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motherodysseus · 1 year

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Ptolemaea - Chapter 1

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Original Stark Female Character (Alysanne Stark)

Warnings: Violence, language, sexual innuendo, length of text (lol)

Summary: Lady Alys remains behind as her brother rallies support from the lords of the North. On her nameday, a tourney for her hand ensues, one she intends to win. But danger is around every corner. Will she survive long enough to unite with her Velaryon cousins?

Author's note: Sorry this took so long. Turns out, editing your own work is liable to engender insanity!!! This one is a bit of doozy in length (I swear, I cut plenty), but hey, there was a lot to set up! Could I have split it into two chapters? Maybe. But where's the fun in that!? Besides, we have a Rogue Prince to meet. I hope you enjoy, and, as always, your comments, thoughts and feedback are most welcome!

“My lady, we must hurry. Your Uncle will be cross if he finds you’ve been away too long. We were only supposed to take a ride, after all.”

Alys rolls her eyes. Mikken Reed is a kind boy, if not a bit irksome. House Stark’s newest ward, the future heir of Greywater Watch is young, only having nine summers on him, and tiny yet; he does not even clear her chest. This has not deterred the boy from latching onto her skirts, thinking himself her gallant knight and protector. Alys is quite capable of protecting herself, but she is happy to indulge him. Usually. Here in her meadow, however, the real world and all its accompanying burdens have no place. This makes his reminder most unwelcome.

Found in the heart of the Wolfswood, the glade is dotted with wildflowers and the occasional oak and rowan tree. A brook cuts through like a vein, water trickling over the stones and strewn branches from trees long since fallen and rotted away. The sweet perfume of honeysuckles and primroses, and the dew that coats them each morn, are Alys’s favorite scent, second only to the winter rose.

Alys was but eight summers when she discovered this place, after running away from her lessons with Muña. At the time, she had no interest in learning to sew, or to dance, or to play the harp, or to manage a household. She’d much prefer to be in the training yard with her brother – a place she was barred from, on the unfortunate account of her being a girl.

Alys was never one to care for rules, especially ones that made little sense. While the boys would practice at swordplay with Vayon Cassel, master-at-arms, she would sneak into the armory to fetch a bow, and teach herself how to shoot. Each time she was caught, she would be brought before her father. She’d beg and plead with him, but the yard was no place for a lady, he said, sending her from his solar back along to her mother, with red knuckles and a sore heart.

Indignant and embittered, Alys decided to prove herself. She stole a bow and quiver full of arrows, had Nan the cook make her a picnic, saddled her pony Wynafryd – a beautiful black courser gifted to her by her Uncle Corlys – and galloped straight out of the safety of the Keep’s walls.

Once she found this place, she built a shelter from fallen branches she found along the forest line, weaved a crown of wildflowers and named herself Queen of the Wolfswood. She held a coronation feast for one, gorging herself on the treats Nan provided.

It took her parents a night and day to find her. When the Lord and Lady Stark finally laid eyes upon their wayward daughter, they were shocked to find the little kingdom she had created.

“There is no denying it, my lord husband,” Valaena said, dropping down from her horse and scooping Alys into her arms, hugging her close as she brushed brambles from her dress. “Your daughter has the wolf’s blood in her. Or perhaps this is not our daughter at all; rather, some little fae creature we have on her hands. Tell me, riñitsos, are you a changeling or mine own daughter?”

“I’m no changeling, Muña. I am your daughter, the Queen of the Wolfswood! See?” Alys asked, pointing to her crown, slightly wilted and askew, tangled in her mass of dark curls from a night spent abed the soft grass. Valaena laughed again, peppering her face with kisses.

Rickon dismounted so that he could join his wife and daughter in a much-needed embrace; the search having frayed his nerves. “Aye, that you are, Your Grace. But a Queen cannot simply disappear without informing her loyal subjects.” Alys scrunched her face, turning from her father to hide in the crook of her mother’s neck.

Rickon brushed the back of her head softly, reaching in between mother and daughter to cup her cheeks and bring her eyes back to his. “You had your mother and I worried sick, Alysanne. You must swear to me never to run off like this again.”

Alys’s lips quivered, but she did not back down. “I will swear it, but only if you swear you will allow me to train, Papa. Else, I shall be forced to make my home out here, and you shan’t look upon me again.”

Rickon locked eyes with Valaena over Alys’s head. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You drive a hard bargain, little wolf. After you serve your punishment, I’ll see what I can do.”

Alys, true to her word, served her punishment without complaint. She swore a full commitment to her lessons with both mother and Maester, and suffered through two moon turns without riding or sweets, nor playing with Holly, her closest companion. Not that Holly was interested, for she was quite cross that Alys would dare to run off without bringing her along. Nothing could mend the rift until Alys agreed to make a blood oath, swearing to never again adventure without her. The scar is still visible on her palm, and it is one she cherishes. By sharing blood, they were made sisters. Alys, though she loved her brothers dearly, had always wanted a sister.

Her father, true to his own word, allowed her to train – though she never was welcome in the training yard. He would make time each week to take Alys and Holly out to the meadow. He taught them how to carve their own bows and string them, and trained the two how to shoot himself. When their skills surpassed his own knowledge, he sent for an archery instructor from across the Narrow Sea, swearing him to secrecy so the girls could continue to learn.

Shaking herself from her reveries, she looks back to the boy. “Oh, a pox on my uncle, Mikken! And what have I told you? You need not call me ‘my lady’ or ‘Lady Alys’ outside the Keep. Here, I am simply Alys.” She turns to face her fiery-haired friend. “Now, Holly, what say you? One more round of roving marks?”

“I say the little lord makes a point. No time left for all that – let’s aim once more for the target and then make our way back to the Keep.”

“Fine,” Alys huffs. “First one to hit the center gets their pick of dessert from the kitchens?”

“Challenge accepted, your Ladyship,” she says, leaning in with an exaggerated bow.

Holly herself never much cared for the pageantry of lords and titles, preferring to poke fun whenever she could. They are not her way, for she was born North-of-the-Wall to a wildling mother. When Holly’s mother was put to the sword, the Lady Valaena protected the girl, insisting she join her daughter’s household. Holly never forgot the kindness, even if she often forgot herself in the face of nobility and their ��silly Southern customs.”

Bennard thought Holly a bad influence, attempting to separate them when he took over the regency of Winterfell. But the Lady Valaena stood firm. “Woe be to any man who would tear apart sisters,” she said, “whether they be borne or made.”

Bastard, thinks Alys, Should he ever try to take her from me, I’ll show him what a Lady is truly made of.

The girls nock their arrows, aiming for the mounds. “Mikken, count us down,” Alys insists.

“But, my lady, we will get in trouble if– ”

“‘Tis not an invitation to argue, Mikken! And what did I say about titles? Now, if you would please count us down.”

“Yes, my lady – I mean, Lady Alys. I mean, Alys!” Mikken squeaks, as his hands twist the reins of their horses. Poor lad. I am too harsh. It is not fair to unleash my nerves upon him.

“Loose your arrows on one! Three, two…”

Alys takes a breath, and eye falling shut as she narrows on the target.

“One!” Mikken shouts. Alys has already released her quiver, as has Holly; neither girl is above a bit of treachery when they compete against the other. Their arrows whistle through the air. Alys squints, holding a hand over her brow to shield herself from the sun’s glare, attempting to follow their trajectory. She loses sight for but a moment, until she hears the telltale thwap-thwap.

“I cannot tell from here, it’s too far to see clear, and the arrows too close to call a winner,” Holly says. “Should we send your little squire to check?”

Alys considers it, but the sun is nearing its midpoint; they are cutting it close. “Nay, I think he has suffered enough this morn. Let us make our way back. You may choose the dessert; I care not.”

“You care not because you know Nan is already preparing all your favorite sweets,” Holly says, bumping her shoulder. “Oh to be a Stark girl on her name day!” She declares, twirling about in some mockery of a dance, pulling Alys along with her.

“Almost name day!” Alys says, giggling as she joins in. She turns and twirls with head upturned to the sun, following the tune of the brook behind her and the magpies overhead. There is a bite in the air, despite the fact that it is the twentieth day of the sixth moon of the year. Under the warmth of the sun, however, she can close her eyes and pretend that summer will last forever. Or, for a little while longer, at least.

As she steadies, reality finally forces itself upon this once inviolable space. Her stomach twists, mood blackening instantly. If all does not go to plan, this could be my final name day as the ‘Stark girl.’ Steeling herself, Alys puts on a smile, giving Holly a little shove as she makes her way back to the tree line.

She approaches Mikken. Up close, she can mark the strain her words put upon him in his creased brow and his slim shoulders that now rest firmly next to his ears.

She bends down to meet him. “Mikken, I owe you an apology for the way I spoke. It was unbecoming and cruel; I’m sorry for it. I know that you were only trying to look out for me.”

