Author's Note:
Hey guys, before the chapter starts, I just wanted to let you all know that I've updated the character list auxiliary with Alys and Ysilla listed as the wives of Alaric and Robb, respectively, along with photos of what they look like, along with an image of adult Alaric.
To save you the time, here are the three new images.
(Adult Alaric --->)
(Alys Karstark --->)
(Ysilla Royce --->)
[Godswood of Winterfell, First Week of the Fifth Moon, 298 AC]
The air was still in the godswood.
Benjen Stark stood at the front of the assembled crowd, flanked by the tall pines and gnarled oaks that had stood for a thousand years or more. The old heart tree loomed ahead, pale, solemn, and eternal, its bloody eyes staring down the sacred clearing, as though watching with silent judgment the vows that would be spoken beneath its weeping boughs.
The cool scent of leaf rot and pine mingled with the perfume of crushed snow blossoms, still budding from the melting frost of the previous moon. Birds chirped faintly in the distance, as if hesitant to break the reverence of the moment.
Benjen exhaled, folding his hands before him. Beside him stood his family. Rickard, tall and lanky and already nearly his height at four-and-ten, almost five-and-ten, wore a silver-dyed surcoat with the bear of House Mormont quartered beside the direwolf of Stark. Lyarra, quiet and composed in her pale green dress, held her little brother's hand. Cregan, gods help them all, was actually behaving for once, though he squirmed in his tunic like a pup in a bath. Dacey squeezed the boy's hand gently, a faint smile touching her lips.
Benjen chuckled under his breath and shook his head. "Can't believe this day's come," he muttered.
Dacey leaned in, whispering close to his ear. "Still remember that march back from King's Landing. Alaric could barely toddle. Gods, he had the biggest head I'd ever seen on a child. Thought he'd tip over."
Benjen snorted. "He was three. And solemn even then."
"Not that solemn," she teased, eyes twinkling. "Of course, I remember someone stumbling into my tent at the Inn at the Crossroads, slurring about how he was going to 'face the she-bear.'"
Benjen turned crimson and rubbed the back of his neck. "You remember that, do you?"
"Oh, fondly," Dacey said, smirking. "Might've been the mead talking, but I never let a drunk Stark leave without getting what he wanted."
Rickard turned and blinked. "Wait, was that the night I was made?"
Benjen cleared his throat. "Shush."
Dacey grinned wickedly. "Probably was."
Before Rickard could say another word, the soft sound of harpstrings filled the godswood. All turned their heads toward the archway of carved wood and snow-covered stone that marked the entry to the sacred clearing.
From the trees, Alaric Stark and Robb Stark emerged, both cloaked in dark gray wolf fur, shoulders squared, expressions grave, at first. The harp played on, soon joined by the low rhythm of a drum and a reed flute, Northern instruments giving shape to a moment centuries in the making.
The two began walking down the aisle, Tempest and Cinder flanking them, the two hulking direwolves stoic and calm, Grey Wind walking alongside them, already nearing the size of a hound. His siblings sat by a weirwood with their mother, Tundra. The massive she-wolf lie watching over the pups, making sure they don't misbehave
Benjen's own companion, Frost, sat near them, her three pups similar in size, sitting with her.
Benjen felt his chest tighten. He'd watched Alaric grow from a quiet boy to a lord that many said would rival their father in legend, most likely even surpass. And Robb, too, gods, Robb looked more like Ned every day, but carried his mother's softness in the lines of his face. A fine lad, now a man grown, and marrying a girl he'd crossed half the continent to court if it came to it.
Alaric's steps were measured. Calm, composed. But his eyes betrayed him. Benjen could see the anticipation gleaming there, and something else, a rare joy. His nephew looked toward the heart tree, then back to the clearing as lords, ladies, bannermen, and smallfolk turned in unison to watch the grooms take their places.
Across the way stood Ned. Tall, somber, and stalwart. Catelyn at his side, with Sansa and Arya between them. Jon Snow and Dorren Snow stood beside Bran and Rickon, not in the back where some lords might've put them, but in the front row, where Stark blood, true or not, belonged.
Benjen gave Ned a glance, and his elder brother nodded back. They shared something wordless, something that could never be spoken aloud, how much their family had endured, how proud their father would have been if he could have seen this day.
The music shifted.
From behind the trees emerged two women on their fathers' arms, the walkway beneath their feet covered in white petals gathered from across the North.
