.Snow whispered against the high stone of Winterfell, a thin, constant hiss like breath drawn in but never released. The old castle groaned beneath the weight of another moon's frost, its walls stiff with ice, its towers veined with hoarfrost. And within, behind thick oak doors and sleeping corridors, Cregan Stark worked alone.
He was small still — no more than three years old — but sat straight-backed at a low writing desk in a chamber he had claimed for his own. Scrolls lay unfurled before him, their edges held down with carved stones etched with runes. He wore thick grey wool and black fur over his shoulders, not for warmth, but because it was what a Stark lord wore in the heart of winter.
His fingers moved over a tattered page, one of Brandon Stark's old maps, tracing the contours of river routes and passes. Around the map, he'd begun drawing symbols — some Northern, some ancient, and some copied from memories not his own. They weren't just markers. They were designs. The first steps toward a magical framework.
A spell without a wand.
A map with memory.
He didn't yet know how to bring it fully to life. Not yet. But it was close. Runes hummed faintly under his breath, responding like old ghosts that remembered their names.
He stopped.
The hair on his arms lifted.
That pull again.
Beneath him, far below the stone floors and tunnels, something ancient called to him. Not with words — but with weight. With presence. Like a knot in the world pulling tight around him. The crypts were waiting.
Not today.
He drew in a slow breath and turned back to his work. There were still more pressing matters.
The canals were next. And the frost-resistant stone from the Mountain Clans. And the grain reserves. And—
A knock.
He didn't flinch. "Enter."
Rodrik Cassel stepped through, brushing snow from his shoulders. The old knight had grown leaner over the last two winters, but his gaze was still steady.
"My lord," Rodrik said, bowing low — properly now. Everyone in the keep had learned. "A rider just arrived. Lord Eddard is days away. He brings his wife. The child. And the babe."
Cregan looked up.
"How many men?"
"Three dozen. Mostly household guard. No banners raised."
Cregan nodded once. "Good. We'll hold a feast."
Rodrik blinked, just briefly. "As you say."
"Let the fires be lit in the great hall. Use northern meats — elk, venison, root vegetables. No Dornish spice. No southern flair. The hall should smell of home."
"Aye, my lord. Shall I inform the staff?"
"Tell them to bow. Not to Uncle Ned. To their lord."
Rodrik studied the boy for a moment, then bowed again. "Aye. Your people will remember."
He left without another word.
Cregan sat in silence. His eyes drifted to the fire crackling in the hearth, then to the rune-carved stones scattered across the map. One glowed faintly as the wind pressed against the shutters.
Winterfell was listening.
---
Benjen Stark stood beneath the weirwood as he always did when news stirred his blood. The godswood was quieter in the deep months, the snow too deep for most to cross. But the heart tree waited.
Its face — ancient, hollow-eyed — wept slow lines of red into the snow.
Benjen's breath steamed in the air. He wore black gloves and a fur cloak, but no helm. He never covered his head when praying. Or speaking to ghosts.
"He'll be glad," Benjen said softly. "He won't show it. He'll plan it. Count chairs. Measure servings. But he'll be glad."
He smiled faintly. "He loves you, Ned. And he'll love your boy. He'll never say it."
The wind didn't answer.
Benjen glanced up at the tower windows. A single one glowed with orange firelight. Cregan's chamber. Still awake. Still watching.
"He's not joyless," Benjen said to the snow. "He's wounded. And he's trying to save what's left."
The weirwood creaked.
---
In a higher room, where the fire was low and the window narrow, Maester Walys lowered his quill with trembling fingers. His ink had frozen twice. He'd had to breathe on it to finish the seal.
The letter lay folded on the table. Coded. No direct accusation. But enough.
The boy has unnatural clarity. Influence far beyond his years. Winterfell is shifting.
He'd written it to the Citadel. He hadn't sent it yet.
He stared at the raven watching him from the roost.
Walys remembered the order — quiet, discreet. A herb mixed in her tonic. Nothing painful.
And Lyarra Stark — stubborn, strong Lyarra — who had begun to suspect too much. A different poison for her. One less kind.
He had done what was asked. The South was always watching.
Now, the boy watched too.
He sealed the letter and pressed wax into the fold. His hand shook once. Then was still.
The raven blinked.
