Between Fangs and Thorns

Chapter 2

The snow fell thick and soft that morning. Summer snow was not an unexpected occurrence in Winterfell, where the northern winds blew and the wolves howled hungrily in the night.
     Lord Alaric Stark looked up at the grey sky, the snow got caught in his black hair, and he closed his eyes. Cold kisses touched his skin and lips, soft and cold strokes caressed his cheeks, like a frozen lover. The hooves of his mane stumped on the ground. He could feel the animal breathing underneath him.
     "Lord Stark, we found him!" one of the men shouted.
     Alaric opened his eyes and looked towards the sound of the voice. His ward came trotting on his horse tugging at the reins to come to a halt.
     "My Lord, we're waiting for you," he said, his breath forming little clouds.
     "Show me the way."

•••

Alaric kept the child close. The boy shivered in his arms, probably both for the cold and for the fear of being on horseback.
     He had hidden well into the Wolfswood. He had disappeared for a few days for reasons unknown to Alaric, but he offered to find him as soon as he heard about it. The kid was part of Winterfell and as its future Lord, his duty resided in his people. In his veins flowed the blood of the old kings, those who were once called Kings in the North and before them were the First Men. His life was the North and its people.
     When they arrived at Winterfell's gates he tugged his mare's reins. Men shouted back and forth and the doors opened loudly before them. The tall granite walls loomed over them, their eighty feet of height stood there in all their glory.
     Alaric's heels tapped the animal's sides and it started to push forward towards the entrance. Where the first walls ended a second string, this one a hundred feet tall, came into view, a moat in between them.
     The kid shivered more, Alaric stroked his hair gently. He closed his furs around the kid more trying to keep him warm.
     Inside the second ring of walls life thrived. Alaric and his men reached for the stables, they left their horses to stable boys for them to feed their animals and take care of them after the long day of research.
     Alaric grabbed the kid from under his armpits and brought him back to his feet, snowflakes were trapped in his hair.
     "Can you tell me your name kid?" Alaric knelt in front of him.
     The kid hugged his own body and, still shivering and shaking, he nodded with his head.
     "J-Jory," he whispered.
     Alaric patted his shoulder and offered him his hand. He couldn't have been more than eight years of age, maybe even younger than that. The kid grabbed it and Alaric stood up.
     "Let's get you something to eat first."
    Still holding the child's hand, Alaric walked to the kitchens. The big mouths of the ovens were full of fire, the smell of delicacies invaded the rooms, men and women worked together preparing that night's dinner. Workers started to murmur to each other at his passing. They dipped their head in a respectful salute, as their hands were busy with work.
     Alaric smiled back at them and asked one of them: "Is there anything we can give the kid to eat? He's the child that disappeared a couple of days ago."
    One of the women dipped into curtsy. "My lord, we must have some stale bread we can share with the child. Maybe some lentil soup as well, to keep him warm."
    Alaric nodded. "If you could be so gentle to prepare him that, it would be very generous of you." He squeezed Jory's hand.
    "Come with me, little one," the woman smiled and took him by the shoulder before pushing him next to one of the fireplaces. Bread and a bowl of hot soup were presented in front of the frail boy. As soon as the bowl touched the table surface, Jory started to wolf down his food, ripping the bread with his teeth, and dirtying his already dirty clothes with soup.
    "Sorry, miss," Alaric asked the kind woman once again, "would you be so gentle to keep an eye on the boy for me until his mother comes for him? The guards will bring her here as per my command."
    The woman smiled once again, bowing her head she said: "Of course, my lord."
    Alaric moved to the famished boy. Jory was already halfway done with his food, still too hot for his tongue to properly gulp the soup down his throat. "Stay here with the cook Jory. Your mother will be brought here soon," he mussed Jory's hair. "No more running away in the woods, okay?"
    Jory nodded vigorously.
    Alaric chuckled. "It's time for me to go. Thanks again, miss," he said finally to the woman.
    He moved to the kitchen's doors, leaving behind him the delicious fumes of roasted meat and tasty soups.
     Outside, he moved past the vast courtyard towards the Guards Hall hoping to find someone free of their duties for the day. On the way there, Alaric stopped one of those men.
     "Jerald," he said.
     "My lord," Jerald dipped his head. "How may I serve you?"
     "The kid who disappeared a few days ago has been found. Make sure to inform his mother, find her and bring her to the kitchens. The child is there for her to take him back home."
