you spoke that you bring a Winter Rose to Bear Isle every year. Why?"

Alaric’s steps slowed a fraction, and he glanced sidelong at her. There was no mockery in her voice only curiosity. He was silent for a time. Long enough that she nearly rescinded the question.
But then he said, "A promise."

Alysanne glanced at him, curious.

"For Lorenah grave," he said. "The winter roses were her favorite. Even before she came to Winterfell..I…- I bring them to her grave on Bear Isle each year."

She looked away, letting the weight of the words settle. "That doesn’t sound like something a bear-daughter would be interested in"

He chuckled then—an actual laugh, low and rough. "No. She wasn’t soft. Not in the way of gardens and songs. But she had her moments. When the winds were low. When our children were small."
The Queen looked at him, and for the first time, he met her eyes without defense. There was no grand passion in the moment. No disagreement, just two people at the moment. A life once lived. A life long buried. They reached the upper corridor. The torches were dimmer here, and their footsteps echoed more sharply.

She stopped before the door to her chambers. "Tomorrow," she said, "I’m meeting with the ladies for my court. I’d like to speak with them in privacy—and in warmth. Would you allow me use of your solar for a time?"

Alaric inclined his head. "Of course, Your Grace. It’s yours."

"Thank you," she said, and then, softer: "For more than that."

He said nothing. She lingered a breath longer, then disappeared behind the door, leaving only the scent of fire and frost in her wake. Alaric stood a moment more. Then turned, and walked back into the silence of Winterfell. The quiet stretched like a second cloak around Alaric Stark as he returned alone to his chambers. The corridors of Winterfell—ancient, worn, and whispering with history—echoed with every measured step. He did not call for a servant. He needed no fire, no company. Just sleep. Or something close to it.

The room was dark when he entered, lit only by a few dying coals in the hearth. He did not bother to stoke them. The bed sat large and undisturbed, draped in furs of direwolf and elk. It had been his for years. And yet, some nights, it felt like it belonged to someone else—someone younger, someone whole.

He stood at the edge of it for a long moment, eyes falling to the side where she used to lie. His fingers curled slightly, then released. So many winters, he thought. And still, he forgot that silence. The scent of her was gone now—long washed out by time. But the sound lingered. Faint. Unbidden.

“Don’t forget to eat something before court,” her voice said softly, the echo curling in his memory like smoke. “And don’t scowl at the bannermen unless they deserve it.” He exhaled slowly, not trusting his voice to reply to a ghost. Then, with the weight of a thousand thoughts across his shoulders, Alaric lowered himself into the bed. The furs embraced him like old armor. His body ached. His eyes burned.

Sleep did not come easily—but it came. The world of dreams was a colder one.

He stood beneath the Wall.

The sky above was steel, streaked with black wings. Snow scoured his cheeks, and the wind howled like wolves mourning in the distance. Below the Wall’s height, the ground was slick with blood and churned ice. A skirmish during the mutiny broke out in the shadows of Sable Hall. Night’s Watch men, clad in black, turned against each other like dogs on scraps. Alaric stood amidst it, a younger man, blade drawn, barking orders that barely rose above the wind.

And then he saw his brother.

Walton

Laughing. Fighting. Bleeding.

The moment cracked like ice beneath boot—Walton turned, too slow, and the mutineer’s blade rammed through his belly. Alaric screamed, running toward him—but a second blade came through his brother’s back. He dropped to his knees as Walton fell. The blood steamed on the snow.

“No!” he shouted, voice choked, hand outstretched—but the snowstorm swallowed the sound whole.

Then the dream shifted.

The wind died. The world went still.

Now, he stood in the courtyard in the small castle of Rimegate of the Wall. Surrounded by men of Watch and his own men.—ghost-pale light filtering through heavy clouds. In both hands, he held Ice, The blade gleamed with frost, so broad it seemed more wall than weapon. Before him knelt a man—Olyver Bracken—his face pale with defiance, lips trembling. The hall around them was silent. Watching.

“Fucking Northern’s the Seven damn you!” He spat his last words as two men shoved Olyver Bracken, former members of Kingsguard under former King Meagor the Cruel onto his knees in mud. Miles and miles away from home in some sections of the Wall under cloudy skies.

Alaric's voice rang, formal and absolute. His first act as new Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.
“In the name of Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, First of His Name,
King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men,
Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm—
I, Alaric of House Stark…Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,
sentence Olyver Bracken to death.”

He raised the sword.

Olyver’s eyes widened.

Alaric brought Ice down.

He woke with a start. The furs tangled around his legs, sweat cooling on his back despite the cold air in the chamber. His breath came fast—quick and shallow, as though he’d run a mile through snow. It was still dark. The coals in the hearth had died entirely. He sat upright, rubbing a hand over his face, the scent of blood and snow still clinging to his senses. The morning light was soft and dappled, filtered through low cloud and rising chimney smoke. Winterfell stirred beneath it, alive in quiet, purposeful motion—snow crunching under hurried boots, steel clashing in the yard, ravens calling from their towers. Alaric stood upon the covered gallery overlooking the courtyard, his breath misting in the cold.

Below, the clang of blades drew his eye. Torren was sparring with three of the young lords—Jonan Glover, the Reed boy from Greywater, and young Tallhart, all full of boyish energy and too much pride. Torren’s shoulders were taut, movements controlled, precise. Not the strongest among them, but swift and thoughtful. Alaric watched with a flicker of pride. The boy had grown into something more than he’d expected—quiet, but deliberate. He would do well in years to come, once the weight of the wolf settled fully on his shoulders.

“Come on you lizard folk swing harder!” Torren taunted as Reed boy took a hard swing down at Torren shield making his son laugh when blade bounced off his shield.

Across the yard, another figure caught his eye—no, two.

His daughter, walking beside her friend from House Hornwood, heads bent close in giggling conspiracy. Their fur-lined cloaks billowed behind them as they followed a gathering of older ladies toward the keep’s inner stairs. The Queen’s morning audience, he realized.

He moved along the upper hall, quietly matching their course from above, his boots silent on the stone. The procession of ladies—tall and short, richly dressed or plainly adorned—disappeared into the main solar below, the heavy oak door swinging closed with a soft thud. The guards posted outside straightened at his approach.

Lorence Roxton stood there, impassive in white enamel and polished steel, the crimson cloak of the Kingsguard draped over one shoulder like the mantle of judgment itself. A knight of impeccable reputation, loyal beyond reproach.

“My lord,” Ser Lorence said with a slight bow. “I must apologize. The Queen has asked that this gathering remain for women only. No man may enter—not even yourself.”

Alaric inclined his head, his expression unchanged. “I understand. I won’t intrude.”

Roxton gave a respectful nod and turned back to his post.

Alaric said nothing more. He moved on, down the hallway that curved behind the solar chamber, passing long-dead tapestries and the hush of morning fires. He knew the old keep better than any living soul—where the cracks were, the servant routes, the places built for watching without being seen. A small alcove opened near the back wall, where a seam of stone betrayed a long-unused sconce passage. He found the old peephole without effort, a narrow slit of carved stone no wider than a blade’s width, and leaned in.

The Queen sat within.

Not on the great chair before the hearth, not in any regal posturing—but on a simple stool, low to the ground, her silks gathered beneath her knees. She had brought herself to their level—not to speak at them, but with them. Around her, the room was filled with women of every standing—noble ladies, minor daughters, merchant widows, even the old washerwoman from the kitchens. Some seemed nervous, others reverent. But the Queen’s voice flowed among them like warm water—inviting, gentle, yet certain.

“No matter the name you carry,” she was saying, “you are women of the North. You are mothers and daughters, sisters and widows. You know the cold. You know loss. You know strength. What you say here matters.”

One young woman spoke up—hesitant at first, then bolder—about her fears for the coming winter, about rising food costs and the way her husband’s bannermen took liberties when collecting grain. Another followed, voicing concern over what would happen when another King Beyond the Wall would attack again, and what safety would mean for their children. Alysanne listened to each voice without interruption. Her eyes did not wander. She did not wave away complaints, nor redirect toward courtesies. When a girl of no more than fifteen confessed fear of being married off to a man twice her age, the Queen took her hand gently and said, “Fear is no weakness. It is the heart’s way of warning you that something must change.”
Alaric could not remember a southern queen ever speaking so plainly.

He leaned slightly closer, his broad shoulders brushing the cold stone, one hand braced against the wall. He watched as the Queen laughed lightly at a joke from one of the Cerwyn women, a true laugh—not a courtly trill, but a breath stolen from the belly. Her braid shimmered with fine threads of silver, and her cloak had slipped slightly off her shoulder, revealing a small white scar above her collarbone, like a ghost of past battles fought and survived. She had somehow managed to end a heated argument between Whitehill & Forrester girls, the ones his son danced with. His eyes lingered longer than they should have. Watching not out of lust, but something more difficult to name. Curiosity, perhaps. Or the slow pull of something thawing.

A quiet sound—no more than a breath—made him turn.

Lord Karne Bolton stood in the shadow of the hallway just beyond the arch. He had a talent for arriving unnoticed, like breath on glass. His face was bloodless, his eyes pale and patient. A hush clung to him like a second skin.

“My lord,” Karne said, voice smooth, low, and eerily calm. “Keeping watch over the Queen?”

Alaric straightened, spine stiff. “I don’t spy, Lord Bolton. I observe. There’s a difference.”

Karne stepped forward, boots silent on stone. “Observation can be dangerous in its own right. Especially when eyes wander too far from their own halls.” There was no smile on his lips, only that stillness that made Alaric want to draw his cloak tighter. He could almost smell the cold of the Dreadfort on him.

Alaric didn’t flinch. “You speak of wandering, yet you hold secrets as if they were coin. I know there’s something you’re keeping close.”

Karne’s expression did not change. Only his fingers moved—one pale hand brushing the edge of his sleeve. “I keep what my house has always kept,” he replied, the words nearly a whisper. “Our strength lies in silence.”

Alaric stepped closer, his voice lowering with warning. “Don’t mistake my patience for blindness.”

Karne smiled. It was not a kind expression. “Mmm. And secrets, too. There’s one you carry in silence… and one you think I do.”

Alaric’s eyes narrowed, but his tone remained even. “If you’re threatening me, Karne, you’ll need more than a whisper. I don’t take riddles at my gates.”

Karne tilted his head slightly, the gesture eerily childlike. “A threat? No. We Boltons do not threaten, Lord Stark.” His lips twitched. Then, almost dreamily, he added, “Our blades are sharp.”

Alaric gave a cold snort. “As sharp as your honor, I imagine.”

Unfazed, Karne let the jab pass like mist. “The Queen remarked the other day that your son and my daughter are often seen together. She thought it a noble match. Perhaps she sees what you do not.”

Alaric’s voice turned to ice. “Perhaps she doesn’t know that noble matches with your House come with coats of skin and lies..”

Karne’s gaze lingered on him, heavy as snowfall. Then, in that same hushed tone, he said, “Your father once told me—only in battle do you meet your true friends. I fought with you and dear late Lord Walton under the Wall. I bled for the North. But when the swords were sheathed and the banners lowered, promises made to others were honored.” He stepped forward, close enough for his breath to fog faintly between them. “And mine were not.”

There was silence between them. Long. Unbroken. Alaric didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Only said, flatly, “And that’s why they call it war, Lord Bolton. Not courtship.”

Karne’s lips twitched again, something between a smirk and a threat—and with a slow, precise nod. “My lord forgive my tone, I forgot my status.” He turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving Alaric alone with the cold of ghosts he’d thought buried.

Alaric remained standing for a time in the empty corridor, the torchlight flickering over the stone as though trying to chase the cold from his bones. His jaw tightened. He hated that man’s voice—soft like a lullaby, but full of knives. There was truth in what Karne had said, buried beneath bitterness and quiet accusation, but Alaric didn’t care to dig it out.

Some ghosts were better left in the snow.

He turned and made his way down the stairwell, out through the side hall, and into the main courtyard. The sky had grayed further since the morning, and light snow had begun to fall—gentle, dry flakes that danced on the air before vanishing against the stone. The wind carried the smell of wet wood, leather, and cold iron. The yard was alive with movement. Servants passed with firewood and salted meat. A blacksmith hammered in rhythm against steel. Stable boys chased a loose goat, their laughter echoing off the walls. Yet Alaric’s eyes found his son at once.

Weymar sat alone atop a wooden fence near the training yard, small against the open sky, his boots tucked up on the rail and his cloak speckled in snow. His head was tilted back, watching the heavens with quiet fascination.

Alaric crossed the yard, his heavy boots crunching faintly in the frost. He stopped just beside the boy, folding his arms, letting the silence settle before speaking. “What do you see up there?” he asked, voice low.

Weymar didn’t look away. “A shadow,” he said softly. “High up. I think it’s her.”

Alaric followed his son’s gaze and, after a moment, caught it too—just a dark sliver gliding far above the clouds, circling lazily against the pale light. Silverwing. “The Queen’s dragon,” Alaric murmured. “The beast must have taken to the sky.”

Weymar nodded, but said nothing more. The boy’s face was pale with cold, his cheeks red, a snowflake caught on the dark curl of his hair. He wasn’t bundled like the others, his cloak unfastened at the shoulder, letting the snow rest there undisturbed.

“You’ll catch your death sitting out like this,” Alaric said, not unkindly.

“I like the cold,” Weymar replied. “Mother always told me the longer I stay outside the next time I last longer.”

That gave Alaric pause. He looked at his son, really looked—at the way his eyes followed the dragon above, not in fear or awe, but with quiet wonder. It struck him how much Weymar reminded him of Walton, his lost brother, in those moments when he’d gone still and watchful. “You think she’ll fly it around?” Alaric asked.

Weymar shrugged. “I don’t know. Do dragons like the cold?”

Alaric huffed, almost a laugh. “They’re fire made flesh, or so the stories say. But this one came north. Maybe she likes it better than we think.”

“Maybe the dragon doesn’t mind the cold,” Weymar said, his voice distant. “

They stood there in silence for a while, father and son, watching the slow arc of Silverwing overhead, the snow catching the faint glint of her wings like slivers of moonlight. The wind picked up slightly, and Weymar pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

“Come down,” Alaric said gently, placing a hand on the fence beside him. “The dragon will return. You can watch her from the window—someplace warmer.”

Weymar had insisted on staying in the courtyard, brushing the snow from the fence rail and peering up at the sky as though willing the dragon to return. Alaric had only nodded—he’d long since learned not to argue when his youngest son grew quiet like that. So he left him to the snowfall and turned toward the keep, pulling his cloak tighter against the rising wind. As he passed the outer edge of the training yard, a chorus of shouting and grunting broke through the winter hush.

He stopped at the edge of the yard, squinting through the flurries. There was movement in the center—a tangle of limbs and wooden swords, laughter and bruises. His eldest son, Torren, stood tall over a fallen opponent, chest rising with pride, sword planted in the dirt beside him.

Joran Glover, muddy-faced and breathless, rolled onto his back with a dramatic groan. “Seven hells, Stark, again?”

Torren grinned wide, offering a hand to help him up. “Maybe if you’d stop charging in like a bloody Umber, you’d last longer.”

Joran took the hand, then promptly pulled Torren down with him into the snow, both boys laughing like wolves at play. But neither of them noticed the boy creeping behind them, light-footed and silent.
Haener Reed, no older than fifteen, moved like smoke. One moment, he was at the edge of the sparring ring; the next, his wooden blade was against Torren’s neck.

“Dead,” he said calmly, voice as thin and chill as mist. “Both of you.”

Torren blinked, then groaned as he raised his hands in surrender. “Bloody swampspawn...”

Joran coughed out a laugh, rubbing his ribs. “Serves you right. You never watch your back.”

Alaric watched from the edge of the yard, arms folded, a slight shake of his head betraying his amusement. It wasn’t discipline—but it was training. And it did his heart some good to see his sons and their companions sharing laughter and bruises in equal measure.

But the moment broke with the sound of hurried steps and a voice behind him.

“Lord Stark,” came the even, clear tone of Maester Edric, his grey robes already dusted with fresh snow. The older man approached with purpose, scroll in hand, sealed with golden wax bearing the unmistakable sigil of House Targaryen.

Alaric turned, brow already furrowing. “If it’s for the Queen,” he said, “she’s in the solar. She won’t like being disturbed.”

Maester Edric shook his head. “It’s not for Her Grace. It’s addressed to you, my lord.”

Alaric’s gaze dropped to the scroll, tension settling like iron behind his ribs. The royal seal gleamed faintly in the gray light. Few letters came from the South bearing the dragon’s crest—fewer still that were not meant for the Queen. He took the scroll slowly, his breath clouding the cold air. He didn’t open it right away. Instead, he stared at the seal, as though it might crack on its own and reveal the words within. Maester Edric waited in silence, patient and unreadable.

(Finally, Alaric muttered, “What in the old Gods does my King need? I swear they are always watching, even when you think the cold has chased them off.”

To Lord Alaric Stark, Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell,

I pray these words find you in strength and stability, as is your custom and legacy.

You will forgive, I hope, my silence. Affairs of state have held me tightly bound in King’s Landing. The burden of ruling weighs heavier than ever in these years, and though my mind and intention have been long fixed upon the North, my body has remained unwillingly trapped by duties I cannot neglect.

My baggage train, and that of my Queen, should be arriving within the week. They carry with them gifts for your House and provisions for the Queen’s extended stay. I am grateful—truly—for your hospitality, and for the care you and your household have shown to my beloved Alysanne. I know well that Winterfell is not an easy place for outsiders, but your respect and discretion have not gone unnoticed.

It pleases me to hear of her progress in the North, and I thank you for honoring her presence and offering the strength of your hall.
I intend to fly Vermithor north myself, gods willing, as soon as matters here are settled—no later than the turning of the moon. I would not see my Queen spend another season in snow without the King beside her.

Until then, I trust your judgment and ask only for your continued protection of her person, her mission, and her dignity.

In faith,
Jaehaerys Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm)

Alaric lowered the letter slowly. “Well,” he muttered dryly, “more good men on dragons. Just what the North needs.”

Maester Edric gave a short, amused huff. “Not all dragons bite, my lord.”

Alaric turned to him, brows raised. “Aye. But even the tame ones can set a house ablaze if you look away too long.”

Edric held out a second, smaller scroll. “There is another letter—for the Queen. I’ll see it placed in her chamber. It’s written in the King’s cipher.”

Alaric took a breath and nodded. “Leave it with her guards. She’ll know how to break it.” Edric bowed, but lingered. Alaric’s gaze drifted back to the window, to the light snow falling beyond the glass, then returned to the maester.

“She holds her own court,” Alaric said slowly, almost grudgingly. “What does she hope to accomplish with it? Whisperings, embroidery, and gossip?”

The maester hesitated. “More than that, my lord. Much more.” Alaric turned fully toward him now, arms folded. Edric adjusted his sleeve. “The Queen meets with ladies from across the land of her husband kingdom. She listens—to grievances, yes, but also ideas. Trade routes, tithes, inheritance claims. Even minor laws. What a lord might ignore, or dismiss, she carries to her husband. Often, those thoughts shape policy before the council even gathers. She’s not simply... amusing herself. She’s building something.”

Alaric frowned. “Power?”

Edric met his eyes. “Stability. Influence. A voice for those who usually speak only in corners.”

Alaric grunted. “And what does the Queen think of our corners?”

“She finds the North… slow to change,” Edric said carefully. “But not incapable of it. She told me, just yesterday, that your people have more sense than the southern courts—just fewer chances to speak it.”

Alaric went quiet for a long moment when finally, he muttered, “She does more in three weeks than some kings manage in three years.”

Edric inclined his head. “Which is precisely why she holds court.”

Alaric gave a slow nod, "Let her do as she pleases,” he said.

“My lord, do you wish to reply to the King?” Maester Edric asked carefully. His voice, though steady, carried a thread of hesitation—a note Alaric caught immediately. Alaric looked up from the hearth, meeting the young maester’s eyes. He saw not just the question in them, but the man behind it—a Southerner still getting used to the North’s cold and quiet weight. He’d been here for four years now, yet his Westerlands lilt hadn't fully faded. Silverhill, if memory served.

“You’re from the south,” Alaric said suddenly, narrowing his eyes. “Silverhill, wasn’t it?”

Edric blinked, caught off guard. “Aye, my lord. That is correct.”

“Tell me about your youth,” Alaric said.

The maester hesitated again. “My youth, my lord?”

“Yes,” Alaric replied, voice low but firm. “You heard me.”

Edric cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “There’s little to tell, truly. My father was a squire to Lord Serrett of Silverhill. They blazon their arms with a peacock in its pride on a cream field. Their house words—unofficial, I suppose—were said to be ‘I Have No Rival.’”

“A peacock,” Alaric murmured. “Fitting, for the Westerlands.” Alaric amused himself with that imagine on a banner marching to war

Edric gave a soft, strained chuckle, then stilled.

“And yet,” Alaric went on, “you didn’t stay. Why not become a knight? Why not serve a Westerling house and avoid the cold halls of Winterfell?”

“I had no wish to serve them,” Edric said finally. “Not truly.”

Alaric raised a brow. “Why?”

“Because everything in the Westerlands bends the knee to gold, my lord,” Edric answered, more boldly now. “My father bent his back for pride and pageantry. I bent mine for knowledge.”
Alaric studied him for a moment longer. “And yet you came North.”

“It was either the Citadel’s choice,” Edric said, “or my punishment.” He hesitated, then added with a small smile, “Though some days I no longer know the difference.”

A rare chuckle escaped Alaric—low and brief, like a cracking stone. “Better frostbite than Lannister favors,” Alaric nodded slowly, then gestured to the sealed letter from King Jaehaerys still lying on the desk. “As for your question… no. No reply yet. The King says he’ll come north. I’ll wait until I can speak to him face to face.”

Edric bowed slightly. “Very well, my lord. I’ll place the Queen’s letter in her chamber, as requested.”

Alaric watched the young man turn and go, his steps echoing down the snow path. The great hall lay empty, its long tables cleared, the hearths low and flickering with dying embers. Servants had vanished to their quarters, and even the hounds had stopped their low growling at shadows. It was that hour when Winterfell breathed—stone and snow and memory whispering between the walls.
Alaric walked alone through the hallways, the steady thud of his boots echoing in rhythm with his thoughts. He didn’t know why sleep refused him, only that it often did—especially when the moon hung low and the wind whistled like ghosts through the arrow slits.

He stopped near a window, one of the tall, narrow ones facing north. Snow whispered down in silver threads, blanketing the battlements, softening the world outside. Somewhere above, the dragon had returned—he'd felt it earlier, in the low shudder of the stones. But now, there was only silence.

And then, footsteps.

Soft. Deliberate. Not a servant.

He didn’t turn immediately.

“You walk like a man trying to wear down the stones,” came a voice behind him. Familiar. Light with mischief, but not mocking. “If you mean to pace the keep into submission, Lord Stark, I believe it’s winning.”

Alaric turned, unsurprised. “Your Grace.”

Queen Alysanne stood in the arch of the corridor, wrapped in her cloak of black and red. Her hair was unbound for once, falling in soft waves past her shoulders, silver-gold catching the torchlight like moonfire. No guards followed her. No courtly retinue. Only her.

“You’re the only one awake,” she added. “Well… aside from the kitchen boys sneaking honeycakes.”

“I don’t sleep easily,” he admitted.

“I’d gathered.”

She moved closer—not with the regal steps of a queen in procession, but quiet, natural strides. She joined him at the window without asking, her eyes sweeping the snowy courtyard below. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly. “Lonely. But beautiful.”

“Beauty and loneliness is something many experience in the North,” he replied.

For a time, they stood in silence, the space between them small but not crowded. The wind beyond the stones howled faintly, but it felt distant in this pocket of stillness.
Then she turned slightly toward him.

“Do you ever speak plainly, Lord Stark? Or only in riddles and warnings?”

Alaric huffed a faint breath—perhaps not quite a laugh. “You’ve had no trouble deciphering me so far.”

“Oh, I’ve had trouble,” she said, glancing at him with a ghost of a smile. “But I’m persistent.”

Another quiet. Her gaze dropped to her hands clasped before her. “I don’t miss court,” she murmured. “Not the way I thought I would. The dresses, the dances, the whispers. Here, people look at you directly. Or they don’t look at all. I find it oddly... comforting.”

Alaric studied her. “The North has little use for performance.”

“But plenty of masks, all the same,” she said, then turned her eyes to him. “Even you.”

He didn’t answer at first. The cold stone beneath his hand felt solid. Familiar. Alysanne tilted her head, studying him with quiet amusement. “You’d be surprised how little dancing I see among the Lords of the Realm. Most just grovel. Or posture. You at least tell the truth, even when it’s unpleasant.”

“Truth isn’t a gift, Your Grace. It's honor I hold myself too.”

“An honor I cherish,” she said gently.

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked out again at the snow.

After a moment, she asked, “Do you always walk the halls at night?”

“When the castle sleeps,” he said. “It’s the only time I don’t feel like a man being pulled by a thousand threads. The quiet helps me think.”
“And what do you think of?” Her voice had softened again.

His answer didn’t come easily, but when it did, it surprised her. “As of now…My brother. Walton.”

Alysanne turned toward him.

“I thought of him tonight. He would’ve liked this. He was always for a feast and honored guests. I believe you’d enjoy time better here than I have offered.” Alaric’s brow furrowed faintly.

“I’m sure I would have. Yet I am pleased by the current lord of Winterfell doings. He’s been more than I have expected.” she said at last, and her tone was not mocking.

“Disappointed?” he asked, eyes flicking toward her, just once.

“No,” she said, smiling. “Not disappointed.”

He looked at her a heartbeat longer than necessary, then back to the snow. Something had changed in his face—a softening, maybe, or just a quiet retreat of tension from his shoulders. She glanced down and said lightly, “I think I even saw you almost smile earlier.”

Alaric exhaled sharply through his nose. “A tragedy. I’ll have to issue a raven in apology.”

This time, her laughter came freely, silver and soft, echoing faintly in the stone hall. Alaric turned his head slightly, just enough so she wouldn’t quite see the faint color that crept into his cheeks beneath the beard.

“Old preserve me,” he muttered. “You’re worse than my daughter."

“I’ll take that as the highest compliment.” She let the silence linger after that, not out of awkwardness but comfort. A shared stillness. A pause in the storm. When she finally turned to go, she brushed his arm lightly with her hand—a momentary touch, deliberate and gentle.

“Good night, Lord Stark.”

Alaric hesitated. “...Alaric.”

She turned, brows raised gently. “Yes, my Lord Stark?”

“Call me Alaric,” he said, his voice quieter than before. “You’ve been here almost a month now. My children have warmed to you… So should I.”

There was a flicker of surprise in her eyes, then something softer bloomed—genuine, almost bashful delight. A smile grew across the young queen’s face, slow and radiant—a smile he never believed he could summon from someone like her. “Then call me Alysanne,” she replied, her voice playful but warm. “Alaric.”

He dipped his head just slightly, the faintest curve tugging at his lips. “Of course, Your Gra—” He caught himself. “Yes. Alysanne.”

“Good night, Alaric,” she said again, more gently this time, her hand brushing along the stone wall as she turned to leave.

He didn’t stop her. He didn’t ask her to stay. But as she disappeared down the corridor, her silver-blonde hair catching the last firelight, Alaric’s gaze lingered longer than he meant.

Chapter Text

The snow hadn’t stopped since morning, but it was the light kind—fluff that clung to cloaks and hair like ash from a sleeping fire. Winterfell’s courtyard buzzed with life despite the cold. Boys tested their swords near the training yard, hounds barked at nothing, and steam curled from the kitchen chimneys into the pale sky. Alara stood at the edge of the courtyard, bundled in a cloak of dark grey wool lined with red stitching. Beside her, half-hiding behind a carved stone column, stood her closest friend in all the North: Lady Mariya Hornwood, daughter of a minor but ancient house, known more for sharp tongues than sharp swords.

“He’s wearing that ridiculous feather again,” Mariya muttered, flicking her chin toward the yard where the young lords gathered.

Alarra squinted. “Oh, gods. Not the green one?”

“The very same.” Mariya leaned closer. “He looks like a goose courting a milkmaid.”

Alarra smothered a laugh behind her glove. “That’s Lord Cerwyn’s son. If my father hears you calling him a goose, you’ll be banished to the kitchens.”

Mariya rolled her eyes. “Please. Your father’s too busy brooding at shadows and scaring off ravens to listen to me.”

They giggled together like girls their age were meant to, their laughter puffing out in clouds between them. Snow clung to the fur of their hoods and dusted the steps behind them. Then Mariya leaned closer, voice dropping into scandalous tones.

“Have you noticed Lady Glover?” she asked.

Alarra blinked. “Joan older sister Lady Glover? No. Why?”

“She’s been wearing that thick sash every day. Even in the warmth of the hall. I swear on the old gods and the new, she’s hiding a belly under it.”

Alarra gasped and gave Mariya a shove. “No!”

“Yes!” Mariya insisted. “Swollen like a ripe summer plum. Rumor says it from Knight.”

“She’s not even betrothed.”

Mariya raised a brow. “That’s exactly the problem, isn’t it?”

Alarra nearly doubled over in laughter, covering her mouth as they leaned into one another for balance. Across the courtyard, louder voices carried over the wind. The boys were gathering again—Torren, her older brother, among them, standing with that confident air of someone who knew others were watching him. His best friend, Joran Glover, stood nearby, elbowing someone and laughing. Near them, Eddric Whitehill, tall and lean, had stepped forward, wooden sword slung over his shoulder with performative ease.

“I say a friendly match,” Whitehill called out, “between me and young Forrester here. For old pride's sake.”

That drew a few murmurs and a scoff from the target in question—Alyn Forrester, the youngest of his line, already with his brother’s dark eyes and his house’s quiet, smoldering temper.

Alarra sighed, already feeling the headache forming. “Not again.”

Mariya leaned in. “It’s like watching the Blackwoods and Brackens… except dumber.”

“Much,” Alarra said.

“Soon they’ll be arguing over who planted the first pine tree north of the Barrowlands.”

Alarra turned, watching as Torren tried to step between them with his usual mix of charm and threat. She knew that look—he was trying to defuse it before someone’s nose got broken. Again. She glanced at Mariya and shook her head. “Boys.”

Mariya nodded solemnly. “Absolute fools. Every one of them.”

And still, beneath their mockery, Alarra felt a faint warmth. A comfort. The kind of peace that only came in stolen hours between frost and duty—between the thrones and titles and houses clawing at one another just beneath the surface. Eddric Whitehill strutted across the courtyard like he already owned it, wooden sword resting on his shoulder, his fur cloak tossed back to show off the embroidered direwolf stitched on his gambeson—though everyone knew he wore it to provoke, not honor.

With a flourish, he turned from the gathered boys and made his way toward the two girls tucked by the steps. Alarra Stark arched an eyebrow as he approached, already sensing trouble. “Lady Alarra,” Whitehill said, stopping with a dramatic bow that barely missed slapping snow from the ground. “Might I be so bold as to ask for a lady’s favor? A ribbon, a braid, a—” he glanced down “—snow-kissed
flower? Something to keep close to heart as I duel this ferocious Forrester cur?”

Alarra looked him over, unimpressed. “You do realize this isn’t a joust, yes?”

Whitehill grinned. “But all the best stories begin with a favor.”

“Do they?” she replied dryly. “Well, I’m afraid my favor isn’t a ribbon or a kiss.”

Before he could ask again, she bent slightly, scooped a neat handful of snow, and with perfect aim hurled it into the center of his chest. The powder burst across his tunic in a puff of white. Eddric staggered half a step back, dramatically clutching at the spot as though he’d been pierced by a lance. “A deadly blow,” he said with a mock gasp. “I’ll wear it as a badge of honor.”

He gave an exaggerated bow. “I shall carry your… snowball with me into the fray, fair Lady Stark.”

Alarra curtsied with matching sarcasm. “Do try not to fall on your own sword.” With a grin stretching ear to ear, Whitehill turned and swaggered back toward the yard like he’d just won the entire war. The other boys howled with laughter and jeers—none louder than Joran Glover.

But Alyn Forrester, quiet and composed, took a different approach. He walked to where Mariya Hornwood stood, now watching the exchange wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. Without a word, Alyn bowed—not overdone, not mocking. Just a proper, sharp Northern bow. Then, without asking, he gently took her hand and kissed it, his eyes never leaving hers.

Mariya froze, her breath catching so sharply it was almost a hiccup. The tips of her ears turned redder than her gloves. She blinked three times, then managed a squeaked, “Good luck.”

Alyn gave her a soft, near-smile and walked back to his place, sword already raised for the coming bout. Alarra turned to Mariya, grinning like a wolf.

“Oh hush,” Mariya muttered, but her smile gave her away.

Across the courtyard, Torren Stark, leaning against the practice post, caught the whole exchange. He rolled his eyes at his sister with a groan loud enough to carry halfway to the stables. Alarra and Mariya tucked their cloaks tighter as they watched the boys circle each other in the packed snow. The sounds of boots crunching and wooden blades clacking echoed across the courtyard, the light snow swirling between them.

Whitehill struck first—of course he did. He lunged with force, his swings wild but heavy. For a few passes, Alyn Forrester stayed defensive, stepping light on his feet, parrying but not attacking.

“Does he always swing like he’s trying to chop wood?” Mariya whispered, squinting at Whitehill’s stance.

“Father says Whitehills mistake brute strength for skill,” Alarra murmured back. “And that they never use their ears. Or their heads.”

“They must save those for tree chopping," Mariya said, earning a sharp elbow from Alarra as they both stifled laughter.

Whitehill advanced again, blade raised, and brought it down hard. Forrester sidestepped neatly, snow kicking up around his boots. They circled again, and this time, Whitehill feinted high and spun low, sweeping his leg toward Forrester’s knees.

Mariya sucked in a breath. “Oh—!”

But Forrester dropped low in a smooth duck and let Whitehill’s leg sweep fly just past him. In one fluid motion, he pivoted, planted his heel, and knocked Whitehill’s legs out from under him with a clean, practiced sweep. The older boy hit the snow with a thud that sent flakes flying. Before Whitehill could rise, Forrester planted the tip of his wooden sword at his chest—firm, but not cruel.

The yard went silent for a moment.

Then Mariya leapt up from the stone step, clapping with both hands. “Yes! I mean—oh!” Realizing her outburst had turned heads—including Forrester’s—she flushed crimson and promptly sat back down like she'd been slapped, shrinking into her cloak.

Alarra grinned into her shoulder. “Very subtle.”

“Shut up,” Mariya hissed, her cheeks now nearly as red as her gown trim.

Down in the yard, Forrester offered his hand to the fallen Whitehill, the gesture plain and respectful. Whitehill hesitated. He stared at the hand. His jaw clenched. Something low was muttered—Alarra couldn’t hear the words—but after a beat, he took the hand and let himself be pulled upright. Forrester gave him a nod. Not triumphant—just courteous. Whitehill dusted snow from his shoulder with more force than necessary, but didn’t make a scene. For once.

Alarra let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Well,” she said, brushing snow from her skirt, “if this is how the ancient feud ends, we should host duels every week.”

Mariya groaned. “Please. That’s the least bloody ending Whitehills and Forresters have ever managed.”

The boys began to disperse, a few clapping Forrester on the back. Whitehill trudged off to the side, scowling, while Alyn glanced once—just once—toward the girls on the steps. And Mariya couldn’t stop fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, no matter how hard she tried to look unbothered. As the boys drifted apart, the clamor of the courtyard settling, Alarra nudged her friend with a sharp elbow.

“Well? Are you just going to stare at your champion, or are you going to speak to him?”

Mariya jolted, as if the very idea had been a slap. “Alarra!”

“What?” Alarra said, all wide-eyed innocence. “He fought with honor. He practically knelt in the snow for you. That’s half a marriage proposal by Northern standards.”

“You’re insufferable.” Mariya swatted her arm, cheeks still flushed. “He only looked this way because I shouted like a madwoman.”

“And now you’ve got his attention,” Alarra said with a sly grin. “Might as well put it to good use. Go tell your Champion of House Hornwood how gallant he was.”

Mariya buried her face in her gloves, groaning, “You’re worse than my septa.”

“And yet, here you are, still sitting with me. Clearly, I have some charm.”

“I swear,” Mariya hissed, voice low, “if he turns me down—”

“Oh, he won’t,” Alarra interrupted, crossing her arms. “He’s already kissed your hand. That’s practically southern of him. The poor boy’s probably halfway in love already.”
Mariya turned to glare, but Alarra only smiled sweetly, rocking back on her heels.

“Go,” she whispered. “Before he gets swallowed up by Glover and my brother talking sword lengths.”

Mariya hesitated another breath, then stood, brushing the snow from her cloak and skirts. She tugged at her sleeves, fixed her braids, and glanced once, nervously, toward Alyn Forrester, who was wiping snow from his boots and speaking with one of his cousins.

Alarra gave her a playful shove. “Seven help me, I’ll push you if you don’t walk.”

Mariya shot her a look that could curdle milk—but it didn’t stop her. With shoulders drawn and eyes wide, she took a step, then another, her boots crunching in the courtyard snow. Alarra watched her friend cross the distance, biting back a grin as Mariya paused awkwardly at Alyn’s side. She couldn’t hear what was said, but the way Mariya toyed with her braid and the way Alyn turned toward her—steady, and a growing smiling, but attentive—was enough.

Alarra folded her arms and leaned against the step, eyes narrowing as she whispered, almost proudly to herself: “Lady Hornwood’s Champion. That has a ring to it.”

And if Mariya looked over her shoulder once and scowled at her, Alarra just waved sweetly back. Alarra left Mariya to her Forrester boy, slipping away from the courtyard with a lightness in her step and mischief in her grin. The air still smelled of snow and ashwood, but the sun had broken faintly through the clouds, painting Winterfell in a silver glow. She turned a corner near the hound kennels when a familiar voice greeted her.

“Well, well,” Torren Stark drawled, falling into step beside her with that ever-present lopsided smirk. “And here I thought you'd vanished into the weirwood with your giggling friend.”

Alarra rolled her eyes. “We were having a conversation. Not that you’d know what one of those is.”

“Looked more like swooning to me. I saw her looking at Forrester like he was some knight from a summer tale.”

“She was not swooning,” Alarra said, though she couldn’t quite hide her grin. “She was... impressed.”

Torren smirked. “That’s the first time a Forrester’s impressed anyone since the last time they lost a harvest.”

Alarra elbowed him, and he laughed, rubbing his ribs. They crossed into the warm gallery that led toward the family hall, boots thudding against old pinewood planks, snow trailing behind them. The smell of bread and roast pork drifted on the air, drawing both of their stomachs into impatient growls.

“Will you join us for the midday meal?” Torren asked, casting her a glance.

She nodded. “Of course. I never miss when there’s honeyed ham.”

“And here I thought you came for my charming company.”

She snorted. “Seven save me.”

The laughter between them faded a little as they approached the doors to the family solar—one of the smaller halls Winterfell used for more private meals and discussion. The carved wooden doors stood half-open, and as they neared, both of them slowed at the sound of low voices inside. Alarra was the first to peek through the door’s gap. She stopped mid-step.

Torren nearly bumped into her. “What is it?”

“Shhh,” she whispered, motioning with her hand. “Look.”

Inside, near the long table, Queen Alysanne stood by the tall window where snow filtered in soft as silk. Beside her stood Lord Alaric, facing her—not like the lord of a keep speaking to his guest, but like a man... listening. Not stiffly, not guarded, but genuinely. Their voices were too low to make out clearly, but Alarra could see the way Alysanne tilted her head toward him, the gentle smile that touched her lips. If anything, he leaned a little closer.

Alarra blinked. Her father never leaned.

Torren frowned. “Are they... talking about something important?”

“I don’t think it’s about the matter of coin,” Alarra said quietly. “Look at them.”

Torren leaned in, suspicious, eyes narrowing. “Do you think... Is she mothering him?”

Alarra glanced at him, then back at the pair.

“No,” she whispered. “I think... She's being kind. And he’s letting her.”

That truth was perhaps stranger than any flirtation. Before either could speak again, Alysanne’s gaze shifted—and caught Alarra’s watching. Rather than stiffen or break away, the Queen’s smile brightened, warm as spring thaw. She stepped back slightly from Alaric, hands folding together in front of her, and called out:

“Alarra, Torren—please, do come in. Lunch is ready. I’m afraid I’ve kept your lord father too long.”

Alaric, clearing his throat, turned away from the window. “You did no such thing.” His voice was softer than usual. Almost warm. Almost. Alarra entered first, composing herself as if she hadn’t just been eavesdropping.

“I hope we’re not interrupting,” she said, trying to sound casual.

“Not at all,” Alysanne replied, her voice as graceful as her gowns, but there was a hint of something else there—something gentler. She reached out and briefly touched Alarra’s arm. “I was just hearing about the old tales of the North. Your father remembers more of them than half the maesters.”

“Only the ones worth remembering,” Alaric muttered.

“And only the ones worth sharing,” Alysanne said with a wink to the children.

Alarra met her brother’s eyes across the table as they sat. Torren looked thoroughly puzzled. Alarra just smiled slightly to herself. The fire in the small hall crackled steadily, its warmth seeping into the stones as plates were passed and goblets poured. Roasted pork, soft bread, and root vegetables filled the table with a comforting aroma. The Queen sat to Lord Alaric’s right, speaking lightly with him while Torren and Alarra sat opposite, sharing smirks across the silverware.

The door creaked open again, letting in a gust of cold air—and in trotted Weymar Stark, cheeks red, hair a mess, and snow still clinging to his boots.

“I told you to wipe those before you came in,” Alaric muttered without looking.

“I did!” Weymar insisted, flopping into the seat beside Alarra and reaching for a roll. “Mostly.”

“Mostly,” Torren echoed with a grin. “Means he slipped past the guards like a shadowcat again.”

Alysanne smiled fondly, folding her hands as she turned toward the youngest Stark. “Weymar, you’ll catch a chill running about in this weather. What have you been up to, hm? More spying on my dragon from the battlements?”

Weymar’s eyes lit up instantly, his grin widening. “I saw her flying earlier. She circled twice! I think she likes the summer cold.”

Alysanne chuckled softly. “Silverwing tolerates the cold. She’s just vain enough to enjoy showing off for curious boys.”

“I wasn’t just watching,” Weymar said proudly. “I was tracking the way her shadow moved on the snow, and how fast she could glide between the towers.”

Alaric raised a brow, a hint of amusement in his usually solemn expression. “So you’re a maester now? Or a dragonmaster?”

“Maybe both!” Weymar said through a mouthful of bread, earning a laugh from Alarra.

“And what about this duel I’ve heard talk of?” Alaric added, glancing across the table toward his daughter. “Torren didn’t start it, did he?”

“Not this time,” Alarra said sweetly, cutting her meat with a smile. “Whitehill challenged young Forrester to a ‘friendly duel.’ Naturally, it turned into a spectacle. The courtyard was full.”

Torren rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t that dramatic.”

Alarra grinned wider. “Oh, but it was. Whitehill swung like he was trying to break a tree in half. And Alyn—well—he ducked, swept his legs out from under him, and dropped him like a sack of wet flour.”

A snort of laughter came from Weymar, followed by a proud “I saw that too!”

“And then,” Alarra continued, drawing it out, “Lady Mariya Hornwood, who had very much not been swooning, nearly tripped over herself cheering.”

“She did not trip,” Weymar added quickly. “She just jumped really fast.”

Alysanne smiled behind her goblet, eyes glinting. “It seems your friend has excellent taste. And timing.”

“She turned beet red,” Alarra added with a laugh. “Honestly, I thought she might faint when Forrester kissed her hand.”

“She’ll recover,” Alaric muttered, though his tone lacked any real disapproval.

“I think it’s sweet,” Alysanne said, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Young hearts, old houses… perhaps something more.”

Torren snorted. “Not between Whitehills and Forresters. Not even if you married them all together.”

Alysanne laughed softly, but her eyes drifted back to Alaric’s—just for a heartbeat. “Stranger things have happened in the North.”

Alarra caught that look. So did Torren. She glanced at her brother again, who raised a brow at her—just the faintest lift, as if to ask, Did you see that too?

The fire crackled softly as platters were passed and goblets refilled. Alysanne and Alaric spoke in low tones between bites, and though their conversation was light—harmless, even—Alarra noticed the rhythm of it. A give and take. Back and forth. Not the stiff courtesy her father gave to most southern lords. Not the terse silence he offered septons, maesters, or lesser vassals. This was... ease. An exchange. A willingness. And stranger still—her father wasn’t just speaking. He was listening.

“—the western road still floods with the spring melt,” Alysanne was saying, slicing neatly into her meat. “But if you rebuilt the low bridge with layered stonework, sloped outward, the water would push off rather than run through it.”

Alaric nodded once. “You’ve seen that done?”

“Twice. Once on Dragonstone. Once along the Kingsroad past Rosby. My brother hated both projects.”

“Smart,” he said with faint sarcasm, but his lips twitched. “Though I admit it may work here.”

Alarra’s fork paused mid-air. Did he just say that? Agreeing? With her? She looked to Torren, who had also caught it. Her brother’s brow furrowed faintly as he took another sip of wine, watching their father with quiet scrutiny.

And then Alarra spoke, her curiosity finally winning out. “You seem to take the Queen’s advice easily, Father. That’s rare.”

Before either Alysanne or Alaric could respond, he cut across her with surprising calmness. “Because it’s sound advice,” he said simply. “And because she will be joining me on a hunt tomorrow. A light ride. We’ll take a small party into the Wolfswood—two nights, at most.”

Alarra blinked. “You’re going hunting?”

Her father hadn’t gone on a true hunt in months. He never left Winterfell unless he had to—and certainly not with royal company.

“Yes,” Alaric said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Some of the men could use the break, and Silverwing shouldn’t be the only creature in this castle stretching her wings.”
Alysanne gave a polite laugh at that, though her gaze lingered on the Stark lord.

Torren shifted beside Alarra. “And while you’re gone?”

Alaric looked directly at him. “You will sit as Lord of Winterfell.”

Torren’s expression froze for a moment, the weight of the words settling on his shoulders. “I—Lord of Winterfell? Yes, of course.”

“Nothing grand,” Alaric added. “See that the kitchens stay orderly, speak with the kennelmaster about the pups, and keep the Maester from reorganizing the library again.”4

"Will see if lordship comes naturally to the heir of Winterfell. I have no doubt in your ability being son of Lord Alaric Stark. Strong and capable." Alysanne spoke her voice filled with kindness, yet her eyes wandered from Torren back to Alaric making her father...Smile?

“And if someone tries to invade the North? Like oh I don’t know, the Iron Born or pirates, hell maybe the Dothraki make ships and sail across the Narrow Sea.”

“Then Alysanne will burn them from the sky,” he said without missing a beat, nodding once to the Queen.

Alysanne smiled, though there was a glint in her eye. “I would do it for the kitchens alone. I’ve never tasted spiced venison like yours, Lady Alarra.”

Alarra flushed faintly and murmured a thanks, but her thoughts were distant. Something had shifted. Subtle as snowfall, but real. Her father was changing—but not softening. No, not quite. He was bending, where before he had only stood straight and cold as stone. And it was Alysanne who made it happen. As the table returned to light conversation, Alarra found herself staring at the two of them again, this time less as daughter and more as a girl trying to understand the shape of something unnamed. The hunt might be brief. But some part of her wondered—when they returned, would

Winterfell be quite the same? Would her own father be the same?

The moment lunch ended and the servants began to clear the table, Alarra slipped out, beckoning to Torren and Weymar with a flick of her hand. They followed her down a side hall, away from the warmth of the hearth and into the drafty corridor where her voice wouldn’t carry.

Torren raised a brow, amused. “Plotting already? The Queen’s still in the room.”

“That’s why I’m plotting now,” Alarra said, glancing over her shoulder before she spoke in a lower voice. “There’s something strange happening with Father.”

Torren folded his arms. “Strange how?”

“He’s listening. He’s agreeing. With her.”

“Maker forbid,” Torren muttered with a smirk. “A Stark lord with an open mind.”

“I’m serious,” Alarra said, lips pursed. “He’s going on a hunt with her. A two-day ride. Just the two of them and a few men. When’s the last time he left Winterfell for anything but war councils or funerals?”

Torren shrugged. “She’s clever. Maybe he respects that.”

“And maybe he’s finally opening up,” Alarra whispered.

Beside her, Weymar, crouched atop the stone ledge like a crow on a perch, grinned. “So... what’s the plan?”

“We spy on them,” Alarra declared. “Weymar, you follow them before they ride out. I want to know if they’re alone, who they take, how long they’re out. Torren, you ask Glover if he knows anything in Wolfwoods.”

“Oh, he’ll know,” Torren muttered.

“I accept the challenge!” Weymar announced proudly, puffing his chest out as if he were being knighted.

And then—

“What challenge is this that you’re so pleased to accept?”

The voice came like silk over steel.

All three siblings froze in place. Queen Alysanne stood at the end of the hall, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of her lips. Her golden hair was swept back beneath a pale blue hood, her cheeks pink from the hearth’s warmth, her eyes bright and knowing.

Weymar’s face went ghost white.

Torren stiffened.

Alarra opened her mouth, but Weymar spoke first. “—Uh—it’s a snowball fight! With the guard’s children! Big match, honor and all. I’m team captain!” And with that, he bolted down the corridor, cloak flapping behind him like a squirrel leaping for the trees.

Alysanne blinked. Then laughed, soft and silvery. “Team captain,” she echoed, watching him vanish. “A natural-born general, that one.”

Alarra, still red in the face, dipped a quick curtsy. “Your Grace—”

“I’m sure you meant something, Lady Alarra,” Alysanne said, voice full of amusement, not reprimand. “But I’m not here to pry into childhood conspiracies.” She stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Alarra’s arm. “I was wondering if I might borrow you. I thought we could walk the gardens together. I’ve questions only a Stark daughter can answer.”

Alarra blinked. “Me?”

“If you’re not too busy planning warfare.”

She flushed. “No, I—I’d be honored.”

Torren gave her a subtle glance as Alysanne guided her down the hall, as if to say, She’s spying on you now.

The snow-draped garden was quiet, the wind no more than a breath whispering through the boughs of the bare ash trees. The weirwood leaves redder than any Dornish wine wish to copy , and the pond at the garden’s center had frozen over, its surface glinting pale under the milky afternoon sky. Alysanne walked slowly, gloved hands tucked neatly before her, her silks trailing just above the frost-laced stones. Alarra kept pace beside her, not quite sure what to say, the silence only broken by the soft crunch of their boots.

“It’s lovely out here,” Alysanne said at last, her voice calm, but thoughtful. “Different than the South, of course. There’s a clarity in the North. A stillness.”

Alarra tilted her head slightly. “That’s something my father would say. Or the old men in the godswood.”

“Well, then they must be wise men,” the Queen said, flashing her a smile.

They rounded the edge of a frost-bitten rosebush, its thorns long and curved like claws. A raven called from one of the watch posts in the distance, then was swallowed by the quiet again.

“I wanted to ask you,” Alysanne continued gently, “about your father.”

Alarra blinked, not expecting the shift. “My father?”

Alysanne nodded. “You’ve seen more of him than I have, and likely know him better than most. I don’t ask out of idle curiosity—I simply… I’m trying to understand the man behind the wolf.”

Alarra let out a soft breath, considering the weight of that. “My father is not an easy man,” she said at last. “Even to us. He’s… constant. Like stone. He’s there, always—at dawn, at council, at supper—but sometimes it feels like only part of him is with us.”

“Does he laugh?” Alysanne asked, more softly.

“Rarely,” Alarra admitted. “But when he does, it startles everyone. Like hearing a direwolf sing.”

That made Alysanne chuckle, and Alarra smiled faintly. They paused near the old bench beneath the skeletal boughs of a willow tree. Alysanne brushed a layer of snow off the stone and sat, motioning for Alarra to join her.

“I’ve spoken to kings, lords, maesters, even septons,” Alysanne said, her gaze drifting toward the icy pond. “But your father… he’s not like them. There’s no posturing. No pageantry. He gives nothing that isn’t earned, and every word seems weighed on scales.”

“That’s Winterfell,” Alarra said. “It’s like that too. Cold stone and deep halls. But solid. Safe.”

“I’ve noticed,” Alysanne murmured. “But I’ve also seen something else. In him. When he speaks to Weymar. When he watches you and Torren from across the hall, thinking no one sees him. There’s warmth buried in him.

Alarra turned to her. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you deserve to know your father isn’t as unreachable as he seems,” the Queen said, eyes kind but keen. “And because I think… he listens to you. Just as you listen to him. Even if neither of you says it aloud.”

The wind shifted, and Alarra pulled her cloak tighter.

“I’m not sure he’d ever say it aloud,” she murmured. “He lost my mother when Weymar was younger. I was only ten. He grieved quietly. That kind of quiet that never goes away.”

She looked down at the dirt underfoot, then toward the old stone bench where she used to sit with her mother during seasons what felt like distant memory. She remembered her father’s face at the funeral—silent, pale, not a tear shed. And yet afterward, he’d spent three days in the crypts and emerged thinner, quieter than she’d ever known. There was silence for a while, as the wind carried flakes through the garden and wrapped them in quiet.

Then Alysanne spoke again, her voice low, almost a whisper: “Thank you,” Alysanne said at last, her voice soft and sincere. “For speaking plainly. For sharing your mother’s memory... and your thoughts of your father. Most won’t dare speak of such things to me.”

“You’re not most people,” Alarra replied, blinking quickly to keep warmth from misting her eyes. “And besides, someone has to warn you about his bark before he starts biting.”

That earned a quiet, melodic laugh from the Queen. “Well then... I shall walk more carefully, though I think I prefer the wolf who growls over the one who stays silent.”

She gave Alarra a nod—not of dismissal, but of quiet respect—and turned to follow the garden path back toward the keep. Alarra exhaled slowly, letting her shoulders relax. She had not expected to say any of what she’d just said—not today, and certainly not to a queen. But it had been easy somehow. Natural. Even comforting.

Then—

THUD.

A yelp. A scramble of limbs. A thump of leaves from the branches above. Alarra jerked around just in time to see a tangle of arms, legs, and fur-lined cloak plunge from the branches of the gnarled birch tree behind them and land in a heap beside the bench.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then, rising like a creature from beyond the Wall, Weymar Stark leapt to his feet, covered in snow from head to boot, his cloak clinging with red leaves. His cheeks were flushed from both cold and embarrassment, though he did his best to hide it behind a victorious grin.

“I spied!” he declared proudly, wiping snow from his eyebrows. “I spied her! She was talking to—wait…”

He looked at Alarra, eyes narrowing in confusion. “She was talking to... you?”

Alarra stared at him, her mouth half-open in disbelief.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she dragged her gloved hand down her face, smearing a bit of snow across her brow as she groaned, “Weymar... did you forget what my voice sounds like?”

He blinked. “I—uh... I thought you were her maid?”

Alarra gave him a look so sharp it could’ve frozen the godswood. “I was standing right in front of her.”

“I thought you were using your quiet voice,” he offered weakly, brushing snow from his shoulders.

“Your brain is snow-blind,” she muttered. “I swear, one day I’ll find your wits frozen to the back of that tree.”

Weymar tried to look dignified, though the pine needle stuck in his collar undermined the effort. “Didn’t matter—I saw what I needed. Very secret. Very intense. Lots of emotion. Very... queenly.”

“Very obvious,” she said, smirking now despite herself. “Honestly, you’re lucky she didn’t spot you.”

“I am the tree,” he said dramatically. “The wind. The unseen whisper of the North.”

“You’re a thirteen-year-old lump who fell out of a tree.”

Weymar grinned wider. “But I landed with honor.”

Alarra shook her head, unable to keep from laughing. “Come on, Lord Leaves. Let’s get you out of this mess before Father finds out you’ve been stalking royalty.”

“Technically,” he said, stepping beside her with exaggerated caution, “I was spying for the security of Winterfell.”

“Right,” she said, looping her arm through his as they walked. “Next time, try listening first.”

He leaned closer. “Next time, warn me if you’re the target. That got awkward fast.”

Chapter Text

The light summer snow had fallen light the night before covering fields in a delicate powder, like flour sifted over the world. It clung to the folds of his cloak, to the manes of the horses, to the pine-laced ridges they now passed beneath. The Wolfswood stretched before them like a silent cathedral, its bare-limbed trees reaching skyward as if in prayer, the wind whispering low hymns through the branches. Alaric rode ahead of the party, though not so far that they couldn’t see him. nine men-at-arms followed at a respectful distance from his own retainers and hers. Ser Jonquil Drake brought up the rear, her black armor dulled under a heavy red cloak, her dark braid bouncing lightly with each step of her courser. She rode like a knight from the old tales with discipline.

And just beside Alaric, riding with quiet grace and confident posture, was Alysanne.

Even dressed for the North—fur-lined mantle, doeskin gloves, her hair wrapped in a pale scarf of wool—the Queen still looked as though she belonged in a hall of stained glass and gold-threaded banners, not among pine boughs and half-frozen streams. Yet she did not complain. Not once. Not of the cold, nor of the uneven trail, nor of the lack of pageantry that so often followed her steps.

Alaric had thought she would ask for comfort—blankets, litter, warm cider in hand as they rode. But she had risen early, mounted before dawn, and insisted they ride without ceremony. A dragon queen in wolf country, and yet... not made of fire, he was beginning to think.

Alaric watched her from the corner of his eye, then turned his gaze back to the trees. His breath fogged in the air before him. This far from Winterfell, silence held dominion. No courtiers whispering. No children laughing. Just the crunch of hooves, the creak of leather, the breathing of horses.

He welcomed it.

“Is this the true edge of the Wolfswood?” she asked over her shoulder, her voice clear, not strained.

He nodded. “We’ll reach the deeper glades by midday. If the snow doesn’t worsen.”

“Good,” she said, her tone almost cheery. “Then we’ll hunt before it gets heavy.”

“You’ll watch,” he corrected her instinctively. “The forest is thick. The beasts run hard and fast this time of year.”

But she only smirked. “I won’t watch. I’ll shoot.”

He gave her a sidelong glance, more out of habit than challenge. “You’re a queen. Not a huntress.”

“I was a huntress before I was a queen,” she said smoothly, adjusting the bow slung across her back. “And I’ve won more contests than I can count. Ask my brother.”

“I’m not your brother.”

“No. You’re Lord Stark,” she replied lightly, guiding her horse down a narrow bend behind him. “Which is why I’d like to prove myself to you, not them.”

That caught him off guard. Alaric said nothing, but his jaw clenched faintly, his breath fogging before him.

The snow thickened as they entered the pines, blanketing the underbrush and softening the crunch of hooves. Their guards rode in respectful silence, speaking only when necessary. Alaric preferred it that way. The forest was sacred to him. Not holy in the southern sense, but alive. The way the trees watched. The way the air changed with every shift of wind. The quiet here spoke louder than court ever could.

They rode until the sun sat just beyond its zenith, muted by the overcast sky. Tracks were found—fresh ones—just beyond a frozen stream. A stag, maybe, or an elk. Broad. Heavy. It had passed through less than an hour before.

Alaric dismounted, examining the snow, noting the break in the trees. A familiar trail. One he’d hunted before. But when he turned, Alysanne was already off her horse. Bow in hand. Eyes alight.

“I want this one,” she said, crouching beside the print like a seasoned trapper. “Let me track it.”

Alaric blinked once. “You?”

“You said the beasts run hard and fast.” She smiled, not mocking, but burning with quiet confidence. “I’ll prove, us Southerns know game aswell.”

He hesitated. Everything in him hesitated. Letting a queen vanish into the woods for game was near madness. But the look in her eyes was not some foolish whim it was familiar. That hunger to prove oneself. Not to lords, or history, or songs. Just to one person. To be seen.

“…You’ll take four men,” he said at last. Most of the men were already dismounting their horses and one of them already, spear in hand, walked towards the queen but a hand stopped him in his tracks and looked at Jonquil in confusion.

“No,” she replied, stringing her bow with practiced grace. “Just my sword Jonquil.”

The sworn sword she gave a sharp nod, already preparing. Alaric met her eyes. Not regal. Not distant. Just… steady. She moved past the guard and made ready to follow the Queen.

“You’d better bring back dinner,” he muttered.

She smiled again—genuinely this time—and turned into the trees, her furs vanishing between the pines like a shadow with purpose. And for a moment, Alaric stood there, watching her go, the cold air forgotten. She’ll freeze, part of him thought. No, another voice answered.

The light was fading.

Twilight bled slowly through the snow-laced pines, streaking the white world in soft gray-blue. The hunting party had made a modest camp beneath a thicket of high-arched evergreens, a fire flickering low and steady at its center. It crackled with spitting sap, coals pulsing orange beneath iron pots.

Alaric sat apart, perched on a moss-slick log, half-shadowed beneath a leaning pine. His men—three of his own guard and Ser Jonquil’s two southern companions—gathered near the flames, speaking in low voices. One skinned a hare. Another poured warm wine into wooden cups. Laughter stirred now and then, light and fleeting.

But Alaric heard none of it.

His eyes were on the trees.

It had been hours since the Queen vanished into the Wolfswood with Ser Jonquil. He had expected her to falter. Or grow bored. Or return early, grumbling about her skirts and the cold. Instead, she had disappeared with purpose—and had not returned.

Alaric rose, the weight of that silence heavy now.

He walked past the fire without a word, boots crunching over pine needles and frost. Down a narrow trail he knew well, to a hollow near a still pond, its surface lightly frozen at the edges where the snow hadn’t disturbed it.

There, the woods deepened. Quieter. Wilder.

He stood at the edge of the water, his reflection fractured across its rippling face. His beard looked heavier in it, his eyes darker. The stillness here was like a held breath—one the forest hadn’t exhaled yet.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden. Foolish woman. But the concern he felt wasn’t born of irritation. It was something else. Something less familiar.

Then—

thwip.

An arrow struck a tree not ten paces away with a solid thunk, shaking down snow in a light drift.

Alaric turned, hand instinctively brushing his belt. But there was no danger.

There was a dead squirrel pinned to the bark, an arrow clean through its chest.

And Queen Alysanne Targaryen stood a few paces beyond it, another creature—a plump, long-antlered hare—slung proudly over her shoulder.

She wore no crown. Her golden braid was dusted with snow, cheeks flushed with cold, and a glint of triumph shimmered in her eyes.

“I was aiming for the tree,” she teased, striding closer. “The squirrel just happened to be standing in the wrong place.”

Alaric exhaled, a sharp breath half-resembling a chuckle. “You’re late.”

“I was working,” she said, holding up the hare. “I wanted to win your dinner.”

“You hunted that alone?”

“Jonquil and I split paths after I caught sight of its prints,” she said, stepping to his side. “It ran hard. Almost lost it near the gully east of here. But… you said you wanted meat.”

“I said I didn’t want to starve.”

“Then you’re welcome,” she said, half-pouting in mock offense. “Your faith in me is staggering.”

Alaric’s brow lifted. “Most queens wouldn’t risk falling on a pinecone, let alone climbing through snow-choked glades to chase a rabbit.”

“I’m not most queens.”

He said nothing to that. But the corner of his mouth twitched—just faintly.

Her smile grew. “You were worried.”

“I was not.”

“You came all the way down here. Alone. To stare broodingly into water.”

“I do that often.”

“You were worried,” she said again, stepping closer, just enough for their breath to fog between them.

Alaric met her gaze. Steady. Sharp. But something in him softened, almost against his will. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable.” She paused. “But also... not.”

He said nothing in return. They stood in silence for a moment longer, the snow falling faintly around them, the pond behind catching the last light of dusk.

Finally, Alaric spoke. “You should bring that squirrel back. Might impress my cook.”

“Not the hare?”

He gave her a sideways glance. “That’s mine.”

The fire popped and cracked, its orange glow licking up toward the low pine boughs. Alaric sat beside Alysanne on a rough blanket laid across the snow-hardened earth. The squirrel and hare had been cleaned, skinned, and set to roast—Alysanne doing much of the work herself, to Alaric’s quiet astonishment.

He had watched her fingers move with practiced confidence, her eyes narrowing with focus as she cut clean along the belly and tugged fur from flesh. She’d spoken little during it, save for a dry remark about a girl who’d once beaten her in an archery contest and tried to sabotage her by swapping bowstrings.

Now the meat sizzled over the fire, and a half-empty skin of Arbor red lay between them.

Alysanne took another sip, cheeks already pink from cold and wine both. “So. You were saying something about your brother and a brothel?”

Alaric grunted low in his throat, shaking his head as he swirled the wine in his cup. “I should’ve started with a tale about a bear and a bloody tree. Something with more dignity.”

“No, no,” she said, grinning. “You absolutely should not. You promised a scandal.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You did,” she countered. “You said, and I quote, ‘we were thirteen and idiots,’ and then looked off into the fire like a guilty man remembering sins.”

He gave her a slow look, like a hound weighing whether to bite.But her smile was disarming—bright, playful, utterly unconcerned with protocol. So he sighed, took a long drink, and began.

“It was my older brother Walton’s idea,” he said. “He was nearly six and ten , which made him a god in my eyes at the time. Said there was a girl in Wintertown who’d fallen in love with him over cider and wanted to meet him ‘in private.’”

“And you believed him?”

“I was three and ten,” he muttered. “Of course I did.”

Alysanne laughed into her cup.

“We snuck out after midnight,” he continued, a ghost of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Climbed down from the rookery wall, nearly broke my arm when I slipped on the ice. Walked barefoot half the way to keep the snow from clinging to our boots—Walton said that was how ‘real men’ avoided being tracked.”

“And then?”

“We found the brothel,” he said, staring into the fire. “Which wasn’t hard, as one of the girls was loudly singing The Bear and the Maiden Fair from the window.”

Alysanne choked, already anticipating the turn. “Go on.”

“We got to the door,” Alaric said, “and Walton told me to wait. He said he was going in first, as ‘the older and more experienced’ man.”

“Of course.”

“I waited outside. In the snow. For an hour.”

“No!”

“Oh yes,” Alaric said, his tone dry as snowdrift. “Turns out, he paid all the coin he’d stolen from our maester’s drawers for a kiss and a song. Couldn’t even bring himself to look at the girl, let alone—”

Alysanne snorted into her cup and burst out laughing, her giggles bubbling uncontrollably. “Wait—that was his grand plan?!”

Alaric took a sip of wine and coughed on it at the sound of her laughter, choking halfway through a swallow. He turned sharply, coughing into his sleeve.

She laughed even harder. “Gods, your face! You looked like a  pup swallowing a pinecone.”

“Serves me right,” he said, wiping his mouth, half-glowering but unable to fully disguise the twitch at the edge of his lips.

Alysanne leaned back on her palms, looking up at the sky beyond the branches. The stars were faint tonight, veiled by thin cloud, but she didn’t seem to care.

“Your brother sounded like a fool,” she said, catching her breath.

“He was,” Alaric replied, his voice quieter now. “But he was also the strongest man I knew..”

Her gaze turned to him, soft and knowing. “You still miss him.”

“I always will,” he admitted. No bitterness. Just a fact. “He died by the Wall. He deserved to be Lord of Winterfell and hosting the Queen.”

The fire cracked again. The wind tugged gently at the edge of Alysanne’s cloak.

She didn’t speak right away. Instead, she reached out, quietly, and poured another half-measure into his cup.

“To fools,” she said softly. “The ones we lose, and the ones we carry with us.”

Alaric met her eyes, and for a moment, the night felt warmer.

“To fools,” he echoed. The cups clinked lightly as they drank, and the last of the Arbor red swirled like blood in the firelight.

Alysanne sat back down—but closer this time. Her knee brushed his for the briefest moment before she folded her cloak about her and tucked her legs beneath her. She no longer sat like a queen—no stiff posture or calculated grace. Just a woman settled near warmth, her eyes fixed on the dancing flames.

Alaric tilted his head to regard her. In the orange-gold light, the sharp lines of her face had softened. She looked younger, freer somehow.

He let the silence stretch before asking, “If you weren’t a queen… what would you be doing now?”

She blinked at the question, surprised. A shadow of thought passed over her face.

After a long pause, she said, “Traveling. Across the Narrow Sea, maybe. I’ve always wondered what the Free Cities truly feel like. Braavos, with its canals and masked priests. Volantis with its temples and black walls. Even old ruins—Valyria, if I could.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Most people would answer with something simpler. A garden, a horse, a quiet tower to read in.”

“That’s the difference between most people and me,” she said, smiling faintly. “I wasn’t raised for simplicity. Even in my fantasies, I want the world.”

“Bold of you.”

She shrugged, though the wistfulness remained. “I was bold before I wore a crown.”

He sipped, let the wine warm his chest, then asked, “Did you ever do this…with him?”

She looked at him sharply at first—unsure—but then softened when she saw no edge in his voice, only quiet curiosity.

“Jaehaerys?” she said, voice lower now. “No. Not like this. Not really.” Her fingers curled around the rim of her cup. “We speak often. Rule together. Argue at times, too. But… we’ve never sat by a fire under the trees, alone, with nothing to talk about but ourselves.” She glanced at him. “Did you? With her?”

Alaric didn’t answer right away. He stared into the flames as if searching for something long buried. “Yes,” he said finally. “Long Lake. There’s a grove at its northern edge, ringed with tall pine and stone. One spring, before the snows melted, we went alone. No guards. No letters. Just us.”

He allowed himself a breath. “We laughed more in those three days than in the whole first year of marriage. She said… the lake made the world smaller. Easier.”

Alysanne was quiet for a moment, her gaze dropped. She took another swig from her cup, slower this time. “I miss my children,” she murmured, unexpectedly. Her voice thinned at the edges like smoke. “My two young boys still cling to my skirts, but Daenerys ones…She begins to look through me. Like she already see the crown, not their mother.” She looked over at Alaric. “She is a smart one…Sometimes I wonder if they’ll forgive me for how little of me they’ve truly had.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. But the way her eyes lingered—uncertain, exposed—made something shift in him. Something deeper than sympathy. Understanding, perhaps. Or simply recognition.

“I hope,” she said softly, “when Aemon comes of age, Jaehaerys allows him to be ward in the North. Just for a while. I want him to know what it means to breathe clean air and see stars without lanterns burning them away. Maybe… Winterfell.”

Alaric blinked, surprised. “You’d send your heir to me?”

“I’d send my son to you,” she corrected gently, the flicker of her smile returning. “If he’s to be king one day, he should learn strength beyond dragonfire.”

He stared at her, really stared. The wine was making the night softer at the edges, but it wasn’t the drink that twisted something in his chest.

“I’d take him,” Alaric said at last, his voice quiet.

She turned her face back to the fire, but her smile lingered. He had spoken more than he intended—about Walton, about Lorenah, about the lake and the foolish mistakes they made when they were young. He hadn’t spoken of such things in years. Maybe not even aloud.

And still, more came.

“My children…” he murmured, voice rough around the edges. “I try to be what they need. Strong, fair, present. But I’m no poet. No clever court father from the songs. I fumble. Say the wrong things. Sometimes I shout when I should’ve listened.”

He ran a hand through his dark hair, now dusted faintly with snow.

“I don’t regret the things I’ve done,” he went on. “But I wish I’d… chosen better. Slower. I see Torren trying to be a man. Alarra hiding hurt behind her sharp tongue. And Weymar—he’s still soft. Still kind. I don’t want the North to freeze that out of him too soon or at all.”

When he looked back at her, he found Alysanne watching him deeply—not with judgment, not even pity, but with something far more dangerous: understanding.

She leaned in slightly, her wine forgotten in her lap. Her voice, when it came, was barely above the wind.

“What did she wish for?” she asked.

Alaric blinked.

“Lorenah?” he asked, almost surprised by his own willingness to answer. His voice dropped lower. “She wanted to see Oldtown. Just once. Said she dreamed of the towers, the Hightower lights at night, the books. The Sept of the Star.”

A beat passed. His gaze dropped to the rim of his cup.

“I told her we’d go,” he murmured. “After Torren’s name day. Then after the spring thaw. Then… she was gone.”

The words hung there, suspended, and for a moment Alaric wasn’t Lord Stark. Just a widower, still carrying a promise he never got to keep.

“Gone… how?”

He looked at her—and for a heartbeat too long, the world seemed to halt. The wind stilled. The flames didn’t flicker. Even the trees held their breath.

He remembered.

The screams. The pain. The sobbing that wouldn’t stop.
But more than anything… he remembered the blood.
Her blood. Warm. Red. Sticky.
Soaking his hands like some sacred mark he could never wash away.

“A choice was made,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. “One we thought small at the time.
But it had consequences none of us could see.”

Alysanne looked away then—or perhaps to give him a moment—but when she returned her eyes to him, her cheeks were visibly flushed. The wine had warmed her blood, or maybe it was something else entirely. She took a long, deliberate drink.

Then, mercifully, she shifted the tone. Her voice lightened, teasing as it often did.

“If you could do one foolish thing again,” she asked, “just for yourself—not for the realm or your bannermen—what would it be?”

Alaric grunted, the faintest smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

“I’d sing.”

Alysanne blinked. “Sing?”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “Not well. Never did. Walton said I sounded like a hound howling through snow. But I used to sing in the godswood. When no one was around.”

She lit up with laughter. “You? Singing in the trees?”

He rolled his eyes. “I was young. And foolish.”

“No,” she said, eyes sparkling now. “You are foolish. Because you’ve just admitted to something I can’t unhear.” She leaned forward. “Come then. Sing. A verse. Just one. For your queen.”

Alaric’s face twisted in horror. “Absolutely not.”

“I demand it,” she said in mock authority, wagging a gloved finger.

“I outrank you in these woods,” he said dryly.

She burst out laughing again. “That’s not how this works!”

“It is if I have more wine left.”

“You don’t. I drank the last of it.”

“…Of course you did.”

She giggled harder now, unable to stop, her laughter turning giddy and breathless. The fire reflected in her eyes, and for a strange, suspended moment, Alaric found himself laughing too—a real, loud laugh that almost startled him as it escaped.

A silence followed, but it wasn’t hollow.

It was comfortable.

Their shoulders just brushed. She looked at him, still smiling, cheeks glowing with more than wine now. “You know,” she said softly, “you’re far more charming than you give yourself credit for.”

“Maybe,” she whispered, her voice softer than the wind rustling the tapestries behind her. “But I’m glad I came north. No Southern lord could match your…”

She trailed off, the words heavy with implication.

“‘Southern lord’?” Alaric smirked faintly, though his eyes studied her carefully. “Alysanne, you're starting to sound like me.”

“Perhaps,” she said, meeting his gaze. “Or maybe I just started seeing sense up here.”

Alaric folded his arms, leaning against the edge of the hearth. The fire threw golden light across his face, catching the silver at his temples. “And what is it you’ve seen?”

She took a slow sip from her cup, stalling, then set it down with a clink that sounded louder than it should have. Her fingers lingered on the stem, trembling faintly. “Honor without cruelty. Strength without vanity. A man who listens before speaking. Who doesn’t lie to impress.”

Alaric’s brow furrowed, unsure whether to speak or stay silent.

“I’ve been surrounded by lords my whole life,” Alysanne continued. “Preening peacocks and smiling snakes. But here… here I found a man who says little but means every word.” She swallowed, her throat tight. “And sometimes… that silence says more than a thousand courtly compliments.”

Alaric looked away, jaw tightening. “I am your host. A loyal subject. Nothing more.”

She took a step toward him.

“And I am a queen,” she murmured, voice threading with something raw and aching. “But gods help me, sometimes I don’t want to be.”

Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bow. The fire crackled. Alysanne sat close now, close enough for him to feel the heat of her skin. Her breath was shallow, and for a heartbeat, neither moved.

