[Winterfell, Great Hall, 6th Moon, 298 AC]
The Great Hall of Winterfell was heavy with the smell of roasted meats, fresh bread, and the cool breath of stone. Dawn light poured through the narrow windows, catching in the golden curls of Jaime Lannister as he stood behind the dais, arms crossed, eyes sharp beneath a lazy facade. King Robert Baratheon sat at the center of the high table, a great slab of ham in one hand, a goblet in the other, roaring with laughter at something Lord Alaric Stark had said. Ned Stark offered a wry smirk beside them, though his eyes wandered more than his mouth. And to Robert's left sat Cersei.
She was resplendent in green and gold, her hair coiffed just so, her gown threaded with Myrish silk. But none of it masked the growing frost on her face. Her displeasure clung to her like smoke, visible, acrid, and unyielding. Jaime saw it in the way her jaw tensed, the subtle press of her nails against the table, the absent motion of fingers tightening her goblet's stem. He knew it well. It mirrored his own frustration.
Greycloaks. Dozens of them, patrolling at every hour, loyal hounds of the North clad in dark grey and silver. Alaric Stark's personal army. Silent, dutiful, ever-present. And ever in the way.
Since the royal party had arrived in Winterfell, Jaime and Cersei had found no time alone. No hidden corners. No secret stairwells. Even the Queen's own chambers were watched, under the guise of protecting the king's children, of course. But he knew the truth. Alaric was no fool. The Lord of Winterfell had the castle wound around his long fingers like a blade in a sheath. And for that, Jaime hated him just a little more each morning.
Cersei hated him more than that. Her glares toward Alaric had grown colder by the day, especially when the Northern lord dared speak near her children. Jaime often wondered if the Stark lord could feel her loathing radiating across the dais.
He hoped so.
[Winterfell Training Yard, Late Morning]
Outside, the training yard pulsed with the sound of steel and sweat. Snow had long since melted in the warmth of spring's rise, leaving dark soil packed hard beneath boot and hoof. Ser Barristan Selmy stood near the center, his white cloak pristine despite the dust in the air. In one hand, he held a blunted longsword; in the other, a wooden shield bearing the faded white of the Kingsguard.
"Again," Barristan said calmly.
Joffrey Baratheon, golden-haired and sneering, lunged forward with a blunted blade far too fine for a boy his age. His form was sharp, rehearsed, but not honed. Barristan stepped aside with a dancer's ease, letting the blow pass wide, then knocked the prince off-balance with a light tap to the shoulder.
"Your hips betray your intent, my prince," the old knight said, gently. "A true swordsman sees the strike before it comes."
Cersei sat nearby upon a carved bench, a shadow of a parasol above her. Her eyes flicked between her son and the rest of the yard with thinly veiled disdain.
Around the perimeter, young men and older boys honed their blades and bodies. Robb Stark was drilling with Ser Jory Cassel. Jon Snow sparred with Torrhen Karstark beneath the eye of Benjen. The younger Stark boys, Edwyn and Bran, watched or trained with dulled spears. Cregan and Rickon were somewhere nearby, perhaps with Maester Luwin.
But all eyes, from time to time, were drawn to the center ring of the yard.
There, Lord Alaric Stark moved like a storm given shape. He stood nearly eye to eye with Robert Baratheon, but there the similarity ended. Where Robert was bulk and bluster, Alaric was steel and discipline. Clad in thick sparring leathers, he danced with Ser Desmond Manderly, a man just as tall and nearly as broad.
Blunted greatswords cracked together like thunder. Alaric pivoted, let Desmond's swing sail past, then drove his shoulder into the knight's chest, sending the man stumbling.
Even Jaime allowed himself a quiet note of appreciation.
Cersei scowled.
Joffrey, sweating and sullen, sheathed his blunted blade with far more force than required. He gestured toward the center ring.
"He bests a Manderly," Joffrey said with a curl of the lip. "So he beat a fat boy. Could he do the same against a real knight? Say, Ser Barristan?"
Ser Desmond, brushing dust from his side, laughed as he stepped away from Alaric.
"Boy, our lord would knock me, you, and even your pretty Kingslayer uncle into the dirt, all in one breath."
Cersei's glare could have soured milk. Jaime merely tilted his head.
"Is that so?" he murmured.
Alaric stepped forward, wiping sweat from his brow.
"A test, then," he said evenly. His voice was rough stone smoothed by snow. "Ser Barristan. Would you take the yard with me?"
All eyes turned.
Barristan gave a slow, approving nod.
"I would be honored, my lord."
The crowd widened the circle. Guards, squires, highborn girls, and watching lords pressed closer, save the white-cloaked knight who stepped into the ring with his blunted bastard sword. Alaric took up another, slightly heavier, slightly longer. Neither man wore full armor, only leathers and light padding. Their eyes locked.
