Author' Note:
I've now posted images for both Ser Torrhen and Ser Harald Stark in the auxiliary chapters, there are more to come soon!
[Winterfell, 2nd week, 10th moon, 293AC]
Benjen Stark sat in his place near the dais, a trencher of warm oatbread and honeyed bacon before him, steam curling lazily upward in the chilly air of the Great Hall. The early light of morning slanted through the narrow windows, cutting through the low haze of hearth-smoke and roasting meat. The banners of the gathered Northern houses hung proudly above, direwolf, bear, elk, sunburst, and many others alike, all converging beneath Winterfell's grey sky.
The sounds of the harvest gathering echoed around him: men and women in bustling conversation, children darting between tables, dogs underfoot, and the occasional thud of young warriors sparring just beyond the hall in the training yard. But Benjen's table was momentarily at peace, the kind found in the quiet between storms.
Dacey sat beside him, her dark curls bound in a braid threaded with bronze beads, her eyes sharp despite the early hour. She nursed their newborn son, Cregan, wrapped tightly in Mormont green paired with Stark gray, the boy's eyes blinking drowsily as he fed. Rickard, their bold ten-year-old, tore into a sausage roll like a soldier devouring his first meal after battle, while Lyarra, ever the little lady, delicately sipped from a cup of watered cider.
Alaric was seated across from them, eating slowly as he spoke with three other young men: Torrhen Karstark, Smalljon Umber, and Derrick Umber. Their laughter rose and fell in bursts, deep, thunderous from the Umbers, more reserved from Torrhen, and dry and steady from Alaric.
Benjen watched the exchange with a quiet fondness. The bond between them, already strong, was growing. These new additions to the "wolf pack," as the other lords had started calling the gathering of young lordlings surrounding Alaric, were more than just a gaggle of noble sons. They were Winterfell's next generation, spirited, fierce, and hungry for the world.
"He tried to hit me with a pine branch!" Derrick was saying with exaggerated offense, pointing at Smalljon.
"Because you wouldn't shut your trap about how your beard's thicker than mine!" Smalljon retorted.
"It's not, by the way, both have you have at most, dirt upon your lip," Alaric added mildly, gesturing with his fork.
Laughter erupted around the table. Torrhen Karstark shook his head, but even he cracked a smile.
Benjen leaned over to Dacey, whispering, "They'll be bloodied by supper if they keep at each other."
"Boys need blooding," she said, not looking up from Cregan. "Better here among friends than out there among foes."
He grunted his agreement. His gaze drifted around the hall, taking in the arrivals. Lord Wyman Manderly sat with his retinue near the hearth, speaking animatedly with Lord Woolfield, the two houses being joined through the marriage of Wylis Manderly and Leona Woolfield.
Lady Barbrey Dustin, also having just birthed a son just 3 moons before, occupied a seat beside Lord Willam, her demeanor ever composed, her eyes ever watching. The Dustins' boy, Roddy, had disappeared into the chaos somewhere, likely up to mischief with Osric, or even Harlon.
The clatter of boots drew Benjen's eyes to the doors, where Ser Torrhen Stark entered with Lord Artos Stark at his side. Even now, Artos seemed to carry the winds of High Hill with him, stern, cold, and proud. Yet he gave a nod of recognition to Benjen, and that was enough.
Alaric stood to greet them. Benjen watched as he clasped Torrhen's shoulder and exchanged quiet words with his sworn shield and friend. It struck Benjen, not for the first time, how easily his nephew moved among men twice his age, and how rarely he sought their approval.
[Later on]
Later that day, Winterfell bustled like a storm about to break. The outer yards were a flurry of motion: carts of grain and root vegetables were unloaded under the watchful eyes of House Cerwyn's stewards, barrels of northern wine from House White Harbor were tapped and tested, and young kitchen boys darted about with honeycakes stacked high. Musicians tuned their harps and pipes in the gallery. Hounds barked, horses whinnied, and smoke from the roasting pits curled skyward.
