[Winterfell, 6th moon, 295AC]
The wind was howling outside Winterfell.
Alaric slept soundly beneath the weight of furs in the Lord's chambers, the stone walls around him older than memory, older than kings. He had spent the day overseeing feast preparations, his sixteenth nameday. Another step toward manhood, toward the expectations of lords and vassals. He had retired early, his body tired, his thoughts heavy.
But his dreams were not his own.
[Dream sequence]
He opened his eyes to stone. Not the chamber where he had laid down to sleep, but a hall far older. The air was cold, not biting, but sharp with memory. He stood beneath a ceiling of dark timber beams, old and massive, carved with runes whose meanings had long slipped from the tongues of men. Torches burned along the walls, casting dancing shadows, yet not a soul stirred. The hush was sacred. The silence was reverent.
Alaric looked down at his hands.
Not the hands of a boy, nor even the calloused hands of the young lord of Winterfell, but the broad, timeworn hands of a king. His frame taller, his shoulders broader. A weight rested gently atop his brow. He lifted a hand and touched cold bronze worked with obsidian and bone.
The Crown of Winter.
He knew it intimately, though he had not worn it in this life. His long, dark hair spilled about his shoulders, streaked with the silver of age and burden. He was not Lord Alaric Stark.
He was Alaric I, the King of Winter.
The First Keep stood tall and unbroken around him. The old gods watched from their carved niches. There was no sound but the distant moan of wind curling through arrow slits and long-forgotten corridors.
Alaric began to walk.
His boots echoed on flagstones older than the Seven Kingdoms. He passed through the great passageways of the First Keep, untouched by decay or fire. Winterfell as it had been during the Andal tide, when the kings of winter had reigned from their citadel at the heart of the North. Tapestries hung along the stone, depicting wolven banners, the Long Night, the Hammer of Justice falling upon Andal skulls.
He turned a corner and came to a wide archway, flanked by leering direwolf statues.
Beyond it lay the throne room.
Alaric stepped inside.
It was as he remembered it: long and narrow, high-vaulted, crowned with darkness. No courtiers. No bannermen. Just the ancient stone throne that had once ruled the North. The Throne of Winter. Hewn from granite, carved with the runes of the First Men, shaped like an unyielding glacier. It had seen warlords, kings, and many others kneel before it or die for refusing to.
But Alaric's breath caught at the sight beside it.
Two great shadows flanked the throne, curled on the stone like statues. Direwolves, larger than any hound, larger even than a northern destrier. One's fur was pitch black, the other silver-white with eyes the color of ash.
As he entered, they stirred.
First, a low growl, then heads lifted in unison. Their eyes found him, and in them was no threat. There was only joy.
"...Tempest," Alaric whispered, voice thick with disbelief. "Cinder."
With a thunder of paws, the two direwolves raced toward him.
He laughed, truly laughed, for the first time in months, perhaps longer, as Tempest, the gray male, lunged up to lick his face, knocking him nearly over. Cinder, smaller but no less joyful, nuzzled into his side, her reddish-brown fur all around him, her tail a whirlwind. They circled him like pups, though their forms were monstrous and their muscles taut as drawn bows.
"My old friends," Alaric murmured, sinking to his knees and burying his face in Cinder's warm fur. "How long has it been?"
Tempest let out a low, excited bark, and Cinder gave a yipping whine, licking his ear. Their breath was warm, and their presence filled the hall with something fierce and sacred. The kind of love no words could hold.
He was still kneeling between them, petting their thick coats, when he heard footsteps.
Soft ones. Deliberate. Familiar.
He looked up.
A figure stood in the tall doorway, half-lit by the torchlight behind her.
Her gown was black, lined with silver thread in the pattern of weirwood leaves. Her hair was deep brown, falling in gentle waves down her back, and her eyes, those eyes, blue-grey as they were, a color similar to that of the godswood pools.
Alaric's heart stopped.
"...Serena," he breathed.
She stepped forward, a gentle smile on her lips. The same smile that had melted his rage in another life. Her face was calm and kind, lined only by the years of memory. She was as he remembered her, the Queen of Winter.
"I hoped you'd come," she said softly.
Alaric rose slowly, the wolves stepping aside to watch, tails wagging rhythmically against the stone. He walked toward her, hesitant, disbelieving.
"You're…" he began, then stopped. His voice caught. "You're here."
"I've always been here," Serena said. "You're just finally looking."
He reached her. Neither spoke as he raised a hand to her cheek, touching her as though she might vanish like mist.
"You're as beautiful as the day I lost you."
Her breath trembled. "And you've grown... but still the same man beneath it all."
He pulled her close, forehead resting against hers. The weight of lives lived and lost hung between them. For a long moment, there was no speech, only closeness, memory, and love long held.
