Author's Note:
Hey guys, I forgot to add an image of adult(17-year-old) Dorren Snow, so here he is!
(Dorren Snow --->)
[The Streets of King's Landing, 1st day of the 9th moon, 298AC]
The stink of King's Landing hung thick even at dawn, clinging to the back of the throat like rot. Alaric Stark rode beside his uncle, the Hand of the King, through crooked streets that were already waking to the noise of hawkers and beggars. Behind them followed half a dozen men, Winter Guard and Stark men, steel-clad and watchful, and among them the direwolves padded silent as smoke. Tempest's stormy gray coat gleamed in the morning light, his size and bearing sending smallfolk stumbling aside. Cinder kept to Alaric's left flank, her fur the hue of a fiery brown-red. Tundra the great She-wolf, padding alongside Ned, ever watchful. They walked like shadows of the North of the city through the gutters of the South, and wherever they passed, the noise of the city dimmed.
But Alaric found no pride in the display this morning. His jaw was tight, his patience thin.
"Do we truly creep to brothels like thieves?" Alaric muttered, his voice low. "I am the Lord of Winterfell. You are Hand of the King. What need have we of such skulking?"
It hadn't sat right with him that they were riding to meet with Petyr Baelish, the slimy Master of Coin, in some back alley brothel he owned.
Ned's face was its usual mask of stone, though the lines about his eyes deepened. "We do what must be done to keep the realm steady. Pride has no place in it."
Alaric let out a humorless breath. Pride was all that remained to wolves when the lions closed their jaws, Pride and wit. He said no more, but the thought gnawed at him as they turned into a narrow lane, the kind where shadows clung like cobwebs.
The brothel's door was marked by a crude painted stag, half-faded with age. It seemed a place meant for whispers, not men of their station. Ned dismounted with the same grim reluctance Alaric felt, handing his reins to a guardsman. Tempest, Cinder, and Tundra followed them in silence as the men entered, and not a soul within dared protest.
Inside, the air was thick with incense and perfume, an attempt to mask the musk of flesh and wine. Alaric felt disgust coil in his gut. His halls had been built for honor and hearth. This was a pit of indulgence, where secrets changed hands between sheets.
A familiar voice rose from the stair above.
"Ah, my wolves arrive at last. You took your time."
Petyr Baelish descended like a man utterly at home among painted harlots and whispered sins. His mockingbird clasp winked in the dim light, his smile sharper than a dagger.
Alaric's eyes narrowed. "Baelish. I'd wondered when the rats would crawl from their holes."
"Not rats, my lord," Littlefinger said lightly. "Mockingbirds sing sweetest when the wolves are restless." His gaze flicked to Tempest and Cinder. "My, how they've grown. Fearsome beasts, yet leashed all the same. Just like their masters."
Alaric felt the stirrings of fury but leashed it as tightly as his wolves. "Best mind your tongue, Baelish. Wolves bite harder than they bark."
Ned cut between them with a steady voice. "Enough. We did not come to trade barbs."
Littlefinger gave a mock bow. "As you wish, my Lord Hand. Your lady awaits."
His words struck a nerve between the two Stark's both for differing reasons.
As they entered through the door, they saw Catelyn standing before them near a table with a clothed item lingering.
Within a moment, Ned had cleared the room and embraced his lady wife, their reunion sweet and lingering on until Littlefinger gave a quick cough, something Alaric found… interesting.
After a moment more of greetings and embracing his aunt, the trio turned to the item sitting upon the table.
Catelyn's gaze hardened as she turned toward the table where the clohted item sat, and she grabbed the item. From it, she drew a dagger of fine make, its blade curved, its hilt adorned with a pale green stone. She laid it down between them.
"This," she said, her voice like iron, "was meant for your Lady-wife, sweet Alys's heart."
The room seemed to still. Alaric's blood went cold, then hot with fury. His hand clenched so tightly at his side that his knuckles whitened.
