[Winterfell Courtyard, 4th moon, 298AC]
Snow had not fallen that morning, though the skies above the courtyard of Winterfell were veiled in that colorless hush that came before the flurries returned. The stone was cold beneath her, but Alys Karstark barely noticed. She sat beneath the great elm tree just off the training yard, her thick cloak of dark gray wool pooling around her like the skirts of a queen. Beside her, Sansa Stark smoothed her dress, brushing off a stray pine needle as Lady lay curled in her lap. Rose, smaller and fuzzier, with soft gray fur and blue eyes like a winter sky, was tucked against Lyarra Stark's thigh.
Benjen and his brood had arrived the week earlier, coming like many others for the upcoming marriage ceremony between her and Alaric.
"I still can't believe a she-wolf arrived at Wolf's Haven, same as here," Sansa said, stroking Lady's ears.
Lyarra smirked, proud and very much her mother's daughter in that moment. "Alaric said the gods don't always give their gifts where one expects them. Rose came to me. And for that I am thankful to the gods."
"She nearly bit that kitchen girl who tried to take her away for a bath," Alysanne Stark chimed in with a grin, flicking a stray strand of dark brown hair from her eyes. "And then your uncle laughed and gave her a haunch of venison."
They all giggled at that. Even Lady's ears perked as if in on the joke. Lysa Dustin, legs crossed and arms draped over her knees, leaned forward. "What about the others? What were their names again?"
"Frost is the mother," Alys answered, her voice steady and clear. "She came to Wolf's Haven just as Tundra came here, white fur, blue eyes, silent as the snows. She had three pups. Rickard named his Winter, white like his mother, but with golden eyes. Lyarra has Rose. And little Cregan's beast is Fang. Gray as dusk with white streaks along his spine."
"Fang?" Beth Cassel said with a snort. "A bit fierce for a little boy."
"Well, he and Rickon have a healthy amount of what Uncle Ned likes to call wolf's blood, so im not surprised," Lyarra said, feigning innocence. "He bit Harlon last week for calling him 'Creggy.'"
That earned another chorus of laughter. Across the courtyard, the clang of steel rang out, where the boys were hard at work under Winterfell's iron-gray sky. Alaric Stark, broad-shouldered and silent as ever, was locked in a grueling sparring match with Smalljon Umber. The pair moved like battering rams in the snow, each blow a challenge, each step a threat. Not far from them, Torrhen Karstark, her 'sweet' older brother, was crossing swords with Derrick Umber, both sweat-slicked and grunting. Closer still, the younger boys, Rickard, Osric, Harlon, and Roddy Dustin, were sparring in pairs while Ser Rodrik barked corrections.
Ysilla Royce and Robb were off to one side, bows in hand, teasing each other between shots.
"You missed again," Ysilla said with a triumphant laugh. "Seven hells, Stark, are you aiming for the trees?"
"I let you win that one," Robb muttered.
"Of course you did," she shot back, already loosing another arrow. It thudded into the center of the target with a satisfying thunk.
Sansa watched them with a wistful smile. "They look so happy. Do you think all betrothals turn out so sweet?"
"Not all, although my mother and father respect one another, I can't quite call what they have love," Alys said, turning her gaze back to the girls. "But sometimes the gods smile on fools and fighters both."
Sansa turned then, looking at her with a wide smile. "Speaking of betrothals… is everything ready for yours?"
Alys arched a brow. "Is that your subtle way of prying?"
"It's not prying if we already know," Lyarra said. "Come now. The wedding's in four days. The hall is being cleaned, the bells are being polished, and we've already seen the seamstresses swarming like crows."
"And Alaric's finally smiling again," Jeyne Poole added, cheeky. "So that must mean everything's ready."
Alys couldn't help it, her lips curved into a quiet smile, a warmth blooming inside her that not even the northern chill could touch. "Yes. Everything is ready. The seamstresses finished my dress two days past. The braids are already planned, the antlers for the feast hung above the dais, and the kitchens are roasting half the larder. I… I can't wait."
"They say it's to be a joint ceremony," Beth Cassel said, nudging Sansa with a grin. "Ysilla and Robb, too?"
"It's true," Alys confirmed. "I was there when they came to beg Alaric to allow it."
"Oh, do tell," Lysa said, her eyes dancing.
"Robb came in first," Alys said. "Fidgeting like a boy about to ask for a pony. And Ysilla walked straight past him, stood before Alaric, and said, 'We're getting married the same day. I've already sent word to my father and he's agreed."
Lyarra laughed, throwing her head back. "And what did Alaric say to that?"
"He frowned," Alys said. "Then he stared at them. Then he frowned again. But when he realized that Lord Royce had agreed, he gave one of those little shrugs and said, 'If your fathers are agreed, who am I to say no?'"
"Sounds like him," said Alysanne, twisting her braid.
"Will Lord Royce arrive soon?" Sansa asked.