The Red Keep always smelled of heat — old stone, hot wine, and ashwood torches that smoked in the wind. Jon Arryn sat beneath a high-arched window, light streaming in through panes warped by age and fire. Behind him stood a raven, caged and watching.
Before him sat Lord Hoster Tully, flushed and fidgeting. Robert paced behind them, nursing a cup of dark wine.
"This is the time," Jon said softly. "The boy is young. The North is unguarded. And Eddard—he is loyal. Quiet. Uncomplicated."
Hoster grunted. "Too quiet. You've seen the letters. That child they're calling Lord Stark—he sent no reply. Not a word. Just a seal. The same seal Brandon used when he threatened to cut out my tongue at Harrenhal."
Robert huffed. "He was only bluffing."
"He wasn't," Jon said quietly. "You just didn't call it."
Robert rolled his shoulders and took a long drink.
Hoster leaned forward. "You've seen the numbers. The dead. The North bled more than anyone in this rebellion. And now my daughter and grandson are traveling into that frostbitten ruin to bow to a boy barely weaned."
Jon laced his fingers. "Then make the offer. For stability. Not for insult. Suggest Ned act as regent until the boy is of age. It's reasonable."
Robert waved a hand. "And if the boy says no?"
"Then we smile," Jon said, "and we wait. But we try. While we can."
A quiet knock at the door. A servant bowed. "Lord Stark has arrived."
---
They met in the smaller solar, less formal, more private. Ned wore simple leathers, the same as he'd worn crossing the Neck. His face was gaunt. His eyes were winter.
Hoster stood first. "Eddard—"
"Lord Tully."
Hoster hesitated. Then stepped back.
Jon gestured to the table. "Please. Sit. We've matters to discuss. No politics. Only… structure."
"I see," Ned said. He remained standing.
Jon spoke carefully. "Your nephew is young. Exceptionally so. His claim is not in question—"
"Good."
"—but his capacity to hold the North together, especially in the wake of war…"
"He has Rodrik Cassel. He has Benjen. He has me."
Hoster bristled. "You would serve your nephew, then? A boy born of scandal?"
Ned's tone darkened. "He is Brandon's son. And Ashara's. Wed before gods and men, though few men remember it. I do."
"You are his uncle. His liege lord," Jon said gently. "Would you consider serving as regent? Only until he's older. It would ease many tensions. And Catelyn would sleep better knowing her son does not bow to a child."
Ned looked from one to the other.
"You married me to your daughter," he said, "not to your ambition."
He left before either could answer.
---
The wind howled like wolves as their company crossed the final stretch of the Neck. Snow clung to the hems of her cloak, and her fingers, wrapped in doeskin, still ached from the chill.
Catelyn Stark sat atop her palfrey in silence, Robb bundled in front of her, eyes heavy with sleep. Behind, Jon Snow rode in a saddle too large for him, led by a Stark guardsman. He said nothing, same as always. Only watched the trees like they might turn against them.
She hated that silence. And hated how the boy resembled her husband.
She had spoken little of it to Ned, only once in whispers. And he had responded only with: "He is my blood."
But whose blood? Whose shame?
Now they rode north, toward a keep she had only seen once. Toward a child lord with the name of Stark and the legacy of a brother buried.
She found herself uneasy—not with the snow, not with the cold—but with the weight of it all.
Cregan Stark. The boy who would judge her. And her son. And the one she would never call her own.
---
Cregan stood on the outer wall walk of Winterfell's west side, overlooking the forests that fed into the White Knife. A storm threatened beyond the horizon — not snow, but wind. Trees bent in the distance, like grain under a scythe.
Rodrik Cassel's words echoed in his ears. "Your uncle approaches. His wife. His son. And the boy."
Cregan had nodded once, dismissed him, and climbed here alone.
He felt the weight of it now. Another child. Another bloodline. Another tie to a war he had not fought, but which had defined him.
A bastard. He had heard the word often enough whispered by wet nurses and gossips. The babe had no name beyond Snow. Yet he bore Stark blood. That mattered.
Family mattered.
Cregan's hands rested on the stone. He did not feel warmth, but he felt… awareness. Winterfell pulsed beneath his feet like a resting beast. Watching. Judging.
He'd begun laying the rune stones two weeks past. Hidden, simple, buried under keystones and lintels and fireplace ash. They were not active—not fully—but he was testing. Testing the old laws. The old names. A castle should know its own. And know when strangers walked its halls.
