Alaric II

[Barrowtown, 4th moon, 289AC]

Dustin banners still hung, tattered and bloodied, on Barrowton's gates.

A sullen wind tugged at them now, a chill that crept in from the north despite the season. Alaric Stark stood upon the ramparts of the old stone castle, of Barrow Hall, the scent of charred wood and dried blood still lingering beneath the summer air. The barrowfield stretched out before him, quiet now, but for days it had echoed with the screams of the dying and the clash of steel.

Below, the townsfolk moved like ghosts, tending to the wounded, reinforcing the walls, and collecting what scraps could still be salvaged. Mourning songs drifted on the breeze, the low, sorrowful chants of northern smallfolk, blending into something older than either.

The North grieved.

Alaric's eyes followed the slow limp of a guardsman passing through the courtyard, arm in a sling and face wrapped in linen. His name was Harwood. A good fighter. Alaric had seen him cut down a Greyjoy axeman before a second reaver crushed his kneecap with a mace.

So many names. So many dead.

They had held the walls, and it had cost them.

He turned his gaze east, toward the patchwork of burned fields and broken siege equipment that littered the land beyond the town's outer defenses. The Ironborn had come in their fury, crashing against Barrowton's ancient walls like the sea itself. But they had found more than they bargained for.

The trick, as it turned out, had been luck.

It had been sheer luck or even the will of the Old gods that Alaric and his small host of horse and foot had arrived in the nick of time, crashing into the Ironborn and throwing them back to sea.

Alaric had hoped there would be a reprieve following the battle, but as it turns out, luck wasn't on his side in this endeavor.

As soon as he thought they were due for a break, the ravens came.

One from Winterfell bore the mark of a direwolf, and in the hand of Alaric were words from Ser Harald Stark, and Maester Luwin, praises for the defense, grim notes of the greater storm to come. Another bird from Riverrun brought news from Tytos Blackwood, his seal cracked but the words untouched:

Lord Hoster rallies the Riverlords. House Mallister has harried Ironborn longships at Seagard, casting the reavers back out to sea, but not before slewing the heir to the Iron Islands, Rodrik, in the process. A storm brews across the kingdoms. The wolf must rise before the kraken poisons the well.

A third raven bore the seal of the White Harbor Starks, stamped in turquoise wax with the yellow-gold Direwolf of the branch based in White Harbor. Ser Benjicot Stark's neat hand detailed the movement of twenty carracks under his command. They had taken the western sea route, skirting around the Iron Isles in a broad arc.

Alaric read the final line twice.

We are near Flint's Finger. Tell the Lord of Barrowton to hold. The tide is turning.

[Winterfell, 6th moon, 289AC]

Alaric and his men had made their return to Winterfell a little under a week after the battle, while here, the gathering of Starks from the three different branches, as well as Lord Cerwyn who had ridden north with his 2,000 men, had spent day and night making war plans, the raids were one thing, but this battle– no, this siege that Victarion Greyjkoy had tried, was nothing less then a direct declaration of war.

It wasn't just war between the North and the Iron Islands, but the Iron Throne against the squids, following the burning of the Lannister fleet and the fool of a squid crowning himself King.

At the moment, Alaric sat in his solar alone, contemplating troop movements and the speed at which his bannermen could raise their forces in comparison to when he thought the crown would call for a full-scale assault, knowing King Robert, it was only a matter of time.

A soft knock broke his concentration.

"You may enter," he said, folding his parchments as Ser Torrhen, his ever dutiful sworn shield, let him know of his cousin's arrival.

The door creaked open to reveal little Sansa, a girl of 5. She wore a simple grey cloak today, hood down, hair braided with care. Her eyes, blue as a clear winter sky, peered up at him with a mix of concern and reverence. She was growing into herself, elegant like her mother, but with something calmer beneath the surface.

"May I stand with you, my lord?" she asked, her childlike voice a stark contrast to the seriousness she tried to muster.

"You may always stand with me," Alaric replied. He offered her his arm, and she took it gently, standing beside him as they looked out across the wounded town.

"It's quieter now," Sansa said after a time.

"For now."

She looked up at him. "Will you leave with Father and the other men?"

He did not answer at first. His fingers tightened slightly on the seat's edge.

"There is a war to fight, sweet cousin. If I don't lead them, another must."

"But… you've already fought," she said softly. "You're only—"

"Ten. I know." He looked down at her, offering a small smile. "But I am also Lord of Winterfell. The Ironborn don't ask how old we are when they burn our homes."