Alys Karstark walked with her chin high, wrapped in a dress of deep gray-black velvet, the color of winter's sky before a storm. Her gown shimmered with tiny snowflakes and silver-thread stars, catching the light as if frost itself had kissed the fabric. Her long brown hair was woven in intricate braids, laced with pearls and white ribbon. She was proud, Northern to the bone, and she looked every inch a Stark bride.
Ysilla Royce followed beside her, a study in contrast. Her dress was of rich black and bronze silk, the ancient colors of Runestone. The antlers of weirwood pinned her copper hair in an elegant crown above her head. She looked regal, eyes wide and glowing like polished amber as they scanned the crowd, then fixed on Robb, who looked as though he might faint from adoration.
Benjen couldn't help but grin. That boy's going to try for a babe tonight, for sure.
The two brides reached the heart tree, and the music faded like wind through the leaves.
The old gods watched in silence.
Maester Luwin stood to the side, clutching a ceremonial scroll, but it was the heart tree that bore witness this day. There were no vows of septons here, no seven blessings. Just blood, old words, and older magic.
'Magic ha, if septa mordane were still among them, she would go insane.' Benjen thought grimly, the septa having disappeared from the face of the earth following her exile, many had… suspicions of what happened to her, but none dared to speak of it.
Benjen turned back toward the two couples, bringing his mind back to more joyous thoughts.
The ceremony began.
Alaric stepped forward, unfastening the direwolf-clasp at his shoulder and removing his heavy cloak. Alys did the same. In a smooth motion, Alaric wrapped his fur around her shoulders. Her arms slid through the opening, and she leaned into him slightly, as if accepting not only his warmth but his name, his burden, and his North.
Robb mirrored the motion beside them, draping his cloak around Ysilla's shoulders. His hands trembled slightly, and Ysilla laughed softly, brushing his cheek with her fingers. The clearing broke into smiles.
Benjen felt the weight of the moment settle in his bones. This was no mere marriage for politics' sake. This was a bond of love, of alliance, of hope.
The godswood fell silent as the four clasped hands beneath the heart tree. The ancient face in the bark seemed to watch with a kind of grim approval, its red sap-tears catching in the slant of the light.
Then came the final words, spoken not by a priest, but by Alaric himself.
"In the sight of gods and kin, in the eyes of the North and the memory of the snow, I take you as my wife," he said. His voice was firm, resonant, carrying through the trees like a wolf's call in the dark.
Alys answered in kind.
Robb followed, his voice softer but no less full of conviction. Ysilla's reply trembled with emotion.
The gathered crowd watched in reverent quiet.
A smile soon spread across Alaric's face, not one he used when in company, but a true, genuine smile, something that caught many off guard, some of the lords having never even seen their liege lord smile to begin with.
Then, without cue or a command, the two grooms leaned forward in unison, and the godswood erupted in cheers as they kissed their brides.
The various Direwolves, as if prompted to, howled in unison, but it wasn't a mournful howl, no, it was a joyous howl, one that was shared by what seemed to be the north itself
Benjen's children clapped. Even little Cregan bounced on his feet, whispering, "She kissed him!" to Lyarra with glee.
Dacey leaned against Benjen. "Well," she murmured, "it's done."
He nodded, throat tight. "Aye. It is."
The procession began to move. Lords of the North, Cerwyns, Hornwoods, Manderlys, Glovers, even the uproarious Umber entourage, followed behind the newlyweds, joined by Riverlanders, Vale lords, and even a few Westerlanders, all invited by royal decree. Smallfolk cheered from the edges, given leave to attend and line the walkway as the honored couples led the way toward the keep.
The great hall doors stood open.
Tables lined every inch of the stone floor within. Dozens of hogs turned on spits. Sweetcakes and honeyed rootcakes steamed from the kitchens. Barrels of ale and Northern mead were stacked in every corner. There would be toasts. There would be dancing. There would be music and stories and perhaps even some drunken wrestling before the night was out.
But for now, Benjen paused at the edge of the godswood, letting the others pass ahead.
He turned to look back at the heart tree, now adorned in garlands of snow blossoms and ribbon, where two marriages had just been sealed by the eyes of the old gods.
He thought of his father.
You were right, he thought. About the wolf's blood. About what it means to be a Stark. But this… this is what we've made of it. Something lasting.
Benjen turned, took Dacey's hand, and walked toward the feast, their children at their side.
