The Daughter of Winterfell |The Tale of Alys Snow

Chapter Two: Books and Brothels

The Winter town had to be one of Alys's favourite places in the world.

The Winter Town was a unique settlement nestled in the shadow of Winterfell's towering walls. It was less a town in the traditional sense and more a seasonal village, bustling with activity during the harsh Northern winters and quiet in the milder months when the farmers and smallfolk returned to their lands. Alys heard from Lord Stark and Maester Luwin that in winter, the Winter town would be packed to its very limits, with five times as many people living there as there was in summer. Alys had never experienced seeing Winter town at such capacity, and almost hoped she would not have to any time soon.

The main road through the Winter Town was a well-trodden path of packed earth, often turned to thick mud after the thaw. It was lined with stalls and carts from which traders hawked their wares—salted fish, furs, and occasional trinkets brought from White Harbor or beyond.

The chatter of the smallfolk that lived in Winter Town no matter the season mixed with the sounds of livestock—the bleating of sheep and the occasional braying of mules tethered outside the modest inns.  Children played in the narrow lanes, their laughter a bright contrast to the gray skies above. Nearby, women mended clothes or bartered in the market, while men repaired roofs and fences.

The heart of the Winter Town was its square, where a large fire pit was kept roaring during the coldest days, providing warmth and a gathering place for the community. On market days, the square was a cacophony of voices, the clash of hammers, and the rustle of goods changing hands.

The damp northern air wrapped itself around Winterfell like a soggy blanket, and rain drizzled steadily from a sky the color of dull steel. Alys pulled her cloak tighter, the hood barely shielding her from the persistent drizzle as she trudged through the muddied streets of Winter Town. She adjusted her skirts, hiking them up as she stepped over patches of damp mud. Many a time had she or Jon or Robb tripped in these patches of mud and ended up covered head to toe.

The smallfolk bustled about, some dragging goods to market stalls while others hurried to escape the wet. Alys's boots squelched in the mud as she made her way past the crooked, timber-framed houses toward her destination: the brothel.

Alys didn't advertise her visits, nor did she shy away from them. Her goal wasn't charity just for the sake of appearances, but to hear the stories of the women. She had spent enough time listening to the women there to know they were often overlooked, dismissed as shadows lurking in the corners of Winter Town. And shadows, she found, had a habit of hearing things that those in the light often missed.

The wooden sign above the door of the brothel creaked as it swayed in the wind. Alys pushed open the door and stepped inside, shaking droplets from her cloak. The warmth of the room hit her immediately, carrying the scent of wood smoke, ale, and melting tallow. It was common for crowded places that could afford it to mix sweet herbs and dried flowers into the tallow fat candles that lit every building. Tallow often smelled horrendous, so the herbs and flowers would almost cancel out the smell. Alys knew that Southron lords often used beeswax instead of tallow, but such a luxury was not often found in the North.

"Alys Snow," a familiar voice called from across the room. "What's the world coming to? A lady of Winterfell slumming it with the likes of us?"

Alys turned to see Ros, red-haired and sharp-eyed, lounging in a chair near the hearth. She was stitching a tear in her bodice, her expression a mix of amusement and curiosity.

"Ros," Alys greeted with mock formality, pulling back her hood and making a exaggerated curtsy. "Always a pleasure to be reminded how unworthy I am of your company. Makes me feel right at home."