[Winterfell, 3rd Moon, 289AC]
The frost hadn't yet melted from the slate stones of Winterfell's outer yard when Ser Torrhen Stark walked the path toward the Great Hall. The morning air bit through wool and leather, but he'd always found the chill clarifying. A Northerner's breath should be visible, his steps deliberate. That was what his father used to say, and the old man had been right about most things.
The courtyard buzzed with motion. Stablehands led shaggy garrons in from the frost, a line of smallfolk waited for audience, and at the gates, the banners of House Stark of High Hill fluttered in the breeze, a dark gray, almost black direwolf running on a field of gray, the sigil of a cadet branch born of furred cows and smart investments.
Torrhen paused before stepping inside. He adjusted the wolf-clasp on his cloak, his mind wandering to his son. Rodrik, far off in Gulltown with the Arryns, likely sword-training with some lordling of the Vale or even his Arryn cousins.
His thoughts even drifted to his younger brother Edwyle, who had left a little over a moon ago toward Barrowtown for talks of marriage and trade deals in their father's place.
He was halfway into the hall when the warmth of the hearth hit him, and the din. Winterfell had always been loud with Starks.
At the dais stood Lord Alaric Stark, tall even at ten, his grey eyes hard with quiet scrutiny.
The boy had a calm about him that Torrhen admired, too young to look like Brandon. But gods help him, he felt like Lord Rickard. The way he watched a room, like he already knew the outcome of every conversation, however, Torrhen could only thank the gods old and new that he didn't take after his father in temperament.
Eddard Stark, the boy's uncle, stood nearby speaking low to Benjen, who had his wife Dacey at his side and their two pups darting between tables. Somewhere underfoot, Rickard and Lyarra were already playing swords with Ned's younger daughter, little Arya, a girl of two years.
And then the High Hill contingent entered, Lord Artos Stark, still carrying the grim look of a man who spent more time tending to vast herds and fields than anything else. His wife, Lady Alarra, the warmth to his cold demeanor, and Torrhen's sweet older sister.
Their eldest, Osric, a boy of 7, followed closely behind, taking in all the sights as this was his first time ever setting foot in Winterfell.
"Ser Torrhen," Artos greeted, the man of 28 giving a stiff nod as well.
"Good-brother," Torrhen replied, clasping forearms with him.
"You still wear that same battered mail?" came a second voice laced in jest, Harald Stark, Artos's brother, and Master-at-arms of High Hill, wide-shouldered and with a grin that hadn't changed since they were boys sparring in Wintertown.
Walking up to Torrhen, the two men clasped arms, "Tell me you've got better steel stashed somewhere, or I'll take your title and your sword." Harald told his elder kin, who was 4 years younger than Torrhen at the age of 23.
Torrhen chuckled. "Better steel, aye. But this one's taken a few blows for me. Earned its place."
Behind them trailed two girls of 4, Branda and Berena, the High Hill twins, both bearing that sharp-eyed look their great-grandmother Wull must've passed down. Edwyn, still a babe of less than a year's age, hung close to his mother's bosom, looked toward him, and smiled as only a babe could.
Torrhen caught a flicker of Alaric watching him too, studying how the families greeted each other, ever the quiet observer.
"Little brother, how good it is to see you once again!" Alarra exclaimed as she handed Osric little Edwyn and came up to him and embraced the Northern Knight
As the two hugged, Torrhen looked up and made a quick look toward Artos, "I hope you find yourself well these days, hopefully lord grim over here doesn't sour your days too much, sweet sister." Torrhen japed, much to the quiet annoyance, but also the amusement of Artos
"Ah, yes, I bore Alarra every day until the sun goes down and comes back up," Artos replied sarcastically as he went to address Alaric and Ned.
Kneeling before the two Artos began, "I Artos Stark of High Hill give me greetings, my Lord Stark and Lord Regent." Soon after, Alaric motioned for the Master of High Hill to rise and invited him and his family to join them at the table.
As the group of Starks, mainline and branch, sat around the table, Artos took out a bound leather journal and got right into business.
"My Lord, we've finished expanding the copper shipments coming down from the mountains, along with raising more Furred Cows, we are set to have a boom in meat and fur production as well. With the last snow melt, the road from Long Lake is passable again. I've brought the new ledger." He produced a leather-bound book and slid it toward Alaric, who took it like a grown lord rather than a boy of ten.
Although many Lords across the Kingdoms would scoff at giving the ledger to a boy of 10 as opposed to his regent, many in the North, especially those closer to Winterfell, knew that their little lord was more than capable of handling such matters.
"Good," Alaric said. "We've had increased demand from White Harbor for products made of the cow's fur and copper for ornaments. I'll send a raven to Ser Benjicot about further ship access. With his fleet and your ore, we can begin building our own stores of wealth beyond grain and timber."
