"Death took my body, but the cold gave me form again. In the heart of winter, I awoke—not as who I was, but who I must become."
(Third POV)
In the great hall of Winterfell, a family of three could be seen taking their midday meal. Lady Alisa Stark, wife to the current Lord Paramount of the North, Rickon Stark, fussed over their young son Alaric Stark, who was stubbornly refusing to eat. The boy, only four years old, was everything to them. Every parent believed their child to be special, but in Alaric's case, it was truer than most.
At only four, he spoke in full sentences, counted numbers beyond his years, and even in his toddling days, had never once stumbled. There was a maturity to him that sometimes left even his parents uncertain if they were speaking with a child at all. His only stubbornness lay in his eating; he oft complained the food was "bland."
"Al, dear, ye need to eat proper," Alisa said gently, brushing his hair back. "If ye won't eat, how're ye to grow strong like your father?"
She looked toward Rickon with a sigh. "Why don't ye speak to him, my lord? He's barely touched his food."
Lord Rickon, lost deep in thought, blinked and roused himself. "What? Aye, sorry, my love. I was elsewhere in my mind."
"Is aught the matter?" Alisa asked, concern touching her voice.
Rickon shook his head, though his expression was troubled. "Nay, just a letter from Lord Umber. He's still sore about the New Gift."
Alisa frowned. "Is it still about you not doing aught about it?"
"Aye," Rickon said with a heavy sigh. "He bids me petition the King again. I've written countless times already, and yet... no reply. It's as though they care naught for the North's plight."
"Father," piped up Alaric suddenly, his grey eyes bright, "why can't we just use that land?"
Rickon sighed again, readying himself for the long explanation. "Because, lad, it's not ours anymore. We can't just take what don't belong to us."
"But..." Alaric frowned, thinking hard. "Since we can't take it... what if we borrowed it from the Night's Watch?"
Rickon raised an eyebrow. "Borrowed it, you say? Speak plain, lad."
Alaric sat straighter. "Well, I heard at court, when a farmer came askin' for tools. He had no coin to buy new ones, and ye said he could borrow from Old Farmer Harl, who cannae work his fields no more. In return, he gives some of his crop. Right?"
Rickon nodded slowly.
" If the Night's Watch does not use all the New Gift, mayhap we could borrow the land. We tend it, and give them some o' the harvest in return"
Even the guards by the door were listening now, mouths slightly open at the clear voice of a mere four-year-old offering a solution to a problem that had plagued the North for decades. Rickon Stark stared at his son, stunned.
The lad's face was twisted in disgust—but only at the food before him. He was utterly unaware of the weight of the matter he had just spoken on, as though solving it was no harder than tying his own boots.
At that moment, Rickon Stark truly realised how clever his boy was. Alaric had solved one of the greatest woes of the North, just by paying heed to a simple court case.
"It is feasible..." Rickon muttered, thinking aloud. "If we strike a deal with the Watch, none can say aught about it. Even the king himself."
Rickon stood abruptly, kissing his son and wife on their foreheads before striding off to find Maester Walys.
Alisa smiled warmly at her son. "Ye did good, Al. But what have I told ye about eavesdropping at court?"
"That I shouldn't do it," Alaric mumbled, looking sheepish.
"That's right," she said, chuckling. "Now then, are ye excited for your nameday celebration? Folk from all over the North will be coming."
"Aye, Mother. I'm excited! Father said after my fourth nameday I can watch the soldiers in the yard... but I can only start training when I'm six."
"That's right, my little wolf. But promise me this — when ye meet the lords and their kin, ye'll show 'em respect. These men have stood by House Stark for generations. There's no finer folk in all Westeros."
"I will, Mother," Alaric said, his voice solemn.
"Good lad. Now finish your food, else it gets colder still. If you mean to be a lord, you best learn to stomach worse than this."
Alaric made a face of supreme distaste, but under his mother's watchful gaze, he dutifully ate every bite.
That night, Alaric tossed and turned with excitement, too eager for sleep. Tomorrow would be his nameday — a grand day. He would be four years old, and finally allowed to watch the soldiers in the yard.
But when the morning came... he did not rise.
His nursemaid, worried, tried to rouse him. She gasped upon feeling his burning skin and rushed to fetch the Maester, screaming for Lady Alisa as she ran.
When Maester Walys arrived, he found the young lord's skin hot as a forge and his dark hair catching a faint reddish hue under the torchlight.
Moments later, Lady Alisa stormed into the room, her face pale with terror. "What's happened to my boy, Maester?! Why's he burning up so?!"
The old Maester looked grave. "I cannot say for certain, my lady. He shows signs of the summer fever... but there is somethin' strange. The change in his hair, the burning heat — it is like no fever I've treated before. I must tend to him carefully."
"Please... do what ye must," Alisa begged, her voice trembling.
"Aye, my lady," he said, already preparing his tools.
For three long days, Alaric did not wake. He murmured constantly in his sleep, and the words he spoke were strange and frightening.
"Damn it, Rob... you idiot."
"No, not there... anywhere but there, please..."
"Heh... you're so pretty, Dany..."
"Waifus... hehehe, real waifus..."
The words made little sense to anyone listening. The household was unnerved, even frightened.
(Alisa Stark POV)
These were the worst days of my life.
My sweet, clever boy... fighting for his life. I would not leave him, not for a moment. The feast for his nameday went on without me; Rickon, gods bless him, took all duties onto himself.
I prayed to the Old Gods... even to the Seven, though I had little love for southern gods. I begged for mercy. But no prayer seemed enough.
Her only comfort was the strange mutterings from Alaric's fevered sleep. Words she didn't understand—Daenerys, waifus—but when he laughed, it wasn't the high laugh of a child. It was a chuckle more fitting for a young man, a lad looking fondly on a sweetheart.
"Milady, please," begged Jenny, her handmaiden. "Ye must eat summat. It's been two days now."
"I'll eat when my son eats," Alisa said, voice firm as steel.
"But milady—"
"Leave me, Jenny. I wish to be alone."
Reluctantly, the maidservant withdrew.
The chamber grew quiet, save for the soft rasp of Alaric's breathing. Sometimes he mumbled more nonsense—about robes, about something called "waifus"—and Alisa could do nothing but hold his little hand and wait.
At some point, she drifted into an uneasy sleep.
She woke with a start. A movement—a shift on the bed.
Her eyes snapped open just in time to see her son stirring, blinking slowly. His hair still bore a faint reddish glint... but more striking were his eyes. They were no longer the simple grey of his father's line. Now, there was a faint silver glow to them, as though starlight had been caught within.
His gaze locked with hers. For a long, terrible moment, she felt as though he saw through her—every heartbeat, every breath laid bare.
Then, fear flashed across Alaric's face. He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the silver sheen was gone. Only grey remained.
"...Mother?" he croaked, voice hoarse but clear.
It was one word. Just one. But it shattered Alisa's restraint. She leapt forward, gathering him into her arms, weeping freely.
"Are ye alright, Mother? Does your stomach hurt?" he asked, confusion in his voice.
Silly boy. He did not even know the fear he had caused.
She wanted to scold him, to shake him, to ask what in the name of the gods he had dreamt of. Instead, she only whispered, again and again:
"Everything's alright, son. Everything's alright."