"Who dares—" He cut himself short, breathing hard through his nose. His wolves stirred, Tempest's rumble low and menacing.
Ned's face paled. "Gods… Alys."
Catelyn's voice shook with rage. "A catspaw crept into the halls of Winterfell with this blade. If not for Walder's quick action and prowess, only the gods know what would've befell us."
Alaric stared at the dagger, every instinct in him screaming for vengeance. "Whose blade?" he demanded.
Baelish's smile was serpent-smooth. "Ah, that is where it becomes interesting. For this dagger, dear wolves, once belonged to me. Lost in a wager, you see." He paused, savoring the moment. "To Tyrion Lannister."
The name fell like a hammer.
Alaric's fists shook. He could all but see the golden lions sneering from their crimson cloaks. "The imp. A Lannister hand in it, then."
"Not proof," Ned cautioned. His voice was low but firm. "A whisper is not a chain of guilt."
Baelish spread his hands innocently. "Of course, of course. I merely offer what truths I possess. Do with them what you will."
Alaric turned his eyes on him, cold as winter steel. "And how convenient, Baelish, that this truth puts wolf and lion at each other's throats. Tell me, did you wager the blade with the imp before or after you decided how much you stood to gain?"
Baelish's smile never faltered, though his eyes glittered. "You wound me, my lord. I serve the realm and its best interests. I would never mislead the nephew of my childhood friend's husband." The last word came out almost with a tad bit of bile, not going unnoticed by Alaric
"Careful," Alaric growled. "I am not my father, nor my uncle. I see the game you play. Play it with me, and you'll find the North bites back."
For the first time, Baelish's smirk dimmed. But it was only for a heartbeat.
"Such passion," he said lightly. "Brandon's fire burns bright in his son. Perhaps too bright."
Ned stepped in, voice sharp. "Enough. We have the truth we came for. Alaric, hold your temper."
Alaric turned on him, anger unmasked. "Hold my temper? They sent a knife for Alys's heart. They dare raise a hand against our blood. And you would do nothing?"
"I would do what is right," Ned said, his tone as unyielding as stone. "We cannot start a war on whispers and daggers. We must tread carefully, for the realm's sake."
"The realm?" Alaric spat. "What is the realm to me, if the lions butcher my kin while you wring your hands? Honor will not shield us from blades in the dark, Uncle."
Ned's eyes hardened, steel meeting steel. "And vengeance will not keep the North safe. I will not see Brandon's son throw House Stark into ruin because of pride and rage."
Silence fell, heavy as snow. Even the wolves stilled, though their hackles were raised.
Catelyn stepped between them, her hands outstretched as if to hold back the storm. "Enough, both of you. This is what the Lannisters would want, to see us divided. We cannot give them that. Alaric, listen to your uncle. Ned, remember the boy is his father's son. He bleeds with wolf's blood."
The words lingered. Alaric forced himself to breathe, to leash the fury that threatened to tear free. He gave a stiff nod, though his eyes never left Ned's.
"Very well," he said at last, his voice low and dangerous. "I will not act, yet. But hear me, Uncle, the lions will strike again. And when they do, I will not sit idle. Winterfell's wolves were not bred to cower."
Ned inclined his head, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. "Then we are agreed, for now."
Baelish gave a slow clap, his smirk returned. "Ah, how heartening. Wolves snarling, but still in one pack. For how long, I wonder?"
Alaric's gaze speared him. "Long enough to silence mockingbirds."
The chamber emptied soon after, but the weight of it clung to Alaric like a second cloak. His sweet wife and unborn child, at that, had been subjected to a vile attempt on their lives. And he had clashed with his uncle, the man who had raised him as kin, over the very soul of their House's response.
As he left the brothel, the city seemed darker than before, the air thicker, the streets narrower. Tempest and Cinder paced at his heels, eyes sharp, fangs bared at shadows.