Looking through the ledger a little longer, Alaric continued, "We also have received ravens from the Dustin's who have a proposal to start moving large quantities of Furred Cow Meat across the western half of the North. Lord Dustin himself wrote that he has a few business-savvy cousins who wish to begin trading across the north in our name, and once the canal is finished, beyond."
"A northern merchant class," muttered Eddard with a wry smile. "What would Father have thought?"
"He'd have thought we were in the early stages of thriving," said Benjen off to the side as he tried and failed to corral his two pups, much to Dacey's enjoyment. "Which is all he ever wanted."
"Thriving," Torrhen echoed quietly. "That's the word for it."
Soon after, the door swung open with a bang as Robb and Jon came running in, trailed by Lady Catelyn, her and Ned's second child and eldest daughter, Sansa, and of course, little Bran, a boy of a year, clung to his mother's garments.
These past couple of moons, Catelyn had either finally accepted that Jon was to be raised alongside Ned's other children, or she just decided to keep her protests to herself, especially after she had been reprimanded by Alaric himself when she referred to Jon as 'the bastard'.
Lunch passed in warmth and discussion, though Torrhen caught the small moments, the glances between Artos and Eddard, two different visions of what it meant to be a Stark. The way young Osric barely touched his food, eyes locked on Alaric like he was measuring the weight of the boy-lord's leadership already. The playful jab Berena gave Robb under the table. And the gentle way Lady Alarra steered the younger children to the bread trench before they could start bickering.
After the meal, Torrhen stepped outside with Alaric, who was holding the ledger Artos had given him, flipping through it like it was a riddle waiting to be solved.
"You understand all of it?" Torrhen asked.
"Of course i do, my plight largely lies in the one sidedness of our trade, while House Stark, all of its branches, and the north have gained quite a bit through the Furred cows and increased mining, we still need to branch out more, especially to tap into the market that is Essos," Alaric replied still flipping through the ledger thoughtfully.
Torrhen nodded as an idea came to him, remembering how his father had once lamented not being able to acquire any near the amount of lumber that Bravosi merchants requested.
"Have you thought of signing a ledger to increase lumber?" Torrhen asked as the young Lord of Winterfell looked up from the ledger with a look that screamed, 'Why didn't I think of that?'
Taking a moment longer to organize his thoughts, Alaric finally spoke, "Your idea has some true merit. Not only does House Stark hold swaths of land that hold dense forests, some of the vassal houses do as well, so they wouldn't be as opposed to a joint venture." Alaric remarked, the latter part more so to himself.
"Thank you, Torrhen, maybe that head of yours is good for something other than fighting." Alaric japed in thanks, as he scurried away before Torrhen could come up with a retort
'Little shit.' Torrhen thought as he walked toward the training yard, despite his thoughts, he couldn't help but feel a small grin spread across his face in amusement.
[The Training Courtyard of Winterfell]
The yard of Winterfell smelled of iron, smoke, and snow. Familiar scents, steadying scents. Torrhen breathed them in like an old prayer as he tightened the leather strap on his vambrace. Even after all these years, he found peace in the rhythm of preparation: check the mail, tighten the straps, count the scars on the blade's edge. Outside the Great Hall, snow flurried lazily in the grey light, like the North itself was in no rush. That was good. The Stark cousins from High Hill were given their accommodations and were set to stay for a fortnight before returning home.
Torrhen stood in the inner courtyard, watching the trainees drill with blunted swords. One boy caught his partner on the hip, too quickly and too eagerly, and was scolded by the master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik. Torrhen didn't interfere; he trusted the man to do his work, but he watched closely. Young men were shaped in yards like these. Winterfell's yard had seen many come through, some noble-born, others not. But all of them learned to hold a sword in the snow.
As Torrhen cleaned his blade beneath a shaded tree, looking toward the yard, he couldn't help but think of his own son, Rodrik.
It had now been almost a year since the boy departed for Gulltown to ward with his cousins of the Gulltown Arryns. The Arryns offered good connections. Still, Torrhen missed him every day. His good brother, Roland Arryn, had written last week that Rodrik was growing tall, had taken to falconry, and sparred with the Redfort boys. Torrhen hoped he remembered his roots, even among stone eyries and southern airs.
Torrhen's thoughts wandered back to his own training days and time as a ward of Winterfell. He could still hear Brandon's laughter, wild and unburdened, echoing across the yard, and Ned's calm corrections whenever one of the boys got too reckless. It had been years since those voices filled the yard together. Now, only echoes of memories remained, and Alaric.
