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Harry Potter lay flat on his back, staring at the sky, feeling like he’d just gotten into a bar fight with a Hungarian Horntail. And lost. Badly. Every bone in his body felt like it had been drop-kicked by Hagrid.

But hey, Voldemort? Gone. Dust in the wind. His last Horcrux? Toast. Harry should’ve been celebrating, maybe fist-pumping the air like a Quidditch star who’d just won the World Cup. Instead, he just felt...tired. Like, “I-don’t-care-if-I-ever-move-again” tired.

Someone—Hermione, because obviously—was sobbing above him, which was kind of sweet but also distracting. Ron was muttering something about “bloody hell” and “seriously, mate, don’t die.” Mrs. Weasley hovered like a mother dragon, and the rest of the Weasleys stood behind her, looking less like a victorious war party and more like they’d just realized the bill for this battle was way higher than expected.

Harry sighed. The world was safe. The prophecy was fulfilled. The Boy Who Lived had officially outlived his usefulness. He should’ve felt relieved, maybe even peaceful. Instead, all he could think was:

If I wake up and someone hands me another prophecy, I swear I will hex them so hard their great-grandchildren will sneeze Amortentia.

And then, just as he was starting to get comfortable with the whole “slowly fading into the void” thing—because honestly, it sounded more relaxing than anything else in his life—he felt a shift.

Like the universe had just flicked a light switch.

—

One second, he was lying in the middle of the wreckage of Hogwarts. The next? He was standing in what looked like King’s Cross Station, if King’s Cross Station had been designed by an interior decorator on hallucinogens. Everything glowed in that weird, ethereal way that suggested "magical dreamscape" or possibly "Luna Lovegood’s idea of a casual hangout spot."

And in front of him stood Death.

Now, when most people think of Death, they probably picture a hooded figure with a scythe, maybe a skeletal grin. What Harry got? A woman. Or at least, something vaguely shaped like one. Tall, sharp-featured, with dark eyes that looked like they had seen every bad life choice in history. She wore an elegant black suit—somewhere between “CEO of the Afterlife” and “Fashionably Unimpressed.”

And her expression? Peak British judgment.

“You again,” she said, crossing her arms. “You do love making my job difficult.”

Harry blinked. “Uh. Have we met?”

Death tilted her head, considering. “Technically, yes. Though you were a baby, so it doesn’t count. And then there was that time with the Basilisk venom, and the time with the Dementors, and let’s not forget the little resurrection stunt you pulled earlier.” She gave him a slow, unimpressed once-over. “Honestly, for someone named ‘The Boy Who Lived,’ you’ve spent an alarming amount of time dying.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, I like to keep things interesting.”

Death sighed, as if he was the exhausting one in this conversation. “I suppose congratulations are in order. You did it. Killed Voldemort, saved the world. Very heroic.” She said it like most people say, Wow, you managed to parallel park.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose this is the part where you tell me I’ve earned eternal rest?”

Death snorted. “Oh, please. You, retire? No. I have a job for you.”

Harry stared at her. “A job? Death is handing out side quests now?”

Death ignored that. “You are in possession of all three of my Hallows. That makes you the Master of Death.”

Harry crossed his arms. “Cool title, but if this is about unpaid overtime, I’d like to remind you that I was not informed of any job responsibilities when I picked up those things.”

Death’s lips curved in what could almost be a smile. “Well, consider this your official offer. You have two choices. One, you move on—rest, be at peace, reunite with your loved ones.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “And the catch?”

“No catch,” Death said smoothly. “It’s a good deal. You deserve it.”

Harry waited.

Death sighed. “Option two: I send you to a new world, fully equipped with your memories and magic. Fresh start. No prophecies, no Horcruxes, no Dark Lords trying to use your blood like a free potion ingredient.” She smirked. “Well, presumably.”

Harry blinked. “You want me to start over? In another world?”

“Correct.”

“And why, exactly, would I do that?”

Death shrugged. “Boredom? Adventure? The fact that you’d rather die again than sit through a single minute of wizarding politics?”

…Okay. That was fair.

“Can I choose the world?”

Death shook her head. “Nope. Mystery box. But I promise, it won’t be boring.”

Harry sighed, rubbing his temples. “So my options are: eternal rest, or another round of ‘Harry Potter versus the World’—now with extra dimensions?”

“Basically.”

He should have taken the easy road. He should have chosen peace. But the truth was? The idea of an entirely new world, where he could actually live without the shadow of Voldemort over his head, was...tempting.

“Fine,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “Send me in, coach.”

Death smiled, and for the first time, it actually seemed a little fond. “Excellent choice. The Hallows will find their way back to you when the time is right.”

“Great. Love cryptic nonsense.”

A swirling portal appeared beside him, glowing like magical cotton candy.

Harry gave it a look. “And this won’t immediately kill me, right?”

Death smirked. “No promises.”

“Fantastic.” With a last deep breath, Harry stepped into the portal.

As the light swallowed him, one final thought crossed his mind:

If this world has another Dark Lord, I am hexing Death in the face.

—

The halls of Starfall were buzzing. And not in the fun, “let’s-have-a-feast” kind of way. More like the “something is about to go horribly wrong, and we’re all just hoping we’re not the ones who have to deal with it” kind of way.

Inside Lady Ashara Dayne’s chambers, things were significantly worse. There was screaming. There was cursing. There was also a distinct chance that someone—possibly the maester—was about to get something heavy thrown at their head.

“Breathe, my lady! Steady now!” urged the midwife, a plump Dornishwoman named Anisa, who somehow managed to be both incredibly kind and deeply unimpressed by Ashara’s dramatics at the same time.

“Steady? Steady?!” Ashara snarled, gripping the sheets with white-knuckled hands. “You try being steady when it feels like a kraken is trying to claw its way out of your insides!”

The maester—good old Maester Aldric, who had the unfortunate fate of looking like a man who had long ago given up on life—hovered at the edge of the room, scribbling furiously in his journal. “Subject: Lady Dayne. Current status: Furious. Predicted status: Still furious, but with an infant.”

“Maester,” Ashara snapped through gritted teeth. “If you write one more word, I swear on the Seven I will shove that quill so far up your—”

“I’ll just… put this away,” Aldric muttered, slipping the journal behind his back like a guilty child caught with stolen sweets.

Anisa, meanwhile, rolled her eyes. “Oh, you noblewomen. You always act like you’re the first ones to ever give birth. Your mother did it, her mother did it, and guess what? She didn’t whine about it.”

“I bet she did,” Ashara growled. “She was just too polite to say it in front of you.”

Anisa gave her a knowing smile. “Mm-hmm. Less talking, more pushing.”

And so, with a final scream that probably made every poor soul in Starfall reconsider ever having children, Ashara Dayne brought a very stubborn, very loud baby into the world.

Anisa held up the tiny, wailing bundle like he was a prize she’d won at the fair. “Congratulations, my lady! It’s a boy!”

Ashara flopped back against the pillows, utterly drained. “Of course, it’s a boy. Only a son of mine would be this much trouble on his way into the world.”

Aldric peered over Anisa’s shoulder and hummed. “A noble birth, to be sure. A Stark name would be fitting, given his lineage. Perhaps—”

“Perhaps,” Ashara interrupted, giving him a withering look, “he should at least take his first breath before you start lecturing him.”

Aldric blinked, as if this was a radical concept. Anisa smirked. The baby hiccupped.

Then the chamber doors burst open, revealing a tiny, furious five-year-old with a mop of dark hair and the expression of a boy who had been told one too many times that he was “too young to understand.”

“Aunt Ashara!” Edric Dayne announced, striding into the room with all the authority his little body could muster. “It’s true! They’re saying Brandon Stark and his father are dead. They’re saying there’s gonna be a war!”

Ashara sighed and glanced at Anisa. “You see? This is why I never should’ve had a boy. They’re impossible to keep out of trouble.”

Anisa just chuckled and handed the baby to his mother. “Oh, don’t worry, my lady. He’ll have plenty of time to learn how to cause you even more grief.”

Ashara looked down at the baby—her son. Brandon’s son. His tiny fists curled and uncurled, his face scrunched in either outrage or sheer confusion at the concept of being alive. She felt a lump rise in her throat, but she swallowed it down.

“Cregan,” she murmured. “His name is Cregan.”

Edric squinted at the baby as if sizing him up. “He’s all red and squishy.”

“That’s what babies look like, you little menace,” Ashara said, brushing a finger over Cregan’s soft cheek.

Edric considered this. “I don’t like it.”

“Well, he’s not here to impress you,” Ashara retorted, but she was smiling.

Aldric cleared his throat, determined to reclaim the moment. “A noble name. A Stark name. He will—”

“—be allowed to get some sleep before you start dumping expectations on him,” Ashara interrupted. “Honestly, Aldric, do you ever stop?”

Aldric frowned. “That’s hardly fair. My entire job is to talk and write things down.”

“And yet, we all wish you’d do less of both,” Ashara muttered.

The baby made a small, whimpering noise, and she softened instantly, rocking him gently. “You hear that, little one? Lesson one: Life is messy, and people will always expect too much of you. But you? You just do what you have to do.”

Cregan yawned, completely unbothered by the heavy future being placed upon his tiny shoulders.

Ashara kissed his forehead, whispering softly. “You’ll have to be strong, my love. The world is changing, and you will be caught in the middle of it. But you will shine, I promise you that.”

Outside, the castle hummed with the whispers of war, of rebellion, of the fate of kings and kingdoms.

Inside, in this moment, there was only Ashara, her son, and the promise of what was to come.

—

Lady Ashara Dayne had survived many things in her life—court intrigue, ridiculous amounts of embroidery lessons, and at least one very dramatic near-duel between suitors who apparently thought her favor at a tourney was worth dying over. But childbirth? Childbirth was a whole new level of misery. It made even the most insufferable lords of King’s Landing seem tolerable by comparison.

Now, though, it was over. The midwife and the maester had left to “give her a moment” (which she strongly suspected was just an excuse to avoid her sharp tongue), leaving her alone with the tiny, squirming bundle in her arms.

Her son.

Brandon Stark’s son.

Cregan was warm against her chest, his little face scrunched up like he was already judging the world and finding it lacking. Which, fair. The world was a mess right now, and frankly, she wouldn’t blame him if he decided to cry about it for the next few years.

Ashara ran a trembling hand through his fine, dark hair—so much like his father’s. A lump formed in her throat. She had spent months preparing for this, steeling herself for the reality that Brandon would never get to meet their son. But all that careful preparation had done absolutely nothing. It still hurt like a blade to the ribs.

She pressed her lips to Cregan’s forehead. “You’re a Stark,” she whispered. “Which means you’ll be stubborn, reckless, and prone to throwing yourself into danger for the sake of honor. Gods help me.”

The baby yawned. She took that as agreement.

Her gaze drifted to the open window, where the sky was beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn. The sight made her chest tighten. Dawn. Starlight. Winter.

It was almost funny, in a cruel, cosmic sort of way. Their love had been whispered beneath the towering oaks of the Isle of Faces, stolen in moments between duty and expectation. It had felt like something out of a song—a Stark and a Dayne, starlight and frost, bound together beneath the eyes of the old gods.

And now?

Now, the only proof of that love was this tiny, fragile life in her arms.

A sharp gust of wind rustled the curtains, making the candlelight flicker. Ashara smirked. “That you, Brandon? Checking in?” She let out a sigh, shaking her head. “You always did have terrible timing. You couldn’t wait until after I’d had some sleep?”

No answer, of course. Just the quiet hush of the waves crashing far below the castle walls.

Ashara closed her eyes, letting herself imagine—for just a moment—what might have been. Brandon, grinning like a fool, holding their son aloft like some victorious warrior showing off the spoils of battle. Brandon, laughing as Cregan pulled on his hair. Brandon, telling their son stories of wolves and swords and loyalty.

But fate was cruel, and the future she had once dreamed of had been torn away, leaving her with nothing but memories and a name whispered into the night.

Her fingers curled protectively around Cregan’s tiny hand. “You have no idea what kind of world you’ve been born into, little one,” she murmured. “But you’ll be strong. You’ll be fierce. And you’ll make him proud.”

Cregan made a soft noise, something between a sigh and a gurgle. Ashara smiled, brushing her thumb over his cheek. “You’ll make me proud, too.”

Outside, the sun was rising over the Dornish cliffs, painting the sky in shades of gold and violet. A new day. A new beginning.

Ashara tightened her hold on her son and let herself believe—just for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, the world wasn’t completely lost yet.

—

Alright, so here's the situation: Cregan Stark, a whole few minutes old, was clearly not ready for an existential crisis. You know, that thing where you’re basically still figuring out which end of your body makes the most noise, and suddenly, BAM! A flood of memories from some wizarding life you never asked for. Yeah, that was happening.

Now, look, if there’s one thing you need to understand about Cregan—er, Harry, in a past life that apparently had zero chill—it’s that he was, at the moment, incredibly busy figuring out the basics of existence. You know, like, breathing? Important stuff like that. So, magical duels and sword-fighting with destiny were definitely not on his agenda right now. But here they were, poking at the corners of his baby brain like mischievous ghosts at a Halloween party.

“Wait, what? I was Harry Potter?” he thought, already finding the situation absolutely ridiculous. “Can’t even remember how to blink properly, and I’m already dealing with the aftermath of that life?”

And look, it's not like baby Cregan—sorry, Harry—knew exactly what was happening, but he sure had some strong feelings about it. The faintest flickers of green light haunted his blurry vision. Oh, and that voice? It was definitely saying something about “destiny” and “more than this.” Cregan had to admit, if this was destiny, it was really bad at PR.

“Seriously?” his tiny brain moaned. “I’m just here trying to keep my head from bobbing like a malfunctioning toy, and now this?! Can't even deal with one life, and now I’ve got to juggle two? Typical.”

His mom, Lady Ashara Dayne, seemed blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil of her newborn son. Or maybe she was just too busy being Ashara Dayne—a woman who made an entire castle look like a backdrop to a painting—and murmuring soft reassurances to her son as she rocked him gently in her arms.

“You’ll do great things, little star,” she whispered, her voice like honeyed warmth, though there was a certain edge to it that made her words feel like the start of an epic prophecy. “The world’s waiting for you, and trust me, it’s going to be an adventure like no other.”

“Gee, no pressure, Mom,” Cregan thought, rolling his non-existent eyes. “What, I just got here, and the world’s already on my shoulders? Sure, yeah, I can handle it. But first… I’m gonna need a nap. And possibly some milk. I’ve earned this.”

Ashara, completely oblivious to her newborn son’s internal snark, continued with her gentle rocking, her gaze fixed on the window, where the first light of dawn was spilling into the room like liquid gold. The sun had just started its climb up the sky, casting a soft glow over Starfall’s ancient stone walls. Outside, the world was waking up, fresh and alive, as if it hadn’t been cursed by war and politics.

Cregan yawned. Well, baby Cregan did. It was that big, dramatic stretch-and-yawn combo that all babies perfect at around 30 seconds old. You know, the kind where the world’s weightiest concerns are momentarily forgotten in favor of pure, unadulterated laziness.

But if you thought that was just any normal yawn, you’d be mistaken. The yawn had attitude. The kind of “I’m about to take over a continent, but first, nap” vibe that would’ve made even the gods of Westeros pause.

“Alright, alright, world,” Cregan thought, fully embracing his inner snark. “You can deal with your destiny—I’ll be over here in dreamland. Probably saving the world in my sleep, like I do in my other life. No biggie.”

Ashara continued speaking softly, oblivious to the wickedly sharp commentary coming from her son’s mind.

“The road ahead will be long,” she said, “and you’ll face more than a few battles. But I know you’ll rise to every challenge, just like your father would have.”

“Ah, yes, the *whole ‘father’ thing,” Cregan mused mentally, as his little brain processed the idea of both being the heir to Winterfell and the reincarnated form of the Boy Who Lived. “Nothing like a little parentage to complicate your first few days of life. Is it too late to go back to that whole ‘not being born’ option?”

Ashara smiled down at him, but she couldn’t have possibly known how much sass was being emitted from that tiny body.

She gave a soft laugh, her voice light. “Oh, Cregan, I do hope you don’t inherit your father’s stubbornness.”

The baby’s eyes flickered briefly open as if to prove exactly how much stubbornness he had in store for her. The second those little brown eyes locked on Ashara, Cregan knew one thing for certain: this wasn’t just some random rebirth. Nope. He was destined to deal with all the legacy baggage of two ancient bloodlines. Wonderful.

“Oh, it’s on, Mom,” Cregan thought, feeling a sense of adventure—well, more like a mild headache—coming on. “Let’s see how much trouble I can get into, shall we?”

But for now, the world could wait. The next few minutes were his. He curled into Ashara’s arms, yawning again—a loud, exaggerated yawn that screamed, “You’ll never know how important this nap is, Mom. But trust me, it’s crucial.”

And as Ashara Dayne whispered more soft promises about his bright future, Cregan Stark—reincarnated wizard, baby, and general snark machine—drifted off into a sleep so deep, even the gods of fate would have to wait their turn to tell him what came next.

Because, after all, every great hero has to sleep before saving the world.

Or, in his case, suck down some milk. Same thing, really.

Jaime Lannister stood in the throne room of the Red Keep, gazing down at the very dead, very blood-covered body of Aerys Targaryen.

"Well," he muttered, flicking the excess blood from his sword, "that’s going to be awkward to explain at parties."

The Mad King’s sightless eyes stared at the ceiling, mouth still frozen in what Jaime generously assumed was his “maniacal laughter” expression. That or Aerys had just realized, too late, that talking about blowing up the entire city in front of his bodyguard-slash-murderer was a bold choice.

Jaime sighed and wiped his forehead, smearing a streak of royal blood across his temple. Great. Just great. He could already hear the ballads. Jaime Lannister, Oathbreaker, Kingslayer, Betrayer of Trust, Maker of Bad Life Decisions. (That last one was implied.)

Killing a tyrant to save an entire city should’ve been a solid career move. Unfortunately, Westerosi politics had the same logic as a drunk sellsword at a tavern brawl—loud, stupid, and likely to stab you for reasons that made no sense.

Still. No time to wallow.

Jaime turned away from the corpse and strode toward the Iron Throne, the most uncomfortable-looking chair in existence. He paused, tilting his head. Technically, he had just removed the previous occupant. Finders, keepers? Would that work?

...Probably not.

And then he remembered.

Elia. The children.

His stomach twisted. For a second, all he could hear was Aerys screaming, "Burn them all!" That wasn’t just about the city. He had meant Rhaegar’s wife. His children.

Jaime turned on his heel and sprinted out of the throne room, his armor clanking loudly. He wasn’t sure if it was instinct, duty, or just the sudden horrifying realization that nobody else would do the right thing, but he had to get to them.

The hallways of the Red Keep were chaos—smoke curling through the air, servants running in terror, bodies slumped in corners. The walls were slick with something Jaime refused to think about.

“Okay, Maidenvault,” Jaime muttered, dodging a severed hand that definitely hadn’t been there five minutes ago. “Left at the hallway of existential dread, right past the tapestry of questionable taste—”

He nearly collided with a soldier in Lannister colors. The man yelped, nearly dropping his sword.

“Ser Jaime!” he stammered. “The prince’s family—”

“I know,” Jaime snapped, shoving past him. “That’s why I’m running.”

The corridor leading to the Maidenvault was blocked—because of course it was—by two Gold Cloaks looking shifty as hell.

“You two,” Jaime barked, stopping just short of running them over. “Move.”

One of them licked his lips. “Prince Rhaegar’s dead, ser. Lord Tywin—”

“Isn’t here,” Jaime cut in. “I am.” He raised his sword just enough to make a point. “Move.”

The smarter of the two decided he had pressing business elsewhere. The other hesitated just long enough for Jaime to let out an exasperated sigh before slamming the hilt of his sword into the guy’s helmet. The Gold Cloak crumpled.

“Should’ve moved,” Jaime muttered, shoving open the doors.

Inside, Elia Martell stood like a queen, spine straight, head high. She held baby Aegon against her chest, Rhaenys clinging to her skirts. Despite the flickering candlelight, despite the way the entire world was literally falling apart outside, she looked calm. Regal.

She turned her dark, knowing eyes on him, taking in his bloody armor, the way his chest heaved.

“You’re late,” she said, arching a perfect eyebrow.

Jaime blinked. “Sorry. I was busy committing treason.” He gestured vaguely behind him. “Had to murder a king, whole thing. Very dramatic.”

Elia didn’t so much as flinch. “Did he suffer?”

Jaime considered this. “Not as much as he deserved.”

“Pity.” She adjusted her grip on Aegon, then glanced down at Rhaenys, who was staring at Jaime with her mother’s sharp gaze. “Ser Jaime’s come to take us somewhere safe.”

Rhaenys frowned. “You’re all bloody.”

Jaime glanced down at himself. “Yeah, well, your grandfather was in a ‘death before surrender’ mood. I had to improvise.”

Rhaenys considered this. “Did you punch him?”

Jaime smirked. “Better. I stabbed him.”

Elia exhaled sharply. It might have been a laugh.

Jaime turned serious. “We need to go. Now.”

Elia didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate. She just nodded once. And that—that right there—was why Rhaegar hadn’t deserved her.

Jaime sheathed his sword and held out a hand. “Do you trust me?”

Elia gave him a long, assessing look. Then, with a grace most queens couldn’t manage, she passed Aegon into his arms and took Rhaenys by the hand.

“Not even slightly,” she said. “But you’re all I have.”

Jaime let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Fair enough,” he said.

And together, they stepped into the storm.

—

Jaime Lannister was having an absolutely terrible day.

First, he killed his king. Which, in theory, should have made him feel pretty heroic, considering said king had been about five seconds away from turning King’s Landing into a barbecue pit. But no. He barely had time to wipe Aerys’ blood off his sword before two of the nastiest men in Westeros decided to make things significantly worse.

Ser Amory Lorch and Ser Gregor Clegane were heading straight for the Maidenvault, where Elia Martell and her children were hiding. And by “heading,” Jaime meant stomping through the Red Keep like two armored war rhinos with severe anger issues.

“Oh, fantastic,” Jaime muttered to himself. “I just saved the city, and now I get to fight Westeros’ least charming murder enthusiasts. Truly, the gods are kind.”

Behind him, Elia Martell—regal even in a crisis—clutched baby Aegon to her chest while Rhaenys clung to her skirts. She looked at Jaime, dark eyes sharp and unflinching. “Can you hold them off?”

Jaime grinned, flipping his sword in his hand. “Elia, I’m the best swordsman in Westeros. I’m offended you even had to ask.”

Then the doors crashed open.

Ser Amory Lorch, a man who always looked like he was halfway through choking on his own stupidity, stepped in first. His piggy eyes scanned the room before landing on Jaime. “Lannister,” he sneered. “Step aside.”

Jaime tilted his head. “Sure. And while we’re making ridiculous requests, why don’t you try winning a fight without looking like you’re flailing through a pigsty?”

Amory scowled and drew his sword. “You’re dead, boy.”

Jaime sighed dramatically. “I hear that a lot.” Then he lunged.

Lorch might have been decent against terrified peasants, but against Jaime Lannister? It was almost embarrassing. Jaime sidestepped his clumsy swing, slapped his blade aside like he was swatting a fly, and buried his own sword in Amory’s gut.

Lorch made a noise somewhere between a wheeze and a dying pig’s squeal before he crumpled to the ground.

“Wow,” Jaime said, wiping his sword on Lorch’s cloak. “That was almost disappointing.”

Then the room got a lot darker.

Gregor Clegane had arrived.

Seven hells, the man was enormous. It wasn’t like Jaime hadn’t seen him before, but facing him alone in a small chamber? That was a whole new level of terrifying. Gregor loomed in the doorway, filling it almost entirely, his armor blackened with soot and blood. His sword was the size of a small child. His expression? Pure murder.

Jaime exhaled slowly. “Gregor. You are… alarmingly large.”

Gregor said nothing. Because of course he didn’t. He wasn’t here to banter. He was here to kill.

The Mountain raised his sword and swung. Jaime barely ducked in time, feeling the blade pass so close that it stirred his hair. He rolled aside, coming up in a crouch.

“Princess Elia,” he called, keeping his eyes locked on Gregor. “Now might be a good time to start praying.”

Gregor swung again. Jaime deflected the blow, but the sheer force of it nearly knocked him off his feet. He staggered back, adjusting his grip.

Okay. New plan: survive.

“I have to ask,” Jaime said, dodging another swing. “Does Sandor get Nameday presents? Or is that another thing you smash with your giant sword?”

No reaction. Gregor just kept coming, relentless as a battering ram.

Jaime parried another blow and slid to the side, slicing at Gregor’s arm. His sword barely scratched the armor. Great. He was fighting a walking fortress.

Elia was watching, still as a statue, her children pressed against her. Rhaenys had her tiny fists balled up, staring at Jaime like he was her only hope. Which, unfortunately, he was.

Jaime gritted his teeth. He had to hold. Just long enough.

His arms were starting to ache. Gregor was too strong, too big. Jaime was fast, but how long could he keep dodging before one of those swings landed?

Anytime now, reinforcements.

Gregor lunged. Jaime barely got his sword up in time. The force sent him crashing into the wall, pain flaring through his ribs.

Okay. That one hurt.

He forced himself to stand, shaking off the impact. “Alright, Mountain,” he panted. “Let’s see how long it takes before you get bored and leave.”

Gregor didn’t leave.

Jaime’s grip tightened on his sword. He was fast. He was clever. But Gregor was an avalanche. And avalanches didn’t stop for anyone.

He just had to last a little longer. Someone had to be coming. Right?

Jaime swallowed. “Anytime now,” he muttered to himself.

Because he was Jaime Lannister. And he wasn’t going to die in a room full of screaming children and bad life choices. Not today.

—

Jaime Lannister was having one of those days. You know, the kind where you wake up, put on your finest armor, and head out to engage in a fight that’s definitely not in your favor. Oh, and your sword hand gets chopped off. But hey, at least he’d been getting good at this whole “dying heroically” thing, right?

Right?

He was facing down Ser Gregor Clegane, who was basically a walking, talking nightmare. The Mountain wasn’t just big—he was big in the way that the whole world seemed to shrink around him when he moved. Jaime was doing his best to keep his wits about him, but every time Gregor lifted that massive sword, it felt like the entire room was about to be wiped off the map.

“You may be here on the orders of my father,” Jaime said, trying his best to sound like the cool, collected warrior he used to be. "But I serve a higher purpose. I’m here to save the innocent, keep some semblance of honor alive—something I’m guessing you don’t know much about."

Okay, so maybe that line was more of a mental victory than an actual one. His voice cracked just a bit, and his knees were shaking more than a leaf in the wind. But hey, dramatic effect, right? He hoped.

The Mountain didn’t respond. Of course, he didn’t. He just stared at Jaime with the same look you’d give a bug under a boot. And Jaime? He was the bug. And he was very much aware of it.

Jaime adjusted his grip on his sword like a man who wasn’t about to get his ass handed to him—except that he was very much about to get his ass handed to him. He sidestepped a massive swing from Gregor, feeling the air hum as the blade passed a hair's breadth from his face. Okay, that was close. He was still alive. For now.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Jaime taunted, dodging to the left. “I’ve faced worse before—before my morning coffee even kicked in!”

Gregor growled, clearly not into banter. His sword swung again, narrowly missing Jaime, but sending him tumbling backward. Jaime scrambled to his feet, cursing the gods for letting him get into this situation.

“Alright, maybe I’m not quite as good as I thought,” Jaime muttered to himself. “But hey, I’ve still got my charm. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

And then the inevitable happened. One moment, he was dodging and weaving, and the next—WHAM! The Mountain’s sword came down like a freight train, and before Jaime could even react, his sword hand flew clean off. Yeah, that wasn’t the kind of injury you just shake off.

He stumbled back, his stump now the most interesting thing about him. His head was swimming. Blood dripped down, and the whole world started to feel like one big, giant blur. He sank to his knees, clutching the stump, which—let’s be honest—wasn’t exactly doing much to stop the bleeding.

“Well, crap,” Jaime muttered, his voice barely a whisper. "This is embarrassing."

And just when Jaime thought it couldn’t get worse, it did. Because that’s how life works, apparently. His head was spinning, his vision fading, and then—BOOM. A massive roar filled the room, shaking the very walls. Jaime blinked. Did he hallucinate that? Had the gods sent some giant, world-ending monster to finish him off?

Nope. Nope, he had not imagined that.

Lord Greatjon Umber, the walking wall of muscle with a warhammer the size of a small tree, stomped into the room like he owned the place. He grinned at Gregor like he was about to offer him a friendly handshake. With a warhammer.

“GET AWAY FROM THEM!” Greatjon bellowed, charging forward, his warhammer raised high.

Now, Jaime had seen some things in his day. But seeing Gregor—the freaking Mountain—actually look surprised for a split second? That was new.

Before Gregor could process what was happening, Greatjon swung his warhammer with all the finesse of a bear trying to swat a fly. The Mountain went down like a pile of bricks. The thud of bone meeting stone echoed through the room, and for one glorious second, it seemed like the universe might actually be on Jaime’s side.

Jaime, still reeling, wiped the blood from his face and scrambled back to his feet, not even realizing he was still holding onto his sword’s hilt. “Well, I did think it was going to be a bit more of a team effort,” Jaime said, trying to sound cool, though his breath was still coming in gasps. “But thanks for showing up, you know, about fifteen minutes too late.”

Lord Umber shot him a grin, the kind that said, "Yeah, I just saved your life, but don’t get used to it." “I was busy, Lannister. Don’t make me do all the work, alright?”

Jaime couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “I’ll be sure to pass on that offer next time. But you know, nice timing.”

They both turned toward the fallen Gregor, who was trying to get back on his feet, looking less like a man and more like a bear that had decided to try standing up on two legs. He was slow. Uncoordinated. And Jaime—well, Jaime still had one good hand, and as long as his legs didn’t fail him, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

“Let’s finish this,” Jaime said, his voice low, his tone filled with more grit than he’d felt in the last few minutes. The Mountain wasn’t getting up again. Not if he had anything to say about it.

With Greatjon charging forward like a freight train, and Jaime moving around the fallen behemoth with surprising agility for a man with only one hand, the two of them became a storm of fury. Greatjon swung that hammer like it was a battering ram, while Jaime danced around the Mountain, aiming for weak spots with the precision of a man who’d spent his entire life trying to outwit, outmaneuver, and, occasionally, stab people.

Finally, with one last mighty blow, Lord Greatjon sent the Mountain into a crumpled heap on the floor. The room fell silent, save for the distant sounds of the wind howling outside.

Jaime wiped the blood from his face, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. His body was screaming in pain, but his mind—his mind was surprisingly clear.

“Well,” Jaime said, straightening up, “that was certainly one way to go about it.”

Lord Greatjon grunted. "Not bad for a Lannister, eh?"

Jaime chuckled, the sound hollow but real. "I’ve had worse. You’re not half bad for a guy who looks like he punches bears for fun."

Greatjon flashed him a grin. “Don’t make me do all the work next time, Lannister.”

Jaime gave him a tired smile. “I’m sure I can find a way to get my sword hand back… Just don’t let me die before we figure it out.”

And for the first time that day, Jaime Lannister allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

—

The dust in the chamber hadn’t even had time to settle before the doors creaked open like they were auditioning for a horror film. In strode Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, with that grim aura he always had like he'd just stepped out of a brooding Viking epic. Behind him were the Northern lords, all wearing the expression of men who had been through a lifetime of battles and had a long list of grievances. And that list? It was probably topped with “Why is this idiot still alive?”

Jaime Lannister, sitting there in the wreckage of the battle, could practically feel their stares turning into daggers aimed straight at his heart. If looks could kill, he’d have been long dead. But hey, at least it wasn’t a boring afternoon.

And then, of course, Lord Stark’s eyes found Jaime. Now, Eddard Stark wasn’t exactly the warm, welcoming type, but there was something about that stare that made Jaime feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.

“Well, well, well,” Jaime muttered to himself. “A man of honor. This should be fun.”

“Secure the royal family,” Stark ordered, his voice like a blizzard cutting through the room. Behind him, the Northern lords moved into action—House Umber, Karstark, and Mormont—each one giving off that “we kill things for fun” vibe. They immediately surrounded Princess Elia and her children, their protective stance making it clear they were ready to defend them like a pack of wolves guarding the last scrap of meat in the kingdom.

Jaime, not exactly the hero of the hour, couldn’t help but feel a flicker of gratitude. Sure, they were all probably planning to slice him into tiny pieces later, but at least they were doing something right now.

He tried to relax—key word: tried—but the air was so thick with tension it was practically suffocating. Everyone in the room seemed to be waiting for the next move, like a game of chess where the only pieces left were either completely useless or ready to cause a bloody massacre.

Then, Stark’s gaze shifted back to him. The big moment. The one Jaime had been dreading.

“So,” Stark said, his tone like a sword being sharpened. “Where is the king?”

Jaime took a deep breath, gearing up for the kind of conversation he had had with a million other people but in way more dramatic circumstances. "Oh, he’s dead," Jaime said, voice as casual as if he was talking about the weather. “Killed him. King Aerys II. Real piece of work, that one. I mean, sure, he was a king, but who needs a king who wants to set the city on fire just because he didn’t like how his morning went?"

There was a beat of silence, and Jaime could practically hear the collective gasp. A bunch of raised eyebrows and furrowed brows, some of them probably wondering if they should just drop dead from sheer shock.

Eddard Stark blinked twice, like he couldn’t decide if Jaime had just admitted to being a complete madman or if there was some twisted logic behind it. Either way, the tension was so thick you could cut it with a sword.