His bottom lip juts out, eyes fixed firmly on his boots. Alys places a hand to his shoulder, giving him a squeeze. “You know, it takes a brave man to stand up to those in power when he knows they are in the wrong. You will make a fine knight one day, and an even better Lord. It is an honor I do not take lightly, to watch you grow into both.”

“Do you truly mean it?” he whispers.

“I am not in the habit of saying things I do not mean, Mikken,” Alys whispers back conspiratorially. At this, he cracks a smile. “There he is,” Alys says, knocking his chin so that she can see his eyes. “Now, what say you to a little race back to Hunter’s Gate? Whoever makes it through first, can have the first bite of sweets. I heard a rumor that there will be apple tarts and stewed plums.”

Mikken brightens at this, and rushes to untie the horses.

“You are good with him, Alys. Your mother would be proud,” says Holly, who has snuck up to her side. Gods, she’s silent as a wraith when she wants to be.

“Thank you for saying so. Though, I wonder if she would be proud of the spectacle I shall be forced to make of myself tomorrow,” she muses, turning back toward the clearing.

Holly grabs her hand, the scars upon their palms brought together. It is a gesture of comfort, and she relishes in it. She knows me better than I know myself, as all sisters do. “Aye Alys, she would be proud, and you know it. These are nerves talking, not reason.”

“Perhaps,” is all Alys could muster.

Holly studies her closely, but decides not to push. A first. She takes Alys’s bow from her, and goes to hide it in the brush alongside her own. Task complete, she turns back to her friend. “Come, if you think I shall let you win this race because you’ve decided to mope, you’re sorely mistaken.”

This jab is enough to make Alys smile. “Pray tell, Holly – when have you ever let me win?”

Holly ponders for a moment. “I’m certain there was a time or two, but I can’t recall them just now. Now, will you mount or will you give me a head start?” she asks, as she takes her palfrey’s reins from Mikken.

“Take it, Holly, for you shall need it anyhow!” Alys crows. Holly laughs as she mounts her horse, whom she named – Gods, of all things – Squirrel. Alys did attempt to reason with her, pointing out the absurdity of such a name, but Holly would not be moved. “'Tis is a funny name for him, but it fits. Squirrels are quick and agile. Is he not those things, too?”

Alys takes one last look upon her meadow. She cannot help but feel that today is an ending of sorts. She sighs, turning to Mikken. He hands her riding gloves over. Newly made for her, they are black as night, as is the rest of her new wardrobe. It may be her name day tomorrow, but she is still deep in mourning.

Mikken is bursting with energy. He bounces on the balls of his feet, anxious to join the race. It is his eagerness that deals a final blow to Alys’s melancholy. “Come, I’ll help you mount.”

She approaches Wynafryd, now as tall as any Lord’s war horse. Folding her hands together, she bends down to give him a boost. He scrambles into the saddle as Alys places a foot in the stirrup, launching herself behind him. She bundles Mikken tightly to her front, reaching around him for the reins.

“Are you settled, Mikken? We have ground to make up, it seems.”

“Aye, Lady Alys! Make haste!”

She chuckles. My, is he not an imperious little lordling when competition is afoot. She gives Wynafryd a gentle kick, and clucks at her. “Onward, girl!” They race through the wood, Mikken whooping all the way.

As soon as Hunter’s Gate comes into view, Alys spots Holly. That hair could be seen miles away, kissed by fire as it is. She leans in, forcing Mikken to do the same. “Come on, girl!” she shouts as she nudges the horse into a gallop, pushing her full tilt towards the gate.

It is not long before they overtake her, barreling through the gate a few yards before she does. Really, it is not fair, even with the extra weight. Squirrel may be quick but he is no match for Wynafryd, in size or speed. Mikken’s cheer is contagious. Alys’s cheeks hurt from grinning, flushed as they are from activity. She slows Wynafryd to a trot, making her way past the kennels and kitchen, around the Library Tower, and toward the stables.

She leads her horse into the paddock, as the stable boys rush in to aid her dismount. She passes Mikken down first, before swinging her leg over and leaping to the ground. Holly and Squirrel enter the paddock soon after.

“It was a close race, Alys. One of these days, Squirrel will overtake Wynafryd, I’m certain of it.”

“Aye, and the pigs will sprout wings and take off in flight,” Alys snorts.

Mikken interrupts them. “May we go to the kitchens now, Lady Alys?”

Alys rolls her eyes, but her smile does not abate. “Aye, Mikken, we may. Run along ahead, and tell Nan I’ve sent you. You were first through the gate, which means the first sweet is yours.” The boy does not need to be told twice; quick as a rabbit, he runs back toward the kitchens.

“It seems you’ve had an eventful morning, my lady.” Alys turns to see Maester Lymon leaning against the paddock fence, green eyes twinkling. A genial old man, Lymon is like another father to her. He is a grounding presence in her life, always encouraging her learning and supporting her throughout any trial. The Citadel may not allow women into their ranks, but her Maester does not share their qualms about the fairer sex.

“That I have, Maester. How did you know I was gone?”

His tone is firm, but his eyes remain warm. “I didn’t, that is until I saw you flying through the gate from my solar; like a bat from the seven hells, no less.”

Alys pulls her gloves from her hands, and makes her way to him. “I had no choice – Mikken would have been aggrieved if we had not won the race. Apple tarts were on the line, so he cannot be blamed for it.”

Lymon laughs. “No, I suppose he can’t. You, however, can. We still have much to discuss ahead of our guests’ arrival. I’ve come to escort you to the Library so that we may talk logistics. Perhaps the boy will be kind enough to save you some sweets for when we are finished?”

“I think it unlikely,” she grumbles. My respite is at its end, it seems. “Holly, go on ahead to the kitchens without me. And do try to ensure Mikken does not take advantage of Nan’s good nature to eat his weight in sweets – Vayon will be cross with me if I’ve slowed down his newest recruit.”

“Aye, I can try, but I’ll make no promise of it,” Holly says, handing Squirrel’s reins to the stable boy and making a quick escape. She doesn't mind the Maester, but she was never one for lessons. “I’ll learn by doing, not by reading,” she said once, never returning to be taught thereafter.

Alys and Lymon walk in an amiable silence as she takes in the din of the grounds. Nearing noon, Winterfell is alive with activity, its inhabitants bustling about in preparation for their incoming guests. The stable boys are bucking hay, and burly men roll barrels of ale toward the Great Hall. Maids flitter about, bringing fresh linens and candles to the Guest House, gossiping all the way.

It is Lymon who breaks their silence. “I’ll not ask where you were, my lady, but may I make the rather safe assumption that you were preparing for tomorrow’s contest?”

“Aye, you may,” she concedes.

“And did you consider the risks, should you have been caught?”

“Aye, I did.” She pauses, before continuing in a hushed tone. “I found the necessity outweighed the risks. Besides, Bennard has been quite occupied these last few days, preparing to welcome my future husband, ‘whomever he may be,” she scoffs. “As if we are all unaware of his preference.”

Lymon hums in agreement. “We shall speak more on it in the Library.” Alys nods– it would not do to have one of Bennard’s lickspittles overhear. He banned her several summers ago from training, after all. If he were to be made aware of my rebellion, especially before the contest; well, it simply would not do.

The pair climb the steps outside the tower. She allows Lymon to go first so that she may keep an eye on him. Now reaching an age where stairs become a struggle, he takes them slowly, grumbling as his bones creak. I worry for him. If I manage to succeed tomorrow, it would be best to take our lessons in the Maester’s Turret, or mayhaps the Glass Gardens; the warmth would be better on his joints.

They arrive at the top, entering into the cavernous space which holds a thousand and one tomes, covering every inch of the rounded walls. She runs her fingers over the weathered spines, inhaling deep. The smell of leather, old parchment and dust soothes her.

The Maester also shares her love of this place, if not for the sheer delight in the library’s collection, then for the privacy it provides. No one enters this tower but the two of them. Bennard and his degenerate sons are far from learned, having preferred the training yard as most Northern second sons – and sons of second sons – seem to. It is one of the only places within Winterfell in which they may speak freely.

Lymon does not beat around the brush. “‘Tis a dangerous game you play, my lady. I worry for you. With your brother not yet returned from Last Hearth, there is no one here who may protect you, should you fail.”

“Come now, Maester – have you such little faith in your favorite pupil?” she asks, attempting a jape. It falls flat. Lymon grunts as he sits at the table, chains clinking. He motions her to join him before unfurling a parchment that holds a map of the North. He reaches into the wide sleeves of his robe, pulling out game pieces. Nay, not game pieces – they are direwolves.