The runes would make sure of that.
He turned back toward the tower. The wind whispered like words in his ears.
---
Benjen found him later that evening, just after the sky turned purple behind the trees. The air was sharp and quiet, the kind of cold that settled between one's teeth.
"You're not nervous," Benjen said. Not a question.
Cregan stood with hands behind his back, posture perfect atop the rampart. "Why would I be?"
Benjen smirked. "Your uncle. His lady. A Stark returned from war. And two boys under your roof. One's your kin. The other, not quite."
Cregan didn't look away from the trees. "They'll learn."
"Learn what?"
"What it means to be of the North."
Benjen leaned against the wall beside him. "Jon is a child. Catelyn won't like him here. You'll see that soon enough."
"I've seen it already," Cregan said.
"You've met him?"
"No. But I've seen how Southern women walk when they believe their blood matters more than their honor."
Benjen exhaled slowly, watching the steam drift. "And Jon?"
Cregan was quiet for a long moment. Then: "He's blood. I'll not let him feel like snow beneath my roof."
Benjen turned toward him fully now, studying his nephew's face. So sharp. So composed. "You'll protect him?"
"If he proves he can stand."
"And if he can't?"
Cregan looked down toward the yard below, where the snow had crusted in sharp patterns. "Then I'll teach him."
---
That night, Cregan sat in the solar, firelight dancing across maps of Winterfell. He had drawn each wing, each tunnel, each blind stair. He was memorizing routes. Weak points. Lines of sight.
At his right elbow sat a second parchment, blank save for a single name: Queenscrown.
He would give the boy a home. Not because of pity. Because of blood.
Jon would grow in the North. As a wolf. Not a Snow.
Cregan dipped a fresh quill into ink and began to write.
The gates of Winterfell groaned open with ancient weight as Ned Stark rode beneath the archway, his cloak rimmed with frost and his breath steaming in the grey morning air. The horses stamped against the flagstones, weary from the cold stretch of the King's Road, their riders silent as the grave.
Atop the steps of the great hall, flanked by Rodrik Cassel and Benjen Stark, stood Cregan.
He did not smile.
He wore a cloak of bear fur and black wool, silver-threaded direwolf brooch fastened at his shoulder. He was still only a boy, yet he stood with the bearing of a man grown, eyes unreadable, hands clasped behind his back. The wind tugged at his cloak but not at him.
Ned dismounted.
Catelyn followed, adjusting Robb in her arms. Behind her, Jon Snow was carried by a maid on horseback. He made no sound.
Ned climbed the steps slowly, each footstep echoing between the old stones. He stopped three paces from the boy, then dropped to one knee.
"My lord," he said, loud enough for all to hear. "I come home to serve Winterfell."
Cregan inclined his head. "You are welcome, Uncle. The North remembers."
Ned rose, eyes catching for a moment on the boy's—green, sharp, and old.
Rodrik stepped forward. "Winterfell welcomes Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn, and their sons, Robb and Jon."
Cregan held out his hands. Catelyn hesitated, then placed Robb gently in his arms.
He stared down at the infant, quiet and serious.
"You are blood of my blood," he said softly. "Born in the time of ashes. May winter guard you, and the pack protect."
He kissed the boy's brow and returned him.
Then, without prompting, he turned to Jon. The boy looked up from the maid's arms with wide grey eyes.
Cregan did not blink.
"This one will not be set aside," he said, to no one in particular. "He will be raised Stark. He has wolf blood."
The silence that followed was ice. Catelyn's mouth tightened. Ned did not speak.
Cregan turned toward the keep. "Come. The fires are lit."
---
The feast that night was a cold affair, despite the roaring hearths.
The banners of Stark hung high above the great hall. The tables were laden with venison, black bread, root vegetables, and thick stews seasoned with only salt and smoke.
There was no music.
Cregan sat at the head of the high table, Rodrik to his left, Ned to his right. Catelyn sat one seat farther down, stiff and pale, her eyes flicking between faces.
Benjen drank little and said less.
Jon lay in a carved cradle beside Catelyn's chair. No one touched him. The servants stepped around him carefully, but their eyes avoided his.
Cregan noticed.
He watched them all—how Walys whispered too often to kitchen staff, how Mordane exchanged looks with Catelyn, how one of the guardsmen drank too fast and looked away when caught.
He made no move. Not yet.