“You killed the king,” Stark repeated slowly, processing the words like he was trying to decode a riddle from a drunk bard.

“Yep,” Jaime confirmed with a nonchalant shrug, wishing he had a drink to throw back, but apparently that wasn't on the menu today. "I had to. He was about to burn the whole city to the ground with wildfire. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but King's Landing isn’t exactly made of fireproof materials. Thought I’d spare the locals, you know? A king who tries to burn everything down—he’s not really king material, if you ask me."

The Northern lords looked at him like he had just sprouted a second head, but Jaime just stared them down. What else was he supposed to do? It wasn’t like they were going to throw him a party for this, right?

Eddard Stark’s jaw tightened, and there it was again—the judging stare. But this time, Jaime didn’t flinch. He was used to it. Being the Kingslayer, it was kind of a full-time job.

“You broke your vows,” Stark said. “You betrayed your king.”

“Yeah, well,” Jaime replied with a smirk, leaning back a little and spreading his arms. “Vows are tricky. I was sworn to protect the king, right? But when the guy’s about to destroy everything with his own hands... might be time to rethink those vows, don’t you think? Besides, who needs ‘em when you’ve got good old-fashioned self-preservation on your side?”

Stark gave him that look again, as though Jaime was speaking in riddles instead of blunt truths. The man really needed to lighten up.

“But I’ll tell you what,” Jaime continued, starting to feel a little more comfortable in this awkward mess, “I did what I thought was right. Yeah, I’m a Kingslayer. Maybe that’s not the best title to have at a dinner party, but I didn’t just stand there and watch the city burn. So maybe I’m a villain. Maybe I’m a hero. Who knows? You can tell your grandkids that story.”

At this point, Jaime wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or Stark, but whatever.

A long pause settled over the room. Stark didn’t draw his sword. He didn’t shout “Off with his head!” or any of the other dramatic things Jaime had expected. Instead, after what felt like an eternity of tense silence, Stark spoke again.

"You’ve done something grave, Jaime Lannister," Stark said, the weight of those words hanging in the air like a storm cloud. "You’ve broken your vows, betrayed your king, and defied the law. But…"

Jaime braced himself. This was it. The inevitable speech about justice and honor. Except…

Stark sighed. "But I can’t ignore the truth of your words. A king who would burn his people alive is no king at all." He gave a reluctant shake of his head. "You’re still a Kingslayer, Jaime. Still a man who broke his vows. But… I can’t deny what you did."

Jaime blinked, his mouth hanging slightly open. This was… not what he expected.

“You’ll be judged, Kingslayer,” Stark added with a finality that carried all the weight of a thousand years of northern tradition. "By the gods, by men, and by time itself. But whether you’re a hero or a villain, that’s for the story to decide. And I’m not the one who gets to decide it. Maybe one day people will look back and say, 'Well, he did what had to be done.’ Or maybe they’ll call you a traitor. Who knows? Not me."

And with that, Lord Eddard Stark turned and left, his Northern lords following like a battalion of grim-faced soldiers, leaving Jaime standing there with his mouth open, completely dumbfounded.

Jaime glanced at Elia and her children, and then back at the empty space where Lord Stark had been. For a moment, he actually felt… well, maybe not good, but at least less bad about the whole Kingslayer thing.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Jaime muttered to himself, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Maybe I’m not the worst guy in the room after all.”

That, of course, earned him a few suspicious glances from the Northern lords. But Jaime didn’t care. For the first time today, he actually felt like he had a shot at redemption. Even if that redemption came with a side of sarcastic banter and some very complicated family dynamics.

And thus, Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer and reluctant hero, stood alone in the ruins, wondering just how he was going to handle this new reputation.

—

Ned Stark strode into the Throne Room like a guy walking into a tavern after a long day, except this tavern was made of stone, had a couple of bodies strewn across the floor, and a throne that looked like it had been designed by someone with a serious grudge against their back. Honestly, he didn’t know whether to sit on it or just burn the whole place down. But hey, he wasn’t about to let his personal furniture preferences get in the way of duty.

As his boots clacked against the stone floor, he couldn’t help but feel like everyone was just waiting for him to do something dramatic. That’s the thing about being a Stark—you’re always expected to be brooding and silent, especially when everyone’s staring at you like you’re the one who just lit the place on fire.

But nope. The stares weren’t on him. They were on the body of King Aerys II Targaryen, the Mad King himself, face-down in front of the Iron Throne like he was taking a nap after a bad day. Except, you know, dead. Not exactly the royal treatment he’d imagined.

Ned’s jaw tightened. This was the guy who had murdered his brother, Brandon, and his father, Rickard. The guy who’d turned the realm into a game of “How Much Can I Ruin Before Lunch.” It wasn’t like Ned wanted to feel sorry for the guy, but he couldn’t help but think of his father’s voice ringing in his ears, “Do what’s right, even when it’s hard.” Yeah, thanks, Dad. Real easy to do that when you’ve got the blood of your family all over your hands.

“I didn’t want to be here today,” he muttered to himself, kneeling beside Aerys’s body, his breath shaky but his demeanor calm—because if you showed emotion in front of Robert Baratheon, you were basically begging to be the butt of a joke.

And speaking of Robert, the man himself came stomping in, looking like he’d just woken up on the wrong side of a boulder. He had that expression on his face, the one that said, “I’m about to ruin everyone’s day, and I’m here for it.” His boots thudded loudly on the stone, making it clear that, no, Robert Baratheon was never going to win any awards for subtlety.

“Dead man’s still got blood on his boots,” Robert grumbled, nudging Aerys’s body with his foot, like it was just some dead animal he’d tripped over. Then—because, you know, why not?—he spat on the corpse. “Dragonspawn,” he added with all the warmth of a grizzly bear in a bad mood. “And he thought he could rule us all.”

Ned was about to open his mouth and ask Robert if he’d ever heard of dignity, but then he remembered that this was Robert Baratheon, and dignity was a foreign concept to him. Instead, he muttered, “Please tell me we’re not doing this right now.”

But of course, Robert didn’t hear him. Or if he did, he didn’t care. “So where are the other dragonspawn?” Robert asked, looking around like the rest of the Targaryens were hiding behind the curtains or something.

Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, was trailing behind Robert like a guy who knew he should be somewhere else, preferably with a drink in hand. His brow furrowed in that way that screamed I’m too old for this, and he gave Ned a look that said, We’re all doomed.

And then, as if summoned by the sheer force of his smugness, Tywin Lannister strolled in, looking like he’d just walked out of an ice storm. His face was completely blank, like the guy had a permanent frown etched into his features. Honestly, Ned was half expecting him to tell Robert to stop making noise. Tywin didn’t even need to say anything—he just stood there and radiated “I’m better than all of you.”

“What’s the plan then, Tywin?” Robert asked, clearly not understanding how any conversation could happen without his complete and utter dominance.

“I’ve already taken care of it,” Tywin said, not looking at anyone, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the floor like it had offended him. “The Targaryen line ends today.”

“Good,” Robert muttered. “But where’s the rest of the family? I need to see those dragonspawn.” He scowled. “And when I do, someone’s getting hit in the head with a hammer. Just saying.”

Ned stepped forward, his voice low but sure. “Actually, my men have already dealt with it,” he said, glaring at Robert like this was his mess to clean up. “Elia Martell and her children are under our protection now.”

There was a pregnant silence. You could practically hear Robert’s brain struggling to process the words. Meanwhile, Tywin didn’t even flinch. The guy had probably already calculated his next move in the time it took Robert to blink.

Robert was the first to recover. “And who the hell gave you the authority to countermand my orders?” His voice boomed with that natural kingly authority, except without the whole "charming" thing.

“Honor,” Ned said, straightening up. “Justice. And the fact that I’m not about to stand by while you butcher innocent children just because they happen to have the wrong bloodline.”

Robert snorted, like Ned had just cracked a bad joke. “Innocent? Really? I don’t have time for innocent.”

Jon Arryn finally opened his mouth, because it was either speak or explode from the internal tension. “Maybe,” he began, his voice calm, measured, and drenched in years of diplomatic experience, “there’s a middle ground. Elia Martell and her children could be sent to Winterfell, far from the capital, out of the political picture entirely.”

Ned, not missing a beat, nodded. “I’ll make sure they’re safe there. The last thing we need is them causing trouble. Winterfell’s far enough to be of no concern to you, Robert.”

Robert mulled it over for a moment, tapping his chin like he was trying to solve a riddle. Finally, he let out a grunt. “Fine. But—” he added, holding up a finger, “—if I hear of any of them making trouble, I’ll personally arrive in the North with my hammer to smash their heads in. You’re warned, Stark.”

Ned just nodded. “Understood.”

Tywin, as always, stayed silent, his calculating gaze sharp as ever, as if he were just waiting for his next move.

With that, the room quieted, and for a moment, it almost felt like peace. But, of course, Ned knew better than to think it would last. This was Westeros. Peace was just the moment before the next big mess.

He turned, leaving the Iron Throne Room behind him, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he had made the right call. But given the people he was dealing with, it wouldn’t be long before the next battle started. And he was ready for it.

Baby steps, Ned, he thought, Baby steps.

The Throne Room was quieter now, almost like everyone had collectively held their breath after the chaos. As soon as you think everything's going to calm down, of course, the door creaks open with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. In walked Jaime Lannister. Well, sort of. There he was, looking every bit the same as always—blond hair, smug expression, the works—except... yeah, there was that tiny detail of one hand missing. Not just a little cut either. Nope. He was wrapped up in bandages that were so soaked in blood, it looked like he’d tried to wrestle a dragon.

And just to add to the drama, Jaime was limping, and behind him, in a move that screamed “just let the big guy do the heavy lifting,” was Lord Greatjon Umber. The man was so massive, you’d think he was trying to smuggle an entire mountain through the door.

Jaime, for all his missing hand drama, stood tall. His face looked like someone who'd lost a fight with a wall, but he held it together. “Princess Elia and her children are secure,” he said, voice so calm you'd think he was announcing the weather forecast. “They’re under guard. Safe. No one’s going to touch them.”

Lord Greatjon Umber, who had a face like a bear that forgot to shave for a hundred years, gave a grunt of agreement. “No one’s touching them while I’m breathing,” he growled, looking like the entire Throne Room could just fall apart if he hiccupped.

Tywin Lannister’s icy gaze slid toward Jaime’s missing hand, and his expression could’ve made a snowman cry. “What happened?” he asked, voice colder than a freezer.

Jaime, who clearly wasn’t in the mood for his father’s interrogation, met his stare with an eyebrow raise that said, Really? You’re really going to do this now? “Ser Gregor and Ser Amory Lorch decided to try something with Princess Elia and her kids,” Jaime said, sounding almost casual, as if getting into a sword fight with a giant and losing a hand was just a day’s work. “I stopped them. Lorch is dead, and the Mountain...” He gave his bandaged hand a pointed glance, clearly still not loving the idea of looking at it. “Well, with Lord Umber’s help, the Mountain doesn’t exactly ride anymore.”

Tywin narrowed his eyes, his face a mask of unreadable stone. “And your hand?” He said it like it was an afterthought—but definitely not one that should’ve been dismissed.

Jaime let out a long sigh, like he was explaining something obvious to a toddler. “The price of doing what’s right,” he said. “Princess Elia and her children are alive because of it.”

At that point, Robert Baratheon, looking like he’d had one too many drinks (which, let’s be real, he probably had), turned to Tywin with a furrowed brow. “You did well, Ser Jaime,” he said grudgingly, like the words were physically painful to say. “Elia Martell’s alive, and that’s more than we can say for most people around here.”

Tywin, on the other hand, looked about as impressed as if someone had handed him a wet sock. “We’ll discuss this later,” he said, dismissing Jaime’s hand situation like it was a fly buzzing around his ear. “Get that hand looked at.”

Jaime, who clearly had had enough of this family drama for one day, gave a sarcastic nod. “Sure thing, Father,” he muttered, spinning on his heel and starting to walk out like someone trying to make a dramatic exit from a bad soap opera.

As the door creaked shut behind him, Greatjon Umber was left standing there like an entire mountain of angry muscle. And for a second, everyone just paused. When Greatjon speaks, people tend to listen. Mostly because his voice could probably level a village.

“Ned,” Greatjon rumbled, turning to the Stark lord with a glint in his eye that promised nothing good for anyone who’d cross him, “I heard word of the princess and her children. They’ll be safe in the North. You have my word.”

Ned nodded, way too eager to hand over responsibility to the one guy in the room who looked like he could bench press a castle. “You’re going to be in charge of getting them to Winterfell,” he said, locking eyes with Greatjon. “No one touches them. Got it?”

Greatjon’s eyes practically glowed with excitement at the thought of unleashing chaos on anyone who tried to mess with Princess Elia. “No harm will come to them, Ned,” he boomed, like someone who had just received a challenge and was fully prepared to meet it head-on. “You’ve got my oath. They'll be as safe as my own blood.”

Ned gave a little sigh of relief. He wasn’t entirely sure if Greatjon was joking, but at the end of the day, when a guy who could crush boulders with his bare hands says you’re safe, you just believe him.

Just when Ned thought the room couldn’t get more chaotic, Tywin Lannister slid back into the conversation like a snake in a tuxedo. He sidled right up to Robert Baratheon, looking like the embodiment of calm menace. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice smooth as butter, “there’s the matter of Jaime’s future. His hand’s gone. He can’t exactly wield a sword anymore.”

Robert, looking like someone who was way too tired to care about any of this, rubbed his temples like he was about to nap. “What do you want, Tywin?” he grumbled, clearly already bored with whatever this was going to be.

Tywin, smooth as ever, didn’t miss a beat. “Release him from his vows,” he said, like he was suggesting a weekend getaway instead of a major political shift. “He can’t serve you anymore with one hand. Let him return to Casterly Rock, where he can do what needs doing for House Lannister.”

Ned, who was about to grab some popcorn and settle in for the show, leaned back in his chair, already suspecting that this was going to get a lot more complicated. “Your Grace, letting Jaime go back to Casterly Rock would be a fair gesture. He did, after all, kill Aerys Targaryen.”

Robert, who clearly did not want to be involved in this today, just stared at Jon Arryn with an expression that said he was counting down the minutes until the next feast. “Fine, whatever. He can go home. He’s not the Kingsguard anymore. I’m tired of hearing about this.”

Tywin, on the other hand, gave him a rare nod of approval. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, as if Robert had just handed him the keys to the kingdom. “I appreciate your understanding.”

And just like that, Jaime was going to get an extended holiday back at Casterly Rock. As if his father wasn’t already managing to turn everything into a power play.

But before anyone could properly recover from that bombshell, Jon Arryn, who’d been standing quietly, stepped forward, his face grim. “Ned,” he said, lowering his voice like this was definitely not good news, “I’ve learned something about your sister. Lyanna.”

Ned’s heart lurched in his chest, because, let's be honest, nothing good had come up when Lyanna’s name was mentioned. “What is it?” he asked, trying to mask the panic that was creeping into his voice.

Jon Arryn’s face darkened as if the weight of the information was too much to bear. “She’s alive. And she’s being kept at the Tower of Joy, guarded by Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower.”

Ned’s brain short-circuited for a moment. Alive? Alive? Alive? His sister, the one whose abduction had started a damn war, was still breathing?

“I have to go to her,” he said, his voice a cocktail of rage and hope that was starting to simmer dangerously.

Jon Arryn nodded somberly. “I thought you might say that. I’ll make sure the path is clear for you, but be careful. There are too many eyes on us.”

Ned, who was already mentally packing for a journey that could either be a blessing or a death sentence, nodded grimly. “I won’t forget this, Jon,” he said, voice thick with gratitude.

Jon gave him a tired, sad smile. “Just get her back, Ned. The rest of us will figure it out.”

Ned turned to leave, but then paused. Something about the moment felt like it demanded something more. He looked back at Jon, a flicker of respect passing between them. “Stay safe,” he said, his voice softer now, almost uncertain.

Jon, whose role in all of this was far less certain than it seemed, gave a little salute. “We all have our burdens to bear. But you’ve got the hard one now.”

With that, Ned was off, the weight of his family’s future hanging on every step. The Tower of Joy awaited—and with it, answers to questions that had haunted him for years.

And yeah, you could probably guess how this whole thing was about to get a whole lot worse before it got any better.

—

The sun was a fiery beast in the sky, making Dorne feel more like a furnace than a kingdom. Each step felt like an act of defiance against the heat, as Ned Stark and his crew trudged through the desert landscape. If there was ever a time to contemplate the meaning of life, it was now, with sweat pouring down their faces and the air around them as thick as a bad stew. And yet, despite the discomfort, each of them was convinced that they were about to uncover something far worse than sunburns and sand in places they’d rather not think about.

There was Howland Reed, the kind of guy who’d avoid eye contact with everyone—especially when his life depended on it. He had that look about him, like he was always a step away from disappearing into the shadows. The guy probably had an entire library of “How to Not Look At People” books.

Ethan Glover was next. A man who, quite frankly, looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here. He wasn’t particularly upset about the desert—more like the fact that he was stuck in this mess instead of enjoying a warm bed, a mug of ale, and a nice, long nap.

Then there were Ser Mark Ryswell and Theo Wull. Now, those two? Their names sounded like they’d been picked at random from a “Fantasy Names for Dummies” book. They weren’t bad men, just, well...forgettable. Like the kind of guys you’d meet at a tavern and forget about by morning.

Martyn Cassel, bless him, was tagging along, looking like he had no idea how he ended up on this trip. He wasn’t complaining, which was either bravery or stupidity. Ned couldn’t tell which.

And finally, there was Lord William Dustin, who looked about as thrilled to be in Dorne as a cat in a bath. But he wasn’t complaining either, which meant the poor guy was probably saving it all for later.

One thing they all had in common, though? They all believed the Tower of Joy wasn’t going to live up to its name. If anything, it was probably going to be more like the Tower of Disappointment, maybe with a side of regret.

As they approached the tower, the heat was like a physical presence, pressing against them from all sides. Ned felt like he was melting. The tower itself looked...well, not much like a joy at all. It was tall, imposing, and way too old to be anything other than slightly creepy.

Standing guard at the foot of the tower were Ser Oswell Whent and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower. Both men were as still as statues, their armor gleaming in the sun as if daring anyone to make a move. If you wanted to test someone’s willpower, just stare at these two for five minutes. They could make a statue feel like a chatty best friend in comparison.

“So,” Ned began, trying to break the silence, “where’s Ser Arthur Dayne? The famous Sword of the Morning, the guy who can cut a man in half before he even knows he’s been sliced? That guy?”

Lord Commander Hightower—who looked like someone had carved him out of a block of ice—gave Ned a look that could freeze fire. “Ser Arthur is...unavailable,” he said, his voice colder than a snowstorm in the middle of winter.

Ned blinked. “Unavailable?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow. “What, did he get lost on the way here? Or is he off on a secret quest to find himself in the middle of the desert?”

There was no response. Ser Oswell Whent, standing like a silent rock next to Hightower, didn’t even flinch. If anything, he looked even more uncomfortable than usual, but he wasn’t about to say anything.

“Some matters are beyond your concern, Lord Stark,” Hightower said, his tone so final that it was like he was giving Ned permission to drop dead right there.

“Really?” Ned shot back, crossing his arms. “I’ve walked halfway across Dorne, through more sand than I ever care to see again, and now you’re telling me I can’t ask where the guy with the fancy sword went?” He made a show of glancing at his companions. “That’s not how this works, is it?”

Mark Ryswell, trying to ease the tension, chimed in, “I mean, we did walk a long way. It’s not like we’re asking for the world. Just a little bit of information.”

Theo Wull nodded in agreement. “You’d think ‘unavailable’ would come with a little explanation, don’t you?”

Martyn Cassel was just happy to be standing still. “I’m gonna need a drink after this. Or a nap. Or both.”

Lord William Dustin, not one to back down from anything, added, “We didn’t come this far to be told ‘no’.”

But it was Howland Reed—always the quiet one—who spoke up, his voice barely above a whisper. “This isn’t about us, you know. It’s about her.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a sword.

Ned’s stomach did that weird flip-flop thing it always did whenever his sister was mentioned, even after all these years. Lyanna. His mind was already racing ahead, thinking of the moment they’d finally reach the truth.

Before anyone else could speak, a voice rang out from above, high and clear—like a bell tolling in the distance. It was so familiar that it made Ned’s heart skip a beat.

“Enough, Ser Gerold,” the voice called down. “Let them in.”

And that voice? Ned would recognize it anywhere. It was Lyanna’s.

Every single person froze. The kind of frozen where your heart does a weird little jump, like it’s suddenly remembering its job to keep beating. No one said a word. They didn’t have to. The truth was finally within reach, and it didn’t matter how much Dorne had tried to beat them down; they were getting it.

“Well,” Ethan Glover said, breaking the tension with his usual sarcastic grin, “this is either the best thing that’s happened all day or the worst. Either way, we’re going to need a drink.”

Mark Ryswell raised an eyebrow. “We haven’t even gotten in the door yet, and you’re already thinking about drinks?”

Ethan shrugged. “I’m an optimist.”

Ned, however, was done with banter for the moment. His hand clenched into a fist, his jaw set with grim determination. It was time to find out exactly what secrets the Tower of Joy had been hiding all these years.

And the truth? Oh, the truth wasn’t going to be simple. But if there was one thing a Stark was good at, it was facing the truth head-on—even if it knocked the wind out of them.

—

The Tower of Joy. Yeah, you'd think with a name like that, it’d be all sunshine and rainbows, right? Maybe a couple of harp-playing bards, some punch, maybe even a little impromptu dance-off. But nope. If the tower had a name change option, it'd probably be called Tower of Awkward Family Drama and Secrets So Huge You Could Probably Fit a Dragon Inside Them.

Ned Stark’s brain, which had been hanging on by a thread for the past few hours, finally snapped as he laid eyes on the scene before him. Ser Arthur Dayne—he of the Sword of the Morning fame—was standing tall beside a woman so elegant and icy she could probably freeze the sun with a single glance. That was Lady Ashara Dayne, by the way. If she were any more serene, she’d have to be a statue. Meanwhile, a toddler was at her feet, giggling like he didn’t have a care in the world, which was probably for the best, considering the level of existential crisis the rest of them were going through.

And then there was Lyanna. His sister. The same one who’d been missing for years, the one who caused a whole civil war with her disappearance, and here she was, looking pale, tired, and—Ned’s brain could barely comprehend it—alive. Oh, and she was holding a baby. A baby who, judging by the odd mix of horror and disbelief on Ned’s face, had just thrown the entire Stark family timeline into complete chaos.

Ned took a step forward, his boots dragging like a man who had just been hit by a wagon full of inconvenient truths. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Finally, he managed a strangled, “Oh no.”

He hadn’t realized he’d said that aloud until Lyanna, with all the nonchalance of someone casually brushing dirt off their shoes, spoke up. “Ned, calm down. You look like you’ve just seen a White Walker.”

Ned blinked at her, hoping that maybe this was just some weird fever dream, but nope, Lyanna was as real as ever. “Did Rhaegar—did he—?” He couldn’t even finish the question. He felt like his insides were running for cover.

Lyanna’s eyebrow quirked. “What? No! Gods, Ned, I’m not some tragic damsel in a song. Put that thought right back where it came from.” She sighed, rolling her eyes like she was dealing with a particularly dense child. “Rhaegar, Elia, and I—well, we loved each other. Happy now?”

Ned’s jaw dropped. If his brain had been a computer before, it was now completely fried. He shook his head as if that would somehow make the words go away. “Loved? Lyanna, you ran away! You didn’t tell anyone where you were going! You started a war!”

“Uh, no,” she said, throwing him a look that said please don’t make me explain this again. “I didn’t run away. I eloped. Big difference. And I left a note!” She shot a glance at Arthur Dayne, who nodded like he’d heard this story a hundred times.

“The letter vanished,” Arthur said, his voice solemn, like he was giving the most serious speech ever delivered at a birthday party. “Perhaps burned. Perhaps intercepted. We’ll never know.”

Ned blinked again. “A note?”

“Yeah,” Lyanna said, giving him a ‘duh’ look. “'Dear Dad, don’t marry me off to Robert, I’m in love with a prince. PS: Don’t freak out.’ That kind of thing.”

Ned let out a long, tortured groan. “Great. So while you were off having secret weddings and whispering sweet nothings to Targaryens, the rest of us were busy getting murdered in the streets, huh?”

“Sorry?” Lyanna’s face said she wasn’t really that sorry, but she tried anyway. “I didn’t think it would get that bad.” She hesitated, glancing at her baby. “But, Ned, you have to believe me. Rhaegar wanted to do right by me. By us. He married me in the old way—at the Isle of Faces.”

Ned’s jaw worked for a moment as if he was trying to physically reassemble his shattered thoughts. “And Elia? His first wife? What happened to them?”

Arthur’s face darkened, the usual calm demeanor slipping for just a second. “Rhaegar meant to protect them. But... things didn’t go as planned. The war... well, it consumed everything.”

Ned’s voice dropped low, like he didn’t even want to say it aloud. “Elia and her children are alive?”

Arthur’s eyes widened for just a second—like someone had dropped a heavy rock in a still pond. “Alive?” He was momentarily thrown off his game, but then he regained his composure. “You’re sure?”

“They’re wards of Winterfell now,” Ned said, like it wasn’t the most awkward thing he’d ever had to say. “Robert decreed it. So, for the record, they're under Stark protection. That’s a thing now.”

For a moment, Arthur stared, as if trying to figure out whether he had somehow wandered into an alternate reality. But then, finally, he nodded, a slow, respectful gesture. “Thank you,” he said, like Ned had just given him a dragon egg or something.

Ned wasn’t used to hearing that from Ser Arthur Dayne. It felt... weird. But before he could dwell on the oddity, Lyanna suddenly shoved the baby into his arms like she had just handed him a loaf of bread. “Ned, meet your nephew,” she said softly, “Jaecaerys Targaryen.”

Ned froze. He stood there, clutching the squirming bundle like he was about to break it. “He’s so... small,” he said, his voice high-pitched from the shock.

Lyanna shot him a look that clearly said, get a grip. “Babies tend to be small, Ned.”

Jaecaerys, who had clearly inherited the Targaryen ability to sleep through every crisis, yawned and stared up at him like he had better things to do than entertain the Stark family reunion.

Ned stared down at the baby. “Jaecaerys... what do you expect me to do with him? Raise him in Winterfell? Hide him from Robert forever?”

Lyanna’s expression softened, the motherly concern clear in her eyes. “Protect him,” she said simply. “That’s all I ask. Protect him like he’s your own.”

Ned swallowed hard. He looked down at the baby, feeling a sudden weight settle on his shoulders. This was Rhaegar’s son. Lyanna’s son. His nephew. A Targaryen prince. And, damn it, if there was one thing a Stark knew how to do, it was protect what was theirs.

With a deep breath, he looked up at Lyanna and made a silent vow. Stark blood or not, Jaecaerys Targaryen was going to live a long, safe life.

And nobody, not even Robert Baratheon, was going to stop him.

—

Ned cradled Prince Jaecaerys in his arms like he was holding a fragile piece of glass, which, given the circumstances, was probably a pretty accurate analogy. The kid was small, squirmy, and oblivious to the emotional nuclear fallout happening around him. But hey, he was a baby, so he had an excuse.

Meanwhile, his eyes landed on the other kid. The one at Ashara's feet. This little fellow had the Stark look: sharp cheekbones, dark hair, and the kind of intense stare that made you feel like you were about to be judged for every bad decision you’d ever made, even the ones you hadn’t yet made. But there was a twist. A pair of eyes—purple eyes—so intense that they practically screamed “pay attention to me” in big neon letters. They were practically glowing.

Ned cleared his throat, which was an attempt at sounding like he had it all together, even though he was probably going to faint. “And who is this young lad?” he asked, doing his best to sound calm and collected. Spoiler alert: he wasn’t. Not even close.

Lyanna gave him a look, one of those ‘you’re gonna hate this’ looks, before exchanging a glance with Ashara. Ashara was one of those people who just radiated calm like some sort of emotionally chill ninja. Finally, Lyanna gave a soft smile, looking down at the kid with a mixture of affection and pride. “This,” she said, her voice steady, “is Cregan. Brandon and Ashara’s son. Your nephew.”

Ned’s brain did a double-take. A triple-take, actually. This was the kind of plot twist you didn’t expect in the middle of a family reunion. Cregan? Brandon’s kid? Brandon, the over-the-top flirt from the Tourney of Harrenhal? And Ashara Dayne, who was basically one of the most elegant women in Westeros? This kid? A nephew?

His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “Wait—Cregan is…” He gestured vaguely at the little boy. “How—?”

Ashara, looking unusually serious (and like she might punch Ned for being slow on the uptake), stepped forward. “Ned,” she began, her voice calm but holding a quiet weight. “Brandon and I married. In secret. At the Isle of Faces. During the Tourney.”

Ned blinked. “Married?” he repeated, because that was apparently a concept his brain wasn’t ready to process. His brain had short-circuited more than once in the last few minutes, so it was a small miracle he was still standing.

“Yes, married,” Ashara said, with the air of someone explaining the obvious. “We didn’t think it would become the whole realm killing each other part of the story.”

Ned’s mind briefly considered spontaneously combusting to escape the awkwardness. But then he thought of Cregan, standing there with his little face full of defiant seriousness. “Well,” he finally said, voice rough with the weight of it all, “let’s get to the part where I don’t have a heart attack. Cregan is the rightful Lord of Winterfell, then?”

Ashara nodded, looking equal parts proud and worried. “Yes. He’s a trueborn Stark, Ned. Your nephew.”

The room went silent. Not the dramatic kind of silence where everyone’s staring at the ceiling trying to avoid eye contact, but the sort of “Oh, snap, we’ve just learned a massive piece of family history” silence. It was a special kind of quiet that felt like the weight of a thousand direwolf-sized secrets were hanging in the air.

Finally, Ned looked at the gathered Northern Lords, who had been absorbing this familial revelation. With a deep breath and the steely resolve of a man who’d seen far too many ridiculous things in his life, he straightened up. “My lords,” he announced with a voice that carried across the room like the cold winds of the North, “I present Lord Cregan Stark, trueborn son of my late brother Brandon Stark and Lady Ashara Dayne. He is the rightful Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

The room shifted. There was an awkward pause. A whisper. A long whisper that rippled through the crowd. It was like a slow-motion game of Chinese whispers, only much more serious. But then something shifted in the air—respect, maybe? There was surprise, sure, but a little nod of approval here, a raised eyebrow there. Cregan was a Stark. That was enough.

Ned crouched down, putting a hand on Cregan’s small shoulder. The boy, looking up at him with those intense purple eyes, tilted his head curiously. “Winterfell is yours,” Ned said, voice low, “Lead it well.”

It was the kind of line that should’ve come with a musical score in the background. But Cregan, for all his little Stark intensity, just gave Ned a look that would’ve made lesser men quail. “Does this mean I’m in charge now?” he asked, one tiny eyebrow raised in a way that definitely suggested he knew exactly what was going on.

Ned blinked. “Yes. And you’ll need to work hard, listen well, and—” He paused, looking over at his sister, who was probably smirking at him in a “you’re in for it now” kind of way. “And most importantly, listen to your aunt and uncles.”

Cregan made a face. “Even Aunt Lyanna?”

“Especially Aunt Lyanna,” Ned replied, voice full of affection and the tiniest hint of amusement.

Lyanna grinned, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Yes, especially me,” she teased, “I am, after all, extremely knowledgeable on all things Stark.”

And then, as if to reinforce his point, Cregan smirked at them all. A baby. One year old. Already proving that the Starks were apparently born with the ability to sass their elders into submission. “Well, Aunt Lyanna,” he said with a grin that was entirely too smug for a one-year-old, “I’m sure I’ll do better than you did at keeping secrets.”

There was a brief, stunned silence. Then, the room erupted in laughter—Ned’s hearty chuckles included.

“Ooh,” Lyanna said, hand over her heart like she was about to faint from the burn. “That’s a good one, kid.”

The Lords of the North, caught up in the ridiculousness of it all, began to kneel before Cregan, one by one, pledging their loyalty to him with solemn promises.

Ned watched, his heart swelling with pride. This little firecracker might have been unexpected, but he was still Stark blood through and through. Cregan Stark had arrived in the North, and with him came the promise of something better.

So maybe Winter was coming. But with Cregan at the helm? It didn’t seem quite so terrifying anymore.

—

The room was so thick with tension you could practically cut it with a sword. Or, if you were Howland Reed, maybe a spear. But that’s neither here nor there. All around Ned Stark were the people he trusted most in the world: Ashara Dayne, Ser Arthur Dayne (looking as tall, intimidating, and knightly as ever), Howland Reed (who looked like he might survive the apocalypse and still be mad about it), and a few other notable characters, all of whom were apparently fine with committing treason. Great. Just great.

“So, I guess we’re all just okay with hiding a Targaryen-Stark hybrid child in the most remote place in Westeros, huh?” Ned said, his voice the perfect combination of gruff and incredulous. Because, you know, hiding was what everyone was doing. Not a plan to start a family barbecue, definitely not.

Ashara, who looked like she could star in a romance novel even if she didn't want to, raised an eyebrow. “What’s the plan, then, Ned? Stash them in a barrel like last week's wine and pray Robert doesn’t fancy a drink?”

“Maybe we should make it a cask,” Howland Reed suggested, looking at the floor like he was doing the math. “Barrels don’t have enough breathing room for the kid. Casks, though...”