Alaric's boots struck hard against the cobbled stones as he strode from the brothel, the wolves flanking him in taut silence. Tempest's storm-gray hackles were still raised, lips peeled back in a perpetual snarl that sent goldcloaks scattering from their path. Cinder, smaller but no less fierce, stayed tight at his heel, her amber eyes alight with a predator's fire.
The city stank worse than ever. Piss, rot, and the sour reek of unwashed men filled his nostrils. Yet beneath it all, Alaric swore he smelled blood. Perhaps it was his own fury still boiling, or perhaps the very stones of King's Landing drank deep of it after generations of cutthroats and kings alike.
The smallfolk stared as he passed. Some muttered blessings under their breath, others curses. Mothers pulled children aside, and drunkards shouted slurred insults before thinking better of it when Tempest growled low. The wolves were shadows of the North walking among southern men, and they unsettled every soul who laid eyes upon them.
Alaric found no shame in that. Fear was better than false courtesy.
By the time they reached the Stark apartments near the Red Keep, his Winter Guard had gathered in the yard. Steel gleamed in the morning light, dark-gray cloaks snapping in the breeze. Smalljon Umber was first to meet him, towering even over most knights in the South, his grin quickly faltering when he caught the look on Alaric's face. Dorren Snow stood near the steps, Shadow lounging at his side, the wolf's blue eyes watchful. Ser Desmond Manderly, Domeric Bolton, Derrick Umber, and Ser Lucion Lannister waited in grim silence, along with the rest of the guard.
They looked to him not as Ned's nephew but as their lord, the son of Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and the Master of House Stark.
Alaric halted before them, his voice carrying like steel across the yard.
"There has been an attempt on your Lady's life."
The words cracked like a whip. Men stiffened, fists clenched, jaws tightened.
"They sent a blade to Winterfell," Alaric went on, the fury in him finding iron shape. "A catspaw crept into our halls while we rode south. Only Walder and his mighty Axe-arm kept Alys and our child safe. And the dagger?" He let his gaze sweep across them, hard as ice. "A Lannister blade. Or so Baelish would have us believe."
A growl rumbled in his throat unbidden, answered by the wolves at his feet.
Smalljon's face darkened, his hand flexing over his sword hilt. "The lions," he spat. "I knew they'd not let us breathe long without baring their claws."
"Name the day, and I'll split a lion's skull," Derrick Umber said fiercely.
Domeric Bolton, pale-eyed and calm, inclined his head. "Proof or not, my lord, the message is clear. Someone wants you cowed. Someone wants blood spilt. The question is, what do we do now?"
Alaric drew in a sharp breath, forcing himself steady. He thought of Ned's stone voice, the warning of restraint, the plea to wait. But where Ned counseled caution, every instinct in Alaric screamed for action.
"We do not bow our heads," he said. "We do not cower behind southern walls while knives come for our kin. From this day, no Stark or Winter Guard walks the city alone. We move in pairs, in packs. The wolves of Winterfell do not scatter for carrion crows."
The men stamped their boots in grim approval.
"Any man in a lion's cloak who so much as lays a hand upon one of ours," Alaric continued, voice like a blade drawn from the sheath, "will lose that hand, or his head. The Lannisters must learn that the North does not bleed quietly."
A murmur of assent rippled through the yard. Only Ser Lucion Lannister shifted uncomfortably, though he said nothing. Alaric's eyes met his for a moment, testing. The Westerlander knight returned the stare, chin firm, but wisely held his tongue.
Dorren stepped forward at last, his bastard brother's eyes burning with cold fire. "We'll guard you and yours, brother. But you must tread carefully. The city is not Winterfell. Here, every shadow hides a knife, and the lions hold sway."
Alaric gave a short nod. "Aye. Then let the lions watch the shadows, and see what hunts within them."
The meeting dissolved after orders were given. Guards dispersed to their posts, the Umber brothers sparring words with each other, Domeric silent as a ghost. Yet still Alaric's rage burned like coals beneath the skin. He needed air, or perhaps the wolves needed it more.