Benjen had left the Great Hall to walk the yard, Cregan bundled in his arms. The little one fussed at the cold, but Benjen found peace in pacing with him, offering gentle shushing noises. Lyarra trailed behind, picking fallen leaves from the ground, her little boots crunching over the frost-kissed stones.
As he passed by the training yard, he paused. There, the wolf pack was at it again.
Osric Stark of High Hill and Harlon Stark of White Harbor were circling each other with practice swords, sweat already darkening their tunics despite the cold. Roddy Dustin called out mock wagers to an imaginary crowd while Torrhen Karstark leaned on a spear, watching with folded arms.
Alaric stood beside the weapon racks, instructing Derrick Umber on footwork. There was no condescension in his voice, only quiet precision. "Keep your hips low. Shift with your legs, not your arms. You swing like a crow trying to fly backward."
"Aye, Lord Winterfell," Derrick muttered, adjusting.
Benjen smiled. The boy learned fast.
Rickard, meanwhile, had somehow convinced Bran and Edwyn Stark to turn the old hay bales into a makeshift fort. They were now taking turns "defending it" from waves of imaginary foes, barking out commands with the seriousness of seasoned commanders.
"You're too far forward, Rick!" Bran shouted.
"They won't dare charge me! I'm a Stark!" the boy roared back.
Benjen chuckled, rocking Cregan gently.
"They're good boys," came a voice beside him. Ser Rodrik Cassel had joined him, his greying whiskers twitching in the cold.
"They'll be good men," Benjen said.
"Not if they break each other's bones before the feast."
Benjen snorted. "They'll be too bruised to dance, at least."
[That evening, the Great Hall]
By evening, the feast was nearly ready. Torches blazed to life in the courtyard, casting golden light across the snow-dusted stones. The smell of roast boar with apples and cloves drifted through the castle like a promise. Musicians played soft, lilting tunes from the gallery above the Hall.
Benjen helped Dacey down the steps toward the Great Hall, Cregan snug in her arms. Rickard and Lyarra were ahead of them, both scrubbed clean and dressed in their feast-day best, Rickard in stark grey with a green wolf brooch, Lyarra in soft green and black like her mother.
Inside, the Hall was transformed. Tapestries shimmered in the firelight, fresh rushes scattered the floor, and the great tables had been set with silver goblets, polished wooden platters, and woven centerpieces of pine, oak, and fireberry.
Benjen took his seat beside Dacey, watching the Hall fill. Lords greeted one another with clasped hands and sharp eyes. Catelyn Stark arrived with her children, Sansa and Arya, staying close at her side. Ned was already seated near Alaric at the high table, speaking with Lord Manderly and old Lord Cerwyn.
The noise grew, laughter echoing from all corners. Somewhere, a hound barked, and somewhere else, a bard began to play a lively tune.
Benjen leaned back, the warmth of the hall seeping into his bones, the smells and sounds of home wrapping around him like a well-worn cloak.
"You look pleased," Dacey said, nudging him.
"I am," he said. "The North is gathered, our people are fed, and my son's quiet for once."
Dacey smiled. "Don't get used to it."
He looked out at the sea of faces, lords, sons, daughters, friends, rivals. The future of the North was here, under one roof, laughing and fighting and feasting. For all the hardships ahead, for all the long nights sure to come, Benjen allowed himself a moment to believe in the strength of what they were building.
In the flickering light of the Harvest Feast, surrounded by kin and comrades, Benjen Stark allowed himself to unwind and relax, the worries of tomorrow being left for tomorrow.
As the meal began in earnest, servants carrying platters of roasted fowl and sweetroots, Benjen noticed Artos Stark rising to propose a toast. The grizzled Lord of High Hill stood tall, his voice commanding silence with no need for shouting. "To the harvest," he said, lifting his goblet. "To the Old Gods who watched over our lands and our sons. To Winterfell, and to the blood that binds us."
A murmur of agreement, then the thunder of tankards raised in reply. Benjen joined them, his eyes flicking to Alaric, who bowed his head in acknowledgment.