At the feast's end, he raised a single toast.
"To family," he said, lifting his cup. "And to wolves who do not kneel."
No one knew quite what to say.
---
Later that night, Ned came to him alone.
They met in the solar, quiet and warm, fire crackling in the hearth. The room smelled of old parchment and pine.
"You've made them nervous," Ned said without reproach.
"They should be," Cregan answered.
Ned looked around at the maps, the rune stones, the training reports stacked neatly on the desk. "You've done more in three moons than some lords manage in a lifetime."
"I did what needed doing."
Ned nodded. "But there is more to ruling than strength. There is patience. Mercy. Forgiveness."
Cregan met his eyes. "There is also winter."
Ned sighed. "It's not weakness to bend."
"It is when the South calls it honor," Cregan said. "But it's fear with another name."
Ned didn't argue.
Cregan walked to the shelf and pulled two old books down. He handed them over.
"The Hungry Wolf. And Cregan Stark, the Old Wolf. Read them. Not for war—but for truth."
Ned accepted them with care. "And what is your truth?"
Cregan's voice was low, cold, and clear. "Honor is summer's word. In winter, we keep our people warm and alive."
---
Elsewhere in the keep, Catelyn sat in her chamber, Septa Mordane beside her.
"They treat the bastard like one of their own," the septa muttered. "Like that won't come back to bite the babe in the cradle."
Catelyn said nothing at first. Then: "I want him away from Robb."
"They say the lord means to give him a seat."
Catelyn's hands clenched.
"Winterfell has gone wild," Mordane whispered. "A child with command and an old sword. The North bows to a boy. You must make Ned see reason."
The door opened.
Rodrik Cassel stood in the doorway with two guards. He did not bow.
"Septa Mordane," he said calmly, "you'll come with us."
She stood, pale. "Why? What is this?"
Rodrik only replied, "You've forgotten what it means to be in the North."
He turned. The guards followed. Mordane did not scream, but her face twisted in outrage.
Here is the extended and corrected ending for Chapter 2: Part 3, seamlessly continuing from the last scene:
---
Rodrik only replied, "You've forgotten what it means to be in the North."
He turned. The guards followed. Mordane did not scream, but her face twisted in outrage.
Catelyn stood, trembling. "You can't let this happen."
Ned had just entered the chamber, his cloak damp with cold. "Let what happen? I have not been here my lady? Explain what has you so irate"
"He had Septa Mordane taken, She's a septa," Catelyn hissed. "A woman of the one true... the faith. And that boy—"
"Is your lord," Ned said sternly "And my nephew. The rightful son of Brandon Stark and i will remind you that your faith is not ours."
Catelyn's eyes narrowed. "You know what people say. You know he was born of scandal."
"I know he was born of oath and blood," Ned replied. "I was there."
"You'll speak to him," she snapped. "You'll tell him this isn't the way."
Ned looked tired. "I'll speak to him, but do not expect a different outcome.
---
Later, by candlelight, Catelyn dipped her quill into ink.
Her script was tight, deliberate.
> Father,
I write to you with grave concern. The boy they call Lord Stark has acted beyond all reason. He dares punish a woman of the Seven for speaking truth, and worse—he elevates the bastard as though he were born of proper name. The North slips further from the light each day.
You promised Robb would have Winterfell. You promised me a place of honor. Instead, we are ruled by Brandon's wild seed, a child raised by wolves and whispers.
Help me, father. The North must see the error of there ways. Their hearts must turn toward the Seven, before the darkness roots too deep.
Your daughter,
Catelyn Stark
She sealed the letter with wax and pressed her signet hard into the red. Never noticing the rune underneath her table slowly hum as a copy of her letter appears in Cregans solar.
---
Snow drifted across the training yard as Cregan stood beneath the gallery, arms folded, watching Rodrik drill the youngest boys with wooden swords. Their movements were crude and frantic—limbs flailing, too eager to impress, too undisciplined to control their strikes. But that would change. Everything changed, under his eye.
Behind him, boots echoed off stone.
Ned's voice was quiet. "You sent her away."
Cregan didn't turn. "She spoke treason beneath my roof."
"She's a septa," Ned said. "She spoke as she was raised. The South has its customs."
"We are not the South."
"She meant no true harm."
"She meant to divide," Cregan said simply. "She stoked poison in the woman who sleeps beside you. And worse, she whispered it in front of the boy who sleeps beneath your roof."