“Let us review again, Lady Alys. We’ve secured allegiances for your brother’s cause from Houses Reed, Karstark, Manderly, Mormont, the Flint’s of Widow’s Watch, Hornwood, Cerwyn and Forrester,” he states, positioning a direwolf piece over each of the respective holdfasts. “I think we can assume he will succeed with House Umber, for they have always answered the call.” He places a direwolf over Last Hearth before moving back to his sleeve, this time pulling from them not direwolves, but sheep.

“But that leaves several houses in Bennard’s camp,” he says as he scatters the sheep across the map, “the strongest and most dangerous being House Bolton. Should Lord Bolton’s son Mervyn succeed in the tournament tomorrow, it would not be a shock if your Uncle were to force you to marry him that very night, to ensure their allegiance to his cause.”

Alys huffs. “First – it is simply inconceivable that I would marry a man named Mervyn. Besides, Mervyn will not succeed. I am sure he is fine with a bow, but I am better. Second – the other houses attending who are sworn to us would not stand for it.” Her voice is confident, but the direction of this conversation is beginning to unnerve her.

“‘The houses will not have a choice in the matter,” Lymon hisses. “Your brother took his most loyal men with him to ‘settle disputes amongst the great houses.’ Bennard is not stupid, he knows that Cregan is rallying support. Without the men, or your brother to lead them, they will not interfere. You also risk insulting those who have sworn fealty, should you beat their sons in this contest. The lords are loyal, but they are also prideful. If they take offense, Bennard will fan the flames.”

Alys rubs her hands down her face, groaning. “That is unfair! It is not as if I asked for any of this!” She regrets the childish words, for they incense the Maester instantly.

“You did ask for this, Alys! You did!” His palm slams against the table, several pieces tumbling.

“Maester –”

“No, do not deny it! I know your hand was forced, Alys. To attempt to announce an unagreed-upon betrothal at your lady mother’s funeral was, is, a travesty. But you stood up in front of Gods and men at that feast, and offered your hand to whichever lord could best you on the archery field. Rather than practice logic, as I have taught, or patience, as your lady mother taught, you reacted with your emotions. You asked for this.”

Tears prick her eyes. How is it that a proper scolding can make me feel as if I am not but a tall child? Lymon is not one to raise his voice, and it pains her to have aggrieved him so. It also pains her that he is right.

“I apologize, my lady,” he mutters. “I did not mean to shout.”

Alys waves him off. “‘Twas not undeserved.”

She twists her mother’s signet ring, staring at the carving of her entwined sigils. I cannot tell if this grounds me, or if it upsets me. I wish she were here with me, she would know what to do. “So what you are telling me is in either scenario – win or lose – we still lose. Do I have that correct?”

“Yes, that’s the long and short of it,” Lymon sighs.

Alys swallows. “Well, fuck.”

The curse shocks them both, for Alys seldom uses profanity. Lymon snorts, and the sound alone is enough to send her into a fit of giggles. They tumble together headlong into hysterics. As soon as one wrests control back over their senses, they make eye contact and the fit begins anew. It only ends when they are firmly out of breath, sides pinching and tears streaming.

“Is there not a chance that they might be impressed by me?” Alys asks, wiping her eyes and righting herself. “For winning back mine own hand, which was already supposed to be mine by rights?” In truth, she knows the answer, but is desperate enough to ask.

“I suppose a small one,” Lymon considers. “Several houses have, or have had, ladies lead them. And most still recognize your father’s word as, if not law, then bond. But – whether we agree with them or not – most still see a lady’s place as in the home. Wedded, producing heirs, keeping house; not besting boys in the art of war. Or, one of the arts, at least. We will have to count ourselves lucky if they perceive it as a rebellion against your uncle –”

“Which it is,” she counters.

“Yes, but it is as likely, if not more so, that they will take offense. We can’t presume that they will see it for what it truly is: a disavowal of Bennard’s unlawful hold on Winterfell,” he concludes.

Frustrated, Alys drops her head into her hands, fingers tugging at her hair. She wishes to growl, to scream, to rip at her hair or slam her fists on the table. To do anything to act upon her feelings. Instead, she takes a deep breath, then another, working to calm the tumult of her emotions. Perhaps one more breath would do.

She sets her hands back on the table, folding them together to keep from fidgeting. “Is there any other option?” she asks. “Any possibility of getting through this unscathed?” And unwed?

“There is one. You will not like it,” says the Maester, lips drawn thin.

“Tell me.”

“You run. No, do not interrupt,” he insists before Alys can speak. “I know you have been in near constant contact with the Lady Laena and your Aunt, the Princess Rhaenys, since your mother’s passing. I am the one who sends your letters, after all. I took it upon myself to send my own raven to your Uncle, Lord Corlys, making him aware of your plight – something you neglected to share with him, or any of them, it would seem.”

Aye, because until this moment, I assumed that I had this in hand. Arrogant, mayhaps, but it is the truth. Lymon must find her silence encouraging, for he pushes on.

“He and the Princess Rhaenys have agreed to take you in as their ward. It is not customary, I know, but they are one of the most powerful houses in the Seven Kingdoms; soon to be made more so with the wedding of Laenor to the Princess of Dragonstone. They will have the security of the Crown behind them, and they can protect you until Cregan secures his seat. You would also be in a position to advocate for aid, if not from the Crown, then from your uncles. Docking the Velaryon fleet at White Harbor would be a show of force, and discourage the lords that back Bennard against a coup.”

Alys takes in Lymon’s counsel. My Maester has been hard at work, it seems. It is a clever, nay, brilliant plan. But it is an unacceptable one.

Alys sighs. “If I abandon my house, and my brother, what message does that send? And, should I run, what is to stop Bennard from closing the gates to us? A few hundred men can hold Winterfell, even if ten thousand set upon its gates. Winter is Coming; all he’ll need to do is wait us out.”

She looks upon the signet once more, brushing a finger over the seahorse. “As tempting as it is to call upon the Velaryons, to ask for interference from a Southern house – kin or no – feels tantamount to admitting Creg cannot hold the North. This would bolster Bennard’s claim that he is unfit, unready. My brother would not allow it, nor can I.”

“All fair rebuttals, my lady,” Lymon shifts forward in his seat, looking Alys straight on. “But, so caught up in his efforts to seize power, Bennard has not properly prepared this Keep for Winter – no stocking of grain, nor movement made to repair Winter Town for the inevitable influx of smallfolk. And the Night’s Watch continues to send disturbing reports that your Uncle has all but ignored. Wildlings are attempting to cross The Wall in droves. Those that succeed have been raiding villages in their push southward. They’re desperate, enough so to claim to have seen the Others, not that those wives' tales stop them from losing their heads.”

A chill courses down Alys’s spine. The Others are ghost stories meant to scare little children; a mere allegory for the coming of Winter itself. In any event, they have been gone for thousands of years, if they existed at all. ‘Tis a monstrous excuse to use to rape and pillage defenseless villages. But what if there is more to it? There may be no White Walkers, but it is possible the wildlings are running from, not toward, something. I shall have to ask Holly.

Lymon’s voice pulls her from her thoughts. “There is a chance, a high one I should think, that the vassals and smallfolk would turn on him. But to allow yourself to remain here is to risk not only your future, but your very life. If Bennard grows reckless, he will use you as a weapon against your brother. He has always seen you as a tool. And what is a weapon but a tool used to maim; to kill?”

Alys sucks in a breath – this cannot be happening. This is my home. This is my family’s home. And am I to leave as it is torn asunder? Am I to abandon my brother, my kin, my people when they need me most? Her mind is made up.

“And what if I am a weapon, Maester? After all, a knife cuts both ways.”

“Alys, I beseech you–”

Alys holds her hand up, halting his speech. “Maester, I am grateful for your counsel; even more so for the care you have shown me. But I will not leave my home and people to be picked over by carrions who call themselves wolves. I have made my bed, and I mean to lie in it. I will write to my Aunt and Uncle to thank them for their hospitality, but to inform them that it is unnecessary. For I am a Stark; I belong to the North.”

Lymon slumps in his seat. “As you say. But I urge you, do not hasten to send that raven. Wait until the tourney ends, at least.”

Alys nods as she rises from her seat. “I should go. I must prepare for the welcome feast, and Bennard expects me to greet my suitors.”

“Tread carefully, my lady,” says Lymon as she reaches the door. The double meaning is not lost on Alys. She quickly exits, turning the conversation over in her mind as she picks her way down the stone steps. Unsettled and disquieted as she is, she allows herself to be led by instinct. Rather than turn toward the Great Keep as she ought, her feet move forward, straight into the Godswood.

Alys sighs; it is as if a stone has been shed from her shoulders. In the forest, she is as free as a snow shrike, alive and unfettered; but it is here in the Godswood where she finds true peace.

The three acre grove is as old as the land itself. It smells of damp earth and pine, with only the sound of crunching needles underfoot and the caw of ravens for company. She walks deeper, trees rising and tangling around her as she makes her way through.