"In a few days' time," Alys replied. "With a full retinue, I imagine. And others are coming too. House Cerwyn, Tallhart, Glover, and Hornwood have already arrived. Even the mountain clans are coming down for it."
"That will make for a full hall," Jeyne said, her smile fading to something more anxious. "So many lords… I imagine they'll all be looking at the unmarried daughters of Winterfell."
"You mean you," Lysa teased.
"No," Jeyne said quickly. "I meant, well, I meant Sansa."
Sansa froze. The color drained from her face, then returned in full force.
"What?" she said too quickly. "Why would I? What do you mean?"
Beth grinned. "Oh, come now, we all heard about it. You overheard Lord Alaric and Lord Eddard, didn't you?"
Sansa's face matched her hair. "I—I wasn't eavesdropping. They were talking in the solar. I was walking past and I only caught a few words, Domeric and match and—"
"Oh, Domeric Bolton," Lyarra said with a mischievous glint. "Handsome. Quiet. Dark hair, brooding. Sansa, you do have a type."
"I do not," Sansa squeaked, burying her face in Lady's fur. The girls erupted into laughter, even as Sansa tried in vain to compose herself.
Alys smiled softly, wrapping her arms around her knees. The courtyard was loud with clashing steel and friendly banter, but the sound only made her feel safer, surrounded by those she had come to love as kin.
She looked toward the boys again, just as Alaric disarmed Smalljon with a practiced twist of his wrist. His eyes caught hers from across the yard, only for a moment, but it was enough. She lowered her gaze and felt the warmth bloom again in her chest.
[Later that night]
That night, the Great Hall of Winterfell was filled with firelight and the scent of roasting meats. The banners of Stark and Karstark alike hung from the rafters, wolves flanking white suns on black. Harpists played in the alcoves, their music lilting and soft, drowned at times by the laughter of men and the clang of tankards.
Alys sat near the high table, dressed in midnight-blue velvet trimmed with white fur, her hair braided and clasped in silver rings shaped like stars. Lady Alarra Stark, wife of Lord Artos Stark of High Hill, had declared she should begin wearing her hair as a lady of Winterfell ought to, and Alarra, when she commanded, was not to be denied.
At the dais, Alaric sat between Lord Eddard and Lord Benjen, tankard in hand, actually laughing at something Benjen had said. That alone was a marvel. Her betrothed often wore silence like armor, but tonight he seemed at ease.
"I still say Cregan naming that pup Fang is a bad omen," Benjen said, sipping his ale. "He's already gnawed through three pairs of boots."
"He's a Stark," Alaric replied. "He'll learn the meaning of restraint in time."
"Or not," Ned said dryly. "He's still a Mormont in part."
Benjen laughed, nearly choking. "Don't tell Dacey that."
Below them, Lord Tallhart and Lord Glover were deep in conversation. Lady Hornwood, stern as ever, sat beside Maester Luwin, who was listing off the wedding guests' arrivals and expected needs.
A chorus of mountain men were singing near the hearth, mugs in hand. Jon Snow and Rickard Stark were seated with Osric and Harlon, playing a dice game they'd taught Roddy and Edric Snow. Elric, unusually quiet, was smiling as he leaned in to whisper something to Dorren.
The feast had just begun, and yet already the room was full of the heat of kinship.
Alys looked back to Alaric. He was watching her now, his eyes dark and unreadable, but something in the corner of his mouth hinted at a smile.
She inclined her head and held his gaze.
Soon, she would be his lady in truth. The wolves would gather, the gods would bear witness, and Winterfell would ring with vows spoken in the old tongue and the new. Her heart was calm. Her hands were steady.
A Karstark no longer. A Stark, soon enough.
And whatever storms came next, they would face them together.
[Winterfell, First week of the 5th moon, 298AC]
Winterfell was alive with purpose.
Servants hurried between the towers, across the courtyards, and into the Great Hall, arms laden with garlands of pine and winter roses, with silver cups and polished horns, with bolts of fresh-dyed cloth in Stark gray and Karstark black. The kitchens were already roaring, the scent of roasted boar and honey-glazed root vegetables wafting from the stone cellars. Bells had been brought down from the rookery and polished to a gleam, and the chapel had been cleared of snow, its branches braided with white ribbons for the gods to see.
At the helm of it all stood Catelyn Stark, her cloak pinned firmly at her shoulders, sleeves rolled back as she directed a maid toward the high table with a tray of polished silver plates. Her eyes were sharp, voice calm but firm. Today was her last day as the 'acting' Lady of Winterfell. Tomorrow, Alys Karstark would hold that mantle.
But today, Catelyn still wore it, and with pride. Two weddings would be held before nightfall, and she would see them perfect.
Beyond the noise and bustle, deep in the stillness of the godswood, all was quiet.
Beneath the canopy of ancient trees, where the ground was carpeted with damp moss and the air smelled of bark and snowmelt, Alaric Stark and Alys Karstark sat by the mirror pool. Tempest lay curled on Alaric's left, her gray fur dusted with pale lichen. Cinder, reddish-brown and much leaner, lounged beside Alys, resting her heavy head in the girl's lap. The direwolves' quiet breathing was the only sound beside the rustling of the leaves and the gentle ripple of water.