Ned exhaled. "Still. You took her tongue."
Cregan turned. "Words are weapons. I dulled hers. She'll live. She's already on the road to the Vale. Silent, but intact."
"She served faithfully for years."
"She served someone else's gods, in my hall."
There was no venom in his tone. Only the calm of stone set in frost.
Ned's jaw tightened. "Do you think this is justice?"
Cregan held his gaze. "I think it's a warning."
---
That evening, in the council chamber, firelight flickered across ink-stained scrolls and oil maps. Benjen leaned beside the hearth, arms crossed, while Maester Walys carefully recorded minutes in script so small it seemed fit for bird feathers.
Rodrik read aloud from a prepared list. "North gate rebuilt. Inner wall ice-facing stones reinforced. Peasant levies at sixty-seven trained bodies. Ten more underage volunteers we've not yet dismissed. They'll be ready in time."
Cregan nodded once. "Add another cycle for archery. With the new recurves from Barrowton."
"Aye, my lord."
Walys cleared his throat. "If I may—the pace of grain distribution should be adjusted. Last week's allotment exceeded the reserve curve we discussed. Winter Town is growing faster than forecast."
"Good," Cregan said. "Better they grow strong now. We may need them later."
Walys blinked. "Yes, my lord, but—"
"Start building outer granaries. Use the greenstone mortar from Longbarrow."
Benjen glanced up. "You want to use that already? It hasn't been tested at height."
"I'm not stacking towers. I'm stacking survival."
Rodrik murmured approval. Walys scratched something in the margin of his scroll.
Cregan crossed to the long table, where the latest maps of the surrounding villages were pinned with heavy stone weights. He tapped one village in the northern bend of the White Knife.
"Windmill site. We'll run a low canal from the eastern spring. Use the floodplain."
Rodrik nodded slowly. "We'll need timber crews by frost's end."
"They'll be ready."
Benjen said nothing. But his eyes followed Cregan a long while.
When the council ended, Walys lingered by the hearth, head bowed slightly. His voice was low. "My lord, if I may… some are saying the pace is too fast. The old ways—"
"Will rot us," Cregan interrupted. "The North cannot be a crypt."
The maester hesitated. "Of course, my lord."
Cregan stared into the fire until he was alone in the room.
---
Later, in the godswood, the snow fell softer. A hush settled over the heart tree and its pale, bleeding bark.
Benjen leaned against a pine, arms folded. "You've been here three moons and already redrawn half the North. Most boys your age are still learning their letters."
Cregan didn't look up. His gaze stayed fixed on the weirwood.
"I'm three."
Benjen snorted. "Gods help us."
The wind moved through the branches like breath through old bones.
"Do you ever dream?" Benjen asked quietly.
Cregan's voice was flat. "Only of things I'd rather forget."
Benjen studied him. "You don't act like a child."
"No." A pause. "I don't have the luxury."
Benjen hesitated, then asked, "Do you ever see them? The ones we lost?"
Cregan's answer came low, as if spoken for the tree alone:
"I'll bleed before the pack is broken again for Southern gain."
The heart tree groaned softly as snow fell in slow silence.
Benjen stepped forward, voice gentler. "You haven't been to the crypts yet, have you?"
"I will," Cregan murmured. "The stones are speaking. I just haven't answered yet."
Benjen didn't reply. He watched his nephew's eyes, and saw something behind them — too deep, too old.
---
Up in her solar, Catelyn sat in silence, her hands clasped, gaze locked on the rookery window.
She had sent the letter twelve days past.
There had been no reply.
No raven. No seal. No word from her father.
She stood, skirts whispering against stone, and crossed to the rookery stairs. She climbed quickly, then paused near the upper stairwell as a stablehand emerged with a scrap of feed paper. He froze when he saw her.
"I—my lady—"
"Where is the raven from Riverrun?"
The boy swallowed. "There was none, m'lady. We… we haven't sent anything south since the snows began."
Catelyn descended slowly, each step colder than the last. She closed the solar door gently behind her, then opened the drawer of her writing desk.
The second letter would need to be subtler.
---
That night, Cregan and Ned stood in the map room, snow swirling beyond the arrow-slit windows. They stared at a parchment battlefield, dotted with carved wooden pieces.