Sansa nodded, not looking satisfied but trying to understand as best a child could.

"You were very brave," she said.

He blinked. "You sound surprised."

"No," she replied. "Just proud."

They stood a while longer before he gently tapped her forehead with his index finger. "Go find your siblings and your mother. Supper will be brought soon."

Sansa giggled at his tap as she got off the sofa and curtsied, turning to go, leaving him with the wind and his thoughts.

Alaric didn't have the heart to tell his younger cousin that he planned to skip their midday meal to go and train in the yard to further acclimate himself to a small body, especially now that he had a new, famed sword to wield, Nightfall.

[Later that evening, the Great Hall]

Wandering through the halls of Winterfell, Alaric entered the great hall, looking for his uncle Ned. Instead, He found Ned's wife, Lady Catelyn, seated beside a hearth in the great hall. Catelyn Stark had not changed her gown all day. She looked tired.

"You missed the midday meal," she said, motioning him to sit.

"I wasn't hungry."

She frowned. "You never are, these days."

They sat in silence for a moment, only the fire crackling between them.

Catelyn reached over and took his hand. "You are a lord, yes. But you are also my husband's nephew, and by extension, my nephew."

Alaric was understandably surprised at Lady Catelyn's remark, she and him havent had a very stable, nor good relationship since they met, however, thinking back, Alaric had noticed that while she kept her distance, in the past few years as She and Ned's brood grew, she started warming up to him and caring more for him as well.

"I know we haven't had the best relationship, but I do wish to try at least to mend the rift and maybe even create a good relationship with you in the future." Catelyn declared, "And I pray you do not mistake this as a gesture to try and curry favor for my Robb, I truly wish to… get to know you better, nephew." She finished, adding the last part hesitantly

As he listened, Alaric couldn't help but feel the same, while they may never have an extremely close relationship, it's better for everyone if they are at least cordial.

"Aye, I can try… Aunt Catelyn." Alaric said, adding the last bit with a small smirk

For the rest of the night before they retired to their quarters, Alaric and Catelyn continued to have idle conversation as the rest of their family entered, and the Starks, a growing pack, spent the evening enjoying one another's company.

Robb, Jon, Rickard, and Osric ran around reenacting great battles, while Sansa and her growing pack of she-wolves, Lyarra, Branda, and Berena, chatted with each other, braiding their hair and giggling away.

The two toddlers, little Bran and Edwyn, Lord Artos' youngest, were swaddled by their mother,s who also chatted with one another.

And off to the side, beside the fire, Alaric watched on with a small forming smile, as his Uncle's Ned and Benjen followed by Lord Artos, Ser Harald and Ser Torrhen approached and sat beside him, the group of men, and boy, as much as it pained him to say, held mundane conversation of battles of old and avoided grim talk of the coming storm.

For that one night in Winterfell, all seemed well with the North.

[Off the coast of Blacktyde Island, 7th moon, 289AC]

The sea was dark with the omen of conquest.

Following the Kraken's declaration of independence, King Robert had finally sent out ravens mobilizing the realm, Now, House Stark is set to take over Blacktyde Island, an island filled with vital timber and shipyards, before regrouping with the King and his host on Pyke.

The Squids had been practically eradicated from the seas; now all that was left were the holdouts on the various islands.

From the prow of the Wolf's Howl, the new Flagship of the North, a large Galley capable of carrying 500 men as opposed to the usual 300, special from the other twenty that were crafted from the Barrowton shipyards, Alaric Stark watched the black silhouette of Blacktyde Island draw ever closer. Ten thousand men, Northmen, every last one, filled the decks of captured longships, carracks, and galleys stretched across the horizon. Behind them trailed the banners of Winterfell, of White Harbor, of High Hill, Deepwood Motte, Barrowton, the Rills, and even the different Mountain Clans, a surprise to many, along with others. Weathered veterans, most of them having fought for the Starks during Robert's Rebellion, some even old enough to have seen the Ninepenny Kings, now drawn back to war by the kraken's defiance. They had come not for glory, but for justice.

Alaric stood at the bow, Nightfall sheathed at his side, the cool salt air tugging at his cloak. The blade felt heavier now. Not physical weight, as Valyrian Steel was lighter than normal steel, but from the idea that he was marching off to war once again, something he did all too often in his first life as King of Winter.

