[Winterfell, 2nd moon, 296AC]
The stillness of the godswood was a balm to Yohn Royce's soul.
It was nothing like the small grove they kept in Runestone, scattered ironwood and rowan trees fed by the thin soil of the Vale, clustered around a weirwood that had stood alone since before the Andal kings came. No, this was older, wilder. The weirwood heart tree here loomed large and pale, its red leaves whispering in the breeze as if repeating the prayers of generations past. The faces carved into the Winterfell tree seemed less stylized than those of the south, more lifelike, and the sap that bled from its eyes looked uncannily like blood.
Yohn walked slowly, keeping pace with his son Waymar, who strode beside him with hands folded behind his back, head tilted toward the canopy above.
They had been guests at Winterfell for nearly a week now, and though the days were filled with sparring, councils, and polite company, it was these quiet moments that Yohn most cherished. It reminded him of his younger days, before lordship and marriage and war had settled like armor upon his shoulders.
Waymar broke the silence.
"They're close, Ysilla and Robb. Anyone with eyes can see it."
Yohn gave a grunt and glanced sideways at his son. Waymar had grown into a fine young man, broader in the chest, sharper of jaw, though his voice still had the boyish pitch of youth. "They are. And well matched, I'd say. Your sister gives him hell when he deserves it, and he, gods help him, seems to like it."
Waymar chuckled. "He does. He'll be Lord of Moat Cailin one day. A good lad, if he keeps listening to his father and Lord Alaric."
Yohn smiled faintly. "Robb Stark's a boy now. But there's the beginnings of a man in him. And Ysilla... she doesn't yield to fools. That's a Royce trait."
"She won't wait forever, though," Waymar said carefully. "You know that."
Yohn stopped before a moss-covered stone, worn from centuries of storms. He placed a gloved hand on its surface and looked again at the red leaves swaying above. "I've thought about it," he said after a moment. "But I will not press Alaric Stark during a time of rebuilding. The North is still healing from war, they've even stepped into a period of prosperity. When the time is right, we'll speak of it."
Waymar nodded and said nothing more. They resumed their slow walk.
The sound of rustling leaves and a low, steady breath soon caught their attention. A flicker of movement through the boughs revealed a man seated at the foot of a tree, a tall figure dressed in black and grey, half-reclined as if asleep.
But it wasn't just the man that drew Yohn's eye.
The two beasts flanking him were as large as small ponies.
One, storm grey in fur, was curled behind him like a living wall, its massive head resting beside Alaric's shoulder, the deep rise and fall of its chest rumbling with the cadence of slumber. The other, a female with a coat like smoldering ash, lay with her head across Alaric's lap. Her golden eyes were closed, but one ear twitched at their approach.
"Gods," Waymar breathed.
Alaric's eyes opened without warning.
He didn't sit up, but he turned his head slightly toward them, the moonlight casting a cold gleam across his pale grey eyes. "You're both welcome," he said in a quiet voice that didn't disturb the peace of the grove. "Cinder and Tempest won't bite. Not unless I tell them to."
Waymar offered a half-smile and stepped forward more readily than Yohn expected. "That's... comforting, my lord."
Yohn remained a few paces back, though his eyes were locked on the wolves. Tempest let out a snore that might've shaken a tower, while Cinder blinked once before returning her gaze to dreams.
"I've seen hounds. I've hunted with mastiffs. But these?" Yohn said, still staring at the direwolves. "I still can't believe I'm seeing them in the flesh. Until we came here, I thought they were tales. My grandmother used to tell me stories of them, but I never thought—"
"You weren't alone," Alaric replied, stroking Cinder's head idly. "Most in the South think them extinct. Or myths."
"In the Vale, they call them Stark propaganda," Waymar added, glancing at his father. "Tales to frighten lords who forget the North exists."
Alaric laughed softly. "I imagine they'd say the same of snow giants and Children of the Forest."