Behind them, the godswood whispered in the wind.
[The Great Hall of Winterfell]
The roar of voices struck Benjen like a wave as he stepped into the warmth and thunder of the Great Hall.
Banners fluttered from the high stone arches, direwolves of grey on white, bronze runes of House Royce, white suns of Karhold. The tables stretched from wall to wall, laden with steaming platters of roast boar, sizzling trout in lemon butter, turnips cooked in bacon grease, honeyed oatcakes, sugared apples, and golden crusts of bread warm from the ovens. Barrels of dark Northern ale and spiced mead lined the corners like sentinels, and already, mugs clinked and spilled.
At the high table, beneath the carved direwolf crest, the newlyweds sat together, Alaric and Alys at the center, Robb and Ysilla just beside them, their chairs turned slightly so that they all sat facing the hall, receiving the cheers and praise of their people.
Benjen followed with Dacey at his side, their children running ahead. Rickard darted through a knot of seated Glovers, tossing a careless grin over his shoulder, while Cregan barreled between the legs of a protesting Cerwyn squire, only to be scooped up by Lord Jorah Mormont, sitting with his wife Elisa Mormont, nee Glover, who was in better health as of recent, their children also running elsewhere.
"I believe this one's yours," Jorah called over the noise, a smile placed upon his countenance.
"Aye, though on days like this, I question the gods' wisdom," Benjen shouted back with a crooked smile, fetching the squirming child. Dacey ruffled Cregan's curls fondly as he nestled against her shoulder, already distracted by the sound of music beginning to rise from the minstrels near the hearth.
Benjen found his seat near the dais, along with Ned and his brood. Arya was attempting to stab her roasted pheasant with a dagger far too large for her hand, while Sansa whispered something to Lyarra that made both girls giggle. Jon sat with Dorren, the two bastards sharing quiet smiles as they toasted with their own mugs of watered wine. Across from them sat Bran and Rickon, the younger boys, wide-eyed as they stuffed their faces with meat pies and candied nuts.
Down the table, the Greatjon let out a thunderous laugh, shaking the boards. "Hah! Look at him! My nephew, Lord of Winterfell, and now wed to a proper she-wolf! About time! I thought the boy'd marry his own sense of duty!"
"Don't say that too loud," muttered Halys Hornwood, a smile twitching beneath his gray beard. "He might take offense."
"Offense?" the Greatjon boomed. "He should thank me for speaking truth!" He raised his goblet, sloshing mead onto the table. "To Alaric Stark! May his loins be as strong as his sword arm!"
The hall roared with laughter, even as Alys flushed a shade deeper than her cloak. Alaric, ever the composed one, simply raised his own mug and gave a slight smile, cool, respectful, but behind his eyes was that glimmer again. That rare joy Benjen had glimpsed in the godswood.
"Aye, and to Robb and Ysilla!" cried Tytos Blackwood from the Riverlander table, his voice almost drowned by the Vale contingent, where Ysilla's kin from House Royce banged their goblets in rhythmic clamor.
Cley Cerwyn shouted something unintelligible as he stood, and Rodrik Cassel barked a laugh beside him, Jory and Jonelle siting beside them with their two boys, Martyn, born in 295AC, named for his grandfather who died at the tower of joy, and Lonnel Cassel, their second son, born in 296AC, named for their houses founder, Lonnel Snow, natural born son of Lord Brandon Stark and Wylla Fenn.
Lord Manderly, his great belly quaking with mirth, waved a meat bone like a baton as he directed his kin in a song praising the new Stark brides.
Cregard Stark, Harlon's older brother, and Wynafryd Manderly, newly wed just six moons before, danced along with them.
Benjen leaned back, letting the sound wash over him. This was a Northern hall, loud, alive, and full of fire.
At the edge of the hall, the direwolves rested. Tempest lay behind Alaric's chair, ears twitching at the noise, eyes ever watchful. Cinder sat close by, his pale eyes reflecting the firelight. Grey Wind had curled at Robb's feet, one paw twitching in his sleep. Tundra and Frost had settled along the walls with their litters, pups sprawled like shadows, occasionally rising to lap at scraps tossed from the tables or wrestle playfully.
Osric Stark of High Hill came striding by, flushed from drink and laughter. He greeted Lyarra with a kiss to the cheek and clapped Rickard on the back. "There's a song being written tonight, cousins. Two songs, if the bards are bold enough!"
