The snow had begun to fall again, soft and silent, cloaking the godswood and courtyards in white. Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys, and a thin layer of frost kissed the stone walls. In the stillness of the morning, the air felt heavy—not with cold, but with change.
They gathered in the solar above the great hall—Lord Rickard Stark, his three sons, and his daughter. The fire crackled, logs splitting, casting long shadows over the carved wooden chairs and stone-flagged floor.
Brandon stood tall beside his father despite his young age, arms crossed, his grey eyes sharp with questions he didn't voice. Eddard lingered a step behind, already showing signs of what would later bring him his name the quiet wolf, while Benjen fidgeted near the hearth. Lyanna sat curled in a fur-covered chair, legs swinging, her wild black hair unbrushed and tangled like she'd been pulled from the stables rather than her bed.
Then came the knock.
Maester Walys entered first, face grave beneath his chain. Behind him, the maid—young, pale, uncertain—held two tightly wrapped bundles in her arms. She curtsied low and stepped forward without a word, placing the swaddled babes carefully on the long oak table before Rickard.
"They are... hers," the Maester said curtly. "The woman passed in the birthing bed last night. Loss of blood. There was nothing I could do."
"Twins," Brandon muttered, eyeing the infants like they were wolves let loose indoors.
"They have her eyes," the maid whispered, wringing her hands. "And the boy... the shape of your lordship's jaw."
Rickard said nothing for a long moment. He looked down at them—pink-skinned, fragile, blinking up at the light with unknowing eyes. The boy squirmed a little, mewling softly. The girl was quiet, her tiny fist wrapped around a loose thread in her blanket.
"Thank you Maester, you have done well. The woman is of no consequence. You are may go" Rickard said to which the maester bowed and left. Lately the maester had started to give more and more advise on how to integrate the north better with the southern kingdoms. Rickard would have long asked the citadel for another if that wasn't such a hassle and honestly, Walys' advise wasn't bad.
The north had declined instead of grown since the dance and a major part of that was the ridiculous amounts of coin the northern lords needed to spent just for grain in some winters. Perhaps becoming more friendly with the southerners would allow them some breathing room, Winter was coming after all.
"They are Snow," he said at last to his children, his voice low and measured. "But they are still of my blood."
He turned to his children. "You will treat them with the dignity they are owed. They are not your kin, not by name—but they are of your house, and you will remember it."
Brandon scoffed quietly. "Bastards. From a whore in Wintertown. You expect the north to welcome them?"
Rickard's gaze flicked to his eldest son, cold and sharp. "I expect you to remember who they are. The lords can think what they will. They will not have any claim to Winterfell ever but they are still family."
Brandon clenched his jaw but said no more.
Eddard stepped forward. His face, already so serious for a boy of 7, betrayed no scorn, only curiosity and something quieter. "What are their names?" he asked.
Rickard looked to the window, where snow was beginning to fall harder now, a storm gathering in silence. "The boy will be Torrhen. After the last King in the North. And the girl..." He paused, his eyes lingering on the quiet babe.
"Lyarra," he said, the name nearly catching in his throat. "In memory of your mother."
Benjen toddled closer to the table and stood on his toes to peer at the babies. "Can I?" he asked, stretching out his arms, wanting to hold either his brother or sister "Wanna hold"
The maid hesitated, but Rickard gave a slight nod. The girl was passed to Benjen, who cradled her awkwardly with the help of the maid, grinning as the baby stared up at him with wide grey eyes.
"Tiny," he said, marveling. "Like a kitten."
The boy began to fuss again, kicking his legs under the blanket. Eddard, silent, stepped closer and laid a cautious finger on the child's hand. The boy's grip closed instantly—tight, like a promise.
Rickard watched his sons and daughter in silence, then turned back to the maid. "Have them placed in the nursery. They'll be fed and clothed. Not paraded, not hidden. They are Starks in all but name. Let the north make of it what it will."
"Yes, milord," the maid said, bowing.
As the babes were carried away, Rickard sat down in his great chair before the fire, the weight of memory pressing into his shoulders. Lyanna climbed into his lap unbidden, resting her head against his chest. Benjen chattered about the girl's tiny hands. Eddard lingered in thought.
Brandon stared after the maid who carried the twins away, his jaw tight.
Snow fell harder still, blanketing Winterfell in white.