"Land in sight," came the cry from the crow's nest. A roar of preparation rolled across the fleet like thunder.

They made landfall at dawn.

The first to fall were the villages. Isolated fishing hamlets, their men already taken by the sea or slain in skirmishes with Riverlords, offered little resistance. The Northern host advanced methodically, burning ships, cutting down Ironborn who dared to stand, and leaving garrisons of Cerwyn and Ryswell men to hold the shore.

It was no simple raid. It was the razing of a culture.

By the third day, the lesser holdfasts of Blacktyde's sworn banners had been taken. The warhorns of the Northmen called across the hills and gullies of the island, rallying forward under cover of rain and mist. Lord Artos Stark, tasked with cleaning up the island of any remaining holdouts, rode at the head of the High Hill contingent, while Ser Benjicot Stark of White Harbor led his sailors on the coast, scouting for any fleeing ironborn. Benjen was tasked with securing the granaries and storehouses, at his back 200 riders. Not a single stronghold withstood the storm.

Alaric and his uncle Ned led the vanguard toward Blacktyde Castle itself.

The ancient keep was a crude thing, more squat than tall, made of black stone and crowned with salt-stained iron spikes. It stood upon a high crag overlooking the sea, defiant to the end. Ironborn archers loosed arrows from its walls, while warhorns bellowed within.

"From how desperate their volleys are, some not even reaching the camp, the Blacktyde defenders surely have seen that Winter is coming for them," Ser Torrhen said at Alaric's side, the two Starks sporting a wolfish grin

They breached the outer walls before dusk.

Alaric fought at the front, his helm gleaming dark with seawater and soot. The Northmen moved like a tide, shoving through breach points with ladders and siege rams taken from Barrowton's defense. Atop the ramparts, the Ironborn resisted with brutal desperation.

At the base of the inner gate, amidst bodies and broken shields, Alaric met Lord Blacktyde.

The Ironborn lord was taller than most, his beard streaked with silver, and his eyes mad with the salt-fury that gripped his people. He wore a shirt of blackened mail and carried a hooked axe in one hand and a cutlass in the other.

"You're the Wolf Lord, I presume?" Blacktyde growled, stepping over a fallen soldier. "Heard you were a boy."

"I heard you were a lord," Alaric said sarcastically, yet flat at the same time, unsheathing Nightfall.

Their blades clashed in a spray of sparks.

The duel raged across the wet stone, surrounded by chaos. Nightfall's Valyrian steel sang with each strike, parrying the hooked axe, dancing past the cutlass. Alaric fought not as a boy, but as the man he had once been, King Alaric I, son of King Rickon IV, reborn.

Blacktyde pressed hard, strength and rage driving his blows. Alaric answered with speed, precision, and cold resolve. A feint to the left, a twist of his hips, a lunge, Nightfall slid beneath the Ironborn's guard and sank deep into his side.

Blacktyde grunted in mortal anguish.

"You… were supposed to be a child…"

"I was," Alaric whispered, and pulled the blade free.

The Ironborn lord fell.

By nightfall, the ironborn banners had been pulled down from Blacktyde Castle. Fires lit the horizon. Prisoners were taken, captives bound. Lord Blacktyde's son and heir, Baelor Blacktyde, a boy of 8, was found with his mother and uncle, Sigfryd Blacktyde. The elder Blacktyde tried and failed to retaliate, getting run through by Ser Torrhen's blade. The Northern banners were planted high atop the battlements, the direwolf flying victorious over salt and stone.

In the war tent, Alaric stood before a large wooden map, pinned with markers showing seized ports and strongholds.

"We've broken their back here," Ser Harald Stark said, wiping his blade clean. "The rest will crumble."

"Not if they dig in at Pyke," Lord Cerwyn muttered. "That place is a death trap."

Alaric said nothing, staring hard at the edge of the map where Pyke lay.

"The fleet sails within the hour," came Ser Benjicot's voice from the entrance. "The royal army's mustering near Lannisport. Word is Robert marches at the head."

"Aye," Alaric said. "While the royal fleet musters, we shall lay the groundwork and begin the siege of Pyke."

The next morning, the Northern fleet set sail, Blacktyde shrinking behind them like a ghost in the mist. Alaric stood at the prow once more, Nightfall strapped across his back, his grey cloak snapping in the sea wind.

Ten thousand veterans sailed with him. And behind them, the North's vengeance.

Ahead lay Pyke.

And the end of the war.