"These were the lines outside Gulltown," Ned said, tapping the edge of the map. "Lord Grafton fell there. Took three of ours with him. Ser Barrick of Flint's Finger bled out in the snow. Wouldn't scream."
"He was fifteen," Cregan said.
Ned looked at him. "You know the names."
"I know the dead."
Ned poured two cups of bitterleaf and sat. "I thought Robert would change things. I thought maybe the realm would be better under him. Less mad than Aerys. Less cruel than Tywin. But all we got was ash, and graves."
Cregan took the seat across from him. "We buried fathers, sons, and kin for a Southern war."
He looked into the fire.
"Perhaps it's time we decide what price the North is owed."
Ned's brow furrowed. "Careful with that kind of thinking."
"I'm not threatening," Cregan said softly. "But we've paid more than our share. It's not wrong to ask what we were paid in return."
Ned drank slowly. "We got peace."
"We got silence," Cregan said. "And a queen from the West."
"You don't think Robert's true?"
"I think he's Robert. That's enough."
Ned's eyes softened. "You sound like your father."
Cregan didn't smile. "Then may the gods forgive me."
They sat a while longer in silence, the map between them glowing faintly in firelight.
---
The next morning, a raven flapped high above the castle. But it did not come from Riverrun. It came from White Harbor—laden with parchment, trade figures, and names.
The North was stirring.
And Cregan Stark, son of Brandon and Ashara, knew it was time to give it shape.
Snow clung to the eaves of Winterfell's towers, frosting each edge like icing over the bones of an old giant. Below, Winter Town was alive—not loud, but pulsing. Smoke curled from new chimneys, carts rolled down packed snow paths, and voices filled the schoolroom turned from an old storage hall.
Cregan stood in the north-facing gallery, watching the bustle. His hands were clasped behind his back, posture rigid, eyes calm. He rarely smiled. Today was no different.
Rodrik approached beside him, shaking frost from his cloak. "Never seen so many at work this time of year," he said.
"They'll have roofs and food before next frost," Cregan replied. "And when the canal's done, they'll have trade too."
Rodrik grunted approval.
Below, a line of children waited outside a narrow door where Nella, the soft-spoken washerwoman turned teacher, was calling names. She taught them letters, numbers, and how to read grain tallies. Across the lane, a man scrubbed his arms in a barrel of grey soap water before handling flour sacks.
Even that was new.
Inside the keep, Maester Walys had raised his objections again.
"Teaching peasants to read? Cleanliness is important, yes, but—this feels dangerously close to disorder."
Cregan had simply stared at him.
"Why is it only lords deserve to better themselves?" he'd asked. "If you have no answer, be silent next time."
The man had bowed.
Later that day, Cregan lit his brazier in the ritual chamber beneath his solar. The runes on the stone floor had been carved in a long spiral, each etched with silver dust and blood residue from three dozen prior experiments.
This one would be the first full attempt.
He laid out the dagger, bowl, and grimoire page. The words came in a language that a younger Harry had only seen whispered from Voldemort's lips. Harsh consonants, biting vowels, something ancient and pulsing with meaning. He spoke, sliced his palm, and dripped blood into the bowl.
The runes flared.
His vision tunneled. His breath caught in his throat as magic tore through the veins, pulling nerves taut. There was no scream. Only light. Frosted blue and white light behind his eyes.
When it passed, he slumped forward. His hand trembled once, then stilled. He could hear the wind outside more sharply. The grind of snow against stone. His pulse slowed, but it felt deeper, stronger. Like every bone in him had been tuned.
He smiled—just once.
---
In the yard, he sparred with Rodrik, then practiced with spear, axe, mace. All wooden, of course—but he moved with a precision Rodrik had not seen before.
Benjen watched from the steps, arms folded. He didn't smile either.
That night, in the great library, Cregan approached Ned with a question:
"Who were the best?"
Ned looked up. "The best what?"
"In the war. Sword. Axe. Bow. Strategy. Tracking."
Ned paused. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I intend for the North to never come second again."
Ned set the quill down. "Sword was me. Axe? That'd be a Forester — Ser Harwin. Bow, the Redwoods. Strategy, also me, though I won't claim it gladly. Hammer? Greatjon Umber. Spear? A Manderly, Ser Mandon with his damned trident. Tracking? Howland Reed."