Her feet stop as they alight upon their chosen destination – the Heart Tree. The world quietens here, for this is where the Old Gods keep house. Its weeping eyes are ever watchful. Carved into the snow white bark by the Children of the Forest eons ago, many have sworn to feel them follow. This never unsettled Alys – those eyes make her feel seen, held, safe.

Alys keeps the Old Gods, just as every Stark has. Nameless and faceless, they are found in the twisting of roots, the bends of streams and sturdiness of stones; in the eyes of the Heart Tree, too.

Still in her riding leathers, the chill of the afternoon cuts through easily, but she scarcely feels it. Dropping to the grove’s floor, she makes her home where she always does — curling in between the roots of the tree, hand gripping the root. She closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the tree as she listens to the wind moving through its branches, blood-red leaves rustling as they reach for the heavens.

Time suspends itself as she begins to pray. She prays for her brother’s swift and safe journey home. For Holly and Mikken, for her Maester. For her Mother, Father, and brother since passed. For the health and safety of the Northern folk. For an easy Winter. For herself.

Once her prayers are complete, her mind drifts. She is so tired – tired of fighting, tired of fearing, tired of feeling too big to be small and too small to be big. She is simply tired. Her body seems to agree, for her eyes droop, and consciousness slips away.

She dreams, though it feels as real as breathing. In her dreams, she is a wolf. She runs through the forest on unsteady legs, as if she were but a pup. She dashes about, sniffing and climbing and bounding through to a clearing. It is her meadow; she recognizes it instantly. She turns just as another pup tackles her, nipping and wrestling and rolling in the grass. They frolic and play until a howl cuts through the Wolfswood.

Alys awakens with a jolt, disoriented. Something has hit her shin. No, not something, someone. Her cousin Benjen stares down upon her, eyes beady and black. His hair is greased back with animal fat, and he is dressed in such finery, it is as if he were a Lord’s heir himself. I suppose he and Bennard like to think so.

He knocks her shin with his boot once more. “Get up. You’re late. Again.”

She rolls her eyes. “How can I be late to mine own feast, Benjen?” He curses at this. Alys should know better than to bait him, but cannot help herself. “Now cousin, is this how you speak to a lady?”

He kicks her again, harder this time. “I see no lady, just an insolent brat. One who is finally getting what is coming to her. It’ll be a relief to be rid of you,” he sneers.

“So sure of yourself. Fortunately, so am I,” she fibs. He doesn’t need to know I’m out of my wits with nerves. “I’ll succeed, my brother will return, and you will be back to doing whatever it is the first son of a second son does. Shoveling horse dung, I assume.”

Alys moves to stand — too slowly, for Benjen grabs her by the elbow, squeezing tight as he lifts her. She knows immediately it will bruise, and stifles a whimper. Her cousin has always been a cruel, violent sort. As a child, he would bludgeon animals for sport; kicking cats, strangulating squirrels, beating dogs. Nothing was beneath him. The maester would often chase him from the rookery, for he would try to break a raven’s wings for no discernible reason other than to relish in their agony. Now a man grown, he’s moved from animals to men. And women, it seems. Creg’s absence emboldens him.

“You think so, cousin? You know, Father doesn’t pay close enough attention to you. ‘What time do I have for some halfbreed girl?,’ he says, ‘She is pretty, and she has our name. 'Tis all that matters.’”

This particular revelation does not surprise Alys. Bennard has never been above othering her or her mother for their Valyrian heritage.

“Father thinks you dotty, yes, but dutiful,” Benjen continues. “A silly little girl whose own father gave her too much freedom. He thinks he curbed that, and that you will go quietly to your marriage bed, even with the stunt you pulled. But I know better, Alys. I watch you running off with your little wildling to the woods, and whispering in corners with your Maester. You are dangerous, as are all girls who do not know their place. But soon, your husband will teach you. ’Tis a shame I am not part Valyrian; perhaps I’d have the honor of breaking you.”

Alys’s stomach drops. She attempts to extricate herself from his grasp, but his grip tightens as he pulls her in. Her nose crinkles as his hot, rancid breath covers her face.

“You know, I’ve spoken to Mervyn of your proclivity for impertinence. He assures me that the Boltons have a particular method for dealing with untamed wives.” He leans closer, whispering into her ear. “Considering the rumors of their continued predilection for flaying men alive, I can imagine it’s quite painful. Do you think he’d let me watch?”

Alys cannot seem to speak, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. How dare he speak like this in front of the Gods. She remembers the Maester’s scolding. Logic, patience – I must practice them.

“You and Mervyn seem quite confident in his ability with the bow,” she says, forcing her tone into one of casual indifference. “But I hear Lord Manderly’s sons are truly gifted. If the ravens are to be believed, I could be the next Lady of White Castle.” Alys does not know if this is true; it likely isn’t. She doesn’t even know the boys’ names, let alone if they have any skill with the bow. But it’s enough to get what she needs from Benjen.

“Aye, but Mervyn has the distinct advantage of training with the best archery master in the North. You may recall him; he was sent from Winterfell some years ago now, for conspiring to train you in secret.”

Benjen must see her blanch, for he begins to cackle. “Come along, cousin. You must make yourself pretty for your husband.” He shoves her forward as they make their way to the Great Keep.

Alys remains in a daze as she prepares for the feast. At once, she is bathed and dressed in a gown of black. It is made of velvet and soft as sin, with trumpet sleeves and a square neck trimmed with ermine and silver brocade. A direwolf belt is swung low around her hip. When she looks upon herself, all she can see is Muña’s lilac eyes boring into her. It is a haunting sight. I look as if I am attending another funeral rite; in a way, I may be.

Holly attempts to engage her in idle conversation while she plaits her hair, but it is no use. Alys twists her signet and stares off. She thinks more on her dream, wishing it were as real as it felt; how she longs to be as free as that pup.

So overcome, she does not notice Holly’s look of concern. “You do look lovely, Alys.”

“Thank you,” she mumbles. The girls lock eyes in the mirror, and Holly turns her from the vanity, taking her hands in hers.

“I wish you would tell me what is troubling you so. Is it the Maester? I’ve told you, too much thinking addles the mind.” Alys lets out a huff, and Holly smiles. “Tell me, what has you all worked up?”

She tells Holly everything — from the Maester’s concern and push to send her to her cousins in the south, to Benjen’s cruel behavior and the information he let slip. Holly listens intently as she unburdens herself.

“Aye, I can see now why you’re so troubled. This is quite the dung pile we’ve found ourselves in.”

“That I’ve found myself in, Holly.”

She holds up her scarred palm. “Thought you’d learn by now that we’re a package, you and I. Now, let’s talk it through, shall we?” Holly moves to the bed, patting beside her, encouraging Alys to join. “I think the Velaryons are a good fallback. If your mother could sail herself away from the south to Winterfell to marry your father, can we not go the other way? If it comes to that tomorrow, we'll leave.”

“I don’t know if we can, Holly. I’m needed here. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell; certain, Bennard does not count. I just – I don’t see how we can leave our home.” Alys’s lip quivers.

“If Bennard, his shite-for-brains sons — I’ll kill Benjen, by the way, and use his bones to pick my teeth — and his shite-for-brains Bolton cronies have their way, Winterfell won’t be home any longer,” Holly says, grabbing her hand. “You don’t belong at the Dreadfort, Alys. You have to think of yourself for once; what use are you dead or hidden away in some rotten Keep? And speaking on the Boltons, so what if he’s been training? So what if he’s good? You’ll be better.” Holly rubs her thumb over Alys’s knuckle to soothe her, just as Muña used to. It serves its purpose— Alys lets out a watery sign and hugs her friend close.

“Thank you,” she breathes as Holly rubs her back.

“Don’t thank me. I’m only telling you what you already know; you just got caught in your nerves again. Now, we should get to the feast,” Holly rises, and Alys moves to join her.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “ I forgot — Cregan left you a gift for your name day. He told me not to let you open it until the day of, but he’s not here, is he? It’s under your bed. Do with that information what you will.” Holly smiles beatifically, as she always does when causing trouble.

“Will you give me a moment then? I have a present to unwrap,” Alys grins. Holly nods, and closes the door behind her.

She drops flat to the carpet, with no thought or care for her dress, rummaging under her bed. Not once does she think to wait, for she hates surprises. Creg should never have trusted Holly to keep a secret from me, anyhow.

Her hand alights upon a box, and she slowly pulls it from its hiding place. It's large, and carved from rowan wood, with her House’s sigil burnt into the grain.

Alys gets up and places the box upon her bed. There is a note attached; one she is tempted to bypass entirely in her eagerness to open her present. Patience is a virtue, I suppose. She sighs, plucking the note from its ribbon. She cracks her brother’s seal to see his scrawl, short and sweet.