Barristan struck first, testing Alaric's guard with a sharp cross-cut. Alaric parried, spun, and returned with a sweeping strike meant to test the Bold's footing. Barristan countered, foot sliding back in time to deflect the blade with the flat of his own. Dust stirred.
Steel sang.
What began as a measured dance became a storm. Alaric pressed forward, relentless but controlled, his blows thunderous and calculated. Barristan was the reed bending in the wind, swift, economical, and graceful.
It was not the fight of young blood against old, but of warrior against legend.
Cersei leaned forward, knuckles white.
Joffrey stood now, mouth slightly open, watching as Barristan ducked a brutal swing, rolled aside, and came up with a flash of steel aimed at Alaric's ribs. Alaric caught the strike with the cross-guard, pivoted, and drove his hilt into Barristan's shoulder. The old knight staggered, then laughed.
"You fight like the winter itself."
"It's in the blood."
They clashed again. Sparks flew from blunted edges. Every man in the yard was still. Even the direwolves nearby watched.
Alaric ducked a riposte, sidestepped, and brought the flat of his blade across Barristan's leg. The older man fell to one knee, only to rise with a surge and nearly catch Alaric in the thigh. Alaric leapt back, then moved in with surprising speed. One strike, two, then a third that drove Barristan's sword from his hand.
The yard exploded in sound.
Men roared. Squires shouted. Robb Stark, Jon Snow, and the other boys of the 'Wolf Pack' let out a long cheer.
Barristan raised his hand in surrender, smiling.
"Well struck, Lord Alaric."
Alaric lowered his sword and inclined his head. "It was an honor, Ser Barristan."
Jaime felt something rare crawl up his spine. Not resentment. Not yet. Not admiration either. But something. Something that made his palm itch for a blade.
He stepped forward.
"Perhaps I should test the wolf myself," he said, voice smooth as ever.
Alaric turned, calm as a still lake. "If you'd like."
Jaime smiled, and then the horn sounded from the eastern gate.
"The King's party returns!"
It was the guard atop the gatehouse. Jaime glanced to the yard's edge and saw the hunting party ride through the outer bailey. Robert in the lead, laughing, a great stag slung over one shoulder. Ned Stark beside him, with Ser Boros, Ser Meryn, and the rest of the Kingsguard following close.
Cersei rose immediately.
Jaime hesitated, his eyes still on Alaric.
"Another time," he said with a bow, and turned toward the gate.
He walked with his usual grace, but his jaw was tight.
Another time, Stark.
He would know, before this visit ended, whether Alaric's legend was carved in stone, or clay.
Behind him, the voices of the yard resumed. Arya Stark's shrill voice called out some protest about footwork. Bran was already clambering onto Robb's shoulders, demanding to spar next. Even Jon Snow's brooding mask slipped for a moment, watching the young lord who had bested Barristan the Bold.
And Joffrey… Joffrey was still, his fists clenched. Jaime noted the way the boy stared at Alaric now, not with awe, but with venom.
That, Jaime thought, might be a problem.
[Later that evening, the Great Hall]
The flickering torches cast shadows that danced along the vaulted stone walls of the Great Hall, casting the room in a golden half-light. The smell of roasted boar, onions, and honeyed wine clung to the air like a second skin. Trenchers overflowed with venison, stewed leeks, and fresh-baked oatbread. And yet, despite the richness of the fare, Jaime Lannister found no appetite.
He stood behind the dais as ever, watching. Guarding. Not from assassins or traitors, but from the slow erosion of power and poise that these long Northern evenings seemed designed to wear away. His hand rested idly on the pommel of his sword, his green eyes scanning the sea of furs and beards and Northern steel.
King Robert was in his element, laughing so hard his face went red, a hand clapped against Ned Stark's shoulder. Whatever jest Ned had made, it had struck home. Even Alaric Stark offered a small chuckle, though his attention had turned back to Lord Rickard Karstark, who was speaking at length about some lumber contract with the Braavosi. Jaime listened, mildly amused by the idea that Northern lumber was now floating its way across the Narrow Sea. Trust a Stark to trade with faceless men. How poetic.
Cersei, however, was far from charmed. Jaime's gaze drifted to her as she sat beside Robert, her lips set in a faint sneer as she half-heartedly acknowledged Alys Stark, Karstark, technically, but that name meant little in the North now that she had married into the ruling line. The woman tried, to her credit. Smiles, compliments, even a jest about the cold. But Cersei's responses were clipped, her tone cool as snowmelt.
Jaime sighed inwardly. She could never hide her disdain, not from him. And never here. Not with wolves circling.
He allowed his eyes to wander. Across the hall, his brother Tyrion was deep in conversation with Lord Benjen Stark. The two looked like complete opposites, the stooped, sharp-eyed Lannister and the long-limbed Stark of Sea Dragon Point, but they laughed like old comrades. Tyrion's hands animated the conversation; Benjen leaned forward, fascinated.
