[Winterfell, 6th Moon, 298 AC]
The grey light of dawn crept across the high stone walls of Winterfell, pushing gently through the narrow arrow slit of the bedchamber window. It settled upon the tangled pelts and linens of the great oak bed, warm despite the morning chill that lingered through the stone floors. Alys Karstark stirred softly beneath the furs, blinking into the dim light as her breath rose in small clouds above her lips.
Alaric's arm was draped over her side, heavy and protective. His warmth was ever a comfort, like a hearth in winter. She shifted slightly, intending to ease herself from the bed without waking him, but he moved with her, never fully asleep when she was near.
His voice, low and gravelled with sleep, brushed her ear. "Already restless?"
She smiled, nestled deeper into his chest. "I didn't mean to wake you."
Alaric pressed a kiss into her hair, his hand smoothing across the slight swell of her hip. "You always mean to," he said, half-smiling. "You stir and the whole keep could fall into shadow and I'd still wake before the wolves."
Alys turned to face him, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, rough with the beginning of a beard. "I missed you last night. You returned late."
"Robert insisted on wine and memories. Uncle Ned tried to escape, but I was less lucky."
Alys laughed softly, brushing her thumb across his brow. "And yet you came back, smelling of smoke and storm, like always."
Alaric shifted closer, wrapping his arms fully around her and tucking her head beneath his chin. "I always come back to you."
There was a long silence, broken only by the crackling of the hearth and the faint, distant howl of a direwolf on the ramparts. She listened to the slow beat of his heart, steady and deep.
"You love me?" she asked, her voice suddenly small, the way it sometimes became when her mind wandered in doubt.
Alaric tilted her chin up with gentle fingers. "More than the sea loves the shore," he said. "More than wolves love the snow. I would tear kingdoms down for you."
She smiled, eyes soft. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
He leaned down to kiss her then, slow and firm, a kiss that spoke of every promise he'd made her in the weeks since their marriage. Alys sank into it with ease, her fingers weaving into his dark hair, forgetting for a moment the burdens of rule and war and house.
But as they rose and dressed in the fading warmth of the fire, she caught the faint churning in her stomach again, the same unease that had come upon her every morning for the last week. It was subtle, but it was growing harder to ignore.
She pressed a hand gently to her abdomen as Alaric looked away to tie his belt. A strange tightness fluttered beneath her palm.
[The Great Hall of Winterfell]
The Great Hall was a chorus of clinking spoons and murmured voices. Platters of smoked trout, thick oatcakes, and honeyed bacon filled the long tables, and the banners of House Stark, House Baratheon, and House Lannister hung in tense harmony above.
Alys sat beside Alaric at the high table, her posture poised, a fur-lined shawl pulled tightly about her shoulders though the hearths were blazing. She sipped gingerly at a cup of watered wine, her stomach still uneasy.
The royal family sat across from them, the King already halfway through a haunch of roasted boar, his laughter booming like thunder against the stone. Queen Cersei sat beside him, silent, her mouth pinched as she toyed with her food, eyes flitting toward Alys every so often with veiled irritation.
Alys watched the queen out of the corner of her eye, thinking how perfectly she resembled the lion she bore on her breast, beautiful, golden, but always half-snapping. The Lannisters were as watchful as they were dangerous, and her time in their presence always left her feeling like a fawn among serpents.
Yet her gaze soon softened as she turned her attention to the younger Baratheons. Myrcella was quietly discussing embroidery with Sansa and Alysanne Stark of White Harbor. Tommen was giggling with Rickon Stark, both too young to understand the weight in the hall. And Joffrey, well, Joffrey sulked, pushing food about with a fork and casting venomous glances at the various Starks
Beside her, Alaric was deep in talk with Lord Cerwyn and Lord Manderly about grain stores and river traffic, but his hand found hers beneath the table without looking, lacing their fingers together. She smiled faintly.
"You look pale," came a soft voice beside her.
She turned to see Catelyn Stark, eyes calm and appraising.
"Just tired," Alys said quickly. "I've not been sleeping well."
Catelyn's gaze lingered. "Is that all?"
Alys hesitated. "Perhaps... not."
The Lady of Winterfell gave a knowing nod, her eyes flicking momentarily toward Alys's untouched plate. "Come. Let's take a turn through the solar."
Alys rose with her, murmuring something to Alaric, who merely gave her hand a gentle squeeze before returning to his talk. They slipped away through the side passage, the noise of the hall dimming behind them.
