Chapter 23: The Forging of the Wolfpack and the Southern Summons
Winterfell became the crucible where the North's renewed fury was forged. Lord Cregan Stark, the young Wolf Lord whose exploits in the South had already become the stuff of legend whispered around hearthfires from the Wall to the Neck, was a relentless, driving force. He moved through his ancestral castle with a tireless energy that belied his youth, his single blue eye missing no detail, his commands sharp and precise. The leisurely pace of a Northern winter in peacetime was shattered; Winterfell was a war camp, its ancient stones echoing with the clang of smithies, the shouts of drill sergeants, and the steady tramp of marching feet.
Ciel Phantomhive, inhabiting Cregan's form, found a grim satisfaction in this meticulous preparation. It reminded him of orchestrating his networks in London, of building the Funtom Corporation, but on a far grander, more visceral scale. Here, the currency was not shillings and secrets, but steel, grain, and the lives of men. He demanded efficiency, discipline, and unwavering loyalty, and the North, accustomed to harsh lords and harsher winters, largely gave it to him.
His days were a whirlwind of activity. He met with stewards to review grain reserves, with smiths to inspect the quality of newly forged spearheads and arrowheads, with his newly appointed Master-at-Arms, Torrhen Karstark (the gruff cousin of Lord Torrhen, whose grief for his son was now channeled into a fierce dedication to training the new recruits), to observe the progress of the levies. He settled disputes between impatient lords' stewards over rights to mill timber or impress carters, his judgments swift and final. The raw recruits, mostly farmhands and crofters' sons, were drilled relentlessly, their initial clumsiness slowly giving way to a semblance of martial order under the harsh tutelage of veterans from the Southern campaign. These scarred survivors, their eyes still holding the horrors of Harrenhal and the Gullet, became the backbone of the new companies, their grim tales and hard-won experience shaping the green boys into soldiers.
Sebastian Michaelis, a silent, black-clad wraith, was Ciel's ever-present shadow and his most effective instrument. While Ciel managed the overt levers of power, Sebastian handled the… subtler aspects. A vital shipment of iron ore from the northern hills, delayed by early snows and a reluctant petty lord, arrived with miraculous speed after Sebastian paid a "courtesy call." Whispers of dissent or shirking among the newly levied men simply… ceased… after Sebastian was seen observing their drills with his unnerving, crimson-eyed scrutiny. He moved through Winterfell with an almost supernatural grace, ensuring Ciel's will was done, often before Ciel even voiced the command.
"The Northern temperament is… robust, my Lord," Sebastian observed one evening, as he laid out Ciel's simple supper in his solar. "They are hardy, loyal to their traditions, and possess a certain… primitive resilience. Though their cuisine remains tragically unimaginative."
"Their resilience is their strength, Sebastian," Ciel replied, poring over a map of the North, marking potential muster points. "And their loyalty, once earned, is unbreakable. Unlike the shifting allegiances of the South."
"Indeed," Sebastian mused, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Humans, in their endless variations, provide such a rich tapestry of… predictable follies. Though I confess, the almost fanatical devotion these Northmen are developing towards you, my Lord, is a particularly… piquant thread."
Ciel ignored the undercurrent in his butler's tone. He was aware of the almost mythic status he was acquiring – the Boy Wolf who had caged a dragon prince, the Lord Stark touched by old magic and shadowed by a figure of terrifying power. He neither encouraged nor discouraged it; he simply used it.
His connection to the North's ancient magic continued to deepen in the familiar embrace of Winterfell. He spent many hours in the godswood, before the heart tree, Sarx a warm, comforting presence at his side. The greensight visions came more frequently now, though still often cryptic. He saw the weirwood's carved eyes weeping not sap, but tears of actual blood, staining the snow-covered ground. He saw vast armies clashing under a sky filled with warring dragons, their fires consuming cities. He saw a wolf, impossibly large, standing defiant against a storm of ice and fire. And always, that single word in the Old Tongue, resonating in his mind, a word he still couldn't decipher but which felt like a key, a calling.
He tried to speak of it, obliquely, to Maester Lorcan. "Maester, the Old Tongue… are there texts, translations?"