Yohn finally approached and sat across from him on a patch of dry roots. Waymar followed suit. Even seated, Alaric seemed to tower above them, framed by slumbering beasts and ancient trees.
"You find it funny," Yohn said, "but it's true. When Greyjoys' Rebellion ended, some claimed you rode into Pyke atop a white direwolf the size of a horse."
Alaric gave a faint smirk. "I walked. Through blood and ash. No white wolves that day."
Yohn studied him for a moment. "I've seen men fear many things. Gold, blades, storms, even tales of long-dead dragons. But these wolves..." He looked to Tempest. "You don't need words to command a room, Lord Alaric. Not with those at your side."
"They're not beasts of war," Alaric said, voice quieter now. "They're companions. Children of the gods, if you believe the stories."
Yohn raised a brow. "Which gods?"
"The old ones," Alaric replied, looking to the heart tree. "The First Men's gods. Edrin the Greenman brought the pups north after a vision. He said the gods whispered to him beneath the earth. Told him the wolves were born of weirwood and moonlight, and that they belonged here."
Waymar blinked. "Edrin the Greenman?"
"A strange man," Alaric admitted. "Died less than half a year after he came to Winterfell, said bringing the pups was his last duty to the gods. But he taught my men to care for the grove, for the wolves. Some say he was touched by the Old Gods. Others think he was mad. I suppose both can be true."
Yohn nodded slowly. "House Royce kept the old gods once. We bent the knee to Artys Arryn after our defeat, and over time, most of us began keeping the Seven. My grandsire never called on them, not once. My father and his siblings were a different story, but I never did, nor my eldest, Andar, Ysilla, nor Waymar. Robar and one of my daughters they've taken to the Faith, but I've never forced the choice."
Alaric looked to him, interested now. "You pray here?"
"Every morning," Yohn said. "It's not Runestone, but the gods are the same."
"There's power in that," Alaric said, brushing Cinder's fur. "To keep both. Balance, maybe. Or defiance."
"I see it as stone," Yohn said, planting a palm into the frozen earth. "Old stone doesn't yield. It remains, even when it's cracked. My ancestors carved our seat into the bones of the Vale. That stone remembers. Just like the trees do."
Alaric said nothing for a time. The wind whispered through the leaves above.
Then, at last, he gave a small nod. "Perhaps our houses aren't so different, Lord Royce."
[Later that night]
Later that night, Winterfell's great hall pulsed with warmth and the quiet murmur of fire-lit conversation.
The long feast was done, the trenchers cleared, and wine cups refilled with dark Arbor red and spiced Northern cider. Children played in shadowed alcoves while guards and retainers lounged near the hearths, boots off, bellies full.
Yohn sat in a heavy oaken chair, worn smooth by time, near a low-burning fire. Waymar lounged on a cushioned bench beside him, Ysilla seated across the room in animated conversation with young Robb Stark and Sansa Stark.
The two boys, Bran and Edwyn Stark, chased each other through the legs of seated men, swinging wooden swords and arguing about who would become the greatest warrior when they were grown.
At another hearth sat Jory Cassel and his wife Jonelle Cerwyn, their young son, Martyn, just a toddler of 1, sat bouncing on Jory's knee as he played with the boy, making faces, much to the loving amusement of his wife, who was already heavy with child once again.
"Winterfell has changed," Yohn said aloud.
Waymar looked to him. "How so?"
"It used to feel cold. Not the weather, though there's no mistaking the North, but the spirit. In Lord Rickard's time, and even in Lord Edwyle's, there was a certain... austerity. Duty before all. But Alaric brings something different. A fierceness, yes. But also warmth. They follow him not because he is Lord, but because he is theirs."
Waymar looked to where Alaric sat beside the high hearth, Tempest curled beside his chair, tail thumping now and again as Arya Stark scratched his ears. Cinder lounged near Alys Karstark and Beth Cassel, Ser Rodrik's young daughter scratching the massive she-wolf's belly, both girls whispering and giggling, the great she-wolf dozing without worry.
