[The North, outside Winterfell, 12th moon, 298AC]
The wind that swept across the northern plains carried the smell of snow and pine and distant hearth smoke.
Greatjon Umber drew a deep breath of it as his great warhorse trudged steadily along the frozen kingsroad, hooves crunching through the packed frost beneath them. The cold bit at his beard and gathered in the fur lining of his cloak, but the Greatjon scarcely noticed. He had lived his whole life in harsher winds than these.
Behind him stretched the host of Last Hearth.
They came in a long column that wound across the white fields like a dark river of iron and fur. Thousands of men marched beneath the towering banner of House Umber, the roaring giant breaking his chains upon a field of rust-red cloth.
Axes glinted in the pale winter light.
Spears rose in thick ranks.
And among them marched the men, the Umbers were most feared for.
The shock infantry.
Great slabs of men in heavy mail and bear pelts, armed with long-hafted axes and brutal iron-headed mauls meant for smashing shields and bones alike. They marched with slow, deliberate steps that shook the frozen ground beneath them.
Greatjon Umber liked the sound of it.
Beside him rode his younger brother Osric, wrapped in a cloak of black bear fur.
"You've brought half the damned North with you," Osric muttered.
"Bah," Greatjon snorted. "Only the half worth bringing."
Osric smirked slightly.
Behind them rode a thick cluster of Umber kin and sworn captains.
Cousins.
Nephews.
Old warriors who had followed House Umber for decades.
Many had gone with Alaric to Pyke to end the squids' failed rebellion.
And many more had fought beside Ned Stark before that.
Now they rode again.
For wolves.
The road crested a low rise.
And there, through the falling snow, Winterfell appeared.
The ancient fortress rose from the frozen ground like a slumbering giant of grey stone. Its towers pierced the pale sky while smoke curled upward from dozens of chimneys.
The walls were alive with movement.
Men stood along the battlements.
Horns sounded across the wind.
The castle had seen them.
Greatjon grinned beneath his beard.
"About damn time."
The horns grew louder as they approached.
The great gates of Winterfell began to open.
The Umbers marched forward.
The courtyard of Winterfell erupted into noise the moment the Umber host began entering the castle.
Men shouted.
Horses stamped.
Steel clattered.
Northern soldiers crowded along the walls and stairways to watch the warriors of Last Hearth march inside.
And march they did.
Hundreds.
Then thousands.
Fur-cloaked giants carrying axes large enough to split a man from shoulder to hip.
Many of the Stark soldiers gave approving nods as the Umbers passed.
Others simply stared.
The shock infantry marched at the heart of the column, their heavy shields slung across their backs and their long axes resting against their shoulders.
The ground seemed to tremble beneath their boots.
Greatjon dismounted heavily near the center of the yard, landing with a crunch of frost beneath his boots.
He took a long moment to look around.
Winterfell had always been impressive, but today it looked like something else entirely.
It looked like war.
Banners snapped in the wind across the inner walls.
Stark.
Manderly.
Cerwyn.
Tallhart.
Hornwood.
High Hill.
Clansmen from the mountains filled whole sections of the courtyard in their bone-adorned furs.
Even stranger faces stood among them.
Men of Skagos.
Greatjon Umber barked a loud laugh.
"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered.
The North truly had come together.
A stir rippled through the crowd.
The men parted.
And through them walked Alaric Stark.
The Lord of Winterfell moved with calm confidence, his tall frame wrapped in grey steel and a heavy cloak of wolf fur. The Valyrian blade Ice rested across his back.
Beside him walked two enormous shapes.
Direwolves.
Even the Greatjon paused when he saw them.
The first was silver-grey, almost blending into the drifting snow.
The second burned reddish-brown like glowing embers.
Both were massive.
Larger than any wolf the Greatjon had ever seen.
Their eyes fixed on him with quiet intelligence.
"Well now," he murmured.
Alaric stopped several paces away.
For a moment, the two men simply looked at each other.
Then the Greatjon threw back his head and laughed.
"Seven hells, boy!"
He strode forward and seized Alaric in a crushing embrace.
"You've grown since the last time I saw you!"
Alaric laughed as well, though he was nearly as large as the Umber lord himself.
"Not a boy anymore, Uncle."
"Aye," Greatjon said, stepping back to look him over.
