[The North, Winterfell, Second Week of the Twelfth Moon, 298 AC]
The winter winds had begun to harden.
They swept down from the far northern hills and across the Wolfswood with a bitter edge that spoke not of autumn's dying breath but of true winter, the long, cold season that the North knew better than any other land in the Seven Kingdoms. Snow fell steadily across the plains beyond Winterfell, blanketing the fields and hedgerows in pale white. The drifts had already begun to gather against the outer walls, and the roofs of Wintertown were thick with frost.
The castle itself had become a hive of movement and noise.
Winterfell had always been a great seat, but in times of peace, it possessed a quiet rhythm, the steady cadence of a fortress that had endured for thousands of years. Now that rhythm had been broken. Horns sounded at the gates almost daily. Columns of men marched through the courtyards. Horses stamped and snorted in the stables while smiths hammered iron in the forges from dawn until well past dusk.
War was gathering in the North.
Alaric Stark stood upon the battlements above the gatehouse, his tall frame wrapped in a heavy cloak of grey wolf fur that shifted in the cold wind. From that vantage, he could see the long white road stretching southward across the frozen fields, disappearing into the pale haze of falling snow.
He had been watching that road for most of the morning.
Beside him stood Tempest, the great direwolf's silver-grey coat blending almost seamlessly into the drifting snowfall. The beast stood alert and motionless, azure blue eyes fixed upon the distant movement below. Not far behind them, Cinder paced slowly along the battlement walk, her crimson-brown coat bright against the white of the stone, her amber eyes restless as she watched the gathering host below.
"They're closer now," Ser Harald Stark said quietly.
The seasoned warrior leaned heavily upon the stone parapet, his wounded shoulder bound tightly beneath thick leather and wool, almost fully healed now, though stubborn pride had prevented him from remaining indoors. He had insisted upon seeing the hosts arrive for himself.
Alaric said nothing for a moment. His grey eyes remained fixed upon the distant banners approaching along the kingsroad.
Thousands of men were marching toward Winterfell.
The first banner finally broke through the falling snow.
A black battle-axe upon a field of grey.
House Cerwyn.
The long column of soldiers followed behind it in disciplined ranks, their shields slung across their backs and their breath rising in pale clouds as they marched. At their head rode Lord Medger Cerwyn, a thick-bearded man wrapped in heavy furs, his helm strapped to his saddle as he guided his horse through the frozen road.
Beside his lord father, rode Ser Cley Cerwyn, knighted beneath weirwoods and old gods, heir to Castle Cerwyn.
Behind him marched several hundred Cerwyn levies, hard northern men accustomed to the bitter winds that swept across the lands near the kingsroad. Their armor bore the marks of long service, patched mail, and weathered leather, but their ranks remained steady as they approached the castle gates.
The great wooden doors of Winterfell creaked open.
The Cerwyn host began to file into the yard.
Alaric watched silently.
"And that is only the beginning," Harald said.
Another banner appeared through the drifting snow.
Three dark green pine trees upon a brown field.
House Tallhart.
The Tallhart host marched in far tighter formation than the Cerwyn men, their longspears carried upright as their boots crunched across the frozen ground. Ser Helman Tallhart rode at their head, his iron helm already in place despite the bitter cold.
Further down the road, another banner crested the distant hill.
A brown bull moose with black antlers on orange
House Hornwood.
Lord Halys Hornwood rode beside his son Daryn, the two men wrapped in thick cloaks as they guided their riders through the falling snow. Behind them came the Hornwood levies, many of them archers, their longbows carried across their backs and their quivers bristling with arrows.
The hosts continued to march through the gates one after another.
Cerwyn.
Tallhart.
Hornwood.
And beyond them still, emerging slowly through the pale veil of snowfall, came the unmistakable banner of a direwolf.
A black wolf racing across a field of grey.
House Stark, but not the ancient line of Winterfell.
This was the banner of High Hill.
Lord Artos Stark rode at the head of his host, his broad shoulders wrapped in a heavy cloak of dark fur.