The solar was warm and quiet, filled with morning sun and the scent of beeswax and old parchment. Catelyn led her to a cushioned bench near the window, then sat beside her, hands folded in her lap.
Alys stared out at the training yard below for a moment before speaking.
"I think... I'm with child."
Catelyn smiled softly. "You know, I thought so. The way you touched your stomach. The way you look at Alaric when you think no one sees."
Alys looked down. "I haven't told him yet. Not until I'm sure. But I feel it. And yet I—" she paused, biting her lip. "I'm scared."
Catelyn waited patiently.
"What if I'm not enough?" Alys whispered. "What if I cannot give him all the children he deserves? He carries the weight of the North on his shoulders, and his blood is... It's strong. He deserves sons. And daughters who carry his fire. I'm not..."
"You're not from the line of Winterfell." Catelyn said gently. "Neither was I. Tully and Stark were not always easy bedfellows."
Alys gave a shaky laugh. "But you have five children."
"I do," Catelyn said. "But do you think I believed I would? Ned and I... we barely spoke the day we wed. I loved another. He did too, I think, in his quiet way. But time… time, kindness, and shared trials, they built something strong. I feared I would be no mother to a Northern child. But love finds its way."
She touched Alys's hand.
"You love Alaric?"
"With all that I am."
"Then you are already more mother to his children than you know."
Tears welled in Alys's eyes, and she looked away quickly, brushing them aside. "I want them to be strong. I want them to know the North. To run with the wolves. To love their kin and fight for them."
"They will," Catelyn said. "Because you will raise them in Winterfell. And Alaric will teach them, not with words, but by being exactly who he is."
There was a pause.
"Does it get easier?" Alys asked.
"No," Catelyn said with a wry smile. "But it gets fuller."
They returned to the hall some time later, Catelyn guiding her with a hand on her back. The feast had thinned, and Alaric rose when he saw them, crossing the hall in long strides.
"Is all well?" he asked, concern flickering in his grey eyes.
Alys met his gaze and smiled, something in her chest steadier now.
"All is well," she said, slipping her hand into his.
He held her a moment longer than necessary, his eyes studying hers.
Later that evening, in the quiet of their chambers once again, Alys lay curled in his arms, her head on his chest.
"Alaric?"
"Mm?"
"I think I am with child."
He stilled for a breath. Then slowly, he turned to face her, lifting her chin.
"You are sure?"
"Not yet. But I feel it."
His expression did not break, but the corners of his eyes warmed, his hands firm on her waist.
"Then we are blessed," he said. "And our child will have the strength of the North in his blood."
"Or hers," Alys said.
Alaric kissed her brow.
"Either way, they will be a wolf."
Alys closed her eyes, smiling, and felt for the first time that her fears were only shadows, not storms.
And in the heart of Winterfell, with snow in the wind and wolves howling in the distance, the flame of new life quietly began to burn.
[The Next day, the Ramparts of Winterfell]
The morning air was crisp and bracing as Alys pulled her fur-lined cloak tighter about her shoulders. She walked in step with her husband along the stone ramparts of Winterfell, his long shadow falling over her as the weak sunlight traced gold across his broad frame. Alaric Stark, Lord of Winterfell, strode at a leisurely pace beside her, his stride graceful despite the heavy weight of duty upon him. Beneath them, the courtyard of Winterfell buzzed with activity, servants scurried between the kitchens and the stables, knights tightened saddle straps, and grooms rubbed down mounts soon to ride south with the royal procession.
"I never knew how much noise could come from preparing to leave," Alys murmured, half to herself, half to him.
Alaric turned slightly, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Leaving a place always makes more noise than arriving. Especially when half the realm's pride is riding out."
They shared a quiet chuckle, and Alys rested her gloved hand on his arm, her fingers finding the familiar contours of his leather bracer. She looked out across the white-dusted rooftops of Winterfell, the banners rippling in the breeze. Her stomach fluttered, whether from the cold or the nausea that had plagued her the past few mornings, she couldn't say. The scent of roasting meat from the kitchens below did little to settle it.
Alaric noticed. He always did.
"Feeling unwell?" he asked softly.
She shook her head. "Just the morning again. I think it will pass soon."
He glanced at her with those sharp, storm-gray eyes that missed nothing. "If it doesn't, I want Maester Luwin to look at you."
Alys smiled. "Overprotective already?"
His hand covered hers. "I've only just begun."
