[Winterfell, 9th moon, 293AC]
The banners of House Stark whipped in the crisp northern wind. Outside Winterfell, the first frost had already set upon the grass and fields, painting the ground in thin silver lace. The castle hummed with preparation. Butchers sang in the yards as pigs were dressed and bled, maids hurried with baskets of squash, turnips, and apples from the cellars, and the kitchens glowed with warmth and the rich scent of spiced stews and roasting meats. The Harvest Feast was near.
Alaric Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sat upon the ancient Throne of Winter. Though still shy of his majority at six-and-ten, he wore the mantle of command as if he'd been born in it. He listened with careful patience to the procession of smallfolk and minor nobles who came to speak their piece or seek his judgment. To his right sat his uncle, Lord Eddard Stark, quieter now that the regency was more symbolic than needed, but still a constant presence.
Each petitioner was seen, their concerns weighed, and justice dispensed with calm authority. And yet, Alaric's sharp grey eyes drifted occasionally to the doors of the hall. He could hear faint echoes beyond, the laughter and thumps of his cousins and more distant kin, training in the yard. The Wolf Pack, they were called now: Robb, Jon, Rickard, Osric of High Hill, Harlon of White Harbor, and the Snow twins Edric and Elric, the bastard sons of Ser Harald Stark. Seven boys with winter in their veins and steel in their hands.
They trained each day with wooden swords, hurling snowballs when Ser Rodrik turned his back, devising ever-more-elaborate schemes to catch Alaric unaware and force him into a mock duel. He'd beaten them all, sometimes one at a time, sometimes all together. Still, they persisted. That persistence made him proud, even if it earned them more chores than praise.
Branda and Berena Stark, the High Hill twins, were worse in many ways. They had adopted Arya like a sister wolf, and the three of them ran wild through the castle and town, climbing walls, playing pranks, sometimes sneaking into the kitchens to steal warm bread or sweetcakes cooling by the hearth. Sansa disapproved, of course. She preferred her own circle: Jeyne Poole, Lyarra, Alysanne of White Harbor, and little Beth Cassel. Together, they played at court and tea, weaving flowers into their hair and whispering secrets.
The hall stirred again as a new figure entered, small, hesitant. A boy of two-and-ten, only two years younger than Alaric, wearing ragged wool and patched breeches, stood in the entryway. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes large and wary. He clutched a wooden box against his chest like it might vanish if he let go.
"Another one, gods help us," Ser Harald, Alaric's second sworn shield, having given his oath shortly after arriving at Winterfell two years ago, muttered beside the dais, arms crossed.
The guards moved to intercept the boy, but Alaric lifted a hand.
"Let him speak."
The boy knelt, fumbling the gesture, clearly unused to it.
"My... my lord," he stammered, voice cracking. "My name is Dorren. Dorren Snow. My mother... she died last week. She said, if she ever did, I was to come here. To Winterfell. To give you this."
He held out the box with trembling hands. Alaric rose and descended the steps of the dais, boots echoing faintly on the stone. The room was quiet, watching. He took the box gently and flipped the latch.
Inside, beneath a folded linen cloth, was a single sheet of parchment, yellowed with age but unmarred by damp or rot. The handwriting was bold, familiar.
Brandon Stark's.
Alaric's breath caught, but he said nothing as he unfolded the letter and read. Then, aloud:
To Whom ever may be reading this,
This boy is mine. Born of a woman from Wintertown. His name is Dorren, and he carries my blood. If anything should happen to his mother, I ask that he be brought here.
If there is doubt, ask Ned about Harrenhal. He will remember the night I made him dance with Ashara Dayne. The rest only we know.
Brandon Stark
Silence.
Alaric looked to Ned. The hall looked to Ned.
His uncle's brow furrowed. Then he closed his eyes for a moment and nodded. "It's true. He teased me endlessly that night... he pushed me toward her. Only Brandon could have known those things."
Alaric turned back to the boy. Dorren looked ready to bolt.
"You are my father's son," Alaric said, voice even. "That makes you my blood and brother. You will have a place here. Warmth. Food. A name."
"Snow," the boy said softly. "I'm only a Snow."
"Snow is enough," Alaric replied. "So long as you carry yourself with honor. You may train with the others. You may be part of this pack of wolves that runs roughshod over my castle. But you will also learn what it means to carry Stark blood."