Father told me I’d know when you were ready. Shoot straight.

Your brother,

Creg

She sucks in a breath. Father told me I’d know when you were ready. Hands quaking, she opens the box.

Inside is the most wonderful sight she’s ever seen – a beautiful bow and quiver set, made to size. The bow itself is bone white, carved from weirwood; Alys would recognize it anywhere. The arrows are carved from the same, with its feathers a startling crimson, akin to the leaves of the Heart Tree. But it is the arrowheads that truly dazzle, for they are not of any metal she has encountered. In truth, she only recognizes it from her lessons, for they are dragonbone. So sharp, they would draw blood at just a touch. She picks up the bow, testing the string's tension, the weight of it, how it feels in her hand. It’s perfect, it's perfect, it’s perfect.

She does not know how her father came into possession of such a treasure. Dragonbone is not an easy material to come by, nor an inexpensive one. And to have a perfectly carved weirwood bow – it is an honor he’d entrusted her with it. He believed in her, as did her brother; her mother, too. They may not be with her, but they are behind her, as they always have been. She does not know whether to laugh or cry. For the first time in an age, she feels hope; not just hope, but a sense of surety. Holding the faith of her family in her hands, Alys knows now what she must do, and how she can win.

She attends the feast, light as air. Nothing can spoil her good humor – not Benjen’s leer, nor her uncle’s very presence, which often serves to put her off her appetite. In truth, she is ravenous, nearly inhaling her roast pheasant and potatoes.

Soon, the minstrels begin to play. Alys takes care to dance with each Lord’s son. Lord Manderly’s boys, Jonnel and Joseth, prove exceptional dancers, even if they’re impossible to tell apart. She takes Mikken for a spin on the floor, much to the delight of everyone present. She even allows Mervyn a dance; when his hand moves too low to be proper, she steps on his feet with particular verve. Here’s hoping it cripples him, but I would settle for a lost nail.

When she retakes her seat at the head table, dessert is being served. There are apple tarts and stewed plums as promised; even the rare lemon cakes make the rounds. Once full, she sits back and watches the hall. Many of these men are allies and competitors in one; some are outright enemies. It matters not to Alys. She smiles at them all – for she is a wolf, and she does not fear sheep.

“It seems you have made some peace with your lot, niece,” Bennard slurs. A drunkard and a fool, may the Others take him.

“I was always at peace with my lot, Uncle,” Alys sniffs. “It was ensuring that I marry a man worthy of me that put me on edge over the prospect.”

“Well, you have a peculiar way of choosing that man. Not that you should be choosing at all, but your father will get his way, as he always does,” Bennard glowers as he sinks deeper into his cups. “Archery, pah! I know you think yourself a savant because Rickon indulged you as a child, but you will learn the truth of it tomorrow. The Boltons are a powerful family, and you will be lucky to join their house when Mervyn proves himself.”

Alys bites her tongue, once again remembering Lymon’s counsel. “As you say, Uncle.”

“As you say, Uncle,” Bennard mocks. “Do not be impertinent, especially in the face of my generosity. This feast and tourney cost me a pretty copper, as will your dowry. You ought to be grateful.”

Her blood boils, but she tamps it. Best to let it fester so that I may use it on the field tomorrow.

“Of course, Uncle. I am ever so grateful,” she says through her teeth.

Bennard hums again, too drunk to notice her ire. “Good. Now, to bed. You must look fresh-faced for your husband tomorrow. Men like their women pretty, after all. They also like them demure. I suppose I shall leave it to your husband to teach you the latter, if it’s not a lost cause already,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “Begone from my sight, Alysanne.”

Alys squeezes her fists, nails cutting into her palms. Yet, she arises gracefully as her mother taught. She bids her Uncle and cousins a good night, though she does not mean it. Benjen runs his tongue over his teeth, like a bloodhound who caught the scent. Ignoring him, she beckons to Holly, and they leave the Great Hall.

She helps her undress in silence, untying her stays while Alys works at her plaits. With mere hours left until dawn, she knows she will sleep little. Holly offers to stay with her, but, as it might be her last night abed alone, she declines. I should enjoy the space while I am able. They bid one another good night, and Alys buries herself under the covers.

She tosses and turns for what feels like an age, until sleep finally claims her. Again, she dreams she is the wolf. She is warm, safe, cuddled against fur. She turns her head, to see the same grey pup that had tackled her, now fast asleep. Perhaps the mother is on the hunt. She gets up, stretching her tiny limbs, and makes her way from the den, dirt soft under her paws. She looks up at the moon, and howls.

As dawn breaks, Alys arises from her bed. Despite the chill, the rooms remain warm. Not for the first time is she thankful for the ingenuity of Bran the Builder. Piping water from the hot springs into the stones for certain has saved me a toe or two.

She dresses slowly in her leathers, somehow managing the stays herself. She then places her mother’s signet upon her smallest finger, and her archer’s ring upon her thumb. Once finished, she sits at her window, watching the sun rise.

Holly and the maids enter not long after, bringing tea and food to break fast. Alys forces down some bacon and bread, despite her scant appetite. She watches in the mirror as Holly tames her hair into an intricate five strand plait.

“Do you like it?” Holly asks.

“More than like it,” Alys says, marveling at her handiwork. “It almost looks as if it is a chain.”

“Aye, that was the aim. For you will not break this day, I know it in my heart.” Alys warms at her steadfastness and faith, sending a prayer of thanks to the Gods for bringing Holly into her life.

They sit in silence for a time, and she lets Holly inspect her new bow. “It is impossible to fail with a bow as nice as this. You can feel the love that was poured into its making, and yet there is something deadly in it. It will protect you, I think.”

“I think the same,” Alys says. Too soon, there is a knock upon the door, and she begins to shake. “You may enter.”

It is Mikken, and for this kindness she is thankful. Better than my cousin, that is for certain. “Lady Alys, it is time,” he says.

Alys takes a deep breath, and tries to calm her trembling hands. “So it is. Mikken, will you stay with Holly and me? I could use a lad like you to keep an eye on my back.”

Mikken sputters. “I would be honored, Lady Alys, but perhaps someone bigger would be best?”

“No, sweet boy, you misunderstand. I want someone whom I trust to stand with me, and that’s you. Consider it part of your training if you must, but in truth, I would just appreciate you there as my friend.”

She watches the blush creep up his cheeks. “I’d be honored, my lady!”

“Good, now, let us make haste. I would not put it past Bennard to start without me in an attempt to void my participation.” She takes her bow from Holly and straps the quiver to her back. Stealing one last look in the mirror, she’s pleased to find she cuts an unearthly and imposing figure. Let these men shiver when they see me.

Flanked by Holly, Mikken and several guards – sent by Bennard no doubt, to ensure I do not run – they march from the First Keep and through to the North Gate, outside which an archery field is constructed. At least a dozen mounds are set in a line. Alys breaks into a grin. Mere target practice. Not roving marks, nor splitting the wand. Bennard underestimated me. Good.

The archers check their names upon the roster, and Alys does the same. The Maester was right, many of the most noble houses of the North have sent a son to participate. She sends up another prayer before making her way to her designated marker. Mervyn is to her left, and a Manderly – Jonnel? Or is it Joseth? – to her right. And the line goes down, faces blending.

She walks the paces, gauging the distance between marker and target. She crouches down, and picks up grass and leaves, crumbling them to see which direction the wind blows. She heads back to her marker as she stretches her arms, ignoring the eyes upon her. Finally, the trumpets sound.

“Esteemed lords, ladies and guests! Thank you for your attendance on this day; the day my beloved niece turns seven and ten!” Bennard shouts from his spot on the dais. He has made himself and his sons little thrones to sit upon, above all the other lords and vassals. Alys rolls her eyes. They look foolish.

“The Lady Alysanne is now a woman grown, and it is time for her to choose her bridegroom. And so she has; the one who succeeds her in this tourney shall be the lucky man! Not too hard of a task for such strapping Northern men, I should think.” A cheer rises from the crowd, and she can feel the eyes of all the archer’s boring into her. Let them think they have me. “Now, at the crier’s call, let our tourney begin!”

Alys nocks her arrow, breathing deep as she closes her left eye to aim at the target’s eye. The first arrows loose at the crier’s call. She hits near dead center. It must be the nerves. She sneaks a peek at her competitors – only a few have come as close as she has.

One by one, round after round, the men are eliminated. The crowd, who had once cheered for her future husband, now turn their love to their Lady, becoming more raucous as each arrow is loosed. Alys does not dare to look upon her Uncle. She can feel his ire well enough, and does not need the distraction.

Finally, the last Manderly boy – Jonnel, if the crier is to be believed – is eliminated. “You are a worthy opponent, my lady. I am undeserving of the honor of your hand,” he says, placing a kiss upon her knuckle. She smiles and thanks the man before he makes his way back to his brother.

