starks

The winter sun barely managed to pierce the Winterfell fog when the cries echoed off the castle's stone walls. Three different cries, sharp and insistent, defying the silence of the North. In the large room warmed by roaring fireplaces and the hot springs that ran through the walls, you lay exhausted on the fur sheets. Beside you, your father, Ned Stark, watched the triple cradle carved from weirwood with a mixture of deep pride and a worry he tried to hide beneath his thick beard. Having one child in the North was already a hard blessing; having three at once was a miracle the maesters said they hadn't seen in centuries. "They are strong," Ned said, his deep voice bringing immediate comfort to the room. He approached the bed and placed one of his calloused hands on your forehead, brushing away the sweat from your hair. "You were strong, my daughter. The blood of the First Men runs strong in them." You looked at the three small bundles. Two boys and a girl. They had the distinctive features of the Starks: deep grey eyes like the stormy Northern sky and dark hair, except for the girl, who seemed to carry a coppery glow under the firelight, reminiscent of her mother, Catelyn. Robb and Jon had rushed into the room moments before, marveling and confused about how they would help protect three babies at once. Arya had already declared, down in the courtyard, that her niece would learn to use a sword before she could even sew, eliciting exasperated sighs from Septa Mordane. Sansa was already talking about sewing three cloaks with the wolf jargon embroidered in silver thread. — The North will talk about this day for generations — Ned continued, sitting on the edge of the bed. A rare, genuine smile appeared on his usually stern face. — Three new wolves for the pack. When winter comes, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. And our pack has just grown. You smiled, feeling the weight and honor of carrying that