Alaric finally exhaled, rough and low. “We should return.”

“We should,” she said.

But she didn’t move.

And neither did he.

The next morning dawned pale and  light rain falling like fine ash across the camp. The fire had long since died to embers, and the scent of pine and cold water filled the air. The  hunting party stirred slowly, groaning beneath furs and reaching for boots half-buried in frost.

Alaric was already mounted when Alysanne emerged from her tent. She wore her riding leathers, dark and close-fitted beneath her deep blue cloak, the silver dragon clasp at her neck catching the weak morning light. Her braid was tight, her cheeks flushed from the cold and perhaps the wine the night before, though neither of them mentioned it.

She swung up onto her horse with ease, Ser Jonquil Drake trailing behind like a shadow, her sharp eyes already scanning the trees.

They rode deeper into the Wolfswood, the snow thinning beneath the dense canopy, silence falling over the group save for the rhythmic crunch of hooves over frozen earth. Tumbledown Tower appeared at midday—an ancient, broken thing, swallowed by ivy and moss, its once-proud stones tumbled into the earth like forgotten bones. The forest had nearly reclaimed it.

Alysanne slowed her horse beside Alaric. “What is this place?”

“An old watchtower,” he said. “Abandoned centuries ago. The name it once had is lost to time—folk just call it the Tumbledown Tower now. Some say it was Forrester’s other claim it was Whitehills but I;ve never seen villages nearby. Too deep in the woods. Too many ghosts.”

She smiled. “I rather like it.”

“I thought you might.”

They passed beneath the leaning stones, a flock of birds exploding from the boughs above. Alaric turned his horse toward a narrow path that twisted along a high ridge overlooking a wide forest valley, the treetops dusted in white and stretching endlessly beneath them.

Alaric halted, then turned in his saddle, his expression unreadable but something flickering beneath.

“You’ve brought me somewhere,” Alysanne said, eyeing him suspiciously. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“I have.”

“And you haven’t told me because...?”

“Patience,” he said, deadpan.

“I’m a dragonrider, I don't always have patience.”

He smirked. “Then this will be a good lesson in it.”

They made camp near the edge of the ridge, but as evening neared, Alaric offered her his hand, wordlessly. She raised an eyebrow but took it without hesitation, allowing him to lead her down a steep, rocky slope—hand in hand, snow crunching underfoot, the forest darkening around them.

“Tell me we’re not going to die in a cave,” she joked, her breath fogging in the cold.

“Not unless you slip,” he answered, completely serious.

She narrowed her eyes. “Is that humor, Lord Stark?”

“Don’t let it get out. I have a reputation.”

Guiding her away from the crumbled tower and toward a narrow path that led down a rocky mountainside. The path was steep and rough, but Alaric’s sure footing made the descent effortless. As they moved, his free hand found her waist, steadying her over loose stones.

Alysanne felt a heat rise to her cheeks, both from the closeness and the unexpected intimacy of the gesture.

"Careful, my lord," she teased, her eyes sparkling. "You're spoiling your reputation as the stoic Warden of the North."

He chuckled softly. "And what would you have me be? The foolish Lord who loses his queen on a mountain path?"

She laughed, but when he stopped before a small, unassuming cave entrance, her teasing faltered into curiosity.

When they reached a small outcrop of stone—a jagged entrance nestled beneath hanging roots—Alaric stopped. Then, without warning, he stepped behind her and gently covered her eyes with his calloused hands.

She tensed, her breath hitching. Then, a soft laugh escaped her lips. “What in the Seven are you doing?”

Alaric leaned closer, his breath brushing the shell of her ear. “Trust me.”

His voice was low, gravelly—more intimate than command. She stilled under his touch, the cold of the cave forgotten beneath the heat rising along her spine.

“I already do,” she whispered, surprising even herself.

He removed his hands slowly, but didn’t step away. Instead, his palm lingered at her cheek, brushing a golden strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin tingled where he touched her—such a simple thing, and yet it lit something inside her. Alysanne tilted her head back slightly, her gaze drifting up toward his face.

Her eyes told the truth her words could not—half-lidded, uncertain. Alaric hesitated, his hand still hovering near her back. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Instead, she leaned back—slow, deliberate—until her shoulder brushed his chest. Her body sought his not with lust, but with a need for comfort, warmth, and the presence of someone who saw her, not the queen or a dragon rider, but the woman beneath. She felt his breath still. His hand, tentative at first, found her waist. She didn’t flinch. She pressed into it.

“I can feel you staring,” she murmured, her voice low, nearly swallowed by the rustle of leaves above.

“I’m not staring,” Alaric replied, voice rough with restraint. “I’m remembering now, stay still.”

“Is this a Northern courting ritual? Because if it is, I’m not sure I approve.”

“Quiet, Alysanne,” he said, barely containing a smile. “One more step.”

"Wait here," Alaric instructed, covering her eyes with one hand. "No peeking."

She wiggled beneath his palm, giggling while he let go of her. "You’ll have to try harder than that." The air was cold and still, smelling of wet stone and age. Water dripped somewhere far off, echoing faintly. Then he pulled his hands away.

She opened her eyes.

Her breath caught.

Laid out in the gloom of the cave—illuminated faintly by the torch Alaric now held high—was a skeleton unlike anything she’d ever seen.

A giant. Or what remained of one. The ribcage arched nearly to the low ceiling, half-buried in moss and ancient dust. Its skull rested against the back wall, jaw agape in eternal silence, the eye sockets vast and empty. A crude stone club rested at its side, now worn down by time, but unmistakable.

Alysanne didn’t move. Her breath came soft and fast. “Gods,” she whispered. “It’s real.”

Alaric stepped beside her, his voice low. “Few believe anymore. They think the tales are songs, not history. But the First Men knew. Some say giants once guarded the passes in numbers.”

Alysanne stepped forward slowly, reverently, breath caught between awe and disbelief. "How… how did you find this?"

Alaric’s voice was quiet, reverent. "I have ridden these woods since I was a boy. When I was younger my friend brought me here. Never forgot it since.”

She turned, eyes still wide, touched with something deeper than wonder. “You’re full of surprises,” she whispered.

He glanced at her, noting the way her eyes shone with wonder. "I knew you’d be fascinated. I’ve seen you reading those ancient texts… stories of giants and their tales over the North."

Alysanne stepped back from the giant’s skull, a mischievous glint returning to her eyes as she looked up at Alaric. “Is this how you impress the ladies, Lord Stark? By showing them ancient skeletons in dark caves?”

He smirked, folding his arms as he leaned casually against the rough stone wall. “Only the most beautiful women deserve such tours.”

Her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of rose, and she glanced away quickly, pretending to examine the moss creeping over the bones. The sudden shyness was a rare crack in her otherwise unshakable poise, and Alaric caught it with a quiet smile.

“I suppose I should feel honored then,” she murmured, still avoiding his gaze.

Alaric gave a single nod. “Don’t tell the others. I’d hate to lose my title as Winterfell’s dullest man.”

She laughed. Not her court giggle or diplomatic chuckle—but something truer. “Too late, I’m afraid.”

Alaric stood beside her on the rocky ledge, the vast Wolfswood valley stretching out beneath them like a sea of green and white. The towering pines swayed gently in the breeze, and somewhere far below, a river whispered through the forest. The world felt impossibly large—and yet, in that moment, impossibly small.

He could feel the faint warmth radiating from Alysanne as she drew closer. It was subtle, but unmistakable—a softness in the way her hand brushed against his, the faint scent of pine and something floral carried on the cold air. His heart thudded louder than it had in years. The steady rhythm he’d worn like armor was faltering, becoming uneven, reckless.

Alaric’s breath caught. For a moment, all the weight of his responsibilities, the heavy mantle of his name, the endless games of court and war, faded away. It was just him—and her.

He glanced down at her face, catching sight of the soft flush blooming across her cheeks. The firelight from their cave lingered still in her eyes, but now it mingled with a new spark—something unspoken, something fragile.

Alysanne’s lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something but hesitated. Instead, her gaze dropped to the valley below, then flickered back to meet his. He saw it there—in her eyes, the way they held him for longer than politeness demanded, a vulnerability so rare it stunned him.

His throat tightened. He swallowed, struggling to find words that didn’t come.

“Shall we return?” he asked softly, trying to steady his voice, though it betrayed the tension inside.

Her head shook gently, a slow, deliberate motion. That small refusal made his chest tighten in a way that was both painful and sweet. “No,” she said quietly, her smile delicate but genuine. “I’m enjoying this. The quiet. The company.” Her eyes flicked back to the sweeping forest. “I want to stay a little longer. Just… just you and me.”

Alaric’s gaze dropped to her face again. The blush still burned softly in her cheeks, a warm glow against the pale skin of her neck. The faintest tremor of emotion softened her usually commanding presence. He was struck by the realization that this woman—queen, warrior, diplomat—was allowing herself to be just Alysanne in this wild place, away from prying eyes and cold halls.

For the first time since his own wife’s death, he felt the stirrings of something new, something cautiously hopeful.

He nodded, voice low and steady. “As you wish, Alysanne.”

Chapter Text

“I’m telling ye, it was his goats that trampled my barley shoots!” one man barked, jabbing a finger at his neighbor. “They were over the stone markers, I swear it by the old gods!”

“Stone markers?” the other man growled. “Those rocks were washed out by the thaw five years past! You’re planting where you shouldn’t, and that’s the truth of it!”

Torren pinched the bridge of his nose, stifling the urge to slam his forehead against the carved wolf armrest. He could feel a headache forming, born from both the absurdity of the argument and the growing tension of the day. A surprise snow had struck in the night, blanketing the fields in a thin white veil—a warning from the gods, some muttered. Summer snow meant hardship was clawing closer than expected.

Behind him, Maester Edric cleared his throat, his voice smooth and maddeningly patient. “Men, perhaps if you rule to split the remaining grain from the storehouse—temporarily—to see both their families through until replanting—”

“I heard you the first time,” Torren snapped under his breath. He looked up at the two men, their shoulders hunched from years in the cold, their faces etched with the desperation that came from watching crops die too early.

He wanted to walk out. Or better yet, ride out to the Wolfswood and lose himself in the forest like his father often did. But Alaric wasn’t here. He was.

Torren exhaled through his nose and sat a little straighter. “You’ll both be granted half-rations of oat and barley from the cellar until the ground clears. And the goats stay penned until the thaw. Any more trampling, and you’ll both be eating pine bark for supper. Understood?”

The two men bowed, muttering their thanks—or perhaps their displeasure—as they turned and shuffled off.

“Another ruling fit for a ledger,” Torren grumbled once they were gone, standing from the high seat. “Why does it feel like every day I’m more a grain counter than a Stark?”

Maester Edric looked up from his scrolls with a faint smile. “Because a lord must know his people’s stomachs before he knows their swords.”

Torren snorted. “Easy for you to say. You get to be right and boring all in one breath.”

“Boring feeds the realm, my lord.”

“And I was supposed to ride in tourneys and flirt with noble ladies,” Torren muttered. “Instead, I’m handing out oats and-”

“The duties of a lawful Lord. Which one day you will inherit the seat of your father and your ancestors before you.” Edric spoke in.

“And when that day comes you can tell me you are right.”

Torren rose from the high seat of Winterfell with a weight still clinging to his shoulders, heavier than any cloak he had ever worn. His boots thudded softly on the ancient stone floor, echoing through the Great Hall now emptied of petty disputes and grain-complaints. Though the farmers had gone, the sting of responsibility remained. His father, Alaric Stark, had ridden into the Wolfswood with Queen Alysanne and a small party of trusted men, and Winterfell had been left in his care.

He paused by the tall windows of the hall, the pale morning light spilling in through the stained glass, painting patterns on the floor that danced like ghosts of the past. Beyond the glass, snow fell in lazy flurries over the courtyard. Summer snow. An omen, some would whisper.

Torren leaned a hand on the cold stone sill. His thoughts drifted to his father and the Queen. What were they doing now? Hunting still? Sitting by some forgotten lake, speaking of things old and deep? Alaric had grown quieter over the years, more walled off. But there had been something in his expression before he left—guarded, yes, but softer too. And the way he had looked at the Queen...

Torren blinked that thought away. Whatever his father’s feelings, it wasn’t his place to name them. Still, it unsettled something inside him, like a door left ajar in a storm.

A shuffle of boots behind him broke his reverie.

"My lord Stark," came a voice that slithered rather than sounded. Torren turned.

It was Lord Karne Bolton.

Wrapped in his House’s distinctive pale pink cloak, lined with white fur, the man’s expression was cool, eyes sharp and colorless. He moved like fog—quiet, almost formless, but undeniably present.

"Lord Bolton," Torren greeted, his tone respectful but not warm. His father always warned him about Krane Bolton, the “Dread of Winter” he earned as title from his youth; some claim he flayed 100 wildings or had his way with women. The man was walking horror sight, his cloak was a pick that made his skin crawl.

Karne approached slowly, hands pale bony fingers clasped before him. "I had hoped to speak with your lord father, but it seems he has vanished into the woods with Her Grace."

Torren gave a small nod, his voice steady. "The Queen wished to see more of the North, and my father obliged. There is no cause for concern."

"Concern?" Bolton echoed softly, a smile twitching like a cat’s tail. "No, no, of course not. Merely curiosity. After all, the Queen’s presence is a rare honor."

They began walking side by side down the corridor, footsteps quiet on the worn stones.

"How are you finding the burden of Lordship, my young lord?" Bolton asked, his voice almost gentle, but Torren could feel the edge beneath the words.

He stiffened slightly but kept his face calm. "Winterfell runs well. The people know their duties. I do mine."

"Spoken like a Stark," Bolton mused. "But with more heart than your father, if I may say so."

Torren glanced sideways, uncertain whether to take that as insult or compliment. Bolton continued.

"When the day comes, as all days must, and you are Lord of Winterfell, know that House Bolton will remain loyal. We shall be the first to answer your call—should you ever make it."

"That’s generous of you, my lord," Torren replied cautiously. "Though I hope no such call shall be needed in my time. Let my banners sleep a while longer."

"War rarely waits on hope," Bolton said, his voice dry as old parchment. "I remember the raven King Meagor sent north, asking for swords. A cruel king, but I gave the letter more thought than I should have.” 

A beat of silence passed before the lord added, almost as an afterthought, "My daughter Reina speaks highly of you."

Torren’s jaw tightened just faintly. "We’ve known each other since we were children."

"Affection often grows from such roots," Bolton replied. "She would be pleased to see House Stark and Bolton bound closer."

Torren paused. The corridor opened to a balcony that overlooked the training yard. Snow drifted lazily onto the cobblestones below. He could see Weymar, his youngest brother, chasing a stable dog around the edges of the yard while Alarra sat perched on a barrel, laughing. Reina was down there too, speaking with Lady Glover.

"My focus is on ruling well while my father is away," Torren said carefully, keeping his voice steady. "All other matters can wait."

"Of course," Lord Bolton murmured, though his tone carried something oily beneath the courtesy. "Still… it warms an old father’s heart to imagine such unity between our houses."

There was something peculiar in the way he said unity—lingering on the word as if savoring its taste.

Torren didn’t answer. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, jaw tight, willing the moment to pass. The silence grew, brittle and long, until at last Bolton inclined his head in a shallow, serpentine bow.

"I’ll take no more of your time, my Lord Stark," he said with a smile that never reached his eyes.

Torren watched as the man turned and walked away, his pink cloak dragging behind him, long and heavy like a shadow bleeding into the stone of the hall. The flickering torchlight along the corridor seemed to shy away from his retreating form.

Even when he was gone, the air felt colder.

Torren exhaled and turned from the narrow window, its frost-rimmed panes fogging where his breath touched. The view beyond was the same as it had been since the snow began to fall three days past—white hills, distant trees laden with ice, and the faintest wisp of chimney smoke curling from the farthest keep. All motion seemed to have slowed in the grip of winter, but inside him, the storm still stirred.

He stepped into the colder shadows of the corridor, the scent of stone and smoke washing over him, mingled with something faint and wild—pine, perhaps, or the hint of leather and old earth rising from the inner walls. His footsteps echoed softly on the flagged floors, aimless, the rhythm more thought than destination.

His mind turned again to the Queen and his father. Alysanne Targaryen—, her laughter echoing through cloud and wind. And beside her, Lord Alaric Stark, solemn but somehow more at ease in her company. Whether they were tracking deer through the trees or seated beside a campfire exchanging quiet words, they were not here. Not in this castle with its ceaseless petitions and quarrels over grain and spilled ale.

“Lord of Winterfell has a nice ring to it,” came a voice, half-mocking, wholly familiar.

Torren turned, already smiling despite himself.

Joran Glover leaned against the archway behind him, cheeks flushed with cold and mischief dancing in his eyes. The Glover red cloak was slung half-off his shoulder in his usual careless way. He stepped forward and clapped Torren on the back.

“I expected you to be half-mad by now from all the grain talk and raven scrolls,” Joran said.

“Oh, I am,” Torren muttered, shaking his head. “If one more farmer comes whining about whose goat sneezed near whose barley, I swear I’ll walk into the godswood and drown myself..”

Joran laughed, a loud sound that echoed warmly down the stone hall. “And here I thought by now you’d be riding dragons and brooding from towers.”

Torren chuckled despite himself. “You’re thinking of Daemon Targaryen.”

“Please. That man broods like it’s an artform. You, my friend, just sulk.”

They walked in step down the corridor, shoulders brushing as they had when they were boys sword-training in the yard or sneaking into the kitchens for leftover honeycake. For a while, they said little, the silence between them a comfortable one. Joran’s presence always had a way of dulling the sharp edge of Winterfell’s weight.

As they turned a corner, the murmur of laughter rose from the courtyard below. It was bright and sharp in the winter air like silver bells.

They paused at the balustrade.

Down in the snow-dusted courtyard, Alarra Stark sat on a bench, her dark hair unbound beneath her fur-lined hood. She was flanked by Lady Hornwood’s daughter—freckled and fiery—and  Sylana Forrester, with her brown hair tied in a braid too long for her age. All three were giggling behind their hands, cheeks pink with cold and girlish secrets.

Joran’s steps slowed.

Torren followed his gaze and narrowed his eyes. There it was—the faint, unmistakable pink blooming on Joran’s cheeks. He gave his friend a sidelong look.

“Don’t you dare,” Torren said flatly.

Joran blinked, startled. “What?”

“Don’t what me.” Torren stepped in front of him, arms crossed. “You’re blushing.”

“It’s cold.”

“Were indoors. You’re blushing at my sister.”

Joran gave a nervous laugh, his eyes darting back to the courtyard like a guilty squire caught eyeing a lord’s daughter. “Well… she is rather radiant.”

Torren’s expression deadened. “You’ve known her your whole life and now suddenly she’s radiant?”

“I—look, it’s not sudden,” Joran blurted, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve always… liked her. But I didn’t say anything because, well… she’s your sister. And your father’s daughter. And I value my kneecaps.”

Torren stared at him. “Seven help me.”

“I’m serious!” Joran said. “She’s grown into herself. She’s clever. Kind. And when she smiles—”

“You’re going to make me ill.”

Joran grinned sheepishly. “Could be worse. I could have fallen for Lady Flint.”

Torren shot him a look. “She’s eleven.”

Joran’s grin widened. “Exactly.”

Torren sighed and rubbed his temples. “You’re a fool.”

“But a charming one, right?”

“We’ll see how charming you are when my Father returns.”

Joran winced. “Right. Perhaps I’ll take the black. I hear the Night’s Watch is always looking for new recruits.”

“You’d be the first ranger who trips over his own pride before the snow.”

They both laughed, and for a brief moment, the heavy mantle of title and inheritance slipped from Torren’s shoulders. But it wasn’t long before the laughter faded, and Torren's smile turned distant.

Joran noticed.

“You miss him, don’t you?” he asked.

Torren hesitated. “He’s not dead.”

“I know. But you still miss him.”

There was a pause as they resumed walking, now turning into the older wing of the castle, where the halls grew darker and the air colder.

“I miss who he used to be with me,” Torren said at last. “When I was younger, I didn’t notice it. But lately... he speaks to me more like a vassal than a son. The closer I get to taking on his name, the more I feel like I’m losing my place at his side.”

Joran nodded, his mirth faded, his voice gentler. “He sees you growing. Maybe he doesn’t know how to share that burden yet.”

Torren frowned. “Or maybe he thinks I’m not ready.”

“Then prove him wrong.”

Torren gave him a sidelong glance. “And what would you know of proving anything?”

Joran shrugged. “Very little. But I know this: when your father rides into the yard and sees Winterfell whole, its people fed, and his son standing tall at its heart, he’ll know you didn’t just hold the seat. You earned it.”

Torren looked away, his gaze drifting back toward the frosted window. Dusk had crept in without warning, the light now soft and blue against the snow. He could see the faint glow of torches being lit along the battlements, the flame flickering like watchful eyes against the sky.

They stopped again, this time near the stairs leading down to the great hall.

Below, servants were preparing the tables for supper. Steam rose from trencher bowls, and the scent of roast meat and fresh bread wafted up.

Torren inhaled and looked down again at the courtyard. Alarra was rising now, her cloak swirling behind her like a banner, laughing at something Reina said. She glanced up briefly—and for a heartbeat, Torren could swear she looked straight at Joran before quickly turning away.

Joran stood a little straighter, then cleared his throat.

Torren folded his arms. “Old save us. You are in love with her.”

“I never said love,” Joran mumbled.

“You didn’t have to. It’s dripping from your ears.”

“I haven’t done anything. I swear it. Not a word to her. Not a touch.”

Torren eyed him a moment longer, then softened—just slightly. “I believe you.”

Joran raised an eyebrow. “You do?”

“You’re a terrible liar, Joran.”

They both grinned. Torren’s mood lightened again, though something deeper stirred in his chest. A memory of Alarra as a child, chasing him through the halls with a wooden sword, demanding he teach her how to fight like the boys. Her hands had been scraped, her knees bruised, but she never once cried. She was a Stark through and through—strong, sharp-tongued, loyal beyond reason.

If anyone were to ever love her, it would have to be someone who understood what that meant.

Maybe Joran did.

Maybe.

Joran laughed and followed him down. “You mean before you start giving advice about women?”

“Gods forbid.”

As they descended, the warmth of the hall began to reach them, and Torren allowed himself, for a few hours at least, to forget the weight of Winterfell. The burdens would return soon enough—raven scrolls, bannermen complaints, the looming knowledge that he was being watched not just by his father, but by the Queen herself.

The warmth of supper had long since faded, replaced by the cold ache of duty. Torren sat at the long council table in the solar, fingers curled loosely around a goblet of watered wine, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Before him lay a scatter of wax-sealed missives, ink-splattered reports, and a half-finished parchment bearing the Stark sigil.

“My Lord, if I may—”

Lord Cerwyn’s nasal voice scraped at his patience like a whetstone on dull steel. The man had spent the last half-hour bemoaning the border tensions with House Tallhart, though Torren strongly suspected the real issue was a marriage proposal rejected by Lady Tallhart’s eldest daughter.

“You may not,” Torren said at last, rising from his seat. “My replies will handle this in the early morning. I promise, Lord Cerwyn.”

The man blinked, unused to dismissal from a boy he once dandled on his knee. But the title carried weight, and Winterfell obeyed the voice that wore it, even when the true Lord was away. Lord Cerwyn bowed stiffly and backed away.

Only then did Torren exhale, dragging a hand across his face. He'd spent the last three hours juggling land disputes, grain storage, and a Whitehill envoy demanding recompense for some half-imagined insult.

He was only seventeen. And some nights, he felt seventy.

The halls were quieter now, the buzz of evening fading into stillness. Torches flickered in their iron sconces, casting long shadows along the carved stone walls. Winterfell seemed older by night. Deeper. Like something ancient, half-asleep, waiting in silence to remember itself.

Torren walked slowly, savoring the quiet. He passed under the high-arched corridors near the northern wing, where the air grew colder, the floors darker, and the silence more complete. His chamber was not far now.

Then—

“Boo.”

He jumped.

A shadow detached itself from the alcove near the stairwell, and a familiar laugh—high, soft, laced with amusement—followed.

“Reina,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest. “Seven hells.”

The young Bolton girl stepped into the light, smiling like a fox. Her cloak was pale pink trimmed in white fur, the Bolton flayed man stitched modestly in silver at her shoulder. Her dark braid, now looser than it had been earlier, glinted under the torchlight.

“You should have seen your face,” she said with glee. “I thought Starks were supposed to be brave.”

“Bravery isn’t the same as expecting little ghosts to leap out of dark corners.”

She walked beside him without being asked, arms tucked beneath her cloak, looking very pleased with herself.

“Are you haunting the halls now?” he asked.

“Only when it’s too dull to sleep,” she said. “Lady Hornwood snores like a dying badger. And your maester said I wasn’t allowed more honeywine. So here I am. Come to see if the mighty Lord Torren was still walking or had collapsed under the weight of his great many scrolls.”

“Collapsed hours ago,” he muttered. “This is just the ghost of me. You’re talking to a corpse.”

“Good. Then you won’t mind if I poke fun at your hair. It's doing that swoopy brooding prince thing again.”

He ran a hand through it absently. “I can’t help how it dries.”

“No, but you could help frowning at every candle you pass like it offended your ancestors.”

He cast her a sideways look, and she grinned up at him.

There was something disarming about Reina Bolton, like walking into an argument where she already had the last word. She moved with casual confidence, her voice always a step from teasing. He'd known her since they were children—though not well. Reina had only begun frequent visits to Winterfell in the last year, her father eager to align the Boltons more closely with House Stark now that southern eyes watched the North more keenly than ever.

Torren had dismissed her at first. When they were younger. Another noble girl, sharp of tongue and soft of purpose.

But Reina was not soft. Nor dull.

“You usually go wandering this late?” he asked.

“Only when I’m avoiding embroidery,” she said. “Or looking for scandal.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Have you found any?”

“Nothing juicy.” She smiled. “Though rumor has it the heir to Winterfell is frightfully lonely in his tower.”

He snorted. “That rumor is entirely fabricated.”

“Oh, I know.” She stepped a little closer. “I started it.”

They reached the threshold of his chamber—beyond it, warm firelight flickered under the heavy oaken door. He paused, turning toward her.

“Of course you would. You should go back,” he said, though there was no force behind it.

She tilted her head. “I should.”

Neither moved.

“Why don’t you sleep in your father’s chamber?” she asked, gesturing lazily to the upper hall. “The Lord’s Room has the best hearth. Bigger bed, too.”

“I’m not sleeping in my father’s bed,” Torren said flatly. “I’d rather freeze.”

Reina chuckled. “Afraid you’ll wake up speaking in grunts and smelling like a hound?”

“I already speak in grunts,” he said, opening his door.

She leaned against the frame, looking past him into the flickering warmth within. “Very princely. All moody firelight and shadows. If you had a harp, you could compose songs about your tragic inheritance.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“I’m charming,” she corrected.

Torren hesitated again, then stepped aside. “Do you want to come in?”

She raised an eyebrow. “That sounds positively scandalous.”

“Then you can sit by the fire and scandalize my rug.”

She grinned. “A tempting offer. One I cannot in good conscience refuse.”

She slipped past him, the scent of snow and lavender trailing in her wake. Torren closed the door quietly behind her.

The chamber was warm—modestly so. The fire crackled low in the hearth. A bearskin rug lay before it, and shelves of old books lined the stone walls. A sword belt hung from a peg near the bed, and above the hearth was a carved wooden direwolf, mouth agape, eyes fierce.

Reina moved with practiced grace, casting off her cloak onto the nearest chair before dropping down onto the rug with a satisfied sigh. She sat cross-legged, boots still laced, black braid sliding over her shoulder.

“Not bad,” she said, surveying the chamber. “Very Stark. Very brooding. I approve.”

Torren chuckled, pulling off his own cloak and tossing it onto the bench beside his bed.

“Wine?” he offered.

She nodded, and he poured them both a cup from the small flagon near the hearth. The wine was warm—spiced with clove and nutmeg, rich and earthy. He handed her one and sat opposite her on the rug.

“You’re different tonight,” she said after a few sips.

“How so?”

“Softer,” she said, tilting her head. “Less... burdened.”

“I spent the whole evening listening to grown men argue over who insulted whose cousin. If I seem softer now, it’s because the alternative was throwing myself from the battlements.”

She laughed again—an easy, genuine sound that made something tighten in his chest. “You should smile more,” she said, studying him.

“Why?”

“Because it reminds me of when we were younger.”

He looked at her over the rim of his cup. “That was like four years ago and what do I seem like the rest of the time?”

“A wolf cub pretending to be the moon.”

He blinked. “What in the gods’ name does that mean?”

She leaned closer. “It means you carry too much. You’re trying to light the way for everyone else, and forgetting that you're still allowed to grow into it. You’re not your father, Torren. You don’t need to be.”

The words struck deeper than he expected.

For a long moment, the fire spoke more than either of them—crackling, whispering against the cold stone.

“I never asked for it,” he said at last, voice low. “The name. The duty. I was born into it.”

“I know,” she said, almost softly. “But you wear it better than you think. You might be the first Stark who's not just big’o brud but kind one. I like the sight of that.”

Their eyes met. For the first time that night, there was no teasing in hers. Then, just as quickly, she smirked and raised her cup. “Besides, if you didn’t inherit Winterfell, who else would I torment on long winter nights?”

He smiled, a small, genuine thing. “You’d find someone.”

“Maybe. But none so fun to fluster.”

“You haven’t flustered me yet.”

“Oh?” She leaned back, stretching languidly, firelight catching her pale throat and the flush in her cheeks. “Then I must be losing my touch.”

Torren finished his wine, setting the cup down with a soft clink.

“No,” he said. “You haven’t.”

Reina watched him a moment longer, then smiled—a slow, knowing smile—as she stood and brushed her skirt smooth.
“Well then, my Lord Stark, I shall leave you to your princely sulking. I wouldn’t want the gossip to get too thrilling.”

“You mean you want to save it for tomorrow.”

She winked. “Naturally.”

As she turned, his hand reached out—gentle, almost hesitant—fingers curling lightly around her arm.
“Please… stay a little longer?”

She paused. Her eyes searched his face, then softened. Her fingers rose and touched his chest—cool at first, then warming as they spread across his skin, feeling the steady rhythm beneath. She traced the faint scar just below his collarbone, the one he’d gotten from a training blade that hadn’t been as dull as it should’ve been.

“You’re trembling,” she whispered.

“It’s cold,” he murmured, though the fire still burned nearby.

She leaned in close, her breath brushing against his neck. Her lips found the hollow just beneath his jaw—once, twice—then again, slower, more deliberate. “Liar,” she whispered, her voice teasing and breathy, as her hand continued its quiet journey, unhurried and curious, exploring the shape of him like she was learning a sacred secret.

Torren inhaled sharply. Before he could stop himself, he turned, gripping her waist in one fluid, instinctual motion. She gave a soft gasp—then smiled, her arms twining around his shoulders as he pulled her flush against him.

Their mouths met, slow at first, then deepening into something hungrier, something desperate. Her fingers wove into his hair, anchoring herself, while his hands roamed her back, fumbling at the laces of her gown until it gave way with a whisper of thread and breath.

She pulled away just enough to let the fabric slip from her shoulders, pooling around her feet. She stepped back toward the bed, never taking her eyes off him. He followed, pulling his tunic over his head and tossing it aside, the firelight dancing along the lines of his chest.

When her knees touched the edge of the bed, she sank down gracefully, then lay back, her braid spilling like silver thread over the dark furs. She arched slightly, her hand outstretched, beckoning him. Lips parted. Chest rising and falling with anticipation.

“Torren,” she breathed, his name a whisper of want and wonder.

He came down over her, pressing soft kisses to her collarbone, tracing the shape of her with reverence. Her breath caught in her throat, hands finding his shoulders, fingers curling. He moved lower, each kiss slower than the last, until he reached the curve of her stomach and paused, his mouth hovering, breath warming her skin.

She gasped—sharp, real, breathless with need. “Right there,” she whispered, voice quivering. “Don’t stop.”

His name spilled from her lips again, softer this time—like a sacred plea. Her body arched beneath him, instinctive and aching. His lips traced the curve of her hip, each kiss drawing another trembling breath from her throat, her fingers gripping the furs beneath like lifelines.

Then—he found her. She cried out, a shudder wracking her frame, her head tossing back as pleasure surged through her. One hand flew to her mouth, trying to stifle the sound but it tore free anyway, a desperate, helpless moan that echoed off stone walls.

“Torren,” she breathed again, voice wrecked and reverent. “Oh gods…Torren right-right ahhh.”

Several heavy tomes lay open, their pages yellowed and ink faded by time. One sat directly before him—its cover bound in cracked black leather, the spine etched with the snarling sigil of House Stark: a direwolf mid-howl. Torren stood over it, arms crossed tightly over his chest, lips moving as he murmured the passage aloud under his breath. His brow furrowed. Whatever truth he was chasing in the text, it gnawed at him with the same relentless pressure that had haunted him since the moment he’d broken that seal.

The silence pressed close, heavy with the weight of both knowledge and consequence.

“The Last King in the North, Torrhen Stark, bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror not from fear, but wisdom. For he saw the fate of the other kings and chose the survival of his people over pride.”

He closed the book slowly.

His own name echoed in his head like a haunting.

Torren. Torrhen. The last King in the North.

A creak of the solar door pulled him from his thoughts.

Edric entered, sleeves still dusted with the morning’s frost, his bald crown shining faintly in the firelight. He carried a thick bundle of scrolls, bound in twine and sealed with varying wax sigils.

“Ravens came in the night,” Edric said. “The rookery was near bursting. You’ve five today—three from White Harbor, one from Last Hearth, and…” He hesitated, producing a smaller letter bound in golden wax. “One from the Crown. For the Queen.”

Torren raised an eyebrow and stepped forward, reaching for the bundle.

“I’ll take them,” he said.

Edric blinked. “All of them?”

“You’ve still got Weymar demanding more lessons on High Valyrian, and the Hornwoods are still here, aren’t they?”

Edric nodded with a grunt. “Refusing to leave until someone inspects their grain stores personally.”

“Then go. I’ll see the Queen receives her letter.”

The old steward bowed. “You’ve grown sharper this past moon, my lord.”

Torren stood alone, the solar quiet once again.

He laid the White Harbor letters aside—likely trade reports or requests from Lord Theomore. The one from Last Hearth bore the mark of the Umbers and would wait until after he finished his daily notes for the stables.

That left the final letter—sealed with gold wax, bearing the crowned stag.

For the Queen.

His fingers hesitated.

The letter was smaller than he expected. Neat. Clean. Personal. His eyes flicked to the door. Still closed. Still alone. He turned the letter slowly in his hand. Then, with a quiet breath—and against every word of his father’s teachings—he broke the seal. The parchment within was folded with care, the ink still dark and steady. The writing was strong, but not aggressive. No titles. No formal greetings. Only a name at the top, written plainly:

Alysanne.

He swallowed and read on.

“I dreamt of you last night.

It was snowing, and you stood beneath the Heart Tree, in the yard of Red Keep smiling at nothing at all, your breath rising like smoke. I said your name, and you turned to me. Bare skin and you did not speak, only offered me your hand. I woke before I could take it.

But I shall save the rest of my dream for when I see you. The children are well. They ask about you daily, though they pretend they do not. Daenerys sulks less when I mention your name. I believe she resents how easily you made her laugh. As for me… I do not enjoy this sun-washed court. Too much honey and perfume. Too little truth.

The Free Cities of Pentos and Tyrosh, as ever, grind their pride into the bones of others. They’ve asked me to mediate the talks. A war of tariffs, they say, but the fleets on both sides grow longer by the week. I suspect it will not end with ledgers.

I have not written in some days because I’ve not known what to say. You are absent from my table, from the wind, from the fire, and I find myself fumbling. It is not proper for a King to miss anyone.
By the gods…I miss you. I want you…I desire you.

I hope the cold has been kind, and that Alaric Stark remains a worthy guest.
I await your next letter more than I dare admit.
Yours and always

Jaehaerys

He just broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment with his own clumsy fingers.

A royal crest.

A letter from the King.

Addressed to the Queen.

Oh gods.

Shit.
Shit.
Shit.

“What did I just do?” he whispered, panic rising like bile in his throat. “Is the King going to take my head? No—worse. I’m dragon food.”

The heavy door of the solar slammed shut behind him with a deafening boom, like the toll of a bell marking his doom. Torren didn’t wait. His boots struck the flagstones hard and fast, echoing through the empty corridors of the keep. First a brisk walk, then a full sprint. The letter—his death warrant, it now felt like—was tucked deep inside his cloak, though it might as well have been aflame, searing into his ribs with every stride.

His breath caught. Not from exhaustion, but from the overwhelming certainty that he had crossed a line. One that could not, would not, be forgiven. He had read words never meant for his eyes. Royal words. Dangerous ones. And now he could never unsee them.

He rounded a corner too sharply and nearly collided with a young servant girl balancing a stack of fresh linens. They both gasped—hers in shock, his in frantic apology—but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

“Sorry—move!” he barked.

Through the Great Hall. Past the kitchens, ignoring the startled cries of the cooks. He brushed past Maester Edric so roughly the old man stumbled and nearly dropped a bundle of scrolls.

“Torren?” the Maester called, confused. “What in the—”

But he was already gone.

He shoved open the heavy double doors of the library. No sign of her. Not even a whisper of fabric, or a trace of scent.

The hall—silent.

He stormed through the corridors, scanning every face, every shadow. Each step louder. He was sweating now. Was she gone? Did she already know?

“Gods, please no…”

Finally, he burst into the courtyard. The midday sun spilled over the stone, illuminating guards, servants, stablehands—but not her.

At least when he asks question fast, a stable hand mentioned seeing Alarra “up on the wall walk, staring into the snow like she was waiting for something.”

Torren climbed the inner stairs two steps at a time, breathing harder with each level. When he reached the top, cold air blasted into him. The sun was hidden behind thick clouds, and a thin veil of flurries drifted through the morning sky. From this height, the North stretched out in every direction, a realm of ice and pine. There she stood. Alarra her hair tied back in a simple braid that the wind had begun to pull loose. She stood on the battlements, facing the distant Wolfwood. Silent. Thoughtful.

Torren stopped a few paces behind her, catching his breath.

She didn’t turn around. “Father and the Queen,” she said softly. “Do you think they’re still at the western ridge?”

Torren was still panting, hands on his knees. He’d nearly run the length of the keep. “I don’t know,” he managed. “They were supposed to be back this morning.”

Alarra turned slightly, brow furrowing as she caught sight of him.

“You look like you’ve been running all morning.”

He straightened. Swallowed. And pulled the folded letter from inside his cloak. When she saw the golden seal with the three headed dragon—cracked open—her eyes widened.

“Torren,” she whispered. “You opened the King’s letter?” She gasped in horror, her eyes shot open.

He said nothing, only stared at her with the same guilty expression he used to wear after getting caught stealing crusts from the kitchens as a boy.

She stepped toward him quickly, voice sharp.“You opened the King’s letter to the Queen? What fool are you?!”

“You said spy,” he shot back, voice defensive.

“I said to watch, not open royal correspondence! Do you want to be hanged?!”

Torren looked around to make sure no guards were within earshot, then hissed, “You said to look for secrets. You said the Queen might be up to something.”

“I meant subtlety!” she snapped. “Not treason!”

He flinched. Then looked down at the letter in his hand. “I was careful.”

Alarra stared at him, then exhaled, rubbing her temple. “Old save us. What did it say?”

He hesitated.

Then: “It was from the King. Jaehaerys.”

“No surprise there.”

“He… he misses her. Says he dreams of her. Talks about their children. He’s dealing with the Free Cities, helping mediate trade disputes between Pentos and Tyrosh.”

Alarra blinked. “Children?And trade disputes, that’s it are you sure?”

Torren nodded slowly. “Yes I’m sure I read it myself! He said they ask about her, even though they pretend they don’t. Danerays is still upset that she gone. And that he—” he hesitated again, the words catching in his throat, “—misses her. That he’s lonely at court.”

Alarra was quiet for a moment. The wind whipped her braid around her shoulder.

“And what else?”

“He asked if Father had been a good guest,” Torren said quietly. “And hoped to receive another letter soon.”

She stared past him, eyes unreadable.

“He’s not angry?” she asked finally.

Alarra took a slow step back, folding her arms tight across her chest.

“So…” she muttered, tilting her head slightly, “that was a waste of breaking into.”

Torren gave a weak shrug, shame heating his cheeks. Neither of them said anything for a while. The wind stirred the pinewood below, a cold breath from the forest brushing past the tower wall.

Eventually, Alarra turned back to him, her voice low but firm. “We can’t say a word of this.”

Torren nodded. “I know.”

“You’re going to reseal the letter,” she said, eyes locked on his, “and you’re going to deliver it to her. Like nothing happened.”

“What!?” he blurted. “I can’t re-wax it without the royal seal! That’s— That’s impossible. I need to burn it!”

“Burn it?” she snapped, incredulous. “You steal a royal letter, and now you’ll burn it? Torren… Gods, for all that’s good—hide it!”

“I— okay, okay!” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’ll hide it. Maybe I can find someone… or something that can help me reseal it. I don’t know yet.”

Alarra’s face softened slightly. She looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time that morning. “You’ve changed,” she said.

Torren raised a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“I am. The boy I knew would’ve cried and begged me to fix it for him. This one...” She glanced down at the letter. “This one opens a king’s message and walks the wall with it.”

Torren gave a faint, bitter smile. “I don’t know if that’s courage or idiocy.”

“Both,” she said.

He looked out across the white horizon, where the Wolfwood met the sky in a jagged black line. “I don’t think I’m ready for any of this,” he said.

Alarra nodded. “Well no time like reality. Torren. You don’t get to wait until you feel ready.”

He sighed.

She nudged him with her shoulder. “You did a pretty stupid thing…But Will figure it out we still have a day before they should return.”

Torren chuckled weakly. He stared out, jaw tight, heart heavy. Alarra had gone quiet again, arms folded tightly, lost in her own thoughts. Neither of them had noticed the change in sound until it was too late.

Hooves.

Distant. Rhythmic.

Growing louder.

Alarra stiffened first, head snapping toward the western approach. Torren followed her gaze, squinting past the haze of falling snow.

And then he saw it.

A rider—brown cloak billowing behind—broke through the tree line and galloped across the stone bridge leading to Winterfell’s outer gate. Another rider followed. Then seven  more. Their horses kicked up snow and mud in great plumes as they thundered toward the keep.

Torren’s blood went cold.

A moment later, two more figures appeared atop the ridge—smaller, steadier, moving at a more graceful pace.

One of them wore a cloak of silver and blue.

The other… broad-shouldered, gray-furred cloak, and unmistakably Stark. Their father and beside him—her pale braid catching in the wind, her figure upright in the saddle, back straight, gaze proud Queen Alysanne. Torren’s stomach twisted. Alarra saw them at the same time he did. They turned to each other—eyes wide, hearts dropping into their boots. And, in perfect unison, both breathed the same word:

“Fuck.”

Chapter Text

He sat hunched over the long table, his chin resting in his palm, the other hand scooping the last of his oats. He stirred them idly with his spoon, mashing dried fruit into mush, his mind elsewhere. He was watching the sky, wondering if dragons left trails like birds did. He’d never seen one, not properly. Silverwing had landed far beyond the walls when she’d returned from a hunt he assumed.

Across the table, Queen Alysanne sat beside Alaric, her silver-blonde hair caught in the morning sun like a crown of molten snow. She laughed, a clear, musical sound, and leaned in to whisper something to Alaric. The Lord of Winterfell smiled in return, and even let out a rare, low chuckle. That alone made Weymar pause.

Alaric Stark did not chuckle.

They looked… happy.

Too happy, Weymar thought.

He glanced down at the table. Alarra picked at her bread, her mouth pressed in a thin line, watching their father with narrowed eyes. Torren looked worse than he ever had. Not since mother died but this was different. His sullen and stiff, barely touching his plate. His dark hair hung over his brow, and he chewed on his thumb's nail, a nervous tick he'd never admit to.

Something had happened. Weymar felt it in the air, like the coming storm. He shifted in his seat as the queen suddenly turned her attention on him.

"And what say you, my young Weymar?" Alysanne asked warmly, reaching across the table to tousle his curls. "Did the raven from White Harbor not bring your favorite sweetmeats?"

Weymar blushed. "They did, Your Grace," he muttered. “Thank you.”

She smiled and leaned over to press a soft kiss to his brow, fingers brushing his dark, curly hair. “You’re too thin,” she said. “I'll have the cooks send something richer to your rooms. You're growing, and boys your age need meat on their bones.”

Across the table, Alarra rolled her eyes and let out a small scoff. Torren didn’t even look up. Alysanne seemed not to noticeor pretended not to.

“You remind me of all the young boys at court,” she continued, her voice carrying across the table like a gentle lull. “Curious, but you have soft-hearted, and always asking too many questions.”

Weymar smiled faintly, unsure what to say. He’d never met Viserys, nor the other royal children. The Queen only spoke of them now and then, in those quiet moments between court business and council chambers.

She reached to pour him more cider, even though his cup was still half-full.

“Thank you,” Weymar said again, almost a whisper. She always smelled of lilacs and clean parchment, like his mother used to, before…The queen had begun to touch him gently in the ways only a mother would: fixing his collar, kissing his cheek, brushing crumbs from his chin. At first, it had been strange, but now… it warmed something in him.

But not everyone welcomed her warmth.

Weymar saw it in the way Torren shiftedjust slightly, but alwayswhenever Queen Alysanne entered the room. He noticed it in the way Alarra’s lips drew into a tight line each time the Queen offered her praise. There was tension there, unspoken but thick as stormclouds over the godswood.

Just the other day, he had caught sight of Alysanne walking through the courtyard with his father, Lord Theomore. They had been laughing. Laughing. Of all sounds, it was his father’s deep, seldom-heard laughter that echoed off the stone walls like some ghost of a forgotten youth. Later, Weymar had passed them againthis time their arms were locked. He blinked, unsure if his eyes had tricked him, but the image burned in his mind all the same.

Torren said nothing. Not then, not later, not even when Alysanne lavished him with praises during the evening meal, calling him bold, valorous, and certain to win the hearts of all the ladies at court. If Torren had thoughts about the Queen’s wordsor her attentionshe buried them deep.

Later that evening, as Weymar practiced his history of minor houses with his sister, Alarra, the Queen stopped by and smiled with that same disarming warmth that seemed to crack the walls around everyoneexcept Alarra. Alysanne invited her to join, to sit with them and speak the ancient tongue of dragonlords, but Alarra’s answer was a cold refusal, her voice clipped and her gaze fixed elsewhere. The Queen said nothing more, only nodded and drifted on, her silver hair catching the firelight as she went.

Weymar looked to his sister, but she did not speak. She only returned to her page, her knuckles pale against the parchment.

"Would you like to walk the stables later?" Alysanne asked him now, still smiling. "There's a new litter of  pups in the kennels, I hear."

Weymar nodded quickly, eager despite the tension.

Alaric laughed again, deeper this time. "He's always had a soft spot for pups, this one."

"Maybe one day he'll make a good lord, then," Alysanne said, winking at Weymar.

Torren’s spoon clattered loudly against his bowl. The sound startled them all. Even Alysanne blinked.

"Is something wrong, Torren?" Alaric asked, turning toward his son.

Torren looked up at last, face pale and jaw tight. “No, slippery hands.” he said shortly. “I’m finished.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “May I be excused?”

“I must commend you,” Alysanne said suddenly, her voice cutting clean through the quiet air. “Lord Crewyn praised you, what were his words? Ah yes. ‘Northern Loyal’ support in favor of his farmers’ petition.”

Torren’s jaw tightened. He said nothing, his eyes dropping to his arms as if the venison there might provide sanctuary. Alysanne’s words had been meant as praise, yet Torren looked as though he’d been struck.

Alaric gave a small nod, expression unreadable beneath the flickering torchlight. “The smallfolk are not beneath our notice. It takes a good lord to remember all the North is his responsibility.” he said plainly. 

“Wise words, Alaric.” Alysanne replied, though her eyes remained on Torren. “And your son was the one who saw the matter through successfully?”

“Aye, Measter Edric wrote. Torren was fine in his role and even handled Lord Bolton with grace.” Alaric said.

Torren flinched slightly at the acknowledgment, and Weymar didn’t miss it. Nor did the Queen.

“You’ve a good heart, Torren,” Alysanne said, her voice gentle now, less formal. “And courage of a different kind. Many lords act only when mass are watching.”

Torren opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it again. His cheeks colored faintly as he reached for his goblet. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Across the table, Alarra watched with narrowed eyes. Her fork had stilled in her hand, and though she said nothing, her silence pressed harder than any words.

Weymar glanced from one to the other. Torren, unable to meet the Queen’s eyes; the Queen, keenly aware of his discomfort yet refusing to look away; and Alarra, her expression a storm barely leashed.

“May I leave now, Father?” Torren repeated himself.

Alaric gave a small nod, though a shadow passed over his face. Torren left without another word, footsteps echoing down the corridor.

“My young Weymar you got your curls out.” Alysanne leaned gently toward Weymar and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his curls, her hand brushing affectionately through his hair. The gesture was light, maternal, and instinctive.

Alaric’s gaze lifted slowly to meet Alysanne’s. Alysanne, for the first time that evening, blushed not from wine nor wit, but with something warmer, softer. She looked away, down into her cup, a hint of a smile playing at her lips.

Alarra was only a breath behind. “I’ve lost my appetite,” she muttered, grabbing her cloak and hurrying after him. “If Your Grace will excuse me,” she said, voice smooth as glass, “I find myself in need of air.”

“Of course, Lady Alarra,” Alysanne said gently.

Alarra gave a shallow curtsy and turned, her dark skirts brushing past the stone floor like a sigh. As the doors of the great hall closed softly behind Alarra, a strange stillness settled over the high table.  Alysanne leaned back in her chair, her smile gone now, replaced by something far more human. She let out a slow sigh, not of exhaustion, but of quiet defeat, the kind born of hearts misunderstood.

She stared down at her untouched goblet, tracing its rim with a pale fingertip. “I thought I was winning them,” she murmured, not to anyone in particular. “But I fear I’ve only driven them further from me.”

Her voice was soft, threaded with sorrow, so different from the commanding queen who addressed lords and ruled councils.

Beside her, Lord Alaric Stark did not speak right away. His face was still and strong as the old gods carved into the heart tree, but after a pause, his hand moved tentative at first, but sure. He reached out, and gently, his fingers brushed hers. Then they settled there, his rough, scarred hand atop her smaller one. A quiet comfort. A rare gesture.

Alysanne let out a soft sigh, folding her hands in her lap. “They’re grown quite around me,” she said quietly. “Have I done something to offend them?”

“You haven’t lost them,” Alaric said, voice low, gravel threaded with warmth. “At this age I remember I wasn’t so fair to my own father at times. It’s just them sorting out whatever is trapped in their mind. Do not worry Alysanne.”

Alysanne looked at him then, her eyes shining not with tears, but with that wounded hope only the kindhearted ever suffer. “They’re good children,” she whispered. “But I must have said something wrong. Alarra hardly looks at me now, and Torren, he won’t meet my eyes.”

Alaric shook solemnly. “No, when your children grow in their age you’ll understand, some days they are cold like winter and next day jolly as the warmth of spring.”

Weymar sat still, trying to understand what it all meant. He still remembered the letterTorren had told him about in a whisper one night, how he’d broken the seal and read words meant only for the queen. Words from the king in the south. You shouldn’t have opened it, Weymar had said, wide-eyed.But what was done was done. And nothing could be done about it besides hide it and wait.

His feet brushing the stone floor, absently twirling a crust of bread between his fingers. His dark, curly hair was tousled and fell over his brow, and his grey Stark eyes so much like his father’s kept drifting back to the two adults.

“They’ll come around,” Alaric added, gently. “You are not so easy to forget.”

Alysanne allowed herself the smallest smile. “I would settle for not being disliked.”

Weymar finally looked up, as if drawn by some pull he didn’t quite understand. “I don’t dislike you,” he said, voice shy but honest. “I like you.”

Alysanne turned to him, and for a moment, her sorrow faded. “Thank you, sweet one.”

Alaric was smiling again. Not the usual stiff smile he gave to lords or the grim nods he spared the household guard. No, this was a different smile. One that lingered. One that warmed the corners of his sharp face and softened the lines time and war had carved there. And Alysanneshe laughed, a warm and clear sound that danced across the hall like the chime of silver bells.

Weymar chewed his bread slowly and glanced toward the nearby chair where Torren was sat slouched and wide-shouldered, or where Alarra would place herself. He hated seeming to act this way throughout the past few days and tonight. Their quietness, their moods withdrawn like wolves sensing a coming storm.

He didn’t understand it all. But he noticed them acting off.

The voice of the Alysanne tongue of Vlyrian caught Weymar's attention back to see the two closer now, how she leaned toward Alaric, whispering something in soft, lyrical High Valyrian that made Alaric blink in confusion.

“Nyke gīmigon ao would nūmāzma,” she said with a faint giggle.

Alaric blinked again. “...You could be telling me to jump off the Wall.”

Alysanne laughed, pressing her fingertips to her lips. “Maybe I was. Or maybe I said you look handsome with that little curl by your ear.”

Weymar furrowed his brow and looked between them. “What did you say?”

Alysanne turned to him, her smile widening. “Only teasing your father,” she said, then brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I said he might need to learn Valyrian.”

Weymar sat up straighter. “Can I learn too?”

She blinked and looked surprised, but then she beamed one of those radiant smiles that warmed like summer sun. “Truly?”

He nodded eagerly, his young voice earnest. “If he’s learning, I want to as well.”

“Then we’ll begin with simple words.” She leaned forward and reached over to tap his nose gently. “Dracarys will not be your first.”

Weymar giggled.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed something her hand brushing against Alaric’s under the table. Not a grab, not quite a clutch… but it lingered, fingers resting a heartbeat too long.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what it meant. But he tucked it away in his thoughts with the other things he noticed lately. The queen’s soft touches. The way Alaric’s eyes followed her even when she wasn’t looking. The way Alarra had gone quiet since they returned, her laughter more rare, her temper quicker. And Torren… brooding as ever, but twitchier.

Weymar wiped his mouth and rose to his feet just as Alysanne did. Alaric rose too, speaking to her of “northern reports” and “the broken eastern holdfast” and “Barrowton’s trade line.” But their tones were light, like the words were just excuses. She answered that she’d meet him after her reading with Septon and hopefully Alarra will attend.

Then, unexpectedly, Alysanne turned to Weymar.

“Come, sweet one,” she said, offering her hand with fingers soft and slender, her rings catching the light. “It’s improper for a lord to not accompany the Queen. I need help in the solar. And you’ve good eyes.”

He blinked at her hand. Then, without a word, took it. Her skin was warm, and she smelled like lavender and parchment. As they walked down the long corridor together, her hand gently holding his, he heard her hum something under her breath a song of Old Valyria, maybe, or some lullaby from her youth in the Red Keep. She was tall beside him, yet he didn’t feel small. He felt… proud, important.

“You’re quieter today,” she said after a moment.

He shrugged. “Just thinking.”

Alysanne squeezed his hand gently. “That’s a good thing. Most boys your age don’t.”

The hearthfire crackled low in the corner, casting a soft orange glow across the stone walls of the solar. Weymar sat curled on the edge of a bearskin rug, legs tucked beneath him, watching the queen as she sat in his father’s chair.

No one sat in that chair. Not Torren. Not Alarra. Not even their distant family unless invited. Yet there she was, her silver-gold hair falling in soft waves over her shoulder, her gown the color of grey? Alysanne Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and she looked as if the chair belonged to her or she belonged in the chair.

And what strangerFather had not scolded. In fact, he had smiled when he saw her there earlier, placing his hand on her shoulder before stepping out to attend some duty.

Now the Queen sat back, her lips shaping strange and beautiful sounds, her voice smooth and light as snow falling on new frost.

"Rytsas," she said gently, her purple eyes meeting Weymar's. “Say it with me.”

Weymar blinked, then tried to mimic her. “Ree… sa?”

She laughed, musical and kind, and Weymar flushed. Her mirth wasn’t cruelit never was. She had the warm laugh of a summer stream.

“Close. Rytsas. It means ‘hello’ in High Valyrian.”

Weymar repeated it again, slower this time, and Alysanne clapped her hands. “Very good! You’re learning quickly.”

Alaric stood near the window, arms crossed, listening with amusement. He was better at hiding his smiles, but they came more often when the queen was near. He had even laughed aloud earlier that morning at something she’d whispered to him in that secret tongue.

Weymar glanced back at Alysanne, who now motioned for him to come closer.

“Try this one,” she said, tapping her lips thoughtfully. “Avy jorrāelan.”

“AvAvy… jor… jorah…” Weymar stumbled over it.

She giggled, gently shaking her head. “Avy jorrāelan,” she said again, slower.

“What’s it mean?” Weymar asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Her expression softened, she seemed to think for a moment before answering him. “It means…Yes, I will.’”

Weymar wrinkled his nose, earning a laugh from her.

“I’ll remember the first one,” he grumbled, but then he smiled.

She reached over and cupped his cheek, brushing back his unruly black curls. “You look so much like your father when he was young,” she murmured. “The same eyes… the same stubborn curl in your hair.”

Weymar blinked at her. That gentle touch. That softness. It reminded him of when his mother had been alive what little he remembered of her. He was so young when she died and never saw her buried. Father refused any of his children to see her in the state she was in. Torren was furious for half a year when he vanished to Karhold while Alarra confronted what little Weymar remembers.

The Queen kissed his forehead once more. Not out of force. Not as a ruler of the realm but as a woman who truly cares. “You're a sweet and kind boy. Something many shall cherish. One trait I adore about you.” she whispered. 

The fire hissed, and Weymar stared into it for a long moment. “I want to see the South,” he said quietly.

Alysanne looked at him curiously. “Haha that's so sudden…But you do?”

He nodded. “I’ve only ever seen North. And only half! I want to see what the rest of the realm looks like. Father never speaks of it. He says Winterfell is enough for us, but…” He paused. “It must be different. Mustn’t it?”

Alysanne’s face grew distant. “Very different,” she said. “You’d see golden fields in the Reach, orange groves in Dorne, the marble towers of Oldtown. There’s music in the streets, and markets that sell spices that burn your tongue in the most wonderful way.” Her eyes softened again. “If you ever do go, take your heart with you. And take care not to lose it.”

Weymar sat up straighter. “Can I go one day?”

“If I have any say,” she said with a smile, “Yes. When I return to King’s Landing, I’ll take you as my page. You’d learn High Valyrian faster than your brother.”

“Torren’s too busy sneaking around,” Weymar blurted out like a fool

Alysanne tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

Weymar's eyes shot open and he bit his lip. “Ugh hmmm, Nothing.”

Her eyes gleamed with amusement. “You Starks are terrible liars. Please Weymar, you can trust me.”

He shifted, uneasy. “Lair? Me no…” He looked at her once more and he felt the pressure she gave him with one eyebrow raising her eyes charming into his heart. “He’s just… different lately. So is Alarra. They act weird when you're around.”

Alysanne’s gaze turned thoughtful, but she said nothing of it. Instead, she reached for the book resting on Alaric’s desk. “Would you like to see something old and Valyrian?”

Weymar nodded. She opened the tome, its pages yellowed, text in the flowing, alien script of her ancestors. “This was written in the days before the Doom,” she said. “When dragons still flew over Valyria and the Freehold was mighty.”

He squinted at the letters. “They look like dancing worms.”

Alysanne laughed again. “That they do.”

He stared at her for a moment. “Did your mother read to you like this?”

She paused, closing the book gently. “No. My mother was often busy, always ruling alongside my father. But my nursemaid taught me songs.”

Weymar’s voice softened. “Do you miss her? Your mother”

A sad smile tugged at her lips. “More than words.”

He lowered his gaze. “I miss my mother too. I…Ican’t remember what her voice sounded like. I believe my father will hate me and my mother will curse me from beyond death.”

Alysanne drew him into a gentle embrace, her chin resting lightly atop his head as her fingers stroked his hair with quiet tenderness. “Shhh… no, sweet boy, that’s not true,” she murmured, voice low and steady like a lullaby meant to calm a storm. “They both love you, truly. I’ve seen it in your father’s eyes, in the way he watches you when he thinks no one notices. There is care there. And pride.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes warm with compassion. “And I am proud of you. More than words can say. I believe no, I know, your late mother would be proud too, proud of the young man you’ve become, of the strength in your heart and the kindness you carry despite the weight you bear.”

They remained like that for a long while, the chamber quiet but for the faint crackling of the hearth fire. Alysanne’s arm stayed firm around him, not clutching, but steady like a shield against all the cruelties the world might hurl at him. She held him not only as a queen might comfort a subject, but as a mother would guard a son.

A sudden knock broke the stillness. The door creaked open, and Edric stepped inside, hesitation written on his face. “Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace,” he began softly.

Weymar was quick to pull back, his cheeks flushing with shame or perhaps pride too fragile to be seen so exposed. But Alysanne’s hand remained on his arm, a quiet anchor. She did not let him retreat entirely.

“Your Grace, Lord Alaric says the letters from Blackpool and Barrowton have arrived.”

Alysanne rose gracefully, brushing her skirts. “Tell him I’ll join him shortly.”

Edric bowed and left.

“And you,” she said teasingly, bending low to meet his eyes, “must keep your lessons secret. Alaric will be jealous if he hears you’ve already mastered the first three phrases.”

“I will,” he said proudly.

She leaned in, her lips brushing his forehead once more. “Good. You’re my little wolf.” She left the room with grace, her silver braid trailing behind her like the tail of a comet, Weymar stayed by the fire a while longer.

“My little wolf?” Weymar mumbled to himself, brows knitting as he stared into the firelight, the warmth of Alysanne’s embrace still lingering on his skin.

She was a dragonthe dragon. A queen of House Targaryen, rider of Silverwing, blood of Old Valyria. Not a wolf, not of the North, not of his blood.

And yet…

The words echoed in his mind like distant thunder rolling through the godswood.

My little wolf.

Why? Why had she called him that?

Weymar padded down the stone steps of the Great Keep, arms crossed against the soft breeze that carried the scent of pine and smoke. The sky overhead was gray and heavy, thick clouds casting Winterfell’s yard in a cold hue. He slowed near the edge of the yard, eyes narrowing as he took in the shape of Silverwing in the distance. The ancient dragon rested in the scorched field just beyond the training yard, her wings folded like great leathery sails and her long neck curled lazily over her body.

The grass there had never grown back right. Since her arrival with Queen Alysanne, the earth where she took her naps or circled overhead bore the black kiss of fire. Weymar didn’t mind it. There was something awe-striking in seeing a living piece of the old songs just lying there like a sleepy cat  if a cat had scales the size of shields and breath that could turn a knight into cinders.

He stood watching her for a long while, chewing the inside of his cheek, until

“You’re going to trip over your feet, staring so hard.”

Weymar flinched and whipped around.

“Gods, Alarra!” he hissed, pressing a hand to his chest. “You walk like a ghost.”

His older sister grinned, arms folded over her chest. She had her riding cloak wrapped tightly around her, the same gray as the clouds above. Her cheeks were rosy from the wind.

“You looked like you’d been turned to stone,” she teased.

“I was thinking.”

“Oh, was that what that was?” She stepped beside him, following his gaze to Silverwing. “What did you find out then?”

Weymar gave a dramatic shrug. “Nothing new. Silverwing still breathes. Still naps. Still hasn’t eaten me.”

Alarra smirked, but her gaze turned thoughtful. “No, not the dragon…What I mean is…They’re close, aren’t they? Father and the Queen.”

He nodded slowly before she continued. “He smiles more with her. She smiles too. And... They sit together now. Talk softly. Sometimes I think she forgets we’re there.”

Weymar said after a moment. “She’s just... happy, I think. Father is too.” 

Her voice dropped. “But they won’t speak of it openly.”

Weymar blinked at her. “Why not?”

“Because she’s still Queen. And we’re the North.”

They stood in silence for a beat, the cold wind rustling through the dry leaves clinging stubbornly to the bare trees lining the outer yard. The sky above was pale and flat, and the stones beneath their boots were frosted, crunching faintly when stepped on. A raven croaked somewhere high on the ramparts, but neither of them looked up.

Weymar shuffled his boots in the dirt, shoulders hunched against the wind, and let out a long, weary sigh.

“You’re going to make me climb the tower again, aren’t you?”

Alarra’s grin curled at the corners of her mouth, sly and knowing. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re thinking about it.”

“You’re better at it than me.”

“I’m the youngest!”

“You’re the smallest. There’s a difference.”

He groaned, throwing his head back. “I’m just about to pass you in height, thank you very much! You can’t keep using that.”

She shrugged, clearly unconvinced. “Still lighter. You move quicker. The stones like you better.”

“What if I fall?”

“You won’t.”

“What if the stone gives way and I plunge to my doom, and they only find my boot caught in the ivy?”

She rolled her eyes. “Now you’re just being dramatic.”

He scowled at her, lips pursed and hands on his hips, but Alarra only arched a brow and tilted her head slightlythat lookthe one she always gave before proposing some wicked bargain.

“I’ll let you take my bread and honey from breakfast tomorrow,” she said sweetly, as if she hadn’t been hoarding that bread all week like a squirrel with a secret cache.

Weymar hesitated, suspicious. “And?”

“I’ll let you skip training with the Master-at-Arms on the morrow.”

His eyes widened. Now that was a proper offer.

The Master-at-Arms had a talent for finding flaws in Weymar’s form that he didn’t seem to see in the older boys. More correction. More drills. Less praise. It was as if the man expected less of himand punished him more for it.

Still, Weymar wasn’t one to trust so easily, especially when his sister was smiling like that.

“And you won’t tell Torren I ripped my cloak climbing the wall yesterday?” he added, folding his arms.

Alarra blinked, then gave an angelic smile that could only mean trouble. “I won’t say a word.”

He let out another sigh, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine,” he muttered, stomping toward the base of the tower. “But if I break my neck, you can tell the minstrels a giant slew me.”

Alarra called after him, still grinning, “Aye, and I’ll say he wept for your courage and made a cairn of boulders over your bones.”

Weymar rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he began to climb.

The wind had picked up by the time Weymar snuck out again that night. Winterfell’s corridors were mostly quiet, only the occasional guard and the low crackling of distant fires stirred the hush. His boots barely made a sound on the old stones as he slipped toward the tower. He circled around the base, climbing the uneven stones of the outer wall, just as he’d done many times before when he needed solitude or mischief. His fingers were numb by the time he reached the high ledge near the turret roof.

“Why am I doing this to myself?”

Halfway up, he paused to rest, arms trembling, legs sore. He looked out over the yard. Far below, Silverwing’s pale shape glimmered like moonlight on snow where the dragon slept in the scorched ash field. The beast’s sides rose and fell in slow rhythm. She looked peaceful. It was hard to believe something so deadly could rest so softly. “Damn you Alarra.” He muttered underbreath as he pulled himself up to the side. Below him stretched the whole of Winterfell: courtyards, steaming rooftops, guards with torches making their rounds. And above, stars shimmered faintly between drifting clouds.

“Next time they can climb…I’m not!”

He reached the top and pulled himself over the last ledge. The wind bit at him immediately. He hunkered low, moving to the tower’s narrow overlook. From here, he could see almost everything: the Wolf’s Den to the east, the God’s Wood swaying in the wind, and the great river mouth just beyond Winterfell’s outer wall. 

The window was open. The soft glow of firelight danced on stone and fur.

Inside, Alysanne sat on the edge of his father's great oaken bed. A bed he only remembered in memory his mother sat on too. And yet, there she was. Pale silver robes shimmered like starlight, caught in the low fire's glow. Her hair, unbound, poured like moonlight over her shoulders. She leaned close to Alaric as she tapped his nose.

Weymar's breath caught. He crouched low, hidden just below the ledge. Only a hair’s breadth of stone separated him from what was unfolding just ahead.

He heard a laugh.

No more than a laugh. A giggle, soft and sweet, like the kind his mother used to make when Father returned from the hunt with a deer slung over his shoulder. Alysanne’s voice was lighter than snow. She said something in High Valyrian words too quick and airy for Weymar to catch. Then came Alaric’s gruff voice, murmuring something back. More laughter followed.

Weymar dared a glance.

They were close. Closer than any two people ought to be, save for man and wife. Alaric leaned back in his seat, and the Queen had one hand on his arm, her other brushing over his knuckles. Her fingers toyed with hisplayed with them, like a maiden with her betrothed.

Weymar’s heart thudded. 

Alysanne leaned in again. Her voice was barely a whisper now, breathy and warm, and then

He saw her press a hand just below Father’s ear.

Weymar nearly lost his grip right then.

“Shit!”

His voice came out in a strangled gasp as his body jolted. He ducked low again, chest pressed to the cold stone, breath ragged. The ledge beneath him wobbled treacherously, a crust of frost cracking underfoot. One moss-slicked boot slidjust an inch, but it was enough to send his stomach lurching into his throat.

His fingers scrabbled desperately, catching the jagged edge of the stone lip just in time to stop himself from tumbling into the void. Grit bit into his palm. The pain anchored him, barely.

If Father sees me…

His heart pounded like a wardrum in his chest, a deafening thud that drowned out everything else. He could hear it in his ears, feel it in his ribs.

Panic crawled up his spine like fire ants. His limbs trembled, no longer from the cold, but from the raw and sudden awareness that one wrong move could mean death. Real death. Neck snapped, body broken at the base of the tower. Or worsesurviving and being dragged in front of Father, or Queen Alysanne, bruised and battered and humiliated.

I need to get down. Now.

But getting down would be worse than going up. His legs felt hollow, untrustworthy. The climb down would be done in near darkness, every ledge more uncertain than the last, hands shaking, muscles twitching. If he slipped again, he might not catch himself a second time.

His eyes darted to the field below. The world stretched out beneath him in a still, moonlit tapestrysilent, silver-blue, and watching.

The scorched ruins of the dragonfield lay like a wound upon the earth, still smoldering faintly where Silverwing’s fire had seared it days ago. The tree line crouched beyond in silence, and winding through the field like a thread of onyx was the White Knife River, its waters glinting dully beneath the moon.

It was far. Far.

Too far.

But… maybe not impossible.

His breath came fast now, his chest rising and falling like bellows. He clenched his jaw until it ached. Every instinct screamed at him to stay still, to cling tighter, but another part of hima more desperate, reckless partwas louder.

“No choice,” he hissed. “No choiceFather’s gonna kill me. Nono, Queen will make me dragon breakfast! I’ll be roasted with turnips!”

His eyes darted upward. A soft creak. A floorboard? A step? Shadows moved behind the high window above.

Someone was coming.

He’s coming toward it.

That was all it took.

Weymar let go.

The world vanished beneath him. He jumped.

Air swallowed him whole.

The wind howled past his ears like a living beast, tearing at his clothes, dragging his breath away. There was no time to screamhis lungs seized, his mouth open but silent. His body tumbled, a marionette cut loose from its strings. Arms flailed. His legs kicked at nothing. The stars spun wildly above, cold and eternal. The towers of Winterfell twisted around him, impossibly distant and blurring with motion.

He was weightless, and then weightless still. Cold air lashed his face like icy whips. The river, black and gleaming, surged up toward him like the gaping maw of a beast.

The last thing he saw was the reflection of the moon in the river’s surface

SPLASH.

He crashed through the surface with a deafening splash, the frigid water swallowing him whole. The water hit like ice and stone. It slapped his body, stole his breath, and swallowed him whole. He plunged deep, bubbles streaming past his face as he fought upward. Darkness closed in, and the cold was like knives under his skin. His heart raced, limbs trembling, and yet even through the terror he had one thought:

“I saw them. I really saw them.”

Chapter Text

The morning sun cast a pale silver light through the high windows of Winterfell’s Great Keep, softening the ancient grey stone and catching on the frost still clinging to the corners of the arrow loops. Alysanne moved through the halls not with regal pomp, but with the easy grace of a woman beginning to settle into a new rhythm, her steps light, her smile softer than it had been since leaving King’s Landing. 

Her gown was a graceful blend of white and grey, soft as new-fallen snow, laced with threads of red and black along the edges and cinched at the waist with a silk sash embroidered in the same hues. Beneath the cuff of one sleeve, nearly hidden in the folds, a direwolf stitched in silver thread, fierce and unmistakable. It was the sigil of House Stark.

She had never worn another house’s colors alongside her own. The fabric clung to her with unfamiliar weight, not just of cloth, but of meaning. This was something different. This was belonging, and yet... something just shy of surrender. A new feeling unsettling, tender, and strangely warm.

Her hair had been plaited that morning in the Northern fashion of long braids running behind her ears, bound by silver cords instead of golden thread. The handmaids had giggled as they worked, offering advice on how to walk like a Stark woman. She had indulged them, letting them fuss, for once not correcting them when they used “m’lady” instead of “Your Grace.” Let them believe what they wanted. She felt… at home.

Servants bowed and curtsied as she passed. She offered gentle nods in return, pausing once to greet an old woman mending a torn cloak, and again to compliment a cook on the scent wafting from the lower kitchens.

“My Queen,” a voice called, and Ser Jonquil, her sworn sword, stepped from an alcove, a hand on her sword pommel out of instinct more than concern. “There is no word of Weymar as you requested. Do you have need an escort this morning?”

She waved a slender hand and smiled. “Weymar is young, he must be strolling in the yard…Not today, good my dear knight. I know my way about Winterfell.”

Her face remained stoic, though her gaze flicked over her shoulder to ensure no hidden threat lurked. “Should you need anything”

“I’ll send for you,” Alysanne said, warmth in her tone. “If you could send Ser Roxton to train Torren I’d like his sword skill in sword to be better…And Jonquil, thank you.”

“Of course your grace.” Jonquil bowed as she watched the Queen turned toward the familiar oaken door of the solar Lord Alaric’s solar, she corrected herself, though of late it felt a shared space.

When two hushed voices broke the silence, she pausedher senses suddenly alert. The dim hallway was empty save for the flickering torchlight dancing across cold stone walls. Carefully, she crept toward the corner, placing each foot with deliberate care. Peering around the edge, her breath caught.

Silhouetted by a narrow shaft of morning light spilling through a crack in the shutter, she made out two figuresAlarra and... Torren?

She leaned in, heart quickening, and strained to listen. The closer she inched, the clearer their faces became. Torren looked pale, sweat clinging to his brow as he gnawed nervously at his thumbnail. Alarra stood close, her voice low but trembling.

“I sent Weymar up,” she whispered harshly, panic threading through her tone.

“What!?” Torren’s voice cracked, barely contained. “At night? That’s your idea of a plan? It’s morning now, and he’s still not back!”

“Shh!” Alarra hissed. “Keep your voice down. I didn’t think he was only meant to watch, not... disappear. Maybe he’s just walking back.”

Torren shook his head, fear etched in every line of his face. “This is wrong, Alarra. I can’t keep lying. If they find out”

“Don’t,” she cut him off, gripping his sleeve tightly. “We’ll figure this out, but not here. Not like this. Justgo. Go train with Ser Roxton. Make sure he stays with you. We can’t have the Queen’s knight wandering the halls asking questions.”

“And you?” Torren asked.

“I’ll run something to Jonquil. She needs to hear this before anyone else does. But remember, Torren don’t burn what I told you. Not yet.”

They know something…

Her mind raced. They know where Weymar is or worse, they know what he was doing. Climbing? But why? And at night? What could possibly compel a boy to scale the walls under moonlight?

The question twisted in her gut like a cold knot. But what chilled her even more was Alarra’s parting words: “Don’t burn what I told you.”

