[Winterfell, the Lord's Solar, 5th moon, 298AC]
The morning sun, a pale disc behind a veil of cloud, cast long beams through the high, narrow windows of the Lord's solar. The fire in the hearth had been fed well before dawn, its warmth a quiet balm against the lingering Northern chill. Eddard Stark sat across from his nephew at the central table, thick with parchment, ledgers, and sealed missives. The scent of ink, parchment, and melted wax mingled with the sharp tang of charred pine.
Alaric Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, leaned over a newly unrolled sheaf, his brow furrowed as he scanned the neat columns of figures, crop yields from the settlements south of the Last River. Even seated, his height and presence dominated the chamber. He had the look of a lord carved from Northern stone, but to Ned, he would always be the boy he took charge of following Brandon's death, until he opened his mouth and spoke like a man thrice his age.
"The barley harvest in the Manderhorn valleys has doubled since last year," Alaric said, tapping a finger to the figure. "The new irrigation ditches were worth the cost. With Wintertown swelling again, we'll need the surplus. Seven hundred new families have registered for permanent residency."
Ned nodded slowly. "More mouths, more labor, more risk. But you've always been a builder, not just a warrior. Your father would've been proud."
Alaric said nothing at first, only set the paper down and looked toward the hearth. "Proud… I hope so."
Before Ned could say more, a knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," Alaric said, raising his voice only slightly.
The heavy door creaked open, and Ser Desmond Manderly stepped in. He inclined his head to them both. "My lords, His Grace is at the door. He wishes a word. Shall I admit him?"
Alaric and Ned exchanged a look. Ned set down his quill.
"Let him in," Alaric said.
Moments later, King Robert Baratheon strode into the solar as if he owned it. His beard was bristly and unkempt, his cloak fur-lined and askew. His once-legendary frame had thickened into a vast belly and sagging shoulders, though he still moved with the swagger of a man who thought himself young. His ruddy face was already flushed, and he carried with him the sweet, sharp scent of Arbor red.
"Gods," Robert said with a grin, plopping into the high-backed chair opposite them. "Do you two ever stop scribbling in these damned books? You'd think ruling the North was all ink and numbers."
"It often is," Alaric said mildly.
Robert gave a dismissive grunt and waved a hand. "Enough of that. I've something more… cheerful to discuss."
Ned's stomach clenched.
The king leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. "I'll not mince words. Last night I watched that sweet girl, Sansa, poised, gracious, well-spoken. A credit to your house, Ned. And Alaric, I know she's your cousin, but from where I stand, she's as much your blood as if she were your own sister, all of Ned's children are for that matter."
Alaric's shoulders stiffened. Ned sat up straighter.
"I want her for my son," Robert said simply. "Joffrey and Sansa. A match worthy of song. The lion, the stag, and the direwolf united. I couldn't have Lyanna, Ned. That wound never healed… but this… this would be right."
A silence settled over the room like falling snow. Alaric spoke first, voice calm but firm. "We are flattered, Your Grace. Truly. But Sansa has already been formally betrothed to Domeric Bolton. The contracts were signed and witnessed."
Robert's brow darkened. "Bolton?" he echoed. "The son of a leech-ridden house known more for flaying than feasts? You'd pair her with that rather than the heir to the Iron Throne?"
Ned could see the anger rising behind his old friend's wine-clouded eyes. But Alaric did not flinch.
"Yes," Alaric said, his tone unmoving. "Because Domeric is a thoughtful, gentle-hearted lad, not some pampered golden brat who looks at women as if they were property. We spoke of it last night, Your Grace. After the feast. I've seen Joffrey's eyes. The arrogance, the cruelty, he is not a boy I would trust with the heart of any Stark woman."
Ned lowered his gaze, jaw tight. He had seen the same things in the boy, the petulance, the entitlement, the strange way his eyes tracked not just Sansa but Ysilla and even Alys. And what disturbed him most was not that he had such thoughts, but that Joffrey reminded him not of Robert, but of another man entirely.
Gods be good, he has the eyes of the Mad King…
Robert's scowl deepened. "He is a boy, Alaric. They all have sharp edges at that age. He will grow into a fine king. With a good woman beside him, he might become better than I."
"He may," Alaric said. "But not with a Stark girl. Not this time."
