Author's Note:
Hey guys, I hope y'all enjoy this chapter. This was probably my most favorite chapter to write so far!
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[The Westerlands, The Golden Tooth, 4th Moon, 299AC]
The Golden Tooth still smelled like smoke.
Even days after the fighting ended, the scent clung stubbornly to the stone. Burned timber mixed with wet ash and old blood while men continued hauling bodies from collapsed towers and shattered courtyards. Masons worked from sunrise until dusk along the eastern wall where Alaric's trebuchets had battered open the fortress, their hammers ringing through the mountain pass from morning onward while laborers dragged broken stone aside beneath the watch of northern guards.
The heartlands of the lions, the Westerlands, lay open for their campaign now.
Many northern men now waited in anticipation as they prepared to take the fight to House Lannister in their own lands, with fire and fury, the North would make the West bleed gold.
For centuries, the Golden Tooth had guarded the pass between east and west, the stone gateway protecting the Westerlands from invasion. Now Stark banners flew from its towers while northern outriders rode openly along western roads where no northern army had marched in millennia.
Alaric stood atop the ruined eastern battlements looking down within the castle's yards, while cold mountain wind tugged at his cloak. Tempest rested beside him with his massive head hanging low between his paws while Cinder prowled farther down the wall, pacing slowly near a group of frightened Lefford servants carrying water buckets toward the lower yards.
The servants avoided looking directly at the wolves.
Most southerners did now.
Stories had spread about them by now.
Stories of wolves larger than horses, these great beasts fighting beside men, pulling armored knights screaming from their saddles beneath Riverrun and the Golden Tooth alike.
Some of the servants prayed to the seven quietly whenever Tempest lifted his head.
Alaric noticed, but he mostly let it be, feeling amused at the frightened faces of the servants, not out of malice, but because only he knew just how much of a big baby both Tempest and Cinder truly were when they were alone.
Pulling himself from thoughts of scratching Tempest's belly and scratching Cinders ears, Alaric soon heard the sound of boots upon stone coming from the side.
"The west looks softer than I imagined," Harald Stark said as he climbed the wall stairs.
Harald stopped beside him, resting both forearms atop the battlements while looking out across the hills beyond the castle. The older man's armor still carried marks and scratches from the assault, though his wounds had mostly healed by now. He looked tired more often lately, Alaric noticed, though Harald himself never admitted it.
"You imagined mountains and iron?" Alaric asked.
"Truth be told, I expected to see at least one Cave Lion by now, so far, all I have been met with is disappointment in that regard," Harald replied.
That earned the faintest smirk from Alaric. "Who knows, Harald, mayhaps we'll see some lions in the future, im sure Lucion wouldn't mind having a beast companion of his own," Alaric said, the two men sharing a short laugh at the thought, Lucion having been anything but quiet about his dream to own a lion like the Lannister Kings of old.
Below them, long columns of northern infantry marched steadily through the pass beneath direwolf banners while wagon trains creaked behind them carrying grain, arrows, salted meat, and siege supplies westward into enemy territory. Smiths worked constantly in the lower courtyards while outriders came and went through the gates at all hours, carrying reports from scouts ranging deeper into the Westerlands.
The invasion had officially begun in earnest.
Not just petty revenge any longer, but an organized and true invasion.
Harald stared westward for another moment before speaking again.
"Never thought I'd see northern banners west of the pass."
"Neither did the Lefford men im sure," Alaric replied with a rare smile
That drew another short laugh.
For a while, they stood in silence, listening to the movement around them. Men shouted in the lower yards while horses screamed from the stables and hammers rang endlessly against damaged stone. Somewhere below, wounded men argued drunkenly over dice while cooks cursed at one another over burned meat.
A runner eventually appeared, climbing the wall stairs two at a time before stopping near them to catch his breath.
"Your Grace," the boy managed between breaths, "Lady Alysanne requests audience."
Alaric nodded once, beginning his descent from the walls to meet with the sole child and heir of House Lefford.
As he walked into the chamber, Alaric looked around. The keep hall had changed rather quickly since the surrender.