Alys leaned back against Cinder's warm flank and looked at her betrothed.
"You know," she murmured, brushing a pine needle from her sleeve, "if you stare at that reflection any harder, the godswood might give you a vision."
Alaric turned his steel gray eyes toward her, the ghost of a smirk forming on his lips. "I was trying to remember if I ever saw it this still. It's like the gods themselves are holding their breath."
"Maybe they are," Alys said with a soft smile. "Or maybe it's because you finally allowed Maester Luwin to chase off the ravens nesting in the upper branches."
He chuckled low in his throat. "You've grown sharper since your first visit."
"And you've grown softer." She nudged his boot with hers. "You let Lady Alarra braid your hair at the feast last night."
"I didn't let her," Alaric muttered. "She ambushed me. With a comb."
Alys laughed, her fingers idly tracing a knot in Cinder's fur. "Well, you looked very lordly. Even Sansa said so. You should wear it that way today."
"I'll wear what doesn't itch," he said. But the corner of his mouth twitched again.
They sat in companionable silence a while longer, the peace between them as natural as breath.
A rustling in the undergrowth drew their eyes toward the path leading from the castle.
Four figures emerged beneath the great arches of pine, Lord Rickard Karstark, her father, tall and gray-bearded, his long black cloak clasped with the white sunburst of their house. Beside him walked his eldest sons, Harrion and Eddard, both sturdy, grim-faced men clad in black and gray. Behind them, far more comfortably, came Torrhen Karstark, a smile on his lips as he caught sight of the direwolves lounging by the pool.
Alys rose with a warm smile. "Father! Harry, Edd, you came early!" Alys said as she went to embrace her lord-father and brothers
"My Lord," Lord Rickard said, bowing his head slightly. "I thought it best to arrive before the chaos began." His eyes flicked toward Tempest and Cinder, still half-dozing but watchful. "Though the beasts are larger than I remember."
"They remember you," Alaric said evenly, standing now beside Alys. "Just not fondly. You called them 'monstrosities' last year."
Rickard cleared his throat. "A poor choice of words, perhaps. But a father worries."
"Indeed, he does," Harrion said, stepping forward. In his arms, wrapped in a dark woolen blanket, was a small, squirming bundle. "We have someone new for the pack to sniff."
Alys gasped and rushed forward. "You didn't tell me—!"
Meliana Karstark, formerly of House Hornwood, stepped from behind Harrion, her smile weary but proud. "We wanted it to be a surprise."
Alys took the babe into her arms carefully, cradling the newborn close. "Errold," she whispered, looking up at Harrion with tearful eyes. "You named him after Grandfather."
"He'll have his fire," Harrion said. "And his stubbornness, I expect."
Alaric looked on, quiet and steady, a warm smile softening his usually stern face. "He has your eyes," he told Meliana.
Meliana nodded. "Let's hope he has none of my temper."
Torrhen, who had circled around to scratch Tempest behind the ears, grinned. "And if he does, well, he'll have a host of family to calm him."
[That Evening, Tower of the Ladies]
Alys stood before the mirror, her hands folded at her waist as the seamstresses did their final checks on her gown. It was a deep gray-black velvet, embroidered with falling snowflakes and tiny stars of silver thread. Her hair was wound with strands of white lace and soft pearls, cascading down her back in a series of braided knots, each loop wrapped with ribbon the color of wolf's fur.
Ysilla Royce stood nearby, dressed in black and bronze, the colors of Runestone. Her dark copper hair had been twisted into an elegant bun and pinned with antlers carved from weirwood. She looked radiant and uncharacteristically nervous.
"Do I look all right?" she asked suddenly.
"You look beautiful," Bella Karstark said, stepping forward. Alys turned as her mother laid a hand gently on her daughter's cheek. "Both of you do. The North has never had such a day."
"I keep expecting to wake up," Alys whispered.
"This is real," Bella said. "You're marrying a Stark. And more than that, you're marrying a man who sees you as an equal. I could ask for no better future for you."
Ysilla smiled, then turned as Lord Royce stepped in behind her. "You look like your mother," he said, voice rough.
Ysilla blinked, touched. "Do I?"
"She had the same way of wrinkling her nose when nervous," he said, placing a kiss on her forehead. "Elena would be proud."
They stood in silence for a moment, letting the moment settle around them. Then one of the younger serving girls peeked in through the door.
"My ladies," she said, nearly breathless. "The godswood is ready. They're waiting for you."
Alys took a deep breath and reached for Ysilla's hand.
"Shall we go be wed, Ysilla?"
Ysilla grinned, squeezing her fingers. "Let's not keep our future husbands waiting."
And together, with fire in their blood and snow in their veins, they descended the tower steps toward the old gods and the vows that would bind them forever.