“I meant a safe place,” Ned snapped, shaking his head in disbelief. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or just give up altogether. “Somewhere no one would ever think to look.”

“How about a place that literally moves so no one can find it?” Howland Reed said with an almost mysterious air, a slight glint in his eye. It was hard to tell if he was being serious or just messing with everyone’s heads, but considering his reputation, it was probably the former.

“Greywater Watch?” Ned asked. “Your floating castle? The one that moves with the marshes?”

“That’s the one,” Howland confirmed with a sly grin, though it looked more like a grin that came with the knowledge of untold secrets. “The Neck is a natural fortress, and Greywater Watch? Well, it might as well be a ghost. No one can find it. Not even Robert.”

Ashara, ever the skeptic (and who could blame her), raised her hand like she was in class. “You mean the swampy castle in the swamp? Where it’s constantly damp, full of mud, and smells like something crawled out of a bog? That one?”

“How else would you describe a place where even the crannogmen would rather let the world burn than spill a secret?” Howland shot back, looking for all the world like a man whose family had survived things most people couldn’t even imagine.

“Sounds like fun,” Ashara quipped, raising an eyebrow. “If I wanted to live in a swamp, I’d just hang out with you more often.”

“Very funny,” Howland muttered. “But it’s not just about hiding. It’s about protection. And Greywater Watch has protection, courtesy of the people who live there. The crannogmen won’t let anything happen to her or the child.”

Lyanna, sitting quietly with Jaecaerys cradled in her arms, glanced up. The purple eyes of her son glinted like they knew something the rest of them didn’t. He was barely a year old, but that kid already had a knack for pulling off looks that could destroy a room. Like, you’d swear he’d already been through three lifetimes of complicated family drama. Cregan had no problem with this at all.

“You’ll be safe there,” Ned said, his voice much softer now. "It's the most secure place in Westeros. Trust me.”

Lyanna’s face was the picture of sorrow and gratitude. “If that’s what it takes…” She paused, her voice tight but determined. “I’ll go.”

Ser Arthur Dayne, standing like a sentinel (looking just about as knightly as a man in white armor could look), stepped forward. “Ser Oswell and Lord Commander Gerold will escort them,” he said, eyes unwavering. “We swore to protect her. They’ll see to it she reaches Greywater Watch.”

“Great,” Ashara muttered, “because that won’t cause a scene. The Kingsguard in full armor wandering around the Neck? Subtlety was never their thing, Arthur.”

Arthur Dayne raised an eyebrow but said nothing. His sword, Dawn, was enough of an answer. Everyone knew it.

“Martyn and Theo, you’re with them,” Ned said firmly, turning to his two trusted soldiers. “You’ll get them there. No one—not a single soul—can know about this. No one can suspect.”

Martyn, standing with all the seriousness of a man who looked like he spent his free time plotting the demise of evil, gave a firm nod. “No one will follow, my lord. Not a soul.”

Theo, ever the quiet type, just gave a half smile that was more for show than anything. “No one will find them.”

Lyanna looked up at him, her eyes brimming with emotion. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with the weight of what was happening. “All of you.”

At that exact moment, Jaecaerys decided it was time to gurgle loud enough to disrupt the moment in a spectacular fashion. His laughter, bubbly and bright, filled the room. If he wasn’t careful, he might end up running the show with that level of charm. Ashara, of course, was the first to break.

“Well, at least one of us is having fun,” she said, snorting in laughter. “Royalty really does have a knack for timing.”

“How long until the kid starts giving us orders?” Ned muttered to himself, shaking his head.

The second part of the plan was no less complicated, but at least it involved less sneaking around and more pretending to be a legitimate Stark. Cregan, the secret son of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne, needed to be paraded in front of the world as the future Lord of Winterfell. At the tender age of one, Cregan already had a sense of Stark pride and Dayne stubbornness. That combination could only lead to chaos—and, apparently, some savage burns.

“Uncle Ned,” Cregan said, tugging at Ned’s cloak as they prepared to leave, his voice high-pitched and very serious for a one-year-old. “I’ll be a good Stark, right?”

Ned, crouching down to the boy’s level, fought to keep the emotions in his chest from showing. He saw so much of Brandon in Cregan’s dark eyes—those eyes that had the stubbornness of a Stark, the same ones that had once locked onto Ned in a way that said, I’ll make you regret this.

“You’ll be the best Stark ever, Cregan,” Ned said with a forced smile, rubbing the boy’s head like a favorite pet, though he couldn't help but think that if Cregan ever learned to talk properly, they'd all be in for a world of trouble.

Ashara, always practical, joined them, her tone brisk but affectionate. “Just make sure Robert doesn’t get any funny ideas about Lyanna’s death. I’d rather not spend the next few hours explaining that one.”

Ned sighed, pulling Cregan closer. “One crisis at a time, Ashara.”

“And we’re already neck-deep in this one,” she muttered, glancing at the boy as if she expected him to announce that he was already planning to conquer Winterfell.

And, honestly, who could blame her? If Cregan could somehow wield the power of Stark pride at this age, he’d probably run Winterfell better than half the Starks combined. Maybe he’d even figure out how to deal with Robert Baratheon’s temper. (Spoiler alert: No one could figure that one out.)

Ser Arthur Dayne—always the reliable one, as if he didn’t have a care in the world—stepped forward with that quiet air of nobility that made you want to sit up straighter, just by being in his presence. “I’ll go with you to King’s Landing,” he said, his voice carrying an edge that made it sound like a quiet order, though he wasn’t one to boss people around.

“Your sword would add some legitimacy,” Ned agreed, eyeing Arthur’s famed sword, Dawn, which was more a work of art than a weapon, but hey, no one was going to argue with the Sword of the Morning.

Ashara raised an eyebrow. “And if Robert gets any funny ideas?”

Arthur’s lips twitched. “I’m not worried about Robert.”

Ned snorted. “You should be. The man once tried to start a war over a boar. Imagine what he’d do for a royal secret.”

“Point taken,” Arthur said, still looking too calm for Ned’s liking. “I’ll handle the wild ones. And once Cregan’s position is secured, I’ll return with you.”

Ned looked over at Ashara, who was watching Arthur closely. “You know I can’t argue with that.”

“Not that you would,” Ashara replied, shooting Arthur a sly smile. “Arthur Dayne, the silent protector. Who wouldn’t trust him?”

Arthur, as usual, was the picture of humility. “I’ll protect them, Ned. You have my word.”

And honestly, that was all Ned needed to hear. Arthur could have told him he was going to personally fight Robert in a duel over the Iron Throne, and it still would’ve been comforting to hear, because Ned knew Arthur would follow through on whatever he promised.

Cregan, meanwhile, had something to add to the conversation. Apparently, one was never too young to start throwing out savage burns. The boy cocked his head and gave Arthur a once-over.

“Uncle Arthur,” Cregan said, pulling on Ned’s cloak again, “you gonna fight boar like Robert Baratheon?”

The room went silent. Arthur, for the first time, blinked. “I—uh…”

Ned stifled a laugh, shaking his head. Brandon’s son, he thought. Of course he’s a savage already.

Ashara smirked. “Looks like Robert’s reign might be in trouble already.”

Arthur cleared his throat, making a noise like a dignified cough. “No boars in King’s Landing,” he said, managing to regain his composure. “Only people. And you’ll have to wait a while before I teach you that.”

“Teach me,” Cregan said, not even bothering to look at Arthur anymore. “I’ll be a good Stark. I’ll be big and strong.”

Ned could only shake his head and grin. The kid’s going to break everything before he’s ten.

The rest of the room was quiet for a moment, as everyone took in Cregan’s deadly seriousness.

“You’ll be a great Stark,” Ned said with a grin that almost cracked his face. “Just… try to not burn down Winterfell too early, alright?”

“Winterfell will be mine,” Cregan declared, puffing his chest out like the tiny ruler he already thought he was.

“Well, that’s going to be an issue,” Theo Wull said from the corner, arms crossed. “Because last time I checked, your Uncle Ned was in charge of the place until you come of age.” His tone was teasing, but there was something warm about it. “Best start practicing your speeches, little Stark. You’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Cregan tilted his head and gave Theo a look that could’ve melted ice. “I’m already good Stark. You’re not a Stark,” he said, causing Theo’s smirk to falter.

“Okay, okay,” Theo said, chuckling. “You’ve got me. But mark my words, when you’re older, I’m still going to tell everyone I was the one who taught you how to rule Winterfell.”

“You better start taking notes now, then,” Cregan said, his tone deceptively sweet.

Ned nearly burst out laughing at that one. His nephew, one year old, and already handling his business like a Stark. Somewhere, Brandon was probably grinning down from the gods. Or scowling—who knew?

But one thing was for sure. They were all in for one heck of a ride, and the kid was going to lead them straight into it.

---

As the plans unfolded and the groups prepared to part ways, the air felt heavy with the weight of everything that was about to go down. It was like one of those moments in a bad movie where the music swells, and you just know something’s about to blow up. Only, in this case, the music was a lot of awkward silence, and the thing about to blow up? Pretty much everything.

Lyanna, Jaecaerys, and their guardians were heading for the swamps of the Neck, where they would disappear into the wilds, effectively vanishing from history—or at least from the prying eyes of Robert Baratheon and his not-so-charming court. Meanwhile, Ned, Ashara, Cregan, and Ser Arthur would be heading straight into the lion’s den. And no, I don’t mean a literal den, though that would’ve been less dangerous. They were going to King’s Landing. Where it was really dangerous.

“Do you think we have time to grab a quick snack before this all falls apart?” Cregan piped up from his perch on a horse, looking like he was already planning his takeover of Winterfell. Not even one year old, and the kid had mastered the art of throwing shade.

Ashara gave him a sideways look. “You’re gonna have to work on your diplomacy skills, little Stark.”

“Work on your hair first, Mother,” Cregan shot back, like he was giving advice on how to win battles, not insult people.

“Savage,” Ashara muttered, but her smile was fond, like she couldn’t quite help it.

Ned, ever the serious one (even if there was a twinkle of amusement in his eye), gave Cregan a look like don’t make me come over there. “Let’s just get through today,” he said, voice low and full of that calm, stoic energy that made him sound like he was about to launch into some deep monologue about the fate of the realm.

“That’s the spirit, Ned,” Ashara said, her voice laced with more sarcasm than was probably fair. “Let’s all pretend we aren’t about to step into a hornet’s nest. Great idea.”

Arthur Dayne, ever the knight in shining armor—except he was, you know, actually shining, with the radiance of someone who had probably never had an off day in his life—chimed in. “The hornet’s nest is the least of our worries. It’s the spiders I’m worried about.”

Ashara raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “Spiders?”

Arthur’s expression was deadpan, but there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes. “It’s a metaphor. A very complex metaphor. The spiders in King’s Landing are... never mind. Forget it. Let’s focus on surviving the day.”

At that, Cregan’s eyes lit up. “I like spiders! They have lots of legs and eat stuff!”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “Uh, that’s... not quite what I meant—”

“Cregan,” Ashara interjected quickly, “spiders are best left to their webs, not their friends.”

Ned cleared his throat. “And speaking of webs...” He gave Arthur a meaningful glance. “We need to be careful. Robert’s not a fool. He’ll catch on sooner or later.”

Arthur's usual calm didn’t falter. “I don’t believe Robert will catch on as quickly as you think. He has... other things to worry about.”

“Oh, right, like boars,” Cregan muttered, his tone dry for a kid who could barely say three words in a row without being adorably savage.

Arthur froze for a moment, then let out a low chuckle. “And if you’re lucky, you’ll never have to face one. They’re truly terrifying creatures.”

“I’m not afraid of boars. They’re just... big pigs,” Cregan declared confidently, puffing out his little chest like a tiny ruler of everything around him.

Ashara raised her eyebrows, looking at Ned. “You know, if he gets any more confident, we’re all in trouble.”

“I think we’re already in trouble,” Ned said, but he couldn’t hide the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“We should move,” Arthur said, his tone turning serious. “The sooner we leave, the sooner we can make sure this plan doesn’t... implode.”

As if on cue, Lyanna and Jaecaerys rode up alongside them, their faces set in determined lines. Lyanna gave her brother a quick, worried look before turning to Ashara. “Stay safe. I don’t want to lose any of you.”

Ashara smiled at her sister, her expression softening for a moment. “We’ll be fine. Just look after him,” she said, nodding toward Cregan, who was already attempting to convince Ser Arthur to arm-wrestle him with that deadly combination of stubbornness and enthusiasm only a Stark child could muster.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t burn anything down,” Ned said, though it was clear he wasn’t entirely sure about that.

“Good luck with that,” Ashara muttered, shaking her head.

Cregan, hearing this, turned to Ned with that look that only one-year-olds could master—the “I can handle this” look. “I burn stuff,” he said, his voice so deadpan it made Ashara almost cough.

“I’m sure you do, little lord,” Arthur said, offering the child a small, amused smile.

“Uncle Arthur, you better not get any ideas about boars,” Cregan warned.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You’re quite the strategist for one so young.”

“Maybe I will take Winterfell before I’m two,” Cregan said, sounding entirely too serious.

“I’ll be sure to give you some advice on ruling,” Theo Wull called over from the other side of the camp, his tone teasing.

“If you don’t mind, I’m in charge of Winterfell,” Cregan retorted, narrowing his eyes.

Theo laughed. “Guess I’ll have to start preparing my speech then.”

Cregan nodded solemnly. “You better practice. You’re gonna need it.”

With that, the group made their final preparations. The air was thick with the tension of everything yet to come, but there was also a strange sort of camaraderie between them all—like a shared understanding that no matter how bad it got, they’d stick together, fight together, and probably laugh about it in a few years.

“Let’s go,” Ned said, his tone calm but resolute. “The sooner we’re gone, the sooner we can finish this.”

And with that, the Starks and their companions rode out into the unknown, their paths diverging but their fates tied together by secrets, lies, and the unspoken bond between family—and a very, very sassy one-year-old Stark heir.

—

Cregan's POV

Stepping into the Red Keep was like stepping into a world where logic took a vacation. The throne room smelled like a tavern after closing time—stale wine, sweat, and a hint of something metallic that could be blood, but more likely was just old, rusting iron. Not exactly the welcoming vibe you’d expect from the seat of the Seven Kingdoms, but hey, this was Westeros. Nothing made sense here.

And there, sitting on the Iron Throne like it was a comfy armchair, was Robert Baratheon. I had to admit, the guy looked more like a bear in a man’s skin than a king. He was massive, with a beard so thick it probably had its own ecosystem. His face was a permanent scowl, like he’d just bitten into something sour. Honestly, it wasn’t the crown he wore on his head that made him look like royalty—it was the sheer weight of his presence.

Uncle Ned’s hand was gripping mine like I was about to run away. Honestly, considering the odds of surviving the next five minutes, I wasn’t convinced he wasn’t about to bolt first. But I stayed put, because nothing says "I belong here" like standing still and pretending you're not internally freaking out.

Behind us, Mother and Uncle Arthur looked like they were in a different league. Uncle Arthur was Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, a guy who probably didn't even need to draw his sword to make everyone around him rethink their life choices. He was tall, intimidatingly handsome in a way that made me wonder if he secretly posed in front of the mirror every morning. And Mother? Well, Ashara Dayne—the Ashara Dayne—was always in control. You could practically hear the court whispering, "She's the one who got Brandon Stark." And I mean, who wouldn’t? My mom was, and still is, a walking goddess.

But the court didn’t know any of this, so as we walked in, whispers flooded the room like a storm—just a little less dramatic than a real storm. But only barely.

Robert Baratheon looked up and instantly zeroed in on Uncle Arthur. The air practically crackled with tension. And then—boom. The Robert Baratheon classic.

“And what’s the Lickspittle of the Dragonspawn doing in my hall?”

Cue dead silence. The kind of silence that made even the chandeliers stop jingling. Guards shuffled, awkwardly trying to figure out if they needed to draw their swords. Honestly, with the way Robert was glaring, it was probably a good idea for them to start thinking about retirement.

Uncle Arthur didn’t flinch. At all. The guy was as unshakable as the mountain in front of Winterfell. If anything, he probably had the “Unfazed by Robert Baratheon” superpower.

Uncle Ned, in his usual "peacemaker mode," stepped in with his calm voice. “Ser Arthur is here as a representative of House Dayne,” he said, like Robert wasn’t about to chew his head off. “With the death of Aerys and Rhaegar, he no longer has any allegiance to the Targaryens. His loyalty lies with his house and his honor.”

Robert wasn’t having it. He leaned forward with a loud scoff, like he'd just stepped in something sticky. “Honor? Don’t talk to me about the honor of a man who wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard while serving a tyrant!”

Okay, now that was rich. Robert Baratheon, calling someone else a tyrant. Pot, meet kettle. But Uncle Ned gave me one of those silent signals—“Don’t say a word, Cregan”—and I kept my mouth shut. For now. I mean, this whole conversation was a dumpster fire waiting to happen, and I wasn’t about to be the guy who poured gasoline on it.

Jon Arryn, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here, stepped in before Robert worked himself into a proper fury. “We’re not here to relitigate the war,” Jon said, trying to smooth things over.

Robert, of course, grumbled and waved it off. “Fine. Let him stay. But I won’t forget whose side he fought for.”

Ah, politics. Where loyalty is a coin you flip when no one’s looking.

Uncle Ned sighed, but Jon was already looking at me with that fatherly expression. I was starting to get the impression that Jon Arryn actually liked me—or at least didn’t think I was a total disaster waiting to happen. “And who’s this young man?” he asked, his voice soft but warm.

Uncle Ned puffed out his chest. “This is Cregan Stark,” he said, almost like he was introducing me to royalty—which, I guess, I was. "Son of Lord Brandon Stark and Lady Ashara Dayne. The future Lord of Winterfell.”

The room went into overdrive with whispers. Because, of course, it did. Newsflash: having my mom’s eyes meant I was the center of attention every time I blinked.

Robert blinked, probably trying to process the situation. And then, out of nowhere, he threw his head back and laughed, his voice booming through the hall. “Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne? Brandon, you sly bastard!” He slapped his thigh like he’d just heard the funniest joke ever. “How in the Seven Hells did you manage to land her?”

Jon Arryn just shook his head, smiling like he already knew the answer. “The gods favor House Stark,” he said dryly.

And then Robert turned his massive gaze on me, studying me like I was the last chicken in the butcher's shop. “A Stark, no doubt,” he said, his tone almost approving. “But with Dayne’s beauty.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And you’ve got your mother’s eyes. I’d bet a cask of Dornish red on it.”

At this point, I was wondering if I was going to get a collection of “your mother’s eyes” compliments every time I walked into a room. If I had a silver stag for every time someone mentioned it, I could probably buy the Arbor.

Before I could respond with anything remotely sarcastic, Robert dropped a bombshell that made even the chandeliers rattle. “As a gift to the future Warden of the North,” he boomed, “I hereby announce your betrothal to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”

And the room? Oh, it didn’t just go silent. It screamed into silence, like a thousand tiny birds trying to be the first to catch a worm. The buzz started up almost immediately. Even Uncle Ned looked like he’d just had his first sip of firewine.

“Your Grace,” Uncle Ned began, ever the calm negotiator. “This is... unexpected.”

Robert, of course, waved him off. “The war is over, Ned. Time to build alliances, not tear them down.”

“But a Targaryen—”

“She’s no threat,” Robert said, leaning back like he’d just made a masterful play. “Her brother Aegon will either take the Black or become a maester. Either way, the boy’s no king.”

Well, this was a problem. I didn’t know if I was more stunned by the betrothal or the fact that I’d just been publicly handed a political grenade. But the truth was, Robert’s move was a smart one. Tying the North to the Targaryens could keep the realm in check, or at least keep them distracted. But this whole thing felt like it had “trap” written all over it. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to be caught in whatever net Robert was throwing.

But I had to play along. The game of thrones wasn’t a game at all—it was a deathmatch.

So, I squared my shoulders and kept my voice steady, even though my mind was racing. “Thank you, Your Grace,” I said, because what else do you say when you’ve just been promised to a princess you’ve never met?

And so, with all eyes on me and whispers buzzing in every corner of the room, I realized something. The throne room wasn’t the worst part of this game. It was the court. And I was about to learn just how dangerous they could be.

Just another day in Westeros.

—

General POV

Ned Stark looked like he’d been carved out of the harshest winter winds—tough, unyielding, and colder than a freshly-fallen layer of snow. But what no one ever mentioned was that inside? Inside was a whole mess of emotions tangled up like the dead leaves on a bitter autumn morning. Accepting Robert’s terms was like swallowing a bitter, sour potion—it wasn’t just a pragmatic move, it was the only move. The realm's peace was hanging by a thread, and even if he had to tie his family’s future to that thread, it was better than letting the whole damn thing unravel.

Still, as Ned straightened his back and spoke, his voice was as steady as Winterfell’s walls. “We accept your terms, Your Grace,” he said, the words hitting the room like the ringing of a sword against a whetstone. “May this betrothal bring peace and prosperity to both our houses and to the realm.”

Nobody cheered. No clapping. No applause. Just the kind of heavy silence that made you wish you could drown out the awkward tension by smashing something. Ned gave a quick glance toward his nephew, Cregan, who was standing nearby, his small figure carrying more weight than it should’ve. Ned’s thoughts spiraled for just a second. I hope you can carry it, boy. I really do.

But before anyone could move, Ser Arthur Dayne, the so-called Sword of the Morning—and if anyone was truly as cool as their title, it was Arthur—stepped forward like he owned the room. His every movement was deliberate, like he was walking in slow motion for dramatic effect, and honestly, he probably was.

“Your Grace,” Arthur’s voice slid out like smooth silk, the kind of voice that could convince a dragon to take a nap. “I humbly request to be relieved of my duties as a member of the Kingsguard.”

Cue the shocked gasps from the courtiers. People immediately started whispering like a chorus of rats in a grain cellar. This was big. It wasn’t every day one of the greatest knights in Westeros stepped up and said, “You know what? I think I’ll pass on guarding the king. I’m gonna go do something else.”

Robert Baratheon, who’d been lounging like a man who didn’t even remember what stress was, sat up a little straighter, his curiosity piqued. “And why would you do that, Ser Arthur?” he asked, sounding like a kid who’d just found a toy he didn’t know he wanted.

Arthur met Robert’s gaze like he was challenging the gods themselves. “I wish to accompany my nephew, Lord Cregan Stark, to Winterfell,” he explained. “To teach him the ways of knighthood, as is his right and duty as the future Lord of Winterfell.”

Now Robert really looked interested, as though Arthur had just offered him a massive tankard of wine at breakfast. “So, you’re telling me you want to leave the sunny South to freeze your arse off in the North just to train the boy?”

Arthur’s lips twitched into something that was almost a smile. “A knight’s duty does not change with the weather, Your Grace.”

From somewhere behind the throne, a laugh broke the tension, probably one of the more sarcastic courtiers who never missed an opportunity to make everything awkward. But Robert ignored them, his face shifting into something resembling respect.

“Fine,” Robert said, waving a dismissive hand, as though this conversation had become irrelevant. “You’re a damn good swordsman, Ser Arthur. If the boy’s half as good with a blade as you are when you’re done with him, it’ll be worth it. Consider yourself released.”

Arthur gave a bow so deep it almost looked like he was trying to touch his toes. He then turned to Cregan, his face softening for the first time since he’d entered the room, his eyes almost warm. “We have much to do, my lord,” he said, the words carrying a fatherly weight that seemed at odds with the towering knight. “You will make your family proud.”

Cregan, who was, let’s face it, only about one year old, stared up at the towering knight like he was trying to comprehend what the hell that even meant. But he did his best to look dignified. He tilted his head and managed to squeak out a, “I will do my best,” as though those words carried the weight of a thousand decisions made by men three times his age.

As they turned to leave, Robert’s booming voice, full of curiosity (or maybe it was something else—who knew?), echoed through the room.

“Ned!” Robert called, his tone now the kind of sharpness you’d expect when someone’s just had too much wine and decided to drop an uncomfortable question. “What happened to Lyanna at the Tower of Joy?”

Everyone froze. Silence blanketed the room. Not the comfortable silence, though. The kind that made you want to disappear into the walls.

Ned turned slowly, his face as unreadable as a frozen lake. But inside, his heart was racing like a stallion. “She died of a fever,” he said, his voice calm, steady, and flat like it had been carved from stone.

Robert blinked, confusion swirling in his eyes, but then something else—something softer—slipped through. His expression crumpled slightly, like a man seeing a distant ghost. “A fever,” Robert repeated, the words not quite making sense in his brain. “Lyanna...she was so full of life. And a fever took her?”

Ned didn’t answer. He just stood there, letting the silence speak volumes, letting Robert’s grief hang in the air like an unwanted storm cloud.

After what felt like an eternity, Robert sighed—a deep, heavy sigh, like the weight of the world had just collapsed onto his shoulders. “The gods are cruel,” he muttered under his breath, his voice so low that it barely made it out of his throat.

Ser Arthur placed a hand on Cregan’s tiny shoulder, guiding him toward the exit. “The North will ask much of you,” he whispered, his tone soft, though Cregan still didn’t quite understand what the North meant, “but you will not face it alone. Remember that.”

As they walked toward the door, Cregan glanced up at his uncle, his tiny brow furrowing as if he’d just realized something important. “Do you think…do you think the king will ever let go of the past?”

Arthur’s face turned somber, his voice growing quieter, more reflective. “The past is a heavy chain, my boy,” he said, “and some men choose to carry it, no matter the cost.”

Cregan nodded, not fully understanding, but knowing enough to feel the weight of the words. As they stepped through the doors, he couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone in that room was carrying around chains—chains made of grief, duty, and a whole lot of bad decisions that no one ever talked about.

And as for the king? Cregan could only hope that one day, Robert would realize that the past was a heavy thing, but it didn’t have to define the future. But for now? He’d just settle for making it through the next five minutes without someone asking him about the bloody betrothal.

—

Cregan Stark's POV

As we walked away from the Red Keep, my feet dragging along the cobblestones like I was being pulled by some invisible, giant hand, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had just been a part of a really bad episode of "Game of Thrones." Seriously, if the world was a TV show, this would definitely be the part where they cut to some dramatic music and a slow-motion shot of me blinking in confusion. And, to be fair, I did feel pretty confused. Because, let’s face it, no matter how much my life has been a series of "hold onto your butts" moments, today was a whole new level of wild.

I glanced up at Uncle Ned, who was walking next to me with that same stone face of his—seriously, I think he might’ve been carved out of actual stone at this point—and tried to make sense of what just happened. We’d been inside the Red Keep for what felt like three hours, but it could’ve been three minutes or three weeks. I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that someone (I’m looking at you, Robert Baratheon) decided it would be a good idea to casually mention my aunt Lyanna’s "death," and, in the process, I had been force-fed a lie so massive, it could’ve been used to cap the wells of Winterfell for a century.

And Uncle Ned, being Uncle Ned, had decided to lie right along with him. So now we were outside the Red Keep, stepping into the heat of King’s Landing with the scent of sweat and fish in the air. Lovely.

The lie was something I could live with, I guess. But the whole thing? The truth that we were desperately trying to hide? It was a ticking time bomb, and it felt like we were just waiting for someone to pull the pin.

“So, Uncle,” I said, my voice as light as a feather even though my brain was already spiraling into a void of stress. “Do you ever feel like we’re all just actors in some really messed-up play? Or, you know, an extremely long-running farce where all the plotlines are trying to kill us?”

Uncle Ned shot me a look. You know the one. It’s the “I don’t want to laugh but I also kind of want to laugh” look. And let me tell you, it was almost impossible to get Uncle Ned to break. I’d done it maybe twice in my life. The first time was when I was three and knocked over his favorite sword—he still hasn’t fully forgiven me for that—but I could tell this was close.

He finally cracked a smile, just a little one, like the shadow of a smile. "Every day, Cregan. Every day."

That was it. The epic saga of my life summed up in three words. Yeah, it was totally normal to have to lie about your dead aunt being alive, and then pretend you’re a part of some overcomplicated political game that has a very real chance of getting everyone killed.

"Robert didn’t ask too many questions about that, did he?" I asked, mostly to fill the silence. There were too many thoughts swirling around in my brain, and Uncle Ned was too good at his "I’m the most stoic man on the planet" act. It was kind of annoying.

Ned kept his eyes forward, scanning the crowd of King's Landing with a vigilance that made me wonder if he was secretly a super spy. "Robert doesn’t want to know the truth, Cregan," he said softly. "He just wants a story he can believe. One where the Targaryens are dead and buried, and no one dares speak their name again."

"Right, because who needs actual truth when you’ve got a story to sell?" I said, rolling my eyes. Honestly, I didn’t care if the whole world believed that Robert Baratheon was a "hero" or whatever nonsense people liked to sell themselves. But if they started getting wise about the Targaryens—or worse, the fact that Aunt Lyanna's son, Jaecaerys, was still alive—well, that would just be one more problem in a world already full of problems.

Uncle Ned stopped walking for a moment and turned to face me, his expression dead serious now. “Cregan, what Robert doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Or any of us.”

“Yeah, well,” I muttered, “what we don’t know could end up getting us burned alive by dragons or stabbed in the back by one of his buddies. Same difference, really.”

The streets of King’s Landing had this eerie quiet to them, like the kind of silence you hear when everyone is just waiting for something to go wrong. I hated it. It made me feel like I was walking on a tightrope over a pit of lions.

“You’re thinking too much,” Uncle Ned said, his voice a bit gruffer than usual. “You’re right to worry, Cregan. But sometimes, the only way forward is through the lies. We protect what’s most important, even if it means wearing the mask of deception.”

“Lies, lies, lies,” I said, like I was the world’s greatest philosopher. “At this point, I’m wondering who’s really pulling the strings in all this. 'Cause I’m pretty sure it’s not Robert, and it’s not you either. Feels like we’re all just playing chess while the real game’s being played somewhere else.”

Uncle Ned was quiet for a long time. I could see the muscles in his jaw flexing as he thought about my words. “Sometimes, Cregan, the most important moves are the ones no one sees.”

“Right,” I said, tapping my fingers against my arm. “I guess the move we’re making right now is called ‘hope nothing blows up in our faces.’”

He didn’t respond to that. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting him to. Uncle Ned had this way of always making you feel like you’d figured something out—then leaving you with ten more questions. It’s one of his secret skills, like how he could stare someone down like a wolf and make them back off without saying a word.

“So,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, “think we can make it through King’s Landing without someone trying to stab us in the back?”

“Cregan,” he said, his voice heavy with that special Ned Stark seriousness that was way too serious for someone who clearly had a sense of humor, “you’d better learn to expect the knife before it comes.”

I tried to smile, but it felt forced. Honestly, this city was a powder keg, and we were all just waiting for someone to strike the match.

And me? Well, I was starting to think that the only thing more dangerous than lying in King’s Landing was trying to survive when you knew all the cards were stacked against you.

But hey, no pressure, right?

General POV

If tension were a physical thing, you could have picked it up and stabbed someone with it.

The Northern Lords were gathered, standing stiff and formal, the way men do when they suspect bad news but don’t want to be the first to ask. There were banners everywhere—direwolves flapping in the wind like they had a stake in whatever was about to be said. And in the middle of it all, looking as grim as a man announcing his own execution, stood Eddard Stark.

Ned wasn’t one for speeches. He preferred action, or at least conversations that didn’t involve so many people staring at him like he was about to sprout wings. But today? Today was different.

“Men of the North,” Ned’s voice cut through the murmurs like a sword through fresh snow. “I have called you here to announce a momentous occasion in the history of our house.”

The lords shuffled. Some frowned. Some exchanged looks that clearly said Momentous occasion? Is this a good momentous or a bad momentous? The last time they had one of these meetings, Robert Baratheon had been in a mood and someone lost a head. So, you know, expectations weren’t great.

Ned pressed on. “For too long, the North has lacked certainty in its future. That ends today.” He took a breath, bracing himself. “I am proud to present to you Lord Cregan Stark, trueborn son of Brandon Stark and Lady Ashara Dayne-Stark.”

And there it was. The verbal equivalent of setting the entire tent on fire.

The lords did that thing where they looked at each other, waiting for someone else to react first, because what.

Brandon Stark had a son? With Ashara Dayne?

Roose Bolton’s eyebrow quirked just a fraction—just enough to say, Oh, this is going to be interesting. The Greatjon nearly dropped his goblet. Galbart Glover blinked rapidly like he was doing complex math in his head.

And right there, next to Ned, sitting comfortably on his mother’s hip, was the subject of the announcement himself—Cregan Stark.

At one year old, Cregan already had a full head of dark hair, Brandon Stark's hair, and eyes like the coldest, most judgey winter morning. He sucked on his fingers thoughtfully, assessing the gathered lords like he was deciding which one of them was going to be his first enemy.

There was silence. A long, awkward silence. Until—

“So what you’re saying,” Greatjon Umber rumbled, “is that the North has a one-year-old Warden now.”

Cregan took his fingers out of his mouth, wiped them on his tiny tunic, and very solemnly held up one fist. The way a man does when he’s about to punch someone in the face.

“Aye,” Ned said, voice steady, “That’s what I’m saying.”

“Excellent,” Cregan announced, with all the confidence of a king addressing his court. “I accept your undying loyalty.”

…And the tent exploded.

Greatjon actually threw his head back and howled with laughter. The Manderlys wheezed. The Karstarks looked like they’d been hit over the head with a hammer. Even Ned had to glance down, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he was already regretting every life decision that had led him to this moment.