What did that mean?

Was it some kind of message? A letter? A name? Or… something more dangerous?

The dread clawed deeper. Are they hiding something dreadful? From Alaric? From me?

Alysanne’s thoughts spiraled. Her imagination, untamed and sharp as ever, painted a dozen possibilities each darker than the last. Secrets kept in shadows. Lies whispered through the stone. The kind of silence that could crack kingdoms. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just idle gossip or childish mischief. Something was unfolding behind her back, something the gods themselves might turn their eyes from.

She fixed her dress once more and got ready. She knocked once, then pushed the door open. Alaric Stark sat at the large oak desk, his hair still wet from his morning wash, bent over a series of parchments and correspondence. Sunlight slanted across the maps sprawled before him, illuminating the edges of his dark fur-lined cloak.

“I figured I’d find you here, Alaric.” she teased as she stepped inside.

He glanced up, and the tired lines about his mouth softened into a smile. “That’s… new,” Alaric said, a spark of amusement in his voice.

“The maids insisted,” Alysanne replied, lifting a lock with her fingers. “Said I looked more Northern than Southern now.”

Alaric gave a quiet chuckle. “You look like both. That suits me just fine.”

Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she turned to the table to hide it. “Hm suits you just fine aren’t words I find praising…What are these?”

He waved the papers in the air to reveal to her what he was studying. “If you wish for more praises to your liking. I can show you.” He spoke in a low teasing tone, his hidden smile behind his beard.

“Have you seen Weymar? He never showed up for his High Valyrian lesson…”

“Missing him already? If I know my boy he’s off and about and Maester Edric is trying to catch him.”

She laughed and walked around the desk, eyeing the parchments curiously. “Let me guess. Lord Flint of Finger wants more men for his holdfast and House Tallheart is arguing over cattle again?”

“You’re becoming a Northerner already,” Alaric said, pushing aside one letter and reaching for his cup. “Or worse a steward.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “Don’t patronize me, my Alaric”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said with a grin, then reached out and took her handsoft, small, ink-stained at the tips and laid it on the map. His calloused fingers guided hers gently across the paper.

She perched herself beside him, peering down at the maps. “Which holds are you focused on?”

He tapped a finger against the map, guiding her eyes down to a cluster of small towers and sigils dotting the western hills. “This stretches between the Long Lake and the Barrowlands. These lands are rich but underdeveloped. I was considering offering marriage ties to stabilize alliances there.”

Her silver brows rose. “A marriage proposal there is no small thing. Have someone in mind for this match?”

“Two small houses Slate and Woolfield,” he said carefully, and she detected the subtle mischief in his tone. “But with a queen in Winterfell, I thought it wise to seek her counsel.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Are you asking my opinion on Northern lord marriages… or suggesting I pick a match?”

Alaric gave her a sidelong look, then reached for her hand, warm and strong. He placed it gently over the map, slowly moving her fingers across the parchment, tracing roads, rivers, and settlements.

“Your choices are between House Slate and Woolfield; neither holds claim to any daughter of ripe age, but both have sons and Slate as a bastard daughter near age..”

“A cousin could work. I highly doubt Lord Woolfield wishes his heir to wed a bastard."

Alaric frowned, then narrowed his eyes. “Cregan Slate has a nice fair-haired girl, ten, I think. A good match for Elyric Woolfield's heir."

“A marriage would bind the two,” Alysanne said, smiling. “End the bickering. Give the folk along that creek peace.”

“You speak like a Lady of Winterfell,” he said, voice low.

“I must act like one now,” she replied, her voice even softer. Their eyes locked as Alysanne felt her breathing picking up. The words Lady of Winterfell kicked something in her heart. She enjoyed the ring it gave…She enjoyed his deep voice and spoke it so normally.

He slid her hand south, across a patch of empty land nestled between the hills. “No house lays claim here. It’s a meadow fed by hot springs. Isolated. Peaceful. Few know of it but me.”

She felt the calluses of his hand against her own. The slow, purposeful path of her finger drawn by his made her breath catch. 

He brought her fingers to the map, guiding them along. “And here,” he shifted her hand again, “is a meadow, just beyond the hills near Sea Dragon Point. Hidden. There’s a hot spring there, untouched by most.”

Her brow arched. “You sound like you’ve taken women there before.”

His mouth twitched. “Never.”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “I’ve thought about tending to your body there. The water is warmer than the baths here. I’d wash your hair, brush it smooth, see the steam rise off your skin...”

Alysanne blushed furiously and gave him a playful swat to the chest. “You rogue. I’m the queen, not some whore to be lured off to your secret meadow.”

Alaric chuckled. “Then let me serve you as a loyal subject might. I’ll bring you there to honor your rank.”

She gave him a narrowed look, lips trembling with mirth. “Perhaps.” She playfully rolled her eyes as she stepped back fixing her dress. “I must meet with the stewards,” she said. “They’ve questions about the vaults of grain”

Alaric stood. “I’ll accompany you.”

“No. Go to the yard. The men train purposely poorly without your presence.”

He frowned, reluctant.

“Go,” she said with a soft smile, laying a hand on his chest. “It won’t be long until evening.”

He kissed her hand. “Then I’ll wait for evening.”

And with that, he turned and strode from the solar, the wolf in him stalking back to duty. Alysanne watched him go, her heart thudding with something both warm and terrifying. Was this how her mother had once felt? When once she looked at her father Aneys I then Rogar Baratheon? No Her father was dead by that point this is different she married and she no Aegon the Conqueror to take two husbands.

Two husbands? What is she thinking?

The voice of the steward droned on, dry as parchment, as Queen Alysanne Targaryen stood with her arms folded, listening with feigned patience. The morning had been filled with errands, requests, and duties, things she had learned to relish, if not for their own sake then for the sense of quiet power they offered. As she stood in the Great Hall, the banners of House Stark above her, she felt more than a guest. She felt like she belonged.

Two young stewards huddled near the column whispered behind gloved hands, their nervous laughter sharp and hushed. Alysanne’s pale brows lifted. The steward before her stammered on about firewood rations, but she raised her hand.

“What do you two whisper about?” she asked, her voice sweet but edged in steel. The boys paled, their tongues tied.

“N-nothing, my queen,” the older one said.

Alysanne's gaze narrowed, and she stepped forward. “Speak clearly. I will not have rumors slither through these halls like vipers.”

“It’s just,” the younger one mumbled, “someone said you sit in the Lord of Winterfell’s solar now. And that… that you’re dressing like a lady of House Stark.”

“And why should that concern you? I was in Lord solar for my Ladies court. I saw your sister in. As for my style, I show my respect for all cultures in my brother’s realm.” she asked lightly, but her eyes glinted like the edge of Valyrian steel. “Do you gossip of Queen Rhaena’s silks too, or only when the queen is warm and breathing in front of you?”

Both stewards dropped to their knees and muttered apologies, and she waved them off with a flick of her fingers.

“No need for apologies, just do not spread false rumors. Back to your duties.”

The moment passed, and her steward bowed again before stepping away to attend to the day’s ledgers. Alysanne exhaled slowly. Power carried weight, but in that weight was dignity. Respect. Even here in this ancient keep of stone and snow, where the ghosts of Starks watched from the shadows, she was carving her place.

She turned, intending to go find Alaric in the courtyard, when the doors of the hall creaked open and Maester Edric entered in haste, his robes trailing like the tail of a startled raven.

“My queen,” he called. “Forgive the interruption.”

She moved swiftly toward him, her skirts rustling softly. “Maester Edric, what is it?”

“There’s… news. Weymar. He was found.”

Her heart froze. “Found?Where was he?”

“That’s the thing. No one knew. A stable hand spotted him walking covered in water. We assume from the moat between the inner walls just this morning. He was soaking wet and shivering… blackened eye, bruises…” The man paused, concerned about clouding his voice. “He’s with the healer now. I thought you should know.”

Alysanne didn’t wait for another word. She turned and strode out, her pace quickening as she passed the great hearth and down the corridor leading to the healers’ quarters. Her breath came faster. Weymar. My sweet boy. What happened to you?

When she entered the chambers, the sight struck her breathless. The child sat huddled on a bench near the fire, a thick woolen blanket wrapped around him, steam rising faintly from his damp curls. His skin was pale, lips tinged blue, and a vivid bruise marked his right cheek and eye. But his dark eyes lifted when he saw her, and he smiled, his little teeth chattering.

“Your Grace,” The healer began.

But Alysanne barely heard. She rushed forward and dropped to her knees, pulling Weymar into her arms. His body was freezing against her silk gown.

“Oh, sweet boy,” she murmured, wrapping him tightly. “You poor thing, you’re frozen. Why didn’t anyone know you were missing?”

“I… didn’t tell,” Weymar whispered. “Didn’t want to get in trouble.”

She leaned back just enough to take in his face, brushing damp curls from his bruised brow. “Weymar you're bruised…You’re not in trouble. You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

She kissed his foreheadonce, twiceand drew the blanket higher over his shoulders. “We need a larger fire in here,” she said sharply to the room. “Add more wood, now.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the steward replied at once.

She pulled Weymar tighter again and let him lean against her. His small hands clutched the edge of her sleeve like a lifeline.

“Tell me, my little wolf,” she whispered gently, “how did this happen?”

He sniffled, and for a moment he was just a child again, scared and ashamed. “I climbed the…The tall hills outside the wall! To be brave! I was told if I act brave I-I-I could win the hearts of girls!”

She studied his face for a moment feeling his cold cheeks and looking at the burse growing under his left eye. She knew he was lying but what about? Could this be connected with what Alarra and Torren were whispering about? She held his face in both hands, soft and warm. “You’re so very brave, Weymar. But reckless too. You could’ve died.”

His eyes welled. “I didn’t mean to.”

She kissed his cheek again,  “You mean the world to your father. And to me.” She drew the boy into a deep hug, her body wrapping around his smaller frame. His voice was small, muffled in her chest. Words she couldn’t understand yet she felt closer to the young boy.

Alysanne Targaryen stepped into the courtyard, the crisp air of Winterfell brushing against her cheeks as her cloak swayed with her stride. The snow had stopped falling for now, but the sky remained overcast with a pale light peeking through. A hush had settled over the castle after the incident with young Weymar. She’d ensured the hearths were stoked higher than ever and sent orders for warm broth and new furs to be laid in the boy’s chamber. Her heart still ached, seeing him wrapped in damp blankets, blue-lipped and bruised.

She exhaled deeply. The North was colder than she had imagined not just in weather, but in ways of silence, glances, and rumors spoken in quiet corners.

As her boots crunched over mud stone, her golden eyes flicked toward the courtyard's far side. There, by the training yard’s edge, she caught sight of her stepson Torren. He stood stiff and awkward beside a girl with soft brown hair braided down her back and a Bolton cloak wrapped about her shoulders. Reina Bolton, Alysanne, remembered as the daughter of Lord Krane Bolton. Young, with clever eyes and a quiet confidence rare in Northern girls.

Torren’s back was half-turned toward her, and he seemed unaware of the Queen’s approach. His hands were buried in his sleeves as Reina spoke animatedly, her cheeks flushed, and her arms rather boldly wrapped around his. The boy was crimson down to his collar. She watched as Reina said something that made Torren stumble over his response, his feet shuffling in place like a boy much younger than fifteen.

Alysanne approached slowly, a smile tugging at her lips.

"Torren," she called gently, her voice chiming like bells in the cold air.

The boy jumped slightly, almost yanking his arm free from Reina’s on instinct. Reina, however, held firm, offering the Queen a graceful curtsy, her hand never leaving Torren’s.

"My Queen," Reina said with a warm nod.

Torren ducked his head, his red face now the color of a Stark banner. "Q-Queen Alysanne. I didn’tI didn’t see you."

"I noticed," she replied with a teasing lilt in her tone.

She turned her eyes on Reina, letting them soften. "Lady Reina. I’ve heard good things of you from the steward’s hall. You’re studying the castle’s supply logs, yes?"

"I am, Your Grace," Reina said proudly. "The Maester of Winterfell said I had a knack for remembering numbers."

"A useful gift," Alysanne said kindly. "Perhaps more than swordsmanship in a land that must outlast the winter."

Torren seemed to shrink beside them, but Reina gave his arm a small squeeze, grounding him.

"I was just showing Torren how to count firewood stores," Reina said with a smile, not even pretending the excuse was convincing.

"Of course," Alysanne said with a graceful nod. "And I’m certain the two of you are managing it well together."

Torren looked as though he might melt into the stones beneath his feet.

Alysanne rested her gloved hand on his shoulder and gave it a soft squeeze. "Be kind to her, Torren. Girls like that don’t always stay in the North when suitors come calling from every corner of the realm."

Torren gave a stiff nod, still red as a winter berry. Reina, meanwhile, gave the Queen a look of appreciation not for the flattery, but for the gentle approval woven into it.

“Oh Torren. I bring word that young Weymar was found walking from the river moat between the walls,” she said gently.

Torren’s eyes widened in horror. “Godswhat? The river? But” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Alarra…”

Alysanne’s gaze sharpened. “What was that?” she asked, her voice neither accusing nor softly the tone of a queen who expected clarity.

Torren quickly looked away. “Nothing, Your Grace. Just thinking aloud. Is he-he hurt badly?”

“He was chilled to the bone,” Alysanne said. “Blackened eye, bruised ribs Maester Edric assumes, and likely a frightened heart. But he is safe now. I’ve sat with him myself. We’ll have to keep him closer from now on.”

Torren nodded, but the worry on his face didn’t ease. Alysanne narrowed her eyes slightly, but let the boy’s silence stand. She gave a brief nod to Reina, who returned it with quiet courtesy, and then turned on her heel.

 Her steps were lost in the vast stillness of the corridor as Alysanne glided like a shadow through the stone hallways of the keep. The early light filtered through high, narrow windows, painting streaks of gray across the cold floors. Her mind reeled with questions that refused to be quietedWeymar missing, Alarra’s panic, Torren’s trembling fear, and those strange words:

“Don’t burn what I told you.”

What were they hiding? And from whom? Her instincts churned with dread. Alarra had always been private, but this... this was something deeper. And Torrenyoung, clever Torrenhe had looked ready to fall apart.

She needed answers. Now.

With determined steps, she turned down the south wing and climbed the narrow servants' stair toward the guest chambers. Her silk skirts whispered like secrets, and her pulse pounded in her ears. At the far end of the corridor, the wooden door of Torren’s room sat quietly closed. No guards. No sounds.

Alysanne hesitated a moment before reaching for the handle. The cool brass met her fingers. She gave a soft knockout of formality more than expectation then turned the knob and slipped inside.

The chamber was modest, lit only by a narrow slit of morning sun and the dull glow of embers dying in the hearth. The boy had left in a hurry, his boots abandoned near the edge of the bed, a half-eaten apple on the desk, and scattered pages strewn across the table like forgotten thoughts.

She replayed his panicked words, his guilt hanging off every syllable. He knew something. He had something. Her gut twisted again at the mention of Weymar’s disappearance, and Alarra’s cryptic “don’t burn what I told you.” She could not ignore the sick feeling rising in her chest.

Alysanne stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

Her fingers trailed over the edge of the desk. Nothing at first just scattered notes on sword drills, half-written verses of a song, and a crude sketch of a hawk in flight. Charming, but not what she was after.

She moved to the trunk at the foot of his bed. Inside, she found tunics, spare cloaks, and a tin box of charcoal for sketching. Again innocent.

But Torren wasn’t trembling over a hawk sketch. He was afraid.

Alysanne crossed the room and stood before the fireplace. The chimney was narrow, blackened with soot, and the hearth smelled faintly of ash and pine resin. She crouched and reached up inside. Her fingers brushed cold stone then something else.

Something soft and dry.

Carefully, she pulled it free a crumpled scrap of parchment, scorched at one corner. It had nearly been burned… but not quite. She smoothed it gently on the table, her breath catching in her throat.

There it was. Pressed into the wax seal, cracked and half broken, unmistakable even in shadowed light. Her blood ran cold .

Her husband’s crest.

She crumpled the letter in her fist. Her rage made her vision blur, made her hand tremble as if possessed. Alysanne took a step back from the desk, breath quick and shallow. Her world shifted slightly, as if the stone floor no longer supported her weight. She folded the letter again, careful now despite her anger. 

The Great Hall flickered with torchlight and glowed warm with the scent of roast meats and sweet berries. The warmth in the air did not reach her eyes. Alysanne sat with an easy smile, her silver-blonde hair braided in the Northern fashion with a few small blue winter roses tucked behind her ear, yet her gaze was cold and calculating, locked on Alarra Stark.

The girl, who usually held herself with stern dignity and iron courtesy, was speaking softly to young Weymar seated beside her. The boy, wrapped in a thick grey cloak, had a touch of color returning to his cheeks. A puff of hair flopped over his brow above a purple bruise and blackened eye. He grinned wide as Alarra whispered something to him, and Alysanne saw the boy’s laughter break out loud enough to turn a few heads. Then a serving girl placed not one, but two honeycakes before him, which he accepted like a victorious knight returning from a siege.

Alarra smiled faintly, gently nudging his shoulder. Alysanne narrowed her eyes.

She stood, placing her goblet of watered wine down softly. The hum of conversation waned a touch as she moved down the table, her dress of rich black velvet with red dragons flowing like smoke behind her. She came to stand behind Alarra’s chair, resting a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. Alarra stiffened.

"Weymar looks well," Alysanne said, with a voice like a snowdrift hiding sharp rocks. "He’s even found a second stomach for sweets tonight."

Alarra’s shoulders tensed. "He’s resting, Your Grace. He’s… he's warm again."

"Mm." Alysanne's hand lingered, then she walked around the table, coming to face Alarra directly. "Strange, how none noticed he was gone. How no one thought to ask where he’d gone off to until Maester Edric found him the poor boy was chill to the bone. Wouldn't you agree, Lady Alarra?"

A quiet fell like a stone into water.

Alarra’s mouth opened slightly, and she looked to her brother Torren, seated across the table. He was silent, tense as a bowstring, eyes flickering between his sister and the Queen.

"I" Alarra began, then stopped.

"You seemed rather apologetic with him," Alysanne pressed, folding her hands before her. "As though you bore some guilt. That’s what I see. And I see many things, Lady Alarra. I am a queen, not a fool."

Weymar looked up, blinking, caught in the storm of adult eyes. His lips trembled, and then… with sudden fire, he spoke:

"It wasn’t Alarra’s fault," he declared. "It was mine. I-I wanted to see the dragon."

Alaric Stark, seated beside Alysanne at the high table, leaned forward. "What did you say?"

"I wanted to see Silverwing," Weymar repeated, loud and proud, though his small hands shook. "I snuck out… in the night. Climbed over the wall alone. I thought she’d be sleeping in the ash field, and I only wanted to touch her."

Alarra’s mouth parted. Torren stared at his little brother in disbelief.

"Weymar..Before continuing this tale I plea tell the truth." Alysanne’s voice was a whisper, like wind over water.

"I am! I got to close" He paused, glancing sideways at Alarra. "The dragon flapped her wings or moved… I slipped. Fell right into the water. That’s all. It was no one’s fault. Only mine."

The hall was deathly silent.

Alaric’s hand came down on the table with a crack of bone and wood. "You fool boy! You could have died! Do you think dragons are playmates? You could have been drowned or broken to bits!"

"I’m sorry, Father," Weymar whispered, shrinking under the Lord of Winterfell’s fury.

 Her fingers unfurled, and she placed the crumpled letter at the center of the polished wood. Its creased edges and melted seal were unmistakable. Torren sat across from her, caught mid-bite of honeyed bread. His eyes flicked to the parchment then froze.

He knew it instantly.

His mouth parted, the piece of bread slipping from his hand. “W-where…” he stammered, voice barely above a whisper, “Where did you…?”

Alysanne didn’t answer. She simply stared at him with the cold, level gaze of a storm building behind her eyes.

Torren’s face flushed red with panic. He pushed back from the table, the chair legs scraping sharply across the stone floor. “You… you broke into my chamber!” he shouted, voice cracking with disbelief and something more. Guilt. Anger. Shame.

Alarra, seated to Torren’s right, covered her face with trembling hands, shoulders hunched and shaking as if she could vanish behind her fingers.

Alysanne’s voice was low and dangerous. “I searched where I had reason to suspect secrets were being kept.”

“You had no right!” Torren barked. “That’s my room! You” He cut himself off, glancing at the letter again. “You had no right,” he repeated, but it was weaker now. His voice shook.

Alarra buried her face behind her hands, trembling, her shoulders shaking as though trying to disappear into herself.

“You would speak to me of rights?” Alysanne's voice rang clear and sharp as a drawn blade. She stepped closer to the table, her hands clenched tightly by her sides.

“Do not insult me with such feigned outrage. Both of you dared to lie to my face. You conspired in whispers behind closed doors, sent a boy to climb the keep walls at night like a thief, used Weymar as your tool, and then stole a sealed royal letter addressed to Lady Jonquil. And I am the one in the wrong for entering your chamber?”

Alysanne turned to Alarra then, and her voice dropped to a cold, pointed quiet. “And you, Alarra. I expected more from you. You were taught to be a lady, not a... a Mistress of Whispers! On what grounds do you imagine it just to spy upon me? Do you believe yourself so cunning, so righteous, that you may defy both throne and kin without consequence?”

Alarra’s eyes welled with tears. “I-I didn’t mean to”

“Don’t lie,” Alysanne snapped, her fury flashing bright. “Do not lie to me again. This isn’t mischief. This is treason cloaked in youthful arrogance.”

Silence fell heavy across the hall.

Then, from the end of the table, Alaric rose with a groan, dragging a hand down his weathered face.

“Gods help me…” he muttered, voice rough and tired. “What is going on?”

He looked at the children with a mix of disbelief and exasperation.

“Children,” he said sternly, “speak the truth now, and do not hide behind false tales or clever lies, or I swear by every god who hears me”

“Ye-Yes, father,” Weymar blurted from the side, where he had been standing quietly until now, eyes like saucers. “I-I climbed the wall like they asked. I only wanted to help…”

Alaric’s jaw tensed.

Alarra’s head rose slowly. The trembling stopped. Her eyes, red-rimmed but burning, met Alysanne’s with quiet fire. “Perhaps someone needed to start watching what happens in this hall when no one else will. You've grown close to him,” she said, nodding toward her father. “Too close.”

“Mind your tongue daughter.” Alaric answered in turn.

Her chin high, shoulders squared, her voice no longer shaking. “You want the truth, Father?” she asked coolly. “You want it spoken plainly? Then here it is, She,” she pointed at Alysanne, “is no better than the secrets she claims to uncover. You lay your loyalty at her feet like a hound, and we see it. Everyone sees it.”

“Alarra” Alaric warned, eyes narrowing.

But she pressed on, heat rising behind every word. “You’ve changed. She walks these halls with your arm, with your gaze, with your confidence and yet she is the Queen. Married. Just like you were once, Father… or did you forget?”

The silence that followed was volcanic.

Torren’s head turned sharply toward his sister. Weymar whimpered and clamped his hands over his ears. Even the guards at the door held their breath.

Alaric’s fury exploded.

“Do not speak to me like that!” he roared, his fist slamming onto the table, shaking plates and goblets. “Do not dare question me. You are my daughter, and I will not be spoken to like some craven in the street! Alysanne is our Queen and you are not in stature to speak with your tongue to her.”

Alarra flinched but did not back down. Her mouth opened, fire behind her eyes but before she could deliver her next defiant strike, Alysanne snapped.

“Enough.”

 his small frame almost swallowed by the carved wood and velvet. His hands were clasped in his lap, trembling. His lower lip quivered as he stared at the floor, blinking furiously, as if sheer force of will could keep the tears at bay.

He looked so lost.

Something inside Alysanne twisted painfully. Her fury gave way, just for a heartbeat, to the ache of pity.

She turned fully back, slowly crossing the hall toward him.

“Weymar,” she said softly, her voice a note of concern breaking through the storm. “You’re not in trouble, I only”

But before she could reach him, Alarra’s voice cut across the room like a dagger.

“Oh, enough of your concern, Your Grace,” she snapped.

Alysanne froze.

Alarra had not shouted this time. Her voice was not fireit was ice. Controlled. Quiet. And sharp.

“You pretend you care,” Alarra continued, stepping forward. Her chin trembled, but she didn’t falter. “But all you do is interfere. Every word you speak drips with command. Every glance is judgment. We had a mother once. Once.” Her voice cracked. “And she’s gone because of you!”

Alaric’s face turned to stone. He flinched, ever so slightly, as if the words were a blade buried deep. “Alarra,” he murmured, voice low and warning.

But she wasn’t finished.

“You come into this hall and make yourself queen over more than just land and titles you've taken him too.” Her eyes flicked toward her father. “You sit beside him. You whisper to him. You decide for us. You don’t get to take our family and pretend it’s yours.”

Alysanne stood still. Her eyes met Alarra’s, and in that instant, they were not queen and subject but woman and girl, both bruised by grief and pride.

But Alysanne’s heart, already cracked by betrayal, hardened again. “I will not be shouted at in my own court,” she said coolly. “Not by a child who plays at treason.”

Torren stepped forward now, fists clenched. “This is unlawful!” he snapped. “You have no right to”

“I am the Queen,” Alysanne snapped, her voice ringing across the stone walls like a sword striking steel. “You forget yourselves.”

She turned to the guards posted outside the chamber doors.

“Ser Roxton. Lady Jonquil.” The doors swung open immediately. The two royal guards entered Ser Roxton in his white plate with gold trim, Jonquil in her dark leather armor, twin blades at her sides.

“Escort the children to their quarters,” Alysanne commanded. “They are not to leave without my word.”

Ser Roxton hesitated, unsure. Lady Jonquil’s eyes flicked to Alaric, silently asking if he would overrule.

He didn’t.

Alysanne raised her chin, unflinching.

Torren shouted, “This is madness! She’s seizing us like prisoners like traitors!”

“You meddled in Royal matters, stole a royal letter, and used a child to climb castle walls in the dead of night,” Alysanne shot back. “Now go.”

Alarra held her ground a moment longer. Her eyes flicked between her father and the Queen. She looked as if she might spit some final venomous retort but then she simply turned, jaw tight, and let Roxton guide her out. Torren didn’t resist; he followed close behind. Alysanne stood in the silence, her shoulders no longer square with pride, but heavydragged low by the weight of all that had just unraveled.

She exhaled a long breath, quiet and weary. The fury had passed, replaced by something hollow. Regret, perhaps. Or mourning for something that had never truly been hers. Her eyes drifted towards Weymar who was frozen in fear sitting in his chair.

Alysanne’s throat tightened. Her voice came out soft, barely more than a whisper. “Weymar…”

She moved toward the corridor slowly, almost hesitantly. She had no guards now, no crown in this moment, just a woman reaching for a boy who once smiled when she entered a room.

“Weymar,” she said again, gently this time, almost pleading. “Come here.”

He looked at her. But he didn’t come. His wide, tear-filled eyes looked between her and his father, then back again. The trembling in his lips gave way to a sudden burst of motion.

“No!” he gasped, and without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and ran.

She took a step forward, ready to follow, but a firm hand caught her arm.

Alaric.

His expression was drawn and pale, but calm. He gave a slow shake of his head, his grip gentle yet unyielding.

“Let him go,” he said quietly. “He needs time.”

She didn’t respond.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t resist.

The fire in Alaric’ solar crackled behind her, casting soft shadows that flickered across the stone walls like ancient ghosts whispering secrets. She looked up at Alaric Stark, her hand still resting lightly against his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath her fingertips.

“You’re troubled,” she said.

He nodded, the motion slow. “I am. Not just by the lie. But by what happened. My own daughter I…What she said troubles me more…She hates me.”

Alysanne’s hand fell, and she crossed to the window, drawing back the fur-lined drapes. Outside, the moon hung over Winterfell like a pale coin. “She is a child,” the Queen said, not unkindly. “And children make foolish choices and words. Yet what she said was harsher than I think she believed.”

“She put him up to something there first.” Alaric replied. “And the moat… Gods, Alysanne. He could’ve frozen. He could’ve” He broke off, jaw tightening.

Her face is set but calm. As she took Alaric's face into her hand “But he didn’t. He’s alive. And more than that, he lied to protect her. He knew what he was doing. It was no child’s confusion. That’s a bond, Alaric. A powerful one. You know that better than anyone.”

“I know loyalty,” he said. “But I also know what unchecked mischief can cost a family. I’ve buried kin to foolishness.”

The wind howled outside, dragging leafs fingers across the tower. Alysanne’s shoulders rose as if feeling its breath. “You’re right to be stern,” she said gently. “But let the boy sleep tonight knowing he is loved. The girl too. Wake them with discipline if you must, but don’t let their dreams be haunted.”

Alaric studied her, eyes dark beneath the furrow of his brow. “You speak as if they were your own.”

“They are in more than blood,” she said simply. 

His eye wandered towards a chair where her day dress was placed and he saw one of his old grey cloaks resting nestled next to it. “I do believe you stole my cloak,” Alaric said, his tone teasing, as Alysanne wore the thick fur-lined garment over her shoulders. It hung off her smaller frame like a great bear’s pelt.

“It suits me better,” she replied with a smirk, brushing snowflakes from her silvery-gold braid. “Besides, it smells of pine and smoke…And of you.”

He chuckled low, stepping closer. “You mean sweat and snow.”

“No,” she said, arching a brow. “I meant what I said.”

Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the crackle of the fire seemed to echo the heat rising between them. Alaric brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers lingering along her jaw. She leaned in, resting her forehead to his chest.

“If these walls were not so cold,” she murmured, “I might never leave it.”

“Do not tempt me, Your Grace. I would have men build you a palace of ice and stone.”

She laughed softly and tilted her head up when she stopped mid laugh. Alysanne stood motionless. Alaric watched her closely. She stepped back feeling the chills overcome her body as she rubbed her hands over both her arms. 

"It all makes sense now. They stole my husband's letter…It’s been weeks and…My…My Husband.” She spoke out loud like some mad woman who saw a ghost.

“Yes? Alysanne what's wrong?” Alaric asked his hand reaching out for her but stepped further away like a wounded animal.

Alysanne turned sharply, her eyes burning. “He is not just my husband, Alaric. He is the King. The weight of the realm is his to bear.”

Alaric’s voice was like ice breaking beneath the surface. “Aye. And you are his Queen. Yet where is he? Not a raven. Not a word. Does he forget you?”

Her breath caught, just for a second. “I didn’t write him back that’s why. I thought he forgot!” she whispered, the certainty in her voice already cracking. “Jaehaerys has always written. Every week. No matter how far I flew, he sent letters even when we fought.”

Alaric scoffed. “Jaehaery’s on and on. Maybe he’s too busy licking parchment and kissing Rego Drumm’s arse.”

Her head snapped toward him. “You will use his title, not his name.”

“My deepest apologies to his all mighty gracious King of Seven kingdoms. That’s the bloody problem.”

Her eyes flashed. “Watch your tongue. You speak of your king. I won’t have him maligned, not even by you.”

“I thought you preferred the truth, Your Grace.”

“Not when it stinks of jealousy.”

Alaric stepped back, fists clenched. “Is that what I am to you? You only like to listen to the truth when it suits you more. Not when you hide behind your shadenvious of golden halls and dragon thrones?”

She didn’t answer. Not at first. Then came the quiet dagger: “What makes you speak so bold like brat. Is it what Alarra said to you that's wounded you?”

He took a step forward, but she recoiled like he’d struck her.

“I came here as a Queen,” she said, her voice suddenly hoarse, broken, shaking with something close to shame. “To bring North closer, to see your people, to do good. Not to… lose myself in a dream I was never meant to have.”

She turned from him, shoulders rising and falling as she tried to breathe through it.

“I have three children. Daenerys still cries for me in her sleep. And Jaehaerys… he… my brother before he was my husband. He was my anchor when our family fell apart. When I bled, it was his hands that bound the wounds.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened, his voice a rasp. “So that’s all this was? A distraction to warm your bed while you play the part of the brave dragon queen?”

She flinched again.

“I buried my wife with my own hands,” he said, each word heavy as a stone. “Five winters ago. I’ve raised my children alone through cold and rot.  I didn’t ask for you. But gods help me, I meant every look, every touch. When you look at me, I feel like a man again. Not just some shadow draped in furs. I-”

“Do not finish that sentence and to assume I haven't, I have buried a son! Do not claim me white or innocent. I have buried my own child!” Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back like blades. “Aaric…Alaric, You do matter. That’s why this hurts. If word of this reached the court… if it reached him… it would tear the realm. It would ruin us both. It would destroy Jaehaerys.”

He stepped closer, bitterness lining his throat. “Then what? You’ll fly south and forget me? Pretend this never happened? Play the dutiful Queen, nod and smile and kiss his cheek like a porcelain doll with painted eyes?”

“I am a mother and I must think of my children.” She turned to him slowly, her face hardening into something regal, cold, unyielding. “He is your king,” she said flatly. “And my husband.”

Alaric gave a bitter, joyless laughlow and dangerous like wolves circling in the dark. “Aye. Queen of Dragons. Queen of fine words and southern pity. But tell me, Alysanne. when you speak of duty and love, are those your thoughts? Or just echoes of your husband’s voice whispering from your childhood bed?”

The room froze around them. Her breath hitched like he’d struck her. Her voice dropped into a deadly quiet. “Are you questioning my words, Lord Stark?”

He took a step closer, his voice like a blade unsheathed. “No. I’m questioning you, Your Grace, your king… your realm… or the brother you shared a cradle with and now share a bed with.”

The words hung there like rot in a holy place. Alysanne’s breath caught, eyes wide hurt, fury, and shame all battling across her face. Her hand trembled. Alysanne’s breath hitched. Her hand flew without thought, the crack of the slap echoing off stone and timber.

Silence.

Alaric didn’t move. A red welt flared on his cheek, but he only stared at her, eyes hard and hollow. Her hand trembled as she lowered it, lips pressed into a thin, shaking line. She never smacked any lord before, not even her own husband. She struck a man? A man who wounds her…A man she thought better, a man that just struck her own heart.

“How dare you,” she whispered, the sound trembling like thunder before a storm. “You think such words you spoke are so cruel? That grief gives you leave to throw filth in my face? You shame yourself, Alaric Stark. You shame Lorenah.”

Alaric’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re walking on mighty thin ice, Alysanne.”

“And you are drowning in it,” she shot back. “You think because you’re hurt, because you’re lonely, that gives you a claim on me? On this?” She gestured between them, voice shaking.

Alaric didn’t look at her. He stared at the fire like it might speak some truth that Alysanne could not. But she wasn’t done. She pounded her finger more than her hand on his chest over and over. What was she even doing?

“You think you’re the only one who’s suffered?” Her voice cut sharp as broken glass. “You think your long winters and lost wife make you noble in your grief? I buried family, Alaric. I watched dragons turn on dragons.  Do you know what that costs a girl?”

She took a breath short, uneven. “I gave him my heart. My body. My womb. And I flew. I flew to the Stormlands, to the Reach, to the Fingers, all of it, for the realm. For peace. And what do I find here in the North? A lord too proud to be part of Seven Kingdoms but bold enough to put his hands on me!”

He finally turned, jaw clenched tight enough to crack bone. “I never forced you.”

“No,” she said bitterly. “You just looked at me like no one else dared. Like I wasn’t a queen. Like I wasn’t married. Like I was yours.”

“And you let me.”

Those words landed like a slap. She flinched but her fury held. “You think this is love? A few stolen glances in the halls, whispered words behind doors, a brush of the hand in candlelight? You don’t know love. You only know loss. And you wear it like a badge.”

His voice was low. “Better than wearing a crown like a chain.”

She took one shaking step forward, her eyes glistening. “You arrogant fucking bastard.”

“And you,” he growled, “are a coward. Too frightened."

Her lip trembled, but she didn’t let the tears fall. Not yet. Her voice dropped to a whisper quieter than wind but sharp enough to slice.

“You dare speak to me in that tone. Listen Alaric and well I will not repeat myself. You’re not my equal, Alaric Stark,” she spat. “I am the Queen. I am your Queen. I have the blood of old Valyria in my veins...I leave for the Wall on the Morrow, Lord Stark. If I return, do not presume I come for you.”

Alaric didn’t reply. He couldn’t. Something inside him twisted and sank like a drowned stone. She turned, her cloak swirling like dragon wings in flight, and stormed from the chamber. The door slammed behind her with a boom that echoed down Winterfell’s ancient halls.

Alysanne ran.

Through torch-lit corridors. Past dumbstruck guards who dared not speak. Each step echoed down the stone like the chase of ghosts. She didn’t know where she was going. She just needed away. Away from him. Away from what she said. From what she felt. She found a side hall, a forgotten stairwell unused in hours and leaned her back against the cold stone, breathing hard. The weight dropped all at once. She slid down the wall to the floor.

And then… she broke.

A ragged sob escaped her lips, followed by another. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to stop them, to smother the sound, but it was no use. The pain clawed out of her like it had waited years for this moment.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

Her voice cracked with grief, with guilt, with longing.

I want him here, she choked. I want Jaehaerys. I want my husband words his comfort.

She pulled her knees up to her chest and let her head fall forward heart aching and hollow, her thoughts turned back to Alaric. To his hands. To his voice. To the way he looked at her like she was really not a title, not a vessel for heirs, not a symbol.

I want Alaric...And his words of calmness and affection...Oh gods, I want them both.

And she hated herself for it. She hates herself for thinking of two men in such a manner an act of high betrayal.  She h ated that she wanted to turn back. That some part of her, raw and screaming, wanted him. Wanted the warmth of his arms. The certainty of his presence. The quiet strength of a man who had buried his heart in the snow, only to let her thaw it.

“Alaric… gods…Why…Why?”

Tears soaked her hand.

“I’m not supposed to feel this,” she whispered as her tears melted down her cheek. “I can't, I can't, I can't.” She let her head hit the stone wall behind her with a soft thud. Again. And again. Maybe if she struck hard enough, it would stop the ache, the confusion, the want.

But it didn’t.

It stayed.

A burning, bitter dagger was lodged so deep between her ribs she feared it might never be pulled free. Each sob only drove it further in, the hot, wet tears scalding her cheeks. She clutched at her chest as if to hold together what was breaking, praying in some small, desperate part of her that her own heart might simply fail tonight and spare her the pain of feeling it shatter again come morning.

Chapter Text

“I swear by the Old Gods,” muttered Kedge, scratching furiously at the seat of his britches, “something’s taken up residence back there. Itchin’ me raw for three bloody days.”

The others roared.

“Best hope it’s not fleas,” said Jory, grinning wide. “Or worse. The mites. The Wall’s got enough vermin without you bringin’ more.”

“Aye,” another added, “maybe it’s a crow’s nest. Plenty of room in that arse.”

Kedge scowled, still scratching. “Laugh all you like. When it’s your turn to freeze your cheeks off on the outhouse seat, you’ll remember this day.”

“I’m trying to read! Will you shut it for a moment!” The Crow shouted from the other room.

The raven came in the grey hush before dawn. Its claws scratched the stone sill, its feathers rimed with frost. The Crow broke the wax and read by the dull orange glow of his brazier, the parchment stiff and cold in his black-gloved hands.

“Her Grace Queen Alysanne, consort of King Jaehaerys Targaryen, flies for the Wall. She shall make her approach upon Silverwing and enter at the Nightfort. Let all who are able attend her arrival.”

Lord Commander Burley.

He read it twice, and then a third time, though the words did not change. He let out a slow breath, hot against the chill.

“Agh fuck me,” he muttered, voice like gravel.

Behind him, the fire cracked. No warmth reached the stone walls. He rose stiffly, a long fur cloak over his shoulders, the black of his uniform so faded it was more crow-feather grey. His knees ached as they always did, a gift of half a lifetime on the hunt beyond the Wall.

He stared through the narrow window slit. Darkness blanketed the yard of Castle Black. The eastern sky was paling behind the trees, but the Wall still loomed vast and dark, a frozen god waiting for judgment.

In the courtyard below, he heard voicesyoung ones, excited. A few of the green recruits had seen the raven too. Word would spread fast. A queen coming to the Wall was no small thing. A dragon even less so.

By midday, more than half the garrison would be gone.

He could already hear the excuses.
“My brother’s stationed at the Nightfort, I should greet him.”
“I’ve never seen a queen before.”
“I heard the dragon’s scales shine like starlight.”

Fools. Wide-eyed, soft-headed fools.

He made his way down to the yard, boots crunching in the hard-packed snow. He passed the rookery, the kitchens, and the smithy, where Gared the Armorer was already polishing his best breastplate with grease and pine tar.

“Off to preen for the queen, Gared?” He asked.

Gared grinned, missing three teeth. “If she’s come all this way, I’d not shame the Watch with rust.”

The Crow shook his head. “There’s a hundred like you thinking the same. We’ll be half-empty by sundown.”

“And what of you, my lord?” Gared asked. “Not even a peek?”

“I’ve seen fire before,” The Crow said. “I’ll not fly to it like a moth.”

He left them with that and climbed the stairs of the Lord Steward’s Tower, each step a spike in his knees. From the top, Castle Black stretched out below him black timbers, grey stone, the Wall like a frozen wave rearing behind it all.

He’d defended these grounds for twenty years. Seen two lords commander buried and three winters swallow the world whole. He remembered the spring melt that drowned the south tunnels, and the white bear they’d cornered near Long Barrow. But never had he heard of a queen coming to the Wall.

It was wrong. Not that a queen would ride a dragon to their edge of the world that was the sort of story wet nurses told but that so many men would leave their posts, would flock to her like lads to a harvest feast.

He did not doubt Queen Alysanne’s virtue. The tales said she was kind and clever, and even bent the king’s ear when the realm cried for justice. The Wall needed watchers. It needed men with swords, not smiles.

Down below, he saw crooked nose Jeren, his second, gathering his gear.

“You leaving too?” The Crow called down.

Jeren looked up, sheepish. “Only for the day. I’ll be back before moonrise.”

“Aye, and the Wall will be unmanned by then.” The Crow’s voice was iron. He turned from the window. Let them go. Let them dance to songs and stare at dragons. 

The sharp cry shattered the morning silence like a blade.

“Dragon! Dragon!” The voice was thin, but fierce the shout of a boy no older than eleven, sprinting through the snow toward him, cheeks burning red, eyes wild with wonder.

A shape. Graceful. Wide-winged. Silver and gray against the bleeding sky. She tore through the thick clouds like a phantom from the tales of Old. scales shining like frosted moonlight, vast wings stretching and catching the wind with a grace that made even the hardiest man’s breath hitch. The beast’s roar rolled across the frozen hills, deep and trembling, a sound older than the oldest trees.

“Seven hells,” muttered one of the younger rangers, his hand gripping the haft of his spear.

As he descended the stairs, his voice echoed down to the courtyards where the men of the Night’s Watch had already begun to gather. They came by the dozen, men with rheumy eyes, young boys with cracked lips, and everything in between. Ragged beards, missing teeth, hunched backs, and war-worn eyes. The dregs of Westeros, bound in black.

The Crow’s boots struck stone as he marched to the main gate, where three black brothers stood ready with spears. The outer gates groaned under their own age as they slowly pulled open. 

The great dragon circled once, wings beating slow and majestic, then settled on the rise beyond the castle. The earth shuddered beneath her weight as talons sank into frozen ground.

A gale swept across the courtyard, snow hurled like hail, and men ducked instinctively behind shields and arms. As the gates of castle Black were barely able to open the three brothers in black marched out meeting the gust of wind smacking their faces.

Then, with a fluid grace that spoke of endless practice, the rider slid down from Silverwing’s neck. Queen Alysanne Targaryen, in riding leathers dark as night, her red cloak lined with fur, stood before them. Her hair was tucked beneath a hood, and her cheeks burned with cold and excitement. Her smile was both regal and warm, like a friend returned from a distant journey.

The Crow stepped forward, his voice low and rough as gravel. “Your Grace.”

He bent a knee stiffly, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, worn from years of watch and war. Around him, the other black brothers followed some clumsy, some reverent, but all humbled.

“God’s she can ride me like that. ” a young brother muttered, eyes glued to the queen.

“Shut the fuck up,” growled a ranger nearby, punching his companion’s arm.

“Dalton quite.” The Crow whispered as rose and stepped forward. “You honor us and Castle Black.”

Alysanne’s gaze swept over the men before her. She lifted a hand gracefully. “Thank you my ser…There are no lords here, only brothers. Am I correct?”

The Crow’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “I am no ser. Just a black brother. Helman Glover. ”

“A Glover?” The Queen's face showed something of curiosity. “Are you Lord Glover’s brother?”

“Aye, I’m his elder.” Helman said carefully.

“I never knew he had an elder brother. Your brother never mentioned he had kin in the Night’s Watch.” She said her voice to him was finer than any wine he’s tasted in years.

“Not surprised. Most don’t speak of me.” Helman spoke in turn his voice carried a weight that was more burden to himself than the Wall gave.

She nodded thoughtfully, then turned her gaze toward the colossal Wall. Its icy face stretched endlessly, white and terrible, a seven-hundred-foot monument to mankind’s defiance, covering the northern border like a frozen sea.

“Nothing can truly prepare one to see such… masterpiece,” she breathed in awe.

“This old pile of ice?” Helman said, voice rough. “Aye, it serves its purpose.”

She smiled softly. “Thank you. It’s much colder than one might write.”

“Right on that. I freeze my arse off.” A brother whispered nearby, earning a few chuckles.

Helman’s eyes swept Castle Black, the cracked stone well, the granary’s collapsed roof, the training yard overgrown with frost-bitten weeds. Her eyes returned to the crumbling stones and men who still held the line against the cold and the dark.

“Lord Commander will have me escorted to the Nightfort,” he said, her voice firm.

Queen Alysanne nodded. “By how? I believed I was to come here.”

“This is only a small castle for us. Nightfort is where our main castle stands…Leave your dragon here, We ride the Wall,” he answered, pointing upward.

The queen’s footsteps echoed softly on the uneven stones as she moved through the courtyard of Castle Black. The cold bit through the furs lining her cloak, but she pressed forward with steady grace, her eyes taking in the starkness of the place, the weathered timbers blackened by centuries of smoke and ice, the cracked well near the yard’s center, and the shadows lingering in every corner as if the stones themselves whispered old secrets.

Helman walked beside her, silent at first, watching her carefully. Most men looked like the worst of men, as would have spilled every tale they knew to a visitor of her rank, but Helman was a man shaped by silence and watchfulness.

Their path led to the foot of the great winch elevator, nestled beside the well. The wooden beams were massive, ancient, anchored deep into the ice and stone of the Wall itself. The staircase wound upwards in a steep, narrow switchback, but the elevator cage stood ready with a cage of iron bars, weathered but sturdy, able to carry ten men at a time.

Alysanne’s eyes lingered on it, then met Helman’s.

“How do you all climb this beast every day?” she asked.

He shrugged, voice low. “Some take the stairs if they must. But the cage saves time, and the Wall is a long climb.”

She smiled faintly. “A dragon would be easier.”

He allowed a rare chuckle. “Aye. But dragons don’t carry barrels of gravel or provisions. The cage does.”

The queen stepped inside the cage, her gloved hands gripping the iron bars. The brothers gathered around to give the rope a final tug, and with a groan, the cage began its slow ascent, creaking as the wooden winch turned. Snow and wind buffeted the walls, and the rising cold seemed to suck the warmth from her bones.

As they climbed, the conversation turned toward history.

“Why did you join the Watch?” Alysanne asked quietly.

Helman’s eyes flickered away, dark beneath thick brows. “A question I’ve lost to time.”

She nodded, sensing the answer was as much a shield as an explanation. “My grandfather, Aegon Targaryen, came north here once. To the Wall.”

“That he did, or so said the stories.” Helman said, his voice hardening. “But he came with dragons and fire. Not like you.”

Her smile faltered. “You think I’m less because I come with peace?”

“No, just less means to use fire.” Helman replied gravely. 

She looked out through the bars as the cage climbed higher, the Wall’s sheer ice looming above, gleaming like frozen glass. The cage shuddered as it reached the summit. The doors swung open, and the cold at the top was a sharper, thinner biting wind that seemed to pierce straight to the soul. Alysanne stepped out, pulling her cloak tighter. She breathed deep the air cold and fresh and wild, a scent unlike anything in King’s Landing or Dragonstone.

Before her stretched the haunted forest, dark and endless, a sea of twisted branches. Beyond that, the land rolled away, white and bleak, lost beneath the endless northern sky.

She stood motionless, stunned. The vastness, the silence, the weight of the Wall’s watch He saw how it overwhelmed her. Her breath caught. She stood like a statue at the edge of the world.

Helman watched her from a few paces behind, arms crossed against the chill, wind tugging at his cloak. Her silver-blonde hair shimmered faintly beneath the fur hood, catching the pale light of the northern sky. She’d said nothing for a long while, just stood, motionless, as if drinking in the vastness before her.

Beyond the Wall lay nothing. No torchlit roads. No flicker of distant hearthfires. No towns or villages or keeps. Just snow, ice, and the twisted black canopy of the haunted forest, stretching to the ends of the earth.

Alysanne took a slow step forward, her gloved hand curling lightly around the frozen stone lip at the edge of the Wall.

“It’s… Endless. Is this the end of the world?" she whispered.

Helman walked beside her, boots crunching over packed ice. “Aye,” he said. “Takes your breath, doesn’t it?”

She nodded faintly. “I expected to see something. A camp. A fire. Smoke. Anything.”

“There’s nothing,” Helman said. “And that’s what makes it worse. You feel watched, even when you see no soul.”

She turned to glance at him, her brows faintly furrowed. “I wonder why it was built, the old stories claim out of fear.”

“Fear? Aye,” he said. “The Wall was built to keep death itself out. Something the South has long forgotten. If you’d seen what I have beyond it, you wouldn’t just be frightened… you’d be truly afraid. At least you have a dragon.”

The Queen seemed to turn to stone, her gaze fixed on the vast, white nothing beyond the edge of the world. Out there lay the realm of things no man could claim, the place even Aegon the Conqueror had refused to touch. He had Balerion the “Black Dread”, the largest dragon from Old Valyria and yet he refused.

He grunted and added, “It’s creepy at first… ‘til you piss off the side of the Wall. Then it’s just a long, windy piss.”

A stunned silence hung in the air. Then Alysanne let out a sharp, silvery laugh.

“Seven save me,” she gasped, covering her mouth as her laughter danced into the wind. “Is that how you all break in the new recruits?”

“Only the lucky ones,” Helman said, lips twitching. “It’s tradition.”

Still chuckling, the queen pulled her cloak tighter. The wind cut fierce up here, sharp as any blade. A brother approached, leading two small, thick-furred donkeys up from the watch tower pencreatures as shaggy as the men who rode them, with hooves sure on ice and narrow shoulders made for tight paths.

Alysanne raised an elegant brow. “We’re riding… donkeys?”

Helman nodded, patting the nearest beast on the flank. “Specially bred for the Wall. Steady on the ice. Won’t shy from wind or ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” she asked, half-playful.

“The forest is full of stories,” he replied.

She hesitated, eyeing the donkey with obvious doubt. “Will it carry me?”

Helman chuckled. “They’ve carried fatter men and uglier ones. You’ll be fine.”

With only the faintest of sighs, Alysanne gathered her skirts and climbed astride the animal, a touch awkwardly at first. Helman mounted beside her, and with a word from the ranger at the lead, the beasts began their slow, steady trek along the Wall’s top, the path carved like a narrow road through a kingdom of wind and sky.

The sun was faint behind the clouds, little more than a pale disc, but it glinted against the endless sheet of white and shadow below.

“It’ll be near two hours to the Nightfort,” Helman said, adjusting the grip on his reins.

“I don’t mind,” she replied, looking out over the edge again. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget this.”

The donkeys trod across the ice with uncanny ease, their hooves clacking softly on the ancient, hard-packed path atop the Wall. Wind sang low between the battlements, carrying a mournful, endless hum that never seemed to stop. Queen Alysanne rode with her back straight, her crimson-lined cloak trailing like a flame behind her, Silverwing flying lazily in the clouds far above, a flickering shadow in the white sky.

Men stood aside as they passed, lining the top of the Wall like silent sentinels. As four more men led the front.

“We are blessed by Seven.” One muttered, bowing his head.

Black brothers some fresh-faced, others grey-bearded paused in their duties, hands slacking around spears and bows, watching her with wide eyes. An old man wept seeing her ride. Many had never seen a woman in years, let alone a queen of royal Valyrian blood. Her presence passed over them like a dream they feared would vanish if they spoke it aloud.

Alysanne offered a few smiles and nods as they rode past. Even those who'd lost warmth in their hearts to years of cold and hardship felt something stir as she passed an ember rekindled.

She turned to Helman beside her, her cheeks ruddy from wind, her voice steady despite the cold. “How long has the Wall stood?”

Helman considered. “Some say eight thousand years. Others say less. But it was young when the First Men built it, and older still when the Andals came across the sea.”

Her eyes wandered to the towering blocks of ice beneath them. “Who built it?”

“Never heard? Brandon the Builder,”  he said. “But if you're curious more on learning it, I say meet the Maester at Nightfort.”

“Do you ever wonder what’s beyond it?” she asked.

“No, I see it everyday and I have explored it many times.”

“Many times? Maybe I will travel beyond the Wall and be the first Targaryen.” The Queen jest with a smile.

“Gods no that's a curse not a joy. Stay here on this side.”

They rode in silence for a while, the wind easing. Before them the Wall dipped, a long slope descending toward a great shape rising out of the white.

The Nightfort.

The largest and oldest of all the castles along the Wall, it loomed like a frozen giant, half-consumed by centuries of snow. Its towers and battlements stood jagged against the grey sky, and the shadow of its ruined gatehouse fell long across the ice.

Alysanne slowed her donkey, staring down the long ice trail that led from the Wall's crest down into the courtyard. “Seven…” she murmured.

Helman watched her face as the wind caught her hood and tugged her golden hair free.

She looked to the south then, beyond the lip of the Wall, where the land sloped into familiar hills and pine-covered ridges.

“Westeros.” she, awestruck. “Can you see Winterfell from here?”

Helman gave a rough laugh. “Aye. If you squint real hard and believe in children’s tales.”

She smirked, half-turning toward him.

“No,” he admitted, “even on the clearest day, you can’t see Winterfell from here. Too far. Too many ridges in the way. But it’s there, beyond the hills.”

She stared for a long time, her breath fogging in the cold. “Still… I like to imagine it.”

They descended slowly down the ice path toward the ancient fortress. The wind stilled for a moment, and in that eerie silence, Alysanne Targaryen felt as though she was riding through time itself back into some ancient chapter of history before kings, before crowns, before dragons ever crossed the sea.

The Nightfort waited with its dark walls and the Wall stood behind her, vast and unmoving.

The descent was slow, the path slick with hoarfrost and groaning beneath the weight of the two riders and their steady-footed donkeys. The wind howled around them like wolves denied prey, but still Queen Alysanne rode with her chin lifted and eyes wide, drinking in every stone and shadow as they neared the Nightfort.

The Wall behind them faded into the pale horizon as they entered the gate tunnel, an enormous arch cut through walls of black ice, its interior a cavern of gloom echoing with the sound of hooves on old stone. When they emerged into the courtyard, even the queen gasped.

It was an old colossal space so vast and sprawling that a fool might mistake it for a forest glade. Massive oaks grew wild through broken flagstones, roots pushing aside old stone, while snow blanketed the ground so thick it muffled all sound. The remnants of ancient barracks, towers, and great halls jutted from the edges like the ribs of some long-dead giant. And within the courtyard stood over eight hundred black-cloaked brothers, lined in rows like shades from a dream.

Helman helped Alysanne dismount, though she needed little assistance. Her boots crunched softly in the snow as she stepped forward, cloak swirling behind her, crimson against the white.

From the front rank of black brothers, a figure emerged tall, broad-shouldered. His cloak was patched with sealskin and faded wool, and a worn longsword hung at his hip. He was tall and thick as an old oak, with a broad chest and gnarled hands. His scalp was bald as a boiled egg, but his white beard hung long and thick, braided in three knots. A black raven sat on his shoulder, wings twitching, beady eyes fixed on the queen. His raven, perched on his shoulder, squawked noisily, wings flapping.

“Draaagon!” the bird cawed.
“Draaagon! Draaagon!”

Queen Alysanne smiled at the bird, but her eyes never left the man approaching.

The Lord Commander bowed his head deeply, a warrior’s respect. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice a gravel rumble. “Welcome to the Wall. The Night’s Watch welcomes you. I hope Helaman was pleasant.”

“Lord Commander Burley,” She spoke, nodding her head. “Your escort has been more than faithful,” she said to the commander, gesturing to Helman. “Steady of hand, and steadier in wit.”

The Lord Commander chuckled and shot Glover a sideways glance. “Glover? He’s too quiet to offend. We keep him around for balance.”

Helman grunted, folding his arms. “Happy to be of service.”

The commander bowed again. “Your Grace. Though I fear I can offer little more than cold stone and colder stew. You’ll freeze your pretty court to death. The kitchens barely cook. The beds are hard as bone.”

Alysanne tilted her head, then laughed not coldly, but not weakly either. “I’ve shared worse sleeping quarters in the South,” she said. “I did not ride all this way for goose feathers and sweetmeats. I rode for the truth. Comfort is not my aim.”

Burley’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and the raven squawked again. “Draaaagon!”

A murmur passed through the crowd of black brothers, some bowing their heads, others watching her with new respect.

“Well,” he said, gesturing to the massive keep behind him, its walls laced with ice and creeping ivy, “truth we have in abundance. And more ghosts than warmth. But you are welcome, Your Grace. And honored.”

The raven squawked again, louder this time.
“Draaagon! Draaagon! Hot! Hot!”

At that, even Helman cracked a smile.

“Ignore that beast,” Burley grumbled, jerking his thumb toward the raven. “He hasn’t seen a queen since Maester Wyllam’s arse went bald.”

Alysanne laughed again, freely, and some of the black brothers joined her, their laughter echoing off the towering, broken walls around them. It was a strange, stirring sound, a queen’s laughter rising in a place where joy had long been forgotten.

She turned to face the men then, her voice ringing clear through the still air.

She stepped forward, eyes scanning the black brothers, scarred men, lean men, boys no older than squires, and veterans older than oaks. And yet, they all stood united in the cold, bound not by blood, but by vow.

“I hope to learn much here,” she said clearly. “Of the Watch. Of the Wall. And of what lies beyond it.”

The silence that followed was deep and reverent.

Burley cleared his throat. “Come then. The solar’s cold, the stew’s thin, and the stone walls will try to kill your toes but it’s ours. And you’re welcome to it.”

The old stones of the Nightfort groaned under snow and wind, as if protesting the sudden return of life and light. For decades it had known little but silence and shadowcrumbling towers, black rats, and the mutterings of men grown too old for any other duty. But tonight, hearths roared in defiance of the cold, and the largest hall at the Wallonce, host to kings of old, was filled again.

Alysanne sat beside him, radiant despite her heavy riding leathers. The firelight played over the silver-gold waves of her hair, tucked beneath a pale fur-trimmed mantle, her crown nowhere in sight but her presence still commanding. Around them, eight hundred brothers of the Night’s Watch stood or sat in uneven ranksmen of every shape and ruin: the ragged, the noble-born, the broken, the wild. They watched her like men seeing sunlight after endless winter.

The black brothers tore into their food with no care for manners or restraint. Greasy fingers, loud slurps, and coarse jests seemed the order of the night. One man gnawed the leg of a roasted goat like a starved dog, while another tore bread with his teeth as he belted out a crass verse. She caught one brother snorting ale through his nose from laughter and another nearly choking as he leaned too far back in mirth. 

“These are not your hall of mirrors and silks, Your Grace,” Lord Commander Burley said beside her, tearing into a chunk of dark meat with blunt fingers.

Alysanne tilted her head. “I’ve dined with lords whose manners were gilded, but their hearts were hollow. This hall feels more honest.”

Burley barked a laugh. “That’s because it is. No courtiers here.”

To her left sat the leaders of the Watch: First Ranger Merrett Crow’s Eye, a lean and pale man with hair as black as crow feathers and a sharp nose that looked permanently broken. His left eye was cloudy and dead, the right shrewd and full of quiet menace. He ate sparingly, hands gloved even at the table.

Beside him, Raymund the First Builder had a thick chest and calloused hands that swallowed his eating knife. He wore a blacksmith’s apron even now, marked with soot and steel filings. He took a deep gulp of warm ale and nodded respectfully to the queen. “We’ll fix up a chamber fit for a queen before the sun sets thrice, I swear on my hammer.”

“And no drafty leaks, I hope,” Alysanne teased gently.

Raymund grinned through his beard. “Only if you ask for one, Your Grace.”

First Steward Bennard, round-faced and younger than the others, looked nervous every time the queen glanced his way. He fumbled with his cup and nearly dropped a trencher of bread when a brother jostled him. “We’ll do our best to make the Nightfort... adequate, Your Grace. Food, bedding, anything you might require…”

“I require very little,” she said kindly. “But I do thank you, all the same.”

A silence passed, and then a squawk broke it. Burley’s raven, perched just behind the high table on a sagging beam, croaked again and again: “Draaagon. Draaagon. Draaagon.”

“Your familiar doesn’t like me, Lord Commander,” Alysanne said with a smirk, glancing up at the feathered beast.

“Oh, he likes you fine,” Burley grunted. “He’s just not seen a dragon queen in... well, ever. Maybe he’s impressed.”

The raven croaked again: “Draaagon.”

Alysanne laughed, taking a slow sip of her warm wine. It tasted like smoke and pine, rough but fitting for the setting.

A young man, not a boy, yet with something soft still lingering about him walked along the edge of the feast with a lute in his arms. His skin was smooth and pale, his jawline fine and clean, untouched by stubble. His hair was a cascade of black ringlets, catching glimmers of firelight as he passed, and his dark eyes flicked from face to face with playful ease.

He began to sing.

His voice was light and melodious, like a summer breeze running through harp strings. Men along the benches paused their chewing to listen. Others rolled their eyes and returned to their food. From a far end of the table, someone whistled and called out, “Sing for us, Lover!”

Laughter rose like smoke, but the boy took it in stride, offering a theatrical bow. “As you command, good Ser,” he said sweetly, his voice laced with mischief. “But I take coins or kisses in return.”

Even Alysanne laughed at that.

The young man strutted closer to the high table, playing a few quick notes on his lute. He bowed low before the queen. “A song for Her Grace, Queen of Love and Beauty! I’d say the Wall’s only gorgeous lady.”

She nodded, intrigued. “Do you know any that haven’t been drowned in wine and firelight a hundred times before?”

The boy grinned, stepping back. “I know The Dornishman’s Wife,” he said, and began to play, each strum light as falling snow.

“The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun, and her kisses were warmer than spring. But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel, and its kiss was a terrible thing.”

As he sang the bawdy tune too cheerfully for its tale of betrayal and lust. First Ranger Merrett leaned close to Alysanne and muttered, “He plays like a girl and walks like one too. But Maker, he sings like the Seven weeping.”

The Queen stifled her giggle behind a sip of mead. “There is no shame in beauty,” she said gently. “In music, it is a gift.”

“He’s got both,” said the Lord Commander, smirking behind his beard. “That’s young Lem Hill. Good lad, soft-hearted. Grew up in some brothel in Lannisport.” 

As Lem strutted back down the center aisle, playing the chorus and earning hoots and calls from the men, Alysanne let her gaze follow him.

“I imagine this Wall has many stories,” she murmured.

"Some no one should ever hear.” Lord Commander answered.

At one of the nearer benches, several of the younger black brothers huddled together, whispering, stealing glances at her. Alysanne noticed them with ease she noticed everything. She turned slightly, her eyes dancing with mischief.

“You there,” she said, lifting her goblet slightly toward the nearest group. “I see many brave warriors in black, but few who dare meet a queen’s gaze. Will you not share your names with me?”

The hall quieted like a hammer had struck stone. The boys stiffened.

A burly ranger jumped quickly with freckles and tangled hair cleared his throat. “Name’s Small Dick, Your Grace.”

The man beside him, older and leaner, cuffed him hard on the arm. “Seven bloody hells, Dick, mind your tongue!”

Small Dick yelped. “Sorry! I mean Richard. Richard Small.”

Alysanne’s lips parted in surprise and then a laugh burst from her throat, pure and regal. “Well, I’ve known lords with worse nicknames.”

Helman looked vaguely mortified. “You’ll have to forgive the crudeness, Your Grace. These boys, well, they weren’t raised in court.”

She waved a hand. “ I’d rather blunt honesty than false flattery.”

Another man stepped forward, tall and gaunt with chapped lips and fingers missing on one hand. “Builder Frost Bit Mule, Your Grace.”

“That is… a curious name,” she said, struggling not to grin again.

“Aye,” said Frost Bit with pride. “Earned it when I built a windbreak in a blizzard so strong, it near turned my mule into a statue. Kept at it too long. Lost two toes and a thumb.”

“Then I hope the Wall stands another hundred years for your sacrifice,” Alysanne said sincerely.

A boy barely past sixteen with curly hair and an awkward smile fumbled his goblet as he stood up. “Ranger Benny, Your Grace.”

“Just Benny?”

“Benrick, really. But Benny since I got here. Easier to shout when the wildlings are chasing.”

“Benrick,” she repeated with affection. “That’s a good Northern name.”

The last among them, a ranger with deep-set eyes and a bow taller than he was, rose and bowed with unexpected grace. “Orysmond, Your Grace. Of no house. Just Orysmond.”

“Just Orysmond may one day be known in ballads if he continues to serve with such poise,” she replied. “It is a pleasure to meet all of you.”

The young men flushed scarlet with pride, shuffling back down with goofy grins and flushed cheeks. The queen had made them feel more than what they were sons of the realm, not outcasts at the edge of it.

As the feast wore on, the queen asked questions that no queen had ever cared to ask: What supplies do you lack most in the deep winter? What repairs do you need? How many brothers cannot hold a sword, and why? She asked how long the ravens took to reach Castle Black, how often the wildlings had been seen lately, how the younger recruits adapted, and how they mourned their dead.

When the feast finally ebbed into quiet, and only the fire still crackled in the hearth, Helman escorted her to the old solarlong since abandoned, but cleaned in haste and adorned with wolf pelts and heated stones for her comfort. 

The following days passed beneath the looming shadow of the Wall’s icy immensity, its vast white face blotting out half the sky. The wind whispered ceaselessly against its frozen height, carrying with it the distant groan of shifting ice. Where narrow arrow slits looked out over a desolation of snow and stone. From there she could see the endless frost-bound wilderness stretching to the horizon, and the black line of the Wall itself, a colossal rampart that seemed less built than born from the bones of winter.

Across from her sat the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Burley. He sipped slowly from a horn cup and listened, flanked by his three chief officers First Ranger Merrett Crow’s Eye, Raymund the Builder, and Bennard the Steward. Helman Glover, all dressed in black but with his sigil ring glinting faintly beneath his glove, stood beside the Queen.

Alysanne's gaze swept the room before she spoke.

“The Nightfort, I’ve been here for days and I can tell it’s a problem.” she began, her voice soft, but clear as winter wind, “Is the oldest castle on the Wall, and perhaps the grandest. But it is not fit for men, not anymore. It’s costly, too costly, to heat, to patrol, to maintain. It is stone more than shelter.”

Lord Commander Burley grunted. “Aye, my queen, but this is our seat. Some think we lose our history with its stones. We have been here long before Old Valyria and after its doom.”

Raymund, the Builder, nodded slowly. “We patch it, my Queen. But the stone crumbles faster than we can lay new mortar.”

The Queen's violet eyes softened, as she nodded. “Then let us make something better.”

She reached into the folds of her cloak and drew forth a velvet pouch. From it, she spilled a handful of gems onto the old oaken tablea shimmer of rubies, sapphires, pearls, and a single emerald so deep it looked as though it held the sea. But then came more: the slender circlet of Valyrian gold that once graced her brow, glinting with tiny amethysts.

Gasps whispered through the chamber.

Burley’s eyes widened. “Your… crown, my queen?”

“I will not wear gold and gems while your brothers sleep cold,” Alysanne said. “Use these. Build anew. Smaller. Warmer. Near enough to the old road, near enough to reach. Let it serve your men, not burden them. Might I suggest Castle Black?”

“That old thing? It can barely serve four hundred men!” First Builder spoke in disbelief 

“By the gods that means Helman will be Lord Commander.” First Ranger jest quickly.

Lord Commander Burley looked down at the gems again, then up at her. His beard quivered as he bowed his head. “You honor us beyond measure,” he said quietly. The fire cracked behind him, its light catching in his eyes. “What you have given is more than any lord or king has ever granted the Watch. I… words do not come easily to me, but know this…We are in your debt, and we shall honor your name for it.”

She looked to him then, tilting her head. “I have another request, Lord Commander.” Alysanne’s smile widened. “You shall accompany me to Mole’s Town.”

Burley blinked. Then laughed followed by the other men in the room. “You want me to go down there? I’ve not set foot in that den since I was young and still had all my teeth.”

First Steward Bennard coughed into his sleeve to hide a laugh. Merrett Crow’s Eye muttered something about needing to oil his boots. Even Helman Glover cracked a grin.

“I want to speak to the women,” Alysanne said sternly, her glare to the men in the room shut them quite quicker than one could blink. “The washer girls. The widows. The ones who sell more than their hands. They deserve better.”

Burley scratched at his beard. “It’s no place for a queen.”

“It is, her people live there,” she answered.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then the old commander gave a small, reluctant nod. “As you wish. But if we lose half our coin to the alehouses, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She stood, graceful and tall, gathering her furs. “I’ll make sure the crown pays the bill.”

Chapter Text

The warmth she had carried into these ancient halls was gone, and the place felt smaller for it, heavier. He swore he could still hear her voice in the courtyards and corridors, soft but bright as a winter fire. Alysanne Targaryen. Queen. Sister to a king. And to him…

Gods help him.

He closed his eyes as he crossed beneath the covered walk. The memory rose unbidden her laughter at supper, the way her silver hair had caught the torchlight, the faint scent of dragon smoke and lavender she seemed always to carry with her. He clenched his jaw until the ache drove the thought away.

The yard was empty save for a pair of kennel boys wrestling a sack of bones from a stubborn hound. Alaric turned toward the Maester’s tower, his boots ringing dully on the flagstones. He told himself he was simply making the rounds, that the walls and gates still needed watching but his steps took him where his heart had already decided to go.

Inside, the air was warmer, scented faintly of parchment and boiled leather. The young Maester Edric was at a desk near the base of the winding stairs, bent over a spread of ledgers, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He looked up when Alaric entered, surprise flickering in his expression before he bowed.

“My lord.”

“Where is Alarra?” Alaric asked.

Edric hesitated, his fingers still resting on the quill. “She… is in the library, my lord.” He cleared his throat. “If I might offer counsel it may be best to—”

“I did not ask for counsel, Maester.” The words came out more harshly than he intended, but he didn’t soften them. “Where is my daughter?”

The young man shifted uncomfortably. “As I said… in the library.”

Alaric turned on his heel without another word. His boots carried him down the narrow passage to the library’s oaken door. The hinges creaked faintly as he pushed it open.

The chamber smelled of vellum and cedar oil, the air heavy with the warmth of banked braziers. Tall shelves rose around him, packed tight with scrolls and bound volumes. At a table near the far wall, his daughter sat alone, a heavy book propped open before her. The pale light from the narrow window slanted over her dark hair, over the small frown line between her brows as she read.

Alarra did not look up when he entered.

He crossed the flagstones slowly, his steps echoing faintly in the quiet. The title stamped into the cracked leather of her book caught his eye: The Faith of the Seven.

He stopped at the edge of the table. “Alarra.”

Her eyes remained fixed on the page.

“I’m speaking to you,” he said, his voice low, meant for her alone.

She turned a page without a word.

Alaric stepped closer, his shadow falling across her table. He softened his voice, though it still carried the weight of command. “Alarra… I did not come to quarrel. I only—”

She closed the book with a firm thump, her eyes cold as the frost on the yard stones. “Because you rudely interrupt me, what?”

He blinked at her tone, taken slightly aback, then pulled the nearest chair toward him. “May I sit?”

“You don’t need to ask for my leave,” she said, her words quick and sharp. “I am your daughter. My station is lower than yours. I wouldn’t dare tell you no.”

There was more bite in her voice than he’d expected. He lowered himself into the chair opposite her, studying her face for a long moment before speaking.

“I came to speak about what passed between us,” he began carefully. “The argument—”

“I remember,” she cut in, her tone like a knife drawn across a whetstone.

He held her gaze. “You are the Lady of Winterfell, Alarra. That is no small thing. I would have you—”

“Oh?” She leaned forward, mockery curling her lips. “And here I thought that was the Queen’s title.”

The words struck him like a blow, though he kept his face still. The quiet between them grew taut, the only sound the faint hiss of the brazier and the creak of the timbers above.

Alaric’s jaw tightened. “You’ve been brash with your tongue, and careless with your listening. Spying in shadows. Carrying tales that are not yours to carry.”

“Brash?” she repeated, voice rising. “Spying?” Her glare was ice-hard. “You speak as if I am some little maid with idle hands. But it is you, Father, who has been brash. You parade through these halls with your Queen, our Queen as though the snows themselves gave you leave.”

Alaric’s eyes narrowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “Careful, Alarra.”

“No,” she snapped, pushing back her chair so sharply it scraped against the flagstones. “You forget Mother! She’s not even been dead more than a few winters, and you’ve already—” Her voice faltered, caught between fury and grief. “You’ve already moved on with her. And she’s married. She has children of her own.”

He drew a slow, steady breath, as though he could force his temper down into the cold stones beneath their feet. “I have never forgotten the woman I loved. The woman who bore me three children. Not for a day.” His voice hardened. “But to stand there and accuse me of… of forgetting her? To blame me for her death? How cruel must you be to wound your own father so?”

She stood rigid, hands clenched at her sides, her eyes brightening against her will. “Cruel?” Her voice cracked on the word. “Do you know what it is to see her shadow in every corner? To think for half a heartbeat she might come down those steps again? And then-then to see Alysanne in her place?” Her chin trembled. “You put her in Mother’s place, and you wonder why I call you cruel.”

Alaric looked at her, really looked at her and saw not the Lady of Winterfell she was meant to be, but the little girl she had been when Lorenah died. Pale, frightened, clutching her brothers’ hands. He forced himself to keep his voice calm. “Alysanne is married,” he said, the words heavy. “I know this. And what has passed between us… It is not something I pretend is right.”

“Then why?” she demanded, the tears now falling freely. “If you know it isn’t right, then why would you let it happen?”

He hesitated. Not for lack of words, but because the truth was an iron weight in his throat. “Because the feeling I share with her—” he stopped, trying to gather it into something he could speak without shame “—it is rare. It is… like breathing after years.”

Her eyes widened, her voice bitter. “Breathing? At the cost of everything Mother built? At the risk of our House? Tell me, Father, what feeling could be worth the risk of us?”

The question hit him harder than any blade could. He broke her gaze and looked away, down at the grain of the table where her book still lay closed. “That is the question I’ve asked myself each night since I knew what was in my heart,” he said finally. “And each time, I’ve wished the answer were easier.”

Alarra gave a sharp, disbelieving laugh through her tears. “You speak as though you’re the victim in all this. As though you’ve been trapped by some spell.”

“No,” he said, meeting her eyes again. “No spell. Only the simple truth that I cannot make myself feel differently than I do.”

She shook her head. “And if it destroys us? If the lords whisper that the Lord of Winterfell chases a married queen? What then? Do you think the North will forgive it? That they will forgive you? What of the King wroth?”