Lefford banners were gone already, stripped from the walls and replaced with the Direwolf banners of House Stark. Good, strong Northern men stood where western household knights once had, while officers moved through the hall carrying casualty reports, supply inventories, and scouting updates westward.
Lady Alysanne Lefford stood near the long table when Alaric entered.
She wore simple gray now instead of blue-and-gold silks, her blonde hair tied back simply behind her shoulders rather than braided in the noble fashion. Exhaustion sat plainly beneath her eyes, though she still held herself straight. She had lost her castle, her garrison, and perhaps her father, depending on what became of Tywin's flight westward, yet there remained pride in her posture.
Tempest entered beside Alaric first.
Alysanne watched the direwolf carefully.
But she did not flinch.
That interested him.
Most southerners cowered at the mere sight of his two companions… but not her.
"You wished to speak, my lady?" Alaric asked, walked past her to a seat near a table, and took his place at the head of the table.
"I wished to understand your intentions, my lor-... Your Grace," she said, correcting herself calmly.
Direct and simple.
'Good, that will make things faster and easier.' He thought, tired of flowery language and political speak that the South so loved.
Alaric gestured toward the table. "Then come, sit."
She remained standing another moment before finally taking the offered seat across from him. Tempest settled beside Alaric's chair while Cinder sprawled near the hall doors, watching the guards move in and out. A man of the Winterguard tossed a piece of salted beef to Cinder, earning him pleased grumbles.
A servant poured wine quietly before retreating quickly.
Alysanne's eyes lingered on the wolves.
"They're larger than the stories claimed."
"Stories are often either blown out of proportion or kept at bay through bias and hate. From what I have heard, many have their strength correct at least."
"Mayhaps not, to me, it seems the stories still do not do such majestic creatures justice." She replied, eyes holding genuine awe for the direwolves.
That nearly made him smile.
Outside the hall came the steady ringing of masons rebuilding the shattered eastern wall.
Alysanne noticed the noise, no doubt from having grown up around such trades as well within the castle.
"You're repairing the breach already."
"Aye, as is right if I wish to hold this castle."
"Do you intend to hold the pass permanently?"
"For as long as necessary." He replied, cutting a piece of beef given to him by a servant, tossing some to Tempest as he took his own bite as well.
Silence stretched briefly between them as Alaric ate his food, and Alysanne Lefford studied him as he did.
Then, Alysanne asked the question she truly wanted answered.
"You have declared yourself King in the North, so, I'm curious, do you intend to rule the Riverlands too?" She asked, her head slightly tilting as she narrowed her eyes, looking for anything she could glean from his steady countenance.
"No."
The answer came immediately.
That seemed to surprise her.
Alaric drank before continuing.
"The Riverlords are allies, tools. Not subjects."
"Yet you hold the Twins."
"Ah, so that's her angle.' Alaric thought, searching her face for any other perceived motive in asking such questions, all he could see to his surprise was pure curiosity, nothing more, nothing less.
The question wasn't one that was new, many Riverlords still quietly wondered about his intentions for the Riverlands themselves.
House Frey was finished. Walder Frey and every male Frey he could get his hands on had died when Alaric moved against the Twins earlier in the war, the crossing falling into northern hands afterward. Benjen now coordinated logistics there personally, managing supplies, troop movement, and general traffic between the north and south.
The crossing had become too important strategically to surrender to another power.
And many Riverlords understood that.
Some hated it, others thought nothing of it, and some were undecided on how they felt.
"The crossing matters too much," Alaric said plainly. "Any king controlling the Green Fork crossings controls movement between north and south."
"And the Riverlords will accept northern occupation forever?"
"No, I suppose they will not."
Alysanne studied him carefully after that.
"At least you admit it." She said, letting out a breath she had seemed to be holding in until now
"I prefer honesty when possible," Alaric replied, briefly shrugging his shoulders and taking another drink from his cup.
"And when honesty isn't possible?"
Alaric met her eyes evenly.
"Then I do what I must."
That answer lingered heavily between them.
Alysanne folded her hands atop the table. "Most conquerors think only about taking castles. You speak more like a man already deciding who holds them afterward."
"Most conquerors die quickly in my experience."
Again, she studied him following his words.
"You mean to mold the Riverlands into… something, after the war?"