At last, they sat together upon the Throne of Winter. He sat tall, and she curled into his lap like she had so many years before, her head resting on his shoulder. The direwolves lay once more beside them, Tempest on the right, Cinder on the left, flanking them like ancient guardians.
"I often wonder," he said, voice low, "if I did right by you. If the wars we fought… if what I built… mattered."
"You were a good king," Serena replied. "Better than most. You gave our people peace, for a time. That is not a small thing in the North."
"I wish it had lasted."
"All things fade, Alaric. Even the strongest walls. But the memories… they linger longer than stone. You linger."
He was silent for a time, stroking her hand. "I never stopped loving you. In every life, every face, there's a part of me that remembers."
Serena turned to look up at him, those bright eyes shimmering. "And you've loved others, haven't you?"
He did not answer at first. Then: "There's someone now. Alys Karstark."
Serena smiled knowingly. "The girl who stares into the fire too long. Who questions her place? Who tries to carry more than she's been given."
He blinked. "You've seen her?"
"I've seen through you. Alaric, open your eyes. You already know why she pulls at you."
He looked at her, searching, confused.
Serena leaned forward, kissed his brow, and whispered: "Because I never left. Not truly. I walk with you still, in every snowstorm. In every breath of wind. In her voice, in her fire. In her love."
Alaric stiffened slightly, then exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a sigh. He looked down at Serena again, and this time… he saw it. The tilt of her smile. The stubborn gleam in her eyes. The quiet strength she always carried behind her silence.
"Alys," he whispered.
Serena nodded. "She is not me. But she does not need to be, for I am now one with her. She is who you need now. And that is enough."
He leaned down and kissed her, slow and deep and aching. A kiss for one life and a thousand memories.
When they parted, the throne room had begun to fade.
Stone dissolved into mist. The direwolves' shapes shimmered like snow in the wind. Serena's form grew distant, though her smile lingered.
"Be well, my love," she said, voice echoing like a dream.
Alaric opened his eyes.
The Lord's chamber was dim, lit only by the gray predawn light bleeding through the shuttered windows. The fire had long since gone out. Furs rested around him.
But a howl rose in the distance.
Low, long, and mourning. Then another answered it. And another.
The wolves of the north calling to the morning.
Alaric stared at the ceiling, breath held, heart full. His hand moved absently to his cheek, where her warmth still seemed to linger. A nostalgic smile touched his lips, soft, rare, and unguarded.
It was his sixteenth nameday.
And for the first time in a long time, he was no longer alone.
The dream had faded, but the feeling remained.
By the time the first bells tolled across Winterfell, the sun was cresting the horizon, spilling golden light across the courtyard and glinting off the towers. Snowmelt ran in narrow rivulets along the stonework, though the air still bit with the coolness of late spring. The gods had blessed them with a clear sky, no mean gift in the North.
Alaric sat in silence at his writing desk, staring into the rising light. He'd had many dreams since his awakening in this second life, visions, fragments of memory, shadows of past days. But nothing like the night before. Nothing so vivid. So complete.
He could still feel the warmth of Tempest and Cinder's fur. Still see Serena's face.
Still hear her words.
He smiled faintly, and then rose.
[Later, the Great Hall]
The Great Hall of Winterfell had never looked so full.
Lords, ladies, knights, and retainers crowded the space, their laughter and clamor rising to the rafters like a chorus of wolves in song. The high tables were arranged in tiers, as custom dictated, with House Stark's banner proudly unfurled behind the dais, gray direwolf on white, snarling and eternal.
Musicians plucked at harps and drums from the side alcoves, the melody high and merry. Roasted boar smoked on silver trays, honeyed trout glistened beside piles of fresh greens, and whole chickens, glazed in orange and clove, crackled under the blades of carving knaves.
Winterfell was alive.
Alaric entered through the side door of the dais, dressed in finely tailored gray and black, a direwolf of silver brocade embroidered across his chest. He wore no crown, but he carried himself like a king reborn. Tall, proud, with the silent gravity that had become his signature.
As he took his seat at the center of the high table, a hush briefly overtook the hall.
He nodded once, and the feasting resumed in full force.
To his right sat Benjen Stark, his uncle, laughing with Lord Galbart Glover over tales from the Greywater swamps. To his left was a space set aside for his honored guest, and soon, that space was filled.
Lady Alys Karstark approached with her father, Lord Rickard Karstark, and as she took her seat, her eyes briefly met Alaric's.
She gave him a small, careful smile.
He returned it with one of his own, slight, restrained, but genuine.
"Happy nameday, my lord," Alys said, her voice firm, unshaken.
"Thank you, my lady," he replied, taking a sip from his horn of dark mead. "I trust the journey from Karhold was not too cruel on your family?"