Robert's face hardened, but then, with a grunt, he leaned back, the tension ebbing from his shoulders. "Seven hells. You Starks never make it easy. I suppose that's why I love you. Fine. Keep her with her Bolton pup."
He turned to Ned then, eyes weary. "But I came here for more than just marriage talk. Ned… I need you."
Ned stiffened, already dreading the words before they were spoken.
"I want you beside me in King's Landing," Robert said. "I want you as Hand of the King."
The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive. Ned stared down at the table. He felt a thousand years old.
"Your Grace," he began, his voice measured. "That is an honor… a high one. But my place is here. Winter is coming. My brother's son is still young. My own children—"
"Blast it, Ned!" Robert slammed his cup on the table. "You're the only man I trust. The only one who won't lick the Lannisters' boots or play their games. You think I like ruling? Half the day I drink, the other half I listen to liars. I need someone with a spine. With honor. That means you."
Ned swallowed hard. He looked to Alaric.
Robert's eyes narrowed. "Gods, don't tell me you need his permission."
"I need his counsel," Ned said evenly.
Alaric was silent for a long moment, eyes distant. Then he nodded. "You have my blessing, Uncle. But I'm not blind to the south. I'll send five hundred Greycloaks with you. The king may trust his Goldcloaks, but I do not."
Robert snorted, but said nothing. Alaric continued.
"I'll also accompany you, for a time. I have business in King's Landing. I'll bring two hundred of the Winter Guard as well."
Robert raised an eyebrow. "Greycloaks. Winter Guard. You've built yourself quite the host, haven't you?"
Ned smirked, though his heart was heavy. Alaric answered smoothly, "The Greycloaks are our standing force, five thousand men trained and garrisoned to defend Wintertown and patrol our domain. I fund them personally."
"And the Winter Guard?"
"Elites. Two thousand hand-picked foot and horse. Trained in what I call urban warfare. Skilled at defending tight spaces, castles, towns. They're our last shield. My House's sword."
Robert rubbed his jaw. "And how do you fund this little kingdom of yours, eh?"
Alaric's voice held the faintest hint of pride. "The North is not as poor as people think. Not anymore. We've struck iron and silver in the past ten years. The coin flows now. We share seventy-thirty with the mountain lords. They feed and labor, we equip and manage."
Ned spoke at last, his voice quiet. "You've done well, lad. But the South… I've seen it eat better men than me. Starks don't fare well in the heat."
Robert stood, his expression softening. "Then maybe this time it'll be different. You'll have me. And him."
Ned rose as well. He looked to Alaric. His nephew gave him a slow, steady nod.
"You go with my blessing, Uncle," Alaric said. "But watch the lions."
[Later that day, Winterfell's Training Yard]
The clang of wooden swords echoed off the stone walls of Winterfell, mixing with the bark of boys at play and the low growl of distant wolves. Ned Stark leaned his forearms on the wooden railing, watching the boys train with a wistful air. Alaric stood beside him, arms crossed, silent. The clouds overhead were a pale gray, threatening snow, though none had yet fallen.
Robb had just knocked Rickard off balance with a clever feint, and Bran was circling Edwyn Stark with stubborn determination. The children were learning, and learning well.
Ned's thoughts drifted as he studied them, his children, his nephew, and kin born of war and quiet alliances. He took a deep breath, letting the cold Northern air fill his lungs. He would miss this, the honest cold, the grounded people.
The South stank of perfume and secrets.
Then the shouting changed.
It came from the gate near the yard's southern wall, jeering voices and the unmistakable lilt of southern arrogance. Ned turned, and there he was, Joffrey Baratheon, heir to the Iron Throne, sauntering into the courtyard like a young lion on parade. He wore a high-collared doublet of crimson and gold, his pale curls gleaming like a crown in the fading light. Sandor Clegane, grim and looming, trailed behind him like a storm cloud.
"Out of the way, you Northern curs!" Joffrey snapped at the boys sparring. "I'd have a turn."
The children parted uneasily, lowering their practice swords. Robb shot a questioning glance at his father. Ned gave a slight shake of the head. Alaric, however, stepped forward.
"Your Grace," he said, voice dry as snow, "I didn't take you for one who'd swing a sword himself."
Joffrey's cheeks flushed, but he lifted his chin with practiced arrogance. "I am the heir to the Iron Throne. My place is on the battlefield, leading armies. Unlike some, I won't cower behind a wall."
"Oh?" Alaric said mildly. "Then why not prove it?"