Cregan nodded once. "Thankyou, the next great harvest remind me to gather them all, the North needs to be trained more, collect the strengths and wead out the weaknesses"
---
Later in the godswood, Benjen and Ned joined him in the snow beneath the weirwood.
"Cregan, me and ned have spoken, we're worried about you, You're burning the candle at both ends," Benjen said.
"You're wearing out," Ned added. "You don't need to carry everything alone."
Cregan stared at the bloody bark. "The winters of childhood are a luxury, look at what happened the last time the North was unprepared, and because of grandfather and that damned grey rat of a maester we are nowhere near as strong as we were"
Ned and Benjen shared a look, "Explain" was the terse response from both
"I suppose this is a conversation we need to have, your right I'm exhausted,we are pack. There should be no secrets between us. Follow me stay silent until I'm sure we are alone" Cregan replied, gesturing them both to follow to his room below the solar.
---
The fire crackled low in the solar, casting long shadows across stone and fur. A kettle of snowmelt hissed above the hearth. Cregan Stark sat cross-legged on the rug, back straight, cloak pooled behind him like a throne of grey. Across from him, Ned nursed a cup of heated wine. Benjen sat with boots unlaced, one brow raised in silent suspicion.
Cregan spoke first.
"I'm not just your nephew."
The words landed like a dropped blade. Ned's grip tightened around the cup. Benjen stilled.
"I don't mean bastardry," Cregan clarified. "I mean… soul deep. I lived another life. In another world."
Benjen blinked slowly. Ned said nothing, only studied him.
"I was named Harry Potter. I died. I was betrayed by those I called family. And I was powerful—more than anyone alive here. Magic was common in my world, but even there, I was different. When I passed, I didn't fade. I fell. Through something called the Veil."
"And landed here?" Benjen asked.
"A child born again of Stark and Dayne blood. I remember everything."
Silence.
Ned finally spoke, voice low. "How do we know this isn't madness?"
Cregan held out his hand. The fire bent toward him. A rune shimmered across his palm.
"I perform blood rituals. Runes. Wards. I've strengthened my reflexes, my endurance. I can teach you both. And I will."
"You'd share that?" Benjen asked, skeptical.
"With you, yes," Cregan said. "And the children too, when they're old enough to prove they'll use it for the pack, not the self."
Ned set his cup down. "Why now?"
Cregan was quiet for a moment, then spoke with steel.
"Because I've seen suffering. I've known what it is to be alone. To be used. I was an orphan, raised like a weapon. And I will not allow the North—my family, my people—to suffer as I did. Not because of the cold. Not because of southern ambition. Not again."
He looked at Ned.
"Moat Cailin will be yours. Not just in name—rebuilt, walled, manned, and warded. Sea Dragon Point for Benjen. Jon will have Queenscrown. We'll connect them by roads and canals. We'll train a new army—efficient, loyal, sharp. Not just swordsmen. Archers like Bloodraven's. Scouts. Assassins. Magic-users, when we find them."
Benjen gave a low whistle. "That's ambition."
"That's survival."
Cregan rose and began to pace.
"The rebellion wasn't chance. The timing. The marriages. Brandon dying. My mother exiled. Lyanna promised to a Baratheon. Ned raised with Andals and their Seven. Why? Why push so many of us south?"
"You think someone planned it," Ned said, slowly.
"I know they did. I just don't know who yet. But I'll find out."
Cregan turned sharply.
"Southern ambitions, spurred by men like Maester Walys, made the North soft. Alliances with houses like the Tullys, who look down on our ways. Karstarks, Ryswells, Dustins—weakened by marriage, distance, and southern gold."
He stopped before the hearth.
"We are rich, Ned. We have mines, trade routes, timber, ore. But we've never used it. Never built ships. Never modernized. Why?"
Benjen's mouth was tight. "Because we were told not to."
"Exactly. By southerners. By maesters. By Seven-worshipping diplomats who see us as old blood waiting to fade."
Cregan looked at them both.
"I don't intend to fade. I intend to rise."
Ned leaned back, the fire reflecting in his eyes. He looked older, suddenly. Tired.
"You're not a boy," he murmured. "You've never been."
"No," Cregan said quietly. "I've been too many things. And I've lost too much."
Benjen scratched his jaw. "You're not mad. You're cold. But… you love us."
"I do," Cregan said. "Enough to bleed for you. Enough to do things you'll never thank me for. But the North will survive. Our line will stand."
He stepped forward and knelt before them.