"Aye, as is my right as their saviour."
"And the Westerlands?"
"That depends almost entirely on how long Tywin Lannister intends to keep fighting against the inevitable."
The directness of the answer seemed to unsettle her more than threats might have.
"And what of my house?" she asked, her worry shown plain on her face now.
Alaric answered honestly.
"That depends largely on you, my lady."
Silence stretched longer this time.
"You don't intend extermination," she said eventually, relief apparent in her tone.
"No, that would serve me no benefit."
"I had hoped as much, given the quantity of men you spared following the capture of the castle."
"Those men surrendered to me, a rather wise move on their part, but either way, I'm not Gregor Clegane."
A flicker of anger crossed her face at that name.
Good.
The West remembered the terror Tywin's mad hound had brought upon all around him.
Alaric leaned slightly forward.
"You're young. Unmarried. Heiress to an important castle and legacy. Your house can survive this war if you choose correctly."
"You already have someone in mind."
"Edmure Tully."
That genuinely surprised her.
"The future Lord Tully?"
"He'll inherit Riverrun, and in the future, your second son would inherit the Golden Tooth, and his brother would rule from Riverrun, a rather powerful duo for the war-torn Riverlands, no?"
Alysanne seemed to think it over for a moment before asking another question, "And you think the Riverlords would accept a western bride?"
"If the marriage strengthens them, yes."
Alysanne considered that carefully.
"The Golden Tooth would guard the western approaches for Riverrun."
"Aye, it would solve one of the largest weaknesses of the Riverlands, and secure one of their borders."
Alysanne looked toward the western windows briefly.
"You already have the realm's future planned out, don't you?"
"No," Alaric admitted. "But I know what I want the North to look like afterward."
"And what does that look like?"
"A land where my people survive, and hopefully, even come to thrive in ways never before seen." He replied, a genuine look of warmth and care for his people apparent upon his face. Many of the Winterguard around him even puffed their chests out in pride of their King and homeland
Before she could answer, the hall doors opened again.
Harald entered carrying a letter.
"Your Grace, pardon the intrusion, but news has arrived from the Vale," he said.
Alaric took the letter immediately.
Falcon and moon wax sealed the parchment, along with the stamp of the Direwolf of House Stark.
'It seems Uncle Ned was successful in our endeavor.' Alaric thought to himself as he opened the letter
He read the contents silently.
Lysa Arryn was dead, along with her son Robert Arryn.
Furthermore, Harrold Hardyng had been crowned Harrold III Arryn, King of Mountain and Vale.
The Vale was now Independent.
Exactly as intended.
Outwardly, Alaric betrayed little reaction.
Inside, something colder settled.
Alysanne noticed immediately.
"Bad news?" she asked.
"Important news."
Harald read the letter next.
"The whole bloody realm's breaking apart," he muttered.
"Aye, it would seem so."
Harald studied him for several long moments.
"You expected this, I assume?"
Alaric remained silent.
Alysanne noticed that too.
Eventually, she rose slowly from her chair.
"I think I understand now," she said quietly.
Alaric looked toward her.
"You're not trying to preserve the Seven Kingdoms."
"Not in the slightest, my lady," Alaric replied, his bluntness shocking not only her, but all of those around him
It mattered not to him in truth, the Seven Kingdoms had already been dying, a slow and agonizing death at that.
After she departed, Harald shut the hall doors behind her and turned back toward Alaric.
"You knew."
"Aye, I did."
Harald's expression darkened slightly.
"The boy, too?"
Silence answered enough.
Harald exhaled heavily, scratching his head.
"Gods."
Alaric stared down at the letter again.
Robert Arryn had been innocent.
Weak, sickly, and politically disastrous.
But innocent all the same.
"I didn't enjoy it," Alaric said quietly.
"No," Harald replied after a moment. "But you did it anyway."
"Aye, I will not deny it to you, I respect you far too much for that, but I do not regret my decision, and I held no hesitation in what had to be done."
Because kings who hesitated buried their sons.
They buried kingdoms, dynasties, even.
Suddenly, a memory he had long buried reared its ugly head, dragging him backward across centuries.