They walked in companionable silence, letting the sounds of Winterfell envelop them, the clatter of hooves, the bark of a direwolf in the distance, the laughter of stableboys too young to march. As they rounded a corner in the ramparts, they nearly collided with Robb Stark and Ysilla Royce. The two were flushed in the face, hair tousled, and clearly attempting to walk with the composed air of young nobility.
Alaric raised an eyebrow, and Alys couldn't help the amused smile that tugged at her lips.
"Well," Alaric said, folding his arms. "Shouldn't you two be freshening up before Lady Catelyn decides to sharpen her tongue?"
Ysilla flushed deeper, her fingers finding Robb's sleeve. "Yes, my lord."
Robb muttered something unintelligible and tugged his wife gently in the opposite direction.
When they were out of earshot, Alaric chuckled. "They'll learn. Or Catelyn will make sure they do."
"She has a talent for discipline," Alys said, amused.
Alaric grinned. "That she does. And five amazing children to show for it."
[Winterfell, Leisure Room, Afternoon]
The hearth crackled merrily as Alys sat with needle in hand, though her mind was only half on the embroidery of her wolf design. The warm room was awash with soft conversation and the muted laughter of young women, the perfect reprieve from the bustle of the castle.
Sansa Stark was bent over her own embroidery, her hands precise and quick, while Lyarra Stark whispered something that made Alysanne Stark giggle into her sleeve. Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole argued over the proper stitch for shading a rose. Lysa Dustin, ever cool and composed, embroidered the sigil of House Dustin with practiced ease. Ysilla Royce had regained her composure and was smiling now, cheeks still pink from earlier.
Alys took a moment to absorb the scene. This was peace. This was the heart of the North she loved, warmth shared in cold places, laughter beneath stone.
The door creaked open, and Princess Myrcella stepped in with an elegance far beyond her years. She wore a gown of soft green, her golden hair braided intricately, and her smile was genuine.
"May I join you?" she asked.
Sansa brightened instantly. "Of course, Princess."
Myrcella settled beside them with the ease of someone used to moving between courts and company. "What are we working on?" she asked, glancing between the hoops and threads.
"Anything we can get done before supper," Ysilla replied.
"We've only just taught Beth not to stab herself," Alys teased.
The room filled with gentle laughter.
Myrcella leaned close to Jeyne, whispering something that made her blush and laugh behind her hand. In that moment, she was not a princess, not a Baratheon or Lannister, but just another girl among friends.
That warmth was shattered when the door opened once more.
Queen Cersei entered in a swirl of velvet and perfume. Her green eyes swept the room, resting briefly on each face until they landed on Alys.
"Myrcella," she said, voice clipped. "Come, it's time to prepare for court appearances. I've let you linger long enough."
Myrcella stood reluctantly, dipping a graceful curtsey to the room. "Thank you, ladies."
Cersei's gaze remained fixed on Alys. "Lady Stark."
"Your Grace," Alys replied politely, inclining her head.
"You Northern women always seem so… comfortable in stone," Cersei said, her tone sweet as honey and twice as false. "It must be all the wool."
Alys smiled. "We find warmth where we can. Even here."
Cersei's eyes narrowed. "Well. Enjoy your cold hearths."
She turned and swept from the room, Myrcella following in her wake.
As the door shut, silence reigned.
"Do you think she's always like that?" Alysanne whispered.
"Only when she's breathing," Lysa replied.
[Winterfell, Alaric's Solar, Evening]
Later that night, the fire in Alaric's solar burned low, and the shutters were drawn against the rising wind. Alys leaned back in the high-backed chair across from her husband, her legs tucked beneath her, and her cup of warm spiced wine untouched on the table.
Alaric was reviewing correspondence, plans from the royal steward for their departure, letters from his bannermen confirming supply lines. But he set them aside as he saw her watching him.
"You're quiet," he said, rising to sit beside her.
"I've had thoughts," Alys murmured. "About the child."
He stilled. "You are certain, then?"
"Not entirely. But enough."
He took her hand. "And?"
"I worry. I worry that I won't be enough. That I won't give you the sons you need. That I'll—"
He silenced her with a kiss to her knuckles. "Alys, you are enough. You've always been enough. If we are given one child or ten, it will not change what you are to me."
Her breath caught.
"And what am I to you?"
He met her gaze. "The other half of my soul."
The words settled around her like falling snow. Gentle, quiet, resolute.
They sat like that for a long time.
Outside, Winterfell stirred through the dusk, banners flapping and preparations continuing. But inside that room, the world held still, suspended in firelight, love, and the promise of what was to come.