Dorren nodded, stunned.
Alaric turned back to the hall. "Court is adjourned for the day. Prepare for the feast. And someone find Robb and the others, I suspect they'll want to meet their new packmate."
[That evening, the Great Hall]
That evening, as the great hall glowed with firelight and smells of roasted venison and honeyed carrots drifted through the air, Alaric stood at the high table. Long wooden tables filled the room, villagers and nobles alike enjoying the hospitality of Winterfell.
Dorren sat beside Rickard and Osric, his eyes wide with wonder at the bounty before him. The others had welcomed him with cautious curiosity, but after Osric challenged him to a snowball fight and Dorren hit Jon in the face by accident, he was quickly absorbed into the gang.
Arya dragged Branda and Berena across the room on some mischief errand, while Sansa and her companions watched with veiled disapproval.
Ned leaned toward Alaric as the musicians struck up a slow reel. "You did well today. Your father would have been proud."
Alaric nodded, his expression thoughtful. "There are more of us than I ever expected. The Starks. We keep growing."
Ned smiled faintly. "So long as we grow strong as well."
Alaric raised his cup, not to toast or boast, but simply to sip and savor the moment. Family, old and new, gathered beneath the banners of the direwolf, in the heart of the North.
Winter had not yet come, but when it did, they would face it together.
[Winterfell,3rd week, 9th moon, 293AC]
Outside the walls of Winterfell, the autumn wind carried with it the scents of turned earth, pine, and the first promise of snow. Inside, the castle swelled with life and sound. The Harvest Feast was nearly upon them, and preparations grew more fevered by the day. New arrivals were expected with each passing dawn, lords, merchants, and mountain chiefs summoned by word and bound by duty. Alaric could feel it in the stones beneath his boots, the growing heartbeat of the North.
The closer bannermen had begun to arrive.
It started with the banners of House Cerwyn. Pale grey field, a black battle-axe, a house that had ever been faithful, even in leaner years. The gates of Winterfell opened wide to receive them, their train small but proud. Lord Medger Cerwyn, a hale man of 4 and 40 with steel-grey hair at his temples and a weathered face, rode at the front. Beside him, a boy not yet a man, lean with auburn hair and a solemn expression: Cley Cerwyn, heir to Castle Cerwyn, and the same age as Robb and Jon.
Alaric met them in the outer courtyard, cloaked in black wool trimmed with white fur, flanked by his sworn shields Ser Torrhen Stark and Ser Harald.
"Lord Medger," Alaric greeted, extending his forearm. "Winterfell welcomes you."
"Lord Alaric," Medger replied with warmth. "You're a sight taller than I remembered." He took Alaric's forearm in a firm grip. "And wearing command well, by the look of it."
Alaric offered the barest smile. "Time has its way with us all."
The boy at his side bowed awkwardly, looking between his father and the young lord of Winterfell. Alaric studied him for a moment, nervous, yes, but with a quiet strength. The same look Jon and Robb had before their first proper sparring match.
"And this must be your heir," Alaric said. "Cley, is it?"
"Yes, my lord," the boy said, voice clear and steady.
"You're of an age with my cousins and more distant kin," Alaric said, glancing toward the yard where laughter and the thwack of wooden swords could still be heard. "They've taken to calling themselves the 'Wolf Pack,' though I suspect they've earned more bruises than victories."
Cley hesitated. "May I join them?"
Alaric turned to Medger, who gave a quiet nod.
"Go on," Alaric said. "Tell them I sent you. And if Robb challenges you to a wrestling match, sweep the leg."
Cley grinned and bolted off, his fine boots crunching in the frost-dusted gravel as he sprinted toward the sounds of youthful chaos.
"Good lad," Medger said, watching him go. "He'll learn more from roughhousing with your pack than from any maester's scroll."
Alaric turned, and together they began a slow walk along the courtyard's perimeter, away from the clamor. The wind tugged at their cloaks, carrying the smells of roasted meats and churned earth from the surrounding woods. Above, the sky threatened snow.
"The canal work is nearly done, or so i hear," Alaric said, after a pause. "If the snows hold off, we'll have it finished by the end of the next moon."