"Not a boy."
The direwolves stood beside their master like silent sentinels.
Greatjon eyed them again.
"You always did have a flair for the dramatic."
Alaric smirked faintly.
"Wait until you see the rest."
The Greatjon suddenly dropped to one knee.
The entire courtyard went silent.
His massive fist struck his chest.
"The Last Hearth answers the call of the wolves."
Behind him, thousands of Umber soldiers echoed the gesture.
Steel rang against shields.
Alaric stepped forward and pulled him back to his feet.
"I'm glad you came."
"Glad?" Greatjon barked. "Boy, I rode here hoping there'd be lions to kill already!"
That earned laughter from the gathered soldiers.
[Later that day]
Later that afternoon, Alaric rode beyond the walls of Winterfell.
The fields outside the castle had transformed.
Where once there had been quiet pastureland, there now stretched a vast sea of tents, cookfires, wagons, and soldiers.
Thousands of men filled the frozen ground.
Smoke curled upward from dozens of campfires.
The banners of the North flew everywhere.
Umber giants.
Manderly mermen.
The wolf of Stark.
Clansmen painted their shields beside roaring bonfires.
Horses neighed in the cold air.
Blacksmiths hammered iron beneath rough wooden shelters.
Alaric rode slowly through it all with Tempest and Cinder pacing beside his horse.
Greatjon Umber rode beside him.
"Well," the Umber lord said, sweeping a broad arm across the fields.
"That's an army if I ever saw one."
"It's only the beginning," Alaric replied.
"More hosts march even now."
Greatjon grinned.
"Good."
He leaned closer in the saddle.
"So when do we march south and start splitting lion skulls?"
Alaric didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he looked across the assembled host.
Thousands of men waited.
The North had not gathered like this in decades.
"When the time is right," he said finally.
Greatjon snorted.
"The time is right when your enemy bleeds."
Alaric turned slightly.
"And if we rush south without preparation?"
Greatjon shrugged.
"Then we bleed too."
Alaric nodded.
"That is what Tywin Lannister wants."
The Umber lord grunted thoughtfully.
"Bah. I hate when you're right."
That evening, horns echoed across Winterfell once again.
But this time they did not herald arriving armies.
They summoned the lords.
A Great War Council.
The Great Hall of Winterfell filled quickly.
Torches burned bright along the walls, casting flickering shadows across the ancient stone.
The long tables were crowded with Northern lords and captains.
At the high table sat Alaric Stark.
To his right sat Eddard Stark.
To his left sat Lord Wyman Manderly.
Further down sat Benjen Stark, Artos Stark of High Hill, and Lord Medger Cerwyn.
The mountain clans crowded the benches along the walls.
The Greatjon took a seat that creaked beneath his enormous weight.
A massive map of the North and the Riverlands lay spread across the table before them.
Alaric rose.
The hall grew quiet.
"The North has answered the call," he said calmly.
"And now we must decide what comes next."
He gestured to the map.
"Tywin Lannister burns the Riverlands."
Murmurs filled the hall.
"We have three choices," Alaric continued.
"We march south immediately."
The Greatjon grinned.
"Good choice."
"Or," Alaric went on, "we strengthen the Neck and force the lions to come to us."
Ned gave a hesitant murmur, his wife was of the Tullys of Riverrun after all.
That earned several nods.
"And the third?" Ned asked quietly.
Alaric paused.
"The third is to wait."
The hall erupted into noise.
Greatjon slammed a fist onto the table.
"Wait?!"
Alaric met his gaze calmly.
"Yes."
He pointed to the southern kingdoms on the map.
"The realm is fracturing."
"Renly Baratheon has crowned himself king."
Murmurs spread again.
"Stannis Baratheon gathers fleets on Dragonstone."
More murmurs.
"And the Lannisters sit the Iron Throne."
The Greatjon leaned back in his chair.
"Seven hells," he muttered.
"Three kings already."
Alaric's voice grew colder. "The lions will soon have more enemies than they can fight."
Silence settled slowly over the hall.
"Besides, I plan to showcase the full might of the North in the coming war, and time is what we need to fully assemble our available forces while still leaving sizable garrisons to make any would-be Ironborn raid think twice," Alaric said, causing the various lords to nod in agreement with wolfish grins on their faces.