[The Next Day]
The streets of King's Landing bent and twisted like a spider's web, each turn more narrow and foul than the last. Alaric walked them with his men, along with Tempest and Cinder, the two great beasts ever vigilant against the crowded streets of King's Landing. Smallfolk scrambled from their path, some making signs of the Seven, others muttering "demons" under their breath. The direwolves drank in every smell, every sound, ears pricked, teeth flashing when men came too near.
It struck Alaric then, here in this festering city, the wolves were freer than he was. No pretense, no courtesies. Only teeth and instinct.
As they turned a corner near the Street of Steel, the crowd suddenly parted. A dozen goldcloaks appeared, their captain shouting for order, but it was not they who caught Alaric's eye.
It was the knight in gilded armor, leaning easy against the wall with a lion's smirk curling his lips.
"Seven hells," Smalljon muttered beside him. "The Kingslayer."
Jaime Lannister stepped forward, golden hair gleaming like a crown, eyes full of mockery. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, though he did not draw it. "My, my," he said smoothly. "The wolves do roam freely these days. Has the Hand given you leave to menace the good people of King's Landing with your pets, Stark?"
"They are no pets," Alaric said, voice flat and hard.
Jaime's gaze flicked to the wolves, then back to Alaric. "So I see. Still, they foul the streets almost as much as your northern airs. Tell me, which one will you set on me first when your temper boils over? The gray, the red, or maybe you'll try besting me yourself?"
Tempest snarled, the sound deep and thunderous, enough to make goldcloaks shift uneasily.
Alaric did not flinch. "Touch one hair on their hides, Kingslayer, and I'll show you what northern steel tastes like. You may find it sharper than your boasts."
Jaime chuckled. "Ah, Brandon's boy indeed. Fire in the blood, frost in the tongue. Careful, pup. Your father barked much the same before the Mad King put him to the torch. And look how that ended."
The words were like salt in a wound. Alaric's jaw clenched so tightly he thought his teeth might crack.
"You dare speak his name," he hissed. "Best you keep your tongue behind your teeth, Lannister. I am not my father, and you are not half the man you pretend."
For a heartbeat, their eyes locked, wolf and lion, each testing the other's mettle. The city seemed to still around them, even the noise of hawkers dimming.
Then Jaime smiled, slow and dangerous. "Good. I should hate for you to be your father. He was brave, but far too reckless. You, though… You might live long enough to make things interesting."
With a mocking half-bow, he turned on his heel, goldcloak guards falling in around him as he sauntered away.
The wolves growled low until he was gone.
Smalljon cursed under his breath. "Seven bloody hells. Let me at him, Alaric. One swing and the Kingslayer's golden head rolls in the gutter."
Alaric shook his head, though his hands still trembled with fury. "Not yet. But the day will come."
[Later that night]
Night draped itself over the city, cloaking rooftops in shadow. From his chamber window, Alaric gazed out over King's Landing, the Red Keep looming above like a predator watching its prey. Torches burned in the streets below, but darkness clung to every alley.
He thought of Jaime's smile, of Baelish's serpent words, of Ned's cold counsel. But most of all, he thought of Alys, her hand upon her belly, the life stirring within her.
The dagger had been meant for them. For her. For his child.
His fists clenched on the windowsill until his knuckles turned white.
Ned spoke of honor. Of restraint. Of waiting. But honor had not saved his father, nor his Grandsire. Restraint had not saved Lyanna.
The North remembered, and so did he.
"I will not be my father," Alaric whispered into the night. "But I will not be a fool either. If the lions bare their fangs again, they will find the wolves ready."
Tempest's howl rose from the yard below, long and mournful, carrying over the city like a promise. Cinder answered, then Tundra, then Shadow, their voices weaving together in a chorus of the North.
Alaric closed his eyes, letting the sound root itself in him. Wolves in the lion's den, yes. But wolves had teeth, sharper and hungrier than any gilded blade.
And winter, he vowed, would come for them all.