He glanced up to where the boy-lord had reappeared on the gallery above, ledger now gone, watching the sparring with quiet intensity. Alaric had inherited the best and worst parts of their blood: Brandon's sharp instincts, Rickard's intellect, Eddard's steadiness. Gods help him, maybe in the future he will have even a little of Lyanna's wild heart too, though he kept it buried.
When the drills began to lull and the frost thickened on the stones, Torrhen sheathed his blade and stepped away from the clatter of steel. His feet took him toward the crypts.
[The Crypts of Winterfell]
The air grew colder as he descended. Torchlight flickered along damp walls, casting shadows that danced like ghosts. It was quiet here, sacred. Torrhen had only ever come to the crypts when he needed counsel that no living man could give.
His boots echoed faintly as he walked deeper, past the kings of winter and the old lords of Winterfell. Each statue watched him pass in eternal silence, great swords held across stony laps.
He stopped before the statue of Brandon Stark.
The likeness was fair. Broad-shouldered, with that crooked smirk the stonemason had managed to capture just so. Torrhen stared at his distant cousin and best friend's face for a long time.
"You should be here, not me," he muttered. "You were the heir. The heart of the pack. And gods, you were an arrogant bastard, but you would've made a fine lord, even so."
He rested a hand on the cold stone shoulder. "You should've seen him today. Your boy. You wouldn't believe the way he carries himself. Like Rickard, yet warmer. Like you, without the recklessness. The lords who have met and conversed with Alaric respect him. Even the children follow his lead without knowing why."
Torrhen paused. His breath misted in the chill, as though the crypt itself were listening.
"I don't know what you'd make of it, Brandon. Of Alaric. He remembers you, somehow. Talks of things no boy should know. Says words in the old tongue like he was born to it. Sometimes I think there's more in him than just blood and bone. Something older. Maybe you sent him back to us, in a way."
He exhaled slowly. "I train him as best I can. He's strong. Quiet. But his mind is what startles me. Always two steps ahead. He's planning trade routes to Essos, charting timber yields, and writing letters like a maester. I don't think he sleeps more than a few hours. It's like he's trying to rebuild the North before he's even seen all of it." Torrhen lowered his voice, a whisper now.
"I worry for him. The burden's too much for a boy. He masks it well, but I see the cracks sometimes. The way he stares into the fire when no one's watching, almost as if he reminisces on days gone by. The way he cares for all of his relatives and even the people of Winterfell, like he's protecting his own children, like he knows what fate has in store and is already grieving it."
His hand fell away from the statue. "He misses you. He doesn't say it, but im sure he does. And so do I."
Torrhen turned and began the walk back up the steps, but before he left the crypt, he looked back one last time.
"Watch over him, cousin. Gods know he's going to need it."
[Back in the Great Hall]
The fire roared in the hearth once more. Children's laughter echoed off the stone walls—Lyarra chasing Arya with a stick-turned-sword, Robb pulling Osric into a rough game of bear and maiden fair with Jon not far behind. Lyarra, Berena, Branda, Sansa, and even Beth Cassel, Ser Rodrik's daughter, who's a year younger than Sansa, the girls had become fast friends, under Sansa's leadership being the eldest of the lot by a yearm each braiding the other's hair while gossiping in the high, innocent voices of girls not yet burdened with the weight of the world.
Alaric sat beside his uncle Ned now, discussing maps and border patrols like a grown lord. The boy looked up as Torrhen entered, offering a small nod of acknowledgment.
Torrhen returned it before making his way to the sideboard, pouring himself a bit of mulled wine. He leaned against the pillar near Dacey, who, along with Benjen, were watching their children play.
"He's tired," she said, eyes flicking toward Alaric.
"Aye," Torrhen replied. "But he'll never say it."
Dacey nodded. "Reminds me of his father. Always burning from the inside out. But there's more… restraint in this one."
"More weight, too," Torrhen murmured, watching Alaric rest his chin on a fist, eyes darting over a page Ned held out to him.
[Later, in the Lord's Solar]
That night, Torrhen lingered by the window of the solar, looking out over Winterfell's towers under a blanket of starlight. Snow dusted the rooftops again, soft and soundless. Behind him, he heard the quiet scratch of quill on parchment, Alaric, still writing letters by candlelight.
"You should be abed," Torrhen said gently, not unkindly, as his young lord had been writing letters for hours now.
"I will be. Just one more," Alaric replied without looking up.
"You're too young to carry this all alone."
Alaric looked up then, his grey eyes old beyond their years. "I'm not alone. I have you, I have Uncle Ned, I have an entire pack around me." Alaric replied, a smile creeping up on the edges of his lips
Torrhen blinked. For a moment, he saw Brandon there. Just a flash. A memory.
He crossed the room and ruffled the boy's dark hair. "Damn right you do."
The boy chuckled, just faintly, just enough.
And for that night, at least, the North slept a little easier.