“I do not ask for their forgiveness,” Alaric said quietly. “Only yours.”

Her jaw worked, and for a moment it seemed she might scream at him. Instead, she sank back into her chair, her breath shuddering, her eyes red-rimmed. “You won’t get it,” she said. “Not now.”

He nodded slowly, as though he’d expected nothing else. The silence between them was thick enough to choke on, broken only by the pop of the brazier in the corner. Somewhere beyond the library walls, the faint clang of steel echoed in the yard. The training of boys who would one day be men, all unaware of the storms gathering in their lord’s hall.

Alarra looked away, her gaze drifting to the narrow window slit and the snow beyond. “You tell me you love her. You tell me it’s rare. You tell me you know it’s wrong. But all I hear is that you’d risk everything for a feeling.”

Alaric straightened, his hands resting on the table between them. “Would you have me lie, Alarra? Would you have me tell you I feel nothing for her? Would that make it better?”

“It would make it simpler,” she said. 

He studied her for a long moment, the lines of her face so like her mother’s it ached to look at her. “Your mother loved me for who I was, not for what made life easy,” he said quietly. “If she were here—”

Her breath came fast, shallow. “You send Torren and Weymar to the Wall?! Without explanation to me! Why? What does that mean for us!”

“They are there to represent our name,” Alaric said, his voice firm again. “To stand beside the Queen on her progress north, to remind the Night’s Watch that the Starks do not forget their oaths. You think it is exile, but it is duty.”

“Do I not represent our name? I am your only daughter, and as you said, the Lady of Winterfell yet I feel more like a burden to you, one you hope to be rid of.”

The words struck deep, and though he didn’t flinch, something in his eyes shifted a flash of hurt quickly buried. He rose slowly from his chair.

“I will not defend myself to the point where my own daughter looks at me as though I am a stranger,” he said. “I’ve told you what I feel, and I’ve told you I know it’s dangerous. That’s more truth than most lords give their kin.”

She kept her gaze fixed on the window. “Go, Father.”

For a moment, he thought to press her to demand she look at him, that she listen  but the set of her shoulders told him it would be wasted. He turned away, the scrape of his boots on stone the only sound as he crossed the library.

At the door, he paused, looking back once. She was already pulling the book toward her again, her hands trembling as she opened it. The Faith of the Seven. He wondered if she meant to find answers there, in the words of gods he did not pray to.

“This is not the way I wanted this talk to end,” he said quietly.

She didn’t answer, her eyes fixed on the grain of the table as though she could burn a hole through it.

When he stepped into the corridor beyond, the air was colder, the shadows longer. Then he heard it soft, muffled through the heavy oak Alarra’s sobs. Sharp, shuddering breaths, the kind one tries to hide.

He stopped. For a moment, he thought to turn back. But the sound struck something deep in him, something he had not let himself feel in years. It was the same sound he had heard once before late at night, in the bed they had shared when Lorenah wept quietly, thinking him asleep. The memory was a blade’s edge, cutting through the armor of years.

He stood in the hall, listening to the echo of the past and present merging, until the weight of it threatened to crush him.

The solar was dim, lit only by the low, steady burn of a hearthfire and the pale wash of daylight filtering through narrow windows. The chamber smelled of parchment, smoke, and the faint iron tang of ink.

Alaric closed the door behind him and stood there for a moment, letting the quiet seep in. No footsteps in the corridor, no voice calling for him, no soft echo of laughter drifting through the halls. Just silence — the kind that pressed in on a man until it felt like a weight on his shoulders.

He crossed to his desk, an old oak slab scarred with scratches and knife marks from generations past. The table was piled with the day’s work — a neat stack of messages from bannermen, updates from the Master-at-Arms, requests from the stewards for grain and salt. He settled into his chair and began leafing through them, more for the sake of routine than any true urgency.

The first was from House Glover, politely declining an offer of early muster drills in Deepwood Motte until the spring thaw. Another was from a minor knight in service to the Umbers, requesting recompense for two hounds lost in a wolf attack. The next few blurred together — small disputes, reports of bandits along the White Knife, repairs needed to the bridges south of Winterfell.

Then his eyes caught on the handwriting.

It was elegant but unpretentious, flowing without unnecessary flourish. He’d recognize it anywhere.

Alysanne.

The seal had been broken long ago — he must have read this before, though the sight of it now made his chest tighten. The parchment was addressed not to him, but to Lord Tallhart of Torrhen’s Square. His name was written in her careful hand at the top, but she had sent it under his authority.

He unfolded the letter, his eyes tracing each line slowly.

Lord Tallhart,
Please, with my invitation, come to Winterfell, where I have a proposal I wish to share with you on a matter of the future lands split. I believe it may benefit both Houses, and perhaps even bring greater unity to the North in the years to come. It is my hope that we may speak as friends, and that our talk will bring peace to old disputes.
— Alysanne Targaryen, Queen

Alaric’s lips pressed into a thin line.

The words were simple enough a matter of land division, likely something between the Tallharts and the Ryswell. But her tone was warm, measured, seeking to mend rather than command. She had a way of softening the iron edges of Northern politics without making a man feel the steel was gone entirely. She seems to make it a possible marriage between Boltons and Stark would be possible if only.

He leaned back in his chair, the parchment still in his hand, and stared into the fire.

He remembered the day she’d written it. The snow had been falling heavy, muffling the sound of the yard. She had been standing near the window in this very room, her hair catching the pale light, her brow furrowed in thought as she dictated the words. He had been at the far side of the desk, pretending to work, though in truth he’d been watching the way her lips curved as she spoke.

She had turned to him afterward, eyes bright. “Sometimes peace can be brokered with an open hand before the sword,” she’d said, offering him the parchment for his seal.

And what had he done? Gods, he’d been curt. Dismissive. Annoyed at some minor matter and in no mood for her optimism. He could still hear his own voice, short, cold, and unworthy of her effort.

“Your husband or your brother.”

Now the memory stung like a fresh wound. He set the letter down, exhaling slowly. “You were always kinder than I deserved,” he muttered to the empty room.

The fire cracked softly, embers shifting. He rubbed a hand over his beard, the ache in his chest growing heavier. He had spoken ill of her more than once,in anger, in frustration, in the heat of moments he could not take back. Words that, once lost, could never be recalled.

Fool, he thought bitterly. Fool to push her away. Fool to let pride take the place of sense.

He wondered where she was now. His mind drifted northward  past the Wolfswood, over the mountains, to the Wall. He pictured her there in the great shadow of ice, silver hair whipped by the wind, cheeks pink with cold, speaking to the black-cloaked men of the Night’s Watch as if each were a lord in his own right. She had always had that gift to look into a man’s eyes and see him, not his station.

He tried to imagine the Wall as it must seem to her alien, vast, a thing out of time. The wind up there could flay a man’s skin from his bones if he stood too long on the heights. The cold seeped into the marrow, and the nights… the nights could feel endless.

And yet she would smile, even there.

“Seven Hells, woman,” he said under his breath, “what hold have you on me?”

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the desk, staring down at the scattered parchments. The flicker of the firelight caught the edges of her letter, making the ink shimmer faintly. He reached out and brushed his fingers across it, a small, foolish gesture, but one that made his heart clench.

He thought of the riders she must have met on her journey, the lords she would have spoken to at the Wall. Did she speak of Winterfell? Of him? Or had she left him behind entirely in her thoughts, as he deserved?

The truth was, he missed her. He missed her wit, the way she could spar with him in words and leave him smiling despite himself. He missed the warmth she brought to these cold, grey halls. Without her, Winterfell felt more like stone and less like home.

He reached for his cup, finding it empty, but when he moved his cup his fingers found something odd. The folded parchment felt thicker than before, uneven near the crease. He frowned, sliding a thumb along the edge until it caught on a sliver of vellum tucked neatly inside.

It was smaller than the main letter, folded into a narrow strip. The writing was hers. He’d know it anywhere.

Dearest Daenerys,
Oh how I miss you, with all my heart. I wish you were here with me. You would love running through the grand halls of Winterfell, and the company of Young Weymar. I find the both of you share the same smile I am fond of. I will send you a winter rose from the godswood here, if Lord Alaric will permit it. I suspect he will not be able to refuse the smiles of two Targaryen ladies. Keep well, my sweet girl.
— Alysanne

Alaric smiled as he stared at the neat lines until the words blurred. Daenerys. Five years old. The Queen’s youngest and the image of her mother, if the court gossip was to be believed. It was not a lover’s note. And yet it carried her voice straight into his chest, light and warm and entirely unguarded. The thought of her bending over his desk to write it, of her sealing it with the same careful hand she used for lords and kings, stirred something sharp and unnameable in him.

Outside, the wind began to rise, rattling the shutters. Snow scraped faintly against the glass like the whisper of a thousand tiny fingers. Alaric closed his eyes, listening to it, and imagined it was her voice instead low, warm, saying his name the way only she could.

For a moment, he allowed himself that weakness. Just a moment.

Then he opened his eyes and set the cup down with a dull thud. His duties remained, and no amount of longing would change them. He straightened the letters into a neat stack, though he kept hers on top, as if by doing so he could keep her close.

Morning came pale and thin, its light a washed-out ribbon sliding across the high, narrow windows of the great hall. Snow had fallen again in the night—soft as sifted flour—dulling the clatter of feet and the scrape of benches so that Winterfell seemed to move behind a veil. Fires hissed and popped in their grates; steam rose from trenchers of oat porridge and boiled barley; the smell of bacon fat curled through the air and couldn’t quite chase out the stone-cold scent of winter.

Alaric Stark sat alone at the high table.

A horn cup rested by his hand, the ale within hardly touched. A trencher sat before him—heaped with porridge, butter melting in a pale gold eye at its center, two rashers cooling atop—but he had only prodded at it, drawing idle furrows through the oats with the edge of his spoon. Beside his own setting was another place laid—knife, spoon, cup, the folded napkin—and beyond that a third. He found himself staring at the empty space where Alarra should have sat, where once Lorenah had sat, where—Seven save him—he had nearly asked for a fourth place to be set, before sense caught his hand in the steward’s passage.

He looked away. The hall’s hush pressed at him. Men and women of the household ate at the lower tables in twos and threes; when they glanced up and found their lord’s eyes, they glanced away again. They knew better than to bring him news unasked for at breakfast. They knew his temper. He wished they didn’t.

Soft steps approach. The press and drag of parchment.

“You’re late,” Alaric said, without looking.

“You are early, my lord,” said Maester Edric, mild as milk. “Or else sleep has been unkind.”

Alaric huffed through his nose, something near a laugh, if a man were being generous. He lifted his gaze. Edric stood to his left, arms full of letters bound with twine, raven-black hair still damp from a hasty wash, his chain bright against a plain grey robe. The boy had only been at Winterfell three years, and still the cold flushed his cheeks in the mornings.

“Ravens?” Alaric asked.

“From the north coast, from the Barrowlands, and three from the Rills,” Edric said, laying the bundle gently beside the trencher. “A steward’s note from Deepwood Motte regarding salt stores…and two petitions from minor lords near Torrhen’s Square.” He hesitated. “Nothing from the Queen. Nothing from the King.”

The spoon paused in Alaric’s hand, then went on making shallow tracks in porridge that had already gone gummy at the edges. “I didn’t ask if there was nothing,” he said, and immediately disliked the sound of his own voice—flat, old, like a man worn smooth by the years.

Edric dipped his head. “Forgive me.” He drew a single letter free of the stack and set it apart, seal broken and re-pressed by the rookery’s mark. “An update regarding the Queen’s works at the barrow—Stone Hedge is complete. The men write that the last stones were laid on the hill and the barrow crowned with a ring of oaks, as Her Grace wished.”

Alaric closed his eyes as the image sprang up: Alysanne standing in a gray wind, hair like frost-lit silk, directing masons with a patience that softened even the most stubborn back. Sometimes peace can be brokered with an open hand before the sword… Gods. He pulled a breath deep and let it out slow.

“And the voices against it?” he asked, eyes open now.

Edric’s mouth pinched. “The Whitehills are… still displeased.”

“Of course,” Alaric muttered. “Whitehill’s displeased when the sun rises without his leave.” He reached for the letter, cracked the seal with his thumb, and scanned. The words were a steward’s hand—tidy, practical. Stone lifted, laid, capped with moss; the horned cairns set in a circle as the Queen decreed; a ditch cut to turn the spring run, so the hill would hold dry. At the bottom, a faint postscript in a different hand: ‘The Whitehills sent men to watch. They did not help. They spoke ill. We worked.’

He set the parchment down and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Why does Whitehill claim offense?” Alaric asked, though he knew the answer. He wanted the saying of it, to feel the shape of the grievance on his tongue.

Edric folded his hands neatly atop the remaining letters, as if ordering his thoughts. “They claim the barrow ring trespasses by three ox-lengths into land they tilled in your grandsire’s time, my lord. They claim the old stones—as they call them—don’t need setting at all. They claim—”

“That their claim stretches or shrinks to fit their mood,” Alaric finished. He reached for his horn and drank, the ale bitter and exactly what he deserved. “Whitehill knows I won’t pull down what the Queen raised.” His mouth twitched, something like a smile without the strength of it. “So he frowns and stamps and sends ravens.”

Edric shifted, but did not speak into that.

Alaric’s eyes slid again to the empty place setting and stuck there. He found he hated the small, neat fold of the napkin, the shining edge of the unused knife; hated how the space held itself so politely open, as if a ghost might sit and take bread. He pushed his trencher away with a dull scrape and reached for the rest of the letters, drawing the twine loose with a tug.

“Read,” he said.

Edric did. The boy’s voice suited parchment: steady, unhurried, a shy patience. Reports of cracked axles on the White Knife ferries; a note that the ice on the Kingsroad south had turned glass-slick, and a team had gone out with ash and straw; a petition from a Miller of Barrowton, complaining a Bolton man had taken a daughter’s dowry pig in lieu of toll.

“Send the Miller two pigs from our pens and a note for Barrowton’s reeve,” Alaric said, before the maester could ask. “Let them sort their Boltons.”

“Aye, my lord.”

A smaller missive came next, written in an eager, cramped hand: Lord Umber announces that the boar in his yard weighs more than two of his daughters and half a maester. Alaric found himself snorting despite himself. Hother Umber’s jests had a way of landing whether a man wanted cheer or not.

“Let Umber know I look forward to the tally of his roast,” Alaric said. “And that if his boar proves lighter than his boast, I’ll demand he eat his words—and share the bones.”

Edric smiled into the parchment, the corner of his mouth betraying him before he flattened it. He set the Umber note aside and reached for the last two letters. His expression sobered as his eyes flicked over the seals.

“From Lord Tallhart,” he said quietly, “and from… Ser Kendry Whitehill.”

Alaric’s chest tightened. “Tallhart first.”

Edric broke the green wax. “He writes courteous thanks for Her Grace’s invitation. He will ride to Winterfell within a fortnight to discuss the land split. He says—” Edric’s brows lifted faintly “—‘Her Grace’s even hand is a balm in hard weather. I hope the Lord of Winterfell will not mind sharing his table with a man who brings only old disputes and a good appetite.’”

“He may bring both,” Alaric said. “We’ll find him a bench and a belly’s worth.” He paused, weighing. “Alysanne said this would come to something that satisfied more than it bruised. Old save me, the woman may yet be right.”

Edric had the grace not to answer that.

“And Whitehill?” Alaric asked.

The maester unfolded the letter with care, as if any sudden move might turn it to cinders. “He writes with ‘due respect for Winterfell’s dignity,’” Edric began, already sounding tired, “that his House cannot abide the Queen’s work where it trespasses. He demands an immediate audience to present old maps, old witness, old grievance. He… implies that if the barrow stands, Whitehill will take steps to protect what is his.”

“Steps,” Alaric said flatly. He stretched his hand out. “Let me see it.”

The vellum was good. Whitehill’s steward had chosen that much well, thick and slightly yellowed, as if expensive could weigh down insult with gravitas. The ink scratched. The threats couched. The cowardice did not bother to hide.

The east wing’s passage was thick with the smell of baking — the kitchens were just below — but the sound here was anything but warm. Raised voices carried down the hall.

As he rounded the corner, he found his daughter standing rigid in the center of a half-circle of servant girls, her arms folded, her braid hanging over one shoulder. The girls were younger than she, cheeks flushed with the thrill of shared mischief, though the smiles were dying quickly under Alarra’s glare.

“What’s this?” Alaric’s voice cut through the air like a cold gust.

The girls turned, their curtsies hurried and shallow. “My lord,” one murmured, while another stared at the floor as if willing it to open beneath her.

Alarra didn’t move. “Gossip,” she said flatly. “And about the wrong people.”

He glanced between them. “Speak plainly.”

One of the maids shifted uncomfortably. “We only said—”

“You said,” Alarra cut in, her voice sharp as a whetted blade, “that our queen keeps warmer company here in the North than she does in the South. That her visits are… convenient. And you said it where other ears could hear.”

Alaric felt the blood rise in his neck. The servants went still under his stare.

“You forget yourselves,” he said, his tone low but carrying. “You forget your place. The Queen’s honor is not yours to pick over like bones at a feast.”

One of the girls looked as though she might cry; another clutched at her apron, pale and tight-lipped.

“Clear this hall,” Alarra ordered before he could speak again. “Back to your work. All of you.”

They curtsied and scattered, the whisper of their skirts fading quickly down the passage. The silence they left behind was heavier than before.

Father and daughter stood alone.

Alaric regarded her for a moment. “You handled them well.”

Her eyes flicked to him, guarded. “You would have been harsher.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But you didn’t need me. You kept the damage small. That matters.”

She shifted, and for a moment he thought she might walk away without another word. But she stayed, hands clasped in front of her. “I won’t have this keep turned into a nest for rumors,” she said. “Not about her. Not about you.”

It was the closest thing to an olive branch he’d had from her since their quarrel.

“Then we’re agreed,” he said.

Alarra’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something less than a frown. “We’ll see.”

The godswood lay hushed beneath a thin veil of leaves, the air sharp and still save for the faint trickle of water from the hot spring that coiled like steam from a giant’s breath. Alaric’s boots left a narrow trail behind him as he made his way through the black-barked trees, their limbs creaking faintly in the warmth.

Ice hung heavy across his back, the wolf-fur sheath brushing his shoulder with every step. In the quiet of the godswood, the weight of it felt almost ceremonial as if the old gods themselves were watching to see if he carried it well. He came to the stump near the pool, a weathered thing older than his father’s father, worn smooth by years of rain and frost. Lowering himself onto it, he unbuckled the straps and laid Ice across his knees.

The greatsword was as wide as a man’s hand and taller than Weymar by half a head. Its Valyrian steel caught the pale light, dark and smoky, the rippling in the metal running deep like waves beneath ice. The edge glimmered faintly, as though it drank the light instead of reflecting it.

Alaric drew a cloth from his belt and set to work, wiping away the faint traces of frost and the smudges of handling. Each slow pass of the cloth along the blade felt like breathing steady, deliberate. His thoughts wandered despite himself: Alysanne’s voice, warm against the cold air; Alarra’s sharpness that masked the hurt beneath; the quiet, folded note not meant for him yet still lodged in his mind like a thorn.

A sudden squawk broke the silence.

His head lifted sharply.

Across the pool, perched on the low branch of a leafless elm, sat a crow. Its feathers were black as coal, but its eyes, its eyes were a deep, unnatural red. They fixed on him without blinking. The steam from the spring curled between them, ghosting across the bird’s face, but the crimson points of its gaze never wavered.

Alaric’s hand stilled on Ice’s hilt. The godswood was full of strange sights, but something in that unblinking stare made the hairs rise along the back of his neck. For a long moment, man and bird regarded each other across the water, the only sound the soft hiss of the spring and the faint creak of the branch under the crow’s talons.

Then, without warning, the bird gave another harsh cry, spread its wings, and vanished into the trees.

Alaric looked after it until the sound of its wings faded into the winter air. Only then did he return his gaze to the sword, its ripples shifting in the steam like smoke on dark water.

Chapter Text

The wind whispered through the pines like a half-remembered prayer, and the hooves of their small party of garrons crunched the hard earth of the old dirt road. Lord Commander Burley rode slightly ahead, black cloak trailing behind him like a torn banner. Beside him, her silvery hair bound beneath a modest riding hood, Queen Alysanne Targaryen rode a white mare with far more grace than any royal lady had a right to.

She glanced at him, her pale purple eyes thoughtful. “Tell me truly, Lord Commander,” she said, “are the lands near the Wall worth the crown’s attention? Do they feed your men, provide you timber, coin, arms?”

Burley gave a heavy breath, his white-bearded jaw clenching before he answered. “No, Your Grace. Not enough. They barely feed themselves.”

His voice was coarse from years of wind and chill. A raven cawed overhead, gliding toward the Wall now lost to the north. Around them rode half a dozen black brothers—Harlman Glover among them, face hidden beneath a hood, eyes always sweeping the terrain.

  “We have the gift,” Burley continued, nodding south toward the stretch of wild pasture and rough farms they passed. “Land given to the Watch. Meant to be tilled by those who owe us service. But in truth… few remember the oaths. Fewer still send their sons.”

 Alysanne’s eyes narrowed, her breath curling white as she exhaled. “You have thousands of leagues of wilderness between your men and your enemies. And you face both north and south.”

 “Aye,” Burley said. “And we’ve not enough men to patrol the length of it. Wildlings cross when they will. Raiders too, though they rarely come this close. Most of the keeps along the Wall are empty. We hold Castle Black, barely. Eastwatch, too. Shadow Tower has seen better days.”

She turned her gaze to the fields again, jaw set in thought. He had seen that look before—on old commanders, on desperate lords. A weighing of chances. But in her, it was clearer, like flame behind glass.

The wind tugged her hood slightly, exposing more of her silver-blonde hair. It shimmered in the sunlight, unmistakable as Valyrian steel. Even here, in rutted roads and frozen breath, she was unmistakably royal.

  “I mean to fix that,” she said quietly.

Burley gave her a skeptical look. “You alone, Your Grace?”

 A sly smile touched her lips. “With my husband’s backing. With the help of lords like… And with your wisdom, Lord Commander.”

He gave a grunt that might’ve been a laugh or indigestion. “Wisdom, eh? You flatter an old crow. But it’ll take more than words. These lands need hands. And coin. They need reasons to care.”

She nodded. "How far now?" Alysanne asked gently, reins in gloved fingers.

 “Half a mile,” Burley grunted, the wind catching his words. “You’ll not see the town until we’re upon it. Most of it’s beneath the ground.”

  "Truly?" Her silver brows lifted with curiosity. "That seems a curious place to build a village."

 “Aye,” Raymund chimed in. “Cold above, warm below. Ground stays soft in the deeps. And it’s easier to drink and..Agh um well certain people away your worries when you don’t see the snow piling on your roof.”

 Alysanne smirked at that, but said nothing.

They crested a small hill and descended a twisting path through fir trees before the road leveled out. There it was: Mole’s Town.  At first glance, the village appeared barely more than a scattering of weather-beaten hovels a smithy with a crooked chimney, a stable that leaned like a drunkard, and three dozen shacks with shuttered windows and sagging roofs. Chickens pecked at frozen mud. A pair of children darted behind a pile of logs, faces smeared with soot. A drunkard snored against a hitching post.

 But as they came closer, Alysanne saw the signs: narrow slits in the earth, hidden doors barely wider than a barrel hoop, and stairs that vanished downward into the ground. One entry was marked by a rusted tin lantern painted red. The shack it hung from was scarcely larger than a privy.

 “Is that…?” she asked, her voice low.

“Aye, Your Grace,” Lord Commander Burley answered with half a chuckle. “That’s the brothel.”

 Just then, a man with a shaggy mane and a mouth of half-rotted teeth stumbled out of the darkness of one of the cellars. He blinked blearily into the daylight, clutching a bottle of something sharp-smelling.

He stared at her the silver haired woman on the white palfrey, wrapped in furs of crimson and cream, circled by knights and black-cloaked watchers.

 “Who’s the pretty girl, then?” he slurred with a wide grin.

Before the others could speak, Alysanne smiled and addressed him warmly. “I am Queen Alysanne of House Targaryen.”

The drunk blinked once, then twice, and dropped his bottle.  All around the narrow clearing, people began to emerge from tunnels and doors, women with heavy arms and reddened hands, boys with patched trousers and windburned cheeks, and the oldest of men who remembered the days of Lord Snow. All stared. 

Then, slowly, awkwardly, as if pulled by some unseen tide, the people of Mole’s Town fell to their knees in the mud. The air was silent but for the wheezing of the old man’s breath and the clatter of the bottle rolling over stone.

Alysanne looked over them, humbled by their awe. She did not laugh at their crude manners, nor flinch at the smell of damp earth and dung. Instead, she dismounted with careful grace, her boots sinking slightly in the soil.

 “You may rise,” she said softly, her voice carrying. “The Crown has not forgotten the North. Nor those who live in its shadow.”

The people did not answer. Many simply stared at her with reverence, as if waiting for her to vanish like a dream. A few rose hesitantly, brushing knees with blackened hands.

The old man who had spoken first managed to stand, though bent nearly double. “A real queen,” he muttered, half in disbelief. “By the gods…”

The cold wind danced with the Queen’s silver-gold braid as she dismounted her horse. The moment her boots touched the filthy earth of Mole’s Town, a dozen black-cloaked brothers of the Night’s Watch rushed forward, each eager to hold her reins, to offer a hand, or to simply stand tall and prove their worth in her regal presence. Alysanne Targaryen’s demeanor remained warm but composed, her eyes surveying the strange hamlet with curiosity rather than judgment.

The aboveground portion of the town was meager smoke-choked hovels slumped beside a lopsided smithy, its roof patched with rusting iron and what looked like old shields. A brothel’s shack sat squat and unassuming, a red lantern swaying above its crooked door like a beacon of shame and salvation alike. Behind it, only slits in the mud and narrow stairs betrayed the hidden world beneath cellars, tunnels, and vaults where the heart of the town truly pulsed.

People peeked out from corners and doorways. Most were caked in muck and soot, and a few reeked of piss and pig dung. But when they saw her—this fair, silver-haired woman clothed in deep blue and fur, with a dragon’s regal bearing—they froze. 

Then, the door to the brothel slammed open.

Out lumbered a towering woman with the frame of a pit-fighter, her bosom barely contained by her rough-spun gown, her arms roped with muscle. She walked with confidence, her boots kicking up mud, eyes hard as river stones.

 “What in the fuck do you want now?” she snapped. “You crows looking for another girl? Go piss in the cold—” 

 Her words died in her throat when she laid eyes on the Queen. She took in Alysanne’s tall, poised figure and embroidered cloak, the soft gleam of jewels on her gloves and the unmistakable authority in her bearing.

“You’ll make me rich,” the woman muttered, almost awestruck. “Crows found a wildling, didn’t they? Prettier than all the girls and men combined.”

 “No, no—that’s the Queen!” a girl from behind a shutter blurted out, her voice shrill with panic.

The woman blanched. “Seven fuckin hells—your Grace! Beg pardon!” she barked, throwing herself to her knees in the mud with shocking speed for a woman her size.

 Alysanne only smiled, holding out her hand and helping the woman to her feet with surprising strength.

“What’s your name?” the Queen asked kindly.

“Uh—Clarha, your Grace,” she stammered. “I… run things here.”

“Well, Clarha,” Alysanne said, dusting off her gloves, “I would like to meet with the women of this town, all of them. I intend to hold a court. A women’s court.”

Clarha blinked. “You want… to speak with the whores?”

 “I want to speak with the women,” Alysanne repeated, her voice soft but unyielding. “Bring them all. I would like to hear their stories. May I use your establishment?”

It took time for the message to spread, but soon, from the hidden bowels of Mole’s Town, women began to emerge. Rag-wrapped babes clung to mothers’ chests. Girls with painted eyes and bruises on their necks stood alongside older washerwomen and toothless crones with smoke-stained fingers. They gathered around a makeshift table Clarha provided, little more than a wooden cart flipped on its side.

Alysanne stood before them like a pale flame, her cloak billowing in the wind, her crown absent, she’d left it behind at the Nightfort, preferring her presence to speak louder than her regalia. Beyond the closed door of the hall stood the Lord Commander and his brothers stood guard, 

“Thank you for coming,” Alysanne said, raising her voice above the wind. “I know many of you live hard lives. I want to hear your stories, your struggles, and your needs. I have not come to judge but to listen.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then a young girl no older than fifteen stepped forward. Her dress was thin and patched, her bare arms shivering.

“I—I had a brother on the Wall,” she said, her voice shaking. “He never came back. No one told us what happened. We ain’t got coin, and the guards chase us when we come too close.”

A woman with a broken nose muttered, “We feed the Watch's needs, but they give nothing in return. Half our daughters belong to them before they're ten-and-six.”

Clarha crossed her arms, “I try to keep the worst of the bastards out, your Grace, but I can’t stop them all.”

Alysanne nodded slowly, absorbing each word with growing concern and fury behind her polite smile.

“And you?” she asked, turning to an older woman with rough hands. “What would you have of your Queen?”

The crone squinted. “Warm beds, my lady. Less rats. More bread. And a way out… if we want one.”

More spoke in droves with ease. 

 “I was taken by wildlings,” muttered a woman with a crooked nose and one eye. Her hands trembled as she picked at the frayed hem of her skirt. “Me and my sister. They kept us for two moons. I escaped. She didn’t.”

Another woman, older, with hair gone mostly grey, spoke of the raids, how men in patchwork furs would steal down the rivers in the dark, take what they wanted, and vanish like smoke.

But it wasn’t just wildlings.

Alysanne’s brow furrowed as the stories continued. One woman Elya, small and sharp-eyed—spoke plainly: “Some of the crows are no better. The ones who remember being lords. A black cloak don’t make a man a saint.”

That stirred murmurs from the Watch brothers, and a sharp glance from the First Ranger, Merrett Crow’s Eye from the hallway from the crack in the wall, silenced them. He stood with his arms crossed beside the Lord Commander, who shifted uneasily at the edge of the torchlight.

Alysanne lookup slowly. “If any man of the Watch has harmed you, speak their name. I promise you justice.”

The room quieted, heavy with silence and fear. From the back of the chamber, someone stirred. 

A girl—barely more than mid twenties was being nudged forward by another woman, her dark eyes wide with dread, her lip trembling. She held her hands over her stomach as though protecting something fragile. 

Alysanne gestured gently, inviting her to speak. “You are safe here,” the queen said, her voice low and kind. “No man shall harm you while I draw breath. Please.”

The girl hesitated. Then, with a soft, choking breath, she began to speak.

“I… I lived in a village by the Weeping Water, my queen. South of the Dreadfort. My name is Lanna.”

 Alysanne nodded. “Go on.”

“I was wed when I was fifteen. A hunter’s son. Mikel. He had kind eyes. We loved each other. But…” Her voice cracked. “He couldn’t stop it. The lord had right by law. The First Night. We thought it was only talk but the Boltons… they don’t let things die.”

Alysanne’s breath caught in her chest. “Who was this Lord who practiced this? This barbaric act.”

Lanna’s voice was fading to a whisper now, each word like a blade. “K-Kra-...Krane Bolton.. He took me. On my wedding night. Said it was his right. Mikel… he begged him not to. Krane laughed. Called him a coward. Then he made him watch.”

The queen felt something lurch in her stomach an acid bitterness, colder than ice.

“When I was with child, Mikel left. Said I was cursed. I gave birth to a girl. She was so small. She was blessed with two colors of the eyes.” The girl’s hands trembled now, pressed over her ribs.

Alysanne leaned forward, her voice breaking. “What was her name?”

“…Reina.” The girl’s face crumpled. “He came for her after. Said she was his blood. Took her from me. And his men beat me when I tried to follow. Said if I ever came near Dreadfort again, they’d flay me…”

Alysanne’s hands were trembling. She stared at the girl—Lanna—and her voice came out low, tight. “How old is she now?”

“She would be a young adult, maybe ten and four. She would be, I think.”

Alysanne closed her eyes. Reina Bolton. The daughter of Lord krane, the girl with two different colors. Who's in love with Torren. A child born of horror and cruelty, stolen from her mother, raised who-knows-how by Boltons.

She opened her eyes again, fire  rising in her gut. “You will have justice. I swear it, Lanna. I will bring this to the king himself.”

The day wore on as stories spilled like spilled blood across the dusty floor. One by one, women stepped forward. A girl no older than ten spoke of her older sister taken in the dead of night by wildling raiders. A mother, clutching an infant to her chest, spoke bitterly of a lord’s men who took her husband’s life and her dignity in one swoop, invoking the ancient, barbaric right of the First Night. Another woman, once a kitchen maid at Karhold, whispered of the pain of being chosen for a lord’s “privilege” on her wedding night, and how her groom had turned away from her ever since. Their voices varied some cracked with grief, others flat with numbness but almost all echoed the same refrain: injustice, silence, abandonment.

And through it all, Alysanne sat, listening. Her knuckles whitened atop her lap, fists clenched so tight her rings bit into her skin. Her eyes, violet as a bruised sky, shimmered not just with sorrow but with wrath. Fire and blood, the words burned in her mind.

She made no speeches that afternoon. Instead, she made a quiet vow, one that burned in her chest hotter than dragon flame. She would end this. This vile custom this First Night this horror cloaked in noble tradition. It would die. She would see it drowned in ash, in ink, in law, in sword and fire if need be. No woman, wildling or, bastard-born or highborn, would ever be left unguarded again. 

But deeper still, the betrayal gnawed at her. The Starks had let it fester. Lords of Winterfell, generation upon generation, had turned a blind eye. Had Alaric known? Had he ever taken part? Her stomach twisted at the thought. Had he watched his bannermen ride off to claim brides and said nothing?

Would Torren young, sharp-eyed, quiet...Would Torren carry the rot forward?

 No. She would not allow it.

It would stop it. No. She will stop it.

As they left the cellar, Alysanne moved slowly, taking the girl Lanna’s hand in hers and promising her a place at court in White Harbor should she ever wish it. “You will never want for safety again,” she whispered.

Outside, the sun had begun to set, staining the sky above the Wall in hues of orange and red. The air was crisp, the wind sharp with the smell of pine and cold stone. Alysanne mounted her horse without aid this time, her spine straight, her jaw clenched.

Lord Commander Burley walked beside her, face grim. “My queen… what you heard in there… it is not uncommon. But it is not often spoken.”

 “I intend to change that,” she replied. “If the First Night lives in shadow still, I will burn those shadows away. The law is the law. No lord is above it—not even a Bolton.”

Queen Alysanne stepped out into the dimming light of Mole’s Town, her golden cloak trailing behind her and her silver-blonde hair rustling with the wind. The air reeked of dung and damp earth, but she did not flinch. Behind her, the women returned to their hovels and burrows, their gazes lingering on the queen with something close to reverence and awe—and for some, hope.

But Alysanne's face was cold, carved like ice. She paused outside the cellar’s low door, her eyes scanning the group of sworn brothers waiting by their horses. Many stood silently, some exchanged glances, and others looked ashamed. Merrett Crow’s Eye was among them, lounging with his helm under one arm and the other hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

 He smirked, thinking the audience with the women would be a passing whim.

 Alysanne's pale hand slowly curled into a fist at her side.

"Merrett Crow’s Eye," she called, her voice soft but commanding. It cut through the murmuring and idle noise like a knife through parchment.

 He turned his head toward her, one dark brow cocked. "Your Grace?"

"You are relieved of your duty. Seize him."

There was a heartbeat of silence the brothers stood still, and then two black brothers, hesitant but obedient, moved toward him.

“What is this?” Merrett laughed nervously, stepping back. “Your Grace, I—have I not served the Watch loyally?”

 “You know what you’ve done,” Alysanne said coldly.

The two men reached for his arms. Merrett shoved one back. “Don’t touch me! I am first Ranger!”

Other brothers stepped in quickly. Merrett kicked and spat, struggling wildly. “You listen to whores now, is that it?” he snarled. “The Queen’s bleeding heart got twisted by some mole-rat’s tale!”

“She is not a whore,” Alysanne said sharply. “She is a woman under my protection. A subject of the realm. The realm you swore to shield!”

 He was dragged forward, still struggling.

“I did nothing! Nothing! This is madness!” he shouted, teeth bared. “I took the black, I am beyond your reach!”

"You took the black to escape your crimes," she said icily, stepping closer to him. “Your vows were meant to be a rebirth, not a shield for your evil.”

He spat at the ground. “This is a witch hunt.”

 “She was thirteen,” Alysanne said, voice trembling with contained fury. “Her name was Milly You took her from her bed and broke her like kindling.”

 “She-lies!” he screamed, panicked now. “She lies! There’s no proof!”

Alysanne turned to the Lord Commander, who had just stepped up beside her with a grave expression. “Lord Commander,” she said, “you told me yourself the law of the Night’s Watch allows for punishment of oathbreakers.”

He hesitated. “Your Grace, this is not the way—”

“Is he not an oathbreaker?” she snapped. “He raped a woman. He fathered a bastard. He left his black brothers to clean up the mess, and now he sneers as if he is untouchable!”

Lord Commander Burley looked troubled, his gray beard stirring in the wind. “If the crimes are proven—”

“They are!” cried the girl from before, who had dared speak out. She had followed the queen outside, eyes full of unshed tears. “He told me to be quiet, but I saw him leave her hut that night. I saw him sneaking back, and Lysa bleeding into her bed.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered Watch. The shame was beginning to settle on them like fog.

“He must answer,” Alysanne said. “And he shall.”

She turned to Merrett.

“You are no brother. You are a beast in the skin of a man. You used your black cloak as a veil to commit horror.”

“I’m protected by oath!” he roared, suddenly desperate. “I’m in the black! You can’t do this—”

Alysanne’s voice was like cold steel. “Then let the Wall witness what justice looks like.”

To the brothers restraining him, she said: “Strip him. Let him feel the shame he sowed.”

They hesitated—then obeyed. Merrett screamed, thrashed, bit, and begged. But in the end, he was half-naked and on his knees in the mud, his pride shattered before all.

The Lord Commander finally stepped between them, lifting a hand. “Enough.”

Alysanne turned her hard violet gaze on him.

“Your Grace,” Lord Commander Coldwater said firmly, “you are the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but the Night’s Watch is sworn to no crown. We do not answer to king or queen, only to the realm and our vows.”

She said nothing.

“But,” he continued, “this man’s crimes are no longer rumor. He is known for his cruelty. He should never have been accepted into our order.”

Alysanne looked down at Merrett, whose face was covered in tears and filth.

“So?” she demanded.

The Lord Commander gave a slow nod. “He will be taken to Castle Black. Stripped of rank. His sword broken. And he will live the rest of his days in silence and shame. If he breaks faith again—he will be hanged.”

“It is not enough,” she whispered.

“But it is our way,”  Burley replied.

She stood still for a long moment. Then she turned away. “See that it is done. If I hear otherwise, I will return—and next time, there will be no mercy.”

The Lord Commander bowed his head. He heard the answer in her voice, the justice she would have yet knew, as the cold settled in his bones, that she asked it of the wrong crown. He was no king’s servant, nor sworn to Targaryen writ. He is the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Here, beyond the roads and the soft reach of southern law, judgment was his to speak and his to bear. In the old way of the Watch, the mouth that names the doom must be the hand that strikes it. He looked at the two men holding Merrett and gave them a nod.

Behind her, Merrett was dragged off, sobbing, cursing, howling as his knees scraped along the dirt path. The women of Mole’s Town watched from cracks in the wood and darkened doorways, silent witnesses to the Queen’s wrath. Alysanne stood there, quiet now. Her fingers trembled as she clasped them before her.

A wooden stump was found and slammed down. The screams echoed in the stone tunnels long after the blade had finished its work.

“NO PLEASE NO!”

THUNK

Merrt’s cry had risen sharp and shrill, cracking against the damp  walls of Mole’s Town like a whip. Some of the women covered their ears. Others stared coldly. When the deed was done, the blood pooling beneath the limp, broken form of the man turned the dirt floor into a sticky black mud.

He had passed out before they even wrapped him in the Night’s Watch cloak he’d once worn with false honor.

Queen Alysanne Targaryen did not flinch. She stood still as stone, silver hair falling in soft waves over the fur-lined shoulders of her cloak, a look of grim command carved into her regal features. Even the brazier light could not soften the cold fury in her purple eyes. 

Merrt's severed manhood was flung into the corner by the brother who'd carried out the punishment—Ser Byam, a man who had once served in a lord’s household but had taken the black for a crime the queen did not wish to know. Today, he had served justice.

She turned her gaze to Lord Commander Burley. He stood stiff beside her, a sour set to his wrinkled jaw, arms crossed over his black-cloaked chest.

“I would have hanged him,” she said, voice low and shaking slightly with restrained fury. “But I know the Wall is no place for royal whims. Even so, justice was done.”

 “He broke his vows,” Burley admitted reluctantly. “But still. He had taken the black. His life is the Night’s Watch’s to rule. Not yours, Your Grace.”

Alysanne mounted her horse, gripping the reins tightly. “He surrendered that protection the day he preyed upon the weak. Vows mean nothing from a man who already breaks them.”

No one argued with her. Not the brothers. Not the women of Mole’s Town who peeked out from the doorways and shadowed cellars, their eyes wide and unblinking. As her mare trotted slowly up the muddy slope toward the road, snow began to fall in delicate flakes, silent as judgment. Around her, the wind stirred the trees, and the crows above shrieked. The queen’s escort followed in solemn procession the handful of Night’s Watch brothers, all grim-faced. The rest remained behind to clean up what was left of Merret. Lord Commander Burley rode beside her, silence heavy between them.

The dawn was pale and quiet, the sky still caught between the bruised hues of night and the soft flush of morning. Frost rimmed the black stones of Nightfort, and the cold wind off the Wall bit deep. Most of the brothers had long since returned to their morning duties, and the women she had spoken to—broken, fierce, defiant, grieving—had dispersed into their day with eyes cast low and backs a little straighter.

Alone in the courtyard now, her cloak wrapped tight around her shoulders, though even sable-lined velvet could not truly keep the northern cold from her bones. Her breath steamed faintly in the air as she walked the long, familiar path toward Silverwing. 

The dragon waited for her near the edge of the grounds where the field met the woods. She had kept her apart from the rest—out of fear, and awe. The men of the Watch were brave, but even brave men quailed at the sight of a dragon’s long shadow stretching across snow and stone.

Silverwing stood regal and still, her great silver-scaled wings tucked close to her sides, her long serpentine neck raised as she sniffed the air. When Alysanne drew near, the dragon lowered her head.

“Rytsas, āeksio issa,” Alysanne murmured in High Valyrian. Hello, my queen.

Silverwing rumbled low in her throat, recognizing her rider, her bonded.

“Hen lenton ēdruta,” Alysanne said softly, placing her gloved hand on Silverwing’s warm snout. I need peace of the skies.

The dragon blinked once—slow and solemn. Then she shifted her massive weight, claws crunching the frost-hardened earth as she knelt for her queen.

Alysanne climbed up without a word, practiced in every motion. Her gown was heavy wool, divided for riding, the color of shadowed steel, the brooch at her breast a golden three-headed dragon, its wings outstretched like the one beneath her now. She settled herself in the saddle, wound the leather reins through her gloved hands, and then gave a sharp, whispered command:

 “Sōvētēs.”

  Fly.

 Silverwing leapt skyward.

 The gust of her wings kicked up snow and sent crows screaming into the air. The Wall loomed before them like a mountain of ice, carved by gods and madness. As they ascended, Alysanne’s hair was pulled loose from its braids, silver-gold strands whipped by the wind. Her cheeks burned with cold, her eyes stung from the sharpness of the sky, but she laughed—once—free and unguarded.

She needed the sky. She needed the silence above the world to think.

Below her, the black shape of Castle Black shrank into a toy fortress. Beyond it, the Wall stretched in either direction, a jagged scar of ancient frost. Even now, centuries after its making, it never ceased to astound her.

And yet her thoughts were not on marvels, nor on the beauty of the dawn.

She thought of the women.

Of the girl from the Weeping River who had choked on her own tears when she named her stolen daughter. Of the whores who had once been wives, sisters, daughters who had been cast out, humiliated, raped beneath the banners of so-called lords.

Of the man she’d punished yesterday. Merrt. She’d seen his face in dreams that night—seen him weeping, pleading, cursing her.

She did not regret it.

He’d broken his oath. He’d shamed the black. He’d called her a whore—her, the queen. But it was not rage that stirred in her now. It was grief. A deeper grief than she'd ever known

Alysanne reached for her, speaking softly in High Valyrian, the words sliding off her tongue like a lullaby:

“Āeksia sȳndror, ñuhys hūghagon. Kostilus.”

(Morning wind, my shadow. Please.)

Silverwing rumbled low in her throat, and her massive head dipped slightly. Alysanne took that as permission. The queen stepped forward and placed her gloved hand gently upon the dragon’s warm, rough hide, the heat of the great beast a comfort against the chill of the North. She climbed deftly, practiced, as she always was. In moments, she was mounted.

“Fly,” she whispered, and Silverwing answered not with words, but with a power that stirred the heavens themselves.

Wings spread wide with a crack of wind, and the dragon took off into the sky like an arrow loosed by the gods. The gust of her ascent sent a plume of snow from the ground, causing men atop the Wall to point and shout as Silverwing tore through the low cloud cover.

From above, the world looked still, the Wall nothing more than a white scar cutting across the wildness of the land. She circled once, then again, the Wall beneath her casting long shadows across the snow-laden trees of the haunted forest.

But it was not the South she sought today. She wished to do something some Aegon The Conqueror and his sister never did. In written history or any history no Targaryen ever crossed the Wall. She would.

Her gaze turned North, to the lands of myth and shadow. She stared at them long from above—the great stretch of lifeless white that seemed to swallow the horizon. It called to her curiosity, her daring, the fire in her blood that refused to yield even to fear.

“Fly me north,” she whispered again.

Silverwing hesitated, wings adjusting midair. Alysanne pressed gently with her knees and leaned forward. “Nyke jāhor gaomagon ziry. I must see what lies beyond.”

Below them, the ice shimmered with its own cold light. And then—emptiness. Not even a road to mark civilization, just white stretching as far as her eyes could see. Endless snowfields, broken only by jagged ridgelines of frozen trees and the dark shadows of mountains far in the distance. The haunted forest loomed, black and ancient.

“Dohaeris, Silverwing,” Alysanne said firmly. Serve, Silverwing. She leaned forward and gave the signal with her legs.

The dragon refused.

Alysanne felt it at once the tension, the resistance. The great beast’s wings faltered in their rhythm, and her head turned slightly, uncertain. They hovered above the Wall, not breaking past it.

“Forward,” Alysanne whispered. “Fly, girl. Let’s see what lies beyond.”

Silverwing gave a great snort and surged around the sky refusing to cross some imaginary boundary. Then, with a growl of distress, she reared back mid-air and turned sharply toward the Wall.

Alysanne tightened her grip. “No Silverwing!" she gasp but the dragon refused, wings trembling with agitation.

Something was wrong.

On the second attempt, the same thing happened. As they passed the crest of the Wall, a strange coldness swept over them not the chill of air or wind, but something deeper. It crept into her bones. Alysanne, wrapped in fur and warmed by dragon heat, felt it anyway. An ancient, gnawing cold. A wrongness in the world. She did not see anything unusual in the sky or the snow, but she felt it. A presence? Silverwing keened, her deep voice echoing across the emptiness like a dirge. And she would not go forward. Again she twisted, fighting Alysanne’s direction. This time she flew higher, then simply turned away on her own accord, carrying the queen back to Castle Black in a sullen glide.

She whispered in Valyrian, “Mēre daor. Mēre daor.” No more. No more.

When they landed, Alysanne lingered by her dragon’s side, running her fingers gently across her flank. Silverwing laid her head against the earth and refused to move for a long while, tail curled around her body like a protective shield.

Her boots crunched lightly upon the snow-laden path as she walked the long stretch back toward the inner yard, her silver-gold hair now veiled beneath the fur-lined hood of her riding cloak. The cold no longer bit at her—it simply was, a constant companion in these cursed lands. Her limbs ached from the ride, but more than anything, it was the unease that gnawed at her heart.

Silverwing’s refusal still haunted her. Three times she had tried soaring high above the Wall with the winds at her back, calling to the dragon in High Valyrian to go northward, to cross that great barrier into the unknown. But the beast would not. The first time, Silverwing had wheeled about abruptly, snorting steam from her nostrils. The second, she’d banked hard to the east before her wings even cleared the parapets. The third, the dragon had loosed a low, growling whine that Alysanne had never heard before almost like fear.

 And that was what shook her most.

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms had known fear. She had felt it as a girl, and even as a woman, as a cold she feared Maegor would come to her and Jaehaerys or facing down lords who questioned her authority. But this fear was ancient. Primal. Not hers, but Silverwing’s and dragons feared little in this world.

Alysanne shut the heavy oak door behind her and slid the iron bolt into place. The sounds of the garrison below the occasional clink of a tankard, a low laugh, boots on stone fell away into the thick silence of her chamber. She let out a slow breath and began to unlace the silver-threaded mantle from her shoulders, folding it over the chair by the fire. 

Outside, the wind whistled over the Wall, a lonely, hollow sound. She crossed to the narrow window and looked out. The world beyond was black and endless sea of ice and shadow stretching farther than any map dared draw. Even in daylight, the land past the Wall seemed unreal, a place of half-remembered stories. At night, it was worse. You could imagine anything moving in that dark.
Her gaze dropped to the yard below, where Silverwing lay curled in the snow near outside the wall beyond the hill. The dragon’s silver scales reflected what little moonlight broke through the clouds, giving her the look of something carved from frozen steel. Even at this distance, Alysanne could see the slow lift and fall of her sides. Resting. Waiting.

And refusing.

She had tried twice now to coax her beyond the Wall. The first time, the great wings had spread wide, the air around her shimmering with the heat from her breath — and then she had wheeled in the sky, circling back, landing heavily in the yard. The second attempt had been the same. No whip or spur could have moved her, nor gentle words in High Valyrian. Silverwing had turned her head away like a stubborn mare, the frill along her neck stiff with unease.

What do you know, my girl, Alysanne thought, watching the dragon’s still form. What do you smell in that wind that I cannot?

She carried the question with her to bed. The mattress was heaped with furs and thick wool, yet the linen beneath kept the stone’s chill. She slid under, pulling the weight to her chin. Wind worried at the shutters; somewhere a loose board ticked like a clock. She lay awake, turning the thought until it frayed, chasing sleep that would not be caught.  Alysanne curled tighter beneath her cloak and furs, though she felt no warmth. Her fingers brushed the edge of the bed, cold stone pressing against her nails.

Her eyes closed.

But she did not remember sleep coming.

The snow fell upward.

That was the first thing she noticed.

The fire dimmed to embers.

She did not remember laying down, nor when the candle burned out. One moment she was sitting upright, and the next she was standing, walking barefoot over snow that did not chill her feet. The air was sharp and strangely still. The sound of her breath echoed like a whisper in a vast, hollow cave.

And there rising like a pale sentinel in the night stood the weirwood. She did not remember leaving the tower. She did not remember the door. And yet here it was, its face carved into the white bark, bleeding red tears that stained the snow at its roots. A lone crow eyes red of blood squawked with each step 

Her heart thundered.

Voices filled the air, whispering and murmuring all at once too many to understand, too layered, too ancient. Men, women, children. A hundred tongues all speaking as one, but saying nothing she could grasp. Yet she knew the sound. It wasn’t new. She reached out, compelled by something deeper than thought. Her fingers brushed the bark.

Warm.

Hot.

Wet.

She looked down and her hand was coated in blood. The ring that rested on her finger was melting away. Not sap. Not the crimson tears of the old gods but blood, fresh and warm, running down her wrist. Alysanne gasped and stumbled back but the world shifted. 

The weirwood was gone and a bright light confused the sky turning from night to day. She turned to see Winterfell.

Flames roared to life, swallowing the castle in a furious, unrelenting blaze. Torches wielded by merciless hands flickered igniting the great hall, the stables, and the wooden battlements. The bitter smoke curled upward, thick and choking, blotting out the sky. The banner of the Direwolf was in flames, its white background surrendering to the flames.

“No…” she whispered, her eyes seeing horror.

She stood on hard earth, churned and muddy with frost and ash. The smell of death was thick in the air. All around her were broken bodies black, red, blue, yellow and gray cloaks twisted and torn. The Wall loomed behind them, casting a terrible shadow. Crows circled in the darkening sky.

Then she heard it sobbing. Heart-wrenching, raw.

She turned slowly, her boots sinking into the damp, blood-soaked earth as she walked through the field of corpses. The banners of all the great Houses hung tattered and torn among the dead, fluttering weakly in a wind. The direwolf of House Stark, stained red.  The lion of Lannister, half-burned. The silver trout of Tully, caught in a net of blackened spears. Even a green banner of Crowned Stag? A Baratheon flag? It lay trampled into the mud, barely recognizable beneath the rot.

Everywhere she looked: death. As far as the eye could see, a sea of silence and slaughter surrounded her. Faces of none she could recognize. She only saw just boys, farmers, strangers  all claimed by the same fate.

Then she saw it. A faint, broken light flickering at the far edge of the battlefield, beyond the piled corpses and shattered shields. Near the remains of a blackened, broken door, it pulsed like a dying star. Drawn to it, she moved slowly, each step heavy with dread. Her foot struck something soft, a dead man, back down in a shallow river. His chest looked as though it had exploded. Blood mingled with the water, and rubies littered the current like lost tears, catching the broken light.

Her hand brushed against the broken door, and it creaked open at the slightest touch, revealing a hallway cloaked in shadows. Gone was the battlefield behind her; gone the wind, the ash, the cold. She stepped through, breath held, and the door groaned shut behind her without a hand to move it. Her heart beat faster not with fear, but with a kind of recognition. This was Winterfell. She pushed the door open, and the sobbing grew louder, sharper, as though it echoed in the very bones of the keep.

The room beyond was a chamber of stone and furs, heavy with the scent of blood.  The hearth was dark, and the windows shuttered; no fire burned to offer warmth or clarity. In the center of the room, beside a canopied bed with hangings of gray and white, a man knelt, hunched over, weeping into his hands. The floor beneath him was slick with blood, an ocean of red that spread out from the bed in every direction. She took a step forward, and then another, drawn by both horror and sorrow. 

The sobbing man did not notice her, did not raise his head, did not move at all except to rock gently, as if the grief inside him had rendered his body into a cradle of pain. Her eyes drifted to the bed, and she saw a hand pale, lifeless, stained with blood dangling limply over the side. A woman's hand, long-fingered and rough, smeared with crimson up to the wrist. The sheets were soaked through, her body a dark mass beneath them. The sobbing grew louder still, ragged and wet, and she felt her throat tighten. She stepped into the pool of blood without noticing, her boots slipping slightly before she regained her balance. And when she looked down at the kneeling man, she saw his face.

Alaric.

But not the Alaric she knew. This was a younger Alaric, scarcely more than a young man, his hair unkempt, his face raw and open in a way she had never seen. His hands were drenched in blood, shaking as they clutched at the edge of the bed. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and each sob that tore from him came from so deep within that it sounded more like a wound than a voice. "No," he whispered, over and over. "No, no, no, please...Wake up, come back." His words broke apart in the weeping. She stepped closer, heart aching with a kind of pain. 

“Alaric I’m here.” She reached out as if to touch his shoulder, to comfort him, to say anything but the moment her fingers neared him, he froze. The sobs stopped. He looked up. Confusion covered his face.

And his eyes, gods, his eyes.

They were hollow, burning from within with something old and anguished and terrible, like a man who had watched the world die and somehow survived it. His face twisted into only sorrow, infinite and consuming. 

He whispered, "I tried. I tried to stop it...I should have stopped this." His voice cracked, and he buried his face in the sheets beside the dead woman's body. Was he speaking to her? Could he see her? The chamber seemed to darken then, shadows growing longer, colder. 

“My lord, she chose to save the child…You have a daughter.” A deep old man's voice spoke from behind Alysanne.

"Alaric" She stepped forward wanting to speak, to comfort but when her hand touched his shoulder, the world turned again. Stone walls dissolved around her, replaced by towering pillars of red and black. 

The heavy scent of ash and smoke filled her lungs. Torches hissed along the walls, but their flames burned green.

A voice exploded around her.

A man with long, matted silver hair, eyes wide with fury and fear. His crown rested lopsided on his head.  "Burn them all!" A man screaming. Raging with madness his long finger gripping the Iron Throne. 

"Burn them all! BURN THEM ALL!" screamed a madman, over and over, echoing through stone corridors lit. “Traitor’s! Vipers all around! I shall return as the dragon!”

The moment she blinked again she found herself standing in another hall. This one colder. Wider. Northern stone. No longer the Red Keep, but somewhere older. Harsher. Sacred. She stood among flickering torchlight, flames dancing off the steel and sorrow that filled the space. Her head spun with disorientation, her breath forming mist in the cold air.

“The King in the North!”

The cry came like a war horn, sudden and deafening. Another voice followed hoarse, raw with both pride and pain.

“Here comes The King in the North!”

Men gathered around waving swords covered in blood chanting like a prize was one. The echo died too quickly. Then, silence. For one agonizing heartbeat stillness. And then louder. The screams. The wet schlick of steel tearing through flesh. Tables crashing. Goblets spilling red.

A harp played a soft, mournful melody. And then stopped. Cut off mid-note, as if the strings themselves had been severed. She spun around, grasping for the walls. The feast hall twisted into a massacre.

Bodies were everywhere. Men and women slumped over benches, slashed open where they sat. Goblets still in hand. Plates of roasted meat turned cold beside them. Some had arrows through their backs. Others, daggers in their throats. The flickering torchlight painted it all like a grotesque mural of betrayal.

A woman. Her face clawed out, kneeling beneath the moonlight that shone through a broken window. “Please don’t cut my hair…" Her dress was soaked red. Her mouth moved, whispering something she could not hear. Her hands trembled as they reached for someone just out of reach.

Before her lay a corpse.

A direwolf's head was sewn crudely onto a man's body.

No…not a man.

A boy.

A twisted crown of swords sharp, blackened, cruel rested upon the wolf’s brow. A dagger was lodged deep in the center of his chest. Ropes bound the corpse to a high-backed throne of weirwood, once white, now stained with crimson. From the cracks in the throne's arms, blood wept slow, thick rivulets that ran like tears down its legs and pooled at the boy’s feet.

The floor groaned.

And the throne began to melt. The boy’s body sagged, eyes snapping open white and blind mouth opening in a silent scream.

She stepped back covering her mouth in horror at what she saw, she felt she was outdoors. Then the rain came. Not snow rain. Red. Sticky. Heavy. The weirwood appeared again closer now, its eyes bleeding rivers. Alysanne clutched her head. The voices would not stop. They weren’t real. These things had not happened. And yet they felt real. As if she were staring down the corridors of time itself, memories that had not yet come to pass.

A boy screamed through the noise high and terrified. Then water slamming, roaring. The ice beneath her cracked, splintered. She turned and saw it just a flicker. A boy drowning in an ocean, fingers reaching for light above, his cries bubbling away. Another shape standing on the bank, clutching his heart.

She turned again, stumbling.

Now, before her, another boy stood. Silver hair soaked in sweat. He knelt over a man, an older knight possibly whose face she could not see. The man’s throat had been pierced by an arrow.
The boy wept bitterly. “I didn’t mean to run,” he whispered. “You said stay, and I-I didn’t mean to run away. Please, get up. Please wake up.”

Alysanne felt her throat close. The boy’s face was it her blood? She blinked and the boy was gone. So was the corpse. She was alone again and the room darkened. 

She found herself in a narrow, shadowed hallway deep within the bowels of Maegor’s Holdfast. The air was cold and stale, the walls pressing in like the closing jaws of a trap.

A soft, ragged sobbing echoed ahead, fragile, raw, and haunted.

She moved forward, her heart tightening with dread, until she saw a girl slumped against the cold stone wall, trembling violently. Alarra’s arms were wrapped tightly around herself, as if trying to hold the pieces of her shattered soul from spilling out. Her body shook with desperate sobs that tore from deep within, ragged gasps between her cries, ragged breaths that seemed too small for the pain she carried.

Her hair hung loose and tangled, wet with tears that streamed freely down her pale cheeks, carving paths through the dirt and grime. Her lips trembled, quivering in silent anguish before they spilled out her desperate pleas.

Alysanne stepped closer, her voice soft and gentle, but the girl’s head snapped up suddenly, eyes wild, glassy, and broken like a hunted animal trapped in a storm of sorrow and fear.

“Please… my son… give him back,” Alarra begged, her voice cracking and raw, frayed with exhaustion and grief beyond words. “Please, I’m begging you. A mother to mother please!”

Tears fell like a relentless rain, pooling at her feet, her whole frame trembling so fiercely it seemed she might shatter like fragile glass at any moment.

Alysanne reached out instinctively, but Alarra clung to her instead, as if her very existence depended on this small, trembling connection. “Alarra what’s happened? Tell me!”

“You took him!” she gasped, voice barely more than a broken whisper, breathless and utterly shattered. 

Alysanne jolted awake.

Her breath came in gasps. The fire had long since gone out. The wind howled beyond the stone walls of Castle Black, but inside her chamber, it was still. She sat upright, sweat damp on her brow despite the chill. She rose on shaky legs and stepped to the small mirror above the basin. Her reflection stared back and pale, wild-eyed. Her silver-gold hair clung to her face. She barely recognized herself. As she turned to the door, her eyes ca

When her boots found the frost-slick stones of the yard, the Lord Commander was already striding toward her, his black wool cloak sugared with snow. The cold had drawn his face tight; curiosity put a faint heat in his cheeks. He bowed his head. “Your Grace,” he said. “Your beast… she would not cross the Wall?”

Alysanne drew back her hood. Silver hair spilled over her shoulders like moonlight on ice. “No,” she said, low and flat. “I commanded her thrice. She refused me thrice.”

“That is strange,” he murmured, brow knitting beneath the rim of his helm. “They say dragons fear naught.”

“Then whatever waits beyond the Wall,” she replied, grim as iron, “is not naught.”

Before he could answer, a horn cut the morning and a shout rolled down from the battlements. Men turned; ravens burst from the rookery in a black cloud. “Riders!” came the cry. “Riders from the south!”

Steel rasped from scabbards. Several of the black brothers moved to the gatehouse. The Lord Commander and Alysanne exchanged a glance before striding side by side toward the gates. The Queen’s shadowy guards, cloaked in white and bearing the sigil of the Targaryen Three-Headed Dragon, moved to flank her, boots crisp on frozen stone. The ancient gate creaked open on moaning hinges. 

There, riding up through the slushy path from the road, were eight figures. Their banners streamed behind them in the wind: the Direwolf of House Stark and the royal Targaryen sigil entwined black and red fluttering against the bleak sky.

Her heart leapt into her throat. The ache she had kept buried these days in the sky and at the Wall. The sight of two boys was like the sun breaking through clouds.

Torren and Weymar rode forward with the small party into Nightfort.

Chapter Text

The wind coming off the Wall was a bit sharper than any Torren had felt on the ride north, though they’d known nothing but snow since they’d left Winterfell. His knees ached from the saddle, his hands stiff on the reins, but he kept his spine straight as they entered the yard of the Nightfort. Weymar was grinning like a fool beside him, the boy’s cheeks red from the cold, snow clinging to his lashes.

Alysanne’s breath caught in her throat.“Weymar, Torren.” she said, voice faltering. Then, as if remembering she was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she straightened her back and smiled a royal smile, not a mother’s.

Weymar swung down from his saddle too quickly, nearly sliding in the frost. Torren dismounted slower, forcing stiffness into his movements, though his legs burned from the cold. He would not stumble before her. Not here. Not in front of her King’s Guard, who stood watch in white-and-gold like a pair of silent crows.

“Your Grace,” Weymar said, bowing with all the grace of a half-trained pup. His voice cracked halfway through.

The Queen laughed softly, almost like a mother might to a child. “Careful, sweet boy.”

“I won’t fall, I swear it,” Weymar blurted, stars in his eyes.

Torren kept his own face steady. “Your Grace, we are your escort at the Wall and whenever you wish to return south,” he said, his voice level, rehearsed.

Her hands tightened on her skirts. “I see. And your father? Did he send you?”

“Yes. At his request.”

Weymar couldn’t keep his tongue still. “We rode hard! All the way from Winterfell and barely rested, we wanted to reach before nightfall, but the snow was thicker than it looked.”

Torren wondered if she noticed how her gaze drifted away from him when Weymar spoke. She nodded, all grace and courtesy, but her eyes were far-off.

The Lord Commander stepped forward, breaking whatever thought had taken her. “The hour grows late. We can offer your guests warm food and hearth.”

“Food would be wonderful!” Weymar said.

“Proper title, Weymar,” Torren cut in, sharper than he intended. “He is Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

Weymar’s smile faltered. “Your hospitality would be a great honor, Lord Commander.”

The Queen’s voice was smooth again. “They’ll want to eat. And rest. Come, your cheeks are near frozen.” She turned before either of them could answer, her skirts sweeping the frostbitten stones.

The Nightfort’s solar was warmer than the yard but still smelled of damp stone. The fire snapped and hissed, throwing shadows against moth-eaten tapestries. Food had been laid out: thick bread, roasted hare, stewed onions. Weymar ate like a man fresh from a hunt, grinning through mouthfuls, laughing at his own stories. Torren picked at his trencher, keeping his eyes on the Queen more than his food. She listened to Weymar’s tales of the near-fall into the river, of Torren pulling him back “like to strangle him”  with polite smiles, but Torren could see something behind her eyes. She was not thinking of rivers or ice.

“Our father thought it best we come,” Torren said at last, breaking the quiet between them. “That we ride to the Wall and learn of duty, as he did when he was a boy. Said it might remind us that winter is always coming.”

She gave a soft nod. “Correct. As all heirs should travel the land in which one will inherit.”

Weymar slurped his soup like a child, asking if Silverwing liked the Wall.

“She does not,” the Queen answered, and Torren thought her voice changed just slightly when she spoke of the dragon. “She looks at it, but will not fly beyond it. She turns away every time.”

“Maybe it’s haunted,” Weymar said.

“Perhaps it is,” she replied.

The room quieted again. Torren could feel the weight of her glance when it came to him the way she studied him as if weighing what he might know. He kept his face cold, his voice absent. Better she think him unreadable than give away the unease churning in his chest.

He rose first. “Come, Wey. The Queen needs rest. So do we.”

Weymar tried to protest but followed. He bowed awkwardly, thanking her. She touched his shoulder gently, smiling in a way she hadn’t all night.

When Torren stepped past her, he didn’t bow. He looked at her, letting the cold in his eyes speak for him. There was something in her that unsettled him — something he didn’t want to name.

She held his gaze for a heartbeat before he turned away, guiding Weymar up the stairs.

Torren sat at the narrow window, the shutters wide, looking out over the Wall. The moonlight poured over the frozen height, catching on its jagged top like a blade of glass. The Wall loomed so impossibly high that even the stars seemed to shy away from it. Below, the land beyond stretched into shadow  a black nothingness that swallowed the eye the longer one looked.

Weymar was sprawled under his furs, snoring softly, the fire in their small hearth burned low. The shadows on the walls stretched long and twisted, like they were reaching for the bed. Torren sat upright, staring past the flicker of the embers to the narrow window slit. Beyond it lay the Wall, black against the night, rimmed in pale moonlight.

Even from here, its presence pressed down on him cold so deep it seemed to creep into his bones just from looking at it. An unbroken line of ice, older than the kingdoms, older than any crown. He imagined the cold settling in his marrow, freezing him from the inside until he was nothing but glass and frost.

Weymar murmured in his sleep, rolling over with a smile on his lips. No doubt dreaming of feasts or dragons, or the Queen herself. Torren’s mouth tightened. His brother’s easy fondness for her was reckless. Dangerous. Weymar did not see what Torren saw the way she measured her words, the shadow behind her smile.

Torren turned away from the window. That was when he heard it.

A voice.

Soft, low, like someone speaking through stone.

“A throat shall bloom red."

He sat still, holding his breath, but the voice faded. His skin prickled. He turned sharply, scanning the corners, the bed, the small table with its guttering candle. Nothing. Weymar stirred, mumbling something in his sleep.

A crow’s cry cut the air harsh, sharp and echoed strangely in the stones of the chamber. The air began to smell different not just of damp and age, but of stone that had never known sunlight.

And yet…he could feel it. The air before him shimmered faintly, like heat over summer stone, though the cold here was enough to bite the skin raw. His head throbbed harder, the ice-crown sensation tightening until it burned.

Flashes came without warning.

A younger boy stood in a sunlit courtyard, his black curls tumbling over his brow, his grey tunic marked with dust from some earlier scuffle. A girl in a gown of deep purple silk circled him like a cat with a mouse, her smile sharp and knowing. She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered,

“My mother isn’t around…and soon, I’ll have a dragon. Then I’ll show that Red Dragon Princess bitch who can have a wolf.”

Before Torren could do anything the courtyard fractured, light shattering like glass and he was elsewhere.

A tall chamber of black stone, its narrow windows letting in only thin slices of daylight. Older now, Queen Alysanne sat at a carved table within Dragonstone’s keep, a heavy leather-bound volume open before her.

"Lords of Winterfell and the Kings in the North"  etched into the cover in fading gilt. Her hand trembled as she traced one page entry with her fingertip, again and again, as though memorizing the letters carved into the parchment. She blinked hard, her lips parting, tears shined with a sharp glint of them in her eyes, threatening to spill.

Smoke curled thick around Torren, stinging his eyes and clawing at his throat. He coughed, swiping at the air, but the taste of iron clung to his tongue. Blood fresh and hot.

When the haze thinned, the world sharpened into chaos. Before him stretched a battlefield choked with dead, armor and flesh strewn like broken toys. The clash was over, yet the ground still trembled with distant shouts.

And then he saw them.

Two banners, snapping in the same bitter wind both Targaryen, yet not the same. One bore the black three-headed dragon on a field of red. The other, what he was used to seeing the black field marked with a three-headed dragon of crimson.

A lone figure moved through the wreckage of a battlefield, where ash drifted like snow and broken spears jutted from the earth like rotting teeth. His skin was white as milk, a red wine stain birthmark, that extended from his throat up to his right cheek. He walked without haste, men all around him bows and arrows wearing raven cloaks passed him without sound, until as if sensing a presence he stopped just before the corpse of a young boy with silver hair laying face down on grass.

Slowly, his head turned. The man had one red eye as the other a scar-slit, blind eye. He fixed on him, sharp as a spearpoint.“Issa Rōvēgrie kēpus? You are not supposed to be here.”

The voice did not echo. It struck inside his skull like the toll of a deep bell. Torren stumbled back, his breath tearing in his throat. Torren’s chest heaved. His mouth opened to speak, but no words came. 

His eyes snapped open as he reeled his back. He was in his chamber again. The fire had gone out. Weymar was still asleep, snoring softly, curled beneath the furs. Torren sat up too quickly, his head pounding, and looked out the window.

Far below, in the godswood of the Nightfort, the Queen stood alone before the heart tree. Her silver hair stirred in the wind, her gaze fixed on the red sap that wept from the carved eyes. Torren rose without thinking, his pulse quickening. Whatever that dream had been, if it was a dream it had left its mark. The Queen’s presence beneath the weirwood felt wrong and inevitable all at once.

The morning sun barely kissed the top of the Wall. From the high windows of the Nightfort, its light seemed thin and fragile, like something that might snap and fade with a shift of the wind. Torren descended the cold steps slowly, leaving behind the vast, empty hallway where the torch sconces burned low. The air was knife-sharp, every breath cutting in his lungs, but it felt cleaner than the stale shadows of the castle.

Beyond the arched doorway lay the godswood if one could call it that. It was nothing like Winterfell’s warm, hushed grove. This was a forest inside the Wall itself, larger and stranger than any he’d seen. The weirwood here was ancient beyond imagining, its trunk gnarled and thick as a hall’s pillar, the bone-white bark twisted as if it had grown in pain.

The snow muffled his steps, but the silence was so deep that each crunch sounded like an intrusion. He was halfway across the yard when he heard it the faintest whisper.

“No.”

So soft it might have been the wind. Or madness.

He paused, breath steaming, and glanced behind him. No one. The sound was gone. He moved on.

The Queen stood before the weirwood, her black sable-lined cloak hanging loose, letting the cold touch her as though she welcomed it. Snow clung to her silver-blonde hair like threads of frost. A lone crow perched above her, its head tilted, watching.

Alysanne did not turn until his boots broke the crust of ice behind her. Her hand flew to her arm, her breath catching, eyes wide. For a heartbeat, she looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

“Your Grace,” Torren said, trying to read her face. “Are you well?”

“I… I thought—” She swallowed, her gaze darting past him. “Nothing. I heard nothing.”

He studied her for a moment, then said, “Strange things dwell in the Nightfort, they say. Maester Edric scoffs at it. But my father believed.”

She turned to the tree again, her voice low. “This place is cursed.”

“Yes” he said, stepping up beside her. “I love the North but being here…I hate it.”

She shivered at that, and not from the cold. “What do you mean?”

“My father told me the Old Gods don’t speak with words,” Torren said quietly. “They show you things. What you want. Or what you fear. Or both.”

Her eyes searched his face. He held her gaze. “I dreamed of my mother after she died,” he went on. “She told me something terrible. Then it happened. Exactly as she said. Was it the gods? Or just me?”

The wind shifted, whistling through the shattered towers above. Somewhere beyond, a raven called once, twice.

“You were out here before dawn,” Torren said. “Alone. No guards.”

“I wanted quiet,” she answered.

He nodded slowly, then took a breath, letting the words come without softening them. “What are your intentions with my father?”

Alysanne’s breath misted in the cold as she met his gaze. “Your father is Lord of Winterfell. I am the queen. We speak as ruler and bannerman—nothing more.”

Torren’s lips twitched, almost a smile but colder. “That sounds like something you tell other people. Not yourself.”

Her jaw tightened. “You speak in riddles Torren, so please be plain what would you know of what I tell myself?”

“I see,” he said simply. His voice was quiet, but it carried more than any shout. “I watch him when your name is spoken. I watch you when he’s near. You think no one sees it, but all of Winterfell sees everything!”

Her heart gave a single hard beat. “You are young, Torren. You mistake courtesy for—”

“Affection?” he finished, his voice almost mild. “Or the other way around?”

The words hung in the air like frost between them.

“You have no right—”

“I have every right,” he cut in, still quiet, still steady. “He’s my father. My blood. My House. I’ve seen him…change, since you came north. I’ve seen the way his eyes find you in a room, like he’s not quite certain you’ll stay if he looks away. And I’ve seen what happens when you leave.”

Something in her chest ached at that, sharp and deep. She turned toward the tree to hide it. The face carved into the wood stared back, bleeding red down its pale skin.

“I care for him,” she said finally, her voice low, as though speaking too loud might shatter something between them.

Torren’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Care for him.” He said it like he was testing the words on his tongue, searching for the truth in them. “That’s not love. Or maybe it is, and you’re afraid to call it by its name.”

Her head snapped toward him. “And if it is? What then?”

He didn’t flinch. “Then you’ll leave him worse than you found him.”

For a heartbeat, neither moved. The wind pushed between them like a third presence, whistling through broken stone.

“I did not come here to hurt him,” she said.

“No,” Torren agreed, his tone almost gentle now. “But sometimes we hurt people most when we want the opposite.”

That struck deeper than she cared to admit.