Benjen caught sight of Ser Torrhen Stark, ever the guardian, standing just behind Alaric's seat with arms folded and eyes alert. Not even tonight would the older knight let his guard drop. Rodrik, his son, had returned from the Vale and sat beside the Redfort boys and Domeric Bolton, already deep into some tale of mountain duels and snow-choked passes.
Alysanne Stark of White Harbor stood with Sansa and Lyarra, who had just joined the group of girls, discussing the intricate embroidery on Alys's gown, while Harlon Stark leaned back beside them, exchanging jests with Edric and Elric Snow. Branda and Berena giggled nearby, both flushed with wine and attention from a trio of Mallister squires.
Ser Harald, although still on duty, stood at Alaric's other side, exchanging jests and stories with Sers Desmond Manderly, Ellard Karstark, and Waymar Royce, who had officially been inducted in the Winter Guard a moon ago, given command over 100 Greycloaks
It was a Stark night, through and through.
The hours passed like a blur of song and drink. Dacey danced with Rickard and then with Lord Mormont, who tried and failed to match her steps, much to his wife's amusement. Benjen raised toast after toast, each more slurred than the last, until finally even Ned cracked a smile and offered one of his own, short, heartfelt, and utterly Stark.
"To family," Ned had said, raising his cup. "Old and new."
The feast paused just long enough for the words to settle in their bones.
Then the Greatjon stood again, swaying only slightly.
"Well!" he bellowed. "A fine feast! But what's a wedding night without a bedding, eh?!"
The hall exploded.
Lords and ladies banged goblets, drums sounded, and the cry went up: "To the bedding! The bedding!"
Benjen sat forward, narrowing his eyes toward Alaric. His nephew was already rising, Alys's hand held gently in his.
Robb stood as well, Ysilla's laughter echoing above the crowd as eager hands reached for her veil.
Benjen began to rise, but Alaric raised a single hand.
The crowd quieted.
"There will be no undressing of the brides," Alaric said, voice like ice over still water. "Not tonight. Not by anyone save their husbands. Anyone who tries will answer to me."
A stunned silence hung in the air.
The Greatjon opened his mouth to protest, but that was when Tempest and Cinder rose in unison, massive shoulders shifting, twin growls rumbling low and deep through the stones of the hall.
Tempest's lips peeled back just enough to show the gleam of fang.
Cinder stood utterly still, but the sound she made was like distant thunder, the kind that promised ruin if ignored.
The Greatjon blinked.
Then he laughed. Loud, full-bodied, and joyful.
"Seven hells, boy!" he roared. "I'd rather face a wildling horde than those beasts! Fine! No undressing, I'll not lose a hand over a jest!"
The lords broke into relieved laughter.
Benjen caught Alaric's eye and gave a subtle nod. The boy, no, the man, knew when to put down a foot. And knew how to do it without breaking the joy of the night.
The bedding procession reformed, now more ceremonial than rowdy. Lords and ladies gathered on either side of the couples, offering congratulations and teasing jests as they were ushered toward their respective chambers.
Ysilla looked radiant as she walked, head held high, her fingers laced through Robb's. Alys, joyful yet composed as ever, stole a glance at Alaric that made Benjen's heart warm.
They passed through the arched corridor, the crowd trailing behind until they reached the chambers.
Robb and Ysilla were ushered into the guest wing, their door closed gently behind them with final words of blessing.
Alaric and Alys ascended the steps toward the Lord's Tower, his by right and name. The doors closed with a solid thunk, and the guards took their place outside.
Smalljon and Derick Umber having called out a jest, telling Alaric to make sure a new pup took root before the end of the night, just before the door closed.
The feast resumed almost instantly, the hall shaking once more with song.
Benjen sat back at the high table beside Ned, who watched the fire quietly.
"I thought you might have said something," Benjen said.
Ned shook his head. "It wasn't my place. It was his. And he did well."
Benjen smiled. "Aye. He did."
Across the hall, Arya had joined the minstrels, stomping her feet in rhythm while Bran clapped along. Sansa leaned against Domeric, a rare showing of the affection that grew between the two, eyes distant with dreams. Jon and Dorren were laughing with Osric and Harlon, the bastards and nobles alike shoulder to shoulder.
Benjen raised his mug one last time.
"To the Starks," he murmured, quiet and sure. "May the North remember this night for generations."
He drank deeply.
And outside, in the cold Northern night, the wind howled like wolves rejoicing.