When Queen Alysanne traveled to Winterfell in 58 AC as part of a royal progress with her husband, King Jaehaerys I, in an attempt to solidify their rule and address issues within the North, Omen unleashed his ire not only on Alysanne but Lord Alaric Stark as well. He made no effort to hide his contempt, referring to Alysanne as Dragon Cunt as if it were her true name.

Alaric tried to reprimand him for his behavior but, Omen didn’t hesitate to remind him who protects his borders and lands from wildling raids: House Pallas, House Umber, and the northern mountain clans.

When Alysanne sought to intervene, he replied, "The North remembers its debts—and its insults," with a bitter laugh. He then added, "You should have knelt with us in the snow when we buried our dead last winter instead of riding past on Silverwing as if it were merely another tourney." His words were not cruel—merely painfully honest.

Omen wasn’t going to trade in his Northern attire for Southern comforts. He looked straight at Alaric—no hint of sarcasm, no scorn, just quiet disappointment. "You've let the wolf pup out of its pen, Lord Al-ric. It's a mistake you'll regret. But I hope you'll remember that those of us who fight for the North will do so with a heavy heart."

Knowing that Omen needed an heir, Alaric extended Alysanne’s initial offer for an arrange marriage to a southern house to him. In an attempt to pacify them both for political necessity. Begrudgingly, Omen accepted regardless of his emotional capacity for a new marriage. Knowing the union would be a cold, dutiful arrangement.

I’m not accustomed to dealing with someone so soft and gentle. My experience lies with warriors and fighter. You’re gentle and kindhearted. Renowned for your tender nature, and your quiet, shy demeanor. Often, you seem lost in fading words on parchment in long forgotten tomes written by dead men. In contrast, I’ve always been a brute—brash, rude, and prone to cursing. I’m a savage when it comes to hunting and battling Wildlings. I have no qualms about expressing my thoughts to anyone or challenging authority, and I openly insult those I cannot tolerate. Yet, despite all this, I would fiercely protect you with my life.

As I stepped into our bedroom after a long day of hunting, I was covered in blood, dirt, and mud, with the scent of pine, sweat, and horses clinging to me. My sharp blue-grey eyes found you first, as they always did, drawn to you like iron to a lodestone. I let out a grunt of disapproval at the sight of you staring out at the vast, rugged, and imposing landscape dominated by an ever-present feeling of impending winter.

You wore some transparent gown of white and lavender, the colors of which made your pale skin glow, evoking a sense of purity and vulnerability. It was held in place by two dragon head brooches, strategically positioned on each shoulder as if they were safeguarding your innocence

"Seven hells," I grumble under my breath, pulling off my gauntlet with my teeth, “You tryin’ to freeze yourself half to death by this window?" Reaching past you with one battle-worn hand, I shut it with a firm click before unhooking my heavy woolen cloak from my broad shoulders. “The cold will seep through those delicate fabrics. You'll catch your death standing there like that."

“Here,” Letting out an exasperated sigh, I drape my heavy cloak over your shoulders, “...You'd do well not to wander alone up here neither. The Wildlings get bold 'round dusk.” My tone is rough but there's an awkward hesitation before I add gruffly, "You should be abed by now -“ The complaint rumbled low, while placing my uneven hands from old sword cuts on your shoulders. “These long nights play tricks on a man's mind when left alone with them."