Later, as dancing began, Benjen caught Rickard whirling Lyarra in a clumsy but joyful dance, his sister laughing as she stumbled over his boots. Dacey joined in with Mormont kin while Benjen stood back, content to watch. Lord Wyman was singing a bawdy song with Smalljon Umber and Lord Glover, their cheeks red with drink.
Benjen felt a hand on his shoulder, it was Alaric. "You look like a man watching the sunrise."
"It feels like one," Benjen said. "Long dark behind us. And longer dark still ahead."
"But for now, a fire burns in every hearth. That matters."
Benjen nodded, pride swelling in his chest. The boy was his brother's son, true, but there was something else in him too, something old, something rooted deep in the stone of Winterfell.
"Come," Alaric said. "Even if you won't dance, at least drink."
And so Benjen Stark followed his nephew into the firelit throng, leaving behind thoughts of snows yet to fall, basking instead in the light of this one perfect Northern night.
[The Next morning, the Training Yard of Winterfell]
The next morning broke clear and cold. Frost laced the edges of the courtyard stones, catching the pale sunlight and making Winterfell shimmer with ghostly beauty. Benjen Stark stood at the edge of the training yard, his breath misting before him, a warm cloak clasped at his shoulders. The thud of wooden swords and the sharp bark of laughter echoed in the crisp air.
Before him, the yard was alive with motion. Rickard Stark, his son, darted between Osric and Harlon Stark, trying to outmaneuver them in a mock skirmish that Alaric was orchestrating. Bran and Edwyn Stark, two boys of 5, had joined them, forming a loose and chaotic squad. Alaric, tall and commanding in a dark grey surcoat, called out calmly from the center, attempting, failing, to instill a sense of formation and teamwork.
"Stick to your roles! Bran, you're flanking, no, not that side! Gods, you're supposed to watch Osric, not chase Harlon like a dog after a hare!"
The chaos only grew louder.
"But he said my boots were stuffed with sheep dung!" Bran shouted, hurling a handful of snow at Harlon.
"Which they are!" Harlon grinned, ducking and laughing as he grabbed a handful of snow in retaliation.
Benjen folded his arms and chuckled under his breath.
"I see Lord Stark has his hands full," came a voice beside him.
He turned to see Alys Karstark, a girl of 3 and 10, her dark cloak trimmed in white fur, cheeks rosy from the cold. She was tall and fair, with sharp grey eyes that flicked toward Alaric more than once.
"Every pack needs a leader," Benjen said. "Alaric's trying to mold them into wolves instead of pups."
"He leads them well," Alys said, her voice quieter now. "Even if they don't always listen."
Benjen raised an eyebrow. "You watch him closely."
Alys flushed but did not look away. "He's Lord of Winterfell. It's only proper."
"Mmm," Benjen hummed, unconvinced. He'd seen that look before, on young maidens across the North during their stay in White Harbor, even in Riverrun. Alys Karstark had a fire in her that many of those other girls lacked, but the way she watched his nephew... it was not just duty.
"If your father were here," Benjen said lightly, "I suspect he'd be measuring Alaric for a betrothal already."
Alys gave a quick, sharp laugh. "He measures everyone for something."
Benjen smiled. "Aye, that's a Karstark trait."
Across the yard, Roddy Dustin began shouting wagers again. "Ten silver stags on Osric! He's got the reach, and that floppy hair'll blind Harlon!"
"Oi!" Osric barked, pausing mid-parry. "My hair's glorious, you sheep-smelling Dustin!"
"And yet you fight like a milkmaid!" Derrick Umber added, ducking as Bran flung another snowball.
Benjen laughed again. The boys were all energy and pride, and Alaric was doing his best to direct it like a river through narrow banks.
A commotion at the side of the yard pulled Benjen's attention. Ser Torrhen Stark leaned against a post, arms crossed, watching the mock battle with quiet amusement. Beside him stood Ser Harald Stark of High Hill, arms akimbo, a grin tugging at his face.
"Watching's all well and good," Harald said, loud enough for the yard to hear. "But when did you get so shy, cousin? You afraid you'll scuff your boots?"
Torrhen rolled his eyes. "I'm not about to swing a sword at boys still learning how to hold one."