Alys smirked. "We Northerners are not so soft as to be troubled by snow and stone."
"Well said," Alaric murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching.
She was dressed in deep onyx black, the Karstark sunburst subtly woven in golden thread at her belt. Her brown hair was braided back in the Northern fashion, and her eyes, blue-gray, stormy and sharp, held a glint of amusement. A strong girl. A sharp one. He'd known that before, but it struck him more deeply now.
As the festivities continued, Alaric rose from his seat, his hand in the air as to quiet the commotion, the Great Hall and the various voices coming to a halt as all of the attendees gazed up toward their lord.
"I would like to thank all my lords and ladies for coming to my 16th nameday feast."
In response, bangs of mugs and exclamations of "Aye" and "Stark!" rang out.
Waiting for it to quiet down once more, Alaric continued, "It is thanks to this festive air that i wish to make a grand announcement, Lord Karstark and i have come to terms, and i have agreed to my own betrothal with the Lady Alys Karstark, once she reaches 6 and 10, we shall wed in the ways of our fore fathers and the old gods."
The Hall roared to life once more as lords bellowed congratulations, and Alaric even saw Ned take a bag of silver from Benjen, stating, "Told you so, little brother."
Rickard Karstark, seated just down the table, raised his cup toward Alaric. "To Winterfell, and to my future good son, six and ten and already commanding more respect than many twice his age!"
The hall roared its approval, cups raised and knocked together. Alaric inclined his head with modest thanks.
"A bold statement," came a voice from the side.
Lord Artos Stark of High Hill had spoken, his arms crossed, though a wry smile softened his words. "Let us see if he manages the dance of politics as well as he handles a blade."
That drew more laughter, and Alaric, who had heard no less than three separate offers of marriage that morning, lifted his cup in mock salute. "I shall do my best to endure the trials, Lord Uncle, thankfully, the issue of my marriage is now solved, so that shall save me from more letters."
Artos chuckled. "That's all we can ask."
Throughout the feast, bannermen and distant kin came to speak their words of good fortune. Lord Harwood Stout offered a gift of oak barrels filled with his famous mountain wine. The Mormonts had sent a fine silver-bound shield bearing a snarling bear for his collection. Lord Wyman Manderly, present in person, presented a tapestry depicting Moat Cailin rebuilt, a symbol of Northern security.
Each gift, each word, passed through Alaric's mind with care. Gratitude, measured response, a word of praise here, a glance there. He played the part with the ease of a man who had once ruled a kingdom. But his thoughts kept circling back to Serena's words.
'She is who you need now.'
He glanced again at Alys.
She was deep in conversation with Branda Stark of High Hill, the two of them trading stories of hawks and hunting dogs. Alys had a laugh that started sharp but ended soft, like a storm giving way to snow. She didn't defer. She met questions with questions, stories with sharper ones. She reminded him of...
He shook his head. No. Not the past. The present.
Alys caught his gaze. Raised a brow.
Alaric looked away, then back. "Would you care for a walk once the hall quiets?"
She blinked, caught off guard, but nodded. "I'd like that."
Lord Rickard watched this quiet exchange from across the table, his sharp eyes softening with approval. He leaned back with a prideful smile, sipping his ale slowly, content.
[Later]
As the evening turned late and bellies grew full, the music changed.
Torches were lit across the courtyard. The snow had melted into crisp, dry stone, and the stars glittered above like swords in the sky.
Alaric walked beside Alys through the godswood, where red leaves whispered overhead. Her cloak brushed his, and the silence between them was not awkward, but thoughtful.
"You've changed since I first met you," she said.
He looked at her sidelong. "You haven't."
She smirked. "A compliment or an insult?"
"Compliment."
She laughed once. "You're harder to read than most boys."
"I've had more lives than most boys."
She gave him a look, half curiosity, half teasing. "Now that sounds like a riddle. Is it the wine, or the weight of your nameday speaking?"
"Neither."
They came to the heart tree. The old face carved into its trunk seemed especially vivid under the starlight. Alaric laid a hand upon the bark, feeling the roughness, the depth.
They stood like that for a long time, Alaric, tall and still as the trees, Alys, standing before him like a sword newly forged. A spark lingered between them. Not passion. Not yet. But recognition. The beginning of something that would not burn out quickly.
[That Night]
Later that night, alone once more in his chamber, Alaric stood before the mirror, the flickering firelight catching on the dark steel and silver of his cloak clasp.
The howl of a wolf echoed again across the walls.
But this time, it was not a memory. It was the future calling.
He stepped toward the window, and for a moment, saw not just the banners of House Stark flapping in the breeze, but Serena's eyes, Alys' defiance, Tempest and Cinder's joy, and the long shadow of the North stretching toward its destiny.
He smiled again, that rare, quiet smile.