[Winterfell, 4th week, 9th moon, 293 AC]
The snow came soft and early, feathering the rooftops of Winterfell and frosting the bare branches of the godswood. Ned Stark stood in the cloister outside the Great Keep, eyes raised to the drifting flakes. They fell like memories, one by one.
He had awoken that morning to the familiar ache in his leg, a reminder of the wound he'd taken in Robert's Rebellion. Maester Luwin said it would always trouble him when the cold set in. Ned thought perhaps it simply meant the North remembered.
He had not meant to be up so early. The castle was still quiet, the usual bustle of servants and guards muffled under snow and sleep. But rest eluded him. The events of the past week stirred within his mind like ghosts denied peace. Brandon's son, Brandon's bastard, now walked these halls. Another young face in the pack of pups Alaric had gathered.
Ned turned from the snow and walked the familiar path toward the heart tree.
The godswood was nearly silent. Only the crunch of his boots on the thin snow broke the stillness. The red leaves of the weirwood had begun to fall, scattering across the black pool like blood on ink. He stood before the carved face, and for a time, he simply breathed.
"You always said we would reap what we sow, Brandon," he murmured to the still air. "Well, here we are."
He remembered that night at Harrenhal. Ashara Dayne, the music, the laughter. Brandon's smirk as he shoved Ned toward the violet-eyed beauty. That damned knowing look in his eyes.
Ned pressed his gloved fingers to the bark, rough and cool. "You left more than scars behind."
Footsteps approached. Ned turned to find Alaric standing at the edge of the clearing, snow in his dark hair, a fur-lined cloak pulled tight around his broad shoulders. For all his youth, there was something in the boy, almost a man, that reminded Ned of the kings of old.
"You should be inside," Alaric said. "You favor your leg when the cold settles in."
Ned offered a small smile. "The trees keep better company than most."
Alaric stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the weirwood. "Do you blame him?"
"Brandon?" Ned hesitated. "No. He never asked for the burden he bore. Our father expected fire from him, and Brandon delivered it in every way. But it burned him up, in the end."
Alaric nodded. "Dorren is quiet. He watches more than he speaks. Reminds me of Jon."
"They share more than you know."
Alaric looked at him sharply, and Ned cursed himself for speaking aloud what he so often buried.
"You mean their blood," Alaric said. "The truth."
Ned did not answer. Instead, he returned his gaze to the heart tree.
"He looks up to you already," he said after a moment. "Dorren. You gave him more than a name. You gave him a place."
"The pack must be whole," Alaric said. "If winter comes, and we are scattered..."
Ned nodded. "Then we die."
The words hung between them. Old as the stones of Winterfell.
[The training yard of Winterfell]
Later that day, the training yard echoed with the sounds of wood on wood and boys shouting. Ned stood at the edge with Ser Rodrik, watching the chaos unfold.
Robb and Cley Cerwyn circled each other, wooden swords raised. Jon shouted encouragement from the side while Rickard and Harlon wrestled in the snow. Arya ran past, a snowball in hand, pursued by Berena and Branda. Lyarra, not with her usual pack of northern roses, stood near the wall, arms crossed, watching with a look that reminded Ned far too much of her mother.
Dorren stood apart at first, uncertain. But Osric of High Hill clapped him on the back, handed him a practice spear, and said something that made him smile. A moment later, he was swept into a mock shield wall with the rest.
"They've taken to him," Rodrik observed. "Quickly."
"Children know blood better than we do," Ned said. "They sense what we hide."
Rodrik grunted. "He'll need training. But the boy has balance. And patience. Not like Brandon."
Ned said nothing.
[Later that night]
That night, the hall blazed with torchlight. The feast had begun, and bannermen filled the benches: Mors Umber, loud and laughing; Lord Tallhart, speaking with Maester Luwin about canal routes; Lady Barbrey Dustin, cool and sharp-eyed; sitting beside her husband, Lord Willam.
The Dustin Children had also taken to the wolf pups very well. Roderick, or as he likes to be called, Roddy, had joined the growing wolf pack and was accepted with open arms, while Lysa, the second child and eldest daughter of William and Barbrey, had mingled with Arya and the High Hill twins, joining in on the mischief. Lyra Dustin, their second daughter, who was of the same age as Bran and Edwyn, had joined Sansa's group despite being only 5.
Their youngest, the newborn Lyonel Dustin, when he wasn't suckling on a nursemaid, could be seen in the arms of Barbrey.
Ned sat beside Alaric at the high table, drinking slowly, listening to the songs. There was laughter, and for once, peace.
He glanced at the faces below. Rickard beside Dorren. Jon beside Robb. The girls clustered at their own table, Arya halfway through a meat pie while Sansa scolded her for using her fingers.
Winter was coming. It always did.
But tonight, Winterfell was full.
And Ned Stark, for the first time in years, allowed himself to hope.