Only her and Mervyn remain at the butts.

“He may be undeserving of your hand, Lady Alys, but I certainly am more than up to the task,” he scoffs. “I shall even give you my sword as well, as many times as you ask for it and more.” Her rage is set aflame by his words, hotter than dragonfire – so hot, it burns cold. I am going to enjoy this.

The crier calls for them to nock once more. Inhale as you pull, exhale as you release, easy as breathing. She hears him shout loose, so she does. The arrows whistle through the air, and she knows before it lands it will be dead center. She looks over at Mervyn’s target, and his is centered. But not like mine. They send a judge – Lord Mormont, by the looks of it – out to check. Another – Lord Ryswell – joins him. The crowd hushes as they deliberate. Coming to an accord, they summon the crier.

“The Lady Alysanne Stark is our winner!” the crier shouts, and the crowd is insensate. They stomp and cheer and cry for Alys, so loud she can scarce hear herself think. She turns to Mervyn, whose mouth is agape.

“It seems your sword is unworthy of my sheath, Bolton,” she quips over the din. “I wish you and your future lady wife luck; Gods know she’ll need it!” She laughs as Holly and Mikken barrel into her, bundling her in an embrace as they jump up and down.

She looks over their heads – the lords and their sons are shocked, but do not seem angered by the result. Relief begins to set in, until she hears a commotion coming from the dais.

“No, no, no! This is not how this was supposed to go!” Bennard yells as he stomps toward her, mouth foaming. He rips her from Holly and Mikken’s grasp. “You little ingrate! Worthless fucking trollop!”

Before she can react, she hears a crack as her head whips violently. Blood pools on her tongue, tainting her mouth with the taste of copper. He’s hit me. Gods, he’s truly hit me.

The crowd is silent as he grabs her plait, twisting painfully. “You disgust me, you halfbreed whore. Your flagrant disrespect is at an end. I command you to marry the Bolton boy this very night. I don’t care if I have to hold you at sword point to see it done!” His spittle flies in her face.

“Everyone knows that marriage will not be valid in the eyes of Gods and men, as no marriage under threat of the sword is,” she says, voice projecting loud enough for the crowd to hear. “I’ve won, Uncle, fair and true; this contest is at its end. A Lord would take it gracefully, but you are no lord. The real lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North rides from Last Hearth, to take his rightful place on the Winter Throne. I’m certain he will be fair when he metes out the King’s justice.” She smiles menacingly as blood coats her teeth.

He shrieks as he throws her to the ground, kicking her once, twice, thrice in the gut. She coughs, curling into herself in agony. The crowd, regaining its senses, hisses and jeers. The hair-raising sound is enough to pull Bennard from his rage. He turns back to find the Lords in the North looking upon him with disgust, and a crowd so enraged they are near riot.

“Guards! Take the Lady Alysanne to her rooms and bar the door. If she is to act a child, she will be treated like one.” The guards hesitate. “Now!” Bennard shouts. The crowd grows restless as the guards grab her under her arms and drag her back to the keep. She’s begun to grow faint, so she does not hear what Bennard says to try to appease them. Whatever it is, she hopes he fails.

Once she is unceremoniously thrown into her rooms, she begins to laugh. It hurts, terribly, but she cannot help it. Her wretch of an uncle proved as foolish as she always thought. Perhaps the Lords would have been upset at her winning, if they had not been made indignant at her ill treatment. Their beloved Lord Rickon's only daughter, beaten by her uncle in front of Gods and men. And the crowd, filled with small folk and all manners of vassals, loathe him. Now, they all see him for what he truly is. A usurper cunt.

She forces herself up, and gingerly makes her way to her bed. She does not bother with the door, knowing that it will be locked, with guards posted outside it. She does not know what has happened to her bow, and can only pray that Holly or Mikken managed to save it from her Uncle’s wrath.

Consciousness begins to ebb and flow – like the tide. I should have taken the Maester at his word and fled to High Tide. She swears she hears Lymon attempt to gain access to her, but cannot tell if she is dreaming. If it happened in truth, he is clearly denied. Perhaps Bennard means to starve me, or hopes I bleed out internally. She goes back under, and comes to when it is long since dark.

She winces as she attempts to rise. Her ribs and stomach are especially sore, so movement must be made carefully. Once standing, she creeps to her window to look out at the moon. By its placement, she guesses it's the hour of the owl.

Suddenly, she hears a quiet scuffle at her door. She panics, searching for anything in her room that can be used as a weapon. She pockets a letter opener and grabs an iron candlestick for good measure.

Alys braces herself as she hears the lock click. The door opens; all she discerns are shadows and black cloaks. She raises the candlestick, preparing to fight to the death. Then, a hood drops, revealing long, fire kissed hair. She crumbles in relief, and Holly catches her before she hits the floor.

“By the gods, Alys! What did you mean to do with this thing, and in your state?” Holly asks, pointing to the candlestick.

“Hit you with it,” she wheezes, “though I’ll admit, I am not in the best fighting shape. Had hoped I’d get a second wind, but alas.”

Holly shakes her head, busying herself with cataloging all her injuries. Alys looks over her sister’s shoulder, trying to decipher just how she took down the guards. It seems she did not succeed by herself. Mikken holds open the door as the two Manderly brothers pull the unconscious guards inside. Nan the cook steps gingerly over them, basket in hand, with Vayon Cassel and his son Rodwell taking position at the door, which Mikken quietly closes behind him.

“What is this? I don’t understand,” she says. “Where is Maester Lymon?”

“They locked him in his turret, but not before he gave us marching orders,” Holly says. “We’re getting you out, tonight. First to White Harbor, then on a ship to High Tide. Your Aunt and Uncle have been informed of your arrival. Seems the Maester had a contingency plan.”

“He tends to have several,” she quips, wincing. Holly rolls her eyes, before turning back to the Manderlys. “Ribs bruised, not broken. Severe bruising on the abdomen, but doesn’t seem fatal. It’ll be painful, but we’ve got to go by horseback.”

“Aye, I’ll go prepare them now,” says – Joseth? – before making a quick exit.

“Holly, how do we know we can trust them?” she asks.

The remaining Manderly brother kneels before her on the floor. “My lady, my house is loyal to the one true Lord of Winterfell, your brother Cregan. We owe everything we are, our lives and our very home, to House Stark. Beyond house ties, I am here of my own accord. I would pledge my life and loyalty to you, my lady, if you will have me. Allow me, as a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, to swear fealty to you, so you know me to be loyal and true.”

Alys is overwhelmed by the gesture. “Your kindness and loyalty are noted, Ser, but I cannot accept. Your father would be most aggrieved to lose a son and heir in service to a Lady.”

“I am but the second son, my lady. My brother Joseth is the heir, with another brother who can play spare until he takes a wife and begets a son.”

Flabbergasted, all Alys can think is: Oh, so this is Jonnel. “Are you certain, Ser?”

“More than anything. Will you permit me?” he asks, reaching for her hand. She acquiesces.

“I, Jonnel of House Manderly, offer my services to the Lady Alysanne of House Stark. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

Alys swallows, overcome by the earnest show of devotion. I shall cherish his loyalty always. For he is my sworn shield, and I protect what’s mine.

“I, the Lady Alysanne of House Stark, vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise, Ser Jonnnel.” He beams at her for but a moment, before acting upon his vows.

“We must move quickly, my lady,” Jonnel says. “Your cousins have been locked in their rooms, and your Uncle drugged with milk of the poppy. Enough to put him to sleep for a few hours, but no more.”

“And the lords of the North? What of them?” she asks, watching as Holly quickly packs the necessities.

“The lords have seen all they needed to this day; enough to look the other way at your leaving,” says Jonnel. “The vassals, too, are in an uproar. Your brother can expect their support. Aye, your Uncle will not have an easy time of it once he awakes.”

Alys attempts a smile, bruised cheek smarting. “Good. That’s good. What of the guards?”

“Since tonight’s feast was canceled, the Maester thought it smart to have me send the remaining barrels to them directly," says Nan, speaking up from her place in the corner. "I happened to agree – good autumn ale like that shouldn’t be wasted. Outside of these lads, most are too drunk to stand. Though I suppose they’re not standing, neither.”

Alys, with help from Jonnel, walks to her, pulling her into a gentle embrace. “Thank you, sweet Nan. I will not forget this kindness.”

“You are our Lady. No matter where you go, Winterfell is always with you,” the cook says, wiping a tear from Alys’s eye. “Now, I’ve packed provisions. Should be enough for the journey there. But you all need to move now, there’s not much darkness left.”

Mikken steps in front of the door, distraught. “I’m coming, too, for I promised to protect you first! I know I failed, but I won’t again, I swear it!”

Alys's eyes water. “You did not fail me, Mikken. You could never,” she says, gentling the boy. “But I have a new task for you. I need you to protect Nan and the Maester until Cregan or I return. They’ll need you more than I will, and I can trust no one else but you.”