“Gods,” Arthur Dayne muttered, standing at Ashara’s side. “He’s already more terrifying than his father.”

Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, looked like a man who had seen war, faced down legends, and yet still found himself slightly unnerved by the pint-sized tyrant currently smirking at his assembled bannermen. His blond hair was neatly tied back, his armor pristine, and his expression was something between admiration and I might need a drink after this.

Meanwhile, Roose Bolton—who had, until now, been enjoying the show in eerie silence—finally spoke.

“Lord Stark,” he began in that slow, deliberate way of his, the kind of tone that made men check if they still had their throats intact, “forgive my curiosity, but the circumstances of Lady Ashara Dayne’s marriage to Lord Brandon Stark… this is the first we have heard of it.”

And there it was. Roose Bolton, everyone. The human embodiment of a dagger hidden in a warm handshake.

Ashara, to her credit, did not so much as blink. If anything, she looked bored, which was never a good sign.

“Lord Bolton,” Ashara began, her voice smooth as silk, “if I had known you were so invested in my love life, I would have invited you to the wedding.”

Roose’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. More of a Yes, alright, I respect the attempt expression.

“Elia,” Ashara turned her head slightly, and Princess Elia Martell stepped forward.

Now, if Ashara was regal, Elia was majestic. The kind of woman who could walk through a battlefield untouched just because she refused to acknowledge the existence of stray arrows. Dressed in Martell colors, she looked at the gathered lords as if she were addressing children in need of correction.

“I was there,” Elia said. “I bore witness to their marriage, under the traditions of the First Men. Their vows were spoken before the Old Gods, their union recognized by the trees themselves.”

And that was checkmate.

Because if Elia Martell—a Princess of Dorne, a woman who had survived Robert’s war and stood before them still—said it was true, then by the gods, it was true.

Ned, wisely, decided this was the best moment to drop another bomb.

“By decree of King Robert Baratheon,” he said, “Princess Rhaenys Targaryen is betrothed to Cregan Stark.”

Silence.

And then—

“WHAT?”

It was hard to say who said it first. Probably everyone at the same time.

Roose Bolton’s smile didn’t widen, but somehow, it got sharper. Elia’s expression was unreadable, but her fingers curled slightly. Arthur Dayne was stone-faced. And Ashara?

She turned to her son, adjusting him on her hip. “Well?” she asked him, like this was a normal conversation and not a political maelstrom.

Cregan looked at his mother. Then at Ned. Then at the lords, who were all waiting for his verdict.

He shrugged. “I’ll allow it.”

Absolute silence.

Then Greatjon Umber, unstoppable force of nature that he was, actually collapsed onto a chair, gasping for air between his roars of laughter.

Ned sighed. Arthur sighed. Ashara looked suspiciously like she was holding back a smirk.

And somewhere, deep in the recesses of his soul, Roose Bolton—ruthless, calculating Roose—decided that perhaps, just perhaps, he should keep a very close eye on Cregan Stark.

Because a one-year-old who could already land a savage burn?

The North was in for a wild ride.

—

The laughter finally died down—though not without a few rogue chuckles sneaking in—leaving behind an atmosphere so tense it felt like waiting for a storm to hit. The lords of the North were gathered in the dimly lit tent, their faces twisted into expressions that screamed "we'd rather be fighting wildlings than this." And honestly? They might’ve preferred that. After all, they knew what to expect from wildlings. Dragons? Not so much.

Lord Umber, the massive, grizzly bear of a man whose beard looked like it could harbor an entire wildlife ecosystem, slammed his hand on the table with such force that it made every mug on the table jump in the air like they’d just seen a ghost. “A Stark should marry a woman of the North!” he growled. His voice was as rough as the snowstorms outside, and you could practically hear the wind howling through his words. “Not some fancy southern lady with dragon dreams and hair like a crow’s feathers after a bad winter.”

The other lords nodded vigorously, as if they were all rehearsing their grumpy expressions in front of a mirror. One by one, they threw in their two cents, which mostly involved either insulting the Targaryens' haircuts or recalling every bad story they'd ever heard about dragonfire.

Then, standing up with all the grandeur of a man about to make a very dramatic point, a younger lord with a cloak that billowed just the right amount (like he practiced it in the mirror, which he probably did) sneered. “What good is a marriage to the Targaryens? Dragons are gone, and all they’ve got left is their name. A name and a whole lot of problems.”

At the head of the table, Eddard Stark—Warden of the North, father of direwolves, and overall stone-faced brooder—stood up. When he spoke, it was like the world decided to listen. Not because he had any special magic or persuasive gifts, but because Ned Stark didn’t waste his words. His voice was calm, but you could tell that if he wanted to, he could make a grown man wish he’d stayed in bed this morning.

“I didn’t call this meeting to turn it into a brawl of insults.” He paused, and the room fell silent. “This marriage serves a purpose. Not just for the Targaryens, but for the North.”

A few skeptical glares followed, but Ned wasn’t the kind of man who shied away from staring down a room full of angry Northmen. “King Robert Baratheon has pledged a dowry to House Stark,” he continued, and you could almost feel the room’s collective eyebrows shoot up.

“A dowry?” Lord Greatjon Umber—who was so large, he looked like he could probably bench press a bear—grunted from the back. “And what exactly is this dowry? A bunch of gold, some fancy toys, or a fleet of ships?”

Ned’s face softened just a fraction—only the faintest hint of a smile, like he was about to reveal the best kept secret in Westeros. “The dowry is the restoration of Moat Cailin.” His voice didn’t rise, but somehow, everyone heard him.

Moat Cailin. That place. The key to the North’s defense. The one thing that could keep every invader from waltzing across their borders without breaking a sweat.

Suddenly, the room felt like it had just been hit with a bucket of ice water. Even Greatjon, who’d been ready to argue his point until the cows came home (or, in his case, until the mammoths came home), scratched his thick beard thoughtfully and muttered, “Moat Cailin? Fortified? Now that... that’s something.”

Ned took a step forward, his gaze hardening like he was preparing for another battle. “Moat Cailin, restored and fortified, would make the North’s borders impenetrable. And not just for a season, but for generations.”

The room grew quieter than a mouse in a library. For a second, even Lord Umber looked impressed—though, to be fair, you couldn’t really tell if it was because he was thinking about the fortifications or because his beard was suddenly weighed down by the implications.

“Alright,” a voice from the back piped up, sounding just a little more conciliatory than before. “That’s... worth considering.”

Ned raised a hand, cutting off any further discussion before it could really take off. “There’s one more thing.”

The lords all glanced around, frowning, as if to say Oh great, this is the part where it all goes south.

Ned’s gaze shifted toward the figure standing near the fire—Elia Martell. She looked like she had been carved out of stone, her posture as regal as any princess in the Seven Kingdoms. But the way her eyes flickered over to Ned told a different story. Her calm exterior was just a mask for a mind working through a thousand things at once.

“Upon the marriage of Cregan Stark and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen,” Ned said slowly, as though each word had to pass through some invisible gauntlet of reason, “Prince Aegon Targaryen will have two choices. He can take the Black... or join the Maesters.”

The words dropped like a boulder into the middle of the room, making everyone stare at him like he’d just suggested they all go to war with the sea. The lords of the North shifted uneasily.

“The Black?” Greatjon’s voice thundered, low and incredulous. “A child that’s barely learned to walk and you want to send him to the Wall?”

“Or the Maesters?” Lord Manderly added with a snort, his voice dripping with disdain. “What’s next, sending him to the Citadel as soon as he speaks his first words?”

Ned’s face hardened. “It is the king’s will.”

Before anyone could argue further, a voice broke in—Elia’s. It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp, as if cutting through the tension like a blade. “The safety of my children has always been my first concern. If this is what must be done, then so be it.”

There was no fire in her words, no flare of rebellion. Just cold, resigned acceptance. It made the room quiet in the way that only real grief could. Elia Martell had suffered more loss than any woman should, and it showed. There was no bitterness, no anger—just a resignation that she had learned long ago to carry.

The lords were silent for a long moment, but it wasn’t the uncomfortable silence of a bunch of old men who’d forgotten how to argue—it was the kind of silence that happens when you realize there’s no real way out of a bad situation.

As the lords began filing out of the tent, muttering among themselves, Cregan—still too young to understand much about politics, but already a master of savage burns—let out a single, resounding belch.

“I bet that’s how all this’ll end,” he said, his face scrunched up with the intensity of a one-year-old contemplating world domination. “A dragon-sized mess.”

Elia, for the first time all day, cracked a smile.

“Maybe,” she said softly, “but the North will survive.”

And with that, she turned back to the fire, her thoughts as complicated as the choices ahead.

—

The tent was still heavy with the sound of murmurs and disgruntled huffs as the last of the lords shuffled out, muttering about Targaryens, dragons, and, honestly, whatever the weather was doing this time. Ned Stark—our favorite brooding, honor-bound, no-nonsense Lord of Winterfell—shifted his gaze from the retreating figures to the few souls who remained behind, their expressions somewhere between curiosity and mild confusion.

You know when someone says, “We need to talk,” and your stomach drops like you're about to be handed a test you didn’t study for? Well, this was that kind of moment.

Ned cleared his throat, trying his best to channel the sort of gravitas only a Stark could muster. "Princess Elia, Cregan, Ashara, Ser Arthur," he said, looking around the small group. His tone was serious—like really serious, the kind of serious that made you wonder if you’d accidentally stepped into a secret meeting of the North’s most important council… or maybe the plot of the next big crisis. "We’ve got some things to talk about—things that could change the future of House Stark. And, you know, the North."

Cue the collective silent gulp. If this was a scene from a play, the audience would be holding their breath right about now.

Ned looked straight at Elia. She stood there, graceful as always, but you could tell something had shifted. Her world had been tilted off its axis thanks to her charming husband, Rhaegar, and his questionable decision-making.

So, Ned did what Ned does best—he dropped the bomb. "There’s something you should know," he said, his voice practically cracking with the weight of it. “Lyanna and her child are alive.”

And boom—the room was suddenly as quiet as a tomb. I mean, I’m pretty sure even the wind outside stopped for a second.

Elia’s eyes went wide, her jaw slack in that way that only happens in the most dramatic of soap operas. "Alive?" she whispered, her voice catching on the word like it was the most impossible thing she’d ever heard. And yeah, fair enough—it totally was.

Ned nodded, stone-faced as usual. "Yes. And I know about you and Rhaegar marrying Lyanna. You two made her his second wife."

And there it was—the elephant in the room had just been shoved in everyone's faces. The secret no one dared mention for years was finally out, like someone had cracked open a can of worms and was now pointing at them. Elia blinked, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and, dare I say, relief?

“It’s true,” she said slowly, like she had just uncorked a bottle of old wine and was letting the truth breathe for the first time. “Rhaegar and I… we married Lyanna in secret, bound by the old First Men traditions.”

If you’re trying to picture this scene, it’s like when you walk into a room and someone casually drops that they've been hiding an ancient family heirloom for centuries. That awkward, "Why didn’t you tell me sooner?" feeling. But this wasn’t just any heirloom—this was a huge, potentially world-shaking truth.

Ned, ever the master of poker faces, took the revelation in stride. “I suspected as much,” he muttered, clearly chewing over that little nugget of information for a while now. "But I needed to hear it from you."

Of course, that just left everyone standing there, staring at each other like the world's most awkward dinner party. No one knew who should speak next. Even Cregan, the one-year-old kid who probably had the intelligence of a hundred-year-old sage (no, seriously, don't ask how), was taking this all in like it was just another boring family drama.

Ashara, ever the empathetic one, was giving Elia a look of complete understanding. It was the sort of look that said, “I get it. You’ve been through so much,” without her actually saying anything.

And then there was Arthur Dayne—“the Sword of the Morning,” but you wouldn’t know it by the way he looked like a stone statue that had been sculpted into a person. You’d never know what was going on inside his head. If you needed to play poker with someone who would never give you a hint, Arthur Dayne was your guy.

Elia blinked, clearly wrestling with a thousand emotions, before she broke the silence. “Lord Stark,” she began, her voice tight like she was about to walk into a storm. “What happens now? If you tell Robert about Lyanna and Rhaegar’s child, it could... well, let’s just say it could reignite some very unpleasant feelings.”

Ned let out a breath that would’ve been considered dramatic if he wasn’t just so downright Ned Stark about it. “I will do what I must to protect Lyanna’s child,” he said firmly, like he’d just signed a contract with the Devil himself. "Robert's thirst for vengeance isn’t going to decide the fate of an innocent child."

Elia’s shoulders seemed to drop as though a giant weight had been lifted off her. "Thank you, Lord Stark," she whispered, the kind of quiet gratitude that only a life-or-death situation can elicit. "Your mercy gives me hope for the future."

Ned gave her a small, tight smile—as much of a smile as Ned Stark ever gives anyone—and nodded. "You have my word, Princess." His voice turned ice-cold, the sort of tone that said, "I’ll burn the world down if I have to." "I’ll protect Lyanna’s child. No matter the cost."

And that, folks, was the moment where everyone in the room breathed a little easier. For the first time in what seemed like forever, things didn’t feel quite as dark.

Now, remember that secret that had been almost forgotten? Well, Ashara, who had been holding onto it like a life-or-death secret since time immemorial, leaned forward and dropped the next bombshell. "Lyanna named him Jaecaerys."

Cue mic drop. And let’s not forget the historical weight of that name. "Jaecaerys." Yeah, you couldn’t have picked a more loaded name if you tried. Not only did it honor the Targaryen side of things, but it also came with a huge slab of baggage. The legacy of Rhaegar. The weight of everything.

Elia closed her eyes for a long moment, as if testing the name on her tongue. "Jaecaerys," she repeated softly, like it was something sacred. "A fitting name for a child born of love and hope. In a world full of war."

And even though her voice was laced with sorrow, there was a little spark of something in there. A flicker of hope, maybe? Could it be that the world wasn’t entirely doomed?

Everyone just stood there, letting the weight of the moment settle in. Secrets had been spilled. The past had been unwrapped. But, for the first time, it felt like they could actually move forward.

And I don’t know about you, but that’s when I realized: There was still hope for this mess of a world after all.

—

Elia looked down at Cregan like he was the world’s most adorable puppy—if puppies could drop savage burns and talk like they were plotting world domination. “Cregan,” she said softly, her voice practically glowing, “I’m your Aunt Elia. Now, I know, I know—it sounds a little weird. We’re not technically related by blood, but you know, family is about more than just blood, right? It’s about who’s got your back. And, in this case? That’s me.”

Cregan blinked up at her, brow furrowed, clearly doing the mental gymnastics to process this. “Aunt Elia?” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like he was testing it out, trying to figure out whether it was a compliment or a trap.

Elia smiled down at him, her heart doing that softening thing it only did when she saw a kid look at her like she held the secret to the universe in her hands. “Yes, little one,” she said, her voice dripping with affection. “I’m your Aunt Elia. And I’ll always be here to look out for you.”

Ashara, standing off to the side, couldn’t help herself. She slid in with that big-sister energy that could give even the fiercest of warriors a run for their money. “Aunt Elia is like a sister to me, Cregan,” she said, her tone warm but authoritative. “We’ve been through everything together—good, bad, and really ugly. And her bond with you? It’s just as strong as anything blood could give. You can trust her like you trust me.”

Cregan’s expression was a mix of confusion and determination, like he was trying to figure out if this was some sort of political alliance or just a family meeting. “Trust her like you trust you?” he repeated, his little voice deep in thought.

Ashara raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a grin. “That’s right. You can trust Aunt Elia like I trust myself. And trust me, you don’t want to mess with that.”

Cregan gave a serious nod, though his face said he wasn’t entirely sure how to process the idea of trusting someone with his tiny life. But he smiled anyway, probably because smiling was the easiest thing to do when you were one and had no idea what the heck was going on.

Elia’s eyes softened, and she bent down to Cregan’s level, her voice taking on that sweet-but-mischievous tone. “Would you like to meet my children?” she asked, as if offering Cregan the keys to the kingdom. “My daughter Rhaenys will be your special friend. You two will get along so well.”

Cregan’s eyes lit up like she’d just promised him an all-you-can-eat candy buffet. “Is it true that Rhaenys is my... bet-rotted?” he asked, squinting up at her, his voice full of the kind of wonder you only get when you’re one year old and everything sounds both funny and important.

There was a beat of silence before everyone burst into laughter. Even Arthur Dayne, the Silent Knight himself, couldn’t help but let out a short, restrained chuckle. Cregan might be tiny, but man, was he already mastering the art of timing.

Ashara quickly covered her mouth, trying to stifle the giggles. “Oh, sweetie,” she said, in that voice you use when talking to a kid who’s just said something adorably wrong. “It’s pronounced ‘betrothed,’ not ‘bet-rotted.’” She sighed, putting on her best “patient teacher” face. “It’s a fancy word for someone you’re going to be really close to. Like your best friend forever, except, you know, with more responsibility.”

Cregan blinked, processing that like a sponge absorbing water. “Oh!” he exclaimed, as though a switch had flipped inside his head. “So, Rhaenys is like... my forever buddy?”

Elia smiled at him, a little proud of how fast he caught on. “Exactly. Rhaenys will be your best friend, your partner-in-crime, your ride-or-die. Someone you can trust more than anyone else. She’s family, little one.”

Cregan’s eyes practically exploded with excitement. “Can I meet her now, Aunt Elia?” he asked, practically bouncing on his feet like he was on a sugar high. “I wanna meet my forever buddy!”

Elia couldn’t help but laugh, her heart swelling with warmth. “Of course, little one,” she said, a playful glint in her eyes. “Let’s go meet your future best friend—before you start planning a wedding or something.”

Cregan, ever the pragmatic child, didn’t skip a beat. “Do I get cake?” he asked, his voice full of that innocent, single-minded focus only a one-year-old could manage.

Elia threw Ashara a glance, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “I think cake can be arranged,” she said, already knowing full well that cake was practically a given when you were dealing with Cregan’s level of enthusiasm.

And just like that, the atmosphere lightened. The weight of the world wasn’t gone—not yet, at least—but for the moment, everything felt a little brighter, a little easier. Cregan, somehow, was the one holding the reins to the day’s happiness. And with that, they set off, ready to introduce the future best friends, Cregan’s new “forever buddy,” and a whole lot more cake.

—

So, there was this totally awkward silence hanging between Arthur Dayne and Ned Stark, like two really uncomfortable guys at a family reunion who don’t know if they should hug it out or just exchange pleasantries. The air felt thick, like someone had thrown a damp towel over the entire situation. Seriously, if this were a movie, you'd expect some suspenseful music to start playing, and the camera would zoom in on their faces in slow motion—cue the ominous tension. But nope, no dramatic movie score. Just two guys standing around, looking like they were about to break some really bad news to each other.

Arthur broke the silence first with that tone of voice that made you realize he wasn't just saying things to fill the space. This was serious.

“We need to protect Rhaegar's children,” Arthur said, his voice as serious as a Stark winter. “At all costs.”

Ned, who always looked like a man walking around with the weight of the world on his shoulders (seriously, have you seen Sean Bean play him? It’s like he’s one gust of wind away from breaking down), let out a long sigh. He crossed his arms, staring at the ground like maybe if he stared hard enough, he’d be able to come up with an answer to everything.

“We’ve been played for fools,” he muttered, his voice flat like a pancake. And it was one of those moments where you just knew Ned wasn’t talking to Arthur. No, he was talking to himself, to the universe, maybe even to the damn North. “But we’ll learn from our mistakes. We owe it to Lyanna. To Cregan. To everyone who’s been dragged into this mess.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes like a guy trying to figure out if a piece of meat was cooked all the way through. “What do you mean ‘played for fools’?” he asked, leaning in with that stoic, swordsman way of his that screamed “I’m not messing around right now”. It was like someone was about to drop the hammer on this whole mess, and Arthur Dayne wasn’t going to let it go unspoken.

Ned rubbed his temples like he was trying to find the answer in a maze of bad decisions and buried truths. “Robert had us all fooled,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “We thought the Rebellion was for Lyanna. That’s what we all believed. But it wasn’t. It was all about power. It was always about power.”

Arthur, who had probably never been wrong in his entire life (except that one time he tried to tell a joke and no one laughed), looked at Ned like he’d just tried to solve a riddle using a completely different alphabet. “What are you saying?”

And then Ned, in that classic way he has of making things sound like they were the most obvious thing ever, dropped the bombshell. “It’s not even an hour since he learned of Lyanna's death, and now I've heard about Robert agreeing to marry Cersei Lannister. What the hell was that about? He was supposed to be in love with Lyanna, and he’s marrying the Lannister girl? The same Lannisters who sacked King's Landing? I’m telling you, it was never about Lyanna. It was all about securing Robert’s place on the throne.”

Arthur blinked, taking a second to chew on that idea. His face, which usually looked like it was carved from granite, softened just a bit. “So, Robert’s war for Lyanna was a lie?”

Ned’s voice dropped into that gravelly, “I’ve seen too much” kind of tone. “Exactly. All of it was a lie. The North bled for a cause that was never about her—it was about securing Robert’s power.”

Arthur took a step back, clearly processing what Ned was throwing down. His tall frame (seriously, how tall is this guy? He’s like a walking skyscraper) stiffened. “And now what?”

Ned’s eyes darkened, and there was that unmistakable Stark resolve in his voice. “The letter. The one from Lyanna to my father. The one where she says she went with Rhaegar willingly. That letter would’ve ended everything. It would’ve shattered the whole rebellion. If that letter had been found, the North would’ve never been on Robert’s side. We would’ve never fought for this.”

Arthur’s face went from stoic to full-on furious mode. “A letter. A letter that could’ve changed everything.”

Ned nodded. He was angry now, and it was a slow burn of rage that simmered under his usually calm exterior. “Yes. And now it’s gone. Vanished. Someone made sure it didn’t see the light of day.”

Arthur’s expression darkened. “Robert. Tywin. Jon Arryn. One of them buried the truth to keep the North in the dark.”

Ned’s hands tightened into fists. “The North was used, Arthur. Used and manipulated. And now... we’re the ones left holding the bag. The empty bag.”

Arthur’s face was unreadable for a second. He took a long breath—like he had to calm himself before he did something stupid. His gaze locked onto Ned’s, serious now. “So what do we do now?”

And that was when Ned Stark, the man who never seemed to have a plan unless it involved holding the line, let out a slow exhale, standing taller as if the weight of his ancestors was pushing down on him. “We make sure this never happens again. We protect our families. We protect the truth. And when the time comes, we make them pay for it. We’re not done with this, Arthur. Not by a long shot.”

Arthur stood straighter, determination flickering in his icy blue eyes. “We’ll rise again. The North and House Targaryen—together. We will make them regret every piece of this lie.”

Ned gave him a sharp nod, like a wolf acknowledging a fellow predator. “The North remembers,” he said, his voice low and heavy with intent. “And when the time comes, we’ll get our justice.”

Arthur didn’t say anything after that. He just nodded, his lips pressing together in that grim, warrior’s way. The pact was made. Not with words, but with a shared understanding, a bond of two men who knew what was at stake.

Because when the North gets deceived? It doesn’t forget.

And, trust me, those guys were ready to remind everyone of it.

Cregan’s POV

I wasn’t exactly prepared for this. I mean, no one ever tells you what it’s like to meet your future wife when you’re one year old. Seriously, who writes these things? What kind of cosmic joke is this?

So there I was, about to “introduce” myself to Rhaenys, the three-year-old girl who, apparently, was now my betrothed. I didn’t even know how to walk yet—this wasn’t going to go well. If I’d been my usual self, I’d have been all snark and sarcasm, but nope, not in the body of a tiny potato in a diaper. Instead, I just looked up at Ashara with what I hoped was a look of “Help me,” though I’m sure it was more of a confused, gurgly face.

“Cregan, this is Rhaenys and Aegon,” Ashara said, nudging me forward like I wasn’t a grown man stuffed into a baby’s body with a bad case of existential dread. She said it so casually, like it wasn’t the weirdest thing to be meeting my future wife as a literal toddler. No, seriously. A literal toddler.

I stared up at Rhaenys. Cute kid. Dark hair, sharp purple eyes—total Targaryen vibe. But she was THREE. And I was supposed to marry her? My future wife? And she’s still getting the hang of not drooling all over herself. How does this even work?

“Hello, Cregan,” she said, her voice a cheerful lilt that honestly made me feel like I’d been slapped in the face with the reality of this.

Great. I was already floundering. Instead of saying something cool, like “Sup, kiddo, nice to meet you,” or giving her a hearty handshake (which would’ve probably been more dramatic than anything I could manage), I made a sound that was somewhere between a squeal and a strangled cat. It was, uh, definitely not the suave intro I was hoping for.

“Hello!” I squeaked.

Oh my gods, I was one of those babies. You know the ones that make a mess of things without meaning to? Yeah, that was me. You couldn’t even hear me over the adorable sound of Rhaenys giggling, her tiny fingers twirling in the air like I was the greatest comedy show she'd ever seen.

“You’re funny!” she said, clearly in awe of my disastrous attempt at speaking like a normal human being.

Ashara was unfazed, of course. "Rhaenys, this is your betrothed, Cregan," she said, like the whole “I’m one year old, and I'm about to marry this kid’s tiny self” was a perfectly normal thing to say to a three-year-old. "He will be your friend, and when you both grow up, you’ll get married."

Married?!

Okay, yeah, I get it—I'm a Stark. I know duty and all that, but this was too much. A wedding? Seriously? And what was I supposed to do—give her some sort of ring made of plastic and hope she understood?

Rhaenys looked at me like I was an unsolved math equation. “My... betrothed?” she asked, all scrunched up like she was trying to figure out how the whole “marriage” thing was supposed to work when she barely had a concept of eating solids.

Ashara, as smooth as ever, nodded. “Yes, Cregan will be your special friend. And when you both grow up, you’ll get married.”

Grow up. Like, in the future when I’m an adult again? At this rate, I wasn’t even sure I could keep the drool off my chin long enough to have a real conversation, let alone get married.

I’m sure I was giving Ashara the look—you know, the one that says “help me, please”—but instead, I just let out another gurgle that would’ve embarrassed me for the rest of my life if I could remember what life was like before I became a baby.

But Rhaenys—bless her tiny, innocent heart—just smiled and held out her hand, like she was the world’s most adorable politician shaking hands with her future constituent.

“Okay, Cregan. I’ll be your friend!” she said, all sunshine and rainbows, and it made me almost forget the fact that I was one bad toddler moment away from a breakdown.

I stared at her little hand, then back at her big eyes, and I did the most dignified thing my baby self could manage: I grabbed it.

It wasn’t exactly graceful—more like a clumsy grab-and-squish—but hey, I wasn’t going for elegance. I was going for not dying of embarrassment.

And for a moment, just a moment, I felt a little lighter. Sure, my entire existence had turned into one weird cosmic joke, but at least I had a tiny human to share it with.

Ashara and Elia exchanged looks from behind us, like they were watching us on a reality show and waiting for the next episode. They looked relieved, maybe even a little bit proud. I could practically hear Ashara’s voice in my head: “Good job, Cregan. You didn’t drool on her.”

Elia, who’d been quiet until now, gave me a soft, approving nod. She was as beautiful as ever, but today her eyes held something else—something like hope. And trust. Maybe in me. Or maybe just in the fact that I wasn’t a total disaster.

“So... friends, huh?” I thought, trying to get a grip on the idea of marriage and, well, my life as a one-year-old. And while I was at it, I might as well try to deal with the other existential crisis rattling around in my mind: I was supposed to be the reborn Cregan Stark, son of Brandon Stark, and right now, I could barely keep a toy in my hand without almost falling over.

Maybe I’d figure it all out in a few years. Or maybe I'd end up looking back at this moment and laugh.

Just not today. Today, I had to survive the weirdest meeting of my life.

—

General POV

Ned Stark sat in his room at Riverrun, staring at the fire as if it had personally offended him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this uncomfortable—probably the time he accidentally kicked a wolf cub in the face while trying to teach it to sit. Yeah, that had been awkward. But this? This was a new level of awkward. This morning, he had to break the news to Catelyn, his wife, who was, let’s just say, not the biggest fan of surprise revelations about the past.

“This is Cregan,” he said slowly, his voice as stiff as his knees after a day of riding. “He’s… well, he’s Brandon’s son.”

Catelyn blinked. Blinked again. And then stared at him like he’d just told her he’d been moonlighting as a whore in Flea Bottom. “Brandon’s son?” she repeated. Her voice was dangerously calm, which, in Catelyn’s case, was an indication that things were about to go south faster than a direwolf on a snow slope.

“Yes,” Ned said, leaning forward like this was the part of the conversation that was supposed to be normal. “Brandon’s son. And the rightful heir to Winterfell.”

Now, most people would have either passed out or screamed in disbelief. But not Catelyn. Oh no, Catelyn Stark was a woman who could hold a grudge longer than the longest winter. Her eyes went from “confused” to “deadly” in about 0.3 seconds. “And his mother?” she asked, her tone colder than the winters beyond the Wall.

“Lady Ashara Dayne,” Ned replied, cringing slightly as he said it. “They were married.”

“Married,” Catelyn repeated, her voice a mix of disbelief and barely controlled fury. “In secret.”

“Complicated,” Ned muttered, feeling the heat of her glare burning into his soul. “It was complicated.”

“Complicated?” Catelyn’s eyebrows shot so high they might’ve flown off her head and taken flight. “Do elaborate, Eddard. I’m dying to hear how complicated it was for your brother to secretly marry a Dornishwoman and leave his son for you to introduce at the most inconvenient moment possible.”

Ned opened his mouth, then closed it. He had absolutely nothing. Instead, he turned to Cregan, who was standing there, perfectly composed for someone who was one year old. Honestly, the kid looked like he had his life together more than Ned did. It was impressive.

“Lady Stark,” Cregan said, his voice smooth and almost unnervingly mature for his age. “I apologize if my presence causes you pain. It was never my intention.”

Catelyn blinked, and for a second, the ice in her veins melted just a little. “You are not to blame,” she said, her voice softening. Then her gaze flicked back to Ned. “But your—”

“Is dead,” Ned interjected, cutting her off before she could finish that sentence. The last thing he needed right now was an existential crisis about his late brother.

Before Catelyn could say anything else, the door banged open with all the subtlety of a bear breaking down a house, and Lord Hoster Tully stepped in, looking like he’d swallowed a pinecone and was still trying to figure out how to digest it. “So this is the boy,” he said, eyeing Cregan like he was an unpleasant rash he hadn’t been able to scratch. “The one you claim is Brandon’s heir.”

Ned sighed deeply. “He’s not ‘the one I claim,’ Hoster. He is Brandon’s son. Legitimate.”

Hoster made a sound that was part snort, part disbelief. “A convenient claim, with no proof. If he’s Brandon’s son, he’s a Snow, not a Stark.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with the kind of silent fury that only a Stark could muster. But he didn’t speak, which was smart. Let the adults dig their own graves.

Ned opened his mouth to argue, but then, as if by some divine intervention (or just sheer audacity), a new voice interrupted.

“Lord Tully,” came a smooth, cutting tone. The kind of voice that made every other voice sound like a bleating sheep. Princess Elia Martell swept into the room, her every step radiating confidence. It was the kind of entrance that made everyone else look like they were auditioning for a role in a bad play.

“I bore witness to Brandon and Ashara’s vows,” she said, her voice firm like an iron sword. “Their marriage was true, and their son is their rightful heir.”

Hoster squinted at her like she’d just sprouted horns. “And I’m supposed to trust a Dornishwoman’s word on this?”

Elia’s eyes glinted dangerously. “You insult my people and my honor in one breath. How charming, Lord Tully. Perhaps next you’ll suggest the North is full of liars, too?”

The room went dead silent. You could hear the crackling of the fire, the birds outside, and, if you were paying attention, the faint sound of Hoster’s dignity crumbling into dust.

Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, stepped forward with a snort of laughter. “Hoster,” he said, his voice rich with disdain, “you’ve outdone yourself. I don’t know what’s worse—your complete lack of tact or your complete unwillingness to admit when you’re wrong.”

Hoster looked like he’d just swallowed a wasp. But Brynden wasn’t done. “The boy is a Stark, you idiot. Everyone in this room can see that. If you think you’re going to win this one, well… let’s just say you’re about to be very, very lonely for a while.”

Hoster, now thoroughly flustered, crossed his arms like a petulant child and huffed. “Fine. The boy is legitimate.”

Cregan inclined his head, his face calm but his eyes flashing with that Stark stubbornness. “Thank you, Lord Tully,” he said, his voice calm, his words like a sword cutting through the tension. “Your acceptance honors my father’s memory.”

And just like that, the room lightened, the tension draining out like air from a punctured balloon. As the lords started to disperse, Ned watched Cregan walk away, a young boy carrying the heavy weight of his father’s legacy with the dignity of someone three times his age.

And as for Ned? He was already planning the next family meeting in his head. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t going to be any less awkward.

—

The door creaked open with all the subtlety of a cat in a room full of squeaky toys. Ned Stark looked up from the hearth, squinting as if he’d just been caught attempting to steal a second slice of pie at the family dinner. The fire crackled and popped, sending little bursts of light that danced across the room like a troupe of miniature performers trying to audition for a role in a very dramatic play. Ned hadn’t bothered with a candle tonight, not because he was too lazy to light one (though that was a strong possibility), but because he’d convinced himself the fire was “good for the soul.” If truth be told, he liked the dimness. It was comforting. Like his own personal moody lighting.

And then came the sound. Click.