"They trust him," Waymar said. "I don't know if it's the wolves, or the eyes, or the way he speaks. But he doesn't lie. Not even to spare a friend."
"Aye," Yohn agreed. "And that is a rare thing."
There was laughter at the dais. Catelyn Stark leaned toward her husband, saying something that made Eddard smile, and Smalljon Umber, full of meat and mead, roared with approval at some jest from Ser Harald Stark.
Yohn turned again to Waymar. "I'll speak with Alaric tomorrow. About Ysilla and Robb. He'll listen."
Waymar raised his cup and nodded. "She'll be glad to hear it."
Yohn took a long drink and let the fire warm his bones. The Royce words came to him, unbidden but sure.
We Remember.
[The Next day, the Lord's Solar]
Lord Yohn Royce stood before the oaken door of Lord Alaric Stark's solar, his hands clasped behind his back. Sunlight poured through the narrow windows of the Great Keep's corridor, casting long shadows on the ancient stone walls. Despite the quiet, Yohn could hear faint movement from within, papers shuffling, a quill scratching.
He raised a fist and knocked once.
"Enter," came the voice from within, low and unmistakable.
Yohn stepped into the solar, a room of dark woods, pale stone, and thick rugs, warmed by a fire burning low in the hearth. A map of the North lay spread over the central table, weighted with stones and carved figurines. Alaric Stark sat behind it, hunched slightly, scribbling notes in the margins. Tempest lay by the hearth, one eye cracked open as Yohn entered, and Cinder lounged near the window, her tail flicking lazily.
"My lord," Yohn said.
Alaric glanced up and gestured to the chair opposite him. "Lord Royce. I expected you sooner."
Yohn chuckled and took his seat. "Aye. Thought it best not to rush things. I wanted time to watch the children, to judge the truth of what my eyes told me."
"And?" Alaric folded his hands, setting the quill aside.
"They fancy one another," Yohn said. "Not in the shallow way children sometimes do. There's trust there, and something more. A kinship, forged without our meddling."
Alaric leaned back, silent. Cinder turned her head toward him briefly, sensing his attention sharpen.
Yohn continued, "Ysilla challenges Robb. And he rises to meet it, every time. She'll be no docile wife, and he'll be no timid lord."
"That much is clear," Alaric said with a faint smile. "Robb speaks of her often. More often than he realizes. She humbles him, and he needs that. As for Ysilla, I think she finds in him something strong and kind. And something steady, which she craves more than she knows."
Yohn nodded. "I won't waste time dancing around the matter. I'd have them betrothed. Officially. Both are of the same age, just a couple of years from their majority. A few more years before marriage, but the betrothal should be made."
Alaric studied him, eyes pale and unreadable. Then he said, "You ask this not for ambition, but for love."
Yohn nodded. "Ambition has its place. I'd not insult your intelligence by claiming otherwise. But this… this is good for both our Houses. Robb will rule Moat Cailin one day. Ysilla will help him rule it well."
Alaric stood and walked to the fire, gazing into the embers. "You'll have my answer shortly."
Yohn said nothing as the lord of Winterfell stared into the flames. The silence stretched until Alaric finally turned.
"She's strong," Alaric said. "Clever, willful, and not without a sense of justice. I've come to respect her. Robb listens to her, even when she tells him truths he doesn't want to hear."
He moved to the table, picked up a carved wolf figurine, and set it down beside a bronze falcon, one of the pieces Yohn recognized as the Vale's.
"I'll consent to the betrothal," Alaric said. "On one condition."
Yohn raised a brow. "And that is?"
"That they both agree to it. Freely. I will not shackle Robb to anyone, not even a Royce, unless his heart leads him there."
A grin crept over Yohn's lips. "You're a romantic, my lord."
Alaric snorted. "Hardly. But I've seen what happens when love is denied. And when duty becomes a chain."
Yohn rose and extended his hand. "Then we are agreed."