Following his proclamation, silence soon fell among them. More apt lords started thinking on logistics and the finer aspects of war, while others waited for any more words from Alaric
And in that silence, the lords of the North began to understand.
The wolves did not need to rush.
The realm itself was torn apart.
Alaric rested both hands upon the table.
"When we march," he said quietly, "we will march to win."
The Greatjon stared at him for a long moment.
Then slowly, he grinned.
"Aye."
He raised a cup of ale.
"To the war to come."
Around the hall, the lords of the North raised their cups.
"To war."
And beyond the ancient walls of Winterfell, beneath falling snow and darkening skies, the greatest host the North had seen in a generation prepared for the storm that was coming.
[The next day, the Wolfswood]
The Wolfswood was quieter than the lands around Winterfell.
Snow lay thick beneath the ancient pines, muffling the sound of hooves and voices alike. The towering trees rose like dark pillars against the pale winter sky, their branches heavy with frost. The deeper one rode beneath their canopy, the more the world seemed to fall silent.
Only the wind remained.
Greatjon Umber breathed deeply as his horse pushed through the snow-packed trail. The scent of pine and cold earth filled his lungs.
"A good place for a hunt," he muttered.
Ahead of them, Tempest moved like a ghost through the trees.
The great silver-grey direwolf slipped between the trunks without a sound, his storm-colored fur blending with the falling snow. Somewhere deeper in the forest, Cinder prowled as well, the reddish-brown she-wolf moving unseen but never far from her master.
Alaric Stark rode at the head of the small party, his dark destrier stepping carefully along the narrow forest path.
Behind him rode Rodrik Stark and Dorren Snow, the Direwolf Shadow following behind his master.
Greatjon's own son, Smalljon, followed close beside him, while Osric Umber rode a little further back with several Stark guards.
For a time, none of them spoke.
The quiet of the Wolfswood had a way of settling over men.
Greatjon had ridden through many forests in his life, but this one had always felt… older. The pines here seemed to watch you.
His horse snorted softly.
Then something moved above them.
Greatjon's head snapped upward.
A shadow cut across the pale sky between the branches.
A falcon.
The bird circled once before descending in a smooth, controlled glide. Its wings beat softly as it landed upon a bare branch just ahead of the riders.
It did not startle or flee.
It simply watched them.
Greatjon frowned.
"Strange bird," he muttered. "Got no fear of men."
Alaric had already reined his horse to a halt.
The falcon tilted its head.
Then the trees stirred.
A figure stepped quietly from between the pines.
He was young, little older than Alaric himself, dressed in simple dark leathers and a cloak dusted with snow. His brown hair hung loose around his shoulders, and his grey eyes studied the riders with calm intelligence.
The falcon launched from the branch and glided down, landing upon the young man's gloved arm.
Greatjon stared.
"Well, I'll be damned."
He leaned forward in the saddle, squinting suspiciously.
"Who in the seven hells is this twig of a boy?"
Rodrik suppressed a grin.
Alaric spoke calmly.
"Oswald."
The young man bowed his head slightly.
"My lord."
Greatjon's brow furrowed.
"A friend of yours?"
"An ally," Alaric replied.
He gestured toward the falcon.
"Oswald serves the Northern Rite of the Greenmen."
The Greatjon snorted loudly.
"Greenmen? Thought those were just stories for children."
Oswald did not react to the remark.
"I see through my falcons," he said simply.
"And through other eyes as well."
Greatjon stared at him another moment.
Then grunted.
"Well, that's unsettling."
Alaric motioned for him to continue.
"You said you had news."
Oswald nodded.
"My birds have been watching the southern roads."
The forest seemed to grow quieter still.
"Two hosts march in the Riverlands."
Rodrik straightened in his saddle.
Greatjon leaned forward.
"Go on."
Oswald gestured toward the south.
"The first host gathers beneath the banner of Lord Vance of Wayfarer's Rest and Lord Clement Piper."
Alaric's eyes narrowed slightly.
Riverlords.
"Numbers?" he asked.
"Just shy of nine thousand perhaps," Oswald replied. "Mostly levies and household knights."
Rodrik frowned.
"That is not enough."
"No," Alaric agreed quietly.
Oswald continued.
"They march west."