Catelyn Stark stepped inside, closing the door as softly as she could, though Ned knew better. Catelyn Stark? Sneaking in? That was like trying to hide a dragon under a blanket. He gave her an eyebrow raise that said, "You can’t fool me, woman. I’m from the North, not the capital."

She froze, hand still on the door latch, like she was mentally weighing her options. "Should I enter? Should I just turn around and pretend I never saw him sitting there like a grumpy old bear?” Her face was a masterpiece of composure—a frozen lake on a winter’s day. But Ned had been married to her long enough to know that beneath that calm exterior? Oh, there were storms brewing.

"Ned," she said, her voice a little colder than the winter winds outside, but in that controlled way that made it sound more like a question than a statement. "You’re awake."

Ned tilted his head back, like the very concept of her also being awake was the most shocking thing he'd heard all day. "Well, I could say the same about you." He gestured to the chair across from him, like it was the most casual thing in the world. "Robb?"

"Asleep, finally," Catelyn said, her voice betraying a hint of exhaustion. "He’s got the spirit of a warrior... or a rabid badger, depending on the day."

"Gets that from you," Ned grinned, but it was more like a half-smile. Stark men didn’t smile much, and that was probably a good thing. Grinning too much might attract the attention of whatever gods were responsible for inconvenient accidents.

Catelyn raised an eyebrow at him, a look that was both skeptical and mildly disapproving. "I thought you were the stubborn one, not me."

"Not that stubborn," Ned said with a chuckle. Then his smile faded just as quickly, like someone had switched off the lights. The weight of the day—a day that had felt more like a series of very bad choices—settled on his shoulders. He shifted uncomfortably.

Catelyn took the seat across from him, looking like someone had just told her she was about to be crowned queen, and she wasn’t thrilled about it. Her hands folded in her lap, knuckles tight, like she was holding something in… or maybe trying not to strangle someone.

“This whole thing with Brandon and Ashara,” she began, her voice so carefully measured it sounded like she was walking on eggshells. "It’s... unsettling."

Ned nodded, blowing out a breath. "That’s one way to put it," he said. He ran a hand through his hair, the tiredness creeping in. "Honestly, none of us saw it coming. Least of all me. But it’s the truth, and we can’t just pretend it didn’t happen.”

Catelyn’s lips tightened into a line. The kind of line that said "I’m about three seconds away from throwing something heavy at your head." “Did you know?” she asked, the question sliding out like a dagger. “Before?”

Oof. That hit harder than the time he’d tried to punch a rock during one of his legendary “stubborn Stark” moments. But Ned didn’t flinch. He met her gaze, steady as a mountain, but with the weight of regret behind his eyes. “No, Cat. I swear it. Ashara told me. Just recently.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him, like she was trying to decode the most frustrating riddle in the Seven Kingdoms. Finally, she nodded, though her shoulders didn’t lose their tension. “I believe you," she said, though her voice had that cautious edge to it, like she was bracing herself for a second punch.

Ned exhaled, rubbing his temples. “It’s not easy, Cat. But we’ll deal with it. We’ve handled worse, haven’t we?”

Catelyn’s gaze flicked toward the fire, her face tight with thoughts she wasn’t ready to share just yet. “My father,” she muttered, shaking her head as if trying to shake off a memory that tasted worse than sour wine. “His reaction was… difficult.”

“He’s worried,” Ned said, leaning back in his chair. "Worried about his legacy, his blood. It makes sense."

Catelyn let out a bitter laugh. "It’s insulting. He talked about our family like it was some burden he was desperate to unload onto someone else."

Ned flinched, but he knew better than to argue. “Fear does that to people. Makes them say things they don’t mean. He’ll come around."

"And Brandon?" Catelyn’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “He kept this from all of us. And Ashara... as my goodsister?” She gave him a look, as if waiting for him to tell her this was all some elaborate joke.

“Brandon thought he was protecting the North. He was probably waiting forbthe right time to reveal the truth.” Ned said with a heavy sigh. “He made a choice he thought was best for the moment. And Ashara... well, she’s got her demons to wrestle with. I can’t speak for her.”

Catelyn looked at him, unimpressed. "And what happens now? What are we supposed to do with this... mess?"

Ned straightened, as if some grand idea had just clicked into place. "Well, for now, I’ll serve as regent until Cregan comes of age. He’ll grow up in Winterfell, alongside Robb and any other children we have. He’s a Stark. Our nephew. He’ll know what it means to be part of this family."

Catelyn raised an eyebrow. "And when he comes of age?"

"He’ll marry Princess Rhaenys," Ned said, his tone now firm, like he was laying out a plan that couldn’t be changed. “King Robert’s decree. It’ll strengthen the North.”

“And Moat Cailin?” Catelyn asked, not letting him dodge her questions.

Ned’s jaw tightened. “It’ll be part of the dowry. I’ll personally see to it—Moat Cailin will be restored. It’ll be a stronghold for the North, and our seat when Cregan comes of age. I’m not letting it fall.”

Her eyes softened a little. "Closer to Riverrun?" she asked quietly.

“Yes,” Ned answered. “Closer to your family.”

Catelyn fell silent for a moment, her fingers twisting together in a way that made her look far more vulnerable than she usually allowed. "It’s a lot to take in," she admitted. “But... I trust you, Ned. If anyone can carry this burden, it’s you.”

"I won’t carry it alone," he said, reaching out and taking her hand in his. This time, she didn’t pull away.

And for the first time in what felt like ages, Catelyn gave him a soft, genuine smile. "And Ser Arthur? He’s going to train Cregan, isn’t he?"

Ned’s smile widened, like a man who had just found out his favorite tavern was offering free drinks for the next month. "And Robb, if he’s willing. The Sword of the Morning, in Winterfell. Can you imagine?"

"It’s an honor," Catelyn said, her eyes sparkling just a little now. "Our children will get to learn from one of the greatest knights alive. That’s a gift.”

"It is," Ned agreed, standing and offering her his hand. She took it without hesitation.

As he helped her up, his eyebrow raised with that mischievous glint he reserved for rare moments. "It’s been a long time since we’ve had a moment like this, hasn’t it?"

Catelyn flushed, but didn’t look away. "Maybe... we could make up for lost time?" Her voice had a softness now, a promise that things might just be okay.

Ned grinned—genuinely this time. "I think that sounds like a great idea."

And before she could say another word, he pulled her into his arms. The fire crackled behind them, but for once, neither of them paid any mind to it. Whatever challenges the gods decided to throw their way next, they would face them together. Because at the end of the day, there was nothing more important than this. Nothing more important than them.

—

As Ashara and Cregan finally made themselves comfortable in their assigned room—after what seemed like a dozen debates over which bed to claim—Elia swept into the room like a sunbeam cutting through a thunderstorm. She had baby Aegon perched on her hip with all the effortless grace of someone who’d been doing it for years. The little guy was sound asleep, drooling on her shoulder like the most adorable thing on the planet. At least, until his soft snoring interrupted Rhaenys' own very important mission of running around at full speed, giggling like a banshee.

Rhaenys, all three years of her, was already halfway across the room when Elia stepped in. She was a blur of energy, her feet barely touching the ground as she skipped ahead, hair bouncing around her face like an untamed wild thing. "Finally!" she announced, hands on her tiny hips in a pose that could have come straight out of some ancient ruler's portrait. "We’re playing with Balerion, and you’re late!" Her tone wasn't mad, not really. It was more like the queen of a very important imaginary kingdom telling her staff they were falling behind schedule.

Elia chuckled, her warm laugh filling the room. "I see I've missed something important," she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "I hope Balerion's been playing nicely."

Cregan, who was holding up a fluffy feather toy like it was Blackfyre itself, was practically bursting with pride. "Of course he is!" he declared, his voice cracking with excitement. The boy looked like he was about to start a full-on campaign to recruit Balerion into his army. "We’re training him to be fierce, like a real dragon!"

Ashara, who had been sitting cross-legged near the hearth, stitching a piece of embroidery that looked like it could double as a family crest, raised an eyebrow. "Oh, are you now?" she teased, not even bothering to look up from her work. "And what will you do if he suddenly breathes fire, my little dragon trainer?"

Cregan puffed out his chest like he'd just been crowned Lord of Winterfell (which he was). "I’ll teach him to aim it at the bad guys!" he proclaimed, his eyes blazing with the confidence of a child who had never seen a real battle but knew, deep down, that he was going to save the day.

"Spoken like a true Stark," Elia said, kneeling down to meet Cregan’s level. She reached out to ruffle his hair, which only made him stand up straighter, as though imagining himself suddenly cloaked in armor and wielding a broadsword. "But perhaps we should start with mice before we start charging into battle, hmm?"

Just as if on cue, Balerion—the black cat named after the most terrifying dragon in history (no pressure)—gave an exaggerated flick of his tail. He strolled into the room like a king entering his throne room, pausing only to give everyone the kind of side-eye that said, I’m not impressed, but I’m willing to humor you for now. The moment was so full of don’t-you-dare-make-me-chase-that-feather energy that the kids instantly collapsed into giggles.

Rhaenys, with all the grace of a tornado, clapped her hands and grinned. "He’s so clever!" she shouted. "Cregan, let’s see if we can lure him back down!"

They were off again, Cregan waving the toy like a madman, and Rhaenys skipping circles around Balerion in a way that definitely made her look like she’d been possessed by the spirit of chaos. But, to their surprise (or maybe not), Balerion hopped up onto a chair with a disdainful flick of his tail, clearly deciding that today was just not his day for dragon training.

As the chaos continued, Elia moved to sit next to Ashara, her brow creased just enough to show the weight of her thoughts. Her eyes never left the children, though. "They’re good for each other," she murmured, her voice softer than usual. "It’s a gift to see them like this. Happy. Innocent."

Ashara didn’t need to look up to know what was being said. She smiled, but it was the kind of smile that was more wistful than it was joyful. "They remind me of how things used to be… before," she said quietly.

Before. That one word seemed to hang in the air, thick and oppressive like the scent of rain before a storm.

But Elia didn’t let the silence last long. She changed the subject like it was second nature, though there was a certain tension in her voice. "Any word from Queen Rhaella?" she asked, trying to sound casual, though it was clear that the question weighed heavily on her.

Ashara paused mid-stitch, her needle frozen. She looked up, her face more serious than it had been all evening. "Rhaella’s on Dragonstone with Viserys. Aerys sent them there after... well..." She glanced over at the kids again. "After he learned that she was with child."

The news hit Ashara like a cold wave. She blinked, her fingers tightening around the embroidery thread. "She’s pregnant?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, like she was afraid someone would overhear and laugh.

Elia nodded, her gaze steady despite the undercurrent of worry in her eyes. "Yes," she said softly. "The child should be born soon, if the timing’s right."

Ashara’s breath caught in her throat as she processed the information. But before she could say anything else, Arthur Dayne—who’d been standing by the door like a quiet sentinel—straightened up. His eyes, normally calm and collected, suddenly sharpened like a blade being drawn. He opened his mouth, his voice low and controlled, but you could feel the tension in his words. "When did the queen conceive?" he asked, his tone a little too sharp for comfort.

Elia hesitated for just a second before responding, her gaze flicking between Arthur and the children. "Sometime after Rickard and Brandon Stark were executed," she said quietly, her eyes heavy with the knowledge of what that meant. "That’s when Aerys started keeping her closer."

Arthur’s jaw tightened, and his usual calm demeanor cracked just enough to let a flash of something dangerous slip through. He turned his gaze downward, as though focusing on the floor might stop the storm brewing inside him. He didn’t need to say more; the timeline spoke for itself. It was dark. It was wrong.

Ashara reached out, her hand gently resting on his arm. "Arthur?" she asked, her voice soft but firm. "What is it?"

Arthur’s fists clenched, his knuckles going white as he forced himself to speak through gritted teeth. "If the child was conceived when I think it was," he said, his voice like gravel, "then it was conceived in the height of his... madness." He almost choked on the word. Madness. It was too kind a term for the cruelty and violence Aerys had shown.

Elia’s composure slipped, just for a second. Her lips trembled as she looked at the children, who were blissfully unaware of the dark conversation unfolding around them. "She has endured so much," she whispered. "Too much."

Arthur’s hands trembled with the weight of his frustration, his usual stoic composure cracking just enough to let the pain leak through. "We all swore oaths to protect her," he muttered bitterly. "And yet, we stood by while—" He cut himself off, not daring to finish the sentence in front of the children.

Ashara tightened her grip on his arm, looking at him with such understanding that it seemed to almost transcend words. "You did what you could," she said firmly. "More than most. But you’re only one man, Arthur."

Arthur’s eyes burned with an intensity that made it clear that he didn’t accept that excuse, not fully. He stared at Rhaenys, who was now pretending to fly on the back of Balerion (who was, naturally, having none of it), and the realization hit him with the force of a freight train. "I failed her," he said, the words rough and full of regret.

Ashara said nothing, but the look she gave him spoke volumes. They all knew what was at stake now. Whatever storms loomed on Dragonstone—or beyond—Arthur Dayne wasn’t going to face them alone. Not anymore. Not when there were children laughing in the next room, blissfully unaware of the dangers that waited outside. The world was about to change, and the men and women who had sworn to protect it would have to decide whether they would rise up or let it fall.

—

Cregan’s POV

Sprawled out on the floor, trying to look like I was actually playing with Rhaenys’s ridiculous cat, Balerion, I was really just wrestling with my own thoughts. Thoughts that refused to stay quiet. Like an army of chatty nobles at a feast, they kept running in circles in my brain.

Rhaenys—bless her little heart—was sitting across from me, cross-legged and totally absorbed in the moment. She was focused like a warrior queen preparing for battle, but instead of a sword, she had a feather toy. The sight of her attacking the air with it was both adorable and terrifying. She had that look on her face—like she could totally conquer Westeros if she wanted to. It was a good thing she was only three, or she'd probably start making battle plans for the Seven Kingdoms in crayon.

I glanced down at Balerion, the cat who had clearly inherited every bit of lazy nobility that Westeros had to offer. The little beast was half-heartedly swatting at the feather like it was beneath him, pausing between "attacks" to yawn and lounge like he was too cool for this whole "hunting" thing. If he could, he’d probably sip a goblet of wine while ordering a servant to do the hunting for him.

But, as usual, my mind kept wandering back to Riverrun and what had gone down there that morning. Because apparently, being Lord of Winterfell meant you had to put up with a lot of uncomfortable conversations. Seriously. You think the Northern lords were awkward? Try being me when I walked into the Tully hall, all eyes on me like I was some kind of imposter who’d just wandered out of the snowstorm to make a claim.

Hoster Tully, that old fish-lord (I’ll admit, I didn’t exactly like him, mostly because he looked like a guy who'd spent way too much time around rivers), gave me the look. You know the one—the look that says, “I’m thinking about how to make your life miserable, but I’ll be polite about it.”

“Lord Stark,” he said, leaning back in his chair like he was already deciding whether I’d be worth his time or just some ice chunk that'd float down the river and disappear. “Forgive me if I sound cautious, but I have some questions regarding the legitimacy of your parents' union... and by extension, your claim.”

At this point, I swear the room chilled by about five degrees. Like, we could’ve all used a direwolf hug to warm up. My stomach flipped, but I did my best to keep it together. After all, I’d spent years at Hogwarts learning how to keep my cool when everything around me was screaming awkward—thanks, Voldemort.

Uncle Ned, though, he had that Northern calm about him that made everyone in the room shut up when he spoke. “Lord Tully,” he said, voice as cold and solid as an ice floe. “Cregan Stark’s claim is indisputable. His parents' marriage was lawful and witnessed by those of standing.”

That should’ve been the end of it, right? Not with Hoster Tully. Oh no. He just had to go digging deeper, like he was playing some weird game of political whack-a-mole.

“Was it?” he asked, his voice like he was sharpening a dagger. “It seems odd that so few know of this supposed union, given its implications.”

Behind me, I could practically feel Wyman Manderly getting ready to throw a punch—he made this low, rumbling noise that might’ve been a growl or him just being hungry. Who knew with him? But the point was, I didn’t need to look behind me to know I wasn’t the only one getting angry.

That’s when Aunt Elia—who was rocking Targaryen red and black like she was born to wear it—stepped forward. She was all fire and grace, even without the dragons. “My lord,” she said, her voice cutting through the tension like a sword through butter, “I was present at their union. I stood witness to their vows before the gods. By both law and faith, there is no question of their legitimacy.”

Boom. Mic drop. Everyone in the room went silent like they'd been hit with a heavy dose of reality.

Hoster blinked. Yeah, he didn’t expect that one. “I see,” he said, clearly gritting his teeth. “If Lady Elia vouches for this, I will defer to her testimony. For now.”

"For now." I could practically hear the unspoken threat in those words. Sure, the Tullys weren’t going to start throwing chairs around, but this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Back in the present, I snapped out of my own replay of the awkward family dinner to find Rhaenys tugging at my sleeve. “Cregan, you’re doing it all wrong,” she said, sounding more exasperated than a tired mother dealing with a toddler—despite the fact that she was only three.

I blinked. “What? I’m just playing with the cat.”

“You’re boring him!” she said, pointing at Balerion, who was now rolling around on his back like he was in the middle of some dramatic soliloquy, probably plotting world domination in his head.

“I’m boring him?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Rhaenys, he’s a cat. He doesn’t even care that I’m alive right now. He’d prefer a nap and some luxury food.”

She looked at me like I was a total failure. “You have to make it exciting!” she ordered. “Like a real hunt.”

“A real hunt?” I asked, incredulous. “He’s a cat. What, you want me to hunt down a rabbit for him?”

Rhaenys gave me a look that could probably freeze a dragon mid-flight. “Cregan. If you don’t take this seriously, how will Balerion ever be ready for battle?”

I burst out laughing. “Battle? What’s he going to do, scratch someone’s ankles to death?”

Her eyes widened in horror. “He is a Targaryen cat! He’ll defend our honor!”

“Okay, okay,” I said, trying to suppress another laugh. “I’ll take it seriously. Your honor shall be defended.”

As I half-heartedly tried to get Balerion more engaged in the “hunt,” I glanced at Rhaenys. There she was, my little three-year-old ball of fire, totally in charge. And even though I felt like I was barely keeping it together most of the time, she had this way of reminding me what really mattered.

“Are you okay?” she asked suddenly, her violet eyes narrowing like she was some sort of psychic.

I glanced at her, blinking. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been weird today,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Like... thinking too much. Is it because of the fish-lords?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Fish-lords?”

“You know, the Tullys,” she said with a little sigh, clearly frustrated by my ignorance. “They’re always talking about rivers and fish. It’s boring.”

I snorted. “Maybe a little,” I said, ruffling her hair. “It’s just... complicated.”

“Well, don’t let them make you feel bad,” Rhaenys said, her voice suddenly much more serious. “You’re the Lord of Winterfell. That’s way cooler than being a fish-lord.”

I smiled at her. “Thanks, Rhaenys. I’ll try to remember that.”

And as we both returned to our very important mission of entertaining a very lazy cat, I let myself take a breath. The Tullys could keep questioning my legitimacy, keep doubting me. But here, with Rhaenys and Balerion, I felt like maybe I had a chance to show them all that I was exactly who I said I was.

General POV

If there was one thing Ned Stark hated more than politics, it was politics before breakfast. Unfortunately, duty didn’t give a damn about meal schedules.

So here he was, stepping into the solar of Riverrun, looking every bit like a man who’d rather be knee-deep in Northern snow than dealing with the whims of Hoster Tully. And beside him, casting a long, intimidating shadow, was Ser Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning himself. Because if you were going to drop a bombshell on the Lord of Riverrun, you might as well do it with style.

Hoster Tully, halfway through his morning ale, did a double take so hard he nearly choked. Across the room, Brynden Tully—better known as the Blackfish—eyed Arthur like he’d just walked in carrying Aegon the Conqueror’s crown.

“Lord Stark,” Hoster said, setting his cup down with deliberate care. His gaze flicked to Arthur. “And…Ser Arthur Dayne.” The name carried a weight of its own, and the hesitation in Hoster’s voice suggested he wasn’t sure whether to pour another drink or call for his guards.

Brynden, ever the thorn in his brother’s side, smirked. “The Sword of the Morning in Riverrun. What an absolute honor. Shall I assume this is a social visit, or have you come to perhaps woo some unsuspecting maiden?”

Arthur’s lips twitched—barely. “No maidens. Just family.”

That got Hoster’s attention. He straightened in his seat, eyes narrowing. “Family?”

Brynden leaned forward, looking between them like he was watching a particularly juicy bit of court gossip unfold. “Now, this I have to hear.”

Ned, who had been letting Arthur’s presence do most of the heavy lifting, finally spoke, his voice steady and to the point. “Ser Arthur has been released from his Kingsguard vows by King Robert himself.”

Hoster blinked. “Released?” His fingers drummed against the polished oak table. “That’s…unusual.”

“Unheard of,” Brynden corrected, giving Arthur a long, appraising look. “Robert Baratheon doesn’t strike me as the forgiving type. What’s the catch?”

Arthur met the Blackfish’s gaze, calm as ever. “No catch, Ser Brynden. I requested my release to return to my family. My sister Ashara has made the North her home, and I will join her there to train her son—my nephew, Cregan Stark—in the ways of knighthood.”

Brynden let out a low whistle. “The Sword of the Morning, tutoring a Stark pup. The bards will have a field day with that one.” He shot Ned a grin. “Tell me, Stark, did you lure him north with promises of direwolves and mead, or did you just stare at him until he agreed?”

Ned sighed, rubbing his temple. “I did not lure him.”

Arthur, ever the picture of patience, added, “The North has proven itself a place of honor. My sister has found happiness there, and I will see that her son is given the best training possible.”

Hoster, who had been listening with a mixture of surprise and calculation, folded his hands. “A noble undertaking. And an unexpected one.”

Brynden chuckled. “Unexpected? Try extraordinary. Cregan will have half the lords of the realm lining up to squire for him. Stark or not, a boy trained by Arthur Dayne might as well have destiny stamped on his forehead.”

Arthur tilted his head slightly. “If Cregan’s cousins share in his training, it will foster camaraderie and healthy competition. A knight must understand not only the sword but the bonds of brotherhood.”

Hoster let out a long breath. “A fine sentiment. And one I cannot argue with.” His sharp gaze flicked back to Ned. “I imagine this means you’re eager to return north.”

“I am,” Ned confirmed. “Benjen has managed Winterfell in my absence, but I cannot ask him to bear that responsibility much longer.”

Hoster arched an eyebrow. “Winterfell stands. A few more days of rest won’t bring it to ruin.”

Ned shook his head, a faint, weary smile tugging at his lips. “Benjen will not thank me for delaying. Family comes first.”

Brynden leaned back in his chair with a knowing smirk. “You Stark men and your stubborn sense of duty.” He gestured toward Arthur. “At least this one might add some flair to your house. Can you imagine it? Cregan Stark, trained by Arthur Dayne, wielding a greatsword twice his size and brooding just like his uncle?”

Arthur’s expression remained composed. “If he broods, I shall consider it a failure on my part.”

Ned gave Brynden a long-suffering look. “I do not brood.”

Hoster sighed, rubbing his temples like a man already tired of the conversation. “Very well, Lord Stark. If you must leave, then go. But remember—should you ever need aid, Riverrun will answer your call. The Tully words are not mere platitudes.”

Ned inclined his head. “I know, Lord Tully. And I will not forget.”

As they turned to leave, Brynden called out, voice tinged with amusement. “Take care, Ser Arthur. And do let us know if your little Stark becomes the next Sword of the Morning.”

Arthur paused in the doorway, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of Dawn. “If he does, you’ll be the first to know.”

With that, they departed, the weight of duty and distance pulling them northward once more. For Ned, it was another step closer to home. For Arthur, it was the beginning of a new chapter—one that might just rewrite history.

—

Cregan's POV

The courtyard at Riverrun was a disaster zone. People shouting, horses whinnying, wagons creaking—it was the kind of chaos that made you want to either duck for cover or find a way to profit from it. Unfortunately, as a two-year-old, my options were limited. No one takes a toddler seriously, even when said toddler used to be Harry Potter. Yeah, that Harry Potter. The one who fought dark wizards, survived a homicidal headmaster, and once stole a Philosopher’s Stone from under a three-headed dog’s nose.

Not that any of that mattered now. Because in this life, I was Cregan Stark. The baby wolf of House Stark. The adorable yet undeniably feral child of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne. Which, for the record, meant Ser Arthur Dayne—the legendary Sword of the Morning—was my uncle. No pressure or anything.

Currently, that same uncle was standing next to me, arms crossed, looking far too entertained by my suffering.

“Alright, pup,” Arthur said, crouching down so we were eye level. “Time to start your training.”

I blinked at him. “I just turned two.”

He nodded solemnly. “And I started training as soon as I could walk. That’s why I’m the Sword of the Morning.”

I stared at him, hoping he would recognize how insane that sounded. “Uncle Arthur. I still have to concentrate to not fall over when I run.”

He shrugged. “All the more reason to start training your balance.”

“I barely reach your knee.”

“You’ll grow.”

“I am literally shorter than your sword.”

He grinned. “So was I once.”

I groaned, rubbing my face with my tiny hands. This man was impossible. “You’re joking, right?”

Arthur gave me a look that suggested he had never once in his life joked about swords. Which, honestly, felt accurate.

“You think the best swordsmen in Westeros got that way by waiting until they were six?” he asked. “No nephew of mine is going to slack off.”

“I’M TWO,” I repeated.

“You’re a Stark,” he countered.

I scowled. “I was a wizard in my past life. Does that count?”

Arthur tilted his head, considering. “Depends. Did you use swords?”

“…no.”

“Then it doesn’t count.”

Okay. New plan: find a way to stall. Or at least distract him long enough that maybe he’d forget about this whole training idea for a day or two.

Unfortunately, before I could hatch a truly brilliant scheme, I was interrupted by a certain Targaryen princess, who was standing nearby, holding her baby brother like it was nothing.

“Is he bullying you, little wolf?” Rhaenys asked, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Of course he is,” I muttered. “This man is trying to make a toddler fight with a sword.”

“Ah, yes,” Rhaenys said, nodding sagely. “The horror.”

“I know, right?” I gestured at Arthur, who was still watching us like this was all very funny. “He expects me to train like a proper swordsman before I can even properly pronounce ‘swordsman.’”

Rhaenys tilted her head. “You just pronounced it fine.”

“That’s not the point,” I grumbled.

She smirked. “Well, at least I’ll have a front-row seat to your humiliation.”

“Oh, like you’re any better?” I shot back. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how excited you are to go north. You’ve got snow fort dreams, don’t you?”

Rhaenys narrowed her eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Liar.”

She huffed. “Only a little wolf would think snow forts are the most important thing about Winterfell.”

“And only a little dragon would pretend they aren’t.”

She sniffed, lifting her chin in that very regal, very Targaryen way. “Fine. But I expect a fortress. With trenches. And a tower.”

Arthur chuckled. “You should be careful, pup. I think she just made you her personal architect.”

Rhaenys flashed me an overly sweet smile. “That’s right. And if you lose to Ser Arthur, you owe me two fortresses.”

Before I could protest, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Enough chatter,” Uncle Ned called, his voice all quiet authority. “The North calls.”

That was all it took. The Stark men moved like clockwork, falling into place as the wagons rolled forward. The chaos turned into a march, and just like that, Riverrun was behind us.

I sighed, looking at Rhaenys. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

She smiled, shifting baby Aegon in her arms. “Ready to see if you can keep up with Ser Arthur first. After that, we’ll talk snow forts.”

I groaned. “No pressure, right?”

But really, when was there ever not pressure? I was a Stark. A Potter. And apparently, a tiny, doomed swordsman.

Winter was coming. And so was my inevitable training.

…Someone save me.

—

General POV

The Northern army trudged toward the Twins, looking less like a proud host and more like a bunch of very tired people who had made some questionable life choices. The castle itself—if you could call it that—stood ahead, two massive towers flanking the Green Fork like grumpy old men guarding a very expensive bridge. The entire structure gave off serious "medieval tollbooth with an attitude problem" energy.

Ned Stark, ever the picture of noble resolve, rode at the head of the column, his expression set in that permanent "I have a lot on my mind" look that probably came with being Warden of the North. And honestly, who could blame him? Dealing with the Freys was about as enjoyable as negotiating with a particularly shifty fishmonger—one who might sell you bad cod just to spite you.

Behind him, the Northern soldiers marched in varying states of exhaustion, their banners flapping dramatically in the wind. The sight of the Twins sparked a little more life into their steps. Or maybe that was just the universal excitement of "finally, we get to stop walking."

Then came the welcoming party.

Enter Walder Rivers. If a sneer could take human form and learn to walk, it would probably look something like him. They called him "Black Walder," and it was easy to see why—he radiated "I have stabbed someone over a minor disagreement" energy. His expression as he scanned the Northern army was the kind of judgmental stare you'd get from a septa after skipping morning prayers.

Ned Stark, to his eternal credit, did not roll his eyes. Instead, he gave a measured nod, his voice as steady as if he were discussing the weather. "We are grateful for Lord Walder’s hospitality."

Hospitality. Right.

Black Walder's smirk deepened like he was about to say something witty but decided he’d rather just let everyone feel vaguely threatened instead. "Lord Walder sends his regards," he drawled, oozing sarcasm. "He bids you welcome to the Twins."

Translation: You can come in, but don’t touch anything.

"We seek passage across the Trident," Ned stated plainly. No pleasantries, no unnecessary words—just the simple truth, which, in a Frey’s hands, was about as useful as a broken sword.

Black Walder tilted his head, as if considering whether or not to make their lives more difficult just for fun. Spoiler: he was absolutely considering it.

"Of course," he said, in the kind of tone people use when they are absolutely planning to make things difficult. "I will inform my lord of your arrival. Follow me."

With that, he spun on his heel and strutted off, clearly expecting everyone to follow him like obedient ducklings.

Ned exhaled softly—possibly the Northern equivalent of an eye roll—and nudged his horse forward. The soldiers followed, some exchanging wary glances, others adopting the universal expression of "let’s get this over with."

Inside the Twins, things somehow managed to get even less welcoming. The walls practically hummed with unspoken hostility, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and bad decisions. It was the kind of place that made you instinctively check your pockets to make sure you still had all your valuables.

And they hadn’t even met Walder Frey yet.

That was when the real fun would start.

—

The two towers of the Twins loomed ahead, their stone faces staring down at the approaching party with all the warmth of two cranky old men disturbed from their afternoon nap. The bridge connecting them sagged under the weight of centuries, and Cregan Stark—who, at two years old, had more wisdom than any toddler had a right to—couldn’t help but imagine it as some ancient guardian muttering, Ugh, fine, I’ll let you through, but only because I’m too old to care.

At the front of the party rode Lord Eddard Stark, who looked as serious as ever—because, let’s be honest, Ned Stark’s resting face was basically perpetually brooding protagonist. His presence alone was enough to command attention, but next to him sat young Cregan, who somehow looked even more serious, which was downright terrifying considering his age. This was a boy who had already perfected the Stark Glower of Doom, the kind of look that made grown men question their life choices.

Behind them, Ser Arthur Dayne rode with the effortless grace of a man who had never once tripped over his own feet. He was the kind of guy who probably had a perfect hair day even after a battle. Cregan had already decided that Arthur Dayne was the ultimate cool uncle, the type of knight who could kill a dozen men before breakfast and still have time to ruffle a kid’s hair on his way out.

The Greatjon rode at the rear, a towering slab of muscle with a permanent smirk that said, Go on, insult me. I dare you. The man was a walking, talking warning sign that the North was not the place to mess around. If anyone was thinking about underestimating the Starks, one look at Greatjon Umber would set them straight.

As they approached the gate, Cregan felt an overwhelming ugh settle in his bones. He had never been to the Twins before, but some places just reeked of bad vibes. The moment they entered the hall, he knew he was right.

Lord Walder Frey sat hunched in his high seat, which Cregan mentally dubbed the Throne of Pettiness. The man looked ancient—like pre-Harrenhal ancient—his body as withered as an old boot left out in the snow. But his eyes? Oh, they were sharp, the kind of sharp that made Cregan’s skin crawl. There was a familiar bitterness in them, something twisted and resentful, and it took him all of five seconds to realize why.

Crap. He’s Filch. He’s Filch from Hogwarts.

Cregan had spent years in his past life dodging Argus Filch, the miserable old caretaker who lived for the sole purpose of making life difficult. Frey had the exact same look—the gleam of a man who thrived on pettiness, fueled by grudges so ancient they belonged in a history book.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

“Lord Stark,” Walder Frey said, his voice like honey that had been left out too long and turned sticky and gross. “To what do I owe the honor of this… visit?”

Cregan nearly rolled his eyes. If there was ever a tone that screamed I wish you were dead, but I’ll pretend to be nice, this was it.

Ned Stark, to his credit, didn’t so much as blink. His patience was legendary—Cregan was convinced that if you set him in front of a storm, he’d just cross his arms and stare at it until it backed down. “We seek passage across the Trident,” he said, voice steady. “We are returning to Winterfell.”

Walder’s smile stretched into something that looked painful, like his face wasn’t used to the expression. “Ah, Winterfell,” he said, the word rolling off his tongue like it physically disgusted him. “A long journey indeed. And what guarantee do I have that you won’t simply march your army through my lands, leaving me to clean up the mess?”

Cregan clenched his tiny fists beneath his cloak. Oh, that’s rich, he thought. The North has been holding itself together for thousands of years without your "hospitality," old man. Maybe we should charge you a toll for wasting our time.

But Ned, ever the diplomat, didn’t let a flicker of annoyance show. “You have my word as Regent to the Warden of the North,” he said evenly. “No harm will come to your people.”