"Oh, he's afraid!" Roddy shouted, gleeful. "Come now, Ser Torrhen, show us if the ' First Sworn Sword of Winterfell' still has his bite!"
Laughter rippled across the yard. Torrhen's ears reddened slightly.
Benjen leaned in toward Alys. "Now this might be worth watching."
Alaric stepped forward, a knowing smile on his lips. "Well? If it pleases both of my Sworn Shields, I see no harm in a bout. So long as they don't break anything."
"Except pride," Harlon muttered.
"We'll need practice blades," Alaric said.
Rodrik Cassel tossed two steel-blunted longswords to the sand. Harald picked one up immediately, swinging it once in a tight arc. Torrhen sighed, shrugged off his cloak, and moved to take the other.
The yard cleared. Young and old alike gathered on the sides. Even Jory Cassel, who had spent much of the morning whispering soft nothings to Jonelle Cerwyn beneath the trees, turned to watch.
Harald grinned wide. "Come on, then, greybeard. Show me what White Harbor drills taught you." Ser Harald, a man of 7 and 20, japed toward Ser Torrhen, a man of 1 and 30.
Torrhen raised the blade, adopting a high guard. "High Hill never taught humility, did they?"
The clash was sudden. Harald lunged first, testing Torrhen's defense with a flurry of heavy strikes. Torrhen gave ground, blade turning each blow aside with disciplined precision. Their footwork was different. Harald advanced like a bull, strong and straightforward, while Torrhen circled, looking for angles.
Harald swept low, but Torrhen vaulted back, replying with a strike to the ribs that cracked against Harald's guard. The onlookers let out a chorus of "Ooh!"
They reset, circling. Torrhen pressed this time, slashing high then twisting into a low thrust. Harald parried, riposted, and landed a strike to Torrhen's shoulder. The younger knight stumbled but didn't fall.
Benjen nodded. "Evenly matched." The two Northern Knights, circling one another again.
Dacey appeared beside him, Cregan swaddled against her chest. "One's got speed, the other strength."
Torrhen feinted left, then spun into a backhanded strike that caught Harald's wrist. The older Stark grunted, his grip slipping. Torrhen moved fast, pressing with a quick succession of jabs that drove Harald backward toward the post.
But Harald wasn't done. With a roar, he slammed forward, catching Torrhen's blade mid-strike, locking their swords with brute strength. The two struggled, bodies close, muscles taut.
Then Torrhen dropped low, sweeping Harald's legs out from under him.
Harald hit the ground with a thud, sword flying from his hand.
Silence.
Then, cheers erupted.
"Torrhen! Torrhen!" the boys cried, rushing forward.
Harald lay back in the dirt, then laughed. "Well struck, cousin. I concede."
Torrhen offered his hand, which Harald took with a grin, letting the younger man pull him up.
Alaric clapped. "An excellent lesson in humility, I think."
Benjen chuckled. He turned to leave when a breathless servant approached, holding a letter sealed with the pine tree of House Tallhart.
"From Torrhen's Square, my lord."
Benjen opened the letter and read quickly. His eyes widened.
"The canal," he muttered. "It's finished."
He looked up, waving Alaric over. His nephew arrived, brushing snow from his sleeve.
"From Leobald Tallhart. The Northern Canal is complete. All the way from Blazewater Bay to the White Knife."
Alaric's face lit with satisfaction. He stepped forward and read aloud:
"To Lord Alaric Stark of Winterfell,
The last locks have been sealed. Barges may now pass from Torrhen's Square to the White Knife without disembarking. Trade will flourish. You were right, my lord. The North shall be bound tighter by water than by any road.
—Leobald Tallhart, Castellan of Torrhen's Square."
The yard erupted in cheers. Even the boys joined in.
"Stark!" Osric shouted.
"Stark!" the rest followed.
Benjen stood there, pride swelling in his chest as the cry echoed through Winterfell's stones.
"Stark! Stark! Stark!"
----------------
Author's Note:
Hey guys, just wanted to let you all know there won't be a chapter tmrw, so in return im posting two chapters at once. Enjoy!