[Flashback, first life as King Alaric I]
Rain hammered the White Knife while bronze shields locked together along the muddy shoreline. Wolves howled from the forests beyond the river while Andal warhorns echoed through mist and rain alike.
There had been more wolves then.
Wolves of gray and black, wolves with snow white or amber brown fur, Direwolves roamed the lands freely, alongside House Stark.
The continent of Westeros still belonged to the old gods in those days.
King Alaric I, a towering man with grey streaking through his brown hair and beard, drove his bronze waraxe through an Andal spearman's throat hard enough to split shoulder and collarbone alike before wrenching it free again. Tempest lunged beside him moments later, older and scared, but no less monstrous, dragging another Andal screaming into the mud while Cinder tore through a knot of iron-clad warriors near the riverbank.
The battle had already lasted hours.
Bodies floated downstream in the White Knife while mud turned red beneath boots and paws alike.
"Push them back!" His youngest son, Prince Edwyle Stark, shouted nearby.
Too eager.
Too brave.
Too much like his eldest, Prince Jon Stark, had been at that age.
Alaric turned just in time to see the Andal knight break through the shieldwall.
Ruby-studded iron helm adorning his head, an ornate Iron sword in hand, he wielded the blade with sheer skill and ferocity, his son had never stood a chance.
The blade punched through Edwyle's chest before anyone reached him.
His son looked downward first in confusion.
Then blood spilled from his mouth.
"No!" He roared, rushing to his son with almost inhuman speed.
"Edwyle, father!" Jon called from the side, having been separated from them in the carnage, he and his companion, Lunaria, carving a path of blood and death toward them.
Rushing toward the man, Alaric hit the Andal like a falling tree.
The bronze axe shattered the man's jaw entirely before the second strike split helm and skull alike. Then came the others.
Andals died screaming around him while Tempest and Cinder tore through the shoreline beside their master, snarling and causing carnage, their rage amplified by their masters alike. Wolves burst from the forests in packs, men beside them, wielding bronze weapons, while northern warhorns roared through rain and blood alike.
The older Alaric barely remembered most of the slaughter afterward.
He could only recall the rage he felt, the blood pooling around him, clinging to his armor and body, none of it his, but all coming from his enemies.
But worst of all, he could vividly see Edwyle dying beside the river.
As he killed the last man, Alaric found his son lying in a pool of his own blood, coughing and convulsing as he lost more and more blood, death's grip coming ever closer.
Alaric quickly fell to the ground, pulling his son's head into his lap.
"No, gods please no, Edwyle, stay with me son, keep your eyes open, you'll be ok, my boy, I promise, please stay with me!" he called, as Edwyle came in and out of consciousness, the blood now pooling heavily around them.
From behind, Alaric heard the padding of his two wolf companions walking up to him, the carnage having died down around them, many Andals lay dead now, and for their troubles, almost as many northmen joined them.
In front of them, Alaric saw Edwyle's wolf, Redfur, walk up to them, whining and pushing his snout into Edwyle's cheek, licking him in hopes of healing his beloved master, and seeing his actions did nothing, Redfur lied down on the other side of Edwyle, and lay his head upon his chest, whining and mourning his master, as the boy took his last breaths.
"F-father, ple-please, I don't want to di-d-die." he cried out, tears rolling down his cheeks, mixing with the blood he continued to cough out.
For several moments longer, Alaric could do nothing but cradle his dying son, giving him comfort as he took his last breath, with one final rise of his chest, it fell, never to rise again.
Soon after, Jon and Lunaria had reached their side, he too fell to his knees and hugged his little brother, mourning him, and swearing death to all Andals he could get his hands on.
The surrounding wolves, all several dozen, let out a low, mournful howl, as Alaric sat beside his son's corpse, cradling the boy of only 5-and-10 in his lap, while rain soaked them both, Alaric had understood something ugly and permanent.
Mercy preserved nothing.
Kings who hesitated buried their children.
[Flashback end]
Years later, now in his third life, around the age of 8, he had gone to the castle's library and searched for anything he could find on his son Jon, and even himself.
It was in an old, dusty tome that looked as if it could fall apart at any moment that he had read of King Jon Stark's victories, of how his eldest son drove the Andals back from the White Knife, along with other raids, and how he established the Wolf's Den where Edwyle had died.