Their soldiers marched in disciplined ranks of heavy infantry, their shields painted with the hybrid sigil Lord Artos' father, Lord Beron Stark, first Master of High Hill, had created years earlier, a merging of Stark and Cerwyn colors that marked the founding of their branch of the family.
Alaric exhaled slowly as he watched them approach.
The North had not gathered like this in many years.
Not since the banners had risen during Robert's Rebellion.
But this time the banners had not been summoned by a southern king.
This time, they had come for the wolves.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
Alaric turned slightly as Lord Wyman Manderly approached along the battlements, his immense bulk wrapped in so many layers of fur and wool that he resembled some great walking bear more than a man.
"A glorious sight, my lord," Wyman said warmly as he gazed down upon the arriving hosts.
"The North answers when the wolves call."
Alaric's eyes remained on the road.
"And more are already marching."
He had made certain of it.
Within days of returning to Winterfell, he had sent ravens across the entire North.
Cerwyn.
Tallhart.
Hornwood.
Karstark.
Reed.
Bolton.
Manderly.
Glover.
Ryswell.
Dustin.
The various Flints.
And dozens more lesser houses.
Even now, columns of soldiers were marching southward, not toward Winterfell, but toward the narrow choke point of Moat Cailin.
Alaric had ordered it himself.
If the lions sought to march north, they would find the Neck barred by iron and stone.
And if the wolves marched south…
Then the lions would have to face them in the open field.
[Later that day, the Great Hall of Winterfell]
By midday, the Great Hall of Winterfell had filled with the lords and captains of the North.
The long tables were crowded with fur-cloaked nobles and their sworn men, their voices echoing beneath the high wooden rafters as they spoke of roads, harvests, troop counts, and the rumors drifting northward from the war-torn south.
At the high table sat Alaric Stark.
Beside him sat Alys, her form wrapped in thick grey furs against the winter cold. Her pregnancy had grown far more visible now, the gentle curve of her belly unmistakable beneath the heavy layers of cloth and leather.
Her hand rested lightly against it as she listened to the council.
Lord Medger Cerwyn spoke first, describing the strength of his levies and the condition of the roads near the kingsroad.
Ser Helman Tallhart followed, his voice steady as he described the longspearmen he had brought from Torrhen's Square.
Lord Halys Hornwood added the strength of his archers to the tally.
Finally, Lord Artos Stark of High Hill rose from his seat.
"The High Hill host numbers nearly two thousand," Artos said in his blunt, unadorned manner. "All hard sons of bitches waiting to spill lion's blood."
Nodding his head in respect and acknowledgement, Alaric rose slowly from his seat.
The hall fell silent.
"The Neck is already being reinforced, Lord Reed and his bannermen are garrisoning choke points and scouting ahead for any information possible," he said calmly.
He gestured toward the large map spread across the table.
"As for Moat Cailin, men from the Barrowlands, the Rills, and Deepwood Motte are marching even now. Additional levies from Karhold and the Dreadfort will join them within the fortnight."
A murmur of approval rippled through the hall.
"And the southern road?" Tallhart asked.
Alaric paused before answering.
"That depends on the lions."
He let the words hang for a moment.
Then he continued.
"In preparation for what may come, I have ordered certain changes within the Stark host."
Several lords leaned forward with interest.
"My Grey Cloaks and the Winter Guard will be equipped with throwing javelins before battle."
The hall stirred.
"Javelins?" Lord Hornwood asked.
"Pilum," Alaric corrected calmly.
"A weapon once used by the legions of old Valyria and the ancient armies of the Ghiscari."
'Better utilized by the Romans in my opinion,' he thought with slight amusement before continuing.
He tapped the map with one finger.
"When thrown, the shaft bends upon striking a shield. The weapon cannot be thrown back, and the shield becomes nearly useless."
Tallhart nodded thoughtfully.
"A good way to break a shield wall."
"That is the intention," Alaric replied.
The Northern collective talked longer for another hour, planning logistics, supply routes, and where to garrison more heavily in case of Iron Born bravado.
The council had barely concluded when the horns sounded.
Deep.
Echoing.
The sound rolled across the snow-covered courtyard like distant thunder.
A Winter Guard soldier burst into the hall.
"My lord!"
Alaric turned.