She let her eyes drop to the snow between them. “Your father… is a man unlike any I’ve known. Stronger than the South believes, and softer than the North admits. When I speak with him, I—” She stopped herself, breath catching. “It is not something I planned.”

“Then be honest.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve heard the rumors. The words he swallows. Weymar—” He cut himself short.

Her voice was soft but cold. “What of your brother?”

“He climbed the tower,” Torren said. “He saw the light in his chamber. At night.”

Alysanne didn’t move. She didn’t deny it either.

“You’re the queen,” Torren said bitterly. “And still you visit my father in secret. Do you not care what that means? Or what people will say?”

Her tone cooled further. “Using your younger brother as a tool is cruel and you should mind your tongue, my young Torren.”

“You should mind MY family,” Torren shot back. “I know what he’s lost. I know what he’s buried. And you’re digging it all up again. Why?”

“You resent me,” she said.

“I don’t know what I feel.” The words came like frost cracking underfoot.

She met his stare, unflinching. “I understand if you do…Your father is a good man. One of the few.”

“No-no-no, you can’t just twist this around.” Torren said quietly.

The silence stretched, heavy as snow on a roof about to give. He saw the flicker in her eyes memory, longing, guilt. She was not denying it.

“You’ll leave,” he said finally. “Back to your dragons, your court. But he’ll stay. And when you’re gone, it’ll tear him in half.”

Her voice faltered. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t lie awake with it?”

“Then why let it happen?”

No answer. Just the wind, and the steady drip of red sap down the weirwood’s face.

He stepped back, his voice low, dangerous. “Then you do. You love him.”

“Torren—”

“Do not speak it if you don’t understand it.” His voice trembled, but not from fear. “He is my father. And I have lost too much.”

She reached toward him, but he moved away, his cloak snapping in the cold wind.

“Excuse me, your grace. I must go.” he said. Then he turned and walked out into the snow, leaving her alone beneath the watching eyes of the heart tree.

The halls of the Nightfort stretched out before him, cavernous and cold, their shadows swallowing the weak light of the torches. Snow had crept in through every crack and breach in the ancient stone, drifting in pale heaps along the walls and scattering across the flagstones like scattered ash. His boots crunched softly with each step.

Torren’s breath fogged in the frigid air, but the tightness in his chest was not from the cold alone. It was an old ache, sharpened these past years his mother’s absence still gnawed at him. He remembered her laughter in the halls of Winterfell, the way her presence softened his father’s voice, even in matters of counsel. She had been the hearth-fire that warmed them all, and when she was gone, the fire died.

Now… Now things were changing again. His father’s eyes lit for someone else, his silences weighed differently. It left Torren feeling unmoored, as if the ground beneath him had turned to the same ice that crowned the Wall.

He passed a narrow window slit, looking down into the courtyard below. Through the veil of falling snow, he saw Weymar, his cheeks flushed from the cold standing beside the horse lines with a Night’s Watch squire not much older than himself. They were laughing about something, the sound carrying faintly up to Torren’s perch. Weymar’s hands moved animatedly as he spoke, pointing toward the horses, his smile bright and easy.

The sight twisted in Torren’s chest. Weymar had been younger when their mother died, and yet but his memories of her seemed clearer, less shadowed. He could speak of her without the heaviness, could still summon the image of her as she was, rather than how she looked in her final, fevered days. Torren gripped the wooden rail of the balcony until his knuckles whitened, forcing his breath slow. The wood was cold and damp beneath his fingers.

Footsteps approached from behind, deliberate and measured. Torren turned to see Lord Commander Burley, his black cloak dusted with snow, his lined face as weathered as the stones around them.

“My lord,” Burley said, inclining his head in greeting. His voice carried the steady calm of a man long accustomed to the Wall’s silence. “If you are not otherwise occupied, I would speak with you regarding the supplies Winterfell has pledged to send.”

Torren straightened from the railing, forcing the tension from his grip. “Of course,” he said, his voice even. He glanced once more toward Weymar in the courtyard still laughing, still light in a way Torren could not summon and then followed the Lord Commander down the passage.

The Nightfort’s vast corridors seemed to listen as they walked, the sound of their boots echoing off stone that had stood longer than the memory of most men. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the open maw of a collapsed ceiling, melting against the black wool of Torren’s cloak. Somewhere deeper in the keep, a crow’s voice rasped, low and drawn out, like a warning that refused to fade. O nly a thinning of the clouds, a weak brightening that fooled no one. Torren stood with Lord Commander Burley in the old commander’s chamber while a steward shuffled in and out with ledgers, tally sticks, and sacks of half-frozen oats to be sampled like wine.

The room was modest by any lord’s measure, but rich for black brothers: a single hearth throwing long amber tongues across stone walls, a table scarred by knives and the tips of writing quills, raven feathers piled near the inkwell like shed thoughts. A flagon of dark ale sweated beside a cluster of seals: Winterfell’s direwolf, the Watch’s tower and sword, an old wax stamp no one had used in a generation.

“The storms have eaten our lamp oil faster than guessed,” Burley said, tapping a page with a blunt forefinger. “We can stretch tallow if we cut the patrols shorter in bad weather, but I’d not like it. Men fall in the dark.”

“Winterfell will send oil,” Torren said. “And flax, if Deepwood’s harvest still holds dry. Salt fish, smoked mutton, grain enough to carry you to spring.” He heard his own voice, flat and practical. It was easier to speak in ledgers than in feelings.

Burley grunted approval. “And the Queen’s stones at the barrow? Word is she makes peace even the wind listens to.”

Torren kept his eyes on the list. “The North listens when it suits it.”

“Aye,” Burley said, not disagreeing. “And when it don’t, it remembers.”

Snow sifted down the chimney, hissing in the coals. Torren brushed a fleck of ash from the ledger and set it aside. The ache in his chest—the one that had settled there since the godswood—had not faded. He’d left Alysanne beneath the bleeding face of the weirwood and walked the keep until his legs went numb, the hallways swallowing his footsteps and his thoughts. The Nightfort had a way of making a man feel smaller than his own bones.

A knock, and the steward slipped in with a bundle of tally sticks bound in rawhide. “From the east store,” the man said, eyes on the floor. “Three barrels of nails gone to the collapsed stair repairs. Two to the inner gate. We’ve not the iron to waste on the outer.”

“Winterfell will send nails,” Torren said. “And men who can set them straight.” His father would make it so. His father always had.

He felt the world tilt for a heartbeat memory of the weirwood face, the crackle of frost, Alysanne’s voice tightened to a thread. I care for him. It should have eased him. It did not.

“My Lord Commander,” came a voice from the stair.

Both men turned. Weymar hovered in the doorway, hair full of snow, cheeks bright with cold. A Night’s Watch squire stood behind him no older than Weymar clutching his cap and trying not to stare at the lord’s sons. Wey had the look he always got when he thought he’d done something clever and was struggling to pretend otherwise.

Yet behind him was her...

Alysanne’s silver-blonde strands caught what light the room offered, haloed in fine crystals that melted to bright beads and vanished. She wore plain black with sable lining, the cloak left unfastened so the cold touched her throat. Jonquil and Ser Roxton shadowed her, black-and-gold cloaks heavy with frost; they halted outside like trained hounds when she lifted a hand. The Queen did not need them in rooms like this.

“Torren,” she said, then to Burley, “Lord Commander.”

“My Queen,” Torren answered, the words passing his lip like smoke. He bowed a fraction, no more. He was suddenly aware of his hands, of where to put them, of how to stand. “You’re not retiring yet?”

She went to the map table. The rough timber had been carved by many hands; rivers were gouged canyons, mountains thick notches, the North a land of scars. Her finger traced the Spine’s line, then drifted, pausing over a small, almost-forgotten mark in the sea: Bear Island. Torren felt his shoulders tighten. He remembered her in the godswood speaking of stones and silence and what the old gods showed a man what he wanted, what he feared. He had asked her a question and she had not answered. She stood now like a riddle that refused to be solved.

“I had hoped to see the Wall again when my husband arrives in the North,” she said. “I hope you will welcome us once more.”

Burley shifted his weight. “We’d be honored to have the king and queen, Your Grace, but—”

“I will not linger,” she said, gently cutting him off. “I do not come to take up space or command.” She glanced at the dying fire as if to measure its last coals. “I am leaving,” she added, and Torren felt the floor tilt again, “and not for the South. Not yet.”

The commander’s brows rose. “The Wall still stands, Your Grace. What cause have you to leave its shelter tonight?”

“I have a short detour to make,” she said. Her finger still rested above the little mark in the sea. The clockwork in Torren’s chest ratcheted tighter.

“Where to?” he asked, trying and failing to keep his voice even.

“Bear Island.”

Even Weymar stepped forward, eyes bright with a dozen boyhood tales. Torren said nothing, though his mind leapt to old stories, to his father’s rare talk of Mormonts of his other half of the family…And of his mother.

“Why?” Torren asked at last.

Alysanne turned her face toward the hearth, as if the coals might prophesy. “To pay a visit,” she said. 

Weymar flicked a glance at Torren, baffled and delighted by turns, as if the queen had invited them both to a feast. Torren’s jaw locked. He had no feast in him.

“Even your dragon will struggle with the winds this far north,” he said. “The ice is worse near the coasts.”

“Silverwing has weathered worse,” she answered, and when she said the dragon’s name it did something soft to her mouth that Torren wished he hadn’t noticed. “And I will not be long.”

She looked at him then. Really looked. It felt like the first time since the godswood. He wanted to stare back and did not trust himself. The map, the firelight, Weymar’s breath; the room shrank to the space between her eyes and the words she would say next.

“You will remain behind,” she said. “You and Weymar both.”

Weymar made a small, wounded sound. “But—”

“No,” she said, and her voice, while gentle, held the edge of command that could turn a room. “This is not your path.”

She moved past Torren and her hand brushed his shoulder. It was nothing a queen’s courtesy, a ghost of touch but it set his skin alight and made him hate himself in the same heartbeat. She walked to the door and paused. “I shall return to Last Hearth,” she said, the words landing like stones, “and I expect you both to be there.”

Weymar stood very still, as if sudden movement might break the moment. Torren inclined his head. “Of course, Your Grace.”

She left. Jonquil and Roxton flowed around her, soft-booted, and the door closed with a whisper.

The room breathed again.

Burley exhaled a sound that might have been a chuckle or a prayer. “She carries her own weather,” he said.

Torren did not answer. He stared at the map where her finger had rested. There was a smear there he could not name: oil, perhaps, or the faintest damp from the snow that had melted from her hair. Weymar drifted to the table as if pulled and bent over Bear Island, lips moving with unspoken questions.

“Do not ask to go,” Torren said, quietly.

Weymar’s head snapped up. “I didn’t.”

“You were about to.”

“I only—” He flushed. “She shouldn’t fly alone.”

“She never is,” Burley said, half to himself. “Not with that beast under her and whatever gods watch queens.”

“If gods watched queens,” Torren said, “they’d have stopped half the wars we remember.”

Burley’s cragged stare flicked from one boy to the other. “The Night’s Watch will see her off. We’ll watch the sky till she’s back. You two will eat, sleep, and will make sure you leave with ease.” The old man’s gaze lingered on Torren a heartbeat longer than it should have, and Torren wondered what the commander had heard in the night, what rumors ran through his black-cloaked men about sons of Winterfell and the Queen.

He escaped into the corridor more quickly than was polite. The Nightfort’s drafts pulled at his cloak; snow freckled his hair. He walked until his breath slowed and the ache in his chest became a steady throb instead of a blade. He found himself in the gallery above the yard. Below, the light had thinned to that late winter yellow that made men squint and call it day. Black brothers moved like smudges across the white.

Weymar found him again as dusk crept in, his boots skidding on the stone. “She asked after the wind,” he reported breathlessly, exactly as if Torren had asked. “And for a horn on the south tower when she clears the western ridge. Gared says the horn will wake the dead.”

“The dead here do not need horns,” Torren said.

Weymar fell silent, chastened for a heartbeat, then rallied. “She promised to bring something back,” he said. “From Bear Island. She wouldn’t say what.”

“A story,” Torren said. “Queens always bring back stories. They cost less than grain.”

“Torren,” Weymar said, exasperated, “you don’t have to make every kindness into a riddle. She’s—”

“—the Queen,” Torren finished. His voice came out too sharp; he tasted iron and realized he’d bitten his tongue. “Go sleep. If she flies by first light, she’ll be gone before you can tie your laces.”

Weymar looked at him as if he might say more, then shook his head and went. Torren gripped the rail and watched his brother’s small figure cross the yard—a dark stitch in a white cloth—and vanish into the keep’s mouth.

He stayed until his fingers numbed. The ache in his chest had weight now; he could set it on a table and name its contents: Mother; Father; Queen; Boyhood; Duty; Things Not Spoken. He wished he could tip it into the snow and let the cold hollow him clean.

A bell sounded from the south tower—not the alarm, only the call for evening bread. The sound rolled along the stone, woke crows from their perches; wings rustled up the flanks of the keep. One bird larger than the rest lit on the rail not three paces from Torren, cocked its head, and stared. Its eyes looked black at first, then caught a glint of red from the last sliver of light and gleamed like a coal. It opened its beak and made a sound that was not quite a caw, not quite a word.

“Go,” Torren told it, low.

It went, as if it had only been waiting to be told.

Night thickened. Torren returned to the Lord Commander’s chamber as men came and went, signing off on lists he barely saw. Salt, oil, nails, oats. Pitch for torches. Men with enough fingers to hold them. Burley set seals, nodded, told jokes a man could only tell after thirty winters, and each one landed like a hand on a shoulder. Torren envied how easily the old man could keep his feet on the ground.

Then she returned.

No escort this time. No guards at her back. She stepped in as if she belonged to the room more than any man in it. The fire had sunk to coals; they painted her face with a low, fierce glow. Jonquil and Roxton waited at the door like shadows that had learned to hold swords.

“Is the horn set?” she asked.

“It is,” Burley said.

“Is the yard cleared?”

“Cleared,” Torren said, before he could stop himself.

She acknowledged him with the smallest tilt of her head, as if to avoid giving him more than he could carry. He found himself grateful and angry in the same breath.

“I’ll leave at first light,” she said. “If the winds turn, I’ll wait. If they don’t, I’ll be off the ridge before the horn’s echo dies.”

“You should wait for better weather,” Torren said, hating the way the words sounded like a plea.

“The North waits for weather,” she said, and there was humor in it, but no softness. “Queens are not so lucky.”

Weymar had slipped in beside her without Torren noticing. He hovered close, almost close enough that his sleeve brushed hers, eyes fixed on her face as if the shape of her mouth when she said certain words were a story he could learn by rote. Torren’s stomach went tight. He told himself it was fear for his brother. It was not only that.

“Will you… will you fly low?” Weymar asked. “So I can see?”

“If Silverwing permits,” she said, smiling down at him in a way that warmed and chilled Torren at once.

He could not hold the heat in his chest. He could barely keep his eyes on her face. He felt foolish too old to be a boy, too young to be a man—and hated both states equally. He drew his cloak closer and focused on the table, on Bear Island’s little mark, on the Spine he could trace with his knuckles and not feel.

Burley cleared his throat. “We’ll have men on the walls with eyes to the west. If you’re downed—”

“I won’t be,” she said. Then, softer: “But thank you.”

Silence after that, a comfortable one for everyone but Torren. The Queen seemed to listen to something no one else could hear: the weather outside the stones; the dragon’s slow breath in the yard; the long, old memory of the Nightfort itself.

At last she turned to go. “My thanks for your patience, Lord Commander.”

Burley gave a small bow that meant more than a deep one. “The Wall is less lonely with you at it, Your Grace. Try not to let that go to your head.”

“I try,” she said. Her eyes found Torren again, and this time he held them. “Last Hearth,” she reminded, as if she feared words might be forgotten when set down in snow.

He nodded. His throat had gone too tight for anything else. When she left, it seemed a size smaller and a season colder.

He left the commander with his ledgers and stepped out into the corridor. The Nightfort’s belly hummed with the small sounds of evening: spoons on bowls; the scrape of chairs; a laugh cut short by a man remembering where he was. Torren walked until he found himself outside his chamber knowing Weymar to be on the other side he walked finding Weymar sat on his mattress with his boots half-unlaced, staring at nothing, jaw set hard enough to crack a tooth.

“Wey,” Torren said, shrugging out of his cloak. “You should be asleep. There’s work at first light.”

Weymar’s hands didn’t move. “You think I don’t know there’s work?” His voice was too steady for the wet in his eyes. “You think I don’t know anything.”

Torren stilled. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you mean every time you look at me,” Weymar whispered. “Like I’m a child who’ll break the first time the cold touches him. Like I’m… less Stark.”

Torren felt the old reflex rise, the lessened voice, the correction. He swallowed it. “Wey.”

“Stop calling me that like I’m five!” Weymar’s breath hitched; he scrubbed his sleeve across his face, angry at the tear it couldn’t catch. “You hate me for it.”

“For what?” The words came out sharper than he’d intended.

“For not remembering mother,” Weymar said, the boy's eyes were watering up and the room changed shape around the words. “For being happy sometimes. For laughing. For… for liking when the queen smiles at me like I matter. You look at me like I’m spitting on Mother’s grave every time I—” He broke off, shoulders bowing as if the air itself had weight.

Torren stood very still. The fire popped, throwing a small spark that died before it found the floor.

“I was little when mother died!” Weymar’s voice thinned to a thread. “I don’t remember how she smelled. I don’t remember the sound of her voice. I try and all I get is…Nothing and the way Father wouldn’t eat. You talk to me like I’m supposed to carry some… some sorrow I never got to hold. And when the queen when she-when she talks to me softly, like I’m worth something… it feels like… I don’t know.” He shut his eyes. “I don’t know if it’s wrong. I don’t know if it’s right. I only know she cares for me like mother would have.”

Torren’s throat closed. He took a step, then another, until he was close enough to see the scatter of snowmelt dried in Weymar’s curls.

“I don’t hate you,” he said, and heard how late the words were. “Gods, Wey, I don’t. I’ve been… holding the house together in my head so hard I forgot there were people in it.”

Weymar huffed a laugh that wasn’t one. “You forget I’m your brother.”

Torren reached a hand and set it, awkwardly, to Weymar’s shoulder. “I forget you were a younger boy who lost his mother and didn’t get to keep even the shape of her. That isn’t your fault. It’s mine, if it’s anyone’s.”

For a heartbeat Weymar leaned into the touch like a tired colt. Then he flinched, as if the kindness burned. “Don’t be gentle now because you want me to stop.” He pulled away, small and fierce. “You can’t tell me who to love.”

“I’m not,” Torren said, quietly. “I-I…Weymar I’m sorry. I promise to be better for you. You are my brother, my blood.”

Weymar shook his head hard, as if to fling the words off. “You can keep your apologies.”

He curled away from Torren on the bed, dragging the furs up to his ears the way he had when he was little and thunder frightened him. His shoulders shook. The sound he made wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It cut straighter than any blade.

Torren stood there, useless hands hanging at his sides. He wanted to say a hundred things about their mother’s laugh in the solar, about the way she had looked at the weirwood, about the cold that made men brittle and the love that made them break. None of it would help.

He bent instead and set another log on the coals. The flame caught slow, like a promise that disliked being spoken.

The first light came late, slow and reluctant, bleeding into the sky behind a veil of pale cloud. The yard was already awake, men of the Watch moving like dark shapes in the snow, their breath pluming white as they tightened straps, checked buckles, and cleared the last drifts from the gate. Silverwing stood beyond them, her wings folded close, frost steaming from her scaled flanks. She shifted now and then, the great chain of muscle along her neck rippling under silver hide, each exhale curling into the air like smoke from some ancient forge.

Torren descended from the wall walk, his boots whispering against stone, until he reached the flagstones of the inner yard. He told himself he had only come to see the dragon take flight, any man would but that lie felt thin even in his own mind. The cold here was sharp enough to bite, but not sharp enough to numb the knot in his chest.

She was there, near the beast’s shoulder, fastening the last clasp of her glove. The black-and-sable cloak hung loose about her, fur-lined, heavy, but she moved as if she wore silk in a summer hall. When the clasp held, she looked up and saw him. For a moment he thought she might mount at once, but instead she stepped away from the dragon and toward him, her boots making barely a sound on the snow-packed ground.

She walked like a mother might steady, assured, as if she had crossed the yard a thousand times to soothe a child’s hurt. When she reached him, she did not speak at first. One of her gloved hands took his bare one, the warmth of it startling in the cold. Her other rose to cup his cheek. The leather was soft against his skin, but beneath it was the press of her palm, firm and deliberate.

She smiled then not the courtly smile of a queen receiving envoys, but something quieter, warmer. “What I do now,” she said, her voice low so that no one else in the yard might hear, “I do to honor your family. To honor your father.”

The words settled in him like a stone dropped into still water, the ripples moving outward through every memory he had of her. Before he could answer, she leaned in and kissed his brow. The gesture was not hurried. It was the kind of kiss a mother might give a son before a long road, a promise folded into a touch.

she spoke; her voice was low, for him alone. “Alaric has a place in my heart closer than I ever thought possible,” she murmured. “And the same is true for his children… I know what you’ve lost, Torren, please know I am not here to replace her. I promise you that. Still—” she gave the faintest smile “—I am here as a mother now, if ever you, Alarra or Weymar should need one.”

Then her arms came around him. He felt the strength in them, surprising for her frame, and for a moment he was too shaken to move. His face moved down to her body he buried his face in her cloak. The scent of her cloak smoke from the hearth, faint winter roses, a trace of dragon, filled his lungs. Something in him loosened, and before he could think better of it, his own arms went around her in return. He held her as if she might vanish when the horn blew.

When she drew back, her hand lingered on his shoulder, thumb brushing lightly over the wool of his cloak. Her eyes held his with a tenderness that was both proud and wistful.

“You have the eyes of your father. I trust you, Torren… more than you know. You’ve already made me proud, and you’ll make me prouder still. You carry his strength... Never forget that. I love you.”

She moved her hand to his cheek and brushed a tear that had escaped his eye. He didn't even realize he cried. The horn sounded then, deep and long, echoing off the stones. She turned toward Silverwing without looking back, and in a moment was climbing the great silver flank, her cloak streaming behind her like a banner. The dragon’s wings unfurled, the air cracking with the force of them, and in another breath they were aloft snow and wind swirling in their wake, the sky swallowing them as they climbed toward the pale, clouded east.

Torren stood there long after she had vanished from sight, the ghost of her hand’s warmth still pressed against his cheek. 

Chapter Text

The sky was still black when she left.

Only the faintest bruising of violet touched the horizon as Silverwing climbed into the air, wings beating the dawn from the stars. Below, the frost-hardened pines and jagged slopes of the North blurred into shadow and stone. Snowflakes danced on the wind, scattered like bone dust in the wake of the great beast’s wings.

Alysanne sat high in the saddle, her silver-blonde hair braided beneath her hood, her black cloak rippling like smoke behind her. She did not shiver. The cold was nothing new to her. Neither was the fear. She had long ago made peace with both.

Below her, the North unfurled in silence, the ridged backs of mountains, the winding white scars of frozen rivers, the scattered ruins of keeps whose names no tongues remembered. The Wall had been behind her an hour now, a pale blue shimmer vanishing into mist. Ahead, the sea glistened like obsidian glass, sharp with morning frost.

Bear Island was rising from that sea like an ancient stone cast by the gods. It was a much larger island than she suspected. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the cold wind sting her cheeks.

A tangled, brooding wilderness wrapped in mist and rain. As she descended, the details sharpened: old gnarled oaks bent by centuries of wind, towering pines with trunks wide as siege towers, thornbushes flowering in defiance of the salt air. Moss blanketed great slabs of grey stone, their surfaces cracked and furred with lichen. Hills rose steep and sudden, cut with streams that foamed as they rushed to meet the sea.

Below, nestled between the forests and the tide, was the port.

It was a modest thing: a half-moon harbor built of solid oak, no stone, no iron. A few ships swayed in the water, mostly longships with carved wooden prows, their sails furled. The port’s wooden walkways were slick with morning mist. Beside it stood several longhalls, roofs thatched with straw and timber, smoke already curling from their chimneys.

Alysanne guided Silverwing in a wide spiral above the island’s eastern edge, where a high ridge overlooked a green vale knotted with roots and fog. Nestled among the hills, nearly invisible beneath the trees, was the longhouse wooden, ancient, covered in creeping ivy and weathered carvings of bears and runes. Smoke rose from its squat chimney. Ravens perched along the roof’s spine.

Silverwing circled once more, then descended in a slow, silent glide.

When the dragon’s feet struck the mossy clearing outside the longhouse, the sound was muffled more like thunder heard through snow than stone on earth. Alysanne dismounted in a single graceful motion, her black boots sinking into soft ground. She stood still a moment, hand resting on Silverwing’s warm scales. The beast shifted slightly, curling one wing closer to her body but keeping her long neck arched, eyes scanning the land.

Silverwing rumbled behind her but did not follow. The beast settled into the clearing, folding its wings, steam rising from its nostrils. 

The queen waited. She figured she must be the first dragon rider to land on the island and most likely the first Targaryen to ever come here too. From the looks of it she might be the only one to ever come.

The mist clung low to the forest’s edge. Then came the sound of hooves steady and strong, muffled by moss and dirt. Several riders emerged from the trees, their black leather armor slick with dew and marked with the sigil of a bear on both shoulders, stitched in dark brown thread. Each man was thick with beard and muscle, their faces weathered by sea wind and northern cold.

Among them were women in armor, their braids wrapped tightly around their heads, faces grim and ready. Some bore axes at their hips, others short curved swords. Their expressions shifted slightly as they saw the queen, but none faltered in their approach.

The lead rider, a man of broad shoulders, braided black beard threaded with brown, rode to the front and dismounted. He stepped forward and dropped to one knee in the cold grass, eyes never leaving hers.

“We were not expecting you,” he said in a voice rough as a tree bark. “A raven from the Wall just arrived at dawn.”

Alysanne smiled softly, a rare warmth in the morning chill.

“I could not wait for a raven’s wings,” she replied. “I had my own.”

He looked up at her and nodded once, rising to his feet. “Lord Mormont is not here. He’s hunting in the northern hills. But I am the castellan Rowlen, her castellan in his absence. We welcome you to Bear Island, Your Grace.”

“I thank you, Rowlen,” she said. Her voice was calm, regal but there was an undertone to it, a quiet thread of something frayed beneath the silk. “You may call me Alysanne. I come not as a queen.”

Rowlen hesitated a beat, then bowed his head. “As you wish… Lady Alysanne.”

He turned, gesturing to the others. “Bring water for the dragon. Smoked fish from the storehouse. For her while I’m gone if you may.”

They rode through the small town, a scattering of timber and stone houses built to withstand storms and siege. The people paused in their work and their quiet morning tasks, eyes wide with wonder and cautious awe at the sight of the queen herself riding through their midst on a dragon.

Children peered from behind wooden posts. The women stared with a mixture of curiosity and caution. The men’s faces hardened with silent questions, who was this woman who came from the Wall and rode a beast of legend? The riders guided Alysanne up a long, winding hill, the forest giving way to a clearing where the great stronghold of House Mormont rose like a fortress carved from the living wood itself. 

Mormont Keep stood resolute and grim, its wood-walled battlements blending with the surrounding forest, as if grown rather than built. Smoke curled from the great stone chimney of the smoky keep, its timbers blackened by countless winters.

The hall was massive, made from huge, rough-hewn logs that bore the scars of axe and time. Surrounding the keep was an earthen palisade, thick and sloping, fortified with sharpened stakes that whispered of centuries of defense against the wild north. Over the gate hung a carving so bold it seemed to pulse with life. The figure of a woman cloaked in a bearskin, fierce and unyielding. In one arm, she cradled a babe suckling at her breast; in the other, she held a battleaxe raised high, a symbol of both nurture and destruction.

Alysanne dismounted again and was led into the hall. The scent of burning pine and iron filled the air. Faces turned as she entered, rough men and women, hardened. Their eyes flicked to the sigil on her cloak, to the dragon that waited silently outside beyond the hills

The hall’s hearth blazed, casting flickering shadows on the carved wooden walls, where weapons hung alongside ancient banners faded with age.

Alysanne stood quietly, feeling the weight of the room’s history settle on her shoulders. This was a place of strength, survival, and honor, far from the polished courts and whispered intrigues she knew.

A woman stepped inside, her fur-lined cloak dusted with frost, her leather boots marked by days of travel. She was tall for a woman, built with the sinewed strength of the North, and her long brown hair, braided with carved bone and iron rings, spilled over her shoulders in warrior fashion. Her face bore the windburn of hard riding, and her eyes clear, bright green flashed with surprise as they fell upon the silver-haired queen seated beneath the Bear Hall’s banners.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice edged with disbelief. “I—”

She bowed swiftly, almost too quickly, and straightened with an apologetic breath. “Forgive me. I have only just returned from Winterfell. As I rode through the woods, I saw the dragon—” her eyes flicked to the doorway behind the queen, where she assumed the dragon loomed through the woods.  “and I feared… Well, I didn’t know what I feared.”

Deranna Mormont, Lady of Bear Island, crossed the hall with long strides, her gloved hands unfastening her cloak as she moved. Beneath it she wore a simple tunic of dark wool, belted with braided leather, and a blade sat comfortably at her hip.

Alysanne smiles soft but measured. The firelight danced in her silver-blonde hair as she inclined her head. “I come in peace, Lady Deranna,” she said. “And only for a short while. But I am glad to see it is you who rules here.”

Deranna gave a half-laugh, shaking her head. “Ha my uncle is lord but he listens to me, Your Grace. We are only bears.”

The gathered warriors chuckled quietly at that, but the moment soon settled into stillness once more. She saw the ring of warriors around Deranna were women, their beauty the northern kind: scarred, unadorned, with the quiet grace of those who learned to fight before they learned to curtsey. The hearth crackled, the logs spitting sap and smoke into the warm air. Deranna stepped closer, studying Alysanne’s face with the kind of intensity only the North knew no ceremony, no flattery.

“Why have you come?” she asked. “Truly.”

Alysanne's smile faded, though not from offense. She met Deranna’s gaze evenly.

“To speak with you,” she said.

The sea wind pulled at their cloaks as the two women walked the long wooden walkway that stretched above the western cliffs. The sun had begun its slow climb over the horizon, spilling pale gold across the dark waves of the Sunset Sea. The air smelled of brine and pine sap, and the waves crashed below with a slow, relentless rhythm, like the heartbeat of some ancient god slumbering beneath the deep.

Gulls cried above them, wheeling through the cold air, and far off on the water’s edge, a pod of pale seals sunned themselves on black stones slick with kelp.

Alysanne walked beside Deranna in silence, her gaze lost in the endless sea. The walkway creaked gently under their boots, the wood old but strong, worn smooth by generations of Mormonts who had walked this path before them.

At length, Deranna broke the silence.

“You’ve come this far. Are my nephews and niece okay? Please tell them nothing happened to them.”

Alysanne did not answer at first. The wind caught her hair, lifting strands of silver into the sunlight. Her eyes remained on the sea, distant and thoughtful. “No,” she said quietly. “The boys are strong and the girl…She is loyal.”

Deranna smiled softly showing her gap tooth. “Their mothers blood runs through their veins.”

Alysanne turned to face her, the sea wind drawing a flush to her pale cheeks. “I wish to visit the grave of Lorenah Mormont. With your permission.”

Deranna stopped walking. Her breath caught in her throat, a soft, choked sound. Her hand came to rest at her chest, her leather glove pressed tight above her heart.

Alysanne’s eyes softened. “She was Alaric Stark’s wife. The only one, some say, who could calm the wolf. The children speak little but what stories they share…Lorenah was fierce, unbowed, and yet… she died too soon. And was buried far from home. Quietly. Almost as if the North wanted to forget.”

“My sister was the biggest pain in my arse.” Deranna’s lips trembled, and for a moment she said nothing. The wind howled around them like a mourning woman. Then she nodded slowly. She looked toward the woods. “Alaric…He visits her once a year. To bring her a winter rose. They were her favorite…I was going to deliver one if you’d like…”

“I would be honored to walk with you,” said Alysanne.

She turned back toward the keep, only briefly, and returned minutes later with a single winter rose blue as the coldest sky, its petals edged in frost, yet somehow blooming in the heart of Bear Island. She cradled it carefully in her gloved hands, then rejoined the queen.

“This way,” she said.

They left the wooden walkway behind and descended into the thick woods. The trees here grew close and old, roots twisted and rising from the earth like gnarled hands. Moss covered everything: branches, stone, even fallen trunks and the air was damp with memory. Birds chirped quietly, warily, and a fox darted across their path and disappeared into the brush.

They walked for half a mile in silence. The path was narrow, overgrown, winding between tall thornbushes and low, snow-kissed pines. It felt as though the world had forgotten this trail and yet, the way was still there, stubborn and sure, like the island’s people.

Then, the woods parted.

They emerged onto a hill that rose gently from the trees, a rounded crest crowned in soft grass and wind-blown wildflowers. The view opened like a secret song rolling sea to the west, the dark forest behind, and the sky endless above. Alysanne caught her breath.

It was beautiful. A place hidden from the world. A place of peace.

“She loved it here,” Deranna said, her voice barely louder than the breeze. “When she returned from Winterfell…Her last time… she asked to be buried here. No crypt. No stone hall. Just the wind and sky.”

Alysanne stepped forward, her boots pressing softly into the grass. In the center of the hill stood a lone grave. There was no great monument, just a smooth gray stone, carved with care, nestled among wildflowers and trailing ivy. On it, in small Northron runes, was etched:

Lorenah Mormont
Daughter of Bears, Mother of Wolves, Warrior.

Neither woman spoke for some time. The wind moved through the grass, soft and steady. The sea beyond whispered its endless song, and overhead, clouds drifted slow and silver against the sky.

Deranna wiping her hands on her woolen skirts, her jaw tightening. “He tried to deny it,” she said bitterly. “Did they tell you that?”

Alysanne’s silver brows rose. “No,” she answered. “What happened?”

Deranna's face darkened. She crossed her arms and stared out over the tree line, where the shimmering horizon of the Sunset Sea met the sky.

“He didn’t want her buried here,” she said flatly. “When she died giving…I sent a raven offering her place beneath the pines, where all Mormont women of blood are laid. But Alaric refused. Said she belonged in the crypts beneath Winterfell. Said she was his wife now, a Stark.”

Alysanne was quiet for a time, letting the wind speak in the silence between them. “And yet, here she lies.”

Deranna nodded once, her eyes like burning emeralds. “Because I sailed to Winterfell with one hundred Bear Islanders. I stood at his gate and told him I’d tear the gate down and kill him myself then drag her bones home across the snow…After a week he relented.”

There was fury in her voice, but grief too, tangled deep like roots. The kind of grief that never truly fades, only changes shape with time.

“You hate him for it,” Alysanne said.

“Hate him? Your grace I-”  Deranna hesitated, then turned back to the grave, kneeling again to adjust the grave. “I hate what he took,” she whispered. “I hate that he stole her from us. She was a bear. Proud, headstrong, a true daughter of Bear Island.”

Alysanne stood beside her, brushing her fingers over the worn carving of Lorenah’s name. “Tell me about her.”

Deranna’s breath caught in her throat, but she nodded slowly, her voice low and faraway. “She was always the wild one. Would climb trees taller than the hall, swim through ice-choked streams just to prove she could….But when the Starks came to Bear Island…Alaric among them, something changed. She was only two and ten. A child still, really. But the moment she saw him…”

Her lips curled bitterly, fondness and resentment dancing in equal measure. “She fell like a boulder off a cliff. Went quiet when he spoke. She even wore dresses, which she hated just to try to look the part. One morning, she told me she’d cut down the tallest pine in the north if that would prove she could bear him strong children.”

Alysanne smiled faintly, imagining the girl bold, stubborn, willing to cleave a mountain in half for love.

“She was sure of him,” Deranna continued, her voice beginning to tremble. “She swore he saw her for who she really was…”

“She must have truly loved him.” Alysanne said.

“She did.” Deranna’s fists clenched. “And she bore him three children. And then she died trying to bring the fourth into the world. And I don’t even know whether the babe was named or it’s gender..”

The words hung in the air like iron weights. The wind howled faintly in the distance, stirring the branches overhead. Alysanne never knew Alaric had another child? Was that the dream or vision at the Wall telling her? 

“She should have lived,” Deranna said at last. “Should have watched her daughter learn to fight, should have taught Weymar to hunt in these woods. But instead…” Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard. “Instead, all I have left is nothing.”

Alysanne placed a hand over hers, cool and steady. “You did right by her. Bringing her home.”

Deranna nodded, tears brimming but unspilled. “If the gods are good, she is with her child…”

They stood there a while, just the two of them, the queen and the she-bear, beside the grave of a girl who loved too fiercely and died too young.

Eventually, Deranna wiped her eyes and gave a short, shaky laugh. “I’m sorry. I don’t often let it spill out like that.”

“You’re allowed,” Alysanne said gently. “She was your sister.”

Deranna glared at her sister's grave longer. “And now her blood lives on in her children who’ve never seen these trees. Only once did they come…Alaric never allows them to come here.”

Alysanne’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Deranna’s shoulders stiffened. “Said it would confuse them. Said they were Stark children, not Mormonts. But they are half of her. That’s a truth no man can burn away.”

“I will speak to him and figure out something, maybe Torren could spend a year here.” Alysanne answered.

Deranna looked up at her, a spark of hope flickering through the weariness. “I…Thank you.” she said. 

Alysanne approached it slowly, the earth soft beneath her leather boots. She turned to Deranna, her voice quiet with reverence. “May I place it down?” she asked, looking at Deranna holding the pale blue winter rose in her gloved hand.

Deranna gave a stiff nod, her green eyes already glassy with restrained emotion. “Of course. She would be honored a Targaryen placed a rose on her.”

Alysanne knelt before the weather-worn stone, brushing her fingers across the engraved letters. She swallowed, throat tight. “Lorenah…” Alysanne whispered, voice trembling. “Your children are brave. Strong. Fierce. I have seen it in Torren’s eyes. In Weymar’s will. Even in your daughter’s acts. She guards her heart the way warriors guard a gate. You would be proud of them.”

A breeze rolled over the hill, lifting the queen’s silver-blonde hair.

“I promise I will watch over them,” she added, barely above a breath, as she laid the winter rose gently at the base of the stone. “You have my word. I will not fail them.”

She lingered on her knees, fingers resting on the stone’s edge as though it were a hand to be held. But her heart began to tighten, the air grew heavy around her, and a shame too great for her soul to bear began to rise like a tide within her.

She stood, slowly. Her hands fell to her sides, trembling.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she said suddenly, eyes cast to the soil. “Not like this.”

Deranna turned toward her, her expression creased with confusion. “What do you speak?”

“I… I feel her here.” Alysanne blinked hard, willing her tears not to fall. “And the guilt is worse than I imagined.”

“Guilt?” Deranna asked, voice laced with the edge of something sharper. “Your grace? Are you speaking in some Southern riddles?”

The Queen stared at the grave for a long moment before answering her face and slowly looked up to meet with Deranna's eyes.

“I love him,” she said.

It was barely more than a whisper, but it struck like thunder between them.

“I love Alaric Stark.”

“Yo-You?” Deranna stared at her as if Alysanne had grown a second head. Her lips parted, but no words came. The sea wind stirred the edges of her dark green cloak, tangling her hair with the strands of black wool. Her mouth trembled. “That’s my late sister’s widow you speak of,” she said at last, her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and fury. “And you… you’re already—”

“I know,” Alysanne said quickly, shame rushing to meet her words. “I know. And I hate it. Gods, I hate this feeling inside of me. It’s wrong. I know it’s wrong.” Alysanne said softly, sparing her the word. Her voice cracked just barely, a fine line of pain beneath her usual serenity.

Deranna turned her face away, jaw clenched, her nostrils flaring. She paced a step down the slope, breathing sharp and fast. “Is that why you came here?” she hissed, eyes burning. “To stand at her grave and ask for her blessing? Is that what this is?” She wheeled on Alysanne. “A queen’s privilege? To take what she had…on her grave!?”

Alysanne stepped back not from fear, but out of respect. Her hands were calm, folded at her front, and her silver-blonde hair lifted gently in the breeze. She did not flinch at Deranna’s accusation, only looked at her with a quiet sadness.

“No,” she said. “That is not why I came.”

Deranna’s mouth tightened. “Then why?”

“I wanted to see the other side of him,” Alysanne answered. “The side your sister loved. The man she followed to the mainland for duty and devotion. I wanted to understand what she saw in him… before I let myself feel more than I should.”

The wind rattled through the tall pines, brushing the hilltop with the scent of salt and sap. The grave stood between them simple, strong, enduring just like the woman buried beneath it. Alysanne looked down again and brushed her fingers once more over her hand.

“She was brave,” Alysanne whispered. “I never knew her, but I think I would have liked her.”

Deranna turned, arms crossed, biting her bottom lip. She hated how sincere the queen sounded. She hated how she couldn’t stop the warmth of grief from turning to understanding. And most of all, she hated how lonely this hill felt when standing beside someone who understood.

“She was everything to me,” Deranna said at last, her voice brittle. “When our mother died, Lorenah became the spear and the shield. She taught me to hunt, to fight, to endure. But when Alaric came with his cold Northern charm and Stark name, she…” Deranna’s breath caught. “She smiled like a girl again. I’d never seen her look at anyone that way.”

“I know that look, I’ve seen it on Alarra's face.” Alysanne said.

Deranna glared. “Don’t.”

“I’m not trying to replace her.”

“No? But you want what she had.”

Alysanne hesitated. “I… don’t know. I only know that I respect her. And if she were here, I’d want her to know that I came not to steal, but to understand. That’s why I laid the rose. I respect her.”

Deranna looked down at the white winter rose, resting upon the grave like a drop of snow. “I brought it for her,” she murmured. “I always do. Every year. And now…”

“And now we share the memory,” Alysanne said gently.

The silence that followed was long and heavy, broken only by the breeze and the distant call of gulls down at the coast. Finally, Deranna exhaled, her shoulders slumping. She stepped forward and knelt beside her sister’s grave. Her fingers touched the cold stone, tracing the lines of Lorenah’s name with tenderness.

“She would’ve teased me,” Deranna said. “She’d say I was being too proud. That I can’t hold on to the past like a bear clutches its last salmon.”

Alysanne offered a small smile. “She sounds wise.”

“Fuck off. She was loud, stubborn, and had fists like hammers. But yes… wise too.”

A moment passed, and Deranna stood, brushing the earth from her palms. She didn’t look at Alysanne as she said, “You should go. The sun’s getting higher, and Bear Island doesn’t stay warm long.”

Alysanne nodded. “Thank you for allowing me. I’ll never forget it.”

Deranna finally looked at her again. “You hurt her memory, I’ll kill you myself. Queen or not. Dragon or not.”

“I half-believe the North could have beaten Aegon, three dragons at his back.” Alysanne said, and with that, she turned back toward the forest trail.

They walked in silence, side by side beneath the green canopy of the woods, the golden light of early morning catching in the mist. The air smelled of moss and pine and something older, something forgotten.

As they emerged from the trees, Alysanne paused once more and glanced over her shoulder, to where the grave stood hidden among the ferns and flowers. Peaceful. Eternal.

“I shall return to Last Hearth,” she said quietly, as if to the wind. “And I expect them both to be there.”

Deranna nodded once. “Torren and Weymar?”

Alysanne’s lips parted, ready to speak the words that had been pressing in her chest since the truth had been revealed. "Yes. Deranna, I—"

But Deranna Mormont interrupted her gently, her voice calm but firm as steel. “No, Your Grace. Let me be the one to bind it.”

She reached to her belt and drew a plain dagger, the kind carried by every Mormont woman as easily as breathing. Without hesitation, she turned the blade in her palm and pressed it across her flesh. A thin line of red welled up instantly, the blood dripping to the earth beneath their feet.

“I swear it,” Deranna said, her eyes never leaving the Queen’s. “I swear to you. By the Old Gods and the New, you have my word. What you have spoken today will never leave Bear Island.”

The blood hissed faintly as it struck the dark soil, a pledge as old as the North itself. In that moment the weirwood branches swayed though no wind stirred, and for a heartbeat Alysanne thought she felt the weight of unseen eyes upon them.

She inclined her head, her voice softer now, almost reverent. “So sworn, and so bound. Let it never be broken.”

Deranna clenched her bleeding hand into a fist, letting the red drip freely, and whispered, “Never.”

The sun dipped low on the western edge of the sky, spilling golden light across the North as Silverwing’s wings beat steadily through the chill air. Alysanne hair streaming behind her like a banner in the wind. The day was drawing to its end, but the skies were clear, and the path ahead familiar.

The wind hissed against the leathery membrane, and Alysanne felt the dragon’s warmth beneath her legs, steady as a hearth fire even in the biting cold of the North. From her lofty vantage, she could see the smoke trails of distant hearthfires, small crofter cottages scattered like crumbs at the edge of the wild. Wolves might have prowled these woods in the deep dark, but none dared raise their heads now, not with a dragon shadow passing overhead.

As the mountains softened and the land opened wide once more, the Last Hearth emerged from the horizon an austere, ancient keep of timber and stone, its high gabled roof white with ice, black wooden walls standing grim against the pale sky. The great stairway that climbed to its front doors cut clean through the snow, flanked by twin statues of bears carved from old granite, their eyes fixed outward in mute vigilance.

Alysanne leaned forward slightly and whispered in smooth, lilting High Valyrian, her voice nearly lost to the wind:
“Sōvētēs, ñuha dārilaros. Māzī ilagon sȳrī.”
(“Steady now, my lady. Let us land gently.”)

Silverwing rumbled in acknowledgment, her massive body descending in a lazy spiral, wings folding closer with each circuit.  Until the mighty beast landed with grace. Alysanne exhaled, patting the scaled neck beside her with gloved fingers. “Good girl,” she whispered softly, her breath misting.

Then came the sound of hooves crunching ground.

A rider approached at a slow trot from the path beyond the eastern gate, the wind tugging at the furs draped across his broad shoulders. He was a giant of a man, towering even atop his massive black stallion, a monstrous beast of muscle and shadow with hooves like iron pans and a mane like a stormcloud. The rider wore a patch over his left eye, and his lone visible one gleamed a warm hazel gold.

“The dragon queen!” the man called out in a deep, thunderous voice as he drew closer. “You make the sky seem small.”

He dismounted with surprising ease for a man so massive, landing with a crunch in the late summer snow. He strode toward her, smile crinkling the corners of his scarred face.

“Queen Alysanne. Welcome to the Last Hearth.”

She descended from Silverwing with practiced grace, her boots sinking slightly into the snow. The rider bowed low as she approached, then held out a gloved hand toward a second mount—a high-nosed, powerful stallion of northern stock, its black coat shimmering like coal beneath the last rays of the sun.

“You’ll find it hard riding through these woods without something sturdy under you,” he said. “Let me help you mount, if it pleases Your Grace.”

Alysanne studied the giant for a beat longer, recognizing the warmth behind the weathered smile. “Lord Umber,” she said gently, accepting his hand, “Good to see since the feast. Hopefully your lands are in peace.”

He grinned wide. “Not for lack of trying.”

With a grunt of effort and his help, she swung into the saddle, the black stallion shifting only slightly under her weight. Behind her, Silverwing gave a low, rumbling chuff and turned her gaze toward the keep.

The ride was no longer than a few minutes when suddenly in the open near a large river. The dark silhouette of the Last Hearth came into view below stark and ancient, its wooden hall blackened by time and cold, standing sentinel in a land where winter never truly slept. Snow clung to the sloped rooftops, and the narrow stone steps leading up to the keep were half-covered in ice. Two great giants breaking chains flanked the stairway, weatherworn and proud, their heads lifted as if watching the skies for her arrival.

The heavy oak doors of the Last Hearth groaned open before her, and Queen Alysanne stepped across the threshold into a rush of warmth, light, and sound.

The great hall of House Umber was a cavernous chamber of dark timber and stone, built for endurance more than elegance. High beams crossed overhead like the ribs of a great beast, and iron braziers burned bright along the walls, casting flickering orange light across the smoke-stained rafters. Furs covered the floor, old and well-tread, while the scent of pinewood smoke mingled with roasting meat, mead, and the faint, ever-present smell of wet dog and leather that clung to northern halls in winter.

Laughter rolled like thunder down the tables long, worn slabs of wood where Umber men and women gathered in thick furs, tankards raised, voices booming. The heat from the great hearth at the far end of the hall was enough to banish the cold from her bones. There, in its glow, a massive boar turned on a spit, its skin already crisping and glistening with dripping fat.

“Your Grace!” boomed a voice like a drum.

Lord Hother Umber surged forward, all bulk and beard, wrapped in a cloak the size of a ship’s sail. His red cheeks glowed from drink and firelight, and his gray eyes twinkled with childlike joy. He dropped to one knee, snow still clinging to his boots.

“By the gods, it is you! Come, come, the hall’s been dying to see your silver head again! We’ve a feast waiting, a whole damned elk, a boar fatter than that Lord Theomore , and so much mead the floor might swim in it!”

He reached up and clapped a hand to her shoulder not roughly, but not gently either, as only a man like Hother could then spun around and bellowed loud enough to shake the beams above:

“You lot of bloody lazy bastards! I’d gut the whole stinking lot of you—rise! We’ve a queen here!”

The room fell silent for half a breath then chairs scraped back, boots thumped on the floor, and the long tables rattled as every man and woman of the hall stood as one. Mugs were raised. Heads were bowed.

“To The Queen!” A man boasted his voice booming across the hall and others followed in suit chanting “Dragon Queen!” 

All except for the corner table, where a woman with dark auburn hair and sharp, laughing eyes turned from her quiet conversation with a tall young man. She was dressed plainly by southern standards, but her long forest-green gown was finely woven and lined with white fur at the collar and cuffs.

Lady Helletta Umber.

Her lips parted in surprise, and the color rose faintly to her cheeks. Beside her stood Torren. Lady Helletta rose to her feet, graceful even in the heavy gown, her chair sliding back on the stone floor. She touched her Torren arm briefly and then approached the center of the room, her smile widening.

“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying low, “It’s so wonderful to see you once more! We feared the wind had stolen you for good.”

Alysanne smiled, soft and genuine. “Even the wind can’t hold back a dragon forever, my lady.”

Laughter rippled through the hall, and the tension broke like ice underfoot. Servants moved swiftly, bringing out fresh logs to the hearth and uncorking casks of mead. Hother made a grand gesture toward the high table, where plates of steaming meat and thick bread awaited.

“You sit at the head tonight,” he declared. “No arguments. If anyone disagrees, they can fight me for it. Outside.”

Another roar of laughter.

Lady Helletta slipped her arm through Alysanne’s as they moved toward the high table. “It’s good to have you here,” she murmured. “Torren was just speaking of you—said he missed hearing the dragon’s song.”

Alysanne glanced toward the young man—nearly grown now—a flicker of warmth and memory in her eyes. “Oh? Did he?” Her brow arched as she found Torren by the fire; he answered with a rare, quiet smile.

“Torren, where is Weymar? I thought he’d be here as well.”

Torren’s face tightened, sorrow passing so swiftly she might have missed it. “He’s… exhausted. He retired to his chamber early.”

She nodded her head but felt something was wrong. She could see it in his eyes, how his finger fidgeted under the table and how his shoulder seemed tighter. But she gave him a small smile of understanding.

The feast rolled on for hours after that, a storm of ale and oaths and great red faces shining in the firelight. House Umber praised her in a dozen booming ways, some almost courtly, most gloriously not. Of all the halls she had supped in, this was surely the loudest, and of all the men she had met, these were surely the tallest. In her eyes they were near enough to giants as the songs dared claim.

Lord Umber himself rose at one point and nearly toppled like a felled oak, slamming a fist the size of a ham upon the board. He swore he would fight the dragon with his bare hands to prove he was “the greatest fist-fighter in the world,” then lurched two steps and tumbled down the dais stair, which set off a roar that shook the rafters. Even the old hounds under the tables thumped their tails in approval.

The meal dwindled. Men rose in twos and threes, bowing and retreating into the corridors that burrowed like rabbit warrens throughout Last Hearth belly. When lady Helletta at last leaned in “You look tired, Your Grace” 

Alysanne did not argue. “Yes. I’ve flown a great deal today…I shall take my rest,” she said, standing, and the hall stood with her.

The cold narrowed in the passages, a needle slipped between stones. Alysanne climbed by torchlight, guards falling back at the threshold like shadows. The chamber they had granted her was larger than any chamber she had been granted. Its rafters smoke-black and beaded with frost, its bed piled high with clean furs that smelled of soap and snow. Somewhere deep within the keep, a patient drip kept time. She dismissed Jonquil and Ser Roxton with a smile they pretended not to see and barred the door herself.

She undressed by the ember glow, fingers stiff from the day’s cold, and slid beneath the pelts. The furs climbed to her chin when she turned onto her side. She willed her body to stillness. It did not come.

She closed her eyes and reached for warmth.

Jaehaerys came first, as he always did in these hours: not as king, not as dragon, but as husband. The known weight of him, the clean scent of parchment and cedar that clung to his hair, the slow certainty of an arm settling around her waist. Lips at her temple, then her cheek, then her mouth soft, patient, known. Comfort gathered around her like a cloak stitched by careful hands. With him, love was a room: four walls, a hearth, a table where a life could be set and kept.

Another presence followed, rougher. The rasp of a close-trimmed beard at the curve of her throat; a breath that warmed her ear before it became a word. Hands, large and work-strong, found her waist and drew her back as if she had always belonged in that space. They did not simply hold. They claimed.

Alaric's face shaped itself behind her lids with the same inevitability as winter. She ought to banish it; she had tried. Yet the memory of his gaze gray as a snow sky and lit with a challenge he did not voice clung like smoke in wool. The path of his thumb along her jaw might as well have been a road he had always known. She felt the measure of his restraint and the iron of his will in the way he waited a heartbeat, two, asking without asking, and then did not wait any longer.

In the dream they did not quarrel for space; they shared it. Jaehaerys’s mouth found the hollow beneath her ear, reverent, coaxing; Alaric’s claimed her lips with a steadiness that refused to be hurried and would not be denied. One was gentle. One demanded. Heat unfurled under her skin like thaw in spring. Fingers mapped her through linen, discovering where her breath quickened, where a shiver gathered of its own accord; another hand steadied her back, guided the arch that broke a soft sound from her throat and set the furs whispering.

She turned to Jaehaerys and tasted the vow of him; she turned back to Alaric and tasted the weather. The press of bodies, their hands clinging to her frame. The hum where longing ends and belonging begins. The cold in the stones withdrew before them, and the ghost-draft that lived in the bones was driven from its holes.

Her name in Jaehaerys’s voice was prayer and promise both; her name in Alaric’s mouth was a vow he would break his teeth before he broke in truth. They lifted her with the care of men who knew the price of carelessness; they held her with the sureness of men who carried more than their own weight. She answered with all the honesty the dark permits. Breath tangled. A smile came unbidden and would not be swallowed. Alaric moved over her yet there was never the weight of burden, only the sense of being surrounded, sheltered. His hands traced the shape of her, not in hunger but in reverence, as though each touch was a prayer said in silence. When his fingers reached her face, she melted beneath them, warmth unfurling deep within her chest.

She leaned up to catch his lips, feeling the roughness of his beard brush against her skin. That familiar rasp, that anchor to the world of flesh and breath, made her heart quicken. Her arms curled around him, drawing him closer, pulling the dream tighter so that he would not slip away. 

She was warmed through to her spine, as Jaehaery’s kisses trailed up her legs, each one a soft vow, a reverent promise whispered against her skin. Her breath caught as Alaric moved his hand down.

“Alaric” The name slipped free before she could catch them.

Her eyes flew open.

The rafters were only rafters again, black and still. The drip kept counting somewhere far below. Her breath thundered too loudly in the small room; the fur at her throat rose and fell like the surface of a troubled pool. She pressed the heel of her hand to her mouth until she could taste the leather of her glove from earlier, a ghost on her palm.

This is only a dream, she told herself, quieting the wild thing in her chest. Only a dream.

And yet she let it linger. She closed her eyes again not to summon, only to keep and saw Alaric’s brow come to hers the way a storm front leans into a mountain, the easy fit of foreheads touching; felt the soft exhale of Jaehaerys against her cheek, devotion sharpened to hunger not because it wished to devour, but because it wished to give and be given to. The imagined press of them drove the cold from the corners better than any hearth, better than any cloak.

Her thoughts, reckless as sparrows, lit on old branches. Aegon had two queens, she thought, and the realm bent itself around the weight of it. He was a dragon. Why should a dragon take half-measures? The notion flared and threw strange light: Jaehaerys’s steadiness, Alaric’s duty both of them, both theirs a balance of ice and fire.

A three-headed dragon, and she at its heart.

Chapter Text

Winterfell breathed differently without the queen. Alaric could feel it in the stones beneath his boots, in the silence of the Great Hall at dawn, in the way the servants’ voices carried sharp and quick through the empty air. The fight his argument with Alarra still clung to him like smoke in his cloak. It did not matter that the battle had ended days ago, that she still slept beneath his roof, ate from his table. He had not mended what was broken.

Alarra avoided him as only a daughter could: with precision, with cruelty that came not from intent but from hurt. She passed him in the corridors without a word, her eyes fixed firmly ahead. When he asked after her in the hall, she turned her face toward the fire. At meals, she kept to the company of her friends or her maid, answering him only with nods or shrugs.

Once, he tried to meet her where she lingered in the godswood, beneath the snow-heavy branches of the heart tree. The red eyes of the weirwood carved into the bark seemed to watch his shame.

“Alarra,” he said, his voice low, careful. “I spoke harshly. Too harshly. You deserved better of me.”

She did not turn. The wind stirred her braid against the back of her cloak, a curtain of dark brown that shielded her from him.

“I…I know when we speak it…” he added, though it choked him to admit it aloud. “Your worth is not lessened by my fears.”

At last, she turned. Her face was pale in the snowlight, her eyes rimed with a frost she would not let him melt. “When I read the Northern histories,” she said, “I always come to the same thorn: how our own blood drove the off-shoot house Greystark into rebellion. What was it truly over?”

The question pushed Alaric off guard as he thought behind his daughter's words.“They were driven by ambition leading to the Greystark Rebellion,” he answered, buying himself a heartbeat. “Rickon Greystark a bastard, and lord in all but name rose in open defiance. Pressured by his allies from the Boltons that the rights of Winterfell were in claim of Greystarks, and the crown.”

“Yes.” She did not blink. “The singer sing “The Ballad of the Grey Wolf’s.” A war in the middle of a long three years of winter it dragged on, until House Greystark was driven to extinction at the battle of White Knife. If the maesters are to be believed. Yet others write it was love that set it burning, not right. Love for the king’s firstborn, Princess Larra Stark.”

“Alarra, I—”

“If you don’t mind, Father,” she said, the title clipped and careful, “Maester Edric set me to learn more of that time.” Her chin lifted a fraction. “I wish to learn more about this “Blue Rose of Winter” Princess. ”

He opened his mouth, but the words came slow and brittle as ice. Anything he said would sound like softening. Or worse, fear. He had no answer that did not sound like weakness. She shook her head once, small and sharp, then turned away and left him standing before the heart tree and its red eyes.

The days stretched long. Alaric took his meals in half-silence, the scrape of knives and spoons more present than the conversation he longed for. He rode the yards with the men, inspected the stores, took count of the winter cellars, spoke with his steward of supplies and with his captains of drills. The rhythm of Winterfell went on as it always had, but something within the keep ached hollow.

At night, when the halls grew quiet and the last torches sputtered low, he walked alone. The weight of Ice upon his shoulder was as constant as his shadow. In the Great Keep, in the long gallery, beneath the echoing vaults of the hall of kings, he always carried his house’s greatsword. His people needed the image of a Stark still strong, though he felt the years in his bones.

His work was what kept him from going mad, Alaric rubbed at his eyes. He leaned back in his chair and the solar felt colder than usual. He had ruled Winterfell long enough to weather famine, Night Watch rebellion, and the slow grind of southern politics, but never had he felt so powerless as he did with his own blood turned against him.

So he worked. He threw himself into the labor of lordship, scribbling lists of grain stores, ordering extra cloaks from the stewards, sending ravens to holdfasts near the White Harbor, ensuring Winterfell could spare more timber for the Night’s Watch. He spoke to men about walls and roads and supplies, and when they left, he sat staring at the fire until the hours died.

Outside, the world pressed on. Sun breath whispered across the courtyards, leaving frost upon the stones each dawn. Ravens croaked from the rookery, and the black iron gates groaned whenever the watchmen opened them. Life, endless and uncaring, continued.

It began with a shadow sweeping across the yard, vast as a storm cloud. Then the cheer a cry of joy that rattled the glass of arrow slits and made hounds whimper in their kennels. Alaric rose from his seat at once, his hand braced against the table’s edge, his heart hammering in his chest.

The servants cried out, dropping their trenchers. Guards scrambled from the doors, as the people who stayed in Wintertown gathered in town center cheering. A roar shook the stones of Winterfell, and the people rushed into the yard, spilling from doorways and towers alike, eyes raised skyward.

Silverwing.

Her wings stretched longer than the hall itself, scales gleaming silver-white as they caught the pale northern sun. She circled once above the battlements, the downdraft of her pinions rattling every banner, then descended with the grace of falling snow. The ground shook as she landed, claws digging furrows into the yard. Her great head swung, eyes pale and knowing, smoke rising in faint tendrils from her nostrils.

“HERE COMES THE QUEEN!” “THE OLD BLESS HER!” “DRAGON!”

The people cheered. They cheered as though the Old Gods themselves had descended. Children laughed and clapped, men shouted her name, women lifted their babes high to see. A dragon at Winterfell an omen of strength, of power, of protection. Guards from the wall waved their spears high with praise, as the servants all came rushing to fill the courtyard. Alaric joined them outside his fur cloak billowing behind him. In the yard, the people pressed close but did not dare cross the ring of guards that encircled the entrance.

The dragon wheeled above Winterfell with dancer’s grace and a warrior’s roar, the sound rattling the old stones and drawing cheers from below. His eyes tracked the beast, the very sight enough when Aegon The Conqueror came the power made the North bend the knee without a drop of blood. She was not preening for applause; she was baring the raw, unyielding might of the House of the Dragon and reminding him of his place. The wolf had no claim where the Dragon held dominion. He could not see her in the saddle, yet he felt her gaze keen as any dagger. Without a lick of flame, she made it plain: she was answerable to no one.

Ten minutes later, riders could be heard beyond the gate and the crowd of people cheering from beyond the wall he knew she’d come in. On cue she galloping in followed by a few Alaric household guards following her in. The guards bowed as she passed, their eyes following her with awe.

She rode with such effortless grace that his heart betrayed him with a sudden skip. Reining to a halt just before him, she slid from the saddle as if the ground itself bent to her will, and came forward without hesitation.

“Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head with all the formality a lord could muster. “Winterfell welcomes you back.”

She looked at him then, her face calm as still water. There was no warmth in her eyes, no trace of the woman who had once walked the godswood with him, who had laughed with his children.

“Lord Stark,” she replied. Her voice was even, polite, cold. “I thank you for the welcome of my return..”

And then, without pause, she turned. Her cloak whispered across the stones as she walked past him, her gaze fixed ahead, her steps quick and purposeful.

Alaric stood rooted to the spot, the silence of the yard settling heavy around him even as the people murmured in wonder. His hand clenched at his side. He had thought—what? That she would smile at him as she once had? That she would speak to him as more than a queen to a lord? Fool.

He drew a breath, long and quiet, and let it out in mist.

The days that followed dragged on like a slow march through snow.

Each morning, Alaric woke to the sound of Winterfell stirring—the ringing of hammers in the smithy, the barking of hounds in the kennels, the lowing of cattle from the outer yard—and each morning he steeled himself, for she was there.

Queen Alysanne of House Targaryen.

She glided through the halls with her white hair braided like woven silver, her smile quick and warm to all she passed, save him. To servants, she offered kind words; to guards, she nodded with gentle thanks; to Alarra, she spoke with ease, her laughter light as falling frost. Even Maester Edric, gray and stiff, bent close to her with long reports of the King’s decrees, and she listened with patience, asking questions until his old eyes glimmered with pride.

To Alaric, she gave nothing. No word, no glance longer than duty required. She ignored his presence as though he were stone set into the floor.

And so he began to avoid her.

His solar, once the seat of his rule, became hers. He saw the door open and shut with her comings and goings, Edric at her side with parchments in hand. The hearth-fire in that room no longer felt his. He moved his own ledgers and maps to the smaller chamber off the great hall, cramped and ill-lit, but at least free of her shadow.

A pattern of the same fell and nearly five days had passed and the Queen still gave him the cold shoulder. Colder than any winter Alaric lived through.

When his sons returned from the Last Hearth at last, Alaric should have rejoiced. Instead, he saw in their faces the same division that gnawed at his hall. Weymar and Torren dismounted in the yard, both tall, both proud, yet both avoiding one another’s eyes. They passed like strangers in their father’s sight, speaking only when forced.

But to the Queen, they did not remain silent.

Weymar found her first, his voice eager as he told of patrols along the Wall, of the state of the Nightfort, of what the men of the Watch had shown him. She listened, nodding, her hand on his arm, and her praise made the boy stand straighter.

Torren came to her later, when Weymar had gone. His words were quieter, halting, but she leaned close as though he bore some secret worth treasuring. She cupped his cheek as she had once done in the yard, and he smiled, shy and fierce at once, as though her regard had lit something within him.

Alaric watched both meetings from afar. He did not step forward. He did not interrupt. The sight tore at him all the same.

It was not her kindness Alysanne had always been kind. It was how easily she gave it, how freely she filled the space his late wife had once held. His children took it like parched earth takes rain. And he, their father, stood outside, his place usurped not by command, but by affection freely offered.

The banners in the great hall hung heavy with the damp. Smoke from the hearth drifted up in slow, reluctant ropes, as if even fire moved with caution in Winterfell these days. Alaric sat in the high seat and listened while the north tried to devour itself one mouthful at a time.

“…your men cut the pasture fence,” said the Dustin rider, broad as a hayrick, beard rimed with old snow. “Drove our cattle into the river meadow and left the posts to rot. That’s theft in any tongue.”

Across from him, a rangy Ryswell swornman with a horsehead brooch tapped the haft of a spear against his boot. “Rot? That fence was kindling. Your barrow field crept south a yard every year since my grandsire. The river shifts; so do the lines.”

“They don’t shift when you move the stones by lantern,” the Dustin snapped. “Our women saw you out there, skulking at night—”

“Enough,” Alaric said, and the word filled the hall like water poured into a cup. The murmuring stewards stilled; even the hounds by the door stopped fussing with their paws. He had let them run long enough to learn how to be wrong; now he would teach them the shape of right.

He leaned forward, hands open on the arms of the chair. “The snow is no one’s, and the White Knife belongs to the river gods. But posts, stones, and lines are ours to keep. You” he nodded to the Dustin “will have new posts set by Winterfell’s carpenters, not your own. And you”his eyes cut to the Ryswell “will stand by when they are set and count out the paces with a Winterfell man between you. Boundary stones will be raised again where the frost hasn’t heaved them. If they don’t match your grandsires’ book, they’ll match mine.”

The Ryswell opened his mouth, but Alaric went on. “Three of your geldings went lame at the ford last thaw. You blamed the ice. I’ll call it mischance and set a toll of nails instead of coin. Winterfell will send iron to mend your wheel hubs and you will send two wains of oat-straw to Barrowton’s poorest pens before week’s end. And there will be no night-work at the stones. Not this winter. Not ever.” He sat back. “The Queen raised stones at the Wolfwood to settle the restless dead. The living can bear to see theirs by daylight.”

Grudging nods, tight jaws. The Dustin man looked relieved to have an order to obey; the Ryswell looked affronted to be seen through. Both bowed, because the direwolf on the banner above Alaric’s head still meant something, even to quarrelsome men.

As they withdrew, the hall’s whisper gathered again the hiss of logs, the shuffle of boots, the quiet breath of Winterfell in winter. Alaric let out a slow breath of his own and glanced to the side aisle, where the shadows lay deepest between pillar and wall.

She stood there, half in the dark as if she preferred it: Alysanne. He had not heard her come; he never did. Snow had melted to bright points in her hair. A hand rested loosely at her waist; the other held her gloves. She was not smiling. She was not frowning either. She only watched. For a heartbeat their eyes met. The air snapped between them memory, longing, anger, things with teeth. Then she turned and went, her white cloak skimming stone like drifting frost.

Alaric sat very still, a man left with his breath but not the use of it.

That night the hall was full, as if the keep had decided to crowd all its ghosts into one room. Long tables groaned under trenchers of hare stew and barley, thick loaves split for steam, turnips slick with butter. Maester Edric sat down the board with a stack of parchment even at supper, as if the King’s words might cool if set too far from the fire. Guards spoke low. The servants, emboldened by the Queen’s soft ways, moved with surer steps, as if fear were a draft they could close a door against.

Alysanne took her place opposite Alaric, as custom demanded. She did not look at him when she sat, nor when she reached for her cup, nor when Edric bent to murmur a line from Oldtown’s last raven. She spoke to the maester, to Alarra, to the steward about salt pork, to a guard about his child’s fever. She spoke to everyone save him, and did it gently.

Alarra sat to Alaric’s right, her posture perfect, her face a pane of ice with light somewhere behind it. Torren kept to the left, quiet as deep water, studying his trencher like the stew might reveal an omen. Weymar fidgeted near the salt, his knee bouncing until he remembered himself and stilled.

It was too quiet. The kind of quiet that made the clink of a spoon sound like a dropped helm.

Alaric broke it because he could not bear it. “Alarra,” he said, and his voice was steadier than he felt. “What was in your pages today?”

She kept her eyes on her cup. One breath. Two. Then she said, “The Battle of the White Knife. When the Greystarks with Boltons thought the current would carry them to victory.”

“Greystarks.” Alysanne’s voice was mild; it had no business finding him across the table, and yet Alaric felt it when it did. “I did not know House Stark had an off shoot branch?”

Alarra’s mouth edged toward something that might have become a smile in a kinder year. “Yes, at one point we did. A bastard son of a King in the North was given the castle Wolf’s Den after a great victory over the Whitehill rebellion. Over five centuries they ruled till not. They thought the White Knife would hide their numbers. They were wrong.” She lifted her gaze then, not at her father, but down the table toward the Queen. “Over nine thousand men died along with Lord Rickon Greystark who was killed. In single combat.”

Weymar’s eyes rounded. Torren made a soft sound in his throat, not quite a laugh; perhaps he had read the same tale weeks ago in a colder room and been struck by the same page.  Alysanne leaned in, her palm gentle on Weymar’s shoulder, a quiet, reassuring touch.

“By whose hand?” Alysanne asked.

Alarra set her cup down and said it very gently, as if speaking to a child and to a queen at once: “By the tales it was Princess Larra Stark’s. She wore a helm and plain mail, and no one knew her for what she was until Lord Rickon lifted her visor for a kiss once he’d fallen.” Her gaze slid back to her father. “They say she loved him. If she did well she slew him anyway.”

Torren’s mouth crooked, a huff of amusement escaping at last. “Oh dear Alarra how could you have forgotten what they wrote of Rickon? Tall and powerful, broad of shoulder, corded in the arms, straight belly hard as oak. All the Stark features. Charm and strength both, master of every weapon on the field… yet at the last, the maester says it was a stray spear to the belly. He died on a riverbank in the hills. The rest of the Greystarks too, his two brothers and his son were cut down by the Umber vanguard’s charge. That's why the singer sings "When the Snow Ran Red.”

Weymar’s spoon clattered. The boy stared at his trencher, face working, then shoved back his bench. “May I be excused?”

The word was a plea dressed as a request. Alaric opened his mouth, habit, pride, hurt, all the old tools of a father’s trade but Alysanne spoke before him, not looking at Alaric, not needing to.

“Stay, please.” she said, and her voice was soft in the way fresh snow is soft, and as inexorable as snowfall. “Finish your stew, Weymar. I’d love for you to stay and here the story has its ending before you leave it.” She reached her hand out to him.

Weymar froze. The bench hovered between scraping and not. He swallowed, nodded, he took her as he eased back into place. Torren looked at his brother sidelong, something like sorrow in his eyes, and then dropped his gaze to his bread.

“Those who believe the tale say Larra’s denial lit the spark for Rickon rebellion against his kin; others name plain wolf ambition aided by the Boltons. Though the cause remains a matter of confusion and debate.” Alarra pointed out.

The talk around them had ebbed to a murmur, then to nothing. The hall listened and pretended not to. Alaric felt the shape of the story settle on the table like a drawn map. A woman who loved a man and did what duty demanded. A duel with a kiss at the edge of it. There are only so many versions of a tale.

Alaric found his jaw clenched and forced it loose. He kept his face bare of the thing inside him that wanted language, that wanted to say you speak of a river and a duel and a kiss; will you look at me when you do it? He lifted his spoon and tasted stew that had gone cool. Salt. Onion. A coin of carrot that collapsed at the touch.

“Tell me, Alarra,” he said, because he had asked the question and would see it through. “What do you learn from it all?”

She met his eyes for the first time in days, and pain flared in her like a struck spark..“War is folly. Men’s pride will not yield, whether for love or ambition. What do I make of Rickon Greystark? He was a man too proud, and in the end it cost him.”

She answered. Alysanne smiled at the girl's answer as she tried to hide her chuckle.

The hall had grown oppressively quiet, the only sounds the faint clatter of cutlery and the hiss of the hearth. When the others left, it was just Alaric and the Queen across the table, two presences bound together more by silence than by words.

Alaric slowly raised his gaze; she was already staring at him. He felt stripped bare beneath her eyes, small as a boy again. He lowered his fork, swallowed with effort, and forced his voice steady.

“Your Grace. I heard you flew to Bear Island.”

“Yes,” Alysanne replied without hesitation. “I found it delightful. A hard land, but filled with the strongest of women. I admire them all.”

Her tone cut deeper than praise; Alaric sensed something else beneath it. He waited, knowing she had not flown to Bear Island merely for admiration.

“I agree with—” he began, but she silenced him with a look sharper than any blade.

“I will speak plainly with you. Lord Stark, why have you not sent at least one of your children to ward in the South, where half their blood lives?” Her voice, though calm, carried venom.

Alaric stiffened. “So this is why you avoid me?”

“I avoid you for many reasons,” she said coolly. “But on this matter, I ask on behalf of Lady Deranna Mormont, your sister by marriage. And yet it seems you have forgotten her.”

His fists tightened. “Forgotten her? You have not lived next to Mormont’s before. What I do with my children is my concern.”

“As your Queen,” she countered, “I have the right to know. And I do not make this request lightly.”

The air thickened. The hall seemed to close around him, the fire’s heat suffocating. His mind dragged him back, pain, screams, blood on his hands.

“Lord Stark,” Alysanne pressed, softer now, “why have you not?”

He looked up at her, face drawn, voice breaking with something between anger and sorrow.

“Have you ever buried someone you loved with your full heart? Someone who was your world, your life and then had them torn from you?” His voice echoed in the stillness. “No? Then be blessed, Your Grace, that you haven’t.”

For a heartbeat, he thought his words had silenced her. But Alysanne, unflinching, replied: “I buried my first son, a babe in arms. I still grieve the child he never knew.”

“A lover,” Alaric said hoarsely, “Is a different pain.”

Alysanne’s face flickered with something hurt, perhaps, or indignation. “Deranna claimed you killed her sister.”

That pierced him like steel. His voice came raw, trembling with rage. “She refused to listen. Colder than her father ever was, if you believed her words then I shall leave this hall your mind is set. She does not know the half of it—she never cared to.”