The boy begins to cry, and rushes to hug her. She tries not to flinch, not wanting to hurt the boy further. “I don’t want you to leave,” he hiccoughs.

Alys stiffens her lip, hugging him back. “I do not want to leave you either, sweetling, but I must. We’ll be reunited soon, you’ll see. Can you be brave for me until then?” She feels him nod. “Good lad.”

He wipes his eyes, and moves to Nan’s side. Alys turns to them one last time, offering a parting wave before Holly bundles her in a black cloak and Jonnel hurries them from her rooms. Vayon and Rodwell fall into step behind them. Quiet as ghosts in the crypt, they move through the Keep. They reach the stables with no interference, where Joseth and a stable boy have their mounts prepared.

Jonnel lifts Alys into Wynafryd’s saddle. Holly grabs a bow and quiver, one set of two, from the saddle bag – my bow, Gods be praised. She passes the bow to her before strapping the set she nicked from the armory to her back. The rest of the group races to mount their horses. If anyone spots them from Brandon’s Tower, they raise no alarms.

Alys looks up at the Maester’s Turret. It is dark, so she is unable to discern any movement through the window. She gives a wave anyway, hoping that Lymon can see. She pours her gratitude, and her grief, into the gesture. He knows, he must.

In a flash, they are out the East Gate and barreling into the hills outside. Avoiding the Kingsroad and camping will make the journey safe, but long. With her injuries, it will be many days until they reach the White Knife, and more yet before entering the safety of White Harbor.

Alys ignores her pain as best she can, making it a few hours before it becomes unbearable. As dawn starts to crest, they stop to set up camp. They share some bread and mead amongst them before Alys must rest her eyes. Jonnel offers to take first watch, and the others are happy to oblige.

In a trice, Alys is jostled awake. “Quietly, my lady,” Jonnel whispers. “There is something in the tree line. Prepare yourself.” She moves stand. As Jonnel unsheathes his steel, she moves to grab her bow. Body laid low, she does not even know if she has the strength to nock an arrow, but the weight is a comfort in her hand.

The leaves rustle further, putting everyone on high alert. Finally, they break, out of which come two of the largest wolf pups she has ever seen.They are fighting; no, they are wrestling. One grey, one black, they playful pair are clearly siblings. Alys sucks in a breath.

“They are direwolf pups,” Vayon whispers under his breath. “The sigil of your house, my lady.”

“Impossible,” Rodwell says. “Direwolves haven’t been seen south of the wall in at least a century.”

Until now. Alys quietly moves forward, so as not to startle them. She hears a chorus of “Be careful, my lady,” and “Alys, stop.” Shushing them, she squats low, holding open her palm. The wolf pups stop, and cock their heads. The grey one is more leery, preferring to watch, but the black comes right up to her hand, nudging it before rolling over to expose her belly.

“Hello, my girl. Have you been waiting for me?” Alys coos. The wolf pup’s orange eyes cut through her. I dreamt you. You’re mine, and I’m yours. She rubs her pup’s belly, watching her tongue lob as she smiles.

Alys turns back toward her companions, ignoring their shock. “Joseth, Vayon, search the wood for any sign of the mother. Based on the feel of this one, it has been some time since she ate. I assume the mother is dead, but we must be sure.” Joseth and Vayon nod, and make their way into the tree line. “Holly, check to see if Nan packed some milk for the first night’s journey. If she hasn’t, we’ll stop at the next town. They look nearly weaned, but it's best to be safe.”

“Alys, you can’t mean to keep them!” she hisses.

“Holly is right, my lady,” says Jonnel. "A direwolf is no pet. Even a pup can tear a man’s arm clean from his shoulder.”

“I do not mean to keep them, Ser. I only mean to keep the one. Rodwell,” Alys says, turning toward the lad, “come closer so that you make the grey pup more familiar with your scent. When your father returns, you both will take it toward Last Hearth. You should meet my brother along the way. Present it to him, for it is his by right.”

“Alys!” Holly exclaims.

“I dreamt them, Holly,” Alys says firmly, tone brokering no argument. “They are the sigil of our house. They are meant to be ours; mine and Creg’s.”

“You dreamt them?” she whispers. Alys nods. Though perturbed, Holly complies.

Alys picks up her pup, who burrows into the embrace. She grabs some meat from the provisions, and gives her a bite before gently laying down to rest. She trusts Jonnel and Holly to ensure her orders are followed.

Her pup curls up against her on her mat. She smiles, petting her back. “You’ll be called Frenya,” she whispers as the direwolf snuggles in closer. “We will always protect each other, you and I. Always.”

Alys shuts her eyes. When she dreams, this time it is not of wolves, but of the sea.

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motherodysseus · 1 year

Text

Ptolemaea - A Prologue

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Original Stark Female Character (Alysanne Stark)

Warnings: Death, murderous thoughts, but nothing else... yet!

Word Count: ~2700

Summary: Lady Alysanne Stark buries her mother, the Lady Valaena Velaryon Stark. She and her half-brother Cregan, the should-be Lord of Winterfell, find themselves in a precarious position as their Uncle Bennard refuses to cede his regency. Lines are drawn, and plans are made.

Ethel Cain, the woman that you are... inspired me to write my first fanfic!

“And so, we commit to the crypts, the Lady Valaena Velaryon Stark, who leaves behind one trueborn daughter, the lady Alysanne, and one stepson, Cregan. She rests peacefully next to her husband, the late Lord Rickon Stark, and their son, the late Barthogen Stark. The North remembers her sixteen years of service as Lady of Winterfell.”

It was cold in the crypts, but Alys could not feel it. Rage at this affront has seeped deep into her veins, which, while convenient for keeping warm, is rather less so for a funeral rite in close quarters.

She watches her Uncle Bennard closely. Pompous prick, she thinks ruefully. A usurper playing at a lord, and does he not look oh so pleased at that prospect. She imagines the many ways she could make him suffer for the continued slights upon her family. Admittedly, she does this most days, and finds it her new favorite way to pass the time. This sham of a funeral is not the first slight, though it is one of the most egregious.

Her mother was Velaryon, and she belongs to the sea. Even her father knew it – he had made provisions within his will to allow for his beloved second wife’s remains to be taken back to her birthplace of Driftmark, once the time came.

Now, that time had come, and much too soon. Taken in the hour of ghosts not a sennight past, a fever made quick work of Alys’s mother. Maester Lymon had done what he could. “It is like no fever I have seen, Lady Alys,” he said, after barring her from her mother’s side. He had written to the Citadel, and pored over all the texts available within the walls of Winterfell. But it did not matter. The fever snatched her away in a day and a half. Alys did not even get to say goodbye.

Her greatest protector and champion, her comfort and her safe harbor, is gone. And, rather than fulfilling her mother’s wishes as she ought, Alys is forced to watch as she is locked beneath the ground in an unmarked grave behind her father’s imposing statue. It looks eerily like him. Her eyes fall shut as imagines her father’s spirit inhabiting the statue, granting it just enough life-giving force so that it may lift his sword and lob Bennard’s head clean off.

Her father always said, “he who passes the sentence should swing the sword.” Alys knows that if he were alive to see such treasonous behavior from his own kin, he would make quick work of it. But her father is not here. Nor is her mother, or her little brother. All that remains of their family are her and Creg. Strong, steady Creg, who, despite his age and status, holds her hand tight in his.

He is a good brother, Alys thinks. Mayhaps I could have him nail Bennard to the mound so I may use him for target practice. She suppresses a snort. Nay, he may be a good brother, but he is no kinslayer. It is possible that he could be persuaded, if I swore to not hit the usurper somewhere fatal.

Creg squeezes her hand – in comfort or in remonstration, she cannot say for sure. Perhaps her snort was taken as a repressed sob by others, but she finds it unlikely her brother would not see through it. She schools her face, working to mask the tumult of pain and rage and yes, hilarity at her own violent thoughts, into one of passivity and demure sadness.

“You have the blood of two ancient peoples flowing in your veins,” Alys’s mother had said once after she had landed herself in a spot of trouble – a rather common occurrence. “You are the blood of Old Valyria and the First Men. Your spirit is ruled by your wolf’s blood, 'tis true, but your heart is of the sea. Your wild nature is a gift, though many will seek to punish you for it. You must learn to shield yourself.”

Alys’s mother taught her to play her part, and she would not fail her now.

After several moments of silence, those invited to pay their respects to the late Lady Stark begin to make their way out of the crypts. A sea of faces nod toward Alys and Cregan, and she quietly takes note of each. Karstark, Mormont, the many Flints – are those the ones of Widow's Watch or Flint’s Finger? – Glover, Hornwood, Umber, Manderly, the Boltons of the Dreadfort – a dreadful people, truly, with their flayed men. She shivers, and Cregan squeezes her hand again, and moves to pull him into his shoulder. He thinks me cold, but I have my rage to keep me warm. She lets him hold her, though it does little to quell her growing fury.