"The mountain clans have arrived."
The various lords all murmured, glad of their arrival. Alaric himself was happy to hear the news, the mountain clans, while not unfriendly, were still some of the least close lords to him. Despite this, their loyalty to House Stark was almost second to none.
They came through the gates of Winterfell like a storm descending from the hills.
The mountain clans were nothing like the orderly levies of the northern houses.
They wore heavy furs and leather armor decorated with bone charms and carved weirwood tokens. Their axes were broad and brutal, their shields painted with crude symbols of beasts and trees.
Clans of the high hills.
Wulls.
Norreys.
Liddles.
Burleys.
Harclays.
Hundreds of warriors filled the courtyard.
Their leader stepped forward.
"The mountain clans remember the wolves."
Alaric stepped forward to meet him.
"And the wolves remember the mountain clans."
The man grinned.
"Good. Then we'll fight for you."
But another voice rose above the noise.
Cold.
Sharp.
"We came from Skagos."
Immediately, murmurs and hushed voices rang out, and for good reason too, the Skagosi haven't been largely seen off of their damned island since their failed rebellion almost a century prior.
A massive warrior stepped forward, his sealskin cloak hanging heavy around his shoulders.
"Our greenseer dreamed."
He pointed toward Alaric.
"She saw wolves rising. Lions freezing in snow."
The warrior bared his teeth.
"But dreams lie."
"We will not follow a weak wolf."
He raised his axe.
"I demand a Trial by might."
"Aye, I shall entertain your demand, brave warrior. Come, let us fight." Alaric replied, reaching for the greatsword Ice, any lesser would be an insult to the Skagosi warrior.
Men moved around, setting up a ring of shields, as is the old way, and the various lords, warriors, and men of Winterfell and the north surrounded the makeshift arena and cheered, largely for Alaric, of course.
Snow fell steadily as the duel began.
The Skagosi warrior charged first.
His axe came crashing down like a falling tree.
Alaric stepped aside.
Ice flashed.
The Valyrian blade struck the haft of the axe with a ringing crack.
The weapon flew from the man's hands.
In the next heartbeat, the tip of Ice rested beneath his throat.
"Now you know your wolf," Alaric said quietly.
The Skagosi knelt.
Shock played out among the gathered men, it wasn't every day Alaric chose to end a duel swiftly. He was well known among the Winter Guard and Greycloaks for prolonging fights and turning them into lessons.
[Later that evening]
That evening, a young man was brought before Alaric.
"My lord Stark, I am called Oswald," he said.
"You were sent by Edrin's successor?" Alaric asked.
Following the arrival of the odd Greenman who brought Tempest and Cinder to Alaric, the Northern Rite of the Greenmen had been established in the godswood to take care of the weirwoods and heart tree, along with now, the various Direwolves of House Stark.
"Aye, my falcons saw the Tallhart host three days before they reached Winterfell," Oswald said.
"And my shadowcat walks the kingsroad."
Alaric studied him carefully.
"You will serve the North."
Oswald bowed.
Having a gifted skinchanger among his ranks would augment his forces in the best way, plus, this would only serve to help kickstart his planned promotion of skinchangers in the near future.
The intelligence group of his, the Winter's Shadow, already employed skinchangers, it was time these gifted individuals came back into the public eye of the North.
Later that night, beneath falling snow, Alaric stood with Alys upon the battlements.
She leaned gently against him.
"The North believes in you," she said.
He placed a hand upon her belly.
Their child stirred.
"And I believe in them," he replied quietly.
The Lord and Lady of Winterfell sat there in calm silence, enjoying one another's company, not wishing to think on the battles ahead, and the time they will be apart from each other.
Later still, in the quiet of the courtyard, three young men stood together.
Rodrik Stark.
Dorren Snow.
And Alaric.
Rodrik raised his cup.
"To my father, may the gods keep him, and let him see as we crush those southern bastards."
Dorren nodded.
"To the man who taught us to fight."
Alaric lifted his own cup.
"To Ser Torrhen Stark, the only father I ever knew in this life."
Their cups met.
And above them, the snow continued to fall as the wolves of the North prepared for war