The joyous clamor within Winterfell's Great Hall stood in stark contrast to the lingering patches of snow in the courtyard outside. Banners bearing the direwolf snapped in the crisp northern air, a vibrant display against the ancient grey stone. The fifth nameday celebration for the Stark twins had filled the keep with warmth, laughter, and the hearty cheer of Northern lords.
Theon and Jonnos Stark, miniature lords in their rich furs, stood before the assembled bannermen, their young faces a study in contrasts. Theon, his storm-grey eyes flashing with an inner light that sometimes caught the silver of moonlight on snow, surveyed the crowd with a budding confidence. Beside him, Jonnos remained more still, his darker eyes seeming to absorb the very light of the hall, his demeanor quieter, more watchful.
A booming laugh echoed through the hall as Lord Rodrik Umber, a man as large and jovial as his house's reputation, raised his drinking horn high. "Look at these lads! Stark-born, wolf-strong, Umber-blooded! A finer pair of Northern heirs you'll not find this side of the Wall!" The hall erupted in cheers and hearty agreement.
Rodrik's voice, even louder now, boomed again. "Five winters old and already they carry the weight of kings in their gaze. Their cries once made the wolves of the godswood howl — and I swear by the Old Gods, they've got more spirit than half the pups in my hall!"
A faint flush rose on Theon's cheeks as he tried to suppress a grin. Jonnos, beside him, allowed the ghost of a smirk to touch his lips as he glanced at his formidable Umber grandfather. Near the head table, their mother, Gilliane Stark née Umber, shook her head with fond amusement.
"Father always did know how to turn a feast into a spectacle," she murmured to her husband, Brandon Stark.
Brandon smiled softly. "Aye, but he's not wrong. The boys have drawn every eye in the hall. Even the Karstarks seem impressed — and they rarely speak of pride outside their own line."
Outside, the first soft flakes of a new snowfall drifted down over Winterfell's rooftops, a silent counterpoint to the boisterous warmth within. The North was feasting, celebrating not just a nameday, but perhaps the fragile promise of a future yet to unfold.
At the hall's forefront, a small dais had been cleared before the high table. The twins stood there, side by side, their fur-lined cloaks pooling slightly at their feet, both attempting a gravity that belied their tender years.
Lord Harrion Karstark, his black-and-silver cloak a stark contrast to the furs around him, stepped forward first, his movements deliberate and solemn. "A Karstark dagger, forged in our smithies, steel folded a dozen times. A Northern blade for Northern blood." He presented the small, finely crafted dagger to Jonnos, whose grey-black eyes met his with a steady, respectful gaze. The boy drew the blade slowly, the polished steel reflecting the flickering firelight. "Thank you, my lord. I will carry it with pride," Jonnos said quietly, his voice carrying a surprising weight for his age.
Next came Lady Sarya Mormont, her short, sturdy frame bearing the fresh mark of a recent battle. "To Theon, I give this. A bow of weirwood carved by my hand from a fallen limb of the old grove on Bear Isle. May your aim always serve the North." Theon accepted the pale bow reverently, his fingers tracing the smooth, cool wood. The red grain seemed to pulse faintly in the firelight. "I'll shoot straighter than any of your cubs, Lady Mormont," Theon declared, a wide grin finally breaking through his attempt at seriousness. Lady Sarya barked a hearty laugh. "Aye, let's see if your mouth matches your shot come spring, lad."
Lord Helman Tallhart presented a magnificent pair of snow bear pelts, thick and pristine white, the snarling heads still fiercely intact. "For warmth, for pride, and the symbol of strength. These beasts fell to my spear beyond the Last River." The heavy pelts were draped over the boys' shoulders, drawing a wave of applause from the assembled lords. Theon stood a little taller, visibly thrilled, while Jonnos remained still, the white fur making him appear almost spectral, like a young statue hewn from the northern ice.
As the fire roared in the hearth, the next group of lords approached the dais, their gifts speaking not just of wealth, but of the deep-rooted legacies of their houses.
Lord Wyman Manderly, his ample form richly clad, his voice a warm, rolling tide, boomed, "From White Harbor, I bring gifts fit for wolf princes. A carved model of a war galley, sails bearing the wolf and merman side by side. Let it remind you that the North must always look to the seas as well as the snows." Theon's eyes lit up at the sight of the miniature ship, while Jonnos offered a polite nod.
Lord Domeric Bolton, pale and lean in the crimson of his house, moved with a measured grace. "From the Dreadfort, I bring something rare — a pair of throwing knives forged of castle-forged steel, balanced for the hand of boys who will grow into warriors." He held up the slim, dark blades, their leather-wrapped hilts gleaming in the firelight. A thin smile touched his lips as he said, "May your aim always be sure... and your enemies few." Theon accepted his with eager curiosity, while Jonnos held his as if already assessing its weight and purpose.
Lady Lyra Flint of Widow's Watch, wrapped in shaggy grey fur, stepped forward, her smile lacking true warmth. She held two amulets carved from the pale, ancient wood of the weirwood, etched with intricate runes. "Old ways for young wolves. These tokens have been blessed beneath the weirwood in Widow's Watch. They ward against ill dreams and shadow spirits. Wear them when you sleep." Gilliane Stark, a descendant of the First Men herself, nodded her approval.
Lord Morgan Ryswell, tall and wiry with sharp, observant eyes, presented his gifts. "We of the Rills know the value of cunning. For you both — a game set carved of bone and blackwood. Cyvasse, from across the sea. Strategy, deceit, patience... things all rulers must master." He briefly opened the case to reveal the intricate pieces – dragons, spearmen, kings, elephants. A knowing smirk touched his lips. "Beat each other often, and learn what it means to win — and to lose." Theon looked utterly captivated, while a rare, quiet smile touched Jonnos' lips.
Torrhen Stark, seated at the high table with Brandon and Gilliane, had watched the proceedings in silence, his aged eyes observing every gesture, every word. Only when the hall had quieted once more did he raise his own cup. His voice, when it came, carried the weight of years and the solemnity of a king who had chosen peace over pride. "Lords of the North, you have honored my grandsons well. Let these gifts not only be tokens of goodwill, but pledges. That in the years to come, should shadow fall across the snows again, you will stand beside them. For they are your blood, your future, and the howl that will echo long after our bones are dust." He raised his cup higher. "To the wolves of Winterfell!"
The hall roared its approval, cups raised high in a fervent toast to the young heirs, to the future of the North, and to the enduring strength of House Stark.
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