Jaime shook his head. Only Tyrion could charm a man who lived in the frigid cold of the north, the two talking amiably about the Wall and the Watch. The Wall. Gods, he still couldn't believe that his brother had insisted on going. To piss off the edge of the world, he'd said. Foolish, reckless... but perhaps honest in a way Jaime could never be.
Robert's booming laugh shattered his thoughts.
"And did you see the look on the bastard's face when the stag charged? Like he'd swallowed a lemon!"
Robert rocked back in his chair, wine sloshing from his goblet.
"He nearly shit himself, didn't he?" Ned added, a rare full smile on his face.
Even Alaric allowed a small laugh, though it was quieter, more controlled. Jaime noticed the faint gleam in Robert's eye, he loved nothing more than when Stark joined in his mirth. That was the danger. Robert would follow Ned into fire, and trust him not to be burned.
Jaime looked back at Alaric, who leaned in to murmur something to Lord Karstark, no doubt a continuation of their talk of trade, only to strike an icy glance toward Jaime.
'He knows I'm watching.' Jaime didn't flinch. He stared back until Alaric returned to his conversation.
That stare, that constant calculating gaze, it set his teeth on edge. He hated being watched. He hated not being able to slip away with Cersei. He hated that Alaric could draw respect from both lords and smallfolk with a single glance.
He hated Winterfell.
They would leave at the end of the moon. The thought was a balm.
Jaime turned his attention to the room again. The Stark children were scattered, Robb and Jon sitting close, sharing whispered jokes, while Arya shoved bread at Bran and tried to teach him some obscene gesture she'd picked up from a stablehand. Rickon sat in Lady Stark's lap, eyes wide at the noise and clamor.
The various wards of Winterfell engaged in conversation and general mirth.
Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen were seated together with Septa Erena, a septa from King's Landing, and Ser Meryn hovering nearby. Myrcella seemed content, chatting shyly with Sansa and Ysilla Stark, formerly Royce, young Robb's wife. Tommen was already dozing off into his trencher. Joffrey, however, glared daggers across the room at Jon Snow.
The Bastard of Eddard Stark had beaten Joffrey in a bout earlier that day, much to Cersei and Joffrey's rage, something Robert cared little for, letting it fester.
Jaime frowned.
That could be a problem, too.
[Later that Night]
The hall had begun to empty. Music still played, but quieter now. Cersei had withdrawn early, claiming a headache. Robert still drank. Tyrion was lost in discussion with Maester Luwin about the Wall's age. Jaime stood near one of the hearths, a goblet in hand, when the Lord of Winterfell approached.
"Ser Jaime."
Alaric's voice was quiet, steady, never warm.
"Lord Stark," Jaime replied, nodding. "Enjoying the king's company?"
"His grace is always… interesting," Alaric said. He paused. "You fought in the yard today. Not with a sword, but with your eyes."
Jaime smirked. "I don't unsheathe my sword for sparring."
"Nor do I, unless there's value in the lesson."
Jaime sipped his wine. "And what did you learn from Barristan?"
"That even the old men still have bite. But that ice can weather them."
Their gazes locked again. The air between them chilled.
"We'll dance, you and I," Jaime said softly.
Alaric gave a small nod. "Soon."
The massive frame of the Lord of Winterfell disappeared into the hall as Alys Stark took his arm and they left.
Later still, long after the king had been carted off snoring by two guards and a squire, Jaime found Tyrion leaning against a stone pillar, tossing a silver coin up and down.
"Still planning on your mad voyage?"
Tyrion grinned. "Of course. The edge of the world calls to me."
Jaime folded his arms. "You'll freeze your balls off."
"A small price. Besides, I'm told the Watch could use men of wit."
Jaime snorted. "They'll put you to shoveling shit."
Tyrion's grin faded, just a little. "Better than being a dwarf at court."
Jaime said nothing for a moment. Then he looked around to make sure they were alone.
"Alaric Stark."
"What about him?"
"He's not like the others. Not like Ned. Not like anyone."
Tyrion nodded. "Aye. There's something old in him. Not just Stark. Something... deeper."
"He watches everything. Controls everything."
Tyrion turned his coin once more. "Do you think he knows?"
"Knows what?"
"The countless failed measures father tried to stunt his rise, marriage proposals, trade sabotage, even trying to find any northern lord he could to pay him off, yet none succeeded. He holds the north with a grip as tight not dissimilar to father, and yet, his vassals do not fear him, no, they respect and adore him."
Jaime reflected on Tyrion's words for a moment, and he couldn't help but frown. If he did know of his father's actions, there's no telling what would happen in the future.
"Who's to tell, whether he does or doesn't, im sure Father will figure things out, we still hold immense power in the realm after all," Jaime replied mockingly, dismissing his brother's worries.
"Aye, but the wolves grow in power, and who's to say a strong pack couldn't take down a lion?" Tyrion added as he retired to his quarters, leaving Jaime with something to think on that night.