“Then tell me,” Alysanne urged. Her voice softened further, no longer Queen but woman, no longer sovereign but mother. “Tell me. Not as command, but for the burden you bear. Let me understand.”

For a long moment he stared at her, breathing raggedly. Finally, he let the truth spill.

“She wanted a fourth child,” he said. His voice trembled, cracking. “This pregnancy was hardest on her… she was ill half the time, struggled to rest. When her hour came…The babe would not. She screamed, all day and night, fighting. The Maesters failed. She begged me—begged me—to save the babe even at her own cost. I refused… until she threatened to do it herself.”

His hands shook; his lips quivered as he forced the words.

“I lost her in moments. She slipped away as I watched. Our daughter no more than a night in this world-gone. She died in my arms, both of them did. Just like my brother. Just like my father.”

Silence. Only the fire crackled. Alaric bowed his head, broken by memory. His broad shoulders trembled despite all his strength.

“She wanted, if it was a girl to be named after my mother, or a boy to be named Brandon to keep the tradition of my house..”

Alysanne’s fury, hot and sharp only heartbeats before, drained from her face. Her eyes widened, the venom in her voice gone, replaced by a slow, dawning horror. She looked at him as if seeing a man stripped to his bones, all grief and ruin beneath the Stark steel.

Her lips parted, but no judgment came. Only a whisper, raw with sorrow.
“I…I'm sorry.”

Alaric rose from his chair, tall and rigid, though his hands trembled at his sides. He met her eyes one last time, his own voice low, cold, and heavy with a pain that could not be soothed.

“I hope you never be in the same position I have been in countless times.”

Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving the Queen seated in silence, her apology lingering unheard in the vast, lonely hall.

Anger, frustration, and grief braided tight in his throat. Why did she press so hard? Why go to Bear Island, for what reason, beyond finding a new angle to strike at him? He had never spoken of how his wife died, or the child. It was not mere pain; it was cruelty to demand any man unwrap that fate, the double loss, the silence after.

He reached his chambers, wrenched the door open, and slammed it behind him hard enough to sting his palm. His breath came staccato, ragged; with each breath the fury guttered, leaving only exhaustion.

“Seven hells, Alysanne,” he said to the empty room. “If this was your plan—to root me out, soul and body, by the gods—you win.” He tumbled onto the bed.

When Alaric closed his eyes.

King’s Landing smelled of salt and spilled wine and hot horse, the hill-roads ringing with bells as bright as new coin. Inside the Dragonpit was filled with more people than Alaric ever dreamed of. The sept on the rise was dressed for joy ribbons at every arch, candles enough to shame the sun. Lord Protector and Hand of the King Rogar Baratheon took Alyssa Velaryon’s hand beneath. Two banners covered every each of the walls. A silver seahorse on a sea green next in unison with a c rowned stag black on a golden field. T he city hungry for a good omen after too many bad cheered itself hoarse.

Lord Brandon Stark stood to see it, though standing cost him. White hair, white moustache, a face weathered like oak; he limped and leaned on his blackthorn cane and refused every arm offered. His sons flanked him: Walton, broad-shouldered and all grin and bravado; Alaric, quiet as frost on a bannister. Behind them came several houses of Umber, Karstark, Glover, Reed, Forrester and As thirty black-cloaks of the Night’s Watch, their presence a ribbon of midnight in all that color.

“Look,” Walton murmured, elbowing him with a brother’s carelessness. “The boy-king.”

Jaehaerys along with Princess Alysanne had landed in Dragon pit on their magnificent dragons, moments ago now moved through the crowd like the point of a spear wrapped in velvet, his cloak of red and black wrapped around him as the crown laid on his brow. He was young, yes, but the stillness in him was older than his face. At his heel came the princess, Alysanne, silver-gold hair braided in a crown that did not need rubies to make it regal. She kept the space between herself and her brother as if it were part of her duty, a measured half-step that said royal even when she smiled.

For the barest moment her gaze climbed the northern column. Walton’s easy swagger to Alaric who did not jostle or call attention to himself. Her eyes were cool-lilac in that light, and kinder than court; she looked, at him and some soft fondness lit in them as their eyes met. He couldn't explain what we saw or fathom how her eyes found him in this crowd? Then she turned, as a princess must, and the business of the day swept on.

Walton blew air between his teeth like a boy in a stable. “Seven hells save me, I could fancy a Targaryen. ” Walton said, too pleased with himself to whisper properly. 

“She’s ten and three.” Alaric answered quickly.

“And? Mother and father wedded that age too. Targaryen princess. Imagine the songs.” He grinned sideways. “Do you think King Jaehaerys would let his sister dance with wolves? I could give the realm wolf-and-dragon children, brother. Snap my fingers and hatch them.”

Alaric rolled his eyes, which only encouraged him. “Does your mind always must fall into the bed chamber?”

“Excuse me, I know you're married dear brother but I didn’t think you’d lose your sense of humor.” Walton bashed back with a grin. “I’d settle for marrying one,” Walton barreled on, undeterred. “Failing that, I’d bed—”

“Wal,” Alaric said, the soft warning in his voice edged enough to cut.

Walton laughed under his breath, unrepentant. “I jest,” he lied, and could not keep the light out of his face. “Mostly.”

“My sons please be peace,” Lord Brandon rasped, cane tapping stone as he shifted his weight. He did not turn, but the old man’s hearing missed little. “Hold your tongues while vows are spoken.”

The High Septon poured the seven oils, named the Mother’s mercy and the Warrior’s strength, the Father’s judgment and the Maid’s hope. Hands were bound; kisses were shared. The hall clapped. Someone cried for the bride to blush; she obliged with a grace that made them all laugh.

The feast came on in a rush of red silk and spiced steam. The Red Keep’s great hall bloomed with roast capon and honeyed carrots and trenchers heaped with river fish that tasted of salt and sun. Minstrels perched like bright birds on a gallery and worried the air with quick tunes; a juggler dropped an apple into a lord’s wine and lived to laugh at it. Alaric drank only enough to be pleasant. Lord Brandon’s cough had a wet edge to it, and his son kept one eye on the old man’s color and one on the crowded room.

Walton, by contrast, drank like a man racing a tide. The blush rose in his cheeks and never left. He lifted a Hightower girl, olive skin, startled eyes, a tumble of brown hair and swung her onto his shoulder to peals of scandalized laughter. “Look, my lords!” he crowed, flexing as if he’d hoisted a warhorn. “Oldtown’s tower is not the only pillar that stands proud!”

The girl covered her face with both hands and laughed through her fingers, mortified and secretly delighted. Her chaperone sputtered enough to drift a candle. Alaric caught Walton by the belt when he tilted too far and set him back on two feet with a warning squeeze. The Hightower maid slid down, cheeks cherry-ripe, and smacked Walton’s shoulder with her fan hard enough to sting. He bowed so extravagantly he almost took out a trencher, and the hall roared as if they’d rehearsed it.

On the dais the boy-king leaned to speak to his sister; Alysanne’s lashes lowered and lifted.  Lord Brandon’s hand shook when he cut his meat. When the knife skated, Alaric put his own hand over his father’s without words, steadying the blade and then withdrawing as if he’d only meant to gesture at the gravy. Brandon Stark glanced at him sideways, the corner of his mouth hidden by his white mustache twitching.

“Alaric…You shouldn’t help your father. Please enjoy the wedding.”

Walton came back to them at last, girlless now, flushed to the ears and generous with salutes. “I am in love with a city,” he declared, throwing one arm wide. “She is loud and wicked! I believe I could make her scream louder.”

“Please no I wish King’s Landing to not suffer what I have had to here.” Alaric said, smiling despite himself.

“In the morning, when we wake together,” Walton vowed, “I shall ask for forgiveness." He clapped a meaty hand on Alaric’s shoulder and bent close, breath warm with wine. “But hear me, do you see the way she looks at you? The little silver one. Do not pretend not to know it.”

“I will not be able to handle another scandal especially with a Southern girl.” Lord Brandon said, but his voice was tolerant now. “The girl is a princess and you are drunk, and the world will still be full of both tomorrow.”

Alaric looked up without meaning to see the Princess of Dorne came like heat into shade, beautiful in that southern way that made Northerners forget their own names for a breath: copper-kissed skin, dark eyes lit with private jokes, citrus clinging to her.

“My lord Stark,” she said, voice soft but sure, “will you grant me a dance? It is a wedding, after all.”

Alaric, who could stare down a blizzard without blinking, found himself unaccountably wrong-footed. “Princess—I am a taken man,” he managed, dipping his head. “My wife would—”

“—be pleased that you honor the bride with a turn,” Walton boomed, appearing at his back like an ill-timed drumbeat. A broad hand set itself between Alaric’s shoulderblades and applied brotherly treachery.

“Taken?” Her smile deepened, not mocking so much as curious. “By whom? By vows? By the weather? By your father’s eye?” Her glance flicked past him and found Lord Brandon’s white mustache, the cane like a second standard by his chair.

Alaric opened his mouth to refuse her gently, to save the Princess of Dorne from the dullness of a Northern foot, when Walton’s great paw clapped his shoulder. “Dance, brother,” he boomed, beaming at the princess as if he had personally ordered her from a merchant in Sunspear. “You’ll never dance with a princess again! Enjoy the wedding, or I shall marry you to a goat to teach you joy.”

“Forgive him,” Alaric said to the princess, dry. “He has been negotiating with the wine.”

“And winning,” Walton said, shoving him—affection disguised as assault—toward the open floor. “Go.”

The princess offered her hand as if she had expected the shove all along. Her palm was cool; her grip was sure. “It is settled,” she said. “Tell your goat she has a rival.”

They took the measure of each other in the first turn she light and precise, he steady and grounded. Dornish steps ran sun-quick and sly, but the North had taught Alaric to match another’s pace.  Bells chimed against silk; his boots found the beat without looking for it.

On the dais, servants refilled cups and the minstrels sawed brighter. Between one turn and the next, Alaric’s gaze lifted, unguarded. The boy-king sat straighter than any man twice his years; beside him, Alysanne’s profile was a study in quiet, lashes lowered as if she were counting something only she could see. As if sensing the look like a touch, she turned.

Their eyes met. The world, indecently, paused.

It lasted no longer than a heartbeat with a heartbeat’s cruelty and kindness but in it Alaric felt the hot brand of color climb his neck and cheeks like he was a boy again who’d been caught stealing summerfruit. Alysanne’s mouth tilted; not quite a smile, not quite statecraft. Something softer. She lowered her eyes, and when she raised them again the moment had been folded and put away where only the two of them would ever find it.

“Truly married?” the Dornish princess asked, sidelong, not to wound but to know. “Or only well-practiced in excuses?”

“Truly,” Alaric said, finding his footing in the truth. “A son as well. Torren.”

“Ah.” Her smile turned warmer, not dimmer. At the next pass she rose on her toes and, in full view of half the court, kissed him soft as a blessing on the cheek. “Then she is a very lucky woman,” the princess said. “And your Torren doubly so.”

He had no court answer for that; the North did not train them for kindness that felt like knives wrapped in ribbon. When the tune broke for cheers and clapping, she dipped a bow so graceful it drew an involuntary murmur from the near tables. “Thank you, Alaric.”

“And you, Princess,” he said, meaning more than the dance. She left him with a flash of garnet and the scent of orange flowers, claimed by cousins and companions who rose around her like a court nebula.

Walton materialized with a cup, grinning too wide. “Did you enjoy it?” he demanded.

“She was a princess,” Alaric said, taking the wine only to put it aside untouched.

“Then I chose well,” Walton declared, entirely satisfied with himself. He followed Alaric’s glance to the dais and softened, just for a moment, like frost under a sudden beam of sun. “Mm. Aye. I see.”

Iron rose around them like a broken forest. The blades’ black shine made a storm of light that had nothing warm in it. The boy-king sat that storm as if he had been born upon it; he looked smaller there and yet somehow more himself, every line of him set by something steadier than pride. The Kingsguard flanked the steps, white as new drifts. 

House Stark came forward out of the press with the hush that follows a church bell. Brandon Stark leaned on his cane harder than he would have liked, and would have called his sons liars if they said they saw it. Walton marched on their father right as Alaric kept to their father’s left hand, close enough to take his weight if pride failed.

They knelt when the herald called their name, the old bones of Winterfell bowing before the newer iron of a southern chair. Lord Brandon’s voice, when it came, was roughened by years and weather and something a coughing man would not admit, yet it carried to every corner as if the room had been made for it.

“I, Brandon of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, promise to be faithful to King Jaehaerys, and serve him until my final day. I promise this to the Old Gods and the New.”

On the throne, Jaehaerys inclined his head with a gravity that did not rattle. “Rise, my Lord Stark,” the boy said, and Alaric thought: a boy now, and not for long. “I accept you as my vassal and Warden of the North, Brandon Stark.”

Brandon pushed himself up; Alaric’s hand was there, unseen, only for a moment. 

“My lord Stark,” said the king, rising at once, startled as if an old oak had stooped to him. “Please.”

Brandon levered himself up with the cane that had seen him through worse rooms than this. He took the measure of the youth again with the frank, unsparing look men from Winterfell give the weather. Whatever he found there pleased him; his mouth softened beneath the white of his mustache.

“I see his grandsire in him,” Brandon said, not as flattery but as if reporting the lay of a field.

A flicker of surprise, then something like gratitude moved across Jaehaerys’s young face. “You honor me, Lord Stark.” His glance slid to the white cloaks and back. “You honored me before, when you lent your name as I pressed my claim against my uncle. I have not forgotten who stood fast when the realm needed steadiness.”

Brandon nodded once. “The North keeps out of most southern quarrels, as is our custom,” he said. “But when the realm is in need, the North will answer. My word on it, and Winterfell’s.”

Walton dipped his head, bold even in deference. “And my sword, Your Grace,” he put in, a grin hiding under the polish. “For as long as it’s worth a damn.”

Alaric said nothing, only inclined his head.

Jaehaerys rose stepped down one iron tread. He extended his hand; Brandon eyes widened as he clasped it in the northern fashion, forearm to forearm, and for a heartbeat the clatter of the hall dimmed to the plain weight of two men keeping a promise.

“I pray war never comes,” the king said, the hope unfeigned in so young a voice. “But it warms my heart to know House Stark will stand at my side if it does.”

Alaric woke with candle smoke and summer fruit on his tongue, old laughter sore in his ribs. The room lay dark save for the dull red of a banked fire. Memory carried him to the “Golden Wedding”: Walton gone for half the revels taverns, or that Hightower maid and Brandon’s color leached away as if the feast had drawn it from him. Not long after they came north again, he died. Alaric swung his legs to the floor.

The godswood was quiet that morning, save for the low murmur of water spilling from the hot spring into the pool. Alaric sat cross-legged on the grass, boots cast aside, his bare feet submerged in the steaming water. The warmth soothed the ache in his body, but not the heaviness in his chest. He had not slept much. Memories pressed on him, the words of last night still cutting, though he’d spoken them with all the truth in his heart.

His breath misted in the cold air. He leaned back against the ancient roots of the heart tree, its pale face gazing down with solemn red eyes. For a long while, he only listened to the water’s whisper and tried to let his mind still.

Footsteps stirred the peace.

Alaric’s head lifted. Across the clearing, the Queen stood at the edge of the spring, her hands folded before her, her cloak drawn tight against the morning chill. Her golden hair caught the pale light, and for a heartbeat she seemed some vision out of a bard’s song.

“May I join you?” she asked softly.

He hesitated only a moment, then nodded.

Alysanne moved with careful grace, lifting the hem of her gown so it would not trail in the damp earth. She sat beside him, close enough he felt the warmth of her body through their cloaks. She let her slippers fall away and slipped her feet into the steaming pool, sighing faintly at the heat. For a moment, they were silent, the two of them watching the ripples spread out across the surface.

At last, she spoke. “We spoke harshly to one another, you and I.” Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, as though she feared breaking the calm of the godswood. “Harsh words neither of us should have said.”

Alaric drew in a slow breath. His eyes stayed on the water, though he felt her gaze upon him. “Aye,” he admitted. “I was wrong to speak as I did. My jealousy took hold of me, and I let it fester. That is no excuse. I lost myself.”

She turned to him sharply, surprised. “You apologize so readily?”

He managed the faintest of smiles, bitter though it was. “When I am wrong, I say so. My father taught me that. The Starks are stubborn, aye, but I’ve seen what stubborn pride does when left to rot. I won’t let it claim me.”

For a moment she only looked at him, her eyes wide with something close to wonder. She had expected more defiance, more iron walls. Instead she found him laid bare, not as Lord of Winterfell but as a man weary of his own failings.

Alysanne’s expression softened. She lowered her gaze, her voice gentler now. “Then I must give you the same courtesy. I too spoke cruelly, more cruelly than I should have. I thought to wound you into truth, but I went too far. For that, I ask your forgiveness.”

The words hung between them, warm as the steam rising off the pool.

Alaric looked at her then, truly looked, and for the first time in many days he did not see only his Queen, or the shadow of a rival for his children’s affections. He saw a woman burdened with her own grief, her own cares, and a heart that sought to heal even as it stumbled.

He inclined his head slowly. “I must be the one to ask. I slandered your marriage, your name…Your honor out of my wounded pride…If you must you have it.”

Her lips curved in a small smile, touched with relief. She reached out then, lightly, her fingers brushing his hand where it rested on the grass. It was the gentlest of gestures, almost motherly, almost companionable, and yet it carried weight enough to silence the godswood itself.

Alaric’s voice cracked with quiet honesty. “I thought I had lost you,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the rippling water. “Each day you kept yourself apart, I feared the breach had widened beyond repair. And Seven help me, I missed you more than I wished to admit.”

Alysanne’s lips curved, not coldly this time, but with the kind of warmth born of shared wounds. She let out a soft laugh, almost girlish. “You missed me?” She turned her gaze on him, mischief in her violet eyes. “That is rich, for the Lord of Winterfell. For truth be told, I grew to miss you as well… though there were great deal of moments I longed to smack you again.”

Alaric chuckled low in his chest. “A fair thought, for I deserved it. That last blow you gave me was clean, firm, and true. No knight of the Vale could have landed it better.”

Her cheeks colored faintly, and she shook her head. “I ought not have struck you. It was unqueenly.”

He surprised her then, reaching for her hand. He lifted it with reverence, pressing his lips lightly against her knuckles. His voice softened to a near-whisper. “It was honest. And in truth, my Queen, I admire you more for it. You are steel beneath that smile, and I praise you for it.”

For a moment, silence lingered, broken only by the faint splash of the spring and the sigh of the wind through red leaves. Alysanne did not pull her hand back.

Then, after some time, she spoke again, her tone shifting, quieter, yet heavy. “We… I know the truth now.”

Alaric raised an eyebrow, wary but attentive.

She met his gaze, steady and searching. “I understand why you refuse the match between Reina and Torren.”

His brow furrowed. “Do you now?”

Alysanne inhaled deeply, the godswood holding its breath with her. “She is no Bolton, Alaric. She is a Snow.”

Alaric sighed, long and low, the sound of a man weathered by years of duty and sorrow. His eyes fixed on the water, though his thoughts wandered far beyond it.

“You are right,” he admitted at last. His voice was rough, almost reluctant, yet edged with a kind of tired relief that the truth had finally been spoken aloud. “Reina was born of an old custom…”

Alysanne’s hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles whitening. For all her years of tempering herself at court, her violet eyes darkened with the anger of a mother, of a queen who saw cruelty dressed in the garb of tradition. She swallowed that wrath, though it burned her throat like acid, and her words came softer than she felt.

“Alaric, please by all the gods of the Seven…Please tell me. Did you ever… partake in it?” Her voice wavered only slightly, but the question carried the weight of judgment, as if the very gods listened.

Alaric’s head snapped toward her, his grey eyes firm, unflinching. “Never. Not once.” The answer came as sharp as the strike of an axe. “I would not—could not—bring such shame upon a bride in her hour. But many of my lords…” His jaw tightened, his gaze falling away to the steaming spring. “Many still cling to it. They call it their right, their custom, their proof of dominion.” His voice thickened with disgust. “I call it filth. Yet what can a man do when custom is older than his line?”

Alysanne drew a steadying breath. Her anger remained, but sorrow bled into it—sorrow for the women, for the realm, even for the hardened lord beside her. “Then I will read more,” she whispered, as though making a vow before the carved face of the heart tree. “I will not leave this to rot in silence. This practice… it must be weighed, and ended, if need be. It stains every house that clings to it. We will speak of it again, Alaric. I mean to discuss its future.”

His brow furrowed, and he turned to her, wary. “Its future?”

“As Queen, I must see what customs uplift the realm, and which ones shackle it to cruelty.” Her gaze was steel, yet her tone was gentle enough to coax a confession. “The woman of the North I have seen suffer and further I went the less justice I saw…Alaric. What I ask is a high price on your end and future to your house but…If I wish to end this will you stand with me?”

Alaric did not answer at once. The steam curled between them, and the carved weirwood face stared down with its weeping red eyes, as though the Old Gods themselves awaited his choice.

At last, he inclined his head. “If you strike at it, you will make enemies among my bannermen. I fear the North could be more divided than it was during Age of Heros.” he looked at her long and steady, his eyes matched with hers not one blinking for mere moments which felt like days.

“I swore an oath to House Targaryen when The King took the Throne…If you seek to end this custom. I will not break my oath.” 

Alysanne reached for Alaric’s hand, her fingers lingering against his as though reluctant to let go. What had only been a dream before now felt startlingly real—the warmth of his skin, the weight of his palm. For a heartbeat she almost lifted his hand to her face, to let it cup her cheek as it had in the visions that haunted her nights. Instead, she only smiled at him, soft and unguarded.

Alaric’s lips curved in return, hesitant at first, then fuller, as though some long-buried spring had broken free. She realized, with a start, that he had not truly smiled since the day she left.

They rose together from the spring, the wet grass whispering beneath their steps. Alysanne smoothed her skirts, pausing at the sight of the heart tree. She tilted her head slightly, as though listening to something he could not hear. Her eyes widened faintly, haunted, as though whispers threaded through the wind.

Alaric’s gaze softened. He stepped nearer, and with unusual gentleness, his hand brushed hers. His touch was not the command of a lord, but the tentative offering of a man who had forgotten tenderness.

“I have something for you,” he said quietly. His voice carried weight, as though this gift had been kept in his heart longer than he cared to admit.

The corridor to Alaric’s solar held the old smells of cedar oil, tallow smoke, and something faintly metallic from ink and quills scents that had seeped into the stone long before either of them had been born. He pushed the heavy oak door and the hinges gave a familiar groan. The hearth inside had been laid and coaxed to life by a careful hand; the flames ran low and even, casting a steady amber over maps, ledgers, and the wolf-headed chair behind his desk. Outside, the wind combed Winterfell’s banners with its iron fingers; inside, the air was warm enough that Alysanne lifted a palm and let the heat wash her skin.

Alaric stepped in first and, with a brief glance down the passage, drew the door shut until the latch kissed home. The sound felt louder than it was. He turned and found her gaze already waiting.

“Bold of you,” she murmured, amusement tilting the corners of her mouth, “to have me all to yourself in your solar.”

He let out a short laugh, low and unforced the kind of sound that had been scarce on his tongue. “It was bolder of you to come.”

“Was it?” She slipped the sable-lined cloak from her shoulders and set it over the back of a chair, the silver in her hair catching firelight. “I thought I was invited.”

“You were,” he said, and for a heartbeat something unarmored passed between them. He lifted his chin a fraction as if the weight of what he meant required it. “I missed you.”

He did not say it grandly. He said it like a man acknowledging the weather: plain, inevitable, and not to be argued with. Alysanne’s breath shifted, a small, almost secret intake that tightened and eased in the same instant. She followed him to the desk and stopped when he raised a hand.

“Wait,” he said, and there was that same gentleness in the word he’d used beside the spring, a politeness that did not distance but invited.

She cocked an eyebrow, playful despite herself. “Commanding in your own halls, my lord?”

“My father would haunt me if I weren’t,” he said, and stepped into the adjoining alcove, the one that held a narrow chest bound in black iron. Alysanne heard the click of a hasp, the muffled rustle of oiled linen. She looked around the room while he worked: the great map of the North pinned by iron spikes, the shelf of old Stark chronicles with their cracked spines, the stone ledge where a smooth river stone sat alone, as if placed there by a child’s hand long ago and simply never moved. On a side table lay a bundle of raven quills and a bone-handled knife, the blade honed to that particular Stark sharpness that suggested it would take hair as readily as parchment.

He returned with something cradled in his arms and wrapped in thick grey wool. He set it on the desk between them as a man sets down a pledge, not a gift. His hands stayed a moment on either side of it, steady.

“In my house,” he said, looking at her and not the parcel, “there is an old custom. Not the Southron one you’re thinking of the cloaking at a wedding.” His mouth twisted; he waited for the shadow of that to pass. “Older than that. We call it the winter mantle. When the Lord of Winterfell declares someone kin-by-winter, he gives a cloak from his own house stores, cut and lined for hard weather, meant to mean what the North so rarely says out loud: you are under our protection; we will answer for you as we would for our own. We’ve given it to foundlings, to wardens, to the last of a line with no banner left in their hall. Once, long ago, to a woman who came barefoot to our gates with a babe in her arms and the snow up to her knees.”

Alysanne’s lashes lowered; the corner of her mouth softened. “And now?”

“And now,” he said quietly, “to you.”

He drew the wrap aside. The room seemed to hush.

It was a cloak, yes but not like the thick, rough mantles that hung in the armory. This had been thought over, considered in the slow way of Winterfell. The outer wool was a deep grey with the faintest blue in it, the color of river ice at dusk. The nap lay dense and even, the kind of weave that turns blades and drinks wind. A narrow border had been stitched by a patient hand along the hem: a line of repeating ripples that could have been waves or wolf fur or the edge of a wing depending on how the light struck. The inside lining was softer, a paler grey that gleamed—silver caught in cloth—so that the glimpse of it when the cloak moved would flash like a fish deep in dark water.

Near the throat, the clasp waited: a paired piece of metal, two halves that met and locked with a clean, satisfying click. One side had been wrought as a direwolf’s head, lean and watchful, the iron darkened and then rubbed bright at nose and brow so it seemed alive in the firelight. The other bore the curve of a dragon’s wing, not a full beast only the suggestion of that strong arc, hammered and chased until the ridges were so fine they felt like breath under the thumb. When brought together, wolf and wing closed with no seam visible.

Her fingers hovered a moment before she touched it. “Alaric,” she breathed, and the name was not queenly; it was human. “It’s… beautiful.”

He cleared his throat, made a show of brushing non-existent lint from the wool to give himself a heartbeat. “The color of your cloak should represent something of yours. Your dragon was my inspiration.” He was standing straight, but there was a strange shyness to him, as if the words had cost him more nerve than any order he had given with a thousand men watching. “Silverwing wears the sky like this when the clouds remember how to be kind.”

She laughed softly surprised, delighted and the sound warmed the stone. “You speak like a poet.”

“I’ll deny it if you tell anyone,”He said, which made her laugh again, and then, with visible care, she lifted the cloak. It had a satisfying weight in the arms, a promise of shelter. She inhaled, startled to find the faint ghost of pine and woodsmoke in the wool. He must have hung it in the solar many nights to let it take on his hall’s scent.

“May I?” she asked, already unfolding it across her shoulders the way a woman tests new armor.

“Allow me,” he said.

She turned, and for a moment they both moved with that awkward grace of two people trying not to make a sacred thing into a clumsy one. He came around behind her, stepped close enough that she felt the warmth of him through the linen of her gown. The cloak settled like snowfall. He drew the edges across her front, the wool whispering as it overlapped. His fingers found the clasp. She tilted her chin and he slid the paired halves together; the small metallic click felt louder than the hearth.

Alaric’s voice took on a cadence not unlike the words he used before the heart tree on winters when a child was named. ““By the old gods in the red leaves and the new gods in the sept where men ask them to listen;by the breath I still draw—” he paused, not to find words but to make certain they were the ones he meant. “Winterfell will always be yours and to any of your own blood. I will stand between you and the wind to guard your children. I will take the enmity that comes with the changes you would make, and make it mine.” 

“Alaric you don’t hav-”

“Alysanne…I swear to you my House, my honor, my name.”

She raised her eyes. Whatever court schooling she had endured in her youth had taught her to master her face, to hold stillness like a veil over storms. The veil had slipped. “You put a piece of your house on my shoulders, ” she said, voice hardly more than breath. “And a part of your heart is in mine.”

He stepped back, she lifted her hands to the collar and stroked the grain of the wool. “It suits,” she said, and then caught herself color rising high on her cheekbones. “Not in the Southron sense,” she added, flustered and laughing at her own slip. “I know what cloaking means in the sept. I only… it feels as if the North has put its hand to my shoulder and…”

She lifted her hands slowly, as if the cloak itself asked for gentleness and set them flat against his chest, above the wolf worked into his doublet. Through wool and linen and the padded thickness winter demanded, he felt the warmth of her palms, steady and human and present. Their breathing found a shared measure without either seeking it in, out, the way men match step without thinking when they’ve marched too long together to remember what it was to walk alone.

She spoke then, not loudly and not as if words were expected to carry anywhere but the short space between them. High Valyrian slipped from her like water over ice, old and clean. “Avy jorrāelan,” she said, each syllable a true thing. “Avy jorrāelan, Alaric.”

He blinked, mouth tugging sideways despite the thud in his chest. “You know I don’t speak your dragon tongue,” he murmured, deadpan as a winter road.

It earned exactly the sound he’d hoped for: her soft, incredulous laugh, half relief and half scold. “You do,” she said, “or you will. Weymar knows enough to scrawl a love note.”

“Weymar is nowhere,” he said solemnly. “And if he were, I would confiscate his ink.”

“You would do no such thing.” She tilted her head, silver hair loosening a single strand that fell against her cheek. “You would read it first.”

A smile, tired, stubborn broke free before he could cage it.

“I did not mean to take her place, nor take her children as my own, but I love them as I grew them in my own womb.” she said softly, her voice near a whisper, as if the shadows themselves might overhear. “Your Lorreanah. She was yours. She is still yours. I saw her stone… and I laid a winter rose upon it. For you. For her. I felt her presence there, as though she still lingered with you.”

Alaric’s chest rose and fell, too slow, too heavy. His eyes searched her face for deceit but found none only earnest sorrow and a tenderness he had not expected. His throat closed, thick with memory.

“You never replaced her,” he said at last, his words low and rough. “No one could. But my heart… it has grown for you, Alysanne. In ways I did not expect. That frightens me more than battle, more than snow or hunger. To love again after so much loss… it feels betrayal and blessing both.”

Her hands were already in his, small compared to his weathered, calloused palms. She tightened her hold, as though she would not let him retreat.

“Alaric,” she murmured, her eyes bright with unshed tears, “to carry such love twice in a life is no betrayal. It is a gift. One she would not begrudge you.”

For a moment, he could not breathe. He lifted her hands, pressed them together between his own, and bowed his forehead over them.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice breaking, “for bringing her a rose. For remembering her. You honor her more than many in my own blood ever did.” He raised her hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles, reverent, as if she were both his queen and his salvation.

The round table in the great hall of Winterfell was lit by the steady glow of tallow candles, their flames shivering with each draft that crept through the stone passages. Alaric sat already, posture rigid, a lord bearing the weight of his house and his grief both. Beside him, Alysanne had chosen her place not opposite as in times past, but nearer, close enough that the brush of her sleeve against his could be felt if either shifted just slightly. They did not speak, but silence was its own strange accord, a quiet acceptance after the storm of their quarrels.

The first to enter was Torren. The boy stopped in the doorway, clearly startled to find his father and the Queen seated side by side. Confusion flickered across his features, but he did not question it. He moved to the table, his boots soft upon the rushes, and when he took his place it was beside Alysanne. Alysanne’s hand brushed lightly against the boy’s arm as he settled a fleeting touch.

Next came Alarra. The girl’s surprise was plain when she beheld her father and Alysanne so close. Her lips parted, perhaps to speak, but she caught herself and only lowered her gaze. Without a word she crossed the hall and, with a sort of quiet defiance, took her seat at Torren’s side. 

The last was Weymar. The boy lingered in the doorway longer than the others, his shame plain. He glanced once at Torren and quickly away, as though the sight burned him. Wordless, he strode across the hall and took his place near his father, the chair creaking faintly beneath him. He leaned back, eyes fixed on the table, lips pressed to a thin line.

When all were seated, Alysanne rose slightly from her chair. Her hands spread lightly upon the table, and her eyes, bright as the moon upon new-fallen snow, swept over each child in turn.

“I would make a toast,” she said, her voice clear but gentle, ringing through the hall without strain. She raised her cup, and the flicker of the hearth caught on the silver of her rings. “To the family of House Stark. To the blood of the North, that stands unyielding when all else bends. I have grown more than fond of each of you. Your kindness has warmed me as no fire could. And so I would honor you, and in turn give back such love as I am able. You are dear to me, as if you were my own.”

The hall was silent for a moment, save the crack of the fire and the faint whistle of wind through the high stones. Then Alarra, with her steady composure, lifted her cup in return. Her dark eyes flicked to Alysanne’s face and then away again, but her words carried weight:

“I will accept that, Your Grace.”

She clinked her cup softly against the Queen’s and drank, setting it down with care. Torren followed quickly after, eager, his lips curling in a smile as he raised his cup high. Weymar lingered longest, his jaw clenched, but in the end, even he lifted his glass, with both hands though he drank.

Under the table, Alysanne’s hand found Alaric’s. She pressed it gently, her thumb brushing against the back of his knuckles. He did not look at her, but the warmth of her touch anchored him more surely than wine or firelight ever could.

Alaric raised his cup, drained the last swallow, and set it down with deliberate care. The wine was heavy and warm on his tongue, though it did little to ease the tightness in his chest. He looked at each of his children in turn, their faces caught in the glow of the torches, and spoke in a voice roughened by years of command but softened now with rare tenderness.

“I am proud of each and every one of you,” he began. “Torren, my heir, I see a true leader in you, though you do not yet see it yourself. Alarra, my first daughter, you are truly your mother’s pride. If only you wielded an axe, I fear you would be just like her.” His mouth quirked into something near a smile. “And Weymar…my most curious son. You have a kind heart, one so rare in this world that I pray the gods guard it well.”

He paused, breath catching, the weight of his words pressing down on him as heavily as his furs. “My children…you honor me, simply by letting me call myself your father.”

Silence followed, not the uneasy sort that had plagued too many of their meals, but something deeper, the silence of love unspoken yet understood. Alarra blinked rapidly, fighting back tears; Torren straightened, pride swelling his chest; and Weymar, though he did not meet his brother’s eye, allowed a flicker of relief to soften his features.

And through it all, Alysanne smiled, her hand never leaving his beneath the table.

The quiet after Alaric’s words was broken not by his children, but by the sudden creak of the hall doors. All turned as Maester Edric entered, his grey robes whispering against the stone floor, a sheaf of parchments clutched in his thin hands. His steps echoed, and though his face was calm, there was an urgency in his bearing.

“Your Grace,” Maester Edric said, bowing as he came to stand beside the Queen. “A raven has come for you.”

Alysanne’s lips curved faintly as she turned her head, casting a playful look toward Torren. Her brows arched high in mock suspicion.

Torren was quick to raise both hands in protest. “I didn’t steal anything! I was traveling back from Last Hearth you saw!” His defense tumbled out in a rush, earning a soft laugh from her, though Alarra shook her head with an exasperated sigh.

“Maester Edric,” Alysanne said lightly, “from whom?”

“From the Lady of Harrenhal, Your Grace.”

Alysanne stilled, her expression flickering with something sharper. “My elder sister writes to me?”

The words lingered in the air, heavy with old ties and half-remembered bonds. The children glanced between one another, uncertain if this was joy or omen.

Before anyone could press her further, Edric cleared his throat again, his tone more grave. “There is more. The Hand of the King has written as well. He announces that he is soon to set sail from King’s Landing, bound for White Harbor, with the rest of His Grace’s royal progress through the North.”

The Queen’s face became unreadable, smoothed into a mask of composure. Only the faint rise and fall of her breath betrayed the stir within her.

Around the round table, the Stark children shifted uneasily. Alarra sat stiff-backed, curiosity burning in her eyes; Torren leaned forward, sharp and watchful, like a wolf scenting a storm; Weymar paled, his lips pressed tight at the mention of the King and his Hand so near.

Alaric leaned back in his chair, the words sinking deep, heavy as stone. Harrenhal, its name was a wound of history and now the Hand of the King drew closer with every wave that struck White Harbor’s shore.

Alaric saw how she lowered the parchment with deliberate grace, her fingers resting on it as though to pin it in place. She did not look to her children but across the table to Alaric. Alysanne set the letter down with careful grace, her hand still resting over it as though to keep it from flying away. Her eyes flicked across the table and settled, not on the children, but on Alaric.

Chapter Text

The morning sun had scarcely cleared the sea mists clinging to Blackwater Bay when the king took his seat. Light slanted through the tall windows behind him, gilding the floor with pale gold. The sun hung low above Maegor’s Holdfast, its rays slanting gold through the High Tower of the Red Keep. In the cool stillness of the Small Council chamber, the only sounds were the rustle of parchment and the gentle clink of a quill against the inkpot.

King Jaehaerys Targaryen, first of his name, sat beneath the old oak carved back, fingers steepled beneath his chin feeling the gentle growth of his new beard.. His silver-gold hair shimmered in the light, but his violet eyes were shadowed with care. The king exhaled slowly. It was the fifth month of fruitless talks. Three years of disruption to trade in the Narrow Sea, three winters' worth of lost coin and stolen cargo, and now, three hours each day of listening to men who refused to listen to one another.

Before him, the envoys of Pentos and Tyrosh argued like children in a nursery.

"The Tyroshi levy tariffs on grain ships from Pentos but expect unfettered access to our spices and dyes!" Lord Adarero Sanonnis, speaking for Pentos, thumped a scroll against the council table. “It is an insult, Your Grace.”

"The Pentoshi harbor pirates who prey on our fleets, and their Triarchs look the other way," spat Ser Calemo Torrez, a lean man in the vivid purple and green silks of Tyrosh. “That is no trade policy—it is war by other means.”

Jaehaerys closed his eyes. He had heard it all before. The same grievances. The same accusations. Three years of fruitless parleys and letters of treaties broken as quickly as they were signed. And now both cities had dared ask him, King of the Seven Kingdoms to mediate a dispute they seemed to have no true desire to resolve.

Septon Barth stood to the king’s right, his plain robes at odds with the silk and velvet finery of the envoys. The Hand of the King was a broad-shouldered man with eyes like quiet fire, his hair turning to gray at the temples. His fingers were ink-stained as ever.

“My lords,” Barth said in his calm, measured tone, “surely we can begin by confirming the shared interests both cities do possess: the need for secure sea lanes, mutual prosperity—”

“Pentos would see us starve!” Torrez barked. “Their shared interests end at their own purses.”

Jaehaerys opened his eyes.

“If I had a dragon for every time I heard that line,” he said coldly, “I could send a dozen to burn down each of your fleets and be done with this entire farce.” Manfryd Redwyne jested as he placed his golden wine glass down on the table.

The room fell into uneasy silence. The Pentoshi envoy shifted uncomfortably. Even the Tyroshi silks seemed to droop.

“Is that what you wish?” the king asked. “To drag the Seven Kingdoms into this petty squabble? To see Dragonstone’s fire descend upon the harbors because they cannot share the seas like grown men?”

“No, Your Grace,” murmured Lord Manfryd Redwyne quickly.

“Then listen,” Jaehaerys said, rising slowly. His voice carried the iron of command. His eyes met the two men sitting at the end of the table. “You ask for my mediation. Then hear my terms. Pentos will reduce its harbor tolls by one-third. Tyrosh will permit tariff-free grain shipments for six months’ time. Any ship bearing the royal crest of House Targaryen shall be under my protection and its cargo untouched by either of your navies.”

Septon Barth’s fingers folded into his robes. “If they cannot agree on blame, let them agree on burden.”

Jaehaerys’s brow lifted. “Go on.”

“Let each city contribute grain and coin to a neutral fund administered by the Faith or the Iron Bank of Braavos, if neither trusts the other. The fund will pay reparations to injured merchants and resupply ships lost to the trade war. Neither city may trade in the Stepstones until peace is restored. Any act of piracy shall be answered by both cities together, as one would handle wildfire in the hold.”

Gaemor looked as though he had bitten a lemon.

Serino frowned. “Such a proposal is costly.”

“So is war,” Barth replied, “but with fewer corpses and more survivors.”

Both envoys began to protest at once.

“Enough,” the king said. He stepped down from the throne dais, his cloak trailing behind him like the tail of a slow-moving flame. He did not raise his voice, but none dared speak over him.

“I rule a kingdom of many lands, many voices, many faiths. I do not have the time to hold your hands through every squabble. You will accept these terms or you will return home with nothing, and I will see to it that neither of you find friendly harbor in Westeros again.”

Barth, silent beside him, offered only the smallest nod of approval.

The king turned to his Hand once the envoys were ushered from the chamber, sullen and murmuring to their scribes. When the envoys were gone, muttering behind silk fans and clenched jaws, Jaehaerys turned to Barth with a sigh.

“They’ll return on the morrow, I know it. You should have been a king, Barth.”

“And you, Your Grace,” Barth said gently, “should have been a septon.”

The king chuckled, but his smile faded quickly. “Still… all this for clashing ledgers and pride. I wonder if my grandfather’s sword would not have settled it faster.”

“But not better,” Barth replied. “Words are wind, yes—but so too is dragonfire, if loosed carelessly.”

“When my sister-wife and I journeyed across Westeros, we brokered peace between lord and peasant, lord and lord, even between the Blackwoods and Bracken. I would do no less now. But mark me well—Westeros is not your chessboard.”

The wine had dulled the king’s edge only slightly. He stared into the cup as though it might hold better answers than the Free Cities ever had. Septon Barth remained beside him, silent in the manner of a man who understood that even kings sometimes needed quiet more than counsel.

After a long moment, Barth cleared his throat gently.

“And Her Grace? How fares the Queen’s progress through the North?”

Jaehaerys leaned back, setting the cup aside. His face, careworn from long reign and longer burdens, softened as it always did when her name was spoken.

“She writes often,” he said. “More than she did in the Vale or the Westerlands. I think the long nights and quiet halls suit her. She says the air smells of pine and smoke, and that the children of Winterfell follow her about like ducklings.”

Barth smiled at that.

“She’s always had a gift for winning hearts, even when they’re clad in fur and iron.”

“Aye,” the king agreed, his tone touched with pride. “The Warden of the North is still stiff as old oak, dour and silent, gods bless him—but Alysanne has the Stark girl embroidering Targaryen dragons beside direwolves, and she’s taught the youngest lad to read some old Valyrian. I fear she’ll turn half of Winterfell into royalists by the arrive North.”

Barth gave a soft chuckle. “Better she win them with silk and song than fire and steel. The North is slow to warm, but once a heart is given…”

“…It is loyal to the last,” Jaehaerys finished. “Yes. That I’ve not forgotten.”

He reached across the table, pulling a scroll closer one of Alysanne’s, marked with her elegant hand. He ran a finger over the wax seal but did not open it. “She speaks of Stark girl often. How she is elegant and speaks with a tone in her voice that could carry over the grand hall. And this Torren saying our son could have him as an older brother.”

Barth’s eyes warmed. “She sees what others overlook.”

Jaehaerys grunted his agreement, then glanced sideways at his Hand. “You’d like it, I think. The North. I remember your letters how you’d always wanted to see the Wall.”

“I did,” Barth admitted. “Still do. I’ve never seen snow, Your Grace. Real snow, I mean—not the dustings in the Crownlands, but summer snow in the shadow of the Frostfangs. They say it falls thick and silent as ash.”

The king laughed softly. “Ash falls from ruin. Snow falls from grace. The difference matters.”

Barth considered that, then nodded. “Perhaps it does.” There was a brief pause before the Septon continued. “When she returns, perhaps I’ll beg her to speak with the Queen’s own tongue to the Free Cities. She’s far better at quieting stubborn men than either of us.”

Jaehaerys raised a brow. “If you think I’d send her to Pentos or Tyrosh, you’ve taken leave of your wits.”

Barth smiled. “A touch of madness in your Hand may be a blessing. So long as he keeps it from becoming policy.” The two men shared a rare laugh then, low and honest. For a moment, the Red Keep's stone walls seemed less heavy.

The great doors to the royal family’s solar closed with a soft thud behind him, and the king exhaled for the first time in hours.

He did not call for servants, nor summon his guard. The stone corridors of the Red Keep echoed faintly behind him, but within these walls his walls the world was quieter. Softer.

The scent of beeswax and lavender hung in the air, mingling with the sweet smoke of the hearth. Golden light from the high windows slanted across the chamber’s plush rugs and silken cushions. Toys carved of weirwood and painted bright with Dornish dye were strewn across the floor like spoils from a gentle war.

And there, in the center of it all, stood a child with silver-gold hair wild as a maiden’s in a storm.

“Papa!” she cried.

Daenerys Targaryen, his eldest living daughter, turned to him with a gap-toothed grin so wide it nearly swallowed her small face. She was five years old, bright as wildfire and twice as hard to catch. Her hair fell in tangled waves down her back, and her cheeks were flushed from play. In one hand, she held up a small white prize between thumb and forefinger—a tooth.

“I lost it!” she declared triumphantly, as if she had slain a giant.

Beside her stood a nervous young maid, no older than fifteen, her eyes wide as saucers and her hands wringing the hem of her dress.

“I—I’m sorry, Your Grace,” the girl stammered. “She pulled it herself, I tried to—she said it was ready but—”

Jaehaerys raised a hand gently. “No harm done,” he said. “She’s braver than most knights I’ve seen in council today.”

The maid blinked, uncertain, then dipped into a quick curtsy and backed away with visible relief.

Daenerys skipped forward, still proudly holding her lost tooth aloft. “Will the Tooth Rat come tonight?” she asked, eyes wide with wonder.

Jaehaerys knelt before her, smiling despite himself. The weight of the Iron Throne, of Free Cities and bickering envoys, melted from his shoulders like a cloak of snow before dragonflame.

“The Tooth Rat?” he asked, one brow arched.

“Yes!” she giggled. “The one momma told me about. He comes in the night and takes your tooth and leaves a coin, but only if it’s very clean.”

“Then I hope you washed it,” he said solemnly.

“I did! I used lemon water like the Septa said. It smells funny.”

She beamed at him, her missing tooth making her look lopsided and utterly adorable.

He touched her hair softly. “If the Tooth Rat does come, I shall have the guards leave the door open. But if he dares take more than a tooth, I’ll have him thrown in the black cells.”

Daenerys giggled so hard she nearly toppled over, grabbing his arms for balance.

“You can’t catch the Tooth Rat, Papa! He’s small. Smaller than a mouse!”

“Then perhaps your dragon will help,” Jaehaerys teased.

“I don’t have a dragon,” she said, almost sadly.

“Not yet,” he said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “But one day, you might. A fine dragon, strong and fast, with wings like silver sails. You’d fly above the clouds and look down on the world, just like your mother.”

“Will Mama be back soon?” Daenerys asked, voice softening.

Jaehaerys kissed her brow. “Soon. She’s in the North, where the air is cold and the trees are tall. But she misses you. She writes of you in every letter.”

“I miss her too.” The child’s voice was barely above a whisper. Then her face lit up suddenly, like the smartest Maester in Oldtown had just revealed the world’s greatest truth. “I want to go North too!” she boasted, eyes wide and shining.

Jaehaerys chuckled despite himself. “What? You think you could brave the cold winds of Winterfell? The nights there are longer  little one. You’d need furs so thick you’d vanish inside them.”

“I’d be brave!” Daenerys insisted, puffing her chest like a knight in a tourney. “And Mama would hold me if I got cold.”

Jaehaerys’ smile faltered, and he pulled her close against his chest. Her small body fit so neatly in his arms, warm and alive in a way that steadied his heart. “You would be brave, my fireling. Of that, I have no doubt. But the North is far, and your mother and I must tend to the realm before we bring you there.”

Her lip trembled. “But… What if she doesn’t come back? What if you don’t?”

The words struck him harder than any sword. Jaehaerys tilted her chin up with his fingers until her violet eyes met his. “Do not think such thoughts. I swear to you, Daenerys, your mother and I will come back. Always. We may be parted for a time, but never forever.”

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling before she could stop them. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he said, his voice thick now with his own emotion. He brushed away her tears with his thumb. “When your mother returns, we shall go North together, the three of us. You will see the tall trees and the white snows with your own eyes. Until then, you must be my brave little dragon, for your brothers…They are young babes still they will need you.”

She sniffled, then pressed her cheek against his tunic, small hands gripping tightly as if to anchor him. “Then don’t break your promise.”

“Never,” Jaehaerys whispered, kissing the crown of her silver hair. “Not to you, not to her. The world may ask much of me, but it will never take me from my children. Or from her.”

Daenerys closed her eyes, comforted by his heartbeat, steady and sure. “Then I’ll wait. But only if you hurry.”

Jaehaerys laughed softly, though there was a shadow in it. “I will hurry, my love. For you.”

The king rose and lifted her easily into his arms. She curled against him like a kitten, tooth still clutched in one hand. He sat in the cushioned window seat, holding her close, and for a moment just a moment the burdens of realm and rule seemed far away.

He wishes he could ignore his realm some days and could be a father more but when duties calls he must answer. The blind cannot lead sheep some days. The chamber doors closed behind him with a dull boom, and once more King Jaehaerys I Targaryen father, husband, dragonlord, and ruler of the Seven Kingdoms resumed his seat at the head of the Small Council.

The fire had been stoked. The light was dimmer than yesterday, and yet somehow the air felt heavier. Duty often did. He settled into his chair and offered a curt nod. Around him, the king’s most trusted advisors sat already waiting: calm, composed, and sharpened as knives in a butcher’s roll.

Septon Barth, the Hand of the King, sat nearest, his fingers ink-stained and his mind ever in motion.

To his left, the Master of Coin, Lord Rego Draz, long-faced and pale, fidgeted with a strip of parchment that had been folded and refolded to fraying. Born in Lys but Westerosi in loyalty, Draz was a meticulous, if joyless, keeper of the realm’s purse.

Beside him, Lord Albin Massey, Master of Laws, sat straight-backed in fine dark velvets, his every word clipped as though carved from iron. And at the far end, robust and red-cheeked from wine or weather, Lord Manfryd Redwyne, Master of Ships, rolled a grape between thick fingers and popped it into his mouth with more care than ceremony.

The king clasped his hands before him.

“Well,” he said. “Let’s begin.”

Barth was first, always.

“The roads to Gulltown have seen improvement, Your Grace. House Arryn’s new toll has funded a half-dozen bridges, and the Crown’s banners keep the tracts clear of brigands. Trade is growing stronger in the East.”

Rego Draz cleared his throat. “Though not so strong, I must add, as to undo the damage done by the Tyroshi-Pentoshi squabbles. I could ask for Lannister gold? Those trade tariffs bleed our coin in the Narrow Sea, even with Your Grace’s decree in place. The Lyseni charge doubles now for Myrish lens and lace.”

Lord Massey snorted. “Seven Gods not the Lannister. I cannot bear the thought of their blonde smug smiles.Lens and lace. Let the courtiers squint and the whores wear wool.”

Lord Redwyne chuckled into his goblet. “You’d be surprised, Albin, how many wars have been started over what ladies wear… or remove.”

Even Jaehaerys gave the faintest smirk. “And the Reach?” he asked Redwyne. “You’ve ships along the Mander, do you not?”

“Aye, Your Grace,” Redwyne said. “The Hightowers claim to be strengthening Oldtown’s docks to repel pirates. But there are whispers they build warships as well.”

“Do they need them?” Jaehaerys asked.

“Hard to say. Lord Hightower's tongue is smooth as silk, but his sailors grumble louder than their bells toll. Will figure it out.”

Massey leaned forward. “If Lord Hightower is worried about the Dornish plan to invade again he shouldn't worry. Speaking of petty wars, it seems the Blackwoods and Brackens are at it again. Over the same cursed stretch of stream sound a mill.”

“Seven help us,” muttered Draz. “Can we not dig a trench and drown them both in it?”

Redwyne guffawed. “They’d keep fighting at the bottom. Brackens with fish tails and Blackwoods sprouting gills.”

Even Barth chuckled at that. “They’ve quarreled since the Age of Heroes. The septons call it kin-strife. I call it stubbornness passed down like a sword.”

Jaehaerys sighed and rubbed his brow. “If that were the worst of it, I’d welcome it. But the Iron Islands demand leave to fish deeper waters, the Dornish send vague threats dressed in poetry, and the Westerlands argue about silver veins while Storm’s End squabbles with Tarth over shipping lanes.”

He leaned forward.

“And still no resolution from Tyrosh and Pentos. They smile and agree in my presence, then spit and strike when they return across the sea.”

Barth lowered his voice. “You gave them peace, but they will not keep it. There is only so much a dragon’s shadow can do.”

The king’s fingers tapped the table once. Twice. “This council has heard the grievances of a dozen lords, managed coin and law, ships and trade. And yet none of it feels finished.” He scanned the room. “Tell me—is anything ever finished in this realm?”

A moment of silence fell.

Rego Draz blinked. “Not unless the Seven come down and set the ledgers right themselves, Your Grace.”

Massey spoke next, dry and sure. “Peace is a garden, not a stone keep. It needs tending, or the weeds will return.”

Redwyne shrugged. “If you want stillness, take a ship beyond the Sunset Sea. Nothing but waves and wind forevermore.”

Jaehaerys sat back. “So it never ends,” he said, more to himself than to them.

Barth smiled faintly. “No. It only changes. That is the work of kings—and of men.”

Jaehaerys closed his eyes for a moment, thinking not of council, or quarreling lords, or ships, or tariffs—but of his daughter’s missing tooth, and the joy on her face as she held it up like a dragon egg.

“Oh Alyanne would love this whole ordeal.”

The doors to the council chamber burst open with a thunderous crack, iron hinges screeching. Two men strode in without ceremony, silk cloaks flying behind them like banners at war.

“Your Grace!” shouted Ser Calemo Torrez, the Tyroshi envoy, his purple and green sash clutched tight in a fist. “This cannot stand!”

“Lies!” roared Lord Adarero Sanonnis, the Pentoshi representative, eyes wild and cheeks flushed. “This is a declaration of piracy, not diplomacy!”

Guards stepped forward instantly, hands at sword hilts—but Jaehaerys raised a single hand, and they froze.

The king had not yet risen. He merely leaned back in his high seat, elbows on the arms of the dragon-carved throne, and let the fury of the two emissaries break against the walls like storm waves against Dragonstone.

“Your Grace,” Sanonnis spat, flinging a scroll onto the council table. “They’ve seized four of our grain ships. Tyroshi flags fly from their masts now, their crews imprisoned or murdered!”

Torrez snarled. “They were trespassing on Tyroshi waters—armed! We do not suffer from spies and smugglers.”

“They carried wheat and barley, not blades,” Sanonnis snapped.

The king exhaled, long and low.

“I have heard enough,” the king said, his voice deep and even, like the first low growl of a dragon waking. He stepped down from his throne, each footfall echoing like a drumbeat in the vaulted chamber.

“Two cities, proud and ancient, sending their finest to my court—and you come howling like hounds over scraps. This is the Iron Throne you stand before. You forget yourselves.”

He paused, gaze flicking from one man to the other.

“I am Jaehaerys of House Targaryen—first of My Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. You speak of piracy. You speak of spies. And yet you bring none but words, none but scrolls—nothing but your fury.”

He turned slightly, walking the length of the council table as his voice deepened.

“If you seek justice, you will find it through truth, not tantrum. If you seek war, speak plainly and be done with it. But understand this: I do not rule for your games. I do not bend to bluster or to outrage wrapped in silks.”

He stopped, facing them both.

“My word is law here. And while I sit the throne, no ship shall be seized under false cause, and no blood spilled in my name without consequence. Tyrosh will release the grain ships. Pentos will withhold retaliation. Both of you will present your evidence in full, without embellishment before the full council in three days' time.”

Neither man spoke. Neither dared.

Jaehaerys stepped back toward the throne and seated himself once more.

“Now,” he said, folding his hands. “Unless either of you intends to accuse the other of war, you will bow…and leave my hall.”

They bowed. Shaking, simmering, and wordless, they turned and withdrew.

The heavy doors closed behind the two emissaries, leaving the faintest echo of their retreat.

For a moment, there was only silence.

“Desperate men make dangerous choices,” added Lord Lyman Beesbury. “Especially when they believe Westerosi judgment ends at the Narrow Sea.”

Lord Redwyne gave a low chuckle, swirling wine in his goblet. “Well, I say we send the Velaryon fleet and be done with it. Daemon’s ships can outrun and outgun any half-rotted tub the Free Cities float.”

The room stirred with quiet amusement—but Redwyne grinned wider when he caught the king’s eye. “Of course, I’d be happy to lead them myself, Your Grace. If only to put Daemon Velaryon in his place for once. The man’s hair is longer than his patience.”

Jaehaerys raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “Careful, Lord Redwyne. Make another jest like that, and I’ll name you admiral for the voyage myself.”

A few chuckles rolled through the chamber. Redwyne bowed slightly in mock contrition, though the grin never left his face. “I am ever at your command, Your Grace,” he said, half-laughing. “Though I fear saltwater is unkind to Arbor wine.”

“That, Lord Redwyne,” Jaehaerys said dryly, “is the least of my concerns.”

Barth cleared his throat, his voice calm but weighted with purpose.“If I may, Your Grace. We should send a royal envoy to Tyrosh and Pentos both. One unburdened by bias or coin. Let them see that the Crown still holds the peace, even when others would spill it without hesitation.”

Jaehaerys gave a slow, thoughtful nod.“Yes. A neutral voice. One that cannot be bought, cannot be baited, and will speak with the dignity of the realm behind him.”

His gaze swept the length of the council table, pausing on each lord in turn. “Recommendations?”

“Lord Greyjoy?” offered Lord Massey with a shrug, as if tossing out a bone to the dogs.

Lord Redwyne coughed into his goblet, then scoffed outright. “You’re joking. A Greyjoy? Please, my lord. If we’re sending reavers to speak for the realm, we may as well throw the envoy into the sea and send his bones in a box.”

“The Ironborn aren’t without loyalty,” Massey muttered, though without conviction.

Redwyne leaned forward, wine forgotten. “Loyalty? The last Greyjoy who served the Crown tried to ransom his own cousin after being knighted. If we’re sending emissaries, let’s at least pretend we want peace.”

“What of Lord Tower?” Massey suggested again, more firmly this time.

“The Lord of Harrenhal?” Redwyne’s voice rose with disbelief. “That man cursed the last voyage more than he guided it. He couldn’t even negotiate passage through Oldtown without offending half the Faith. Gods save us if we put him on a ship again.”

Barth raised a hand gently, voice calm once more. “ Let us look not only to lords and banners, but to minds and mouths that can represent the realm. We do not need swords. We need sense.”

Jaehaerys nodded. “A name can be chosen later. But I want the envoy on a ship within the fortnight. We cannot be seen to hesitate.”

The king stood, and the room quieted further. He folded his hands behind his back and turned toward the arched window, where pale light filtered through stained glass depicting Aegon the Conqueror astride Balerion.

“Make no mistake,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “We walk the knife’s edge. War among the Free Cities can spill easily across the sea. The Seven Kingdoms must not become their battleground.”

There was a brief pause, and then he turned back to the table.

“I want this resolved quickly. We shall not be here long.”

Murmurs rippled down the table.

“Your Grace?” asked Lord Beesbury carefully. “Not here? You mean to leave the capital?”

“I do,” Jaehaerys replied. “I will join the royal progress before the month’s end.”

Lord Redwyne blinked. “If I ask?”

“To the North,” the king said plainly. “To Winterfell.”

A hush fell over the room.

“Winterfell?” Lord Massey echoed.

“I will be gone some time,” the king continued. “And I will not go alone. You are my governance, my lords and counselors. Where I go, so too must you follow. The realm must see us not as scattered voices in stone halls, but as one body united, deliberate, and watching.”

“But Your Grace,” Redwyne protested, “a progress is for the royal family not for half the court to follow—”

Jaehaerys turned to him, gaze sharp. “I go not merely to be seen, Lord Redwyne. I go to govern. To learn. To listen. And I would have my council with me. If you fear cold winds and snow, I suggest you bring heavier cloaks.”

The room fell silent once more. The king stepped forward, returning to the head of the table.

“It shall be my first time in the North. When I arrive in Winterfell, I shall remain there for a while. Long enough for the lords of the North to know their king not as a voice from behind the Neck, but as a man who walks their halls and eats at their fires.”

The morning fog still clung to the Blackwater when Jaehaerys Targaryen walked beneath the River Gate, the Mud Gate as the smallfolk called it, his white-cloaked Kingsguard flanking him. A line of Targaryen House Guard swept over the street moving the mass away from streets for King to walk freely safely towards the dock. The stench of fish and tar rose thick from the docks, mingling with the cries of gulls and the slap of water against the piers. Yet the king’s pace was measured, regal, each step drawing the gaze of sailors, merchants, and dockhands who stilled their work to bow. 

At the end of the quay stood Septon Barth, his plain robes stirring in the brisk river wind, a small chest of scrolls and ledgers set at his feet. The King’s Hand bowed as the monarch approached.

“Your Grace,” Barth said warmly. “I am ready. The tide waits on no man.”

Jaehaerys clasped his hand with both of his own, what he show of intimacy for the king and counselor. “And I trust it will not wait on me. Look after her, Barth. My queen will need wise company in that cold country, and I will need her news as swiftly as it can be sent.”

“You have my word, sire,” Barth replied, gripping the king’s hand in return. “I shall keep her letters close to my heart, and bring you tidings of your children with each ship that sails south. The North may be far, but the bond between you shall not fray while I draw breath.”

Jaehaerys inclined his head, gratitude in his eyes. “A month, you say?”

As if on cue, boots struck the planks behind them. Lord Manfryd Redwyne, wrapped in a sea-blue cloak that smelled faintly of salt and wine, approached with a courtly bow. His dark beard was trimmed neat, but his eyes glittered with the wry humor of a man who had spent too long at sea.

“If we are lucky, yes…If I perish in that wasteland Northerners call home,” Redwyne drawled, “tell my wife not to saddle our next son with my cursed name. I’ve hated ‘Manfryd’ since the day I first heard it. And Seven help me, keep that Velaryon girl away from my heir! She’s trouble bottled in silk, and I’ll not have her near him.”

Barth chuckled, shaking his head. “You think death awaits you in White Harbor? I would wager the only danger you’ll face is too many feasts and too much mead.”

Jaehaerys allowed himself a smile. “Go with my blessing, my lords. See that my queen’s heart is eased, and send me word swift as wings. The Redwyne fleet is needed still, but Alysanne needs you more in this hour.”

The two men bowed deeply, then turned to their waiting ship. The king stood for a moment, watching as sailors bustled to prepare for departure. He was lost in thought when a small, piping voice pierced the noise.

“Father!”

He turned sharply. There, at the edge of the quay, stood his daughter Daenerys, skirts hiked in reckless haste, clutching a bundle of silver hair and soft linen. Little Aemon, over a year old, wriggled in her arms, his fists grasping at her sleeve. One of the Kingsguard strode behind them, face grim with duty, and a young serving girl was near to tears as she tugged helplessly at the princess’ arm.

Jaehaerys’ breath caught in his chest. “By the gods,” he muttered, striding forward swiftly. He scooped the babe from Daenerys’ grasp with practiced ease, cradling Aemon against his shoulder. The boy burbled, drooling onto his father’s tunic, wholly unbothered by the tumult.

“Daenerys,” Jaehaerys said, stern now though his eyes still glimmered with warmth, “what boldness is this? You know your brother is but a babe. He belongs in the nursery, not chasing gulls on the docks.”

The girl ducked her head, though a mischievous smile tugged at her lips. “I wanted him to see you before the ships left. He cries for you at night, Father.”

Jaehaerys bent low, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “And I come to him when I may. But next time, my daughter, you must come to me first before leaving your keep. You are not some fisher’s child to run wild by the river. You are blood of the dragon.”

“I know,” she whispered, though her grin returned quickly. “But I am your daughter too.”

That pierced him deeper than any reprimand could. He kissed her brow once more, shifting Aemon to one arm so his other hand could rest upon her shoulder. “So you are. And you have your mother’s stubbornness in you as well. Gods preserve me.”

Her laughter was bright and clear against the crash of the waves. Jaehaerys held them both close for a heartbeat longer, then turned, walking her back toward the gate with the Kingsguard and the relieved serving girl trailing.

The Iron Throne sat in silence. Its jagged teeth of twisted steel caught the pale shafts of morning light that bled through the high windows of the hall, each edge gleaming faintly as if newly forged. Alone, Jaehaerys walked the vast chamber, the echo of his boots a hollow drum that filled the empty space. The Kingsguard had been dismissed. No herald announced his steps, no lords bent knee in petition. For once, the hall belonged to him, and him alone.

Yet solitude did not bring peace.

His eyes lingered on the throne, its black mass looming as though it breathed with a life of its own. The swords of conquered men—more than a thousand, Maegor had claimed—rose in cruel mockery of crowns, their points jagged and waiting, hungry for blood. How many had cut him in his youth, as he mounted its treacherous steps under the watchful eye of the usurper? He remembered the taste of iron on his tongue, the sting across his palm when a shard had split him open.

He closed his eyes, but that only worsened the torment. For in the silence, he heard him.

“What is it for me to have an heir when they are not of my own seed!” The voice was low, guttural, echoing in memory though Maegor had been dead for a decade. Jaehaerys’ hand curled into a fist. He could almost see Maegor sitting there on the throne, vast and broad-shouldered, his armor red with fresh blood, his eyes pits of fire beneath the dragon helm. He could smell the smoke of Dragonstone’s forges, hear the hammering of the blacksmiths who had bent steel and men alike to the king’s will.

“Send them to Dragonstone,” the phantom voice pressed on, dripping with menace. “When Alysannel bleeds. When she does, you will bring her to King’s Landing. A womb is no different from young or old…I shall take her as one of my wives.”

“No,” Jaehaerys muttered aloud, his voice startling in the emptiness of the hall. “Not as you did.”

The words rang against the stone and were swallowed by the shadows. He rubbed his brow, weariness gnawing at the edges of his resolve. His reign was peace, yet peace was not rest. The realm’s needs pressed him from every side lords petitioning for favor, septons quarreling with maesters. And through it all, the demand that weighed heaviest was the simplest: beget heirs. A kingdom could endure poor harvests, ill luck, even war, but not the death of its line.

He opened his eyes again and found the throne glaring back at him. Each blade seemed to mock him with its silent testimony: here sat kings before you, and here they bled. Some had ruled well, some monstrously, but all had been consumed in the end. Would he fare better? Would history remember him as the Conciliator, or would time twist him into another cruel shadow like Maegor?

His fist unclenched only when the ache in his palm grew sharp. He turned from the throne abruptly, unwilling to endure its silent judgment any longer.

The Red Keep was a fortress of stone and secrets. Its passageways wound like veins through the hill, some narrow and steep, others broad and echoing. Jaehaerys walked with long strides, his cloak trailing behind him, as he made his way toward his solar. But solitude pressed upon him even there. The solar, once a place of comfort where he and Alysanne had shared laughter, now seemed vast and cold with her away in the North. Scrolls lay untouched upon the table. Letters from lords and ladies waited, unopened, sealed in wax.

He could not sit. Not yet. The weight in his chest pressed him lower, deeper. He descended the steps that spiraled toward the Red Keep’s library, where the air grew cooler and dust clung to the stones. The faint smell of vellum and ink rose to meet him, comforting in its way. Knowledge did not quarrel, did not weep, did not betray.

Within, the shelves towered with scrolls and books gathered from across Westeros and beyond. Candlelight flickered across the chamber, where Grand Maester Benifer sat hunched over a desk, quill scratching against parchment. His beard, long and silver, caught the light like spun glass.

Benifer looked up, startled, when the king entered. “Your Grace? You come late to the books. What is it you seek?”

Jaehaerys did not waste words. “Maester…I…I’d like books from the North. A history lesson before my travels.”

“Of course a wise decision…What would you like? I have several copies.” Benifer began to walk to a shelf of books old and weathered with time.

“The Conqueror’s chest. I would see it.”

The maester blinked, confusion knitting his brow. “The Conqueror’s… chest, Your Grace?”

“The box Aegon brought from the wars,” Jaehaerys pressed, his voice edged with impatience. “The one that held the relics of conquest.”

Benifer’s face softened, as though he mistook the king’s restlessness for a passing fancy. He set aside his quill carefully. “No sword came from the North, Your Grace. The Iron Throne is proof enough of that. The blades were taken from the field of fire, from Harrenhal, from the many battles that bent the realm.”

“No sword,” Jaehaerys cut him off, his tone sharp. “The crown. The crown of the Kings in the North.”

At that, silence fell heavy between them. The maester’s eyes widened faintly, as if a ghost had been named aloud. “Do…Do you wish to bear it? I think the Northern lords, even House Stark would find that…Insult more than respectful.”

“Please bring me the crown.”

Reluctant but obedient, Benifer shuffled to a great iron-bound chest set beneath a tapestry of Aegon astride Balerion. Keys jingled at his belt as he worked the lock. With a grunt, he heaved open the lid.

Inside lay relics of conquest: Aegon’s banner with the three-headed dragon, folded with care; the seals of submission or death: from destroyed Harren the Black a ring, antler from Argilac, from the Hightowers of Oldtown a jewel green so pure; and nestled within, half-forgotten, a simple box of black oak. Benifer lifted it gently, as if afraid it might crumble in his hands.

“This was brought after Torrhen Stark bent the knee,” the Maester explained softly. “It has not been worn since.”

Jaehaerys reached out and lifted the lid. There it lay: a circlet of hammered bronze, dark with age, incised with runes of the First Men so old even the Citadel disputed their meaning. Upon it rose nine iron spikes, black as night, shaped like the blades of longswords pointing to the heavens. The crown of the Kings of Winter. The symbol of a thousand years of Stark rule.

He lifted it with both hands. The bronze was heavy, rough against his skin, as though the weight of every winter it had seen pressed still upon it. For a moment, Jaehaerys thought of Alysanne far away in that cold land, of the great weirwoods and the direwolves on their banners, of the stubborn pride of the Starks.

Jaehaerys’ fingers brushed the edge of the crown, the bronze cool and heavy beneath his touch. The runes caught the torchlight faintly, as though they held some secret language older than dragons.

“How old is this crown?” he asked.

Benifer’s lips pursed, his hands folding in the long sleeves of his robe. “Ahh, well—that is in dispute. The records differ, as they often do. Some claim it to be more than two thousand years old, wrought before the First Men crossed the Neck. Others argue for a thousand only, forged when the Starks first set Winterfell’s stones. Whatever the truth, it is older than the Conqueror’s throne above our heads, older than any Targaryen claim upon Westeros.”

Jaehaerys let out a long breath, studying the spikes of black iron that jutted like swords toward the heavens. “Imagine it, Benifer. To see the might of Aegon’s the dragon with his host three dragons darkening the sky, a hundred banners snapping in the wind yet the Northern men marched still. They did not fear. All but Torrhen.”

“He must have seen reason,” Benifer offered gently.

Jaehaerys shook his head. “No. Reason was only half of it. Aegon saw something in him. His conquest was not merely to burn and seize it was to unite. Torrhen must have shared that vision, else he would never have bent the knee. Tell me, what do the chronicles say of that meeting?”

The Grand Maester hesitated, then shuffled to a nearby lectern, pulling free a scroll bound in faded leather. “Not much of their converse was set down. Some claim Aegon and Torrhen spoke all night, others that few words passed at all. Yet…” He trailed off, his eyes narrowing as he read. “It is noted Queen Visenya traveled North on several occasions after. And on one royal progress, she remained four months in Winterfell.”

“What?” Jaehaerys’ voice cracked louder than he intended. He straightened, surprise plain in his silver eyes. “I have never heard these tales.”

“Nor had I,” Benifer admitted, adjusting the lantern light across the parchment. “Until last year, when I came upon a fragment among the royal tour accounts. It spoke of Aegon’s journey to the Wall. While there, Queen Visenya ‘affirmed respect’ for Lord Torrhen Stark. Some claim…” His voice lowered, wary. “…they had a close connection.”

Jaehaerys’ mind turned at once to the tale, his thoughts a storm. What folly was this? Aegon had wed Visenya out of duty, and Rhaenys out of love. Visenya, stern and proud, loyal to her blood and fierce in protecting her kin, what tie could she have forged with the Warden of the North? He had heard other stories: how on the royal progress Queen Rhaenys adored Torrhen’s only daughter, singing with her in Winterfell’s halls; how Torrhen himself grew to respect Aegon, even to admire him. But Visenya? No chronicles had ever spoken of that.

“Are you saying,” Jaehaerys asked slowly, his voice a blade drawn, “that Torrhen Stark and Queen Visenya were lovers?”

Benifer’s head shook quickly, his hands raised. “No, no, Your Grace. Only subject of rumor. Most likely by singers. There is no evidence. What is certain, however, is that Torrhen made a promise to Visenya. After his death she flew North with her son Maegor. She gave her aid to Torren eldest son Brandon Stark called Brandon the Boisterous. After some Northern lords rose in defiance. After he pledged to stand by her and her son.”

Jaehaerys’ brows knit. “A promise? What promise?”

“That, I cannot say.” Benifer sighed, rubbing his temples. “The details are veiled, lost. Some scrolls speak of it, but none give the words. It was as though the matter was smothered after. When Brandon died, his successor Roderick Stark rose as Warden, and then in Aenys’ reign, Roderick son Brandon after him. Neither spoke of Visenya’s bond, nor kept whatever oath was sworn. When Maegor demanded support from the North claiming that a promise was made between House Stark and House Targaryen, sealed by his own mother hand.”

Jaehaerys’ gaze lingered upon the bronze circlet, its black spikes jagged in the dim light. His mind reeled with questions, with suspicions, with the weight of histories forgotten.

“The former Warden Brandon answered the call when I rallied the Lords to my claim…He never mentioned such things…Did you find any more?”

Benifer bowed his head. “No more, my king. Perhaps Lord Alaric Stark knows what we do not.”

Jaehaerys laid the crown back into its box with care, as though afraid the old bronze might splinter in his hands. For a long moment he lingered, the spikes of black iron catching the lantern light, stark reminders of winters long gone. Then, with a slow exhale, he closed the lid. His fingers lingered on the black oak for a heartbeat more before he straightened.

“Keep it safe, Grand Maester,” he murmured.

Benifer bowed, eyes downcast. “As you command, Your Grace.”

Without another word, the king turned and departed the library. His footfalls echoed up the winding stair, the cool air of the vaults giving way to the warmer draft of the solar corridors above. Yet though the stone passage swallowed the library behind him, the weight of the crown seemed to cling still to his shoulders, as if he carried it invisibly in his heart.

The following day dawned pale and heavy, mist coiling along the Blackwater and drifting against the Red Keep’s walls. The king did not go to council that morning, nor to the yard where his sons and squires trained. Instead, Jaehaerys sat alone in his solar, the shutters drawn wide to the grey sky. Upon his desk lay a single folded letter, the wax broken, the parchment already read thrice over.

It was Alysanne’s hand.