Lorcan, flustered, produced ancient, crumbling scrolls. "Very few, my lord. A harsh, guttural language, largely forgotten. Only the wildlings beyond the Wall, and perhaps some of the crannogmen, still speak it fluently. Why do you ask?"
Ciel merely shook his head, offering no explanation. The word remained his secret, a personal enigma.
His warging abilities, however, were a more practical tool. With Sarx, his bond was almost seamless. He could see through the direwolf's eyes, smell the scents of the forest, feel the thrill of the hunt, even when miles separated them. He began to extend this control, cautiously, to other creatures. He sent ravens not just as messengers, but as aerial scouts, their keen eyes providing him with information about movements in the distant Wolfswood or the disposition of newly arrived levies in the winter town outside Winterfell's walls. He even managed, briefly, to slip into the mind of a snow bear encountered by one of his hunting parties, feeling its immense strength, its primal rage, before retreating, the experience too overwhelming, too alien. Each attempt was a drain, a risk, but it expanded his understanding of the North, of its hidden life, its ancient power.
As winter began to tighten its grip on the North, the lords and their representatives started to arrive for the Great Northern Council Ciel had summoned. The Great Hall of Winterfell, already bustling, now overflowed with the stern, bearded faces of Northern nobility. They came from distant castles and holdfasts, their banners – the Umber giant, the Glover fist, the Mormont bear, the Dustin axe, the Ryswell horse – adding their colors to the Stark direwolves.
Ciel, seated on the ancient Stark throne of Winterfell – a simple, unadorned seat of grey stone that nonetheless radiated an aura of immense antiquity and power – addressed them. Sarx lay at his feet, a clear symbol of his lineage and his innate connection to the North. Sebastian stood in the shadows behind the throne, his presence a subtle but potent reinforcement of Ciel's authority.
"Lords of the North!" Ciel's voice, Cregan's voice, rang out, clear and cold as the winter wind. "You answered my call once, and bled for your Queen and your Warden. The Greens felt the bite of Northern steel, and they reeled from the blow. Aemond Targaryen sits in a Dragonstone cell. Criston Cole's bones bleach in a Riverland pass. We showed them the price of treachery."
A low growl of approval rumbled through the hall.
"But the war is far from over," Ciel continued, his gaze sweeping over them. "Queen Rhaenyra still fights for her throne. Prince Daemon holds the Riverlands by a thread. The Greens are marshaling new armies, hiring sellswords, their desperation making them more dangerous. The South still burns. And the Pact of Ice and Fire, the promises made to the North, remain to be fully secured."
He then laid out his demands. A new host, larger than the last. Twenty thousand men, fully armed and provisioned, ready to march when the winter storms broke, or sooner if a dire summons came. He listed the quotas for each house, the amounts of grain, horses, steel, and gold required.
There were murmurs, some of them uneasy. The North had already given much. To ask for more, so soon, was a heavy burden.
Lord Dustin of Barrowton, a man known for his pragmatism and his careful husbanding of resources, spoke up. "Lord Stark, the North bleeds. Our granaries are low from last year's poor harvest and the previous levy. Our fighting men… many of our best fell in the South. To raise another twenty thousand… it is a hard thing you ask."
"War is a hard thing, Lord Dustin," Ciel replied, his voice like ice. "Losing this war, seeing a usurper on the Iron Throne who would undoubtedly punish the North for its loyalty to the true Queen, that would be a harder thing still. We gave our word. The Starks keep their oaths. The North remembers. Or have some of you forgotten?"
His gaze was a challenge, and one by one, the lords averted their eyes or nodded grimly. They knew Cregan Stark was not a lord to be trifled with. His youth was deceptive; his will was iron.
The council lasted three days. There were arguments, negotiations, and tense debates over resources and command structures for the new companies. But in the end, Ciel's will prevailed. The Northern lords, bound by ancient oaths of fealty and cowed by their young lord's fearsome reputation and unwavering resolve, pledged what he demanded. The new Northern army would be raised.
It was during the final day of the council that a series of ravens arrived, their feathers crusted with ice, their messages dire. They came from Dragonstone, from Riverrun, and from scouts near the Crownlands.