No Velaryons are in attendance. Her mother was not only denied her funeral rite, but denied her kin, too, in Bennard’s haste to bury her. “Her illness could be catching,” he had said during the preparations. More likely he wanted to be rid of even the memory of her, Alys thinks, the perpetual thorn in his side and his greatest adversary in his quest to gain Winterfell in full.

Her Velaryon uncles may be the greatest seafarers in all the Seven Kingdoms, but even they could not have made the trip in time. Mayhaps if they had mounted their kin's dragons, but even then, it would be close. She cannot be certain they would have made it at all, what with the recent betrothal and looming wedding of her cousin Laenor to Rhaenyra, the Princess of Dragonstone, but it is yet another slight that they were not even considered. She was forced to write to them herself to inform them of her mother’s passing. There has been no word back, but this is not surprising. Ravens can only move so quickly, no matter how pressing the contents of the missive.

One by one, the guests file out. Nearly all the lords in the North have come to pay their former Lady Stark homage. A testament to her character certainly – though she was an outsider, she did much to earn their respect and ensure their wellbeing. The North prospered under her father and mother’s care. Yet, Alys knows the lords of the North did not make the trip simply to honor her lady mother, nor does she take offense. They are as much here for mourning as they are to take stock of their Lord Paramount. Rather, the man that should be their Lord Paramount, for Cregan turned eight and ten not five moon turns ago. He is a man grown, and well past his age of majority. But their sniveling, spineless wretch of an uncle refuses to cede his regency. “Winter is coming,” he says, “and neither of you have seen one yet.”

Yet, Cregan, like Alys, is a Stark. Winter is Coming; it is always coming. And no Stark worth their salt would be unprepared for it. Winter is Coming, and the North needs a strong lord to lead them through. Winter is coming, and I swear it by the Old Gods, the end of your rapacious power grab is, too, Alys prays silently as she stares daggers into her uncle, putting as much will as she can behind the prayer, so the Old Gods see fit to make it so.

“Come, Cregan,” Bennard says, interrupting her violent thoughts. Yet again. Bastard. “The lords and vassals are only here for a short time, and you must fete them.” He waits for Cregan to fall into step, his nose upturned. Power suits only strong men, Alys muses. 'Tis easy to tell a weak man with power, for when they speak, it looks as if they have smelled sheep dung. She squeezes her brother’s hand, hoping he receives her message to stay behind.

“I will meet you in the hall shortly, Uncle. Alys and I will take a moment ourselves to pay respect to our mother. Then we shall join the mourners at the feast.”

Bennard looks as if he is about to fight him on it. Alys can almost hear him in her mind: “But Cregan, she is naught but your lady stepmother, and the lords are waiting. Come now, you must away.” As if the Lady Valaena did not help raise Cregan, who lost his own mother to the childbed when he was not yet out of the nursery. She loved Cregan as if he were her own, and he loved her the same.

Alys prepares to cut her uncle down with her tongue alone, but, as Bennard’s eyes fall upon her, it seems he decides against crossing her today. Even the village idiot is bound to be right once in a great while, she thinks as he makes his way from the crypt.

The Stark siblings stand side by side for a time. The crypt is quiet now, but Alys finds no peace in it.

“I am sorry, sister. For all of it. This is not how this was supposed to occur,” says Cregan. Alys remains quiet. “I tried to sway him, but he would not be moved.” The silence lingers on, as Alys chooses her words carefully.

“'Tis not a dance, Creg �� he cannot be swayed. The time for persuasion is at its end. Every day he remains in power, he grows bolder. You must see this for what it is – a coup.”

“Alys, please. What you are speaking of, it is unthinkable. In front of our dead kin, no less. And I am no kinslayer.”

“No, you are not. Nor am I asking you to be. But you are the Lord of Winterfell. And it is high time you act like it.”

“Alys –”

“Hear me, Cregan, and heed me, too. If Bennard is bold enough to go against Father’s wishes, wishes he laid out plain upon his death, what is to stop him from continuing to do so? From undoing everything he built? If the words of his Lord, his own brother, mean nothing to him, then we must call him what he is. He is a man without honor. He is a leech and –,” Alys manages to stop herself before the word usurper leaves her lips; she knows her brother would not appreciate it, as true as it may be.

“– he cannot be trusted to act in the best interests of House Stark, nor can he be entrusted with the care of the North. Maester Lymon says the days are growing colder and longer, not that we cannot feel it for ourselves. And now, fevers and sickness –” she sucks in a breath, looking toward her mother’s unmarked tomb. Gone, gone, they are all gone, we are all that is left, we cannot fracture.

“He says all the signs are there to make for a truly terrible winter. Yet Bennard does not act, nor does he yield his power,” Alys’s rage is growing, but she cares not. If there is anyone she can share this with, it is her brother. “He and his sons prance about as if they are the lords of this keep. They are not. And if he will not bend, he must be broken.” Her voice cracks, as her emotions finally overcome her.

Cregan reaches for her, and pulls her into his arms, hugging her close. He may have grown into a fine warrior – the finest the North has ever seen, they all say so – but, like all wolves, he has a soft underbelly, one he only exposes to his family. Consisting of only me now, and it is at this bitter thought that her anger dissipates, and the tears finally flow. The last true wolves in Winterfell stand under the eyes of their lord father’s watchful statue, surrounded by the quiet ghosts of the many Lords and Kings of Winter and all their assorted kin.

“You are right, Alys. By the gods, it is almost vexing how right you always seem to be,” Creg mumbles into her hair. Alys lets out a watery chuckle, and she can feel Creg smile as he pulls away. He holds her shoulders and looks down at her. “Are you sure you would not like to be the Lord of Winterfell?”

“Nay, I would not,” Alys says, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. “The job requires far too much paperwork for my taste.”

“But you are the strongest student Maester Lymon has ever had, as he tells all and sundry.”

“Yes, but a great many do not listen, and those that do would find that the Maester has plenty of notes to give on the sorry state of my figures. He says I ought to marry a rich lord, for if I do not, I will surely render him destitute.” They laugh for a moment, before silence lapses again. Cregan hands drop to his sides as Alys turns back toward the statue of their father.

“He means to sell me, Creg,” Alys whispers.

“He will not. I will not allow it. 'Tis written in Father’s will, you are to choose your lord husband. And I mean to uphold it.”

“Yes, and it was written in his will that Mother’s remains were to be taken to Driftmark. Bennard made his position clear today; he cares not for Father's wishes. Furthermore, it is as you said, he will not be swayed by you. He will sell me to the highest bidder, and gladly. You know he cares not for me. And once I am made into a broodmare –”

“Alys, please –” Cregan turns from his sister and begins to pace like a caged beast. A habit of his since he was small, let loose when frustration overcomes him.

“And once I am made into a broodmare for some faraway poncey prick of a lord,” Alys continues, “he will come for you. ‘When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.’ Is this not what father taught us? And what his father taught him? Bennard may be an idiot, but he is still a Stark; he knows this, just as well as you and I,” Alys watches Cregan tense, but pushes on. The time to mince words is at an end.

“We have never been more vulnerable, Cregan. Mother commanded much respect as the dowager Lady of Winterfell, and championed your cause. Her and the Maester worked to shore up your claim and secure fealty from the great houses. We must continue her work, and we cannot afford to fail. Bennard did utter something of value this day – the great lords of the North and their vassals are here, and they are looking to you. We must rally them to your side.”

“Enough, Alys. It is enough.” Cregan stops his pacing. Alys watches his hand squeeze Ice’s pummel, and his head drop.

“Brother –”

“Yes, you are right. You are always bloody right,” he says, consternation coloring his tone. He turns back to her. “You are a wolf, there is no denying this, but you are so like Mother. I imagine she would be proud to hear such wise counsel from her daughter. But must we plot in front of the dead? Does it not seem…I don’t know, unseemly?”

More gifted with the longsword than with words, my brother, Alys smirks. “It is more scheme than plot, Creg. But your point is sound. Come, let us make haste. We have much to do if this scheme is to properly hatch into a plot, anyhow.”

Alys grabs hold of her brother's arm. As they make their way from the crypts, she glances over her shoulder. She yearns to throw herself at her mother’s grave, and beg her to return from the Merling King to her side. Though she did not get her rite, and the Old Gods may have her remains, her soul is with the sea. It always will be.

Alys wishes desperately to hold her mother close one last time, to feel her hands card through her hair, and even to hide herself in her skirts as she did when she was naught but a child at her hip. “So that I may go everywhere with you, Muña!”

But the time of childish fantasies is at an end. Winter is Coming, and there is much to be done.

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