Dear Jaehaerys,

The Wall was unlike anything I have ever seen. The cold there is a living thing, sharper than steel, sinking straight to the bone. Yet the men of the Night’s Watch endure it with a courage that humbles me. I wish you might stand here beside me, to look upon the very edge of your realm and glimpse what lies beyond the world we know.

I have grown to love the North, in its land, its people, and its noble houses. They are proud and honest, fiercely protective of their own. There is strength in them that no dragon’s flame can melt. Yet I confess, I am half-afraid that House Umber might one day decide to challenge our dragons with their fists, so bold are they.

You would love the children here as much as I do. Torren carries himself with such solemnity, reminding me of you when you were young, already bearing a weight far greater than your years. Weymar is full of life and curiosity. if he were to meet our little Daenerys, I fear the two might prove too much for Winterfell itself. And Alarra… she is all that a Lady of Winterfell should be, strong and headstrong both. Yet there are moments, fleeting but beautiful, when I see her simply as a girl of her age, and my heart aches for her.

I miss our own children more with each passing day. I pray that when next I see them, it will be in times of peace and joy. Send them my love, and my kisses, and let them know that no distance can cool their mother’s heart.

As always,
Alysanne

Jaehaerys lingered long over her final lines. He set the parchment down and rubbed his brow, weariness etched into his face. For a moment, the Iron Throne seemed far away, a shadow behind him. In this room, there was only her hand, her voice carried across the miles. He could almost hear her laughter, feel the warmth of her breath at his cheek.

“My love,” he whispered, “if only the realm would allow me to fly to you sooner.”

Chapter Text

 Winterfell had settled into a rhythm that was no longer wholly Stark. The people of the castle servants, guards, even the old hounds by the hearth had grown used to the silver-haired queen in their midst. Alysanne Targaryen walked their halls with such easy grace that it was as though she had always been here, her laughter echoing off cold stone, her hand brushing children’s hair, her smile winning over even the most suspicious hearts.

For Alarra, it was more complicated. The sight of Alysanne at her father’s side no longer burned her as it once had, though the wound of her mother’s absence remained. Still, each day she watched the Queen move through Winterfell with grace and command, and slowly, against her will, Alarra found herself softening if not to love, then at least to grudging respect.

She sat in her chamber by the narrow window, the pale light of morning spilling over parchment. In her lap lay a fresh letter from Mariya Hornwood, the familiar hand neat and looped with excitement. Alarra’s eyes skimmed the words again and again, her cheeks warmed with a nervous flutter she could not banish.

My Dearest friend,

Father has spoken with Lord Ragnar Forrester. There has been talk serious talk of a wardship for me at Ironrath. It would only be for a time but imagine! The pines of the Wolfswood, the halls of the Foresters, and their sons who are said to be gallant enough to make the bards sing. I am nervous, yes, but excited too. My life has been Hornwood alone, ever since my sister married that Lord of Flint of Flint's Finger. I am ready for what my duty is for my house but also, we will be closer! Maybe we can see each other more often?

Your dear friend

Mariya

Alarra read the words twice, her heart beating quicker each time. Alyn Forrester’s name leapt from the page as if it had been written in brighter ink. The thought of Mariya in his halls walking beside him, perhaps even betrothed one day  filled Alarra with a tangle of nerves and something like envy. Her fingers tightened on the parchment. She was glad for Mariya, truly, yet the idea of her friend living under another roof, far from Hornwood, left her unsettled. It reminded her that she too was of an age where whispers of matches and wardships began to circle like crows.

The halls of Winterfell breathed with the quiet rhythm of morning. Fires crackled low in the hearths as servants swept the rushes and carried steaming bread from the kitchens. Alarra slipped through them, her steps unhurried, the letter from Mariya still folded against her palm. The walls felt less heavy today; the sunlight had fought its way past drifting clouds, laying golden stripes across the flagstones.

She found Torren in the outer yard, standing alone where the sun’s warmth could touch him. His cloak hung loose about his shoulders, and the pale light turned the frost in his dark hair to silver. He did not notice her until she was near, and when he looked up, there was the faintest hint of relief in his eyes.

“You’ve been brooding again,” she teased, slipping beside him.

He gave a half-smile. “I am not!” He answered with a defense.

“Liar,” Alarra smirked faintly as she lowered herself beside him, smoothing her skirts across the stone step. For a moment they said nothing, only listening to the muted chorus of Winterfell around them: the clatter of a stable boy’s pail echoing from the yard, the bark of a hound chasing shadows, the faint, steady hammering from the smithy. It was the sound of home and of distance, too, for neither of them felt quite at peace in it.

Alarra broke the quiet first. “Weymar has been absent from your side of late. I’ve noticed. He hasn’t nagged you with questions or followed you into every hall as he once did.”

Torren let out a sigh, the sound caught somewhere between relief and weariness. “Absent,” he repeated, shaking his head. “At the Wall there was no patience. Only cold. The cold sank into everything. Into him. Into me.”

She turned sharply, startled by the raw edge in his voice. Before she could speak, his next words slipped out with bitterness. “He hates me… Gods, Alarra, I regret how I treated him.”

“What?” She blinked, reaching for him. “Torren, our little Weymar doesn’t hate you. He’s… he’s only processing things. He’s still young, still learning. You must give him time.”

“Time?” Torren’s laugh was brittle, nearly breaking. “What I saw at the Wall was endless time. Eternal. That place drove me half mad.” His voice quickened, panic sharpening each word. “I swear the crows had red eyes, watching me!”

Alarra’s brow furrowed. “What riddles are you speaking? The Wall cannot be that horrible.” She tried to lighten the weight with a teasing laugh, but it sounded thin even to her own ears.

Torren’s eyes, however, were far away. “I saw a battlefield,” he whispered, as though confessing a sin. “Two dragon banners, facing each other across the snow. A man pale as milk but with a missing eye  he looked at me. Right at me. As though it wasn’t a dream but something real. I wonder if Weymar saw it too. Maybe… maybe he saw something different.”

Alarra’s hand shook before she reached out to him. His voice carried no jest; she could see the fear flickering in his eyes, something cold that had followed him home from the Wall. She took his hand and held it tightly, their fingers locking together. When they were young, after their mother’s death, it was Torren who had held the siblings together, who had kept Alarra from crumbling when grief threatened to consume her. Now she gave back the gesture, hoping her hand could be the same anchor for him.

“Torren,” she said softly, her throat tight, “I’m sorry. I’ll talk with Weymar. Perhaps a sweet voice can turn his thoughts around in your favor once more. I miss seeing the two of you together, even when your mischief drove me mad.”

He huffed, a sound halfway to a laugh. “It’s true. We did test your patience often.” Then his smile faltered, and his gaze grew sharper as it shifted toward her. “But you…You speak with Weymar often. Yet with Father…” His voice trailed, then steadied into something firmer. “You only speak when you must. Always formal. Never more.”

Her breath caught. She looked away, unable to meet his eyes, her throat tightening as though caught in a snare. The words slipped out sharp, defensive. “It is easier that way.”

Torren studied her for a long moment. Then, with a dry chuckle that carried more weariness than mirth, he muttered, “Perhaps House Stark will split one day. Weymar can call himself Greystark and raise his own banners. Spare us all the torment.”

Her eyes flashed, and she smacked his arm with the back of her hand. “Don’t jest about such things.”

Torren winced but grinned anyway, the shadows in his expression softening for a breath. “If I didn’t, you’d worry more.”

Despite herself, Alarra smiled too. For that brief moment, the air between them lightened, like a patch of sun through the snow clouds,  fragile, fleeting, but real.

“Who would ever believe House Stark could be this tangled in Southerners?” Alarra said, smirking faintly. “What’s next, Alarra. Will you be swooned by a Lannister boy?”

“Ew, gods no!” Alarra wrinkled her nose, laughing despite herself. “No, by any chance you’ll be the one to charm half the court of ladies.”

“Oh, please.” Torren rolled his eyes. “I’m not as bold as Father ever was. He danced with a princess once, you know and somehow, heh, he charmed royalty.”

“Charmed is the word you picked?” Alarra chuckled. “I’d call Father many things, but bold? Never. Quiet, yes. Grim, aye. Yet somehow he’s managed to win hearts. Even ones he had no business winning.”

“Father is always sure of himself with that confidence without speaking a word? I wish when I’m lord I can do just that. But for now we deal with what's coming.”

Alarra’s smile faded into thought, her hands folding into her lap. “That’s the part that makes me conflicted… about everything. About myself, our family, the future.” She glanced sideways at him, her voice quieter now. “What’s going to happen when the King comes North?”

Torren’s grin dimmed as well. “The Others take them all. Southerners are more dangerous than they look. Father is wary of them, and he’s right to be. But I won’t let anyone threaten us. If they do…” He clenched his hand into a fist. “They’ll answer to me.”

Alarra gave a short, incredulous laugh. “What then? A battle in the godswood? Will you march a Northern army south and crown yourself King in the North, like in the old tales?”

Torren smirked, though his eyes still held a seriousness she couldn’t quite shake. “They’ll call me the Young Wolf who marched south.” He leaned back on his elbows, grinning now in full mockery. “Though perhaps I can fix the name, Torren Stark, instead of ‘the king who knelt’ to ‘the King who fought the dragon’. A hero in every song.”

Alarra swatted his shoulder with a laugh. “You sound mad, boasting like some sellsword.”

“Better than sounding afraid,” he answered, though his grin softened. “We’re Starks. Whatever comes, we’ll face it. Together.”

Torren leaned back against the stone wall, eyes half on the sky where a crow cut across the pale light. “Alarra,” he said suddenly, his tone softer, “have you ever thought… in a different world, if things were differentwhat Father and the Queen would be?”

Alarra stiffened, but after a moment, she gave the smallest nod. “Yes. I’ve thought of it.”

“And?” he pressed, his eyes narrowing in curiosity.

She gave a half-snort. “Well, if we’re thinking serious, war would break out. The king in the South would never stand for it. It would tear the realm apart.”

Torren waved that away with an impatient shake of his hand. “No, no. Leave the ethics to the maesters and the lords who choke on them. I mean imagine it. Just imagine, without rules, without banners, without all the weight of crowns.”

Alarra fell quiet, staring down at her hands folded in her lap. Then, slowly, her lips tugged into the smallest smile. “We’d have siblings by marriage who could fly dragons,” she admitted. “Half Starks, half Targaryens. And in time… future children would be a blend of both houses. Wolf and dragon both.”

Torren chuckled, the sound breaking some of the heaviness between them. “That would be something, wouldn’t it? Brothers and sisters with wings.” He tilted his head, the ghost of a grin playing on his lips. “Perhaps I’d finally best Father at something, imagine me astride a dragon, the lords of the South fleeing before me.”

Alarra rolled her eyes, but her smile grew. “I don’t think that's how it works but you’d fall off before you even left the ground.”

“Ouch! My pride would refuse that,” Torren said, rubbing his arm with exaggerated dramatics. Then his tone shifted, a sly grin tugging at his lips. “Alarra, II…wait. Did we ever think about the possible traditions of House Targaryen?”

Alarra froze, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Nope. And that is exactly where this conversation ends.” She rose, gathering her skirts with quick precision, every inch of her posture declaring her readiness to flee before he could say another word. “I am not thinking that far, Torren.”

Her brother burst out laughing, the sound echoing across the stones. “Seven hells, you’re quicker than a Maester at shutting down scandal. I swear, I only meant the dragons!”

But Alarra was already walking away, her cheeks burning despite herself, leaving Torren doubled over in laughter at his own mischief.

Winterfell’s stones never yielded their chill. Still, in the sheltered corner of the garden where the hot springs seeped warmth into the soil, life had begun to stir. The roses, especially hardy, stubborn things, reached for the light. White, pale pink, and red buds curled among the thorns, and here and there, rare blue blossoms glowed like drops of sky caught in frost.

It was there Alarra found Weymar.

Her youngest brother sat cross-legged in the damp earth, his gloves discarded, a stick in his hands as he drew idle shapes in the soil. His hair had grown a little long, falling into his eyes as he worked. Alone, he hummed softly under his breath, a tune without words, one that drifted and broke apart on the cold air.

Alarra’s heart softened. Whatever quarrels tangled between their siblings, Weymar always looked too small, too lost, when she saw him alone. She stepped carefully between the rosebushes and lowered herself beside him, smoothing her gown so the damp earth would not stain it.

“Blue roses,” she murmured, pointing to a nearby bush. “Not many grow, but when they do…they’re the most beautiful of them all.”

Weymar glanced at her, then back at his stick. “They’re rare,” he said simply.

She smiled, trying to coax more out of him. “So are you, Wey?.”

For a time they watched the roses together, their petals trembling in the faint breeze. Finally, Alarra spoke again, her tone light, as though she were only making conversation. “I hear your travels to the Wall were…adventurous.”

He shrugged, scratching at the soil with his stick. “Cold. Long. Nothing more.”

Alarra tilted her head. “Torren said otherwise.”

At that, Weymar’s mouth twitched. She went on, teasingly. “He claimed he had nightmares there. Crows with red eyes. He looked half ready to leap from his own skin telling me.”

Weymar’s hand stilled. For a moment she thought he would brush it off, but then he whispered, “I had something too.”

Her brow furrowed. “Something?”

He swallowed, his voice small. “I was in water…I was drowning. It felt so real…The cold pulling me down, deeper and deeper. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I’d never wake.”

Alarra shivered despite herself. She nudged him gently with her shoulder, forcing a smile. “Thank the gods we live in the North then. No great lakes here to swallow you whole.”

That earned her the faintest of laughs, but it vanished quickly.

She watched him a moment before daring the question. “Why don’t you speak with Torren? Truly, I mean. You both have been…different since you returned. But he’s still your brother.”

Weymar’s stick traced deeper lines into the soil. His shoulders hunched. He would not meet her eyes.

“I think he hates me,” he whispered, voice barely audible above the rustling roses. “Because I like her.”

Alarra blinked. “Her?”

“Alysanne,” he said quickly, shame thick in the word. “Because I like her, and because I like how Father smiles again when she’s near. Torren…he hates me for it.”

“Torren will be Lord of Winterfell,” Weymar muttered, his shoulders slumping. “And what does that leave me? I… I know what duty is. Father has spoken before, no Stark has taken the black in half a generation. Perhaps it falls to me. Perhaps duty calls, and I’ll take the black… by Torren’s command.”

Alarra’s eyes widened, her voice cutting sharp with sudden fear. “No. You will not join the Night’s Watch. I don’t care what duty whispers in your ear, you won’t go. Not while I draw breath.”

Her chest tightened. She looked at him, her sweet, curious brother and for a long heartbeat she didn’t know what to say. Then, without thinking, she slipped an arm around him and pulled him close. He stiffened at first, then leaned into her, small against her side.

“Torren doesn’t hate you,” she said firmly, though her voice trembled with feeling. “He’s only…angry at the world. At what we lost. He loves you more than he’ll ever admit. And he wants you back, Wey. Truly.”

He shook his head, his hair brushing against her arm. “He never says so.”

“That’s why I’m saying it,” Alarra answered, squeezing him tighter. “Because I want my brothers speaking again. I miss seeing you laugh together, even when it drove me mad.”

Weymar tilted his face toward her, his eyes wide, searching. “Promise me then. Promise you’ll speak with father too. Not just me. Talk to him. Try.”

Her throat constricted. To promise was to bind herself, and the thought of opening her heart again, especially with Father so near and the Queen always present  made her hesitate. But Weymar’s eyes were too full of hope, too fragile.

“I will try,” she said softly.

“No a promise.” Weymar pressed, his voice almost pleading.

Alarra stiffened, her gaze dropping to the soil. That wound was deeper, harder to touch. “That…” She faltered. “That is not so simple.”

“Niether is Torren. I am. Please,” Weymar whispered.

She could not answer. Not yet. Instead she hugged him again, pressing her cheek to his dark hair, letting silence say what she could not.

It was then a voice rang out across the garden.

“There you are!”

Both siblings looked up, startled. Between the rows of roses and the budding trees, Alysanne approached. Her cloak caught the light, the fur at her shoulders gleaming white as snow. She smiled when she saw them, her eyes bright, her steps quick with delight.

“How glad I am to find you both together,” she said warmly. “I thought you had vanished into the walls themselves.”

Alysanne stepped between two trellises, following the sound of low voices. When she rounded the end of a hedge of thorn, she found them: Alarra seated with her skirts tucked neatly beneath her, and Weymar cross-legged in the damp earth with his gloves abandoned, tracing loops and sigils in the soil with a stick.

“There you are,” Alysanne said, sunlight in her tone. “I’ve half a mind to accuse the roses of hiding you.”

Weymar looked up quickly. Color rose into his cheeks; he fumbled for words and, to Alarra’s astonishment, stammered, “Rytsas… issa gevivor… Youruhgrace.”

Alarra snapped her head toward him. “Weymar!”

Alysanne only laugheda warm, delighted sound that belonged to kitchens and cradles as much as to courts. “Rytsas, valonqar,” she replied lightly. “And very well done. Who has been teaching you to greet a queen like a Targaryen?”

“MaMaester Edric… and, um, a book you left me, Your Grace.” He swallowed, then blurted in Valyrian tongue, “R- Rytsas .”

“Hello,” she echoed, eyes bright. “I am proud of you.”

Weymar went to stand, then thought better of it, then lurched up anyway in a flurry of knees and elbows. It was awkward and sweet and very Weymar. He hovered for half a heartbeat, then stepped forward as if the decision had been made somewhere behind his ribs and his body simply had to catch up. Alysanne opened her arms without making him ask. He folded in like a boy to a motherquick, embarrassed, desperately relieved.

She pressed a kiss to his brow through his unruly hair, the way a mother might bless a child before a long walk. “And what great work have you two been about?” she asked, releasing him.

“Just… toys,” Weymar said, scuffing the toe of his boot. “And talking with Alarra.”

“Two noble pursuits,” she said solemnly, and Alarra couldn’t help the small smile that crept over her mouth.

Alysanne crouched no queen above them now, just a woman in fur and wool and looked over the dirt where Weymar’s stick had wandered. “These are good shapes,” she said, tracing a circle he’d drawn and dividing it with a line. “But the best shapes are learned with patience. You’ll follow up with lessons, yes?”

Weymar’s face collapsed into a groan. “Maester Edric makes me copy the same six words until my hand goes numb.”

“That is how hands learn to speak,” Alysanne said, conspiratorial. She leaned closer, the scent of winter roses clinging to her cloak. “If you stick with him through the week, I’ll send for something from the capital.”

Weymar’s eyes flicked up, wary hope fighting with caution. “A… a sword?”

“A book,” she said, smiling at his grimace. “With swords in it.”

“Oh.” He tried not to show his relief and failed. “Yes.”

“Here,” she added, producing a small wrapped packet from within her cloak as if she’d prepared for this moment all along. She placed it in his hands. “A start. A copyist in my household transcribed a passage of Dragonstone’s founding. Not the dry part about ships and taxesthe part with drowned gods and smoking hills. There are margins to scribble in. Maester Edric may pretend he hates margins. He does not.”

Weymar took the bundle as if it might break or wing away. He peeled back the linen enough to see a neat, dark title and the ghost of a drawinga dragon whose wings were sketched with quick, sure strokes. His face lit, the way the yard lights when the first thaw sends water singing through the rills. “Thank you,” he whispered, and then louder, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“You’re welcome.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Show me what you learn.”

“I will!” He clutched the little book, then looked between Alarra and the Queen, reluctant to leave the warmth of this pocket of morning. At last he blurted, “I’m going to find Edric now. Before I forget… the… the words.” He tried another Valyrian syllable“Kessa”and bolted, the blue shadows under the trellis swallowing him in three long strides.

Silence settled like a shawl. Steam lifted from the warm earth. A winter wren ticked nervously in the hedge. Alysanne eased down onto the garden bench, close but not crowding. Her gloved hand found Alarra’s and gave it a quick, reassuring squeeze motherly, unmistakable.

“I wrote to White Harbor last week,” she said, as if continuing a conversation Alarra had been brave enough to begin. “To Aliscent Manderly. She wrote back yesterday, in fact, full of news and gossip and wicked commentary about her grandmother’s pies. She says the sept’s new glass window was set without cracking. A small miracle in winter. She spoke of you very fondly.”

Alarra blinked. “Aliscent Manderly… wrote of me?”

“She did,” Alysanne said. “You are her close friend. She thinks you too serious but a good listener. The world does not have enough of those.” Her smile was gentle. “She added, very carefully that you once prayed with her in the sept and seemed to carry both comfort and guilt away from it.”

Heat crept up Alarra’s throat. She was suddenly back in White Harbor: the smell of beeswax and incense, the candlelight bent through colored glass, her knees pressed to polished stone. And then her father’s face after composed, courteous, wounded. He had not forbidden her. He had not scolded her. Somehow, that had been worse.

“Father was… disappointed,” she said at last. The word felt small for the shape of it in her chest. “We were there for a celebration. I slipped away to the sept with her. When I returned…” She swallowed. “He looked at me as if I had gone somewhere he could not follow.”

Alysanne listened the way a good healer listens to a pain, not interrupting the ache as it names itself. “The first time I prayed before a heart tree,” she answered quietly, “I felt as you do now, but in reverse. As if I had stepped into a house where the walls were alive, and they could see what I had not meant anyone to see.” She glanced toward the far hedge, where a spill of red leaves from the small godswood beyond leaned into the garden like a listening thing. “Faith has rooms. We can love more than one.”

Alarra’s fingers tightened unconsciously around Alysanne’s hand. “But what if loving one feels like leaving the other? I don’t wish to betray Mother’s memory. Or Father.”

“You won’t,” Alysanne said. “You will be your mother’s daughter and your own woman. The Seven do not erase the Old Gods. The Old Gods do not forbid the seven lights. If you wish it Ican speak with your father.”

Alarra stared down at their linked hands, at the tiny grains of soil pressed into the seams of her gloves, at the faint sheen of moisture the steam left on the leather. The old battle inside her between root and altar, between red leaves and stained glass shifted, not ending but finding a different footing.

Alysanne released her, only to reach into the small pouch at her belt. “I brought something, if you’ll accept it,” she said. “It is not a command in metal. Just a gift.”

She uncurled her palm to reveal a seven-pointed star, no larger than a walnut, fashioned in pale, brushed metal. Each ray tapered to a fine tip; a sliver of clear crystal sat at the center, no gaudier than a bead of ice. It looked humble and careful, a thing meant to rest near skin, not dangle for show.

Alarra’s breath caught. The star might as well have been an oath. “I… I don’t know if I can wear it,” she whispered.

“You can tuck it under your furs,” Alysanne said, lips curving. “Let it warm against your skin. No banners. No speeches. If someday you wish to hang a weirwood leaf beside it on the same chain, do that. If someday you put the chain away entirely, do that too. Faith that is forced is only fear with a new name.”

A gull croaked high overheadout of place this far inland, yet not unheard of when winds came slyly up the White Knife. Alarra took the necklace as if it might bite her. It did not. The metal was cool in her palm, then warmer. She ran her thumb across one of the points; it did not scratch. She thought of the sept’s quiet and the godswood’s breath. She thought of her father’s silent disappointment and of his hand, once, smoothing the hair from her brow while she slept before the heart tree. She thought of her mother’s voice telling stories in winter, and of the Queen’s laugh turning sharp stone halls soft.

“Aliscent Manderly asked me to pray with her, when next I am in White Harbor,” Alysanne said. “Perhaps we might ask your father if we can visit the sept here together at dusk as well and then walk to the godswood after. One for the Seven, one for the Old. We would leave no room unopened.”

Alarra’s throat tightened so suddenly it hurt. “If Father sees me with… this…” She held up the star, and its points caught the morning in small, private flashes. “He will think I have chosen one house over another.”

Alysanne’s hand warm, steady came to rest over Alarra’s where it cupped the star. “He is a proud man and honorable one too…But he loves his children and wants them to be happy.” she said softly. “That a heart can be a hall with more than one fire, and no embers go out because another hearth is lit.”

Alarra let out a breath she had not realized she’d been holding. It fogged the cool air and stretched thin, the way a lone cloud thins against a pale sky before it vanishes. She lifted the chain and fumbled at the clasp. Alysanne’s fingers were there at once, deft, sure, gathering Alarra’s hair and settling the star where a collarbone hollowed a small, private place.

“There,” the Queen said. “Not a banner. A reminder.”

Alarra tucked the pendant under her bodice until the metal rested warm against her skin. It felt at once foreign and exactly right like a word she had not known she needed until she heard it.

“I had a letter this morning,” she blurted, because the ground between them felt suddenly too holy for silence. “From Mariya Hornwood. Lord Ragnar Forrester has spoken of warding her for a time at Ironrath. She is nervous and excited, both.”

Alysanne’s smile returned, edges softened by pride. “ I arranged such a proposal match. After the feast a few months back I found their connection to be a match I wish to further.

They fell to talking easily then of Mariya’s quick pen and quicker laughter; of Lord Manderly’s new window and whether the glass would hold when true cold came; of Maester Edric’s habit of pretending to scowl at any joy that touched his parchment. Alysanne told a small story about Dragonstone’s cliffs, the way wind carved a whistling mouth in one black rock so that children swore a buried dragon sang when storms came. Alarra told one about Wintertown’s potter who made tiny wolves for children and tucked a smooth pebble inside each so they rattled cheerfully in a pocket.

At some point Alysanne reached out, not thinking, and plucked a single blue rose that had opened fully against the impossible season. She turned it, admiring the shy color. “If it survives to dusk,” she said, “we’ll take it to your mother’s stone.”

Alarra’s eyes stung. “You already brought her one.”

“I did,” Alysanne said. 

They sat a while longer in companionable quiet, the three heavy things grief, duty, faith made lighter by being named and held between two pairs of hands instead of one. When Weymar’s footsteps sounded again at the arch, his small book hugged to his chest like a prize, he found them still on the bench, heads close, the rose laid across Alarra’s lap like a strip of sky fallen to earth.

Alysanne reached across the small space between them and laid her hand over Alarra’s. Her touch was warm despite the air. “Alarra,” she began gently, “may I ask something of you?”

Alarra hesitated, wary. “If it is within my power.”

“It is,” Alysanne said. She smiled faintly, not like a queen, but like a mother nudging a reluctant daughter. “I wonder if you might tryonly tryto speak with your father. Not in duty. Not because you must. But as you did when you were younger. Perhaps to find your way back to one another.”

Alarra’s throat tightened at once. She drew her hand back slightly, though Alysanne didn’t press. “That’s not so easy,” she said, her voice low. “We speak when we must. Formally. It is better that way.”

“Better?” Alysanne asked softly. “Or safer?”

Alarra didn’t answer. She stared down at her lap, twisting her fingers together, shame and stubbornness warring in her chest.

The Queen tilted her head, her voice gentle but steady. “You and Iwe quarreled, did we not? We spoke harsh words. We wounded one another. And yet here we sit, with roses and sun between us.”

“That was different.”

“Was it?” Alysanne asked. “You chose to try with me. You let the silence break, and you found me waiting on the other side of it. If you can do so with mewho am only your queenwhy not with your father, who is your blood?”

Alarra opened her mouth, then shut it. The truth rose bitter on her tongue: because it hurt too much. Because looking at him reminded her of their mother’s absence. Because every word she spoke felt like a betrayal, either of her grief or of him. She didn’t know how to say any of it.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, and it sounded hollow in her ears.

Alysanne did not scold. She looked toward the roses, where a petal loosened and drifted down to the soil. Her expression was far away for a moment, softened with a sadness that belonged to a different life.

“I would give much,” she whispered, “for five more minutes with my father.”

Alarra blinked, surprised at the sudden turn.

“I was not your age when he died,” Alysanne continued. “But I thought myself older. I thought I had time. I told myself I would speak more tomorrow. Show him more tomorrow. Tomorrow never came. And all the words I might have said, the questions I might have asked, the laughter I might have shared, they turned to ash inside me. Things happen, Alarra. Then they are gone. You do not want to spend your years with that regret.”

Her voice had dropped low, almost breaking. Alarra sat very still, the weight of the confession sinking through her. She had never thought of the Queen as someone who could speak of loss so plainly, without ceremony.

“Your father loves you,” Alysanne said. “He may not show it as you wish, nor in the ways you understand now, but he does. Speak with him. Find the bond again. Do not wait until the chance is stolen from you.”

Alarra felt her chest tighten as if the necklace pressed harder against her skin. She thought of her father in the great hall, his face so stern, his voice so measured. She thought of his back turned to her in the godswood, of the distance that stretched between them like a wall of ice. And yet she also thought of the way he had looked at Torren earlier in the week, pride softening his eyes; of the way his words at dinner had trembled when he called them his children, his honor.

Her lips trembled. “What if I try, and he does not?”

“He will answer you…He misses you.” Alysanne answered, her hand closing gently over Alarra’s. “But if you do not try, you will always wonder.”

The roses bent again in the wind, petals whispering against one another. A crow called from somewhere beyond the walls.

Alarra drew a long breath, her eyes burning. “I will think on it,” she whispered.

“That is all I ask,” Alysanne said.

For a long while they sat in silence, the garden around them carrying on in its small miracles blue roses blooming where winter should still rule, steam rising in gentle curls, the faint echo of Weymar’s voice calling for Edric from the cloisters.

Alarra touched the star beneath her gown, the cool weight of it anchoring her. Maybe, she thought, she could try. Maybe she could break the silence with her father, as she had with the Queen. Not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But before it was too late.

Alysanne’s hand gave hers one last squeeze before letting go. “Come,” she said, rising, her cloak catching the sunlight. “Let us find your brother before he buries himself in ink.”

Alarra stood slowly, her heart still heavy but lighter than it had been. She looked once at the roses, their blue blossoms opening stubbornly against the cold, and then followed the Queen.

A day spent in Alysanne’s company was a lesson in grace. Alarra watched how the Queen carried herself through Winterfell’s halls with quiet command, how she gave respect to every soul she met  from lord to servant  and how, in return, all who looked upon her seemed to honor her with the unspoken title of Lady of Winterfell.

Alarra, eager and attentive, found herself following in the Queen’s steps, copying her gestures, her poise, the way her words never cut but lifted. Alysanne guided her gently, teaching her the courtesies and manners of the South, but always with a smile and a reminder that her Northern strength was no flaw.

“Your charm,” the Queen told her, “is the truest weapon you hold. It will win you the hearts of lords’ sons faster than any bow or blade. Never put that aside.”

Alarra sat alone in her chamber, the hearth reduced to embers, the shadows of the high stone walls stretching long and uncertain. In her hand she held the gift Alysanne had given her the seven-pointed star. Its edges were smooth, its weight delicate, but to Alarra it felt heavier than any chain of mail.

She turned it over and over in her palm, squeezing it tight until the points pressed against her skin. Part of her longed to put it on, to tuck it beneath her gown and let it rest against her heart where it might warm to her flesh. Another part recoiled, remembering the weirwood’s face, its red sap like blood tears, the whisper of the Old Gods in the wind.

Her breath came quicker as she stared at the star. Am I betraying them? she thought. Mother. Father. The gods of Winterfell.

She closed her eyes, clutching the pendant, and forced herself to pray. But the words tangled. Was she speaking to the Seven now? Or to the Old Gods? Did either listen?

The room was very still. She thought she heard the fire pop, but then faint, softer than breath came a sound of the crackle from the fire.

Her throat tightened. Fear slithered down her spine.

What if the Old Gods see? What if the Seven hear? What if neither will claim me, and I am left to wander in silence between them?

The thought chilled her more than the winter air. She squeezed the pendant hard enough to leave faint marks on her palm. I won’t be good enough for either, she thought, tears pricking her eyes. A daughter who disappoints her father. A daughter who betrays her mother’s memory. A girl who clings to a queen’s kindness because she cannot bear her own silence.

Chapter Text

His chamber held a gentled warmth that seeped through wool and into bone. The wolfskin on his great bed was heavy and soft, faintly scented of smoke and pine; it gathered her in. Alysanne threaded her fingers through the fur, closed her eyes, and let her breath slow.

Smoke, pine, and cold iron, his scent lived here, quiet and steady. It was ridiculous, unbecoming of a queen, and yet she smiled as the heat rose to her cheeks. She pressed her face to the pillow for a heartbeat, eyes closing on a thought she would not have spoken even to her own shadow.

A creak snapped her attention, quick as a girl caught in mischief. Her heart tripped. She ought to go to the door to greet him as a sovereign should, but the sudden, wicked spark inside her flared. She lifted the wolfskin and slipped under, the fur falling around her shoulders like a cloak. The bed dipped and gathered her; she bit back a laugh and burrowed deeper, tucking stray pale strands of hair beneath the coverlet as the latch turned.

He pushed open the heavy wooden door—

—and stopped cold.

The sight was far from solitude.

Alysanne lay stretched across his bed, the furs and sheets drawn loosely tangled on her. Silver-blonde hair spilled in waves over his dark pillows, a river of moonlight against wolfskin, from her exposed shoulder and her seductive smile. The flickering glow of a half-spent candle cast soft light across her face, her eyes half-lidded, a small, knowing smile at her lips.

For a heartbeat, Alysanne’s heart stuttered, 

Maester Edric’s footsteps sounded in the corridor. “My lord? Shall we—”

“No,” Alaric said quickly, sharper than he meant. He didn’t take his eyes from her. “Could you solve our treasury problems? You have my full authority to act in any way you wish.”

“Of course, my lord.” Edric hesitated, then withdrew, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silence pooled in the chamber, broken only by the low hiss of the candle. Alaric exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

"Alysanne," he murmured, his voice husky with surprise and desire. "What are you doing here?"

She giggled, a sound as light and airy as a summer breeze. "I wish to see you," she said, her voice dripping with mischief. "Yet you were absent…So I made myself at home, once again."

She pushed the fur back to her shoulders. Heat lived in her cheeks, but the warmth in his gaze unspooled something softer. He was close enough for her to see the faint pale line at his temple and the snow-melt damp at the ends of his hair. Close enough that the bed smelled even more of him. This wasn't the first time she had “made herself at home” in his chamber. This tradition began a month ago, initially at night, but it became a bold daytime act. Alaric felt a slow smile spread across his face as he crossed the room, his eyes never leaving Alysanne's. He reached out and pulled back the blanket, revealing her in all her naked glory. Her skin was as smooth as silk, her body a masterpiece of curves and valleys. He couldn't help but trace his fingers up and down her body, making her giggle as he played with her nipples.

"You're a tease, Alysanne," he growled, his fingers continuing their exploration. She gasped as he pinched her side gently, her back arching off the bed.

"And you're a tease, Alaric," she retorted, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You're taking too long."

Alaric chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that sent shivers down Alysanne's spine. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a passionate kiss. She moaned into his mouth, her hands tangling in his hair as she pulled him closer.

Their tongues danced together, a sensual waltz that left them both breathless. Alaric's hands roamed over Alysanne's body, exploring every inch of her. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs teasing her nipples until they were hard peaks. She squirmed beneath him, her body aching for more. Alaric broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her neck and across her collarbone. He nipped at her skin, leaving a trail of red marks that made her gasp and moan. He continued his descent, his lips brushing over her breasts before finally reaching her nipples.

He took one into his mouth, sucking and nibbling until she was writhing beneath him. He moved to the other, his fingers playing with the wet nipple he'd abandoned. Alysanne moaned, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she arched her back, offering herself to him. Alaric continued his descent, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He reached the apex of her thighs, his fingers spreading her open. He blew gently on her wetness, making her shiver and moan.

"Alaric, please," she begged, her voice breathless with desire. “Stop with the games.”

Alaric chuckled, the sound low and throaty. "Patience," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. He leaned down, his tongue flicking out to taste her. She gasped, her hips bucking off the bed. He continued his exploration, his tongue delving deep into her. He licked and sucked, his fingers joining in the attack. He found her clit, his fingers rubbing circles around it as his tongue continued its assault.

Alysanne was lost in a haze of pleasure, her body trembling and shaking. She could feel her orgasm building, a tidal wave of pleasure ready to crash over her. She moaned and writhed, her fingers tangling in Alaric's hair as she pulled him closer. With a final flick of his tongue, Alaric sent her over the edge. She cried out, her body arching off the bed as her orgasm crashed over her. She shook and trembled, her body convulsing with pleasure.

She moaned, her fingers digging into his shoulder. Alaric waited until her orgasm had subsided before pulling away. He looked up, his lips glistening with her juices. "You could have been quieter," he teased, his voice husky with desire.

“Alaric!” She panted as her chest was heavy up and down from breathing hard, she relaxed her back from arching as he rose to climb over her. His hands gently brushed her body, sending her shivering with teases. 

Alaric chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made her shiver with anticipation. His arms wrapped around her as he held Alysanne close, his arm draped around her waist as she lay with her head against his chest. Her hair spilled over him in a silken curtain of silver, carrying the faintest scent of rosewater and smoke from the hearth.

She breathed softly, her hand idly tracing the lines of his shoulder, the motion soothing as the quiet. When she tilted her face up, their lips brushed in a kiss that was more laughter than fire, gentle, teasing, sweet.

“Next time I wish to be on top,” she murmured. “I believe I will finish you quicker.”

He chuckled, low and rough in his chest. “Bold you to claim. I will accept that challenge.”

Her giggle filled the chamber like a chime of bells, and for an instant he forgot the ache of duty. They lingered in their cocoon of warmth, sharing soft kisses, the kind that were less about hunger and more about reassuring small promises given in silence.

“We should rise,” Alaric murmured, though his arms only drew her closer.

“We should,” she teased, “but you never let go first.”

She sighed heavily as she pushed up on one elbow, silver hair tumbling loose across her shoulders. “Come,” she said gently. “We cannot hide here forever. Winterfell can not do this on its own.”

Alaric groaned, though he smiled faintly. His lisp captured hers as he rose from the bed and pulled on a fresh tunic. Once their lips broke, her eyes stayed locked with him while she wrapped herself in a robe of deep blue, the color catching what little firelight remained. 

She stood there with her back to him, brushing her silver hair over one shoulder. The morning light caught her like spun glass, turning her into something half of this world, half of another. He felt the ache of it, how easily she brightened even the gray walls of Winterfell.

Alaric came to her quietly, slipping his arms around her waist from behind. She leaned back into him without resistance, her figure fitting against his as though it had always belonged there. He bent and pressed his lips against the curve of her neck, slow and tender. She shivered faintly, then turned her head with a teasing smile.

“You’ll crease my gown before I even greet the lords,” she chided, though her voice was warm with amusement.

He chuckled low in his throat. “If I be so bold, I leave you here undressed for my return.”

She reached back and gave his arm a playful pat, earning another laugh. “We work together, Alaric. I will not have my lord work alone.” Then her tone softened, her eyes drifting out beyond the window to the yard below, where servants hurried and banners were being raised. “They’re all coming,” she said quietly. “Every house of the North. The Dustins, the Ryswells, the Glovers, the Reeds, even mountain clans. Soon this hall will be filled with their voices, their petitions, their demands.”

Alaric followed her gaze. “Aye. My duty as Warden of the North.”

She turned her face to him, her violet eyes searching. “And mine, to stand beside you.”

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the faint clamor of preparations outside. Then Alysanne reached up, resting her hand lightly against his jaw. “Before it all begins… I wish to ask you a favor.”

Alaric’s brow furrowed slightly, though he kept her close. “Name it.”

“Not as queen,” she whispered. “As Alysanne.”

Winterfell’s walls lay behind them, the banners snapping against the pale spring sky. The air was cold but clear, the sort of day when the North seemed endless. Farther off, the land rolled in gentle backs like sleeping cattle, the hills old and weather-eaten.

Silverwing had chosen one of those hills for herself.

Half a year now, the dragon had come and gone from the same place: a hollow scooped beneath a slope where the ground steamed in winter and grass grew early. She had baked the soil to packed clay with her belly, carved a trench with her tail, heaped windfall branches into a blackened nest, and marked the earth with ash and the faint, clean stink of burnt bone. When the sun was kind, she sprawled with her wings stretched to full measure; Wintertown folk had taken to calling it the Dragon Barrow. They left bowls of fat and butcher leavings at a respectful distance and crossed themselves with Old Gods gestures when they passed. Sheep gave the hill a wide berth. Ravens did not.

Alaric walked beside Alysanne down the rutted track that led toward that smoking rise. She had drawn her cloak tight against the wind but left her hood down; the silver of her hair caught what light there was and tossed it back at the day as if she refused to accept how thin the sun had become. She was smiling. He was not.

“I should like to keep my skin,” he muttered, eyes flicking to the hill and away again. “I have made it this far with all my limbs, and I am fond of them.”

“You will keep them,” she said, cheerfully dancing at the edge of her voice.

“I am told dragons are fond of bacon.” His mouth thinned. “So am I.”

“You are not bacon, Alaric.”

“Tell her that,” he said, chin tilting toward the hill. “I would rather face a hundred men with good steel than a dragon with a mood. I’m not foolish.”

She laughed under her breath and slowed her step until their arms brushed. “No. You are not foolish.” Then, gentler: “And you are braver than you think, else you would have turned back at the gate.”

He grunted at that, but his jaw eased a little.

As they left the last cottages behind, the sound of Wintertown softened to the murmuring of hammer and song and barked orders fading until the wind took up the work of making noise. It pushed at their cloaks and tugged stray hair free, carrying the smell of damp earth and peat smoke, and fainter now, the sulfur-iron breath of the Dragon Barrow.

Alysanne’s pace never hurried, never lagged; she walked like a woman who knew exactly where she was going and trusted that the ground would meet her feet. Alaric matched her unconsciously. Once, a lad with a slat-wood wolf strapped to his wrist stopped dead in the track and stared; his mother hissed a warning, but Alysanne only raised a hand, and the boy grinned and waved back so hard his toy clacked against his arm.

“Silverwing sleeps in daylight more often, of late,” Alysanne said as they crested a low rise. “She hunts at dusk.”

They topped the last roll of land, and the hill unfurled below them.

Even at rest, Silverwing did not look like something a man might stand near and live. She lay half-curled, much of her mass tucked beneath the lip of the hollow where the earth had been baked to a faint glaze. A drift of ash ringed her like a pale halo. Her wings lay furled and layered, one over the other, a cliff of membranes as pale as moonlit milk.

Her head alone would have filled a cart. Scars netted the wedge of her jaw and the long sweep of her neck—old cuts turned to ivory ridges and puckers, a stipple of newer marks like hailstones had struck while she was very young and never quite smoothed. One eye lay half-shuttered beneath a nictitating film; the other was open to a slit, and behind the slit a round, dark pupil floated in pale silver like a bead of coal in ice. Even at that remove, Alaric felt the gaze, the cool measuring of something that had lived longer than he might and would outlast him by an age again.

She breathed. The world seemed to breathe with her. On the exhale a thin plume of steam drifted, sweet with heat and the faintest edge of something metallic, like a forge before the bellows are set to work. On the inhale, the ash stirred and settled.

They took three steps down the slope, and the head rose.

The motion was not fast. It didn’t have to be. The long neck uncoiled enough to bring the skull up and forward, the jaw opening a finger’s sufficient width to show polished teeth, old ivory stained near the gum, the inner flesh a dark rose. The slit eye widened. The black coin of the pupil drank them in.

Alaric stopped as if he’d been struck. His body did not consult him before it chose to halt. He became suddenly, exquisitely aware of the emptiness of his hands, the thinness of his coat, the fact that nothing in him would be of use should this go wrong.

Alysanne’s fingers slid into the crook of his arm. When he glanced at her, she was biting her lip to keep a laugh from escaping entirely. “The bold, battle-hardened Lord of Winterfell,” she murmured. “Frozen.”

“Laugh if you like,” he said without heat. “Better to be frozen than roasted. I will put my courage against men with swords. I will not test it against a mountain with teeth.”

“She is not a mountain with teeth,” Alysanne said, and in the next breath she sang a string of soft syllables that carried like clean water over stone. Valyrian made in her mouth like music rounded, gentle, lulling. She did not raise her voice. She did not wave her hands or posture. She only stood with one hand on Alaric’s arm and one palm lifted, speaking as to an old hound who needed reminding that the visitor. Be calm, the cadence promised. He is my friend. There was a shorter line tucked inside the longer one, something that made her voice go warmer, low and private; Alaric could not have placed the word if he tried, but it sat in his bones like a coal. Whatever it was, Silverwing heard it and tasted it and filed it away.

“Come,” Alysanne said softly, and leaned into his arm to nudge him forward. “With me.”

The ground changed underfoot as they descended hard and scorched where her belly had pressed, resilient where steam kept the earth from freezing, a faint grit of ash crunching under the boot heel. The air grew warmer with each step, not summer-warm but enough to make the breath out of their mouths less visible. Alaric felt the hair along his arms move as if the air itself had breath in it, separate from theirs.

Silverwing’s head pivoted to follow them. The eye widened further until the silver narrowed to a rim, and the black coin seemed to fill the world. Alaric’s heart thudded; the sound became something he could hear as well as feel, as if it were no longer inside him but beating against the front of his shirt for want of space. He made himself look back at that eye. He did not look at the teeth. He did not look at the long, corded muscles of the jaw. He did not look at the scything hooks of the foreclaws half-buried in ash. He kept his gaze where Alysanne had set hers: on the eye, on the knowing there.

“Speak to her as you would to a wary horse,” Alysanne said, voice calm. “Or better, say nothing at all. Let her see you.”

“I would prefer she not see me,” he muttered, but he didn’t pull away when Alysanne guided him over the last slope until they stood a stone’s throw from the dragon’s muzzle. From here, he could see the fine bristle at the hinge of the jaw, like hair but not hair; the faint, milky haze that skimmed the eye when the inner lid slid down and up; the way the scales near the nostrils were more minor, more densely set, smoother under the ash as if they had been polished by breath and the habit of rubbing against the earth.

“Reach out,” she said to him quietly. “Slowly.”

His hand felt stupid and heavy at the end of his arm. He did not want to move it. He made it move anyway. He raised it palm down, because to offer his palm felt like something a groveling petitioner might do, and he would not crawl. His fingers extended, every tendon in his forearm like wire, each joint an argument. He was close enough now to feel the heat of the dragon’s breath full on his skin, to smell the sulfur and the old smoke and a faint sweetness under it, unexpected as honey on black bread.

Silverwing watched the approaching hand. The slit of the pupil narrowed and widened with the sky, with the snow glare on the hill above, with whatever made sense to a mind older and stranger than his. Alaric’s fingers hovered a finger’s breadth from the scale near the nostrils, a scale no bigger than a coin set in a mosaic of other coins, and in that instant, the dragon huffed.

It was not a roar. It sounded like a great bellows being pushed once. Warm air burst over his hand and face, ash jumped, his hair lifted. Instinct jerked his arm back.

Alysanne giggled, the tension popping out of her like a little bird. “She is deciding,” she said.

“Decide quickly,” he said through his teeth. “Or I will.”

Silverwing exhaled again, but this time it was less a blast than a sigh. The long neck let off another measure of coil, the jaw shut with the quietest of thocks, teeth meeting teeth like a careful man setting a lid on a jar, and the wedge of the head lowered until it touched the ash with the dull sound of weight on packed earth. She turned her muzzle slightly and laid it down.

“She likes you,” Alysanne said, pride spilling into her voice.

“She likes me because of you,” Alaric said, but he lifted his hand again, slower now, and let the back of his fingers find the smoothness of a scale. 

Heat met him first, through leather and wool and skin. Not furnace heat, not the kind a smith backs away from, but the banked warmth of a great animal at rest, old as a stone warmed all day by the sun and giving it back at dusk. The scale itself was not as complicated as he had imagined; it had some give to it, like thick horn. Beneath it, something fluttered, no; not fluttered; throbbed pulse or breath moving through a system too large to picture all at once. He drew his fingers across the edge of one plate and felt the seam where it overlapped the next. Along the seam, fine dust had gathered; his touch left a darker, clean streak like a finger drawn across soot on a high shelf.

Silverwing’s eye half-closed, then opened. The inner lid slid over it and back again in a blink that was not a blink. He moved his hand to a different place, and she adjusted, the little muscles at the hinge of her jaw tightening and easing like a horse’s when you find the knot of a bridle rub and scratch it free.

“See?” Alysanne said, her voice wrapped in pleasure. “You will keep your skin.”

“I-I…I never assumed this is what a dragon feels like…” he answered, though it came out softer than he meant, stripped of any bite by the absurd, impossible fact of his hand resting on a dragon’s face. 

“What, you thought she was made of a thousand swords? ” She moved around him, one hand trailing along Silverwing’s cheek ridge, finding a place by long habit that made the dragon release a deep sound, a rumble that Alaric felt in his bones more than heard with his ears. The sound went through the soil and into his boots, climbing the length of him until it was standing there with him like another presence.

 “This is where she stores the food,” Alysanne said, tapping a hollow between plates.”

“You talk as if she were a child,” he said.

“She is older than either of us will live to be,” Alysanne said softly, her gaze lingering on Silverwing as the dragon’s breath curled from her nostrils in slow clouds. “And yet, in her eyes, she is still a child. May she live to see our future generations.”

Her hand tightened suddenly on Alaric’s arm, halting his steps. He turned at once, searching her face.

“Alysanne? Is something the matter?”

She gave a small laugh, though it wavered at the edges, as though caught between nervousness and joy. “No… Only my thoughts are running ahead of me. I was imagining the future—imagining generations yet to come, standing here, gazing at Silverwing, as we do. Wondering if, perhaps, down the line… our Houses might be bound.”

Alaric blinked, startled. “Bound? Alysanne, are you—”

Her eyes dropped, lashes brushing pale cheeks. “I know we cannot. Not now. Not in this life. But perhaps… our children’s children could. It is only a thought.” She drew in a breath, bracing herself. “Tell me, Alaric… would you ever re-marry?”

The question struck him like an arrow. For a moment, he could only stare at her, the words hollowing his chest. “Re-marry?” he repeated, almost in disbelief.

“I have heard the whispers,” Alysanne admitted, her voice trembling with a queen’s strength and a woman’s fear. “The rumors we’ve failed to silence some foolish, some cruel. If they reached the wrong ears… if others wished to twist them, it could harm you, your children, your House. A new wife, an alliance might bury such talk. I would promise you, truly, to help find a match worthy of you. A lady who could bring out this rare smile of yours that I see now.”

His answer came hard and sharp. “No.”

She flinched, her eyes flicking back to his. “No?”

“No.”

“Alaric, please we must consider-” She tried to argue but Alairc was quick to stop her.

“You ask me to share my heart as if it were so easily given,” he said, voice low, almost ragged. “As if I could open Winterfell’s doors and halls to another Lady and pretend the wound would not fester. Alysanne, I could not replace what you are. I will not. I love you. And gods forgive me, I would keep you here forever if I could.”

Her hand drifted to her chest, pressing there as though to keep her heart from breaking open. She looked away, blinking rapidly, fighting the tears that burned her eyes.

Alaric reached for her, catching her hand in both of his, holding it as if it were a lifeline. He drew closer until there was scarcely an inch between them. His grip trembled, not with fear of war or duty, but with the terror of losing her.

“Ala—Alaric…” Her voice cracked, his name breaking on her tongue like a prayer half-forgotten.

He pulled her into his arms, and she did not resist. She collapsed against him, letting the strength of his embrace shield her from the weight of all the realms, of all their vows and walls and whispers. His chin rested atop her hair, her breath hitched against his chest, and for that moment it was just…Them.

Days passed, and what felt like eternity, as Houses gathered and now word of the Hand of King's arrival. Banners stirred in the crisp wind, snapping bright against the gray stone of Winterfell’s walls. Wolf, bear, mountain, and trout all rippled side by side, the heraldry of the North’s gathered lords fluttering proudly above the courtyard.

At the center of it all, Alysanne stood like a silver flame in the cold, her cloak trimmed in sable, her hair catching every shaft of pale sunlight. Before her were the Stark children, lined neatly in order of age: Torren stiff-backed and solemn, Alarra composed but fidgeting with her skirt, and little Weymar, whose restless eyes darted toward the gates before darting back to his siblings.

“Perfect.” She let the word soften the hard edge of the ceremony. Alysanne smoothed the front of Torren’s cloak until the fold lay just so, tucked a stray braid behind Alarra’s ear, and rested a light hand on Weymar’s shoulder. “You do your house honor. First impressions are always the strongest; remember that. You will meet not only lords but histories today.” Warmth colored her voice; pride did, too, the kind a mother might hide behind a queen’s smile.

Torren’s mouth thinned against a grin. “The Hand of the King,” he muttered, low. “I wonder if the saying is true, king’s…business, and the Hand wipes.”

Alarra burst into laughter, too late to smother it, while Weymar snorted a strangled giggle that earned him Torren’s warning look though even he couldn’t quite master the twitch at his own lips.

“Torren,” Alysanne said, schooling her face while mirth sparked in her eyes, “that tongue will land you in the stocks. Mind it and clean it.”

Bootsteps and the hush of moving men turned her head. Alaric came from the entrance, black cloak whispering the stone, the set of his shoulders all Winterfell. The sight of his children arrayed neat as spearpoints bent that stern mouth into the smallest curve. He slowed beside them, and his gaze steady, inevitably found her.

“You’ve made soldiers of them already,” he said, rough with restraint, yet warmer than the words allowed.

“They needed only a touch of guidance,” she answered lightly. “They were well-formed to begin.”

He moved while smiling to stand at the fore with Torren. Alysanne shifted with the line, close enough that her sleeve brushed his. Hidden by fur and fold, her fingers ghosted the back of his knuckles, a breath of a touch no eye would catch. Heat climbed her wrist at once; he went very still, as if that stillness were permission and reply both.

She kept her gaze forward, but the corner of her mouth could not help itself. The steadiness at her side held; it was answer enough.

The courtyard quieted as the great gates began to open, wood and iron groaning beneath the high towers. Cold air spilled inward; Alysanne drew a slow breath and felt the line of them.

Through them rode four mounted knights, their armor polished bright, their surcoats a rich sea-blue edged in green, the colors of House Manderly. Their banners, stitched with the silver merman, snapped high as they cantered in formation across the yard. Behind them, the rumble of wheels announced a grand carriage, lacquered in dark oak and trimmed with gilded fittings, its windows curtained in fine velvet. Flanking it rode more knights, their cloaks dyed the deep wine-red of House Redwyne, grapes and vines embroidered across their standards.

Silver fittings caught the pale sun, and the driver, cloaked in the blue-green of Manderly, jumped down with the flourish of a man used to ceremony.

The door swung open.

A figure emerged with practiced grandeur: Lord Theomore Manderly. His girth was prodigious, wrapped in a tunic of deep sea-green stitched with silver thread, the merman of his House dancing across his chest. Over it, he wore a white fur cloak so fine it seemed to glow, its mantle clasped with a golden brooch shaped like a leaping fish. Rings glittered on his thick fingers, and his beard, trimmed neat and short, was the color of fresh snow.

His face was open, merry, his smile as vast as the sea he commanded. He lifted both arms as he stepped down, booming across the courtyard in a voice like a rolling tide.

“My lord, Your Grace! I have never seen Winterfell itself glitter brighter! Must be by the hands of our Queen.”

Theomore’s cheer was infectious, though Alaric, standing stiff-backed beside Alysanne, felt the subtle tug of her hidden fingers brush his hand again, grounding him as much as steadying herself. She stepped forward, her violet eyes warm.

“Lord Theomore,” she greeted, inclining her head. “I had thought the road might weary you, but you arrive fresher than spring itself.”

The great lord laughed, his shoulders shaking like a cliffside in a storm. “The road cannot tire me when such a welcome waits at its end!” He pressed a hand to his chest, he reached for the queen's hand, gently giving a kiss of respect. Alaric eyes watched like a wolf, a certain hidden glare unmatched. Then turned, beckoning with exaggerated pomp. “Daughters, please come out!” He cheered

The first, Alicent Manderly, was a vision of southern taste made northern—her gown of pale blue silk overlaid with white lace, the sleeves embroidered with pearls. Jewels glinted in her gold hair, catching the sun with every step. She curtsied low before Alysanne, her voice a melody of courtesy. “Your Grace. The honor is mine.” Her gaze, warm and gentle, sought out not the Queen first, but Alarra Stark.

“Your Grace. The honor is mine.”

Her gaze, warm and eager, sought out not the Queen first but Alarra Stark.

“Alarra!” she cried, her composure breaking, and the formality of the courtyard dissolved in her voice.

Alarra forgot herself as well, darting forward and breaking formation to meet her. The two collided with laughter, clasping hands with the abandon of girls too long parted. Alicent’s fingers lingered, sliding around Alarra’s wrist as they went to her waist and back up, reluctant to let her go.

“My lady,” Alarra whispered breathlessly, cheeks flushed. “You’ve come.”

“As if I would ever refuse!” Alicent laughed, her eyes catching the light like the sea at dawn. She leaned in quickly, brushing her lips against Alarra’s cheek before pulling back, still holding her wrist as though afraid Alarra might vanish if she released her too soon. A giggle slipped from her lips, unguarded, and for a heartbeat she seemed to forget the crowd entirely, gazing at her friend with unhidden delight.

Jessamyn Manderly followed from the carriage, less hurried, her smile broad as she spotted the Queen. “Queen Alysanne!” she called, voice bubbling with excitement.

“My faithful cupbearer of White Harbor,” Alysanne greeted warmly, making Jessamyn blush and duck her head, embarrassed but glowing.

Meanwhile, Lord Theomore beamed at Alaric as though the two had been fast friends for years. “My lord Stark,” he declared, his voice booming over the yard, “I must compliment you. You look rather more proper for such a royal occasion than I imagined!”

“Lord Manderly,” Alaric answered, inclining his head.

Theomore laughed loudly, clapping his hands together. “Yet simple of words, as ever! You Starks are easy men to like, you speak with your eyes, not your tongues.”

But Alicent had not looked away from Alarra. Even as her father spoke, her thumb brushed lightly across Alarra’s wrist, a tender, unconscious gesture, before at last she let go and folded her hands demurely before her gown.

Septon Barth, Hand of the King, walked steadily across the flagstones at the head of the party, his sable robes brushing the ground, the chain of golden hands gleaming faintly in the morning light. His stride was calm, deliberate, as though the entire weight of courtly expectation pressed on his shoulders and he bore it with patience rather than pride.

Beside him stalked the Lord of House Redwyne, flushed from travel and grumbling in a voice meant to be heard. “Cold, cursed cold. The wine will sour in this weather; the very air turns it to vinegar. And these walls.” His words carried, drawing frowns from Stark men and sharp glares from Winterfell’s folk who had gathered along the edges of the yard.

“My lord we are in their presence please show more respect. We are a part of the same realm.” Barth spoke in a hush tone.

Alaric Stark, standing with his children and the Queen, kept his expression stone, though his jaw tightened. Torren stiffened at his father’s side, as though ready to defend Winterfell with words sharper than steel, but Alaric’s hand upon his shoulder stilled him.

Septon Barth, lifted his hand slightly, quieting the Redwyne lord with nothing more than a look, before turning his eyes upon the gathered Starks and their retainers. When those sharp eyes fell on the Queen, his expression softened.

“Your Grace,” Barth said, bowing lower than most men dared. “The North has treated you well, I hope? The King has awaited word of your journey with eagerness.”

Alysanne smiled serenely, warmly, the very picture of queenly grace. “The Wall, the Night’s Watch, Winterfell, the whole of the North itself, all have shown me great honor, Lord Hand. And I am gladdened to see you arrive safe.”

Barth’s gaze lingered on her, almost fond, before he inclined his head once more. “Then I prayed to Mother well…Oh it pleases me to bear tidings that will gladden you further. His Grace will not delay. The King sets his dragon north, even now. Within a week or perhaps days, he shall join you here in Winterfell.”

The words fell like stones in the courtyard.

Alysanne’s smile faltered, only for a heartbeat, but it was enough for Alaric, standing so near, his hand brushing hers unseen, to feel the shift. Her eyes widened, irises glinting with shock, she quickly smoothed into composure.

Around them, murmurs rippled among the gathered Northerners. Lords and knights glanced to one another with wary surprise, servants whispered behind hands, and even Torren’s eyes flicked sharply to his father, searching for answers.

But Alysanne recovered with a grace that only years of court could teach. She inclined her head, her voice calm though her hand pressed a fraction firmer against Alaric’s hidden in the folds of her gown.

“Then Winterfell will be ready,” she said. “For its King, for my lord husband.”

Lord Theomore’s booming voice filled the yard once more as his daughters settled at his side. He clapped his heavy hands together, rings flashing in the pale sun.

“Tell me, Lord Stark,” he said jovially, “are we the last of your banners to arrive? Or have I, gods forbid, kept the Queen waiting?”

Alaric met his gaze steadily, his words simple and clipped, as ever. “No. House Flint and House Reed are still to come. You are early, Lord Manderly, not late.”

Theomore’s broad smile widened further, and he let out a deep, rolling laugh. “Ha! I am glad of it. Better to be here ahead of the Flints than trailing after them.” He preened a little, the white fur cloak on his shoulders gleaming. Among the gathered lords, he looked every inch the wealthy southern magnate, standing out starkly against the rougher wool and darker furs of the North. And yet his mirth, booming and unashamed, drew grins from many of the men-at-arms lining the walls.

Alaric inclined his head politely, though his face remained unreadable.

It was then that Septon Barth stepped forward, calm where Theomore was loud. His hands were folded in his wide sleeves, his chain glinting faintly. He stopped before Alaric and bowed with quiet dignity.

“Lord Stark,” he said, his voice low but carrying, “And honored to meet you finally. I have only read of you…I must say my image of you has changed. I thank you for your welcome, and for your hospitality in opening Winterfell to the progress of the Crown. You honor not only your own House, but the realm entirely.” His dark eyes softened slightly, and he glanced toward the Queen, who stood just a step nearer to Alaric than courtesy might have demanded. “And most of all, I thank you for the kindness you have shown. Her Grace in her time in the North.”

There was no mockery in the Hand’s words, only solemn recognition.

Alaric dipped his head once, his tone even. “The Queen is always welcome in Winterfell, always. As are you, Lord Hand.”

Winterfell’s great hall wore its finest skins. New rushes, still sweet with the scent of cut reeds, lay under a forest of trestles. Torches hissed along stone like captive stars; smoke climbed to the rafters and braided with banners the direwolf gray at the dais, the green bear of Mormont, a white sunburst on black for Karstark, the blue-green merman of Manderly, the flayed man’s pink, and two reds: the steel fist of Glover and the roaring giant of Umber. Beyond them, a scatter of mountain-clan marks half-remembered beasts and winter sigils made a wild border to the feast.

Alysanne sat to Alaric’s left beneath the great gray wolf. The hall’s heat kissed her cheeks; her gown, a sober northern gray, showed silver at the lining when she moved, catching the firelight in small, private flashes. Below, long tables groaned roast boar glossed with apple, venison bleeding slow juice, black bread split and steaming, crocks of butter yellow as summer, onions braised to sweetness, turnips lacquered with honey.

She smiled when the men cheered, and her gaze lingered on them for too long. Yet every time her eyes crossed the press of color and steel, they snagged on the flayed man. Beside it, Lady Reina’s pale face turned up toward the dais too often toward Torren. Twice now, the girl had drifted near him. Twice Alysanne had called the boy’s attention away with a question only a queen could ask.

Alaric would understand without any word from her. Whatever kindness Winterfell owed its guests, no bastard of Bolton would be suffered to fish for the Stark heir.

“Lord Stark.” The voice at Alaric’s right was even as prayer.

Septon Barth spoke. “The sept at White Harbor is marble-bright as first snow,” he said, low for the high board alone. “Windows set so light falls like a blessing. They call it the fairest house of the Seven in all the North. It made me think.” His glance touched the Queen and returned. “Winterfell is a true castle in all but name. The Crown would gladly aid with vestments and glass, should its lord desire a small sept within these walls. Nothing to quarrel with the godswood. Only neighbors making room.”

The drum thudded once; below, Theoore Manderly laughed like surf on stone. Alysanne felt Alaric set his cup down.

“Winterfell has a heart tree,” he said. “It is not in want of gods.”

Barth inclined his head a fraction, measuring the weather. “And yet you shelter many who do not share yours. A lamp is kindness, my lord, not conquest.”

“The road is long,” Alaric allowed. “When snows come, men sleep where they can. We have housed singers and septons, mummers and smugglers alike. My yard is wide. My halls withstand any honest prayer.” His tone stayed flat, courteous, final. “But I will not raise a house of the Seven on land of my red leaves.”

Alysanne’s hand, hidden in fur and fold, found the back of his knuckles. A touch, no more, the warmth of it a quiet thank-you for his courtesy, for his spine.

Barth drew breath to try another door—

“My Lord Hand,” Alarra put in brightly from two seats down, quick as a sparrow stealing crumbs. She leaned as far as propriety let her, eyes too keen by half. “Is it true the Mother is always carved with her palms out, as if she’s giving something away? I read it from White Harbor, but they make even their bread sound cathedral.”

Barth’s face gentled at once the turn from politics to teaching was a path he knew. “So they say, my lady. The Mother gives comfort, the Crone wisdom, the Smith strength. The Warrior, well. He is why songs last. Even in the North.”

“And the Stranger?” Alarra asked, as if remarking on the weather. “The Septa writes that his face is hidden. That seems… honest.”

“Honest and frightening,” Barth agreed softly. “Some truths are both.”

Alysanne let her fingers brush Alaric’s once more beneath the board. He lifted his cup with a rare smile; she caught it and returned it, torchlight turning her lashes to small, bright threads.

“Alarra is always curious,” she murmured, for him alone.

“Hmp,” he answered, half a hum. “She can keep our Lord Hand honest.”

The hall split then under Lord Hother Umber’s voice, loud as a warhorn. The giant of a man lurched up, broad as a barn door, wine dripping into his beard as he drained another cup. With a roar, he flung an arm like an oak limb around poor Lord Manfryd Redwyne.

The southerner stiffened in fine silks, nearly lost within the embrace.

“I’ll have your son wed my daughter!” Hother bellowed, shaking him like a flag in a gale. “We’ll call it the Red Wedding for all the wine that’ll spill! Think of the giant babes your island could breed!”

“Father!” came a mortified cry from farther down. “I—Lord Redwyne, I beg—”

Laughter boomed off stone; even the servants grinned as Redwyne sputtered, half-drowned in Umber and vintage. Alysanne allowed herself a breath of mirth and then heard the sharper sound inside it, the scrape of steel on steel without blades drawn.

In a corner, two men were nose to nose. Voices rose, harsh and snapping, the names Whitehill and Forrester tossed like brands. Old wood, old fire. Too dry, too ready.

Alysanne felt Alaric’s glance and met it; a wry curl tugged his mouth. “Which quarrel do you claim tonight, Your Grace?” he murmured. “A bitter rivalry…or a marriage?”

She did not flinch from the tease. “I have seen Bracken and Blackwood share a bench without blood,” she said, sly but measured. “I think I can manage this.”

“Unlike them,” he answered, low, “Whitehill and Forrester were feuding before the Age of Heroes, some say. Their grudges are older than your bloodline, I’d say.”

“I’ve read the chronicles—the blood feud that smoldered a century and a half, until Theon Stark knocked the crowns from the Kings of Forest and Mountain in a single duel. I’d rather not stage a revival tonight.”

Alaric’s mouth twitched. “I see Alarra has been tutoring you in our quarrels. I wish you joy of theirs.”

“I’ll need no joy and no luck, my Alaric. Like you, I prefer matters settled. When I speak, it is final.”

He cleared his throat, trying sternly, but she felt the smile he hid. “You mean to tame them?”

“I mean to teach them,” Alysanne murmured, soft as falling snow. “The difference matters.”

She went down among the benches, the hall’s heat folding around her, the music fraying as heads turned. Voices hardened into silence as she neared the quarrel. Even the lords nearby leaned forward, drawn if not to her crown, then to the way she wore it.

The knot of men parted at her approach as rushes part for a hem. Ragnar Forrester stood tall and spare, wrapped in rich green wool worked with ironwood leaves that caught the torchlight like wet paint. Across from him, Lord William Whitehill, shorter, heavy in shoulder and jowl, glowed red from wine and wrath both, his breath fogging in the hall’s draft.

“My lords,” Alysanne said, and the quarrel snapped taut, then stilled. She let warmth ride her tone. “You honor Winterfell with your voices, but you’ll honor it better with your ears. Tell me what’s amiss.”

Ragnar dipped his head, iron-gray hair falling to one side. “Your Grace, we do no more than answer theft. Whitehill men have planted the boundary stones too far downriver. They mean to swallow a pasture and a stand of ironwood saplings besides.”

William’s mouth worked before his words did. “No, Your Grace, my stone-workers set them true to the writ, to your own writ the measure sent from your hand.” His color deepened; he swallowed. “They’re near finished with the stone-hedge, as ordered.”

Alysanne let the word breathe. “Near finished,” she repeated, soft so that the heat could leak out of it. “Good. Then no harm is yet made that cannot be unmade.”

Ragnar’s jaw twitched. “Harm begins in inches, Your Grace. It grows while we’re told to be patient.”

“And patience is a cruel counsel when men fear loss,” she agreed at once, and watched his shoulders ease by a finger’s width. “I asked for a hedge of stone markers to spare your folk from bleeding for old maps and older grudges. If the stones are ill placed, they will be moved. William, have your men set anything beyond the third marker?”

He stared at his boots, then at the Queen’s hands where they rested open on the table’s edge. “Two more, Your Grace,” he said, quieter. “We can lift them again.”

“Then we are speaking of five stones and not five coffins,” Alysanne said, and let that image sit between them until a few of the watchers shifted, abashed. “Here is what we will do. When your masons finish the last capstone, I will ride out myself to see the line.” She glanced toward the high board; Alaric’s gaze was already on her, steady as a winter tree. “Maester Edric will bring the old rolls and a measuring chain. Lord Alaric will send a man of his to stand witness, and a Karstark huntsman besides.”

William’s hands opened and closed, like a man testing a grip that had failed him. “If Your Grace looks, then… that will be enough for me.”

Ragnar’s mouth thinned, but his voice lost its rasp. “Enough for me” Eh, if the stones sit where the records say, I will not gainsay them.”

“Good,” Alysanne said, gentling the word until it felt like a blanket being laid. “And tonight, there will be no more quarrel. You have your children here. Let them go home with full bellies and no new tale of shame. Sit, and drink the peace you’ve asked me to keep.”

She reached and set her palm lightly once on each lord’s sleeve: cloth, warmth, a queen’s small human weight. “Winter is coming,” she added, softer, for them alone. 

A ripple of rueful laughter passed through the circle. Ragnar bowed his head the inch that pride allowed. William found a smile, awkward as a colt.

“For you, Your Grace,” Ragnar said.

“For you,” William echoed, and when their eyes met, it was not with love, but it was no longer with knives.

Alysanne stepped back, and the knot unbound itself. The pipe found its tune again; laughter rose ragged, then steadied. She felt Alaric’s regard across the hall like a hand at her back, wordless approval, and something warmer.

Movement at the side of the dais drew her eye. Torren rose, palms smoothing his doublet as if pressing courage flat beneath the cloth.

“And where do you go, my Torren?” Alysanne asked not sharply, but letting curiosity edge the evenness of her tone.

Torren glanced back, a faint, nervous chuckle escaping. “To be a good son, Your Grace. And a host. The North’s lords are gathered. I ought to walk among them, offer words, wine, and thanks.”

Her brow lifted a fraction. Well spoken, and for once not in defiance. “Your eyes should be on other houses. I know the ladies of Manderly and Dustin seek your audience.”

“I… yes.” He colored, then nodded. “I thought I’d go from the west side and make my way over to the east. Cover all sides?”

“Must the correct sailor's way be from east to west? For me, please go that direction,” she said, 

“Of course. Your grace.” he dipped a neat bow before stepping down into the throng, shoulders squared a touch too stiffly, as if he thought he bore Winterfell itself upon them.

That left only one child at the high board. Weymar hunched a little, half-hidden behind a trencher piled too high for him to conquer, his eyes wide as he watched the hall as if it might leap.

Alysanne slid over to the table, leaned toward him. “And you, my brave wolf, can you do as your brother does? Walk among them, speak as a Stark should?”

Weymar’s head jerked up. Color sprang to his cheeks; he bobbed a quick, earnest nod. “Yes, Your Grace. I can. I will.” His voice cracked on the last word, and his mouth tightened in embarrassment.

She smiled and reached to rescue him from the moment, deftly brushing a crumb from his sleeve, setting a stubborn lock of hair back where it belonged. “Start small,” she murmured. “Lord Cerwyn, perhaps ask after his roads. Offer him wine. Listen more than you speak; men remember being heard.”

Weymar looked at her then, properly looked, and the worry in his gaze eased by a finger’s width. “Your dress is grey,” he blurted, as if the thought had been battering at him for minutes. “It… matches.” He gestured, helplessly encompassing stone and banners and the great carved wolf above them. “You look like-like Winterfell.”

Warmth rose in her throat at that. “Does it suit me?”

He nodded hard, solemn as judgment. “Very much.”

“Then I’ll wear it for luck,” she said softly, and shielded by fur and fold gave his hand a quick squeeze. “And you’ll carry some for me. Chin up. Shoulders easy. You don’t have to be bigger than the hall, only kind within it.”

“What if I forget a name?” he whispered.

“Smile,” Alysanne said. “You have Cerwyn blood from your grandmother, Alys. And... Lord Cerwyn is an eternally proud man. He will be honored to speak with a son of Winterfell. I expect you will receive a very warm welcome at his table.

A shy grin cracked his worry. He drew a steadying breath, set down his cup with care, and slid from his chair. Before he turned away, she straightened the line of his collar with a mother’s quickness and tapped it once. She fixed his curly hair once more. “There. Now you’re fierce.”

She watched Weymar go, chin up, shoulders easily threading his careful greetings between benches. Pride warmed her like a small brazier; without thinking she turned her signet round and round upon her finger, smiling to herself. When she looked up, Alaric was already watching. The smile he gave her was a quiet thing, meant for no one else. Heat climbed her cheeks; she rose, smoothing her grey skirts, ready to cross to him.

When the stones themselves seemed to take a breath. A low wave rolled through the hall; torches guttered, banners heaved, cups rang against trencher-wood. A great shadow flooded the rafters, drowning wolf and merman, sunburst and bear alike. Somewhere beyond the doors, the air cracked with the beat of vast wings, and a voice cried out high, terrified and exultant all at once.

“It's the Bronze Fury!”

Chapter Text

The evening had a northern bite to it, clean, wet, the kind of spring cold that lived in the grass and climbed a man’s boots. Beyond Winterfell, the land swelled into a long barrow like a sleeping beast under heather. Silverwing crouched upon it, pale as hammered moonlight, her breath making ghosts that drifted and broke. Across the field, Vermithor settled hard enough to jar the teeth, bronze plates throwing the torchlight back in flares. He smelled of hot iron and old coin; the air around him tasted of a forge doused too soon.

Alysanne walked at Alaric’s side, her grey cloak about her shoulders. It fit her as if the North itself had decided to keep her. Which in many ways yes. When the Bronze Fury’s wings bit the wind, the cloak snapped once and held. She caught its edge with her hand, and with the same hand, without looking, found his.

“Alaric,” she said softly, turning at last. He knew that look: guilt set like glass in the eyes, pain under it, and all the steel she wore for the world besides. Her fingers squeezed his swift, hidden in the fall of wool. “Wait for us…Only for a moment.”

He nodded. There was nothing else a man could do. His hand felt very large and very clumsy, closing back on emptiness as she slipped away.

Up the slope came the king, cloak black and red, heavy as a banner in a storm, hair like new frost caught in firelight. Jaehaerys’s smile found his queen before his feet did. They met between hills, behind them their dragons the two small mortal shapes under ancient things.