Walder snorted. “Your word?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Forgive me if I find it difficult to trust the promises of a Stark.”

Then his beady eyes landed on Cregan, and the sneer turned thoughtful.

“Oh, and who might this be?” Walder mused, his tone the kind that made Cregan’s skin itch. “The new Lord of Winterfell, I presume?”

Cregan felt every muscle in his tiny body tense. He was two. He wasn’t supposed to threaten people yet. But oh, did he want to.

“That’s right,” he said instead, his voice calm. Too calm. “And Winterfell doesn’t take kindly to insults.”

There was a beat of silence before Greatjon let out a deep, booming laugh. “By the gods, the pup’s got teeth!”

Walder’s expression soured. He wasn’t used to people talking back—especially not people who had just mastered walking.

“Well, well,” he murmured. “Fiery little thing, aren’t you?”

Cregan’s smile was all teeth. “That’s what people keep telling me.”

Arthur coughed into his fist, which was definitely not a cover for laughter, while Ned just sighed, like he had expected this nonsense the moment they arrived.

Fortunately for Walder’s pride, he chose to let the moment slide. “You’re lucky King Robert has already arranged the toll,” he said, his grin twisting. “Consider yourselves blessed by royal generosity.”

Cregan’s eye twitched. Blessed? Oh, sure. Just like getting kicked in the shin is a blessing.

But Ned just nodded. “We appreciate the King’s generosity.”

Walder’s smirk widened. “You’re welcome to stay the night,” he added, his voice full of fake hospitality. “I’d hate for you to leave thinking the Freys aren’t welcoming.”

Cregan almost laughed. Oh, we already know, buddy.

But Ned just gave him a polite smile, the kind that said I would rather eat a handful of snow than spend another second in your presence. “We must continue on. Winterfell awaits.”

With that, they turned and left. As they stepped outside into the crisp evening air, Cregan let out a slow breath. “So,” he muttered to Greatjon. “Anyone else feel like they need a bath after that?”

The Greatjon laughed so hard that Cregan thought he might shake the bridge down. “Welcome to dealing with the Freys, lad.” He clapped Cregan on the back—hard enough to nearly knock him over.

Cregan stole one last glance at the looming towers of the Twins. He had a feeling he’d be seeing them again one day. But next time, he wouldn’t be the one asking for a toll.

Winterfell was on the horizon. And as they rode on, Cregan grinned to himself.

At least he had survived his first Frey encounter. That had to count for something.

—

The journey back to Winterfell wasn’t exactly the stuff of legends. It was dusty, noisy, and long enough to make even a direwolf start looking for an exit. Between the creaking wagons, the stomping hooves, and the constant grumbles from everyone (including the horses, probably), it could have been downright miserable. But for Cregan Stark and Rhaenys Targaryen, this trip might as well have been a royal tour through the Seven Kingdoms—if your kingdom involved dirt, wildflowers, and a lot of awkward conversations about how much direwolves like to eat.

It was one of those quiet afternoons—when the only sound was the wind in the trees and the constant crunch of wagon wheels on dirt—that Cregan spotted something that would make a grown man stop in his tracks: a patch of wildflowers by a bubbling brook. His face lit up like a lantern in the dark. It was clear that Cregan, who at just two years old could probably already beat you at chess if you were distracted by a shiny thing, had found something important.

He snatched the brightest flower he could find—a little squished, but honestly, who’s counting?—and marched over to Rhaenys, puffing out his chest like he was about to deliver a great king’s speech.

"For you," he said, extending the flower like he was offering her a dragon egg or something equally precious.

Rhaenys blinked, looking at the flower and then back at Cregan. Her eyebrow arched, a smirk forming on her lips like she’d just figured out the world’s greatest secret.

"You know," she said, taking the flower with a smile that could probably melt the hardest heart in Westeros, "you really shouldn’t have. I might make you my squire for this." She tossed her dark hair back dramatically, like she was preparing for a royal announcement. "I’ll let you carry my sword."

Cregan blinked, his expression so deadpan that even the gods probably chuckled. “You don’t have a sword. And if you did, I’d probably end up carrying it for you because you'd get distracted by something shiny."

Rhaenys gasped. "That’s a very bold accusation coming from someone whose hair looks like a wolf’s tail when it’s windy."

“Touché,” Cregan muttered, looking down at his own wild, windblown hair like it had just offended his entire family.

Rhaenys grinned, clearly enjoying herself. "Anyway," she said, holding the squished flower close to her chest like it was a rare treasure, "I’ll keep it. For now."

Later, as the party took a much-needed snack break (because apparently the only way you can survive on a journey through the North is by stuffing your face with bread and cheese), Rhaenys pulled out a handful of berries from her pouch. She was four, but she had the elegance of someone twice her age—her movements smooth and graceful, like she was born to be a queen. Of course, this would be true if her coordination didn’t immediately betray her the second she handed Cregan a berry.

He bit into it like a raven on a hunt, but the juice splattered everywhere—his face, his hands, and even a few unlucky bystanders who were minding their own business. Rhaenys, who had somehow managed to eat her berries without incident, burst out laughing, her laughter a little bell-like sound that seemed to echo through the camp.

Cregan wiped the juice off his cheek with a proud grin. "I think it’s a new look. What do you think? Prince of Berries?"

“Oh, yes," Rhaenys said, mock-seriously, "I’ll make sure to have your portrait done. But first, I’ll need to find a crown made out of wildflowers and berries."

“Works for me,” Cregan said, clearly unbothered by the fact that he looked like a toddler who’d just declared war on a berry bush.

As the day wore on and the campfire flickered to life, casting long shadows that danced like mischievous ghosts, Cregan’s eyes sparkled with excitement. The moment they all sat down in front of the fire, he leaned in close to Rhaenys, who was wrapped in a blanket like she was royalty (which, you know, she kind of was).

"Have I told you about Harry Potter?" he asked, his voice low like he was about to impart the greatest secret in Westeros.

"Harry who?" Rhaenys replied, scrunching her nose in confusion.

“Harry Potter,” Cregan repeated, like he was describing a great hero of the realm. “He’s a wizard. Fights dark lords, rides broomsticks, has a scar on his forehead that looks like lightning—oh, and he’s constantly getting into trouble. Like, you know, fighting giant snakes, battling trolls, saving his friends from three-headed dogs—stuff like that.”

Rhaenys tilted her head like she was processing all of this. “Wait. A three-headed dog?” Her eyes were wide now, like this Harry Potter was about to be her new favorite person.

“Oh, yeah,” Cregan said, eyes gleaming with mischief as he leaned in closer. “His name’s Fluffy. And trust me, it’s not the kind of pet you want to find under your bed.”

“Why would you want a three-headed dog under your bed?” Rhaenys asked, clearly horrified by the idea.

“You wouldn’t,” Cregan said, shaking his head, “but Harry had to. I mean, it's not like you can just send Fluffy back to the pet store. You get a three-headed dog, you’re stuck with it.” He grinned, doing his best imitation of a grown man, puffing his chest out and speaking in a way that would have made anyone believe he was already twelve years old. “But he handles it. He outsmarts them all. And he catches a Golden Snitch. A snitch is like, well, imagine a bird... but with wings so fast that you can barely see them. Catching one would be like trying to grab a flea out of the air.”

Rhaenys clapped her hands at that. “Oh, I would catch it. Easily.”

“Sure, sure,” Cregan said with a smirk. “You’d probably catch it, get distracted by a pretty rock, and forget about it.”

“I do not!” Rhaenys said, though there was the slightest hint of a smile that betrayed her pride. "Maybe. But still, I could do it."

“Definitely,” Cregan agreed. “Maybe you can be the Queen of Quidditch one day. You can fly around on a broomstick and show off your berry-stained cheeks while the world cheers.”

Rhaenys chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re weird.”

“Well, I have to be,” Cregan said, lounging against the campfire and looking at the stars. “It’s my job. But if you ever meet Harry Potter—” he paused dramatically, “—you’ll know why I’m so weird. He’s like the most normal, magical, trouble-making hero to ever live.”

“I’m going to meet him one day,” Rhaenys said firmly, as though she’d just made a declaration of war. “And when I do, I’ll tell him you said all of this.”

“Tell him I’m his biggest fan,” Cregan said with a smirk. “Just don’t mention the part about the three-headed dog.”

And as the fire crackled and the stars twinkled above them, the bond between Cregan Stark and Rhaenys Targaryen was sealed—not just by their shared adventures, but by the magical stories they told each other in the dark. Because sometimes, the magic wasn’t just in the tales. It was in the telling itself.

—

Winterfell had that epic “we’re about to make an entrance” vibe. You know the kind—the one where you’re expecting a grand orchestral swell, dramatic pauses, and maybe a few flames in the background. And it didn’t disappoint. The towering walls of the castle loomed in the distance, looking like they had been built to survive a few dragons, some giant battles, and maybe a couple of bad hair days. Seriously, if Winterfell could talk, it’d probably say, “Yeah, we know we’re awesome. Thanks for noticing.”

Arthur Dayne, the brooding, chiseled knight that could probably win a brooding contest against a thousand other brooding knights, was carrying Rhaenys Targaryen in his arms like she weighed no more than a feather. She was gazing out over Winterfell’s walls with those piercing violet eyes of hers—eyes that seemed to search for secrets and maybe, just maybe, figure out if the walls were going to collapse. I mean, who wouldn’t be a little suspicious about giant walls just sitting there?

“Is this our new home?” she asked, her voice a soft mix of awe and uncertainty, like she was expecting the castle to burst into flames at any moment.

Arthur, of course, was unflappable. He had that calm, “I’m carrying the future of Westeros and I look good doing it” vibe going on. “Yes, little princess. This is Winterfell—the heart of the North.”

Behind them, Ned Stark, the gruff but good-hearted patriarch of the Stark clan, was carrying his nephew Cregan. Cregan was barely a toddler, but let’s be real—he already had that air of someone who was too serious for their age. He was staring at the walls of Winterfell like he was already planning his first conquest. If he was any older, he probably would’ve been holding a map, plotting out battle strategies.

“This is where you belong now, Cregan,” Ned said, his voice gravelly as he eyed the castle’s stone walls. He probably had the "Lord of Winterfell" monologue ready to go, but Cregan wasn’t exactly the “stand still and listen to speeches” type. Instead, he gave Ned this look—the kind of look that screamed, I’m already plotting my rise to power, but thanks for the pep talk.

And then there was Rhaenys, still clutching Arthur like he was some kind of human shield, her eyes darting around with that trademark Targaryen curiosity. Meanwhile, Cregan was acting like he’d been born here. The kid was hardly fazed by the whole Winterfell thing. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve thought he was about to walk up to Ned and say, “Alright, I’ll take the keys to the place now. You can head back to your brooding corner.”

As they passed through the gates, Winterfell came alive—no, seriously. It was like someone yelled action and suddenly everyone was moving, doing their daily chores, and pretending they didn’t see the new Lord of Winterfell walking by. Everyone froze. I mean, who could blame them? The moment Cregan walked into the courtyard, the gossip started flying faster than a raven.

“Is that… the new Lord of Winterfell?” one of the stablehands whispered to the other.

“Looks like it. He's too young to be running the place, though.”

“Oh, don’t worry. With that Stark stubbornness, he’ll probably be calling the shots by next week.”

And then there was Rhaenys, still clutching Arthur and looking like she was about to take notes on everything she saw. She looked every bit the princess she was, with that mix of elegance and curiosity that made her seem older than she was. Cregan, on the other hand, looked about as unbothered as a kid who had just inherited an entire kingdom. He was practically glowing with future king energy.

“Welcome to Winterfell,” Ned said dramatically, trying to put some weight into it, like the line was from a play. Honestly, it was a little over the top, but Cregan seemed to take it well. “Here, you will grow strong, and together, we will face whatever challenges come our way.”

Cregan, in true toddler fashion, probably thought, Yeah, I’m already planning how to take on that challenge. It’s called ‘don’t mess with me.’

After they dismounted, everyone scattered like extras in a battle scene who knew they weren’t getting paid for the day’s work. Benjen Stark, Ned’s brother, was waiting at the end of the courtyard, looking like the kind of uncle who’d try to be tough but secretly loved being around kids. I mean, he was the type who’d make a terrible attempt at being “serious,” but the second he smiled, all that went out the window.

Ned, holding Cregan with the kind of fatherly pride you’d expect from Sean Bean in a role that demanded deep emotional connection, crouched down to his nephew’s level. “This is someone very important I want you to meet.”

Benjen stepped forward, giving Cregan a look that was equal parts fatherly and amused, like he knew what was coming next. “Hello, little one. I’m your Uncle Benjen,” he said, his voice so soft it could’ve been mistaken for a breeze.

Cregan stared at him like he was trying to decode the meaning of life. The silence stretched on for a moment too long. Benjen’s smile faltered a little—he probably wasn’t used to being studied like that.

And then, with the calmness only a Stark could muster, Cregan reached out his tiny hand and let Benjen scoop him up. The kid was serious about his relationships, apparently. He probably saw something in Benjen that screamed I’ll probably be your favorite uncle by the end of the day.

“You look just like your father,” Benjen murmured, looking down at Cregan with that fond look all uncles wear when they’re trying to act tough but failing miserably. “Except for your mother’s eyes. Those are all hers.”

Ned raised an eyebrow, as though the words had hit him harder than the sword he’d swung at a few wildlings. “How do you know so much about him already?”

Benjen gave him one of those knowing smiles. “Ravens, brother. They talk. All the time.”

Ned gave a long sigh. “Ravens. The Westerosi version of a gossip magazine with terrible delivery.”

Benjen laughed and looked down at Cregan with something between affection and approval. “Everyone knows,” he said with a grin. “The new Lord of Winterfell, and his betrothal to Princess Rhaenys. It’s all anyone can talk about.”

Well, that explained a lot.

Ned shifted Cregan in his arms, feeling the weight of the words more than he liked to admit. “This is a lot, Benjen. It feels like everyone knows everything before we do.”

Benjen clapped him on the shoulder, his hand as heavy as the responsibility Ned now carried. “Winterfell has stood strong for centuries, Ned. With Cregan here, it will grow even stronger. We’ll teach him the ways of the North, and he will thrive.”

As they walked deeper into Winterfell, the snow crunching underfoot, the wind biting at their faces, it felt like the Stark family was finally, truly complete again. There was a sense of unity in the air, like something strong enough to withstand whatever the future might hold.

And let’s be real. The kid probably had a lot to do with that.

Tywin Lannister's study was the kind of place where tension didn’t just sit in the air—it owned the air. The walls, lined with books that probably contained more strategy than most of Westeros had combined, seemed to close in on anyone who entered. The heavy oak desk at the center wasn’t just a desk—it was a throne. And Tywin? Well, he was the king, sitting there with his fingers steepled, gaze as sharp as a sword. Everything about him screamed power, control, and “You’ll regret it if you cross me.”

Kevan Lannister, on the other hand, felt like a mouse stuck in a corner with a lion. Kevan wasn’t stupid. He’d been in the game long enough to know that when Tywin looked at you like that, you didn’t just speak. You tread carefully. You might even consider a polite retreat, if only it wasn’t for the massive oak door locked behind him.

“Brother,” Kevan started, his voice trying to stay steady. “There’s news from the North.”

Tywin didn’t move a muscle—his eyebrows didn’t even twitch—but there was something in the stillness that made Kevan’s stomach flip. He couldn’t explain it, but it was like Tywin was a volcano, and any second, it was about to erupt. He waited, and Tywin’s gaze remained fixed. It was like staring into the depths of an abyss. If you stared too long, you might fall in.

“Go on,” Tywin finally said, his voice as cold as the Iron Throne’s seat, but with that one, almost imperceptible hint of something more. Curiosity? Interest? Kevan wasn’t sure. But whatever it was, it sent a chill down his spine.

Kevan cleared his throat. “There’s a new Lord of Winterfell. Cregan Stark. He’s also betrothed to Rhaenys Targaryen.”

If anyone else had dropped that bombshell, Tywin might’ve flinched, or at least blinked. But Tywin didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. He just… paused. And for a moment, Kevan was sure his heart was going to start beating out of his chest. This wasn’t the kind of news that usually got a reaction from Tywin. But this? This was different.

“Cregan Stark,” Tywin repeated, his voice slow, deliberate. “The trueborn son of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne, I presume?”

Kevan nodded, his throat dry. “Yes. It was a secret marriage. Done in accordance with the old traditions, on the Isle of Faces. Princess Elia Martell witnessed it, which… complicates things.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, and for a second, Kevan thought they might shoot lasers at him. “A secret marriage,” Tywin muttered. “On the Isle of Faces. Elia Martell as a witness? That’s… interesting.” His fingers tightened together, pressing harder as if he could crush the very thought beneath his hands. “And irritating.”

Kevan could almost hear the gears turning in Tywin’s head. This wasn’t just news. This was a complication, a wrench thrown into a machine that Tywin had been working on for years. And when Tywin Lannister had a problem, well, other people had problems too.

“And the betrothal?” Tywin pressed, his voice still cold, but with an edge. “How did that come about?”

Kevan, suddenly feeling like he was giving a performance, forced himself to speak more casually than he felt. “Robert Baratheon’s decision, apparently. He thought marrying Rhaenys to the Starks would neutralize her claim to the throne. Make Northern loyalty a little more… secure.”

Tywin’s lip twitched, just slightly. “Robert Baratheon. Always thinking in broad strokes.” He said it like he’d just bitten into something unpleasant. “Luck, brute strength, and that loud mouth of his. And what of Aegon, the other claimant?”

Kevan shifted. “Robert plans to send him away after the wedding. Either to the Wall or the Citadel. Somewhere far away, out of sight, out of mind.”

Tywin’s eyes flashed dangerously, and for a second, Kevan considered offering Tywin a glass of wine—something to soothe the storm brewing in the man’s head. Tywin didn’t need wine, though. He was a storm, not a bottle of whine.

“Interesting,” Tywin said slowly. “It seems Robert has no idea how to wield power with precision. If you want to eliminate someone as a threat, you don’t send them off to an ice-cold wasteland or a library. You bury them where no one can find them. We’ll see how that turns out.”

Kevan wasn’t stupid enough to argue. He just nodded, sensing the conversation shifting to a darker place. Tywin was playing his cards—just not showing his hand yet. Kevan knew better than to stick around when the game was about to get serious.

Tywin leaned forward, his voice dropping lower, the words cutting through the room like a knife. “This changes things, Kevan. We will proceed with caution.”

Kevan nodded quickly, the weight of his brother’s words settling around him. That was Tywin—calm, calculated, and terrifyingly precise. He wasn’t just reacting to the news; he was already working on a plan. A backup plan. And a contingency for the backup plan.

Just as Kevan turned to leave, he felt it—the air was still heavy, but Tywin’s voice cut through the quiet, like a predator letting its prey know it’s still being watched.

“Kevan,” Tywin said, and the way he said it made Kevan’s heart skip a beat.

Kevan turned, blinking in surprise.

“Make sure this news reaches no one else,” Tywin instructed, his gaze intense. “Let them make their plans. We’ll see what ripples they cause.”

Kevan had learned long ago to obey Tywin without question. He gave a curt nod and left, the door closing softly behind him. But the second it clicked shut, Kevan felt the weight of what he had just witnessed. Tywin was always thinking ahead. Always watching. And when the time came, he would make his move with the precision of a master strategist.

Out there, in the North, wolves and dragons were stirring. But Tywin Lannister wasn’t just watching from the shadows. He was waiting for them to make a mistake. And when they did, he’d be there, like a lion pouncing on an unwitting deer.

Somewhere in the distance, Tywin’s voice echoed in Kevan’s mind, like a silent warning: Stay out of my way, or you’ll be just another casualty in my game.

—

Lady Olenna Tyrell sat in her chambers, surrounded by the faint sound of rustling papers, the clinking of silverware being polished, and the soft footfalls of servants tiptoeing around her as if they were avoiding the snap of a cat’s claw. There was a dangerous kind of silence in the room, the sort that made you feel like something was about to explode or, worse, someone was about to make a terrible, life-altering decision—most likely Mace.

She sighed, glancing at the same tapestry she’d been looking at for the last three hours. She could have sworn it was mocking her at this point, with all its bright colors and heroic depictions of House Tyrell’s past glories. She’d seen this thing so often she could probably stitch it in her sleep—except, of course, she couldn’t be bothered to do anything so tiresome. No, her energies were much better spent running the show, even if Mace still thought he was the one in charge. Bless him. He didn’t even know how to tie his own boots without someone helping him.

The door slammed open, and in stomped Mace Tyrell, her son, looking more pleased with himself than a pig in mud. He had the kind of face that screamed, I’m about to share some important news, even though it was almost certainly going to be about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

“Mother!” he boomed, as if he’d just discovered the secret to life itself. “I’ve got news! News from the North!”

Olenna didn’t even glance up from her tapestry. “How wonderful,” she said dryly. “The North is precisely where I go for all my good news. Right after the Free Cities, of course.”

Mace, who clearly hadn’t received the memo that sarcasm was a language all its own, pressed on, unperturbed. “A raven just arrived! There’s a new Lord Stark—Cregan Stark—and he’s betrothed to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen!”

At that, Olenna finally tore her gaze away from the tapestry, her sharp eyes narrowing in a way that made Mace take a half-step back. If anyone could make someone feel like they were being sized up for a funeral, it was Olenna Tyrell. “Lord Stark?” she repeated, her voice cutting through the room like a dagger through butter. “Princess Rhaenys?” She paused, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Fascinating. And how exactly do you plan on using this morsel of information, Mace? Frame it for the wall? Put it in the family scrapbook? Or are we going to throw a party in the North to celebrate?”

Mace blinked, his round face more confused than a chicken in a fox’s den. “Well, I thought maybe—”

“Oh, don’t overexert yourself,” Olenna interrupted, flicking her hand dismissively. “I can practically hear your brain creaking under the pressure of thinking. Let me guess: you think we should send a little congratulatory letter? Maybe invite them for a weekend of tedious small talk and feasts? I’m sure the Targaryens and the Starks will be just thrilled.”

Mace, ever the optimist (and by that, I mean completely out of touch with reality), beamed. “Well, yes, actually—”

Olenna sighed so deeply it could have been classified as a natural disaster. “Mace, I should’ve drowned you in the Mander when you were born. It would’ve been kinder. Now, leave this to me before you embarrass us further.”

Mace, wisely, decided not to argue. He took a slow, lumbering step backward, glancing nervously over his shoulder as though trying to escape the very air around him, which was thick with sarcasm and looming disaster. He knew enough to know when to retreat, and apparently, it was now.

Once he was safely out of the room, Olenna gave the tapestry one last look—this time, her eyes sharp, calculating. A Stark and a Targaryen. Wolves and dragons, marrying. Now that was a recipe for chaos. And Olenna loved chaos. It was her bread and butter, her favorite pastime, and a skill she wielded better than anyone in Westeros.

“Rhaenys Targaryen and Cregan Stark,” she muttered to herself, pacing now, her hands clasped behind her back. “A dragon and a wolf. How poetic. How nauseating.” She stopped mid-step, an idea flashing in her eyes like the first spark of a wildfire. “And how incredibly useful.”

If there was one thing Olenna Tyrell understood, it was the art of taking advantage of chaos. This could be her family’s ticket back into the game. A well-timed alliance, a little whisper here and there, and suddenly House Tyrell would be a power once more. She wasn’t one for sitting in the background while others made moves—no, Olenna made moves. Quietly. Subtly. Until it was too late for anyone to stop her.

“Time to show them all that roses have thorns,” she said, a sly smile curling on her lips as she began plotting her next move.

Because, let’s face it, Olenna Tyrell wasn’t about to let a dragon and a wolf steal the spotlight. Not when she was still around to turn it all into her victory.

—

Queen Rhaella Targaryen stood on the cliffs of Dragonstone, the wind whipping her hair into a frenzy, her gown fluttering like the sails of a ship caught in a storm. And really, considering the state of her life, she felt like she was constantly at the mercy of a metaphorical tempest.

The loss of Rhaegar—her firstborn, her pride and joy—felt like a wound that would never stop bleeding. His absence was a weight she carried like an anchor around her neck, dragging her down even when she longed to rise above it. Every time she closed her eyes, his face haunted her, and every time she opened them, reality hit her like a slap from a wet fish.

And then there were her other children, Rhaenys and Aegon. They were like stars she could no longer reach, their fates uncertain, their safety an impossible dream. She had heard whispers of their survival, but whispers were hardly the same as assurances. The world beyond Dragonstone was no place for those with Targaryen blood—she knew that well enough. If someone didn’t come knocking soon enough, she’d be left clutching her belly like a drowning woman holding onto a lifeline.

Her hand instinctively went to her stomach, cradling the life growing within her, the only thing that offered her a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness. She wasn’t sure whether it was the fear of what the future might bring or the hope that this new child could somehow erase her grief, but either way, it was a distraction. A welcome distraction.

"Please," she muttered to the winds, her voice barely audible over the crashing waves below, "let this child bring some light back to this cursed place."

Just as the wind began to howl louder, as though it had decided to mock her very sentiment, Ser Willem Darry approached from behind. He had that steady, calming presence about him, like a rock in a storm (except he was really more of a very old rock with a lot of experience in trying not to look like a nervous wreck).

"Your Grace," he said in his usual grave tone, "there is more news from the mainland."

“Oh good,” she muttered, “just what I need. Another letter from some fool who thinks they know what I need to hear.”

Willem cleared his throat, clearly used to her sarcasm by now. “It’s about your grandchildren.”

Rhaella stiffened, her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn’t heard anything for so long, not since the fires of King's Landing had turned everything to ash. “Tell me,” she said, her voice sharp despite herself.

Willem’s gaze softened. “The new Lord of Winterfell is Cregan Stark. And it seems there has been a bit of a—well, let’s call it a family reunion of sorts. Lord Stark and Lady Ashara Dayne were secretly married.”

Rhaella blinked. Ashara Dayne, the woman she had been so close to, the one who had vanished mysteriously from court and whose absence had never been explained. A marriage? Secret?

“Why does that sound like the plot of a tragic romance?” she muttered, shaking her head.

Willem, ever the professional, ignored her comment. “There’s more. Your granddaughter Rhaenys—she is alive, Your Grace. She’s been betrothed to Lord Cregan Stark in an alliance meant to secure peace. The Usurper sanctioned it.”

Rhaella’s heart stopped for a moment. Rhaenys... alive? The thought had been a distant hope, a whisper she'd been afraid to believe. But now it was reality. She wanted to laugh, cry, and scream all at once. “I knew it,” she whispered to herself, feeling a surge of something—relief, maybe—mixed with the sadness that had never quite left her. She was alive, and somehow, so was the bloodline of House Targaryen. The next generation might still rise from the ashes.

Willem, sensing the delicate balance of emotions stirring within her, continued gently, “It’s not all easy, Your Grace. The North is harsh, and these are dangerous times. But Rhaenys has the strength of her mother, and the Stark name carries weight.”

“Weight,” Rhaella echoed bitterly, “that seems to be all anyone cares about these days. I pray that it’s enough for her. And that she’s strong enough to face whatever the world has in store.”

She walked to the edge of the cliff, her thoughts heavy but her determination steady. For the first time in years, she felt like she might have a chance. A reason to hope, even if just a little. Her children—her grandchildren—might have a future. And perhaps that future would be brighter than the shadows that had clouded their past.

But then, in typical Targaryen fashion, her thoughts turned to something a little less hopeful.

“Willem,” she began, her voice suddenly cold, “do you think King Robert will honor this betrothal? Or will it be another pawn in his little game?”

Willem paused, then gave a dry chuckle. “If I know Robert Baratheon, he’ll probably forget the betrothal as soon as he gets drunk. But Rhaenys and Cregan have the advantage of being tied to two powerful houses. That’s something even Robert can’t ignore for long.”

Rhaella smiled darkly. "That’s something," she agreed, "but I’ll still keep an eye on them. And on the Usurper."

With a sigh, Rhaella turned back toward the heart of Dragonstone, her mind already planning the next steps. A Stark-Targaryen alliance? It could be the key to everything. But only if she could make sure it didn’t end up burning her family again.

“Well,” she said to Willem, her voice now taking on that cool, commanding tone she had perfected, “we’ll just have to see how well they can weather the storm, won’t we?”

—

In the sun-scorched halls of Sunspear, where the heat wrapped around them like a thick blanket, Doran Martell sat with all the grace of a man who had spent decades mastering the art of waiting. His hands, smooth and deliberate, rested on the wooden table, as if the world could be held in place with just a gentle touch. Across from him, his younger brother Oberyn lounged like a cat who had just eaten the canary—leisurely, confidently, with that wicked, amused grin he wore like a permanent accessory.

“Did you hear the latest from the North?” Doran asked, his voice as cool and unruffled as the shaded stone walls surrounding them. His eyes, sharp as ever, flickered briefly over the pile of letters on the table, but it was clear his thoughts were elsewhere, navigating the webs of politics that stretched all the way from the icy wastes of Winterfell to the burning sands of Dorne.

Oberyn raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a grin that was all mischief. “If you’re talking about the little Stark boy suddenly inheriting Winterfell—what is he now, two? Three?—I’ve heard the rumors. Though I’m still not sure whether the North is in the hands of children or wolves these days.”

Doran didn’t smile, but there was something in his eyes—mild amusement, perhaps a touch of weariness. "Cregan Stark. The new Lord of Winterfell. He’s betrothed to our niece, Rhaenys. And yes, they are both practically children—yet still, the Starks think this will solidify their power."

“Ah, yes,” Oberyn said, letting out a laugh that was half scoff, half disbelief. “A Stark lord and a Targaryen princess, both barely able to walk or talk. How romantic. Betrothal of the century.” He gave an exaggerated sigh, clasping his hands over his heart. “A match made in the nursery, I’m sure.”

Doran let the moment hang for a beat before speaking, his voice softer now, more deliberate. "It’s a marriage of convenience, brother. One of many. Robert Baratheon is trying to secure his claim to the throne, but he's also trying to negate the Targaryen claim. He's playing a dangerous game. Cregan Stark’s betrothal to Rhaenys is an attempt to remove her from the board. But beneath it all, it’s a political maneuver.”

Oberyn shrugged, his lips curling again into that dangerous grin. “So it’s not love, then? Damn, what a shame.” He leaned back in his chair, eyeing his brother. “The North must be absolutely thrilled to have a toddler in charge. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to add a princess to the mix, especially when she’s only four.”

Doran’s eyes, still calm, flickered with something akin to sadness. "You’re missing the point, Oberyn. Rhaenys has been dealt a difficult hand. She has no choice in this betrothal, but it must be made for the good of the realm. For now, all we can do is make sure she grows strong."

“Strong, huh?” Oberyn snorted. “Do you really think this little Stark, with all his cold northern manners, will know how to handle a Targaryen?” His tone was dark now, more venom than jest. “What’s next? We’re going to send Aegon to the Citadel and have him learn how to burn books?”

“I trust the Starks will honor their word,” Doran said, the words heavy with experience. "Ashara Dayne is Cregan’s mother. You know how important she is to Elia. Rhaenys will not be mistreated. Not by them. Not by anyone." His gaze hardened slightly as he continued, voice low. “But we must be cautious. Robert Baratheon... he needs peace. But his version of peace doesn’t always look like ours.”

Oberyn raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I see. Robert wants peace? That’s rich. The man who drinks like a fish and swings a warhammer like it’s his only personality trait?”

Doran’s lips curled just slightly in a rueful smile. "He may be many things, Oberyn. But you underestimate him at your peril. He’s a king, and kings need unity—no matter how much he hates it. The Starks and the Targaryens will have to play nice, even if they’re both as stubborn as a mule and as cold as Winterfell in the dead of winter.”

“And Rhaenys?” Oberyn pressed, his voice suddenly quieter, the playfulness gone. "She’s going to just sit there and smile as she’s handed to a Stark who can barely speak?"

Doran’s fingers tapped the table gently. "Rhaenys is stronger than you think. She has her mother’s fire, and Elia’s blood. We can only hope she won’t inherit too much of our fire, though." He paused, giving his brother a knowing glance. "One Martell temper is enough for the world, don’t you think?"

Oberyn let out a laugh, though it had no mirth in it. “If she does inherit it, we might just have to keep Winterfell warm for a little while longer.”

Doran sighed, his expression turning serious once more. “We must be careful. Cregan Stark may be a child, but his house is not. Their alliances are strong, and Robert Baratheon... well, Robert is always a wild card. We can’t afford to let our guard down.”

Oberyn’s grin returned, but this time, it was sharp, almost dangerous. “Careful? When have we ever been careful?” He stretched lazily, a predator ready to pounce. “But fine, I’ll play it your way. For now. Let’s see if the little Stark can hold his own against a Targaryen. And if he can’t... well, we’ll be ready.”

Doran’s fingers drummed on the table, his gaze distant for a moment. “Yes. We will wait. But not for long. When the time comes, Rhaenys must be ready to face what the North throws at her. And we will make sure she knows who she truly is."

“Ah, yes,” Oberyn said, a wicked gleam in his eye. “A Targaryen is never just a pawn. They don’t take orders; they give them.”

"Exactly." Doran allowed himself a small, weary smile. “But if Cregan Stark thinks he can control her... he’s in for a surprise.”

Oberyn chuckled darkly. “A very unpleasant one.”

The two brothers sat in the quiet aftermath of their conversation, the weight of the world pressing down on them like the endless Dorne sun outside. Yet, despite it all, there was something in the way they held themselves—something unyielding, like the stone of Sunspear itself. They would wait. They would watch. And when the time came, they would strike.