Ned suppressed a sigh. He knew that tone. Alaric was playing with him now. But there was no stopping it once it began.
Joffrey threw off his cloak and snatched a blunted steel sword from the rack. "I'll take any of them. Him," he pointed at Robb, "or him," now to Rickard.
But Alaric was already striding into the ring. "No. You'll face me."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the yard. Robb's eyes widened, and Sandor Clegane chuckled darkly.
"He's a bit big for you, pup," the Hound muttered.
Joffrey sneered, clearly too proud to back down. "Very well. I'll show you how a future king fights."
Ned watched them circle each other. Alaric held the blunted blade loosely, almost lazily, his posture relaxed. Joffrey jabbed forward, quick and aggressive. Alaric side-stepped with ease, smacking the prince's wrist lightly, just enough to make him stumble.
Another lunge from Joffrey, wild and furious. Alaric turned it aside with the flat of his blade and tripped the boy with a sweeping leg. Joffrey landed hard in the dirt, face red as his doublet.
The yard went quiet.
"You—" Joffrey scrambled up, panting, eyes burning. "You mock me!"
"You did that yourself," Alaric said coolly.
Joffrey raised his hand, pointing at Alaric like a petulant tyrant. "Dog! Kill him."
The Hound didn't move at first, expression unreadable. Then he stepped forward, hand resting on the hilt of his real sword, not a practice blade, confusion and hesitance now evident on his face, unsure of what to do.
"Try it," Alaric said, low and cold.
From the far side of the yard, two great shapes stirred. Tempest and Cinder, Alaric's direwolves, rose from where they had been lounging in the shade. As one, they padded forward, lips curling, hackles bristling. They flanked Alaric like shadows made flesh.
Tempest's growl rumbled deep in his throat like thunder in the hills. Cinder bared her teeth, stepping between Alaric and the Prince, now joined by Boros Blount and Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard.
Joffrey staggered back, eyes wide, face drained of color. "Get them away from me!"
The Hound froze, tense, but did not draw. Smart.
From the keep, a scream pierced the courtyard.
"Joffrey!"
Cersei Lannister swept into the yard like a storm in silk. Her golden hair blazed in the light, her green eyes locked on the direwolves with naked horror.
The Kingslayer wasn't far behind her, and a smug yet puzzled smile spread across his face.
"Get away from my son! Get those rabid dogs away from him!" she shrieked.
Alaric didn't move, didn't flinch. "They only respond to threats. Must've sensed one."
"How dare you!" Cersei hissed. "I'll have their heads. I'll see them chained and burned!"
"They're not your kennel hounds," Alaric replied, his voice like ice. "They are of the blood of the North. More noble than most in your court."
"Call them off!" Cersei demanded.
Alaric raised two fingers and gave a soft whistle. Instantly, the direwolves' growling ceased. Tempest circled once and lay down. Cinder trotted back to her place, though she kept her eyes locked on Joffrey.
Alaric turned, brushing the dirt from his sleeve as if none of it mattered.
"You call this justice?" Cersei snapped at Ned now. "He assaulted the prince. His beasts threatened my son. I will have justice for this insult."
Ned had not moved during the entire exchange. Now he looked her squarely in the eye.
"No justice was denied, Your Grace. The prince issued the challenge. The wolves acted only when a real blade was drawn."
Cersei stared at him, hate simmering beneath her mask of beauty. She turned and knelt beside her son, cradling him like a wounded knight.
"This isn't over," she muttered.
Alaric, already walking away, didn't turn. "No. It never is."
Ned watched the whole scene from his still position, the chill in his heart deepening. Lions. Beautiful, deadly, and always hunting. He feared not for Alaric, he could handle himself, but for his daughters, his family, and the heavy weight of southern court life.
Robert meant well, perhaps. But he was blind to what he had married into.
'Or mayhaps he never truly cared.' Ned mused
Beside him, Alaric returned to the rail, brushing a leaf from his cloak. Ned didn't speak, not right away. Instead, he looked again toward the South, the shadows of it now longer in his mind than ever before.
"When a lion is cornered," Alaric murmured, as if reading his thoughts, "it lashes out. And when it wears a crown, its claws are gilded."
Ned didn't answer. He was thinking of Lyanna, and the cost of southern ambitions.
He was thinking of wolves, and whether they could ever survive in a lion's den.