     Lord Alaric Stark, despite being a boy of sixteen years of age, had always been a notorious leader. His voice was imposing and authoritative but still had the lightness needed in a casual conversation. He was a well-loved boy. Many in Winterfell resided their hope in him thinking that the future of the North was in good hands.
     "As you ask, my lord." Jerald dipped his head once again and went to his task.
     Let's tell Father about this, he thought walking
     Not far from the Guards Hall was the Great Keep, the most imposing building inside Winterfell's walls beside the Great Hall.
     Many steps later, Alaric knocked on his father's solar's door.
     "Come in," a stern voice said from the other side.
     Alaric twisted the door's knob and stood at the threshold.
     His lord father, Brandon Stark, was hunched over a huge map laid on a long table. Behind him, an oak chair where many lords of Winterfell sat before him. His father's brows were furrowed, his forehead creased.
     Brandon Stark was not an old man, merely forty, but his face had always been full of wrinkles. His head was starting to bald, where his hair was still there it was dark just like Alaric's, a full beard grew on his cheeks and chin. He was a tall man but at that moment, crouched over his map, he looked half his size.
     "Father," Alaric cleared his throat, "the missing child has been found deep into the Wolfswood. He was not harmed or injured. I brought him to the kitchens myself to get a proper meal before I commanded Jerald to bring there the mother."
     Lord Brandon didn't say a word. His eyes never left the piece of paper laid on the table, little wooden figures were positioned on it.
     Alaric closed his hands into fists. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Father?"
     "Do you know, Alaric, why we are 'lords'?" Lord Stark lifted his eyes off the map and looked straight at his son.
     Alaric widened his eyes, taken aback by his lord father's question. "Because the king has given us this title." That was the best answer he could give his father.
     Lord Stark shook his head. A light chuckle escapes his lips resembling the cawing of a crow.
     "The king gave us this title, what a lie." He moved from the table and straightened his back. Lord Stark was more than a head taller than Alaric, and Alaric was a tall boy as well. Lord Stark's footsteps echoed inside the solar, the cracking of the fire next to them.
     "We are lords because they stripped us of our real title," Lord Stark lowered his face towards his son. "What were they called? Our ancestors."
     Alaric gulped. "They were Kings in the North," he said.
     Not this again, he thought.
     "Kings in the North!" his father's voice boomed against the stone walls. "The Starks were kings before the Andals came. Our name reigned over the North for eight thousand years, but they stripped us of that title!"
     Alaric didn't say a word. He knew better than to interrupt his father in the middle of his self-deprecating speech.
     "Without our ancestor, the great Bran the Builder, the Wall wouldn't be there, protecting the western continent from the icy death. But-"
     He sighed, letting his father talk and faking his interest. Lord Stark was a proud man, taking great pride in his people and his origins. No wonder he always got heated whenever he remembered the glorious past of the old kings. Oh, how many times he had heard stories about the glory of his ancestors, the glory of the North and its people.
     Nonetheless, it was a great burden to be the son of a man like him. Full of ambition and desire for greatness.
"Alaric, are you listening?"
He shook from his thoughts and nodded. "Yes, father," he said.
"Good. I just want to let you know that we will receive some guests in the near future," his father explained.
Alaric's brows raised in surprise. Guests? It had been a long time since they had guests and Winterfell. That meant having too many people around, meeting people who would've been either boring or too full of themselves, and faking a whole lot.
"Guests? May I know who we'll have the honour to have here?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"Lord Garth Tyrell's heir, Lord Lyonel Tyrell, will be here with part of his family. I can't tell you about our affairs but I will count on you, son, to make our guests feel at home." His father slammed his hand on his shoulder. The hit was less violent than the words that came from his mouth.
How could he make people from the far South feel at home in Winterfell? Why was his responsibility? He knew, of course, but it was the last thing he wanted to do. His people, he loved. Strangers from farther South? He wasn't so sure.
Alaric didn't say anything to his father, he just nodded and kept his thoughts to himself. "I will do my best, Father."
"Great job, my boy," his father smacked his back with a hand. "Why don't you train with your sword for today?"
His hands closed into fists once again. "Yes, Father."