Medger raised an eyebrow. "That fast?"
"Hard men and clear plans," Alaric replied. "We cut through two old tributaries and a frozen marsh north of Torrhen's Square. Once it's done, grain and timber will reach Deepwood Motte and even Blazewater Bay before the rivers freeze."
"A clever piece of work," Medger said. "My grandfather would have scoffed at the idea. But even he would've bowed to results."
As they passed the stables, Alaric's eyes caught on a quiet scene that made him pause. Near the far wall, under the shadow of the ramparts, stood Jory Cassel, captain of the household guard and nephew to Ser Rodrik. He was laughing, an unguarded, boyish thing, and beside him stood a woman clad in riding leathers and a fine wool cloak the color of stormclouds. Dark red hair, tied back with a strip of leather, and a bold chin. Jonnele Cerwyn.
She was six-and-twenty, if memory served. Fierce on a horse and more skilled with a bow than many knights. She was smiling faintly, but her arms were crossed, and Alaric could see the practiced distance she kept between herself and Jory's hungry eyes.
Medger followed Alaric's gaze and groaned. "Gods help me. Another one?"
"She's not wed?" Alaric asked.
Medger snorted. "Refuses to be. Says no man's caught her interest. And the ones who tried, well, let's just say she made sure they stopped trying."
"She could do worse than Jory."
"Aye, she could," Medger said, stroking his beard. "I like the lad. Honest. Loyal. Brave. Not a lord's son, but neither am I fool enough to think that still matters. If he ever plucks up the courage to ask, he'll have my blessing. Old gods help him."
Alaric chuckled quietly. "I'll see what I can do."
That evening, Winterfell truly came alive.
The great hall blazed with light and warmth. Every hearth was stoked high, and the air shimmered with the scent of boar, venison, and spiced root stew. Banners hung from the rafters, Stark, Cerwyn, Hornwood, Glover, and beyond the dais sat men and women of the mountain clans: Burley, Norrey, Flint, Harclay, and Liddle. Theirs were the smallest tables but the loudest voices, clad in thick wool and leather, their weapons never more than an arm's reach away.
The Starks of Winterfell, High Hill, and White Harbor gathered at the high table. Alaric sat at the center, between his Uncle Ned and Lady Alarra of High Hill, who insisted on commenting on the quality of every dish.
"I never thought I'd eat something better than my own cooks," she whispered to Alaric, slicing into her honey-glazed duck. "But gods, this is divine."
Osric, seated two places down, raised a tankard. "To the cooks, then!" he shouted, prompting a roar of laughter at the boy of 2 and 10, drunk and shouting.
The Wolf Pack dominated a long table just beneath the dais. Robb and Jon flanked Cley Cerwyn, who was already red in the face from wine and laughter. Dorren Snow, wide-eyed and half-lost, looked between them all with the stunned reverence of a stable boy dreaming of knighthood.
At another table, Branda, Berena, and Arya plotted something unwholesome over honeyed nuts and bits of smoked fish, casting glances at a passing stablehand who had clearly caught Branda's eye. Across the hall, Sansa sighed into her cup, trying to pretend she wasn't related to any of them.
Even Lord Glover, grim and brooding, cracked a smile when Edric Snow began juggling apples and one hit Ser Harald in the head.
Alaric observed it all in silence for a time, sipping from his goblet. This was what the North was when whole, strong, fierce, and proud, but warm at heart. These people were his charge, their laughter his to protect. He felt the weight of it then, but it did not crush him. It steadied him.
As the music swelled, Jory Cassel stood awkwardly and made his way across the room. He offered Jonnele Cerwyn his hand. She stared at it for a heartbeat too long, then rolled her eyes and stood.
They danced, stiffly at first. But by the second turn, Jory was smiling again, and Jonnele no longer looked quite so unimpressed.
Alaric leaned toward Medger Cerwyn with a knowing smirk.
"She always had a weakness for persistence," Medger muttered. "And that boy looks stubborn enough to break a mountain."
Alaric raised his cup.
"To stubborn boys and northern women."
The fire roared, the laughter echoed, and the banners of the wolf curled in the rising heat.
Outside, the snow began to fall.
Author's Note: I've updated the Auxiliary chapter to include Dorren Snow, plus an image of what he looks like at this age.