And he had felt pride sharp enough to hurt.
Coming back to his senses, Alaric blinked slowly, and he felt as a lone tear slowly rolled down his cheek, quickly wiping it, but not before Harald had noticed.
"Alaric, are… are you alright?"
"Aye, I am fine, perish the thought of any worry."
It was a Lie that even the blunt Harald could detect immediately, but before he could press further, another messenger entered carrying another letter.
"From Winterfell, your grace," the man announced.
He took the letter and looked down at the direwolf stamp, specifically, the style of stamp that had belonged solely to Alys.
Everything inside Alaric stopped.
He broke the seal quickly.
Maester Luwin's hand, no doubt.
Alys was safe and healthy, along with their twins.
'Torrhen and Sarra Stark, huh, I couldn't have named them better myself.' He thought warmly, happy with the names and missing them and Alys already.
The two seemed to have healthy lungs, according to Luwin. Strong enough cries to wake half of Winterfell besides.
For several long moments, Alaric simply stared at the parchment silently while Tempest lifted his massive head beside him.
Then slowly, genuinely, he smiled, a true smile, not the one he showed his allies or enemies, but a pure, unburdened smile.
Harald laughed immediately.
"Gods, there he is. Thought you'd forgotten how to truly smile at this point."
"A boy and girl," Alaric muttered softly, handing the letter to Harald for him to read.
"Torrhen and Sarra," Harald read. "Good names, strong northern names."
Tempest pressed lightly against Alaric's side while Cinder rose from beside the doorway, both wolves sensing the shift in him immediately, coming to his side and pressing into him, each earning a scratch behind the ears as he carelessly laughed, surprising many of the Winterguard in the room, used to seeing their ice-cold King.
Then the hall doors suddenly burst open.
Smalljon Umber entered first, carrying an entire ale barrel beneath one arm, while Derrick followed behind him, grinning like an idiot.
"We heard there's Stark pups!" Smalljon boomed.
Harald groaned loudly. "How in seven hells do you hear everything this fast?"
"Because your guards drink too much," Derrick answered.
"And talk too much," Smalljon added proudly.
"We heard from Dorren, he too had received a letter," Lucion said as he came in behind the Umber brothers, before turning toward them and pointing at the ale barrel. "You stole that barrel, didn't you?"
"Borrowed," Smalljon replied immediately
"From who?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes!"
"Never mind that, Lucion, we're here to celebrate more Stark pups entering the world, the first Prince and Princes in the North in three centuries!" Derrick exclaimed, clapping Alaric on his back, giving him a huge Umber grin.
Robb soon entered laughing openly while Jon shook his head behind him. Soon, the entire wolf pack crowded into the hall, Rickard, who had arrived the day before with more supplies, along with the young men who had been fighting beside Alaric, Osric, Harlon, Roddy Dustin, Edric and Elric Snow, Torrhen Karstark with his buckler strapped to his ruined arm.
The next moment, Dorren too came in.
"I hear you spilled the news before I could tell anyone, little brother," Alaric said to Dorren, who gave him a sheepish grin.
"My apologies, Alaric, I was just too excited the second I read the letter."
"So?" Robb demanded. "Is it true?"
Alaric handed him the letter.
Smalljon immediately wrapped one massive arm around Alaric's shoulders hard enough to nearly crush him.
"We celebrate!"
"With what?" Jon asked dryly.
Smalljon proudly lifted the barrel higher.
"The spoils of war, of course."
"You definitely stole that," Lucion muttered again.
Torrhen Karstark snorted from his chair. "Gods save those children if they inherit Smalljon's face."
"They'd still be prettier than you," Derrick answered immediately.
"Hard not to be with half a hand missing."
That earned groans and laughter alike.
For a while, the war faded.
The plight of kings faded.
Even the realm itself faded away into non-importance.
They argued, they laughed, and they insulted one another like brothers.
His pack.
His family.
The future of the North.
And somewhere deep beneath kingship, war, and memory alike, Alaric Stark accepted fully what he had become.
He would burn kingdoms before allowing his children and his people's future to be taken from them.