Greatjon scratched his beard.
"Toward Lannister lands?"
Oswald nodded.
"They mean to meet any would-be invasion army beneath the Golden Tooth."
The name hung in the cold air.
Every man present knew the place.
The Golden Tooth guarded the western passes between the Westerlands and the Riverlands.
Rodrik's jaw tightened.
"Who commands the other host?"
Oswald's falcon shifted slightly on his arm.
"The Kingslayer."
Greatjon barked a laugh.
"Jaime Lannister?"
Oswald nodded once.
"My falcons saw his banners three days past."
Alaric's expression remained calm, but his mind was already moving.
"How large?"
"Larger than the riverlords' force, around fifteen thousand, I'd say," Oswald replied.
"Knights. Heavy foot. Westermen primed for battle."
Greatjon grinned wolfishly.
"Good."
He spat into the snow.
"Let them meet. Jaime will smash those river lords, and then we'll smash him."
Rodrik looked unconvinced.
"They will be slaughtered."
Alaric nodded slowly.
"If the reports are accurate, they are marching directly into him."
The Golden Tooth was no place for a small army to face the strength of the Westerlands.
Oswald watched them all carefully.
"My rodents in the south hear the same rumors," he added.
"The meeting is expected soon."
Greatjon snorted.
"Well, we should be marching south already then."
Alaric did not respond.
Instead, he looked deeper into the forest, his thoughts clearly turning.
Then a sound broke through the quiet.
Hoofbeats.
Fast.
Everyone turned.
A Stark rider burst through the trees a moment later, his horse lathered and breathing hard from the long ride.
He reined in sharply before Alaric and swung down from the saddle.
"My lord."
He knelt quickly.
"What is it?" Alaric asked.
The man hesitated only briefly.
"A ship arrived through the canal this morning."
Greatjon raised an eyebrow.
"The canal?"
"Aye."
The rider looked toward Rodrik for a moment before continuing.
"It docked near Castle Cerwyn. A group of riders left immediately for Winterfell."
Alaric's gaze sharpened.
"What do they carry?"
The man swallowed.
"The bones of Ser Torrhen Stark."
For a moment, the Wolfswood seemed to fall completely silent.
Rodrik did not move.
Dorren looked down at the snow.
Greatjon's expression hardened.
The rider continued.
"They also carry a letter."
"From whom?" Alaric asked quietly.
"Ser Jaime Lannister."
That drew a low grunt from Greatjon.
"Well, now that's interesting."
The rider produced a sealed parchment and handed it to Alaric.
The Stark lord broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
His grey eyes moved across the page slowly.
The others waited.
Finally, he spoke.
"Cersei Lannister ordered Ser Torrhen's head displayed above the Red Keep."
Rodrik's hands clenched around his reins.
Alaric continued.
"Jaime refused."
Greatjon blinked.
"What?"
"He writes that Torrhen fought bravely holding the gate during our escape."
Alaric read the next line aloud.
"'A man who dies defending his lord deserves better than a spike above a gate. Consider this a courtesy between warriors.'"
Silence lingered among the trees.
Greatjon scratched his beard again.
"Well… I'll be damned."
He spat into the snow.
"Never thought I'd say it, but the Kingslayer may have a shred of honor after all."
Rodrik finally spoke.
"His bones…"
"They are on the road to Winterfell now," the rider said.
Alaric folded the letter slowly.
"He will rest in the crypts of Winterfell."
Rodrik nodded once.
His face remained hard, but there was a quiet weight behind his eyes now.
Greatjon placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Your father died a Northman's death, lad."
Dorren raised his head.
"A warrior's death."
Alaric looked between them.
"Ser Torrhen Stark will be honored as he deserves."
At that moment, a long mournful sound echoed through the forest.
Tempest stood upon a rise nearby, his silver-grey form outlined against the snow.
The great direwolf lifted his head and howled.
A deep, echoing cry that rolled across the Wolfswood like distant thunder.
A moment later, Cinder answered.
Then Shadow.
Then another howl drifted through the trees.
And another.
Wolves.
Greatjon felt a shiver run down his spine.
He glanced at Alaric.
"Feels like the old gods heard the news."
Tempest's howl echoed again through the forest.
And beneath the ancient pines of the Wolfswood, the wolves of the North answered.