The news from Dragonstone was from Queen Rhaenyra herself. Her missive spoke of increasing Green desperation. Otto Hightower, it was said, was attempting to broker an alliance with the Kingdom of the Three Daughters (the Triarchy, though shattered, was apparently regrouping with Lysene and Tyroshi gold). More alarmingly, Prince Daeron Targaryen, Aemond's younger brother, riding his fierce blue dragon Tessarion, had finally arrived in the Reach from Oldtown and had begun a brutal campaign alongside Lord Ormund Hightower, crushing Black loyalists and threatening to cut off supplies to Dragonstone from the south. Rhaenyra urged Ciel to hasten his preparations; the North's strength was needed now more than ever.
The message from Prince Daemon in Riverrun was even more alarming. He wrote of a massive Green host, larger than Cole's previous army, being assembled near King's Landing, under the command of Lord Borros Baratheon of Storm's End – the same lord who had turned away Lucerys Velaryon. This army, Daemon warned, was preparing to march north into the Riverlands, or perhaps even make a direct assault on Dragonstone itself if they could secure enough ships. Vhagar, he added in a grim postscript, had been sighted near King's Landing, still riderless, but her presence alone was enough to terrorize the capital and embolden the Greens.
Ciel read these messages, his face a mask of cold composure, but his mind raced. The strategic situation was deteriorating rapidly. The Greens were not collapsing; they were regrouping, striking back with renewed ferocity.
He reconvened the Northern council immediately.
"Lords of the North," he announced, his voice cutting through the sudden, anxious silence as he shared the grim tidings. "Our Queen is in peril. Our allies in the Riverlands face a new, even greater threat. The time for deliberation is over. The time for action is now."
He looked at them, his single eye blazing with a cold, fierce light. "The winter storms are not yet broken, but the storm of war waits for no man. We will not wait for the thaws. We will march now, as soon as the first contingents are ready. We will take the winter itself as our ally, and we will fall upon these Southern lords like a blizzard from hell."
His decision was met with stunned silence, then a roar of assent. The Northmen, for all their caution, were fighters. They understood urgency. And they trusted their Wolf Lord.
"You will return to your lands, gather your men, your supplies," Ciel commanded. "Rendezvous at Moat Cailin in one month's time. From there, we march south. And we will not return until Queen Rhaenyra sits the Iron Throne, or we die in the attempt."
He dismissed the council, then turned to Maester Lorcan and Bennard Stark, whose arm was now mostly healed. "Uncle, you will remain in Winterfell as my regent. Maester Lorcan will advise you. Hold the North secure. Continue to gather supplies. Send them south to us as you are able."
Bennard, his face grim but resolute, nodded. "The North will be safe in our hands, nephew. Go. Show these Southern fools what Northern winter truly means."
In the privacy of his solar, with only Sebastian and Sarx present, Ciel allowed himself a moment of quiet contemplation. The task ahead was monumental, the risks immense. He was leading a new army, many of them green recruits, into the heart of a raging inferno, against seasoned foes and, potentially, dragons.
"A bold gamble, my Lord," Sebastian observed, pouring him a cup of mulled wine. "Marching in the heart of winter. Most commanders would deem it madness."
"Madness is often the most direct path to victory, Sebastian," Ciel replied, staring into the fire. "The Greens will not expect a Northern army to move so swiftly, in such harsh conditions. Surprise will be our ally."
His greensight flared, a brief, intense vision: snow falling on a burning city, a wolf howling over a field of slain stags and lions, and the Dragonstone throne, empty, waiting. The meaning was unclear, but the sense of impending, brutal conflict was overwhelming.
He rose, buckling Dark Sister to his belt. "Prepare my gear, Sebastian. We ride for Moat Cailin within the week. The vanguard of our new army will assemble there."
"As you command, my Lord," Sebastian said, a faint, almost predatory smile touching his lips. "It seems the… interlude… is over. The grand performance is set to resume. I do hope this next act is as… stimulating… as the last."
Ciel did not reply. He walked to the window, looking out over the moonlit snows of Winterfell. The North was stirring, its ancient, slumbering power awakening. And he, Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, the boy lord with a demon at his side and the blood of the First Men in his veins, would lead its charge into the heart of the storm. The game was afoot, and winter was coming south with a vengeance.