"Let me show you the rituals. Let me prepare you both. So you can protect the next generation. So we never bend again."
Silence.
Then Ned reached out and clasped his arm.
"You have my trust," he said.
Benjen chuckled softly. "And my curiosity. Let's see what this old magic can teach."
Cregan smiled for the first time in days.
"Good," he said. "Then we begin tonight."
---
The next day, Cregan stood at his writing desk. A raven perched nearby, waiting.
The letter was brief. Cold. Clear.
> To His Grace Robert Baratheon, First of His Name—
> In light of the North's disproportionate sacrifice during the recent rebellion, Winterfell submits the following conditions for continued integration:
> — 50,000 gold dragons in relief and rebuilding funds.
— A 10-year reduction in grain tariffs from the Reach.
— The return of the Gift from the Watch.
— The return of the Winter Crown of the Kings in the North from the Targaryen vaults, for historical preservation.
> We consider these terms fair. The North bled first and last. We will not be forgotten.
Ned read the copy and closed his eyes.
"They'll think this is rebellion, are you sure of this?
"They're wrong," Cregan said. "This is memory, the North has never asked we should have."
"You're demanding what Tywin received for betrayal."
"Exactly," said Cregan. "We shouldn't have to ask."
Ned sighed and affixed the wax. "Then the gods help us"
---
The raven reached King's Landing within the week.
In the small council chamber, Jon Arryn held the scroll with steady hands. The others watched him read.
Robert lounged in his chair, one leg over the armrest, goblet in hand.
Stannis was stone-faced.
Renly played with a ring.
Varys stood in silence by the window.
Littlefinger smirked.
Barristan Selmy kept his eyes on the map of Westeros laid flat between them.
When Jon finished, he cleared his throat. "Lord Stark—Cregan Stark—has submitted this letter. It's not treason. Yet. But it is… forceful."
Stannis leaned forward. "Fifty thousand dragons? Tariff exemptions? A border redrawn? He dares this?"
"He's a boy," Renly said. "Maybe he thinks he's owed."
"A boy with an army," said Stannis. "And ships."
"Ships he hasn't built yet," Littlefinger mused. "Though I hear he has coin moving. Braavosi banks. Quiet trades."
"Ten years of grain tariffs?" Renly raised an eyebrow. "Why not ask for Highgarden too?"
Robert grunted. "Let him have it."
They all looked at him.
The king drained his cup. "Tywin burned a city and I handed him a princess. This pup kept his lands quiet and fed my armies."
"He's setting precedent," said Stannis. "Other lords will follow."
"Then let 'em follow," Robert muttered. "Northmen are always grim. Better to keep 'em fed."
Jon Arryn frowned. "He's dangerous. Calculating."
"Then keep watching him," Robert said. "Send him his gold. Give him his damned trinket crown. Just keep him out of trouble."
Varys' fingers steepled. "I shall see that a few more eyes return to the snow, just in case."
"Eyes," said Littlefinger, "don't do well in cold."
---
That night, Winterfell was still.
Cregan walked the halls alone, wrapped in a grey cloak lined with fur. He carried no torch. The moonlight through arrow slits was enough.
He made his way to the crypts.
The air grew colder as he descended. Past Lyanna's statue. Past Brandon's. Past Rickard's stern, grim likeness.
He stopped before Lyanna's stone and knelt.
"I'll protect him," he whispered. "You died for him. I'll live for him."
He then turned to Brandon.
"You were fire fast and feirce. I'll be frost eternal and deadly. But I'll still be Stark."
His hand touched the wall.
He felt it again—like a thrum. A call.
Deeper still, he descended, past the known names. Into stone not walked in a hundred years.
There it was.
A wall, smooth and wrong, with no statue, no name.
He reached into his cloak, cut his palm, and pressed it to the wall.
The stone drank.
The groan of ancient stone grinding filled the corridor.
The wall split open.
Inside was a chamber.
Empty—except for one statue.
A tall man, bare-headed, bearing the Winter Crown. At his feet: a massive black direwolf, snarling with a glowing crystal covered in runes at its feet.
At his side: a wand of weirwood. And beside it, a great war mace, dark as midnight and glinting with giving off a frost like effect.
Cregan fell to his knees.
His voice cracked—not with magic, not with command, but with something raw.
"Sirius," he whispered.
And the old magic stirred.
---