Their voices went low and musical, the court’s high tongue wound close as ivy. Alaric knew none of the words, only the way they fell. He heard his own language.

“ābra ñuha… ñuha prūmia hūlīr zȳhos iā morghūltas lenton kesrio syt daor arlī jemēla.” The King spoke from what could be heard from a distance and wind.

They kissed.

Jealousy rose in him not hot but heavy, like a smith’s bar lifted wrong. It was an old  anger, the kind that made the jaw ache and the hands want for something simple to do set a post, split a log, check a gate-latch twice. He kept still. A lord had a hundred practice at stillness; he had learned it first as a boy standing beside his father at the harvest count, later yet at a bier where stillness was the only thing that did not break.

Alaric made his breath even. Counted, as he did when anger came like a dog straining at the chain. He put names to the things he could see until his blood remembered its proper speed: frost on the sedge by the ditch, the dark line where sod cut bare earth along the barrow’s flank, the small smear of grease on the king’s glove where it caught lamplight. The prince’s smile from earlier still lived in Alysanne’s eyes when she turned her head; he had put it there and had the right. That truth sat cold and correct in Alaric’s mouth. He swallowed it anyway.

He had given her a cloak. He had not given her a crown.

Alysanne’s hand touched her own throat as she answered her husband with more music, gentle, sure. The wind ferried the pieces to Alaric and let them fall short. He stood where she had left him, a little down the slope, far enough to be proper.

You asked me to stay, he thought, and the thought steadied him. He fixed the cloak’s pin with his eyes where it lay at her collarbone. wolf’s head in worked iron, teeth bared the way she had embroidered them for him on silk. His gift sat there without shame. It was enough for the breath he was in.

A shadow passed as Vermithor folded his wing. The king drew his queen close a last time, then eased back, speaking in that lilt again, hands drawing some small shape in the air a promise, a blessing, some southern grace Alysanne liked to pretend was northern when she wore it. She laughed under her breath. Even from here, Alaric knew that laugh and what it did to men who thought themselves made of harder stuff.

“Stark.”

He realized he had expected it; the king’s voice carried without force, as some men’s did. Jaehaerys had not yet looked his way, but the word had already reached him cold and clear.

Alysanne turned; the guilt in her eyes was gone, set aside like a cup put down carefully on a table that did not need it. What lived there now was something else concern for him, perhaps; the small, stubborn pride that had carried her through his hall this day; the knowledge that she wore his wool and would not pretend she did not. He gave her a fraction of a nod. It was all he had.

He stepped forward. The heather sighed around his boots; the barrow’s flank held the coming night chill like a kept coin. Vermithor watched the stars. Silverwing’s head followed Alaric until the slack of the reins checked her; she made that same low-why noise and went quiet when Alysanne’s hand reached back without looking and touched the line.

By the time he reached them, his anger had hardened into something he knew how to carry. He had borne heavier. The king’s eyes were bright and old; the smile from before had not left his face, only sharpened at the edges into something keener.

“Your grace,” Alaric said, with the proper dip of his head while he knelt to his one knee. His act was to show his loyalty to the realm and steadiness to hold duty. “Winterfell bids you welcome.”

“My Lord Stark, please rise.” Jaehaerys said, his voice gone from river to hearth again. A hand, ringed but not soft, caught Alaric by the elbow and drew him to his feet. Up close the king smelled of flight hot leather, old smoke, clean sweat. “You have kept my queen well, I am told. My thanks for Winterfell’s roof and Winterfell’s courtesy.”

“Winterfell keeps what it is given,” Alaric said. His own voice sounded flatter than he meant it to; the night gave everything a hard edge. “Your Grace.”

Alysanne’s eyes were on him. He did not look at her, and knew she knew why. It was a childish kind of knowledge too, and honest.

Jaehaerys followed his glance past them to the low humps of the barrows. “Your dead sleep near,” he said; there was no mockery in it, only a king testing the ground.

“As close as our living,” Alaric answered. “They keep counsel with roots and stones and have never sought to rule us from their mounds. We pay attention when we ought.”

“That is wisdom,” Jaehaerys said, and for a moment his mouth softened in a way that made him look very young.

The wind came off the barrows with the smell of wet earth and old grass. Jaehaerys drew his cloak closer and looked past Alaric to Alysanne, the humor back in his mouth.

“Are our chambers comfortable?” the king asked, easy as a host and not a guest.

Alysanne’s eyes went to Alaric before she answered—no longer than a blink, but he felt the measure of it all the same. “More than comfortable,” she said. “Warm as any southern room and better built. The hearth draws true; the bed does not creak a complaint.” Her hand found the edge of the grey cloak he’d lent her and smoothed it once. “Winterfell keeps its vows.”

Alaric inclined his head. “If anything is wanting, it will be set right before dawn.”

Jaehaerys smiled at that. “If anything is wanting, my queen will tell me and I will complain like a boy, and we will both be fools. No—Winterfell has done us honor.” He let the talk run out, then turned his face into the wind and looked to Alaric again. “Walk with me, Lord Stark. Tomorrow I will see your lords, weigh their tempers, and let them weigh mine. Tonight, if you have the patience for a king’s curiosity, I would look on your crypts.”

Alaric did not let the pause show, but he felt it. Men who asked to see the crypts wanted to be impressed, or warned, or taught something he wasn’t certain he knew how to teach. Still: the dead were the North’s plainest truth.

“As you wish,” he said. “We keep them lit when guests come. The watchman will have torches.”

Alysanne stepped the half-pace that makes a barrier without seeming one. “It is late,” she said gently. “And cold.”

“The dead won’t mind,” Jaehaerys answered, with that lightness he used when he meant not to be moved. He reached and cupped her cheek with his gloved hand, the gesture as easy as breathing. “I will only be a short while.”

Her look slid past him to Alaric again. Worry made a stricter queen than any crown. It was not fear of the dark; it was the kind of fear a woman had when two men she cared for meant to measure each other without a yardstick. Alaric found that he preferred the honest cold.

“It is only stone and names, Your Grace,” he said. “And a lord’s courtesy.” He meant the words for her more than for the king.

Jaehaerys leaned down and kissed her. Not the hungry kiss from a moment before this was a seal on a promise. He murmured something soft and smooth in the high tongue that Alaric could not catch, and she answered with a small nod as if she had counted it and found it enough.

“I will return soon,” the king said in the Common. “Do not let Vermithor steal our bed in my absence; he is jealous and sulks.”

“Silverwing would never allow it,” Alysanne said, a breath of a smile touching her mouth. She turned that same mouth toward Alaric, and for an instant he thought she might say be careful, as if the crypts could bite. Instead she only tugged the edge of his cloak, set it straighter on his shoulder with a quick, queenly fussing that felt like something else.

The king laughed under his breath. “Lead on, then, Lord Stark. Let me pay heed with the rest.”

They went down from the barrow slope with the dragons watching—bronze eye, silver eye, both unblinking. A pair of gold cloaks fell in behind them until Jaehaerys flicked two fingers and sent them to a distance; Alaric’s own men kept their posts by the gatefire, heads turning like hounds scenting weather. At the yard he took a torch from the watch and another from the rack, handed one to the king. Flame drew itself long in the night air and spat. The stone of the steps into the crypts held the day’s chill the way steel holds an edge.

At the door, he paused. The old iron banding threw back the torchlight in dull sparks. Above the lintel the carved direwolf’s eyes were filled with shadow.

“Your pardon,” Alaric said a habit, not theater and laid his palm flat to the wood for the beat it took him to name the kings below in his head. When he pushed, the hinges groaned with that whale-deep note the crypts kept for themselves. Cool air flowed out, dry as a book left too long shut.

“After you, Your Grace.”

“Together,” Jaehaerys said, and stepped in at his side.

The long gallery received them: rows of stone kings sitting their thrones with wolves at their feet, lamps burning low at their shadows, the dust like fine snow on every quiet thing. Alaric’s torch woke a scatter of sparks in mica, a glimmer in old iron sword-pommel, the wet shine of frost in a crack where the cold had crept. Somewhere deeper a drop counted time in a stone basin, patient as winter.

“Here they are,” Alaric said, voice made smaller by the stone and the dead. “The Starks that were. They do not talk; a man can learn from their silence.”

“You are meeting some now,” Alaric said, and let the old weather move in his chest and settle. “We keep them close so we remember how we are measured.”

The king glanced sideways at him. “And how am I measured tonight, Lord Stark?”

They walked with the drip and hush for company, two flames throwing long, jointed shadows along the stone. Alaric led toward the deeper vaults where the names that mattered to him lay; the air cooled further, dry as old paper.

He stopped before his father.

Brandon Stark sat his stone throne with a wolf at his feet and the mason’s idea of patience under his brows. The carver hadn’t known the real man’s living weight, the way he could be flint in council and thaw at a child’s question, but the set of the jaw was close enough. Beside him, the next effigy was leaner, younger Walton with the same straight mouth and a hint of laughter the sculptor had tried and failed to hide in the stone.

Jaehaerys lifted his torch. The light found mica in Brandon’s cheek, picked out a nick across Walton’s sword that the craftsman had copied from the steel they’d laid beneath.

“I remember them well,” the king said, and his voice lost its court polish. “Your father stood so high at mother’s wedding. He drank with Lord Rogar and told him of the North.” A corner of his mouth moved. “When I called banners against my Uncle Maegor, Brandon Stark was among the first lords to answer. He sent men south before the ravens had done their work.”

He lowered the brand, eyes shifting to the younger face. “Your brother wore a boy’s beard when I saw him last. Too quick to laugh.” The flame trembled as a draft found it. “I am sorry for Walton.”

Alaric felt the old weather move. It came up like ground-ice through the soles and into the ribs. He let it have him a moment, then turned his face so the torch showed what he meant it to show.

“Walton lies down here in darkness in no small part thanks to you,” he said, each word placed like a stone. “Stars and Swords, the leavings of your seven gods, what are they to us? And yet you sent them to the Wall in their hundreds and their thousands, so many that the Night’s Watch was hard pressed to feed them…and when the worst of them rose up, the oathbreakers you had sent us, it cost my brother’s life to put them down.”

The king took the blow without stepping back. For a heartbeat his face went very still the look of a man measuring where the blade had landed and how deep. He did not reach for a pretty word.

“I ended a war with the Faith,” Jaehaerys said at last, quiet in the stone. “I thought mercy had uses. I thought a black cloak was better than a noose for men who would take it.” He drew breath.

The king took the words clean. He did not flinch. “The Watch was dying,” he said. “Not from glory from numbers. Every year, fewer took the black. Every year, wildlings tested softer places. I sent men who had already broken the laws to a life where they could keep one. I sent grain and coin besides.”

“Not enough of either,” Alaric said. His voice echoed and came back flatter. “And when winter turned the road to stone and the wagons froze, it was my granaries that opened and my men who stood on those walls with brothers who would as soon have cut their throats. I know the watchword as well as any southerner: it is honor. Honor doesn’t bake bread.”

Jaehaerys’ torch dipped and steadied. “I do not pretend the policy was without cost. I will not abandon the Watch for fear of cost, either. It stands for all of us.”

“It stands in my yard,” Alaric answered. “When it falls short, it falls on my ground.”

Silence took a few steps with them. Far down the gallery the patient drip counted three more beats. The king shifted his weight; leather creaked. He looked from Walton to Brandon and back again. “I did not come to your house to ask your forgiveness,” he said, choosing each word. “But I would not leave it without telling you I know the weight you carry is heavier because of choices I made.”

Alaric felt the old weather move under his ribs and let it blow. “You know the weight,” he said. “Do you know the shape? The Wall take in oathbreakers and hope the vows will make them other than what they were. And when they aren’t, we bury our own. That shape is mine. It is not yours.”

Jaehaerys’ eyes lifted to him then, bright in the torchlight, and for a heartbeat Alaric saw the steel that men forgot when they called him Conciliator. “I have fought wars,” the king said, quiet.

Alaric set his brand in the bracket before his father’s effigy. The little flame took, made a steadier pool of light, freed his hand. “No you haven't. I have gone to war,” he said. “I have fought in your name. Not of going to do or on paper. I marched with Men. Steel. Blood. I have watched boys learn to hold a line while their hands shook and their teeth chattered. I watched my own brother die in my hands…So no, You have not.”

The last sentence came out harder than he meant. He let it stand.

Jaehaerys’ jaw worked once, a muscle flickering like something under ice. “No,” he said at last. “Not as you mean it. When I was of an age to be thrown into needless battle, my uncle had made enough of them. When I was old enough to choose my battles, I chose other kinds.”

They looked at Walton together then, the king and the lord and the boy of stone between them. It was not the kind of looking that healed anything. It merely did not turn away.

“I will not cease sending men to the Watch,” Jaehaerys said, softer. “But I will see that what is sent to feed them does not freeze on the road. If grain clots in Oldtown’s account-books while men starve at Eastwatch, I will pry the books open with my own hands.”

“What you claim.” Alaric said. It was not forgiveness and did not pretend to be. “See also that the worst of your leavings hang before they take the black, not after.”

“That would be fewer men for the Watch,” the king answered.

“It would be fewer knives my son and I will have to deal with.”

Jaehaerys’ breath went out; the torchhead sighed with it. “We will disagree,” he said. “And still we will need each other. That is the shape I know.”

Alaric took up his brand again. The little pool of light around Brandon and Walton thinned, wavered, steadied. “Tomorrow you will see my lords,” he said. “Measure them, let them measure you. Tonight you have measured me.”

“And found?” There was a hint of challenge there, nearly a smile, and not friendly.

“A man who has not been to war,” Alaric said, “and thinks that means he has not fought.”

That struck. Jaehaerys’ eyes cooled a degree. “Careful, my lord.”

“I am, your grace.” Alaric answered.

Dawn came thin and clean, a blade of light slipping past the shutter to lay a pale bar across the wolfskin. Alaric woke to it and to the hollow beside him. The linen still held a ghost of lilac and ink and the warmer, steadier scent that was only her after the long night’s wind phantom warmth that mocked the chill in the stones. He lay a breath with his palm on that empty place, let the ache have its say, and then swung his legs to the floor.

Cold water stung him awake. He dressed for a day of lords rather than a day of saddle: thick grey wool and cleaned leathers, a dark surcoat stitched at the edge with a narrow line of silver, sword belted but mail left on its peg. He tied his hair back without ceremony, drew on riding boots (there would be the river line after), and lifted the clasp of his mantle a small worked wolf, old and honest.

Winterfell was already stirring into the sort of noise a man could feel in his teeth. In the passage a scullion darted past with a pail; from a lower yard a hound gave voice and another answered, uneasy with scents no dog had the sense to name. As he crossed the covered walk by the inner ward he heard the murmur rolling ahead of him like surf: “The king is here,” and “Two dragons, still on the barrow,” and “The Bronze one watches.” Men always thought dragons slept when they lay quiet. Men had never been dragons.

The great hall stood open to the morning. Smoke from the banked hearths kept low along the flagstones; rushes looked newly combed. Maester Edric was a gray bird in the midst of a small knot of color Manderly’s sea-green, Karstark’s stark black and white, Umber’s raw red hands sketching polite circles as he made his points. He saw Alaric and excused himself with a bob of head.

“My lord.” The maester’s breath clouded once; his chain clicked softly. “Word from the Hand by which I mean the King’s Hand by which I mean our Septon Barth.” A twitch of a smile. “Their Graces wish an audience of all the North’s lords at second bell. Formations by house, banners in good array, the greater houses nearest the dais, vassals and sworn allies grouped behind them. The mountain clans to the right flank—together, for peace—and the Whitehills and Forresters are to stand apart with a witness set between. When all are placed, the King and Queen will make their entrance together.”

Alaric nodded once, already sorting the hall in his head. “We’ll keep a clear aisle from door to dais. Benches back two paces for passage. No blade over a hand’s span on the floor custom holds when a king sits.” He angled his chin toward the far wall. “Place Manderly left front he’ll want to preen, and he’s earned the space. Karstark opposite to balance. Glover between, then Cerwyn, Tallhart, Ryswell. Put Umber far enough from Redwyne that we keep our wine. Mormont close—Maege’s girls bite, but they bite on our side. The clans to the right as the Hand asks: Wull, Norrey, Liddle, Crowl, Burley. A Liddle man with a good voice to keep them in the same song.”

Edric’s quill was already out, scratching. “And the hedge-feud?”

“Whitehill to the far left rear, Forrester far right rear,” Alaric said. “Ser Kennet between them with two of the guard and a Manderly steward to witness and scowl. No shouting, no gestures with cups. If they must spit, let it be into their palms to swear, and not onto my floor.”

“Ha.” The maester’s eyes warmed. “Second bell, then. Her Grace asks for the dais set with three chairs king, queen, and yourself. The Hand will stand.”

“Perhaps it would be better to have Hand of the King closer to them.” Alaric said. 

Edric inclined his head, unoffended. “As you say.” He hesitated. “And last night… the crypts?”

“We walked,” Alaric said. “We will walk again if need must. But we must host our King and Queen.”

The maester accepted that and slid back into his flock of colors, already dispatching a Karstark man to fetch his lord, a Manderly page to fetch banners, a groom to run for the bellman. Alaric stood a moment longer in the hall’s mouth and listened to Winterfell take the shape of a king’s morning. 

Alaric stood at the foot of the dais with his three Torren straight as a pike, Alarra bright-eyed and still, Weymar trying not to bounce on his toes. The Hand stood below the dais, not on it. Two chairs waited above; Alaric had chosen to stand. The Lords of the North all gathered in their place standing forward waiting for the entrance of Targaryens.

The murmuring thinned. Torches hissed. Somewhere a hound stamped and lay down.

Alaric lifted his palm, and the hall obeyed. As a young man stepped forward from the door.

“Make way,” he said, his voice carrying clean to the last bench. “For Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.” A breath, no longer. “And for his queen consort, Alysanne of House Targaryen.”

The great doors swung. Wind shouldered in, tugging banners. They came side by side, black and red rich as heart’s blood, cloaks heavy with their own weather. The king’s hair caught the light like old gold; the queen’s was pale as a winter path, braided and bound in a way that made Alaric’s fingers remember the weight of his own grey cloak at her shoulders. They walked the long aisle between the houses without hurry and without pause. As they passed, heads dipped, then knees; benches creaked; steel rang once as some lord forgot and then remembered to lay his sword flat.

Alysanne’s gaze, skimming and gracious, found Alaric and fastened only an instant each time, but enough that he felt every one. He set his mouth and kept his weather.

At the dais, the king mounted the steps with a small squeeze for his lady’s hand and turned to the hall. Septon Barth stood one pace behind his right shoulder, eyes calm, measuring. Alaric inclined his head. The lords of the North bent the knee as one save a few of the old clans who bowed their heads by long custom.

Jaehaerys raised his hand, palm out. “Rise, my lords.”

They rose.

“My thanks,” the king said, and the hall liked his voice. “For your roof, your bread and salt, and your courtesy. I have brought my queen into your cold so that she might be warm among friends and I say to you what I have said in Oldtown, in King’s Landing, and at White Harbor: while I wear this crown, the North shall not be the kingdom’s afterthought.” He let that settle; men leaned into it without meaning to. “In our weeks here I will speak with each of you. I will hear your needs with my own ears and see what my eyes may say. Where the road is ground to mud, we will lay stone. Where the granaries run thin, we will fill them before winter does.”

There was a low sound at that approval in different dialects. Alaric felt the old bite under his ribs and kept his face as he had taught it. 

“I will not fix the North in a morning,” Jaehaerys went on, lighter. “Nor would you suffer me to try. You have your ways, and they are good ones. But I mean to aid the North as I am able, and I begin with listening. Today, we will take your counsel house by house.” His glance slid to Alaric and stayed there for a beat that belonged to the night they had walked the crypts. “With your lord’s leave, I will start with those whose quarrel threatens to grow legs and walk.”

Alaric stepped forward half a pace. “Winterfell is your court, Your Grace. My lords.” He let his gaze rake the hall, slow and impartial, linger a heartbeat at each banner.

Jaehaerys touched the back of Alysanne’s chair. She did not sit. She stood with him, shoulder to shoulder, black and red against the grey of the wolf. Her eyes found Alaric again, and for a heartbeat everything else—banners, pipe, breath—thinned to thread.

“Lord Manderly,” the king called, breaking it clean. “If you would do us the honor first. After him, Karstark. Then Umber—” he smiled toward the red mass that had nearly drowned a Reachman the night before—“if his cup may be trusted to stay steady in his hand.”

Laughter, properly placed, rolled and ebbed.

They moved through Manderly and Karstark, through Umber (whose cup, by some miracle, behaved), and on into the middle ranks. While the king bent his ear to a Cerwyn tally of bridges and a Tallhart complaint about wolves taking lambs, Alysanne slipped a pace behind his shoulder and along the dais.

She came to the Stark children like a bit of sunlight traveling a wall.

“Torren,” she said softly, so it would not carry, “your bow to Lord Norrey was well timed and your question better. A host who listens wins more than one who shouts.” He straightened, trying not to look pleased.

“Alarra,” the queen murmured, “your note on the harbor dues will make the Hand fetch his ledgers. Keep that pen wicked.” Alarra’s smile was quick and conspiratorial, gone in an instant.

Weymar had slumped a fraction, cloak twisted in its clasp from too many proud turns. Alysanne’s fingers were deft; she set the fold right, smoothed the line with a mother’s quickness. “There,” she breathed. “Fierce again.”

She lifted her head then, and her eyes found Alaric’s. He held them a beat. Her lips shaped the words without sound. I miss you. Heat pricked under his collar; he gave the smallest nod, the kind a hall would not see.

She left them as she’d come, carrying the scent of lilac and hearthsmoke back to the king’s side just as Jaehaerys called, “Lord Glover.”

The steel fist came forward, thick-armed and square. Glover spoke of the west road through the Wolfswood, sunk to a winter’s mire; of two timber bridges that needed rebuilding before the snows returned; of smiths short on good iron. The king listened, head bent, asking for names, for spans, for the count of carts lost to mud. “Stone where the road bogs,” Jaehaerys said at last. “Timber from the crown forests, measured fair. A writ to the Lannisport factors for iron at honest price. We will put our hands to it before first frost.” Glover bowed, sober and satisfied.

Jaehaerys turned back to the hall, voice carrying clean. “My lords, we will adjourn for today. Tomorrow at second bell we resume, Whitehill and Forrester will bring witnesses; the Queen, the Lord of Winterfell, and I will ride the river line at first light. Until then: hold your peace as you have held your patience.” His palm lifted. “My thanks.”

Benches scraped; banners dipped. The king offered his arm; the 

The hall was loosening—benches scraping, stewards moving like fish through shoals—when the king offered his arm. Alysanne took it. Jaehaerys bent and kissed her mouth—no courtly brush, but a brief seal—and when he straightened he looked past her to Alaric with a smile that showed too many teeth. A player’s smile, the sort a mummer wears when he means to be loved and feared both.

“I would meet the young wolves I have read so much of,” he said. “Your letters have made them near to me, my queen. Let them come.”

Alysanne’s hand tightened a fraction on his sleeve. “We had thought to make a supper of it tomorrow,” she said, light, careful. “Time to plan, to—”

“No sense,” Jaehaerys cut, still pleasant. “Now is a good time.”

Three young faces turned as one to their father. Torren’s jaw set; Alarra’s eyes flicked, quick as a bird; Weymar’s fingers worried his cloak-clasp and then stilled.

Alaric inclined his head. “It would be our honor, Your Grace.”

“Good,” the king said, the word soft as fur. “Come, then.”

They crossed the dais together king and queen in red and black; the Starks in sober grey; Alaric half a pace to the side, keeping the shape of it decent. Alysanne fell back a breath to the children’s line and, behind the king’s shoulder, let her fingers settle the twist in Weymar’s cloak again.

He watched her walk at the king’s side, red and black bright against his grey, and told himself all the sensible things: that duty was a bridle, that a lord keeps his house, that dragons make their own weather and a man does not curse the sky for snow. None of it unhooked the ache. He could still feel the ghost of her warmth in his bed and see her lips shape. I miss you in a hall full of witnesses. He set his jaw, counted the work ahead audiences, stones to measure, a river to make an answer and the counting did nothing.

She looked back. Only a heartbeat, small as a sparrow’s turn, but it found him. In it he read apology and want and the hard courage of a woman who chose both crown and heart and meant to pay for each. Alaric let himself give the barest nod, the kind a castle won’t notice and a queen will feel. It was wound and balm together. He pocketed that glance like a rose in winter and let the day close over him.

Chapter Text

The king walked Winterfell’s inner ward with the queen on his arm and the three of us in their lee, and Torren told himself a Stark should know his own castle by the way it breathed. The walls were dark with old weather; the merlons wore frost like salt; the covered walks smelled of oak smoke and wet wool and the iron tang that had drifted from the barrow all night.

Jaehaerys lifted his face into the cold as if testing a wind for riding. “This stone is honest,” he said, running gloved knuckles along a buttress. “Old work. It looks like it expects a siege and will be put out if it doesn’t get one.” He turned a half-smile toward Alysanne. “How long before the chill stopped arguing with your bones, my love?”

“In the first hour, my teeth chattered,” the queen said, cheerful as a brazier. “In the second, Lord Stark lent me a better cloak. In the third, Torrendecided warmth is a southern superstition.” Her breath made a small cloud; the dirt settled on her braid and did not dare melt.

The king’s eyes flicked over us, weighing, then settled on me. “Torren, yes? The heir to Winterfell” Jaehaerys said. “Have you held his seat yet, truly held it while father ever rode out?”

Torren kept his shoulders easy the way Father had taught him, never square them so hard you look like you’re bracing for a blow. “A few times,” he said. “When my lord father went to Torrhen’s Square. Torren heard the smallfolk on market day. A baker wanted relief on flour levies; two men argued over a boundary ditch and nearly came to knives until Torren set a chain and a witness. Torren fined a drunk who struck a groom. I… sent  to hard farm labor.” The last sounded childish to his own ears; he left it there anyway.

“Bread first, then timber,” the king said, pleased in that quiet way he had that didn’t ask you to dance around it. “Good.” He gestured not grandly, but as if including the yard and the sky and the old stones in a map only he could see. “The North and the Crown have had rough years and smooth ones. Yet Torren know who is truly loyal to me, when Torren first called my banners your house answered first. While Torren live, Torren mean you to be my partners rather than problems. When my son rises to sit on the Iron Throne so shall our children reign be peaceful. Your roads should be as much mine as the gold in the Reach is yours when you need it.”

Torren heard Father’s weather move beside him at that and kept his own face still.

They passed beneath the gallery that ran to the mead hall; the oaken posts and clung to the carvings of direwolves. Jaehaerys glanced down the line to Alarra, who was pretending very hard to be thinking only of ledgers. “You must be the Lady of Winterfell.” he said to Alarra, and then, as if the thought had occurred to him just now and not been sharpened on a whetstone, “Are there marriage proposals sniffing at your heels yet? I’ve seen a great deal of young and old lords look at you. Torren know Redwyne's son would be honored for a chance..”

Alarra’s chin came up as if pulled by a string. Color rose fast and bright.

“She has no need of that answer yet,” the queen said at once, light as dirt falling on mail. “Her suitors have quills and sums at present, and Torren is still seeking out their intention"

Jaehaerys’ mouth tilted. “Even a king knows better than to come between a lady and her ledgers.” He turned his head without moving his shoulders, a hawk's motion and brought Weymar into his eye. “And you, small Stark, you must be Weymar. I’ve heard all about you.”

“Is-sa, z-z-zȳhos, grace.” Weymar blurted, then remembered himself and bowed a little from the waist. He added a few soft words in the bright tongue the queen had been teaching him only a greeting and a thanks, but cleanly said.

The king blinked, surprised into a chuckle. He looked past Weymar to Alysanne with something warmer than court in his eyes. “Torren see why you adore them,” he said.

Torren felt that like heat at his back. Alysanne’s gaze touched him and moved on in the space of a heartbeat, but he carried it as if it had weight. He kept pace behind the King and Queen

 The king and queen talked in low, even voices, roads and granaries and the river line words Torren knew he ought to care for and did. Alarra drifted close enough to nudge his elbow. “Why must we trail him like geese?” she whispered, eyes forward, smile fixed. “Are we a procession or a purse of proofs for his Hand?”

Torren shrugged, mouth crooking. “Perhaps he means to adopt us. Weymar already speaks dragon tongue and the queen’s letters have near made us his already.” Alarra choked on a laugh she swallowed as a curtsey. Weymar’s eyes went wide, delighted and horrified both.

They came out into the outer yard where the light was cleaner and the wind had room to run. Jaehaerys paused and let his gaze travel the old curtain, the kennel arches, the soot-smudged forge with its banked coals. He looked like a mason reading another man’s work and approving most of the lines. White-cloaks were posted like fresh dirt against the stone; one broke from his place a long-faced knight with a black-winged crow on his clasp helm under arm, step precise.

“Ser Gyles Morrigen,” the king said, not looking away from the wall. Then his eyes slid to Torren. “Has the young lord mastered the sword yet?”

Torren felt heat chase the cold off his neck. “I—Ser Roxton says my guard is sound,” he managed. “My cut… is learning.”

Jaehaerys’ smile was quick and unreadable. “Good. Let it learn something.” He lifted two fingers to the Lord Commander. “Ser Morrigen, please bring me Dark Sister.”

The words drew a hush tighter than any order to stand to arms. Alysanne’s lashes flicked; Alarra went very still; Weymar’s breath fogged once and vanished. Torren heard his own heart in the forge’s quiet.

Ser Gyles had only just turned on his heel when Alysanne stepped in close to the king, fingers light on the crook of his arm.

“My love,” she said, voice pitched for him and no one else, “now is no time for this. Not with sharp steel. The boy can be hurt.”

Jaehaerys’ laugh was a low thing, like a fire remembering itself. “At his age,” he said, “Torren trained with oaken wasters until my wrists ached, and with steel until Torren came home welted and proud. Bruises make honest teachers. We will not cut him to ribbons.”

“Will we not?” Alysanne returned, the smile in her eyes all worry. “This yard is full of lords.”

“Then let them see a king who trusts a Stark’s son to stand before him with a blade in hand.” He kissed the corner of her mouth as if to salt the words, then looked past her to me. “And let the Stark’s son learn how a king moves.”

Torren's cloak felt too large for his shoulders. Torren had just unpinned it when Reina Bolton slid into his weather, pale face lifted, dark eyes too knowing, flayed man’s pink lurking at her shoulder like a chuckle in poor taste.

“Well then, my lord,” she said softly, approval and daring folded together, “do try not to kill the king.”

A laugh made it up his throat and lodged there, thin and wrong. “I’ll… endeavor,” Torren said, which made her mouth tilt.

Alarra’s gaze snapped like a bowstring; Torren felt it land in Reina’s cheek. Alysanne’s eyes came colder, quicker, and with a weight that had nothing to do with crown or throne. Reina’s poise stuttered. She dipped a quick, neat curtsey to me more apology than honor then stepped back into the yard’s drift, color higher than her courage.

“Ser Gyles,” Jaehaerys said.

The Lord Commander came with the sword over both forearms as if bearing a saint’s bone. Dark Sister did not shine the way common steel did. She took the light and ate it, gave it back in a thin, oily sheen, as if shadows had a polish. Her blade was narrow and long, her fuller shallow, her edge a line you felt in the teeth more than saw. The grip was dark leather, tight over wood, bound at guard and pommel with black iron gone soft with centuries of hand.

The yard remembered how to hush. Even the forge kept its breath.

“Visenya’s blade,” the king said lightly, as if speaking of a mischievous child. “Older than our crown. There are songs about what she has done. Fewer about what she has refused to do.” He held her one-handed, easy, then offered her out flat across both palms to me. “Hold her.”

Everything in me wanted to reach and feared the reaching both. Father had taught me to touch a blade by first bowing to it an old kennel-master’s trick for calming hounds. Torren bent his head a fingers’ breadth, then took Dark Sister the way the king had given her, palms up, forearms steady.

She was not heavy. She was present. The weight ran true from his hands into the elbows; there was a bright, cold thought along her spine that had nothing to do with weather. The leather at the grip was smooth as river-stone where it ought to be; the crossguard had the slightest nick in it, a crescent of age like a scar. In the black of the steel Torren could almost see a ripple, like wind over a pond when the pond pretends it is still.

“Do you feel how she wants to move?” Jaehaerys asked, not unkind.

Torren nodded. “Forward,” Torren said, before he could be clever. “And… out.”

“Forward and out,” he agreed, pleased. “Valyrian steel is lively. She draws the cut for you if you do not fight her.” He lifted a hand and the sword returned to it as water went downhill, inevitable and without complaint. He turned her once in a lazy figure eight that made the air hum, then stilled her point with two fingers and smiled at his flinch. “And she asks for respect.”

Movement at the yard’s edge pulled at the corner of the eye. A figure had come in through the postern by the bee-garden walk alone, unhurried, as if the day belonged to him. The cloak on his shoulders was black enough to make the dirt look dirty, the sort the Watch wore when they came begging for grain and men. But no crow ever had hair like that: pale as a drift, cut close and whipped by the wind into white sparks. He tilted his chin, just enough for the light to find his face, and Torren saw the birthmark red as spilled wine, a stain that climbed from throat to right cheek and lapped there like a tide-line.

“Prepare,” the king said.

The word cut clean through the yard’s odd quiet. Torren blinked, shook his head once to clear the stranger from it, and found Jaehaerys stripped of his cloak, Dark Sister angled down by his knee, legs loose, shoulders easy, eyes bright and ordinary. He did not look like the songs; he looked like a man who preferred to end arguments before they began.

“Steel for the lordling,” Ser Gyles said from somewhere to his left.

A Stark guard stepped in quickly and set a longsword in the hands, castle-forged, honest, the kind of weight Torren knew. It felt dull as a plow after the bright edge-thought of the queen’s blade, but it was mine by habit. Torren rolled his wrist, let the balance settle into his palm, found his guard the way Ser Kennet had taught me to point a hair high, lead foot light, hips not braced but ready.

“Only measure and balance,” Jaehaerys said. “No blood today. Your father would have my skin.”

“He would,” Torren said, because anything else would have been foolishness.

That made him laugh again. “Good. Then we will not cut. We will talk.”

He came as if to speak. That is what the movement felt like a man stepping closer to make himself heard. Dark Sister described a small arc that didn’t threaten anything but did touch every part of me that wasn’t paying attention. Torren met it on the strong of the lade and felt the kiss of it all the way to teeth. The sound was not the bright ring of iron. It was lower, a purr, a saw through wet wood.

“Do you see?” Jaehaerys asked, and Torren did not know if he meant the arc or the way his arms had tensed without his leave.

“Yes,” Torren managed.

“Then stop seeing and start feeling,” he said, and came again, two light tests wrist, then shoulder meant to wake a man’s feet. Torre gave ground once, then took it back with a step off the line, brought our blades together at an angle that made the shock bleed along steel instead of through the wrists. He nodded. “Ser Kennet has put hours in you.”

“Torrenlisten,” Torren said, breath frost-white.

“And you learn.” His point dipped and rose. “Good. Now tell me what a king teaches you with a sword that he cannot teach with a chair.”

“That he knows what he asks when he asks men to stand,” Torren said, which surprised both of us.

dirt wandered between us, aimless and shameless. The yard had made a bowl of silence around our metal’s talk. Somewhere, Alysanne said something in the soft high tongue that might have been a prayer or only the sound a woman makes when she cannot unclench her hands.

Jaehaerys’ mouth went wry. “Your father has a son,” he said. He shifted not much, just enough to take off Torren guard feel foolish and let Dark Sister drift toward Torren open side like a thought I’d rather not think. Torrent turned it away, not pretty, but not late.

“Again,” he said.

We moved: a conversation of edges and angles, all saying yes or no without ever bothering with maybe. His arms warmed past the first tremor; his feet found the stone beneath the rush of attention; the cold bit less where sweat began. The king did not seek to shame me. He sought to show as where the space was and when to step into it. Twice Torren did; twice he took it back without effort. Once Torrent tried to be clever and cut at his blade, and Dark Sister made a sound like a laugh against mine and told him what men meant when they said Valyrian steel was alive.

On the yard’s lip, the black-cloaked pale-haired man had not moved. He watched as men do when they’re measuring, not admiring. The wine-stain on his face looked darker in the cold.

He’d seen that face before…Hadn’t he? The pale figure by the postern watched with the same still attention as on the battlefield… or was it the Wall? Black cloak, silver hair whipped by the wind, the wine-stain birthmark climbing from throat to right cheek. It made no sense that the man could be here; sense didn’t seem to matter. Vision or visitor, the yard held him.

Torren’s thought broke as Jaehaerys moved low, quick, a sweep at the ankle that took the heir’s footing clean away. Pain sparked; Torren lurched, a hand dropping instinctively for the joint, and the king’s fist caught his collar, turned his stumble into a throw. He hit the rushes flat, breath exploding in a harsh cough that scraped his throat. Around the ring of onlookers something broke into gasps Reina, or Alarra, or both, while Dark Sister purred once in the cold air and went still.

“Enough,” Alysanne said at last, and there was a steel in the word that made even Dark Sister hesitate.

Jaehaerys fell away with a courtly flourish that did not mock. “Enough,” he agreed. He stepped in and set the flat of the Valyrian blade against his shoulder, not a blow, an anointing. “You will do more than hold your father’s hall,” he said quietly. “You did well as a first time wielder of Valyrian steel.” 

Torren's breath came hard. He raised his hands as it sang with pain. Torren became aware of the yard’s sounds again, the forge’s soft animal groan, the dog’s single dissatisfied bark, the creak of the old well-rope as a page hauled water he wished were wine. Alysanne’s face had more color in it than Torren liked; Alarra’s hands were tight together in her skirts; Weymar stood on the balls of his feet, small jaw set like a smith’s vice.

“Return Dark Sister,” the queen said, and Ser Gyles took her as if she might decide otherwise if given a chance. 

Torren’s lungs clawed air back in ragged snatches. The first thing he knew after the fall was Alysanne’s shadow softening the light, turning the yard’s ring of faces into a blur. The second was the king’s hand, not hard, patting once between his shoulders as a kennel-master might thump a pup whose bark had choked itself.

“Up you come,” Jaehaerys said, cheer easily. “Breathe. That’s the worst of it.”

Torren rolled to a knee, the yard’s damp rushes cool through his hose, and stood with more pride than grace. His ankle complained; his ribs made a small protest of their own. He forced his shoulders loose and reached for his cloak where it had fallen, grateful for the task of dusting it clean.

Alysanne’s look was not grateful. It had no room for courtly smile or queenly shine. She stepped between Torren and the blade still glimmering in the king’s hand and let her worry wear its proper face.

“My love,” she said, not low this time, “a king might consider a duller edge when ‘teaching’ the heir of a great house. Real steel makes real enemies.”

The yard heard that and found things to look at banners, mud, and their boots. Jaehaerys’ answer was a smile that tried to drink the seriousness from her words and could not finish the cup.

“Heir or not,” he returned lightly, “a lesson learned with care lasts. You have my promise. I would sooner nick myself than the boy.”

“It is not your blood I’m guarding,” Alysanne said, though some color had returned to her. “And I have no wish to test whether Valyrian steel knows promises.”

Ser Gyles had Dark Sister back across his arms, black and patient. The queen’s eyes flicked to the blade and then down to Torren, who was brushing grit from his sleeve as if it were an honorable duty.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, softening as she looked him over. Her fingers found a smear at his jaw and thumbed it away, then tugged his collar straight with the small, efficient touch he knew from feast and hall both. The scent of lilac and winter clung to her; the warmth of her concern made a better brazier than the one across the yard.

“No, Your Grace,” Torren said, voice even. “Only winded. And a little wiser.”

“Good.” Her mouth twitched despite itself. “That is the dearest price I’ll pay for your wisdom today.” She glanced past him, taking stock of her little line; Alarra was a knife in silk, chin lifted and eyes sharp with worry, and Weymar’s fists were bunched in his cloak as if he meant to beat the cold into fleeing. Alysanne raised a hand and made a small, decisive circle in the air toward the steward. “The children are excused,” she said, voice returning to queenly habit. “Torren will see to his ankle. Alarra, take your brother.”

Alarra blinked, then gathered Weymar with a touch to his elbow that looked light and was not, the way she managed ledgers and men alike. Weymar’s eyes stayed on Torren until Torren gave him the smallest nod; then the boy let himself be turned toward the covered walk.

“Your Grace,” Alysanne said, pivoting with the decision already made, “walk with me. We will speak with the steward about placing our witnesses at the river, and you may charm the cook into over-salting your broth.”

Jaehaerys’ smile broadened at that. He offered his arm without argument, and the two of them turned with the Lord Commander and the white cloaks in a small, eddying knot that drew the yard’s attention with it. The king looked back once as if to toss Torren a last line approval, or teasing, or the king’s habitual unreadable warmth and then the Targaryens took their weather with them under the gallery, red and black dwindling into shadow and talk.

The ring loosened. Men remembered to speak again; the forge picked up its quiet groan; a dog shook itself hard enough to jingle its chain. Ser Roxton came to Torren’s side with a look that was all assessment and very little sympathy. “Good hips,” he muttered. “Poor eyes. The sweep was written two heartbeats ahead.” His big hand gave Torren’s shoulder a squeeze that passed for praise. “I’ll rasp that out of you.”

Before Torren could answer, movement at the edge of his seeing tugged him around. The postern by the bee-garden walk stood empty, drifted white to the sill. No black cloak. No pale hair. No birthmark like a spilled cup caught in the skin. The yard’s corners were only corners again stone, soot, a page hauling water across the flagstones with the hunched patience of boys and buckets.

Perhaps he had imagined it. The ankle throbbed again; pain made its own ghosts.

“My lord,” said a voice like a step in fresh dirt soft and careful, leaving a mark all the same.

Reina Bolton had not strayed far when the queen’s eyes stripped her to manners. Now, with Alysanne gone and the king’s wake pulling eyes elsewhere, she drifted in again, all deference and daring rebuilt over the bones of embarrassment. The flayed man’s pink peered out from her shoulder as if to share the joke.

“Forgive the intrusion,” she said, and didn’t wait to be forgiven. Her fingers found his hand lightly, as if checking a hawk’s balance on a glove and gave it a brief, warm press before letting go, as though she understood that too much would mean having nothing. “You stood well. Better than most would…Your blade is sharp.”

Torren felt the urge to snatch his hand back and decided it would look boyish. Instead he let the ghost of the pressure warm his fingers and answered with a crooked mouth. “That was Valyrian steel.” he said. “My feet and I have an arrangement. They do not throw me unless I give them reason.”

“And then a king completes the argument,” Reina returned, humor quick and bright. “Try not to make a habit of falling for him; it unsettles the ladies.”

He snorted before he could stop himself. “I shall reserve my falling for less public places.”

“Oh, do,” she said, pleased at her work. The color in her cheek, the natural one, not the painted sort, was high again, but her gaze was steady. There was admiration there, and the same needle of teasing, but something else too: calculation that did not hide, because it did not apologize for existing. Boltons were not Starks; they did not dress their wants as virtues. “Truly, you were brave. Or stubborn, which is what I adore of you.”

“Which word would you use?” Torren asked before he considered whether he ought.

“Brave,” she said promptly, then let a thread of tease back into her tone. “And a touch proud. The proud are more interesting to talk to after they have been thrown once.”

A better boy would have excused himself on the pretext of his ankle and remembered Alysanne’s cold look, the silent plea of Alarra’s eyes, the way Father’s weather shifted when the flayed man’s pink hung too long in the corner of a hall. Torren was not a worse boy, only a younger one, and a little breathless still with having caught a king’s blade and not been ruined by it. He found himself chuckling and discovered it pleased him to hear.

“Walk?” Reina suggested, small hand indicating the covered way toward the mead hall, where steam was already curling like ghosts of broth past the beams. “Only as far as sense allows. Your ankle—” She dipped her head, conceding his pain before he had to. “—and propriety will tug us back if we stray.”

“My lady,” Torren said, offering his arm with a stiffness meant to disguise the last of his stumble. He felt the look of two Stark men on his back and did not turn to catch it. “I’d follow you anywhere.”

They went at the pace of good manners slow enough to be seen without seeming to show themselves. Dirt sifted past the edge of the roof; the world beyond the gallery lay white and hard and honest. Underfoot, the stones held the day’s cold and the night’s memory. Reina’s hand was light at his elbow, not possessive, not timid. When they reached the turning where the yard opened like a mouth toward the kennels and the smithy, she allowed herself the smallest tilt nearer, a conspirator’s lean.

“I did mean what I said,” she murmured. “Bravery. And—” Her glance tipped up, met his, held. “—you will have more eyes on you now than the king’s. Some will want bits of you for their own tables. Keep your knife sharp.”

Torren thought of chains and measuring lines and five stones that had not yet learned where to sit, of Alysanne’s thumb brushing grit from his jaw, of Jaehaerys’ blade touching his shoulder like a benediction he did not know how to value. He thought, too, of a black cloak that might have been a drift and a birthmark that might have been wine in the mind’s eye. He smiled the careful smile of a boy who is learning that weather is not only outside a man.

“Is that my new motto?” he said. “Becuase yours would be Winter is Coming.”

“Ha-I know what is coming and it won’t be winter.” she advised, pleased to be instructing a Stark. “Torren…I miss you.””

“Reina, it's been only a month since your departure.”

“And a month can be very long for a heart that longs for what it wishes to have.” Reina said, and her laugh was a quick, bright thing that did not linger long enough to be caught and judged.

They reached the mead hall door and the heat came out to meet them, full of broth and onion and the iron tang of the forge borrowed and turned to food. Torren glanced back once along the covered way out of nothing he would admit to habit, perhaps, or the need to prove to himself the yard was only a yard again.

It was. The postern lay empty. The dirt had made a clean liar of whatever he thought he’d seen. A pair of pages hurried by with trenchers; a white cloak posted himself beneath the arch with all the patience in the world. Somewhere overhead a bell marked the hour.

Reina made a game of the last steps to the hall: a half-turn under the lintel, skirts flaring just enough to make the torchlight chase their hem. She looked back over her shoulder with that clever, sideways smile. “A riddle for the road ahead, my lord,” she teased. “What lies between us that is not yet born, yet already makes men talk?”

Torren blinked. “Oh what…Snow?” he offered, wary of traps.

“Snow melts,” she said, delighted he’d tried. She stepped close—close enough that the heat from the hall and the cold off her cloak argued on his skin and took his hand with a soft decisiveness. She laid his palm, light as a promise, against the flat of her belly through wool and linen. “The future,” Reina murmured. 

It made no sense and too much sense at once. He opened his mouth to say something steady and found no steady thing to say. Before sense could catch up, she tilted on her toes and pressed her mouth to his brief, sure, a summer-quick kiss that was more dare than plea. His free hand found her shoulder out of reflex, steadying them both; the world narrowed to wool under his fingers and the unexpected, sun-warm certainty of being wanted for himself and not his banner.

The door banged.

They broke apart as cleanly as cut rope. Alysanne stood in the threshold with the yard’s cold still chained to her cloak, eyes like clear ice. Her gaze took in their distance too little, their hands, too much and then found Reina as a hawk finds a field mouse.

“Lady Reina,” she said, voice smooth and harsh at once, like a blade drawn slow from a scabbard, “you will excuse yourself. Lord Torren is to be busy soon.”

Color climbed Reina’s throat, nearly as bright as the sigil on her shoulder. She dipped, quick and low, not daring a glance to read whether this was mercy or warning. “Your Grace.” She turned to Torren with a smaller courtesy, all needle filed down to the quietest point. “My lord.” Then she slipped past the queen and was gone only the light press of her earlier touch left behind, cooling fast on his skin.

Torren stood stupidly a heartbeat longer, hand half-raised as if the errand he’d been given had evaporated in his fingers. The mead hall’s heat breathed around them: broth, onion, old wood, iron from the cauldrons. Outside, somewhere, a bell tolled the next hour of a morning that would not wait.

Alysanne crossed the space in two strides. She did not scold. She took his face in both hands warm, steady, thumbs gentle at his jaw the way a mother steadies a child who has seen too much flame. Up close he could see the worry that had lived in her eyes since the yard and the sword; worry and something harder, older, that had nothing to do with kings or kisses.

“My brave boy,” she said softly, and there was no court in it. “I will protect you as far as my crown and my body can reach.” She tipped his chin until he had to meet her gaze. “There are things you know, and things you do not, and things you think you know because they feel fine in a warm doorway. The Bolton do not come to you empty-handed, even when their hands are empty.”

He swallowed. “I—” The apology tangled with pride and came out as breath.

“Hush.” One thumb brushed a smear of grit he’d missed, then flattened a stubborn fold in his collar. “You are allowed to want. You are not allowed to be taken. Not by cleverness. Not by pity. Not by a hall that watches for you to stumble so it can call it a dance.” Her smile flickered, small and rueful. “And not by riddles about futures other people are too eager to write for you.”

Torren felt the heat rise to his ears and made himself stand in it. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Good.” She let his face go and smoothed his cloak as if that, too, could be set to rights. “Speak with other ladies,” Alysanne said, matter-of-fact. “With Lady Locke daughters, who will tell you a truth without gilding it. With Wulls and Liddles, who will teach you how a promise is kept when there is no scribe to witness it. With a Manderly or two about coins and the names they wear.”

Her mouth quirked. “And if you must let someone kiss you, let it be in a place where your father’s steward does not pass every third breath. Or better—” She tilted her head, eyes softening to something that made his throat hurt. “—save the next kiss for a girl you could stand beside in full light at midday without shame.”

He found his voice, a rougher thing than before the yard. “I did not mean—”

“I know what you meant,” she said, kinder for how firm she stayed. “Wanting and duty are separate things. You are your father’s heir. The future of your House the next Warden of the North. Every glance you give is a writ. Every laugh is a levy. Spend them like coin you cannot mint more of.”

He nodded. The lecture should have sat like a weight; somehow it sat like a hand at his back. “Thank you.”

“Mm.” She touched his cheek once more, quick as blessing. “Off with you,” she said, and it was almost a laugh.

Torren had taken refuge in his father’s study the great room of books and quiet where Winterfell kept its other kind of steel. The fire was banked to a red hush; the high slit windows made pale bars on the rushes. Ledgers lay open on the long table beside a roll of river charts and a coil of measuring chain; a carven wolf kept the corner with its muzzle on its paws, as if listening. The air smelled of vellum, tallow, and oak smoke, and something steadier that he thought of as his father’s presence clean leather, cold iron, pine.

He sat with a map unrolled and did not see the marks. When he closed his eyes, a black blade purred in the air and a pale birthmark climbed a stranger’s cheek. When he opened them, the lamp guttered and steadied, and his ankle throbbed in time with his thoughts.

The door eased on its hinges. Alaric came in without ceremony, shutting the noise of the castle out with the same plain finality he used on arguments. He looked at his son, then at the map, then at the way Torren held himself, and took the chair across from him as a man sits by a fire he knows near enough to warm, far enough not to smother.

“You stood your ground,” he said after a beat. No trumpets, only truth. “And your manners held with it. Well done.”

Torren let out a breath that fogged nothing. “I fell.”

“Aye.” Alaric’s mouth twitched not amusement, exactly; something like approval disguised as winter. “So you learned how the ground feels when it takes you. A true warrior doesn’t learn how not to fall. He learns how to rise, and pick the blade up once more with his wits still in his head.”

Torren looked down at his hands. There was a thin line of grit in one palm where the rushes had kissed him. “Ser Roxton will rasp the late out of me.”

“He will,” Alaric agreed. “And I will thank him for it.” He leaned, set two fingers to the chain on the table, and made it chime once. “You watched your feet. You did not reach for cleverness. You answered the king’s blade with your own and remembered you were my son and not his opponent. That will do.”

Silence settled easy for a moment, the kind that made the pops in the fire sound loud. Torren traced the river’s ink-line with a careful nail, then spoke without quite meaning to.

“What did you feel,” he asked, “when—when Mother told you she was with me?”

Alaric’s eyes moved once, from son to fire and back again. Something old crossed his face and softened it by degrees, as thaw softens rime on a fence-post.

“Proud,” he said first, plain. “As if Winterfell had grown another wall in a night. And afraid, the way a man is afraid when he is given a thing he must not fail to keep. Happy, in a way that made my hands stupid.” His mouth slanted, the ghost of a younger man’s smile. “I went to the yard and split a knot that had beaten me for three winters. Then I went to the godswood and told a tree I would do my best, and the tree listened as it always does and said nothing back.”

Torren found he was smiling, small and unsteady. “And when you came back from the Wall?” The question had lived under his ribs since the yard and would not be kept there any longer. “When—when Uncle Walton…”

Alaric did not look away. He had no talent for it. “When I came back,” he said, and his voice had the iron tang of the Wall in winter, “I was bone-tired and salted through with grief. I had buried my brother…I thought I had no room left for anything that was not duty.” He reached across the table then, slow and sure, and with the back of his knuckles touched his son’s cheek as if proving a fact to himself. “And then I saw your face. You were red and furious and loud as any bull, and I have never in my life been more glad to be wrong about myself.”

The touch stayed a heartbeat; Torren held still as if sudden motion might break something good. The room seemed to fold closer around the two of them the books, the carven wolf, the map that would be a road by afternoon.

“I love you, son,” Alaric said, calm as a vow. Not loud, not made for witnesses just placed in the air between them like a blade laid flat on open palms.

Torren swallowed. The smart answer died politely and made way. “I love you too,” he said, and heard in his own voice a steadiness he wanted to keep.

Alaric withdrew his hand and sat back. The weather in him eased by a notch; Torren felt it the way a man feels wind shift on a long road. After a moment, the lord’s face returned where the father’s had been, but the change did not shut anything.

“The King along with his royal entente will ride the river after the noon bell,” Alaric said, tapping the map’s margin. “Five stones to set right. A huntsman from Karhold to witness, a Manderly steward to count, a maester to mind the chain. You’ll rule in my absence. That will be your work.”

“Yes, father.” Torren said, because it fit better than my lord and meant just as much.

Alaric’s mouth tilted again. “And another task, quieter. You’ll keep clear of riddles in doorways.” He let that sit, without heat. “You may learn from every house, but you belong to none but this one.”

Torren flushed, then nodded once. “Alys—Her Grace has already told me as much. With better words.”

“She often has,” Alaric said, and the dryness of it was not unkind. He rose then, and the study seemed to stand with him. “Eat. Wrap that ankle. Find Ser Roxton and let him growl at you for a quarter hour so he can be sweet to his wife later, and she can blame me. We meet in the yard when the bell calls.”

Torren stood as his father did; habit set their shoulders to the same angle. “Father,” he said, stopping Alaric at the door with the oldest word. “If I fall again—”

“You will,” Alaric said, hand already on the latch. He looked back with a small, fierce pride that warmed like a brazier. “And you will rise. You are my son, you are a Stark, it is our duty to rise and defend those who can't.”

Chapter Text

Before the light, Winterfell breathed like a great animal sleeping. The wind nosed at the shutters and gave up; the banked fire made a low, patient glow in the brazier. Jaehaerys slept warm beside her, one arm heavy across her waist, his hair mussed flat on one side and bright as coin where the embers found it. He had flown late and eaten late and, when the hall emptied of lords and patience both, laughed softly into her shoulder and fallen to his rest as only a man confident of daylight can.

Alysanne did not sleep.

Two weather events hit her at once. One was old and simple: the clean, bright love that had carried her through siege and council and childbed, that knew the weight of his hand on hers when kingdoms felt like rope fraying. The other was new and not simple: a warmth she had not looked for, steady as a hearth kept and tended grey wool and pine-smoke and the careful, maddening courtesy of a man who covered drafts before he covered himself.

She had not asked for it. She had not denied it when it came.

Jaehaerys stirred; the arm across her waist tightened and loosened again. She lay very still and watched the way his breath made the fur rise and fall. The bed smelled of leather and clean sweat and the faintest ghost of myrrh from the oil his maid insisted he use on the aches flying gave him. On the chair by the coffer sat the cloak Alaric had lent her, folded neat as a confession. If she looked straight at the ceiling, she could tell herself it was only grey.

She thought of Torren, chin up, shoulders easy, as she had told him, and of the way Jaehaerys had turned a stumble into a lesson while a yard full of banners pretended not to stare. She thought of the crypts, where stone kings listened to men who would be stories. She thought, unwillingly, of the black cloak by the postern and the wine-red mark that climbed a stranger’s cheek like a tide-line.

“What will you do with all your thoughts if you will not share them?” she asked her own heart, which had very little interest in reasonable answers.

Jaehaerys rolled his head toward her. Sleep let go of him easily, as it often did. For a beat, he looked very young, the boy who had fled Maegor’s court and learned, fast, that there were better ways to rule than by breaking things. Then the look of a king settled back where it belonged, not heavy, only inevitable. He smiled. “There you are,” he said, and kissed her mouth.

She kissed him back because she loved him. The truth was neither more nor less than that. His hand found her cheek, warm against skin that the castle’s air had stolen the heat from. “You wake before the sun and make the sun jealous,” he murmured. “Is that a northern custom?”

“It is a queen’s habit,” she said, softer than the line deserved. “The day is easier to bear when it does not surprise me.”

He watched her a moment longer, the way a falconer watches for the tightness at the eye that means a bird is no longer at peace on the glove. “You bled yourself out for my North yesterday,” he said at last. “And you kept my pride from putting a bruise on our host’s heir he could not hide.” His mouth tilted. “You may speak your worry and keep your crown. I will not carry one from you while I wear the other.”

“You will laugh at it,” she said, easing her head to his shoulder because that was a promise she knew he could not quite keep.

“Try me.”

She did. “My love, your blade. In a yard full of lords, on a boy whose ankle has not learned all its work.” She felt him breathe to answer and added, “I have no wish to see Winterfell keep a memory of you that is ugly.”

He chuckled under her ear. “You speak as if I meant to carve him into a cautionary song. He did well. He will do better. A lord who has felt the ground teaches it less power over him when he must stand.” He shifted, kissed her hair, spoke against it. “And a king who has felt a Stark’s edge on his own steel earns more right to ask one to stand. We made a bargain, the North and I, and bargains want proof more than pretty words.”

“Bruises are a dear proof,” she said, but the bite had left the line. It was hard to scold a man whose courage was made of usefulness and not of hunger for display.

He followed her gaze to the chair where grey lay folded upon grey. “Ah,” he said, mild as a cat who had found cream in a pantry. “Yes. It is a good cloak.”

“It is a warm cloak,” she corrected, to keep her footing where it was sure. “House Stark gift to me…Their hospitality.”

“I am nearly jealous of it,” he confessed, and then let the jest go because he had learned when not to worry about a sore place. “We ride the river after morning. You will walk me through the names at breakfast so I do not greet a Norrey as a Liddle. Then I will begin my dance with our Whitehills and your Forresters and your witness with a quill.”

“Our Whitehills and our Forresters,” she said. “You married me to more than a crown.” Her mouth quivered despite the heaviness in her chest. “We will see if the pledge of Stonehenge was honored.”

“The Hand will envy me,” he said, and in that moment, the old easy pleasure of their marriage flared two minds standing back to back in a room full of knives and enjoying the work of not being cut.

She closed her eyes. The ache was what remained when the pleasure ebbed. Love had never spared her the ache of it. Duty had taught her how to carry it without dropping anything else.

When she opened her eyes again, he was looking past her, thoughtful. “The Watch sent no messenger last night,” he said, surprising her into stillness. “I asked Ser Gyles to have the gatekeeper wake him if a crow knocked. He sleeps as soundly as men who do not get mobs at their doors.”

She had not asked the question aloud. He had heard it anyway. “Good,” she said. “Then the only shadows in our yard are our own.”

“Mm.” He brushed his mouth against her brow and pushed himself upright on one elbow. “I would have your list.”

“Of lords and grievances?” she asked, propping herself on an arm so she could watch the play of waking run across his face. “Or of other things I will not say in an open hall?”

“Both,” he chirped. “Perhaps start with the lords; I have only so much time before the cooks commit sacrilege upon the eggs.”

She gave him names and the one-sentence truths she kept for moments like this. Manderly: proud, practical, more honest than he pretends. Karstark: brittle in the wrong places, reliable in the right ones. Umber: wine before wisdom unless you put the wisdom in a cup. Glover: will not steal, but will borrow too long. The mountain clans: never lie to them; never expect them to call your truth theirs unless you have stood under the same weather. Whitehill and Forrester: keep them far and seen.

“And Alaric,” he prompted, last and not least.

She could not put the simplest truth into the air and keep the world from hearing it. So she put the next one. “Alaric is kind,” she said. “And courteous past any count, a man would think counts for anything. He listens to trees and to men and knows when to believe which. A proud man, a man of honor…I admire him.”

“Sounds like a fairer man than the one I spoke with the other night,” Jaehaerys said. “I will try to meet what you see in him.”

He kissed her once more and rolled from the bed with the easy grace men give swords when they have no aches yet. She watched the line of his shoulder, the old scar at his hip from a fall that had not made it into any song, and thought not for the first time that it would be very easy if love were a ledger. She would tally and come to a clean sum, and it would hurt only as long as the ink took to dry.

But it was not that. It was a river that changed its bed when you thought you had mapped it. It was five stones that seemed certain until you put your foot on them and found they rocked and asked to be set again.

She slid from the sheets and crossed to the chair. The grey cloak was cold under her fingers, and then not. She drew it around her shoulders by habit and felt the way it held the drafts away from the throat and the heart. Jaehaerys paused at the coffer, half-amused. “You mean to make me work with a Stark for you,” he said lightly. “I had hoped to keep my hands for other work.”

“He will not wrestle a king for authority,” she said, managing a smile that was only partly a lie. “He already has what generational duty brings. My love, if you wish to win Northerners, you must meet them at their eye level.”

“I will,” he said, and meant it. He had always been good at bearing. It was one of the reasons she had loved him first.

He belted his robe and reached for his rings; she tied the cloak and set her hand to his chest and stood a moment, listening to the steady beat there. Then she stepped away and made herself a queen again, the way you put a crown on a brow and pretend it weighs less than it does. “Breakfast,” she said. “Then, lords. Then the river.”

“And after,” he said, because he never forgot to promise afterward.

“And after,” she echoed.

The retinue took the river path in a long, neat spine of white cloaks at fore and flank, Stark men in sober gray behind, the Manderly steward bobbing along with a leather case of tallies, a Karstark huntsman riding easy with the chain coiled at his saddle. Spring’s cold wrote its thin script along the banks; ice clung to the shaded roots like old lace. Alaric kept his gelding a half-length behind the royal pair close enough to answer, far enough to keep the shape of things decent.

Alysanne looked back more than once. The glances were small as sparrows and no less quick; one of them came with the ghost of a smile that warmed more than the sun managed. Alaric’s face did not move. Weather shifted under the breastbone; the reins lay steady in his hands.

“Tell me of your quarrelers,” Jaehaerys said, easing his horse to the crown of the track where the muck was shallowest. “Whitehill and Forrester. How long have they been at sport?”

Alaric considered the river, the brown flicker of a trout where the ice had broken. “We count it back to the days when Blackwood kings kept the Wolfswood. Your Grace. Long enough that whatever first wound begat the rest has slipped its name. Now they inherit anger like land.”

“My gods,” the king chuckled. “So then they are your Bracken and Blackwood, then.”

Alysanne’s shoulder brushed Jaehaerys’ cloak as she shifted in her saddle to look across at Alaric. The wink she gave him was quick as a pinprick, a tease hidden in courtesy. “And still you keep them from killing each other at supper, my lord. I will have that recipe.”

“Without dragons,” he answered, dry as frost, “it is mostly salt and watchmen.”

“Mm,” Jaehaerys said, amused. “We brought two for the day. Borrow their shadows as you need.”

“Shadows make men mind their tongues,” Alaric allowed. “It’s their hands I watch.”

Ahead, the river bent and widened into a slow, iron-colored elbow. Five gray humps punctured the bank where the masons had planted the boundary stones; two wore fresh earth, as if they had been dug and set again in quiet. On opposite rises, Forrester green and Whitehill red had gathered in small, bristling knots, standards furled out of respect, tempers already licking their lips.

Maester Edric trotted up on his horse, breath fogging, rolls under one arm. “The line’s as the old map shows, my lord mif the map tells no lies,” he chirped, refusing to be cowed by horses larger than his. The Karstark huntsman swung down without being asked and began to lay the measuring chain from capstone to capstone, each iron link speaking softly to the next.

Alysanne lifted her chin toward the opposing banks to find a pocket of Whitehill, where two girls accompanied three young men. A conversation could be heard as the party moved down the hill.

“We should name it,” A voice echoed. They looked over to see a teen, all wrists and swagger, with one boot on the bridge rail and his thumbs tucked in his belt. He looked seventeen and thought the sun came up because it liked his grin. “Something grand. Alysanne’s Tooth.”

“The queen’d like that,” Another Whitehill said, a lad with a laugh too big for his face. “What about Queen’s Peace?”

“Too meek,” He sniffed. “A tooth bites.”

“It is not for biting,” A youn girl said, and they all looked at her. “It marks where the queen said our land ends. We’ll do better not to speak of it like a jaw.”

The older boy made a show of being wounded. “You hear that? Lendsey has me by the ear again.”

“She has you by the sense you lack,” The other girl spoke.

“They won’t like it,” he said around the crust, chin jerking toward the opposite bank. “The Forresters.”

“Then they can go whine to Alysanne,” the boldest of the boys answered, loud with borrowed courage. “Dragon-bitch will set them right.”

Lendsey, the younger girl, hair braided neatly despite the wind, flinched and caught his sleeve. “Mind your mouth.”

“It’s improper to speak of your queen in that manner,” Jaehaerys said, and though he did not raise his voice, all five youths jumped as if the river had barked. Whitecloaks and Stark men reined in; dust rose from the old forest road that ran down among the pines to this bend, cutting the two holdings like a dull knife. 

“Whitehill!” A shout came from its throat, and more youths in dark black with a white weirwood tree on their cloaks. Forrester boys, six at a glance, with two hovering, wary at the rear.

“Hoh!” he called, and raised one scarred hand as though saluting neighbors. His voice had gravel in it. Some said he’d bloodied himself on bear, that his father had set him to it as a test. I doubted that. Bears did not often agree to the queen’s peace either. “Look at that pretty thing. My thanks for the labor.”

“It is not ours, Ascar,” Lendsey said when the Forresters halted under the pines. “It is the queen’s marker.”

“Aye,” Ascar returned. He nodded, eyes running over us with a tallyman’s interest. “A queen who puts it where a Whitehill tells her.” His gaze pricked at me but did not dwell. It moved to King and Queen, and he bowed his head. “My king, my Queen, it’s an honor to be here today.”

“That was a long ride from Ironrath just to admire joinery,” The bolder Whitehill said. He did not move his boot from the bridge rail. “Would you like to stroke it?”

Alysanne put her mare forward a single step, enough to soften the gulf without swallowing it. “Lady Lendsey,” she said gently, for she had a way of catching a name when it was offered to the air, “thank you for the correction. My lord,”—she turned the warmth of her gaze on the bold boy—“you have a stout voice. Keep it for truth and courtesy both.”

He went red, but bowed as best he knew, nearly losing his crust to the rushes. “Beg pardon, Your Grace.”

“It is taken,” she said, and let the matter be finished.

“You know why we’re here,” Ascar said. “You shifted it.” He flicked his chin toward the iron. “This marker should be ten paces upbank. The clerk set it where the queen’s word put it yesterday, and you and yours came in the night and broke the stone and set it here where the river tightens so you can swallow more of her wood.”

“Enough! Approach this meeting with respect.” Alaric signaled the Karstark huntsman, who was already on the ground with the chain. Maester Edric bobbed up with the rolled maps, his pony stamping at a fly that did not yet exist in this weather. The Manderly steward opened his case and took out tallies as if he meant to count the river, the stones, and the breaths between words.

“Come,” Alysanne called, and it was to the children as much as to their fathers. “I would have young eyes on old measures. One Whitehill, one Forrester at each stone. You will carry the chain’s ends when Maester Edric calls them. You will say aloud what you see and hear.”

“We swallowed nothing,” Mayra said, evenly, while glaring at Ascar. “The stone you speak of was cracked when it was raised. The reeve said so. The ground was soft there. The queen’s word cannot sink in a bog.” She had the tone our mother used on the steward when bread was late to board.

Ascar’s eyes slid to her and away. Even anger had a pecking order; he was here for the boys. “You talk like a scribe, girl,” he told her. “Move the marker back.”

“We will do as the queen ordered,” Lendsey said. “And no more. We did not move it. We will not move it.”

“In the name of my husband, your King country, this bickering will end! We will hold a proper edict here, or my Kingsguard will escort you away from this meeting. Her voice filled with command silent the arguing tough but she felt the tension not fading anytime soon.

“Start at the mid-bend,” Alaric said. He had chosen a tone so ordinary even pride could sit under it. “Chain from the capstone to the waterline. Speak the stretch.”

The huntsman set the hook. The chain whispered to itself, link kissing link. “Four and ten,” called a Whitehill boy as he took the first length. “And three more to the bank, true!”

“Mark it,” Edric chirped, scratching at his parchment. “River’s down a hand from last thaw; adjust… yes, yes.”

They worked the line stone by stone, the day brightening in that thin northern way that makes shadows honest. Once, a Forrester boy tried to steal an inch with a heel dug sly into thaw; Lendsey rapped his boot with the chain end and said, clear enough for all to hear, “We are all watching.” He flushed, then grinned despite himself, and lifted his foot.

It might have held there. It did not.

“The queen’s judgment holds,” Alysanne said—warm enough for the children, firm enough for the men. “We are all sworn.”

“As are we,” said a green-cloaked youth someone called Ascar. “But I’ve not yet sworn to be blind.”

A Whitehill boy—Olivar, all chin and bravado—laughed. “You’ve never sworn half so hard as you swear today. Run home, Ascar. Your mam will be out of her mind with fear. There are dragons about, they say. Tuck yourself under her wing.” He cocked his head like a cat and made it a dare.

“Mind that tongue,” Ascar said, quiet now, and the quiet sat heavy. “I’m not your mother’s steward. I won’t carry your slop with a smile.”

“Wouldn’t ask you,” Olivar said, still smiling. “I called you what you are. A dragon—”

“Enough,” Alysanne cut in, already seeing it go bad. “Words are tinder. Keep them damp.”

But the boy pushed on, bright with his own courage. “—bitch. Alysanne lifts her hand and your lot jump to lick it.”

“You end this now or I will bring this to end.” Jaeherys barked in his voice snarling as Alaric glared at his king. 

Alysanne felt her own face stiffen the way it did when a seamstress pulled a pin too hard through wool the pin-ache of knowing a thing had been done that could not be undone. She saw her husband stepping in with his authority as Alaric stepping up one against his own King to protect his vessels.

“Take it back,” Lendsey said to Olivar, not caring that the Forresters heard. “Say you spoke out of turn.”

“It’s true,” he said, startled by the sound of himself. “It is what we—”

“Take it back,” hissed Mayra pale as milk at his elbow. “You little fool.”

Ascar’s jaw worked. He did not look at Alysanne or Mayra. It cost him something to keep his gaze on Olivar. “Take it back, Whitehill.”

“Come drag it from me,” Olivar said. “Dragon—”

The rock came from the green line like a bird startled from brush. Alysanne did not see the thrower’s hand, only the blur, the arc, the sudden shriek of pain inside her skull. White noon burst and narrowed. She staggered; iron tasted hot and mean on her tongue. Blood ran warm down her temple and into her ear. Her hand went to her hair and came away red. The world tipped like a dish being drained.

Ser Gyles was in motion at once, white cloak flashing, and steel whispered from more than one scabbard. Jaehaerys’ voice cracked the air: “Name me the thrower! Or I’ll take both your heads!”

The king’s tone made every back stiffen; it did not ease anything. Alaric was already down, cloak in his hands, his shadow falling over her without fuss. He pressed the wool to the cut just above her brow, efficient, gentle, the pressure neat as stitches. “Hold,” he said, quiet and practical, to her and to the men both. “Hold.”

Steel hissed. Leather creaked. On one bank, Jaehaerys’ voice cracked the air; his Kingsguard fanned white around him. On the other, Stark men closed in a gray ring before the royal pair. Horses sidestepped; the chain clinked; breath smoked.

Across the stones, young Lendsey Whitehill clung to her brother’s arm, heels dug, dragging him backward by inches. “No insult was given, do you hear me? None! We’re going home,” she pleaded, voice breaking with the effort.

Olivar tore free, face gone raw. “You fuckers are attacking us! Knew this day would come!” Whitehill hands went to hilts like one body.

“Ascar!” someone warned, but the Forrester lad was already shaking, voice ripped ragged as he pointed past the queen’s blood. “Cunts! You threw a rock at the Queen! This—this is WAR!”

Alysanne saw it in Alaric’s eyes, not fear for himself, but for the shape of what was breaking open. He stepped in front of her without thinking, shoulder squared, cloak lifted to shield, and in that heartbeat she read the old ruin moving behind his gaze. A quarrel snapping from words to wounds the way he’d seen it snap before. Something in him flinched at the memory and set its jaw all the harder.

The lines collapsed at once. A knot of Whitehill lads surged, trampling their own girls, Lendsey stumbled, dragged sideways with a cry as elbows and boots churned the thaw. Forresters rushed to meet them; Ascar’s fist found Olivar’s face with a flat crack that rang like a mallet on wet wood. Olivar reeled, blood bright at his lip, and launched himself back; another boy hit a Whitehill low at the hips and drove him into the slush. Knees, shoulders, teeth children making a battlefield out of inches. The measuring chain skittered; a capstone shuddered; two boys went down half in the river, sucking mud.

“Kingsguard—forward!” Jaehaerys’ voice cut like iron torn from a scabbard, anger clean and cold. White cloaks sprang; steel flashed. “Bring me the thrower—now!”

“STAND. DOWN.”

Alaric’s bellow broke over them like a gate dropped from height. The pines caught it and threw it back; even the horses checked. He waded into the tangle before the white cloaks could, shoving bodies apart with forearms like beams, planting boys by the collars at arm’s length as if setting posts in frost. “Hands to heads! Eyes on me!” A Whitehill lunged; Alaric’s palm met his chest and set him on his heels without malice, only fact. “My men between lines. Now. No blades.” The gray ring moved with him, shields sideways, making space where none had been.

Alysanne pressed her palm to the tacky warmth at her brow and kept her voice for the next breath. Jaehaerys’ anger banked a degree at the sight of order clawed from the mess; Jonquil Drake knelt down to the Queen side her hands reached for Alysanne head and she brushed her hand away and nodded for a hand up.

“My sworn go into the ranks. Bring the girls to me. I will not have ladies bloodied for men’s pride,” Alysanne ordered, voice cutting clean through the clamor.

Jonquil her rose-and-steel sworn shield went at once, shouldering through a knot of Whitehill lads. She found Lendsey on her knees in the slush, a bruise blooming along her cheekbone, eyes glassy with shock. Jonquil didn’t waste a breath: she hooked an arm under the girl, hauled her up onto her hip, and backed out, her free hand fending off elbows. Two handmaids and a Stark guardsman gathered the other Whitehill girl and a pair of younger cousins, shepherding them away from the press.

Only when Alysanne saw the girls clear did she lift her hand from the tacky warmth at her brow. She steadied herself and moved toward them. Two Kingsguard fell in at her flanks without a word; behind, Jaehaerys matched her stride, and Alaric came after, the weather in him still hard as ice.

“Alysanne—are you hurt?” the king asked, worrying roughening the edge of his voice.