They clasped forearms, the grip firm and brief.
"Shall we tell them?" Alaric asked.
"I suspect they already know," Yohn said dryly, tilting his head toward the door.
Alaric strode forward, threw it open, and there, just outside, stood Robb and Ysilla, shoulder to shoulder, eyes wide with guilt. Robb's face turned red, while Ysilla, ever the bolder of the two, simply raised her chin in defiance.
"How long?" Yohn asked, arms folding.
"Not long," Ysilla said innocently. "Just passing by."
"Passing by the solar at the exact moment we're discussing your betrothal?" Alaric said, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Robb rubbed the back of his neck. "We might've... lingered. A bit."
Alaric looked to Yohn, who chuckled.
"You're both terrible spies," Yohn said, stepping forward. "But since you're here... we've agreed. If you two are willing, the betrothal will be made official."
Robb looked to Ysilla, then to Alaric. "Truly?"
Ysilla's eyes narrowed. "Are you asking your father or me?"
Alaric laughed.
Robb looked to her again, earnest. "Will you have me?"
Ysilla tilted her head. "Only if you promise never to get fat and boring."
Robb grinned. "Never."
"Then I suppose I will."
They embraced quickly, not quite daring to kiss in front of their father and cousin, respectively, and then turned and ran, hand in hand, down the corridor.
Alaric watched them go. "The gods help us."
Yohn sighed. "We'll need it."
[Later That Evening, Godswood]
The godswood was quiet again, the branches dark against the early evening sky. Cinder and Tempest were not present this time, giving the grove a softer peace.
The leaves whispered in the stillness as Robb and Ysilla sat on a moss-covered stone by the pond, the heart tree's red eyes watching over them.
"I can't believe they said yes," Robb said.
"I can," Ysilla replied. "They're not blind."
He looked to her, the firelight of his spirit gleaming in his smile. "You're sure about this?"
Ysilla leaned against him. "I'm not the type to say yes lightly."
He nodded, silent for a while. "What now?"
"Now?" She smiled. "Now we do what we've always done. Be ourselves. Drive each other mad. And when the time comes, we get married."
Robb exhaled. "Right. That's... oddly comforting."
She laughed softly and leaned her head on his shoulder. They sat like that a long while, until the shadows thickened and the stars blinked into being above the branches.
[Winterfell's Great Hall, the next day]
The next day, the formal announcement was made after the midday meal.
Alaric Starl stood before the high table, flanked by Yohn and Eddard Stark. The hall grew quiet as the Lord of Winterfell raised a hand.
"It is my pleasure to announce the betrothal of Robb Stark of Winterfell, future Lord of Moat Cailin, to Lady Ysilla Royce of Runestone, daughter of Lord Yohn Royce."
A murmur of approval swept through the room, followed by warm applause. Catelyn Stark rose and placed a hand on her son's shoulder, pride in her smile. Yohn's family, seated together, beamed at Ysilla. Waymar clapped the loudest of them all.
Ser Rodrik Cassel, standing at the side of the room, leaned over to Beth and whispered, "They'll suit each other well, those two."
From the back of the hall, Smalljon Umber bellowed, "A match as strong as stone and steel!"
Wine flowed freely that night, and laughter filled the high-vaulted chamber. Songs were sung, some of the North, some of the Vale, and one bawdy tune from the Fingers that had Ser Harald Stark howling with mirth, his two bastard sons Edric and Elric joining in.
Robb and Ysilla danced, stiffly at first, then with more ease, more joy, as the hall cheered them on.
Later, Alaric and Yohn stood near the high hearth again, watching the celebration unfold.
"You've given me something to look forward to," Yohn said.
"You've given my cousin someone to walk beside," Alaric replied.
The fire crackled between them. No further words were needed.
Outside, the wind shifted through the snow-laden trees.
And in the godswood, beneath the gaze of the old gods, two direwolves howled in unison, a song of approval, or perhaps warning, echoing through the darkening sky.