The Daughter of Winterfell |S̶t̶a̶r̶k̶&̶T̶a̶r̶g̶a̶r̶y̶e̶n̶ Snow OC

Chapter 1 - A Daughter of Winterfell

The moment Alys's eyes opened, she felt the chill in the air pressing against the thin warmth of her blankets, like winter had seeped into the stones themselves and settled there. Her breath rose in small, misty clouds as she lay still, tucked under thick woollen covers, listening to the subtle creaks and sighs of the ancient castle.

Outside, Winterfell was already alive with quiet sounds that had become as familiar to her as her own heartbeat: the faint crackling of fires being stoked in the halls below, the first bustle of the kitchens preparing food, and, distantly, the clank of armour from the guards changing watch in the courtyard.

She felt warm and safe and cosy in the layers of blankets she had cocooned herself in. If she could, she would stay in her nest of comfort for the entire day. However, that was not to be, for she had things to do and tasks to complete. Usually, this involved supervising her siblings and preventing them from getting into too much trouble. And usually, she was the one causing the trouble.

Reluctantly, she pushed back the furs and swung her feet to the floor, gasping a little as her toes met the icy stone. This happened nearly every single morning and yet she was still unprepared.

She hurried to pull on her clothes, dancing from one foot to the other to banish the cold from her body. She wore a long, dark grey woollen dress that reached her ankles, fitted close to her waist and shoulders, with sleeves that hugged her arms snugly to trap in warmth. The fabric was thick, woven to withstand the northern chill, and the hem and cuffs were subtly embroidered with silvery threads in patterns of wolves and pine trees, details she added herself. Over the dress, she wore a fitted jerkin of dark brown leather, soft from wear, cinched with a braided leather belt with a pouch. Her boots were made of sturdy, thick-soled leather, lined with fur for warmth.

On a feast day or for something special she had a small box of assorted jewellery that she would wear; a dire wolf chatelaine, iron hoops to fasten to her ears, rings that she had bartered for in the market. Today was not expected to be a special day, so her jewellery box went untouched.

Hurriedly, she ran a hard bristle brush through her dark brown hair and plaited it away from her long and wind chafed face in a quick style. Her younger sister, Sansa, and Lady Stark had maids to do their hair and wore more complicated and tidy styles in comparison. Then again Arya, Alys's even younger sister, refused to let any of the ladies maids style her hair. Such had been the way since Arya learned the word 'no' and that biting was a very good deterrent.

She went to the kitchens first, inhaling the delicious scents of bread and stewed meat, her stomach rumbling as she greeted the kitchen maids. The kitchen usually bustled a lot at this time; cooks were busy preparing the vegetables to cook later, any fresh fruit had been delivered and stored, and the food for breakfast was being made. Alys could smell rashers of bacon, frying eggs, and fruit jams being made.

On one of the tables was a plate of honey cakes; thick oaty and buttery cakes mixed with honey, still hot from the oven. This was one of Alys's absolute favourites, specially paired with blackberry jam and mint tea.

"Any news to report?" she asked Hilda, an older maid who'd known her since she was a babe. Alys had always found that asking any of the workers in Winterfell about any gossip or stories usually yielded some wild and wonderful tales. More noble people usually had boring things like decorum and restraint and were far less likely to pass on any naughty or noteworthy chitter. The people no one noticed, Alys found, noticed everything.

Hilda's round leathery face split into a grin as she passed Alys one of the bigger and stickier honey cakes.

"Apparently your Lord Father received a very important message. He rode out before daybreak with his men, as well as Lord Robb, Lord Theon, Jon, and Lord Bran. A deserter from the Wall, they say." Hilda whispered the last bit with a conspiratorial hush.