—

The night in Oberyn Martell’s chambers was thick with the heat of the desert and the scent of burning incense. The flickering light from a golden lantern danced across the room like a playful ghost, throwing shadows on the walls as if the darkness itself was trying to keep up with Oberyn’s restless mind. Oberyn, leaning casually against a stone pillar with his arms crossed, looked far too serious for someone who was supposed to be enjoying the evening. His usual smirk, the one that made everyone a little nervous (and a little intrigued), had taken a backseat for the moment. His thoughts, sharp and calculating as always, were consumed with something a bit more serious than his usual flirty banter.

Across the room, Ellaria Sand sat sprawled on the large bed, her long, dark hair spilling around her like an untamed river. She looked at Oberyn with that dangerous mix of affection and amusement that only she could muster. She knew him too well, probably better than he knew himself. After all, who else could tolerate a man like Oberyn Martell and not end up throwing him out the window (which, honestly, would be a deserved fate, but still).

“You’re thinking about Winterfell again, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice a low, teasing hum. There was a hint of challenge in her tone, like she was daring him to admit it. It was a game they played—she baited, he toyed with the idea of a response, and it all danced around like some seductive, wicked waltz.

Oberyn’s lips curled into that lazy, dangerous smile of his, but his eyes stayed distant. “Of course I am. My sister and her children are in the icy clutches of the North, and, Cregan Stark is there too. The Lord of Winterfell. And he’s betrothed to Rhaenys.” He raised a brow, half-amused. “A match made in the snow. Quite the romantic one, isn’t it?”

Ellaria leaned forward, her dark eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him. “Do you think we should go?”

Oberyn’s eyes twinkled with that mischievous glint that always made him seem like he was a breath away from setting something on fire—or maybe just blowing something up for the fun of it. “Oh, we’re going. But not for the reasons you think.” He stepped closer, his voice turning softer, more dangerous, like a storm that was gathering just out of sight. “A Stark is a Stark, and we both know how they play their games. But my niece, Rhaenys…” His voice softened, like he was speaking of something too precious to treat lightly. “She has the blood of dragons in her veins. And I won’t have some northern lord thinking he can use her like a pawn in some little game.”

Ellaria raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “Ah, so it’s about Rhaenys, then?” She gave him a look that was almost too knowing for comfort. “Not about your sister? Not about Elia?”

Oberyn’s face flickered, just for a second, a shadow of grief crossing his features before the mask slid back into place. "Of course I miss Elia." His voice softened just a little, but it was a rarity for Oberyn to let any real vulnerability show. "But she’s safe now. And I’ll never waste time brooding over things that can’t be undone." He straightened, his fiery eyes returning to Ellaria, that familiar swagger coming back with a vengeance. "No, I’m more interested in seeing whether this Stark boy is worth his salt. If he’s not, I’ll make sure he knows the price of underestimating a Martell."

Ellaria snorted, clearly entertained by the image of Oberyn taking on the North’s mightiest house with nothing more than his razor-sharp wit and, of course, his ever-present knives. “And if he proves himself worthy? What then, my dear prince?”

Oberyn’s lips curled upward, a smile that was both wicked and impossibly charming. “Then we leave Winterfell, knowing we’ve kept an eye on our own. Simple as that.” He took a step toward her, and the air between them seemed to spark. “But, truth be told…” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I wouldn’t mind seeing the snow myself. There’s something about it that calls to me.”

Ellaria smirked, her eyes dancing with that mix of affection and something deeper, darker. She leaned forward, her lips brushing against his with the same fire she’d always matched him with. “A good reason to cross the entire Seven Kingdoms,” she murmured, before pulling back just enough to look at him more seriously, though the fire still flickered in her gaze. “But what if it all goes wrong, Oberyn? What if you get tangled in the politics of it all and end up in another war?”

Oberyn shrugged like the weight of kingdoms was nothing more than a passing breeze. “Then we burn it all down and start anew.” He spoke with that same confidence that had made him a legend across the Seven Kingdoms. There was no hesitation, no fear—just a promise in his voice that no one could ignore.

Ellaria looked at him, her lips twitching into a smile of admiration. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Oberyn’s grin widened, and this time, it was all confidence, all power. “I know. And that’s why you’ll never leave me.”

Her smile deepened, and her voice dropped to a seductive whisper. “Then show me, Oberyn Martell, that I’m right.”

And that was all the invitation Oberyn needed. The world outside their chambers might as well have stopped spinning, for all the care they gave it. The tension between them snapped like a cord pulled too tight, the playful banter turning into something far more primal, more desperate. Their lips collided, fierce and hungry, every kiss laced with that dangerous, addictive energy that had always defined them.

Their bodies moved together, a dance of fire and heat, as if they couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t burn together fast enough. Oberyn’s hands were everywhere—on her skin, in her hair, pulling her closer until the world outside ceased to exist. Every touch, every kiss was a promise, a challenge, a game neither of them had any intention of losing.

And as they tumbled onto the bed, the fire between them burned hotter than ever. In that moment, nothing else mattered. There was no political intrigue, no Stark boys or Targaryen bloodlines—just the two of them, lost in each other’s arms, burning through the night like the storm they were. And for tonight, at least, that was enough.

But knowing them, tomorrow would bring a new adventure—and probably a new fire to put out. But that was the thing about Oberyn Martell. He was always burning, always moving forward, and Ellaria Sand? Well, she was just the one to keep up with him.

General POV

Ned Stark leaned against the railing of the Winterfell training yard, pretending to look all stoic and grim, like he was the Regent to the Lord of Winterfell and not just a guy watching his nephew get his backside handed to him by a legendary knight. But, let’s be real—he was proud. The kid had guts. And a stubborn streak that, if not checked, might end up getting him killed one day.

But today? Today, young Cregan Stark was holding his own. Barely.

The boy was a whirlwind in the snow, his wooden practice sword flashing through the air like a comet on a collision course with greatness. Or maybe with a broken arm. Either way, it was an epic scene. Across from him stood Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, aka “The Guy Who Makes Everyone Else Look Like They’ve Never Held a Sword.” The man moved like a shadow in the snow, his every move calm and deliberate, but you could feel the lethal power underneath it all. He wasn’t trying to show off. He just did. It was unfair.

“Come on, Cregan!” Robb Stark, who was standing off to the side with all the intensity of a future lord, shouted from the sidelines, bouncing up and down like he might take up arms at any moment. “Watch his left! You’ve got him!”

Robb was eight, which meant he still had that youthful, unshakable belief that with enough enthusiasm, you could convince anyone to do anything. His face was flushed red with excitement as if he had just realized that winning meant he'd get to be the center of attention.

“Robb, shut it!” Arya chimed in, standing next to her twin sister with all the grace of a wild animal. Arya—who was six, with more determination than a charging bull and a mouth that never seemed to know when to stop—was bouncing on her toes, her eyes glued to the match. “Cregan’s got this. Just—aim for the knees, Cregan!”

Sansa, also six but with the poise of a young lady who had clearly never seen a rough day in her life, crossed her arms, looking entirely too composed for someone still in their formative years. “Don’t listen to Arya, Cregan. Knees? Honestly, how uncivilized. You’re facing the Sword of the Morning. Try not to embarrass us.”

Sansa’s nose wrinkled in distaste as she observed the chaos that was about to unfold. Arya stuck her tongue out in reply, which was probably not the most refined response, but hey, they were kids, and this was Winterfell. It wasn’t exactly the kingdom of etiquette.

But then Rhaenys Targaryen, the coolest eleven-year-old in the courtyard (not that anyone was keeping track), stepped in with a grin. She leaned in toward Arya and whispered, “For what it’s worth, I think the knee idea might just work. Not that I’m suggesting anything, but—” She raised an eyebrow dramatically. “It’s unorthodox. And that’s what makes it effective.”

Arya’s eyes sparkled, her grin widening. “Rhaenys gets me!”

Sansa, of course, rolled her eyes. “Honestly, I’m surrounded by barbarians.”

Meanwhile, Aegon Targaryen—who, at eight, still had that terrifyingly intense vibe of a kid who might have one day ruled all of Westeros (or just be really good at board games)—stood silently in the back. He wasn’t cheering, offering advice, or getting involved in the madness. He just watched. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his silver hair—so striking against the snowy backdrop—seemed almost too perfect. You could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he observed the sparring match with the calculating eyes of someone who knew exactly how it would end.

As the clash between Cregan and Ser Arthur continued, the crowd of Stark children seemed more like a bunch of cheerleaders with ADD. “Go Cregan! Show him who’s boss!” Robb shouted again, bouncing on his heels like an excited puppy.

Ned chuckled. He should’ve scolded them for being so loud—after all, he was supposed to be the grim lord of Winterfell. But... seeing them so invested, so full of energy, made his heart feel warm. He’d taken so much from this place, from his family, and to see them alive, thriving—well, it was worth everything. Even the occasional bout of chaos.

Speaking of chaos, Cregan was all over Arthur Dayne right now, trying to land a blow that, in all honesty, was never going to land. Arthur was a bloody legend, a knight who made killing seem like a dance. Every time Cregan swung his sword, Arthur sidestepped as if he were too busy thinking about the next hundred years to bother dodging. His blade swept through the air with such elegance that Cregan’s wild attacks couldn’t even come close.

But the kid didn’t quit. Oh no. He wasn’t just Stark stubborn; he had a bit of fire in him. A spark.

The sparring match continued with Arthur Dayne shifting into a flurry of strikes, faster and more fluid than before. Cregan’s grin started to fade, his movements slowing just slightly, but his eyes never lost the challenge. Every time Arthur’s blade flashed toward him, Cregan blocked or dodged, learning, adapting, never giving up.

And, despite everything, he did manage to land a blow—on Arthur’s shoulder, a glancing strike that made the legendary knight raise an eyebrow in approval.

“Not bad,” Arthur said, his voice as calm as a summer’s day, even though the fight had just gotten real. “Not bad at all. But remember—don’t commit to a strike until you’re sure. Even the smallest hesitation could be your undoing.”

Cregan smirked, wiping a bit of sweat off his forehead, “Wasn’t hesitation. I was just testing you.”

Arthur’s lips quirked into the faintest smile. “A strategist, eh? Well, that’s a good trait to have. Let’s see how long it lasts when I get serious.”

With that, the man unleashed a flurry of strikes, each one a blur of deadly grace. Cregan’s grin turned into sheer concentration. This was no longer about just fighting. This was about surviving.

Meanwhile, Arya, who couldn’t stand to just stand still, shouted again, “Remember, Cregan! Knees! The knees!”

Rhaenys slapped a hand over her face in a show of mock horror. “You’re going to give him terrible ideas, Arya. Stop. You’re not a strategist, you’re a menace.”

Ned snorted, fighting back a laugh. “I don’t know, Rhaenys. Maybe the knees are the secret. Cregan’s got more of his mother’s wit than his father’s temper.”

“Hey!” Arya snapped, glaring at her dad as if she’d just caught him talking about her. “Don’t blame me if you don’t have a plan. It’s totally working.”

Ned just smiled fondly at the chaos unfolding around him. If nothing else, the kids were unpredictable—and that might be their greatest strength. A stark contrast to the calm, collected nature of his brother Benjen or the cold, strategic mindset of their father.

“Alright, enough with the knees,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “Let the boy finish his fight.”

And that’s when Ser Arthur Dayne, looking like he’d just woken up from a nap, flicked Cregan’s sword aside with the ease of a master and tapped the boy’s shoulder lightly with his blade. “You did well, young Stark. Next time, aim for the throat.”

Cregan, panting but still grinning, gave a mock salute. “Next time, I’ll make you really work for it.”

The Stark kids, now circling around Cregan like a band of wildlings after a good hunt, all shouted their congratulations. Even Robb couldn’t stop grinning as he clapped Cregan on the back with all the enthusiasm of a future king.

Ned turned toward the castle.

The days ahead were full of uncertainty—his sister Lyanna’s return, the mystery of Jon’s origins—but one thing was clear: his family, this wild pack of Stark children, would be the future of Winterfell. And if they could survive the world outside, they'd rule it one day. Together.

The future of House Stark was as strong as the Northern winds, and no one was about to let that slip away. Not today. Not ever.

—

Cregan Stark’s POV

Okay, let me set the scene for you. I’m sweating like a pig on a summer day, my muscles feel like they’ve been turned into jelly by a hammer, and my practice sword feels heavier than a dragon's tooth. But there’s this stupid little grin on my face because, well, I just survived a sparring match with Uncle Arthur Dayne. Yeah, you know the guy—the one they call “The Sword of the Morning,” the guy who can probably chop a stone in half with his pinky. It wasn’t exactly a fair fight, but hey, I gave it my all.

I wiped the sweat off my face with the back of my hand, trying to look like I wasn’t about to drop dead on the spot. Uncle Arthur, however, didn’t even break a sweat. The man was practically glowing. I swear, he’s part human, part robot. Probably just made of titanium with a dash of pure legend mixed in.

“Good job, Cregan,” Uncle Arthur said, his voice like a warm breeze in the middle of a thunderstorm. Seriously, how does he make everything sound so effortless?

“Yeah,” I gasped, forcing out the words. “Thanks, Uncle.” I probably looked like I was dying, but I’d be damned if I let him see that.

He slapped me on the back so hard that I almost face-planted into the dirt. “You’ve got a lot of potential,” he said, eyes twinkling. “But remember, it’s not just about strength. Strategy matters too. And the next time you face someone like me—”

I shot him a grin before he could finish. “I’ll be sure to use the super-secret Cregan Stark strategy of run like hell and hope for the best.”

Uncle Arthur chuckled, and I swear it was like the world got a little brighter. Man, I really needed to work on my strategy, though. The only thing that saved me from getting absolutely destroyed today was the fact that I’m ridiculously stubborn, and also, you know, I’ve got a pretty wicked uppercut. No idea where that came from, but I was thankful for it.

And then, of course, I spotted her.

Rhaenys. Standing by the sidelines, smiling at me. As if I hadn’t just nearly collapsed on the training field, she looked like she’d just stepped out of a painting. I swear, if I could look at her all day, I would. She had this mischievous sparkle in her eyes that made my stomach do flips. She had no idea how much trouble she was causing me right now.

Uncle Arthur probably saw the way I was staring and gave me a look that screamed You’re an idiot, but I was too busy trying not to grin like a complete fool to care. My heart was doing this stupid thing where it was racing, and my legs felt like they might buckle any second. But yeah, I was playing it cool.

“Nice work,” she said, walking toward me. “You really held your own out there.”

I had to fight not to beam like an idiot. I did just survive a sparring match with Arthur Dayne, after all. But I settled for a casual shrug. “Yeah, well, it’s all in the technique. And, you know... not dying.”

She raised an eyebrow, and I could see the smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “You’re such a show-off.”

“Nope, not me,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Just... well-timed skill.”

Rhaenys shook her head, but I could see the little twinkle in her eyes. “I bet you’re dying for a nap, huh?”

“Definitely a nap,” I said with a laugh that was probably too loud for how exhausted I actually was. “Maybe a snack. And then a nap. A big one.”

She laughed softly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “You know, you can’t just sleep your way through life.”

“Sure I can,” I said, grinning. “It’s a strategy. I’ll call it the Cregan Stark method. Sleep and eat, and the world solves itself.”

She shot me a look that said she wasn’t buying it, but I could tell she was fighting back a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but I’m your ridiculous,” I said, making a show of puffing out my chest like I was some kind of hero. It’s the little things that keep you going, right?

Just as I was about to collapse into a pile of pure exhaustion, Uncle Arthur walked over with a knowing look in his eyes. “You’re stronger than I was at your age, Cregan,” he said, the compliment slipping out easily, like it was no big deal. “But you’ve got to remember that a sword doesn’t win wars. Strategy, speed... That’s how we win.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Uncle,” I said, knowing full well that if I didn’t get a nap soon, I was going to pass out mid-conversation.

Uncle Arthur patted me on the back again, this time gentler, and then he looked over at Rhaenys with that same twinkle in his eye. “Don’t let him get away with it. He’s got the brains, just needs the practice.”

“I know,” she said, eyes narrowing playfully. “That’s why I’ll be working him into the ground soon enough.”

Uncle Arthur gave a dramatic sigh, his expression going a little bit more serious. “I suppose someone needs to keep the boy in line. But I’ll leave it to you.”

“Gee, thanks, Uncle,” I muttered, but I couldn’t help but grin. If there was anyone who could keep me from being a lazy bum, it was Rhaenys.

“You’ll thank me later,” she said, brushing past me with that confident swagger she always had.

I didn’t even try to keep the grin off my face this time. “I can’t wait.”

And then, before I knew it, the day’s exhaustion hit me like a sack of bricks. All the adrenaline, all the pride, it all just faded away and left me barely able to keep my eyes open. But I wasn’t worried. I was going to take a nap, get a snack, and then—once I had some energy back—get to work. Because there was always work to do.

“Alright,” I said, letting out a big yawn. “Lead the way, milady.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was impossible to miss. “You really are something else, Cregan Stark.”

“Yup, and you love me for it,” I said with a wink.

She didn’t respond, but I could feel the heat in her gaze as she nudged me toward the castle.

As we walked away, I felt that weird feeling again—like I wasn’t just living in the present, but that something bigger was coming. Like the North was calling me, and no matter how many naps I took, I was going to be ready when it came time to face it.

And I wasn’t alone. I had family. I had Rhaenys. And maybe, just maybe, I had what it took to make sure the North stayed safe.

But first... sleep. Definitely sleep.

—

Alright, picture this: I'm nine years old, which is, like, prime time for being awesome at everything. No big deal, right? I mean, most kids my age are just trying to figure out how to avoid getting their heads stuck in a bucket or how to get the last piece of pie at dinner. Me? Well, I’m off here playing some twisted game of "Guess the Memory" in my own head, which, spoiler alert, is a lot less fun than it sounds.

It all started one night, around midnight, when I woke up in a cold sweat, heart racing like I’d just run a marathon—except I wasn’t exactly running anywhere. I was staring at my bedroom ceiling, trying to make sense of this nagging feeling in my brain that something was very, very off. Imagine the worst case of déjà vu—like the kind where you suddenly realize, "Wait, didn’t I eat that weird taco last Tuesday, and why do I feel like it’s haunting me in my sleep?" Except in my case, it wasn’t a taco. It was something way worse, something way older, like a cursed memory card I accidentally plugged into my brain.

So there I was, lying in bed, blinking like I’d just woken up from a bad nap. And then—BAM! The memories hit me. Not just any memories, though. Oh no. These were the memories of a guy named Tom Riddle. Yeah, you might’ve heard of him—he's also known as Voldemort. You know, the "He Who Must Not Be Named" guy, who thought wearing snake-themed robes made him look terrifying but just ended up making polite dinner conversations super awkward. Turns out, this guy’s life was way more disturbing than I ever could’ve imagined. And apparently, I inherited all of it. All of it. The creepy, the twisted, and the seriously messed-up parts of his life, as if someone dropped an old, haunted memory book into my head. Thanks, universe.

So here’s the kicker: when Voldemort’s soul shard got destroyed (don't ask how, it’s a long story, and I’m still not sure how that happened), I ended up with his memories. Yep, every single one of them. And when I say "every single one," I mean that in the "No one needs to know how creepy this guy's past was" kind of way. It was like someone set me up with a VIP pass to Voldemort’s very private, very unpleasant highlight reel.

Now, most people would’ve probably just crawled into bed, grabbed a bottle of Firewhisky, and decided to leave it to some poor professional to clean up the mess. Not me, though. I’m a Stark. And if there’s one thing a Stark knows how to do, it’s deal with things head-on. So I did what anyone would do in my situation. I decided to sort through this mess like a detective, but, you know, without all the fancy magnifying glasses or trench coats.

At first, it wasn’t easy. Imagine getting these memories of someone who not only was a literal dark lord (hello, bad PR) but also had a thing for making life extremely complicated for everyone around him. And I’m over here trying to figure out why I suddenly know how to curse people with snake venom, or what the deal is with this weird obsession Voldemort had with making everyone bow to him like some sort of magical dictator.

But as much as I hated this whole situation, I didn’t curl up into a ball and sob. Well, okay, maybe once or twice. But I didn’t let it control me. I wasn’t about to become a dark lord with a wardrobe problem just because some creepy old memory decided to hitch a ride in my brain. Instead, I decided to do the unthinkable: I was going to use everything I’d learned from Voldemort’s mistakes to make sure I didn’t mess up the world.

It took some time. Lots of time. Like, I spent hours thinking about how to make my life better—not just about surviving, but about actually doing something. And while I was sifting through these memories, I came across some seriously useful knowledge. I mean, let’s be honest here: Voldemort may have been a terrible person, but he was a genius at certain things. Politics, strategy, magic—you name it. Sure, most of his strategies were disastrous for everyone involved, but I could take the useful stuff and leave the snake obsession out of it.

And then there was the magic. The Deathly Hallows, the bits about surviving death, how to play the game of life, and all that. And hey, if I wasn’t using it to turn into an evil overlord, that knowledge had potential. A lot of potential. So instead of running around in circles shouting “I WILL FIX EVERYTHING!” like some over-the-top hero, I decided to take the much smarter route. I’d use what I’d learned to make the future better. Not just for me, but for everyone around me.

But I wasn’t about to dive headfirst into some boring, mystical quest where I had to fight evil dragons (though that does sound kinda cool). No, I was going to be smart about this. I was going to take a real, solid approach and make sure the world didn’t end up in the hands of people like Voldemort—or worse, me.

But before I could get all philosophical and overly dramatic about my grand plan to save Westeros (or whatever you want to call it), I realized that I was probably overdue for a nap. I mean, you can’t save the world on an empty stomach or a tired brain. That’s just science.

So I closed my eyes, let my mind wander into the deep abyss of sleep, and thought—just for a moment—about how it wasn’t just about surviving anymore. It was about making things better. But first, I’d need to sleep off all these dark memories. One step at a time, right?

And that, my friends, is how a nine-year-old Stark—who might have a little too much of Voldemort's memories in his head—decides to make the world a better place.

Oh, and note to self: Never eat meat pie at 2 a.m. It might mess with your memory, and you really don’t want that.

—

Alright, buckle up. This is going to be a wild ride. You might be wondering how a nine-year-old kid like me—Cregan Stark, Master of the Savage Burn and all-around future legend—ended up with the mind of Tom Riddle in my head. Well, trust me, it’s not your average “guy-wakes-up-with-mysterious-powers” story. It’s more like, “guy-wakes-up-with-the-memories-of-the-most-notorious-dark-wizard-ever,” which, spoiler alert, is a little bit less glamorous than it sounds.

First, let’s get something straight: Voldemort, the big bad snake-loving dude from my memories, wasn’t exactly the poster child for “How to Be a Charming and Well-Adjusted Human Being.” No, he was more of the “lonely orphan who grew up to be a homicidal genius” type. Honestly, if there was a brochure for how to make every wrong choice in life, Tom Riddle would be the guy handing it out with a creepy smile.

And speaking of creepy, let’s talk about his childhood. The guy spent his formative years in Wool’s Orphanage, which was basically the Hogwarts equivalent of a really sad sock drawer. No love, no affection, just a bunch of miserable kids and a headmistress who looked like she hadn’t smiled since the invention of the toothbrush. Naturally, Tom didn’t think, “Hey, maybe I should work through my abandonment issues like a normal person.” No, instead, he thought, “Why not take over the world with magic and snake-themed fashion?” Which, let’s be honest, wasn’t the most thought-out plan. But hey, at least he was ambitious.

So, I’m sitting here with all of his memories, flicking through his twisted little autobiography like I’m reading a horror novel I never asked for. And that’s when I stumbled upon something that made me stop mid-thought and go, “Wait—WHAT?” Apparently, Voldemort’s dark arts weren’t limited to just curses and death—no, no. The guy was also into brewing moonshine. Yes, you heard that right. Tom Riddle, Dark Lord Extraordinaire, had a side hustle in the black-market alcohol industry. I mean, who knew? As a 10-year-old, he was out there making whiskey in the backstreets of London like some kind of distillery entrepreneur/mobster. Forget the Killing Curse—this guy could’ve been the next big thing in the liquor business. Imagine a bar called “The Dark Lord’s Distillery.” People would’ve loved it.

So there I was, staring at this piece of Voldemort's history, thinking to myself, “If he can make moonshine, why can’t I make something that actually benefits people?” The idea hit me like a bolt of lightning (or maybe a bolt of whiskey)—I could revolutionize the economy of the North! Instead of becoming the next Dark Lord with a snake obsession, I could become the King of Craft Liquor.

But let’s not get too carried away. Making whiskey might’ve been cool and all, but there was still that little problem with the fact that the North was freezing, barren, and mostly filled with people who looked like they could use a vacation. And that’s when I decided to tackle the next big problem: farming.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Farming? Seriously? Aren’t you supposed to be out there fighting dragons or, I don’t know, taking down evil wizards or something?” Yeah, well, fighting dragons and taking down evil wizards sounds great in theory, but I’d spent a good portion of my life dealing with Voldemort’s messed-up memories, and I realized that if I wanted to make a real change, I had to start with the basics. And what’s more basic than crops, right?

I started reading up on farming like my life depended on it. Irrigation systems, crop rotation, soil enrichment—I dove in. And, yeah, at first it felt like watching grass grow (which, by the way, is about as exciting as watching paint dry, but in a field, with mud), but as soon as I started applying some of the ancient farming knowledge I’d found in my weird library of memories, things started to change.

The crops started growing like I’d given them a pep talk. Irrigation? We had that running smoother than a Quidditch match in the middle of summer. And suddenly, the North wasn’t just cold and barren—it was a magical garden of vegetables, grains, and, of course, whiskey. Yeah, we made some fine stuff. Imagine it: the first distillery in the North, growing crops on land that had once been as dead as Voldemort’s social life.

I wasn’t just some nine-year-old kid running around with a stick pretending to be a hero. No, I was the Master of the Savage Burn, turning the North into something it had never been before: a place of life, hope, and a bit of alcohol. And let me tell you, it felt pretty darn good.

Of course, I wasn’t done yet. There were still dragons to slay (metaphorically), dark forces lurking in the shadows (probably), and a lot of paperwork involved in running a kingdom (boring, but necessary). But I wasn’t going to let that stop me. Because, in the end, I wasn’t going to let the mistakes of some psycho who thought he was the king of evil define my life. I was going to carve my own path—one where the land was fertile, the people were happy, and the whiskey flowed freely.

And if Voldemort ever showed up in my dreams again? Well, he could just deal with the fact that I was out there winning at life, one crop at a time. Take that, dark lord.

—

Alright, here’s the thing. Being nine years old and having the Elder Wand at your disposal is a lot. It’s like being handed a flamethrower when all your friends are still playing with sparklers. You don’t really mean to burn everything down, but one slip and—oops—there goes the village. Not that I’d ever do something like that. Cough. Well, mostly.

Anyway, let’s start with the coast. Picture it: a long stretch of gloomy beaches, winds that could cut your face off, and rocks sharp enough to make even a giant go, “Nah, I’ll take the long way around.” And that’s before you factor in the fact that there are spies and assassins sneaking around trying to mess with me. Do I look like someone who just sits around waiting for danger? No. I’m Cregan Stark, and danger comes to me, whether it likes it or not.

So, I set up some wards along the coast. Now, these weren’t your basic “spooky, run-of-the-mill curses” that get thrown around. No, I’m talking about magic that messes with your head. One minute, you’re sneaking around trying to kill me or whatever, and the next? You’re thinking, “Wait, didn’t I just see a bakery on the corner? Oh, and that squirrel looked like it needed a hug. Maybe I should check on it.” Yup, it’s like the world’s most confusing detour. Meanwhile, I’m sitting back going, “Nah, not today, buddy. Try again in another life.”

And then there’s Winterfell. You’d think the place would be fine just sitting there, cold and intimidating, but that’s not how I roll. I’m not about to wait for some idiot to slip through the cracks and mess with my family. So I went full Voldemort-nerd and layered that place in wards. And not just any wards. These were the kind of wards that could read your soul. Or at least check your intentions. So if you’re a random person wandering up, and you’re planning on doing something dumb like, say, trying to kill me or steal the family silver? Suddenly, you’re hit with a wave of thoughts like, “Wow, this was a really bad idea. I’m just gonna turn around and go back to wherever I came from.”

I know, I know. You’re probably thinking, “Cregan, how is a nine-year-old pulling this off?” And fair question. Here’s the thing: it’s called the Elder Wand, and it’s basically magic’s version of a cheat code. I got it for my fifth nameday. Talk about a birthday present. Most kids get toys or maybe a pet. I got a weapon that could rewrite reality. Big difference, right?

With that thing, I wasn’t just setting up wards; I was turning Winterfell into a freakin’ fortress. It’s like I had all the answers to every test I’d never studied for. Need a protective charm? Done. Want a magic potion that makes even Voldemort’s terrifying face look like a teddy bear? No problem. And as an added bonus, I could grow crops in the North like they were the last thing standing between me and a potato famine. That was actually Voldemort’s idea—he had some weird knowledge about potions that also happened to work on farming. I guess when you’re trying to rule the world, you’ve got to get the basics down.

So, while Winterfell was being transformed into a magical paradise of wards and crops, I thought, “Hey, why not make it even more fun?” That’s when I went to visit Aunt Lyanna and Cousin Jon at Greywater Watch. You know, just casually dropping by like it’s no big deal. But then I had a brilliant idea. How do you keep people from recognizing them? You don’t just walk around with a giant “DON’T LOOK AT ME” sign. No, that’s too obvious. I went with something a bit subtler: enchanted necklaces.

These weren’t your run-of-the-mill jewelry, though. They were wolf-head necklaces, but with a catch. If you weren’t in on the big family secret, you’d see Jon and Lyanna, and then—poof—forget what they looked like the second you turned around. It was like magic brain erasers without the awkward “Did I just blank out for a second?” feeling. Jon could go around being all mysterious and brooding, and no one would even know his name.

Now, you’re probably asking, “Cregan, how do you even know this stuff?” Well, let’s just say Voldemort’s memories have come in handy. No, I didn’t get the whole “Dark Lord” thing (who needs snakes when you’ve got a wolf?), but I did pick up some of his useful skills. Like brewing potions that could probably turn your worst day into a mild inconvenience or setting up charms that could protect a fortress the size of Winterfell. And no, I didn’t need a giant army of Death Eaters to pull it off. Just the Elder Wand and my charm.

So yeah, with my new magical genius (thank you, Voldemort), I turned Winterfell from “cold, dreary, and kinda terrifying” into “safe, prosperous, and a place where people actually smile without worrying about an ice monster showing up at dinner.” I wasn’t just defending the North from threats. I was making sure it stayed strong enough to thrive no matter what.

And honestly, there’s nothing quite as satisfying as walking around, watching people harvest crops that are magically thriving, knowing full well that you’ve got the entire place protected from spies, thieves, and, well, any magical assholes who decide to show up. Oh, and let’s not forget—I did it all while looking like the baddest nine-year-old this side of the Wall.

I mean, who else could make farming cool? Seriously.

General POV

Winterfell’s courtyard was buzzing with a type of energy Cregan Stark wasn’t entirely sure how to process. It wasn’t the usual chaotic hustle of soldiers preparing for war or servants running around like chickens with their heads cut off. No, this was more like the calm before a storm—a storm made of hugs and awkward family reunions. Wonderful. Just the kind of day Cregan Stark, 9-year-old Lord of Winterfell, was totally prepared for.

Standing with his hands clasped behind his back (because that’s what “serious” lords did, right?), Cregan tried his absolute hardest to look like he knew what was going on. Which, honestly, he didn’t. But as far as he could tell, no one else was stepping up to the plate. So, he was just gonna roll with it. "Look confident," his brain said. "Keep it cool," it added. Easy, right?

Beside him was Rhaenys Targaryen, his betrothed, looking every bit the future queen of Westeros. She was calm and collected, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that made it clear this wasn’t her first reunion either. Rhaenys, who was already 11 but somehow carried herself like someone twice her age, shot him a knowing smile. Her lips said one thing—“Don’t screw this up, Cregan,”—but her eyes said “I’m just here for the drama.”

And on the other side of Cregan stood his mother, Ashara Dayne. She looked like she had everything under control—like she always did—her sharp, graceful demeanor making it clear that if this family reunion went off the rails, it wouldn't be her fault. Nope. Not Ashara. Of course, the second Cregan glanced at her, he could practically hear her mental commentary: “Don’t screw this up, Cregan.”

Of course, today of all days, they had to welcome home Aunt Lyanna. The Lyanna Stark, the one who was "dead," and yet here she was—alive and well, riding into Winterfell like some kind of legendary hero, disguised as a humble septa, obviously. How did no one see that coming? Seriously, it was like the plot twist of the century, but without the dramatic music.

And then there was Jon. His cousin. Or, uh, Rhaenys' half-brother. That was still a bit complicated. He was standing next to Lyanna, looking like a young Targaryen—tall, lean, and absolutely impossible to miss. His violet eyes screamed “I’m secretly the son of a dragon and a Stark” in a way that made Cregan want to simultaneously laugh and roll his eyes. As for the resemblance to House Stark? Yeah, Jon definitely had it—especially that brooding, mysterious vibe that made him look like he was born to stand in front of a fireplace, looking all moody.

Cregan took a deep breath, hoping his “I’m totally the Lord of Winterfell” act would hold up. But inside? He was feeling like a kid trying to play grown-up in front of an audience. Don’t mess this up. Don’t mess this up.