[The Next day]
The snow had deepened by morning, blanketing the courtyards and walkways in white, muffling footfalls and voices. Ned Stark rose with the dawn, leg stiff but tolerable, and made his way to the Solar where Alaric was already seated. The boy had a sheaf of parchments spread before him and a fur-lined robe draped over his shoulders.
"You're up early," Ned said, easing into the chair across from him.
"The ravens don't wait for the sun," Alaric replied without looking up. "Three letters this morning. One from Oldcastle, one from Torrhen's Square, and another from Lord Karstark."
Ned reached for the letter with the broken black wax seal of Karhold. He read it in silence, brow furrowing.
"He's here."
Alaric looked up. "Already?"
As if on cue, there came a knock at the door. Ser Torrhen Stark entered. "Lord Rickard Karstark has arrived, m'lords. He requests an audience."
"Send him in," Ned said.
The door opened wider, and Lord Rickard Karstark strode in. He was a tall man with long, greying hair and a solemn face, clad in thick grey furs clasped by a silver sunburst. Behind him came a boy and a girl, Torrhen and Alys, Ned guessed. The boy, 4 and 10, same as Alaric, was lean and sharp-eyed, with the lanky frame of a colt still growing into his limbs. The girl, a year younger, had her father's calm demeanor and the characteristic brown hair of their line, coupled with her blue-gray eyes.
"Lord Stark, Ned," Karstark greeted, bowing his head.
"Lord Rickard," Ned returned, gesturing to a seat.
Karstark wasted no time. "I've brought my youngest son, Torrhen, to foster at Winterfell, if it pleases you. He is of age to begin his duties and learn among his kin."
Ned exchanged a glance with Alaric. "And your daughter?"
"Alys will remain only a few weeks. Enough to become acquainted. She is of an age close to Lord Alaric. I believe it good that the children of the North grow close, especially those of the old blood."
Ned did not miss the underlying message: not just fostering, but planting seeds for a potential match. It was a wise political move, if presumptuous.
Alaric, for his part, was quiet. He studied Torrhen Karstark with a thoughtful gaze. Finally, he said, "You are welcome at Winterfell, both of you."
"Lord Karstark, what say you that Alys here also fosters in Winterfell?" Alaric asked, much to the surprise of Rickard Karstark, "Sansa is due for an older and more… northern influence.
"Aye, I along with my house, would be honored if you would also have my Alys." Lord Karstark said, offering a short bow
Torrhen bowed, and his sister offered a small curtsey.
After Karstark departed, Ned leaned back in his chair. "You'll have no shortage of companions soon."
Alaric smirked. "The pack grows."
[Godswood of Winterfell, That Afternoon]
The snow had stopped, leaving a crystalline sheen on every branch. Ned stood beneath the heart tree again, breathing the silence. He did not look up when the Greatjon arrived, he could hear the man from halfway across the godswood, his steps bold and heavy.
"Ned Stark! Gods, it's cold enough to freeze a mammoth's cock out here."
"You're free to go back to the hall, Jon."
The Greatjon came to stand beside him, eyes on the heart tree. "My boy wants to serve that nephew of ours. Smalljon, while only a year older than Alaric, still wishes to serve the Starks in Winterfell, the same with my younger son, Derrick; he's the same age as Alaric, wild enough to match the rest."
Ned raised a brow. "That's no small request."
"He's half a man already, and eager. I'll not keep him tied to my apron while the future lords of the North are training here. Let them grow strong together. Friends now are allies later."
Ned nodded. "And what of Alys Karstark?"
The Greatjon barked a laugh. "Ha! Rickard's playing the long game. You'll have lords in this castle trying to betroth babes in cradles before the year is out."
"I won't force Alaric to marry for advantage alone."
"No. But let the boy know his options."
[Later, Ned and Alaric in the Solar]
By the time Ned returned to the Solar, the fire had burned low. Alaric was watching the flames, his expression distant.
"Another request," he said. "Lord Willam Dustin. He asks that his heir, Roderick, and daughter Lyra be allowed to foster here."
Ned sat beside him. "You'll soon have a full court of your own."
Alaric nodded slowly. "I wonder if they come for me, or for Winterfell."
"Both. You are the future of the North. They see it. You're forging a new pack, sons and daughters who will rule the North together."
"And one day fight together."
Ned met his eyes. "Yes. Winter always comes. And we must be ready."
For a moment, there was only the fire and the quiet weight of that truth.
Alaric finally said, "I will accept the Karstarks. And the Umbers. And the Dustins. Let them grow strong here, together. We will need them all, one day."
Ned reached over and rested a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"You're doing well. Your father would've been proud."
Alaric looked away. "Aye, and yet, from what I've been told, he most likely would've been howling in pride for you, uncle," Alaric added with a chuckle, looking out onto the courtyard where various northern lordlings gathered and sparred.
Ned couldn't help but just smile and shake his head, the image of Brandon smacking his back and bellowing out praises for 'the quiet wolf' playing out in his mind, much to Ned's amusement.