The fire in the library had burned low. Only coals remained, their faint red glow barely illuminating the darkened shelves. Lord Rickard sat alone, hands steepled before him, a half-full goblet of Northern mead untouched on the table beside him.
Maester Walys entered quietly, clutching a parchment roll. "You sent for me, my lord?"
Rickard gestured for him to sit. "The names. You've recorded them?"
"Yes, my lord. Torrhen Snow and Lyarra Snow. Born the 11th day of the ninth moon, 270 AC. Mother: unnamed, deceased. Father... I left that line blank."
Rickard gave a short nod. "Let it remain so. No need for quills to draw lines where my name already casts a shadow."
Walys hesitated. "There will be talk. Already the garrison whispers of the twins' resemblance. Especially the girl."
"There's always talk," Rickard said. "Let them whisper. I've no shame in what I did, only regret for what led me to it."
The Maester nodded solemnly. "Lady Lyarra's passing... it's not so long ago."
Rickard's eyes, sharp and grey, flicked toward the flame. "She gave me four children. A strong line. She died giving Benjen breath, and I buried her before her son's eyes had learned to focus. I was a grieving fool when I sought comfort in that brothel, Maester. But the woman... she did not deserve to die nameless. Nethertheless it is better for the twins that their mother's identity doesn't become widely known."
He sighed. "Ensure the children have what they need. Good wet nurses. Clean linens. A tutor, when they're old enough. I'll not dote on them, Walys. But I will not have them grow up thinking they were a mistake."
"And their siblings?"
"They'll make their own choices on how to treat the twins. But they'll live under this roof, and they'll eat at my table." He paused. "I won't have another House Bolton rising from Winterfell's shame."
Walys blinked. "My lord... you think that possible?"
Rickard's voice was low. "Children remember. Bastards most of all. Better to treat them well and make sure they want to prove themselves to their trueborn siblings than to mistreat them and let them grow up resenting their family."
**Scene Break**
The hearth crackled in the bedchamber she shared with her maid and a half-dozen hounds curled beneath the furs. But Lyanna Stark wasn't asleep.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at the small wooden carving Eddard had given her—a crude wolf pup with ears too big and paws too round.
She hadn't stopped thinking about the girl with the name so similiar. The baby who hadn't cried when she was brought into the solar. Quiet and dark-eyed, with a curl of black hair peeking out from her wrap.
She wasn't angry, exactly. But she wasn't happy either.
Why mother's name? she thought. Why not something else?
A soft knock came at the door.
It creaked open, and Eddard slipped in, his hair tousled, his face thoughtful as always.
"You're awake too," he said.
"Couldn't sleep," she muttered.
He climbed onto the foot of her bed and sat beside her in silence for a long moment.
"She's not you," he said suddenly.
Lyanna blinked. "What?"
"The baby. Father named her after our mother, not you. The name's similiar. That's all."
"She's small," Lyanna said. "And quiet. I don't think she likes people."
"She's one day old," Eddard said, a flicker of a smile on his lips. "Give her time."
They were silent again. Somewhere down the hall, a wolf pup howled, answered by a deeper call from the kennels.
"You think Father loves them?" Lyanna asked.
Eddard was quiet for a moment. "I don't know. I think he feels something. But he doesn't show it. Not for them. Not for us, either."
Lyanna looked at her brother, surprised. She had always thought it was just her—wild, loud, and wrong-footed in a castle of rules and stillness. But maybe they all felt a little outside.
"I don't like Brandon," she said suddenly. "He acts like he's better than everyone."
"He's going to be Lord one day," Eddard said with a shrug. "He thinks that means he has to act like one already."
"I hope the twins bite him," Lyanna muttered. Eddard snorted.
Lyanna fell back on her furs, pulling them up over her knees. "They're Snow. Do you think they'll be sent away?"
Eddard shook his head. "No. They'll stay. Father already decided."
"And if they stay?" she asked. "Will they grow up like us?"
"I think they'll grow up as they're allowed to," he said. "Same as we did. I have no doubt father will treat them with respect. In time Torrhen might become a household knight and Lyarra a well regarded aide. Maybe she could come with you to your future husband's home" Eddard said with a smile to which Lyanna only huffed.
'Only four and already so willfull. I hope she will never lose that spirit' he thought fondly.