“Welcome to Winterfell,” Cregan said, trying to sound all authoritative, though he was kind of worried he might accidentally break something in the process. “We are honored to have you here.”

Lyanna’s eyes shimmered with emotion, and she shot him that look—the kind that screamed, “You’re a Stark, so I’ll pretend I’m not about to cry in front of you.” Which, of course, made Cregan feel like the worst person alive, because the last thing he wanted was for her to cry. He was barely holding it together himself.

“It’s good to be home,” she said, her voice thick with the weight of years. Cregan swore he could hear the ‘before I ran away and totally messed everything up’ in there, but he didn’t say anything. That was definitely not something you pointed out at a family reunion.

And then, boom—the hug.

Lyanna practically launched herself at Ned. Her brother. The one she’d been away from for all these years, and now, apparently, he was getting a full-blown Lyanna Stark bear hug. Cregan could only stand there awkwardly, looking like someone who’d accidentally walked into a room full of people crying about a puppy.

Ned, ever the stoic Stark, wrapped his arms around his sister like it was just another Tuesday. Except, Cregan could tell his uncle was holding back some tears. Not that anyone would admit it. Starks don’t cry, they just… they just look moody and occasionally punch things, right?

“I’ve missed you,” Lyanna said, her voice breaking as she pulled back. “It’s good to be back where I belong.”

Cregan had to fight the urge to shift his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. He wasn’t really the hugging type, and emotional reunions? Yeah, those weren’t on his list of things he could handle without wanting to burn something to the ground. (Literally. He’d learned how to do that with a flick of his wrist by now.)

Meanwhile, Rhaenys, ever the drama queen (and yes, Cregan absolutely loved her for it), couldn’t resist leaning over and whispering in his ear, “Are you going to cry, too?”

“Me? Cry?” Cregan shot her a look, though he had to admit, there was something in his throat making him feel… something. But no. He wasn’t crying. He was going to be a grown-up. He was definitely not crying. Nope. “I’m just—uh, testing my emotions,” he muttered, trying to sound authoritative and failing.

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s one way to do it.”

Jon, ever the brooding mystery child, was standing back with Lyanna, arms crossed, like he’d just walked out of a medieval emo music video. Seriously, the kid was eight but already had a whole “dark and tortured soul” vibe going. He really needed to stop looking like he was about to brood into the sunset.

Ashara, who had somehow managed to look elegant the entire time, leaned down and whispered to Cregan, “Get your head on straight, my son. Don’t ruin this.”

It wasn’t until after the hug-fest that Cregan realized: Oh, right, I’m supposed to be in charge of this family now. No pressure, right?

At that moment, Jon caught his eye. And for a split second, Cregan saw something in those violet eyes—something that said “Yeah, we’re both weird. But we’re in this together.”

It was, of course, incredibly awkward. But hey, it was family, right?

—

Alright, folks, gather 'round. You’re about to witness the weirdest family reunion of all time, with a side of awkwardness and a generous helping of emotional overload. Picture this: Benjen Stark—Ned Stark’s usually stoic younger brother—has had the emotional walls around his heart smashed in spectacular fashion. He practically lunges at Lyanna, and for once, his face isn’t a stone-cold mask. It’s soft. And maybe a little… teary? But who can blame him? They haven’t seen each other in, what, a few decades? They hug like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Then, as if on cue, a whole family of Starks decides that their emotional walls need to come down, too. Robb, Arya, Sansa—there they are, standing there looking like they’ve just walked into an episode of Keeping Up with the Starks.

Robb’s the first to step forward like the little peacekeeper he is. “Welcome to Winterfell, Aunt Lyanna,” he says, his grin a little stiff, but you know what? He’s trying. It’s adorable.

And then, Jon—poor, socially awkward Jon—is standing there like a deer in headlights, probably trying to figure out if this is actually his family or if someone slipped him a bad copy of the family reunion script. He glances around nervously, like he’s wondering if someone’s going to pull a fast one on him and shout, “Gotcha! This is all a prank!”

Cregan, who’s nine years old and somehow already a master of the Savage Burn, gives Jon the most encouraging thumbs-up ever. It’s the kind of thumbs-up that says, “You’re gonna be okay, kid.” Jon, not entirely convinced but desperate for anything to feel normal, manages a small smile and mumbles, “It’s nice to meet you.” Yeah, Jon. It’s definitely nice to meet them, even if your awkwardness is radiating off you like a furnace.

Arya, of course, has zero time for any of this awkwardness. She darts forward with all the enthusiasm of someone who’s just discovered a new toy. “Are you really a wolf-blood?” she asks, practically vibrating with excitement. Her wide eyes show she’s about five seconds away from grabbing a map to track down any and all wolves.

Sansa, ever the lady, curtsies with the grace of someone who’s been trained by the gods of royal etiquette. Her smile is polite, just the right amount of stiff, like she’s rehearsed this moment in front of a mirror. “Welcome, Aunt Lyanna,” she says, in the soft, sweet voice that probably belongs to someone far more regal than a six-year-old.

Lyanna, totally overwhelmed by the sheer Stark-ness of it all, takes it in. Her heart feels like it’s going to burst, not because she’s suddenly surrounded by a lot of family, but because this is the life she should have had. “Thank you, all of you,” she says, blinking away a few tears. “I’m so happy to be here, with my family.”

And then—just when you think this emotional rollercoaster can’t get any more intense—Elia Martell walks in. Oh, yeah. Just casually. She’s standing behind Ser Arthur Dayne like the best bodyguard-slash-best-friend combo you could ever dream of.

Elia and Lyanna share one of those long, meaningful looks that’s packed with more history and unspoken words than any amount of conversation could ever manage. You know the kind. The kind that makes everyone else uncomfortable, but you can’t stop watching because you’re dying to know what’s going on.

Then Elia steps forward, her voice low and a little rough, but that’s what happens when you’re so used to walking through life like you own it. “Lyanna,” she says, just her name, but it’s everything.

And, well, Lyanna’s not exactly known for keeping it together when it comes to Elia. She’s the one person in the world who makes her lose every ounce of composure. So, she rushes forward, pulls Elia into the kind of hug that makes you believe in love and soulmates and all those things you pretend aren’t real but secretly hope for. “I’ve missed you so much,” Lyanna whispers.

Meanwhile, Jon and Cregan are just standing there, totally unsure of what’s going on. But Cregan, little savage that he is, simply raises an eyebrow and glances at Jon. “Yeah, kid. Get used to it. It’s about to get weirder.”

Ned, ever the grounding force, steps forward and clears his throat like a man who’s about to give a speech that’s both fatherly and entirely practical. “Let’s go inside,” he says, his voice deep and sure, carrying that Sean Bean-esque charm. “We have much to catch up on and many stories to share.”

And Cregan? Well, Cregan—being the little badass he is—looks up at the rest of his family with a grin that’s pure mischief. His nine-year-old self has just witnessed a level of emotional chaos that would’ve been overwhelming for anyone older, but he just stands there, wide-eyed and looking like the future’s not so bad after all.

Maybe, just maybe, they’ve all got a chance to live openly, without any more secrets.

—

The morning sun stretched across the sea in streaks of gold, like it was trying to impress someone, but really, it was just a little too late to fix the hot mess that was about to happen. Euron Greyjoy, Captain of Silence, self-declared king of the Iron Islands, and all-around nightmare in a leather coat, stood at the prow of his flagship with a grin that looked like he’d just swallowed a whole chicken and was savoring the bones.

His crew, the finest collection of unsavory characters you could ever find if you were hunting for trouble in a very specific, very dangerous catalog, scrambled to get things moving. The Silence sliced through the water like it had a vendetta against the waves, and knowing Euron, it probably did.

“Ready the men,” Euron barked, his voice smooth as silk—except if that silk was really rough around the edges and had been soaked in cheap wine and bad decisions. His crew, which looked like a bunch of pirates who had been too lazy to clean up after their last raid, swarmed around him, ready to kill, loot, and break things like they had nothing better to do. And honestly? They didn’t.

The ships surged forward, and Euron’s grin grew. It wasn’t just smug anymore—it was positively giddy. The Silence and its crew had one mission: to ruin the Lannisters' day. And by “ruin,” I mean “turn Lannisport into a flaming wreck.”

“They won’t even know what hit them,” Euron muttered to himself, just loud enough for his second-in-command to hear.

“Are you sure, Captain?” his first mate asked, glancing nervously at the horizon. “The Lannisters—”

“Shut up,” Euron snapped, raising a hand. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. I asked if the men were ready.”

The first mate nodded quickly. “Aye, ready to burn the place down, Captain.”

“Good,” Euron said, clapping him on the back so hard the poor guy nearly fell overboard. "Let's give them a reason to start praying to whichever gods they think will save them."

Before the first mate could respond, there was a loud crash as an Ironborn ship collided with the first Lannister vessel in the harbor. It was like a wedding crashing—except instead of cake and champagne, there were axes, swords, and fire. Lots and lots of fire.

The sound of steel hitting steel was almost drowned out by the yells and curses of Lannister sailors, who were barely awake enough from their early morning wine to get a decent defense together. Euron, meanwhile, was having the time of his life, watching the chaos unfold like it was the world’s most entertaining play.

“Well, well, well,” he called to his men, hands on his hips like a proud schoolteacher. “Isn’t this just perfect? Look at them scatter. It’s like watching puppies try to fight a bear.”

The Ironborn crew roared with laughter, even as they hacked their way through the Lannister ranks, looting and setting things on fire as they went. Flaming arrows shot through the air, crashing into the sails and sending plumes of smoke billowing up like a firework show gone horribly, horribly wrong.

“Where’s the gold?!” one of Euron’s men yelled, his eyes gleaming.

“It’s all mine, you dolts!” Euron called back, raising his hands to the sky as if he were receiving the praise of a very unholy audience. “Gold, shiny things, pretty little trinkets! They’re all mine! And if you find something really nice, just hand it to me with a bow and a smile, and we’ll pretend I didn’t notice you taking half of it.”

Euron's men cackled, the sound echoing over the screams of the Lannister soldiers, who were now either drowning or running for their lives.

“That’s how it’s done, lads!” Euron shouted, spinning on his heels dramatically. “You think you can just show up at my doorstep and tell me what I can and can’t take? Oh, no. No, no. We take what we want. And right now, I want Lannisport.”

The Lannister fleet was going down faster than a tavern wench’s skirt after too much wine. Ships exploded, sending splinters and wreckage flying like fireworks. The fire spread, making everything look like a warzone in a very cinematic way.

“Take a good look at the wreckage, boys!” Euron shouted to his crew, his voice booming over the chaos. “This is what happens when you don’t pay respect to the Ironborn! You see this? This is what winning looks like! Not like those Lannisters who sit in their fancy chairs and talk about honor, and gold, and—”

“Captain!” someone interrupted, pointing at a ship that was still afloat but was now very much on fire.

“Ah, yes. That ship is going to be my new favorite thing,” Euron said with a smile that could’ve belonged to a shark circling prey. “And if anyone else sees anything shiny, I’ll take that too. And don't forget—if you touch my shiny things, I’ll cut off your fingers. Just a little reminder.”

As the Ironborn looted, burned, and conquered, Euron stood there, taking it all in. His grin never faltered. He was basking in it, like a cat in the sun. Or maybe more accurately, like a lion with a freshly stolen throne.

When the last of the Lannister ships sank beneath the waves, Euron turned to his crew, eyes gleaming with triumph. “Gather the spoils,” he ordered, cracking his knuckles with far too much satisfaction. “And if anyone even thinks about keeping something for themselves, remind them who’s in charge. And that would be me. I’ve been planning this moment for way too long.”

As the crew scrambled to collect their loot, Euron leaned on the rail of Silence, gazing at the flames that danced on the horizon. This was more than just a victory. It was a statement. A declaration. A message to the world that the Ironborn were back, and they weren’t just raiders—they were rulers.

“The Ironborn are back,” Euron muttered to himself with a smirk that could’ve split the sea in half. “And if they thought Balon was ambitious, they’re going to love me.”

With that, he turned toward the horizon, already planning his next conquest. Because in Euron’s world, the only thing better than taking a city was taking another one. And maybe, just maybe, burning it down.

—

Tywin Lannister’s study was less of a room and more of a war council disguised as an office. The bookshelves groaned under the weight of history, the fireplace crackled menacingly, and the golden lions embroidered on the tapestries seemed to flicker in the firelight, as if they were alive and really hoping someone would give them something to maul.

At the center of it all sat Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and the human embodiment of ‘Do not test me today.’ His green eyes scanned the parchment in his hands with all the warmth of a tax collector delivering bad news. His mouth was so thin it could have sliced through Valyrian steel.

“Summon my brothers,” he said, his voice sharp enough to shave with. “And my sons.”

First through the door was Kevan Lannister, because of course it was Kevan. He was the kind of guy who probably made to-do lists before breakfast. Dutiful, reliable, and forever the family’s most responsible adult. His expression darkened as he read the letter Tywin practically threw at him.

“The Ironborn?” Kevan muttered, like the words alone left a bad taste in his mouth. “They dared to attack Lannisport?” He exhaled, already rubbing his temples. “And under Balon Greyjoy’s lunatic of a brother, no less?”

“Yes, Kevan,” Tywin said, with the barely-contained patience of a man explaining long division to a particularly stubborn goat. “Because Balon himself would have been far too subtle.”

Before Kevan could respond, Jaime Lannister strolled in with all the urgency of someone arriving late to a party they didn’t want to attend in the first place.

“Heard the Greyjoys decided to play pirates again,” Jaime said, dropping into a chair like it had personally offended him. He raised his golden hand—the one that still felt more like a bad joke than a part of his body—and examined it like it was somehow more interesting than the news. “So, do we have a plan, or are we just skipping ahead to the part where we put Euron’s head on a spike?”

Tywin gave him The Look. You know, the one that had reduced entire noble families to nervous wrecks. The one that made even Cersei pause before talking.

“Jaime,” Tywin said coolly, “if you’re going to speak, try to contribute something useful.”

Jaime sighed theatrically. “Ah. That’s where I’ve been going wrong all these years.”

Before Tywin could dignify that with a response, the door swung open again, revealing a walking, talking manifestation of sarcasm.

Tyrion Lannister, age sixteen, four feet of sheer trouble.

“I received your kind invitation, Father,” Tyrion said, waltzing in with a goblet of wine he had very clearly stolen from the kitchens. He took a sip and smacked his lips. “You’ll be delighted to hear that I only had to threaten one servant to get here on time.”

Tywin’s jaw flexed. He did not roll his eyes, because Tywin Lannister did not roll his eyes. But the energy was there.

“Sit down,” he ordered.

“I’d rather stand,” Tyrion replied, taking another sip.

Kevan shot him a warning glance, but Tyrion just smiled, because consequences were for people who weren’t Lannisters.

The next arrival was Tygett Lannister, broader than his brothers, battle-worn, and radiating the distinct air of a man who really, really hated politics but had the misfortune of being born into a family that lived for it.

“Tygett,” Tywin said, inclining his head. “You were at Ashemark when the attack happened. What do you know?”

“That Euron Greyjoy is every bit as insane as the stories say,” Tygett said, crossing his arms. His leather doublet creaked in protest. “Burned the fleet. Raided the town. Killed anyone who didn’t move fast enough.” His mouth pressed into a grim line. “He’s making a statement.”

“He’s making a mistake,” Tywin corrected.

And then there was Gerion Lannister, who leaned against the doorway looking entirely too amused for someone who had just been summoned to a war council.

“So,” Gerion drawled, “when do we start burning their ships?”

Kevan sighed. Jaime smirked. Tyrion took another sip of wine.

Tywin exhaled slowly. “We don’t retaliate like some common sellsword company,” he said. “We respond with precision. With power. With finality.”

Gerion grinned. “Oh, so we burn all their ships. Got it.”

Tywin ignored him, because that was honestly the best strategy for dealing with Gerion. Instead, he turned to Kevan.

“Summon the bannermen. Every sword in the Westerlands will be ready to march within the fortnight.”

Kevan nodded, already mentally drafting the necessary letters.

Tywin turned to Tygett. “You will oversee the rebuilding of the fleet. We will have ships again, and quickly.”

Tygett gave a sharp nod.

Finally, Tywin turned to Jaime.

“You will lead the counteroffensive.”

Jaime blinked. “Against the Ironborn? With one hand? What part of ‘I am physically incapable of holding a sword properly’ are we skipping over here?”

Tywin’s expression didn’t waver. “I don’t need you to fight. I need you to lead.”

Jaime exhaled through his nose. “And here I was, hoping for an easy year.”

Tywin turned to Tyrion next. “You will go to King’s Landing and ensure the Crown funds this war. If the king complains, remind him that his throne is paid for with Lannister gold.”

Tyrion gave a mocking bow. “As you command, Father.”

And then Gerion raised a hand. “What about me? Do I get a cool mission?”

Tywin barely glanced at him. “You are going to find out everything there is to know about Euron Greyjoy. Every ship. Every move. Every ridiculous madman thought that passes through his skull.” His gaze was like a sharpened blade. “If we’re to kill him, I want it done properly.”

Gerion’s grin widened. “Oh, I like this plan.”

Tywin stepped back, surveying his family.

“The Greyjoys think they can wound the lion,” he said, his voice calm, assured, deadly. “They think themselves storms.” His gaze flickered to the map of Westeros spread out before him. “They will learn that the lion does not bow to the wind.”

The fire crackled behind him.

Outside, the ravens were already taking flight, spreading messages across the realm. Knights strapped on their armor. Soldiers sharpened their swords.

The Westerlands were preparing for war.

And the Ironborn?

They had no idea what was coming.

—

Riverrun was a stronghold straight out of a bard’s epic—majestic stone walls, a scenic moat, and the kind of defensive positioning that made besieging it a logistical nightmare. Inside, however, the grandeur ended at Lord Hoster Tully’s solar, where the lord himself was currently hacking up a lung between sips of wine and bouts of pointed sarcasm.

“Ah, the Ironborn,” Hoster rasped, waving the crumpled missive like it was a particularly offensive tax ledger. “Of course. Because what would the world be without a few salt-crusted lunatics reminding us that ships exist?” He took a deep breath, coughed violently, and then muttered, “I should’ve died a decade ago.”

Edmure Tully, his son and heir, straightened his shoulders, attempting to radiate leadership. He mostly radiated mild panic. “Father, we must respond quickly. We can’t allow the Greyjoys to raid our lands unchallenged.”

Brynden “Blackfish” Tully snorted from his place by the window, arms crossed, the very picture of a grizzled war veteran who had long since lost patience with… well, everything. “Yes, Edmure. Let’s ride to the coast and politely ask Euron Greyjoy if he wouldn’t mind dying for our convenience.”

Edmure scowled. “I’m serious, Uncle. If we don’t act, the Ironborn will see us as weak.”

Brynden rolled his eyes. “The Ironborn see anything without gills as weak. That’s not strategy, that’s a personality disorder.”

Hoster sighed dramatically, as if enduring the conversation itself was more exhausting than his failing lungs. “Edmure, let’s think before we charge off with all the tactical brilliance of a drunk hedge knight. The Ironborn want us to be reckless.” He gestured vaguely toward his goblet, which a harried servant rushed to refill. “A lesson, son—when you play against an idiot, don’t become one.”

Edmure’s mouth opened, possibly to argue, but Brynden clapped a hand on his nephew’s shoulder with the kind of force that suggested he wasn’t letting go anytime soon. “Look at it this way,” the Blackfish said. “If we rush out there like you want, we split our forces, leave the Riverlands exposed, and then we get to be remembered in the histories as the Tullys who made the Freys look competent.”

Edmure frowned. “We wouldn’t—”

“We would,” Brynden assured him. “And then I’d have to fake my own death just to avoid the embarrassment.”

“Enough,” Hoster grumbled, rubbing his temples. “Brynden, for the love of the gods, stop traumatizing my son. Edmure, stop making it so easy.” He leaned forward, suddenly looking like a man used to command. “We summon our bannermen. The Riverlords may hate each other with the passion of a bad marriage, but they will come for this.”

Edmure nodded, clearly relieved to have something to do. “And the Freys?”

Brynden let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Ah, yes. Walder Frey. Our trusted ally. By all means, Edmure, go to the Twins and ask for help. Just count your fingers when you leave.”

Hoster coughed into his sleeve. “Walder won’t play his usual games when the Ironborn are at his doorstep. Not unless he plans to marry off a daughter to Euron Greyjoy.”

Brynden smirked. “Well, that’d be the first time a Frey bride was the better end of a bargain.”

Edmure groaned. “Must we joke about everything?”

“Yes,” Brynden and Hoster said in unison.

The room descended into a flurry of motion. Couriers were dispatched, banners unfurled, armor polished at speeds that suggested someone had just realized Brynden was the type of man to inspect it personally. The Blackfish himself oversaw the defenses along the Red Fork, barking orders like a man who enjoyed making squires cry.

At one point, a young knight hesitated while assembling a shield wall. Brynden stepped up beside him, arms crossed. “If the Ironborn kill you because your shield is crooked, I’m not avenging you. Just so we’re clear.”

By nightfall, the Riverlands were officially mobilizing.

Standing atop the walls, Edmure watched as the first of their bannermen arrived, their sigils rippling in the torchlight. He shifted beside Brynden, who—despite his general air of disapproval—hadn’t actually left his nephew’s side all evening.

“Do you think we’ll win?” Edmure asked, voice quieter now.

Brynden adjusted his sword belt, gazing out over the growing force. “We have to,” he said. “Because if we lose, I’m going to have to listen to the Freys gloat, and I’d rather swim the Trident in full armor.”

And with that, the Riverlords prepared for war. The Ironborn thought they were raiding scattered villages and weak-willed nobility.

They were about to find out just how wrong they were.

—

The Ironborn Poke the Viper

In Dorne, where the sun could fry an egg on a shield and the air smelled like oranges, sea spray, and barely contained political scheming, the news of the Ironborn raids hit Sunspear with all the grace of a drunken sellsword crashing a noble feast.

Prince Doran Martell sat in his solar, reclining with the patience of a man who played politics the way other men played cyvasse—several moves ahead, with a touch of smug satisfaction. His fingers traced the rim of his goblet as he read the missive, his expression shifting ever so slightly from ‘mildly concerned’ to ‘someone just insulted my taste in wine.’

Arianne Martell, his daughter and the undisputed queen of exasperated sighs, paced in front of his desk, wearing the expression of someone this close to throwing something expensive. Her golden-brown eyes practically burned holes into the floor.

"The Ironborn think they can raid Dorne?" she demanded, her voice sharp enough to slice through Dornish steel. "Did they forget about the part where we live in a land of endless sand and sun? They must’ve roasted whatever few brain cells they had left!"

Areo Hotah, the human mountain with an axe, stood behind Doran like a very well-armed statue. He rarely spoke unless absolutely necessary, and even then, his words were measured, like he was rationing them for winter. "They do not need to conquer, Princess," he rumbled. "Only to steal and leave."

Arianne threw her hands up. "Oh, wonderful! So we’re just supposed to let them turn our coast into a shopping trip for their little murder spree?"

Doran exhaled through his nose—his version of an eye-roll. "No, Arianne. But neither will we respond like fools." He placed the missive down with the same delicacy one might use to set aside an overcooked piece of fish. "The Ironborn thrive on recklessness. Dorne thrives on patience."

"Father," Arianne said, pressing her hands against the desk and leaning in, "they thrive on the fact that nobody stops them. We could end this before it starts."

Doran, unimpressed, raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And how would you suggest we do that?"

Arianne straightened up, tossing her braid over her shoulder with the kind of confidence only a Martell could manage. "We take the fight to them. We sink their ships before they make landfall. We drag them through the sand, force-feed them their own salt pork, and send what’s left of them back to Pyke in a barrel."

Doran took a long sip of wine before setting the goblet down with the slow precision of a man contemplating whether his daughter was always this dramatic or if today was just special. "A creative approach," he said dryly. "However, I would prefer a plan that does not require sending Dornish troops to die on burning ships in the middle of the Sunset Sea."

Arianne groaned. "So instead, we sit and wait?"

Doran smiled, the kind of smile that made people very nervous. "No. We prepare. We set our traps, reinforce our ports, and remind the Ironborn that Dorne is not a place they can plunder without consequence." He turned to Areo. "Call the banners. Have our fleets patrol the coast. And send word to the Greenblood captains—we will be needing their ships as well."

Areo gave a solemn nod. If he approved of the plan, he didn’t say it, but then again, Areo didn't really do enthusiasm.

Arianne huffed but didn’t argue. At least, not immediately. "Fine," she said after a beat. "But if one of them does step foot on our shore, I want to be the first to introduce them to the concept of regret."

"Naturally," Doran replied smoothly. "I would expect nothing less."

Within hours, Sunspear buzzed like a kicked beehive. Messengers sprinted through the halls, scattering sand and overheard gossip. Armors were polished, spears sharpened, and warriors muttered Dornish curses that would make a Septa faint.

Down at the docks, Arianne strode along the piers, watching as the fleet was readied. She turned to Areo, who had materialized beside her in the way only a giant man in heavy armor shouldn’t be able to. "They say the Ironborn fear nothing," she said, crossing her arms.

Areo’s deep voice rumbled like distant thunder. "Then they have never fought a Martell."

Arianne smirked. "Good. Let’s show them why that’s a mistake."

Back in his solar, Doran sipped his wine and watched the horizon darken. The Ironborn had made their move. Now, it was Dorne’s turn.

And when a viper is patient, it is very dangerous.

Highgarden, where even the scarecrows had better fashion sense than most lords, was in an uproar. The fields were green, the air smelled like flowers and freshly baked bread, and somewhere in the castle, a bard was probably composing an epic about a particularly handsome knight falling in love with a particularly beautiful cheese platter.

But none of that mattered, because the Ironborn had decided to be a nuisance.

Lord Mace Tyrell, a man who always seemed one feast away from declaring himself King of the Banquet Table, stood in Highgarden’s grand hall, frowning at the letter in his hands. He furrowed his brows, stroked his mustache, and made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a kettle thinking about boiling.

His mother, Lady Olenna Tyrell—the Queen of Sass, the Mistress of Shade, and quite possibly the only person in Westeros who could defeat a dragon using just her wit—sat nearby, swirling a goblet of wine with the kind of patience usually reserved for dealing with unruly toddlers. Which, to be fair, described about ninety percent of the nobility.

“The Ironborn,” Mace said, finally finding his words. “They’re raiding the coast. Burning villages. Pillaging crops!”

Olenna, without looking up, took a delicate sip of wine. “And? Did they suddenly grow the ability to farm, or are they just stocking up for a particularly ambitious seafood festival?”

Mace puffed up his chest. "Mother, this is serious! The Reach is under attack!"

Olenna finally looked at him, eyes glinting like a knife disguised as a grandmother. "Mace, dear, I’d be far more concerned if you were under attack. The Ironborn at least have a shred of competence."

A few courtiers in the hall coughed awkwardly, trying (and failing) to hide their amusement. Mace, however, remained undeterred. He was a man on a mission. A mission that involved looking heroic while definitely not sweating through his fancy doublet.

“We must call the banners!” he declared, voice echoing dramatically.

Olenna tilted her head. "Are you asking for my permission or just practicing your King Robert impression?"

Mace blinked. "I—well—I mean—"

“Yes, yes, call the banners,” Olenna waved a hand dismissively. “And while you’re at it, make sure the soldiers have proper supplies. Nothing worse than an army with empty stomachs. Or, gods forbid, stale bread.” She took another sip of wine. “Honestly, Mace, stale bread has lost more battles than poor leadership. And that’s saying something.”

Mace nodded, pretending he had already thought of that. "Of course, Mother. We must ensure provisions are ready. Flour, cheese, wine—"

"Not too much wine," Olenna cut in. "We want them marching into battle, not singing bawdy songs and challenging trees to duels."

At this point, a particularly bold steward stepped forward and cleared his throat. "My lady, shall we also prepare the fleet?"

Olenna gave the man a look so dry it could have made the Dothraki Sea jealous. "The fleet?" she repeated. "Are we suddenly under the illusion that the Reach has a navy worth mentioning? Please, if the Ironborn even glance in the direction of our ships, they’ll sink from sheer embarrassment."

Mace, to his credit, tried to look undeterred. “Then we’ll fortify the coastline! Set up defenses! Send troops to—”

“Yes, yes, do all of that,” Olenna said, waving him off. “And do try not to look too surprised when someone competent takes over the actual strategy.”

Mace puffed up again, looking like a rooster who had just discovered his own reflection. "Mother, I am the Lord of Highgarden! It is my duty to lead!"

Olenna leaned forward, her gaze equal parts amused and exasperated. "Darling, you're a Tyrell. Your job is to grow food, throw grand feasts, and marry your children off to people more politically relevant than you. Leave the leading to someone who won't trip over their own sword belt."

A few hours later, Highgarden was a flurry of activity. Messengers galloped off with summons. Blacksmiths hammered away at armor and weapons. Soldiers prepared for war (and also made sure their hair was on point, because a Reach knight never charged into battle looking anything less than fabulous).

Mace paced back and forth in the hall, clearly debating whether or not to look brooding by a window. Eventually, he turned to Olenna. "Should I lead the charge myself?"

Olenna didn't even look up from her wine. "Darling, if you so much as stub your toe on the way to your horse, I fully expect you to write out a will and collapse dramatically."

Mace sighed but wisely chose not to argue.

As the sun set over the golden fields of the Reach, Highgarden prepared for battle. Well, mostly. Mace was preparing for battle. Olenna was preparing to watch him flounder. And the rest of the Reach was preparing to show the Ironborn why raiding a land full of well-fed, well-dressed, and well-motivated warriors was a terrible idea.

Because if the Ironborn thought they could just roll into the Reach like it was some defenseless fishing village, they were about to learn a very painful (and very well-organized) lesson.

—

Victarion Greyjoy vs. The Ocean (and a Ten-Year-Old’s Magic)

The Iron Victory groaned like an old man forced to wake up before noon. The ship lurched, its iron hull grinding against the waves as if the ocean itself had decided to throw a tantrum. The crew was officially Not Having A Good Time—the kind of bad time that involved muttered prayers, suspicious glances at the sky, and the creeping realization that maybe, just maybe, they shouldn’t have come here in the first place.

Victarion Greyjoy—Captain of the Iron Victory, Scourge of the Seas, and Self-Appointed Badass—stood at the helm with his signature scowl firmly in place. To be fair, it wasn’t much of a choice. His face had two settings: Scowl and Scowl But Angrier. Right now, he was firmly in the second category.

“Forward, you sea lice-infested bilge rats!” he roared, gripping the wheel as if sheer willpower could force the ship through the unnaturally still waters.

The problem? The ship wasn’t moving.

Or rather, it was moving about as fast as an old drunk stumbling home after a rough night at the tavern. Every gust of wind felt like a passive-aggressive slap to the sails, and the sea? The sea was too calm—which, for a bunch of Ironborn used to raging storms and waves that could drown lesser men, was somehow worse than an actual storm.

“We’re cursed,” muttered a deckhand named Harlon, his voice barely above a whisper. “The North hates us.”

“The North always hates us,” Victarion snapped, eyes locked on the misty coastline. “That’s the whole point of raiding it.”

Harlon wisely shut up, but the uneasy muttering didn’t stop.

Victarion ignored them. He was a Greyjoy. A Reaver. Brother to the King of the Iron Islands. The Sea bowed to him, not the other way around.

…Or at least, it was supposed to.

The Iron Victory lurched again, this time like a man stepping on a hidden ice patch. The ship should’ve been surging forward, cutting through the waves like a blade through flesh. Instead, it dragged. Like something unseen was holding it back.

Victarion’s grip on the wheel tightened.

“Row harder,” he growled.

The oarsmen exchanged Looks. They’d been rowing harder. In fact, they’d been rowing so hard that Gorm the Mad (who once won a bet by punching a shark) was wheezing like an old woman with bad lungs.

“This is madness,” grumbled one of the men.

“It’s the North,” another muttered. “Something’s wrong with the water.”

Victarion’s patience had officially run out. He spun on his heel, glaring at his crew. “Listen to me, you salt-soaked cowards. There is nothing wrong with the water. The North isn’t cursed. The ocean isn’t against us. You’re just a bunch of lazy, superstitious fools who—”

CRACK.

A boom echoed across the deck as one of the riggings snapped. A gust of wind—an impossible gust of wind, because the air had been still for hours—ripped through the sails, twisting them like some invisible hand had decided, Nope, not today, pirate man.

The Iron Victory spun.

Not like a normal turn. Not like something even remotely controllable. One second, the ship was facing the coastline. The next, it wasn’t.

The crew exploded into chaos.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE DROWNED GOD—”

“We’re turning! We’re TURNING!”

“The wind’s—THE WIND’S PUSHING US BACK!”

Victarion refused to believe what his own eyes were seeing.

Because here was the thing: the ship wasn’t being pushed by waves. The water wasn’t forcing them back. The ocean itself was rejecting them.

Like some unseen force had taken one look at their grand invasion and decided, Yeah, no. Not today.

Somewhere in Winterfell, a ten-year-old boy—Cregan Stark, Lord of the North and secretly the reincarnation of a wizard who once had a lightning-shaped scar—rolled over in his sleep, muttering about “stupid pirates” before snuggling deeper into his wolf-fur blankets.

Back on the Iron Victory, panic had officially set in.

“It’s magic!” someone shrieked.

“There’s warding on the coast!”

“We have to turn back!”

Victarion Greyjoy was not a man who believed in cowardice. He was also not a man who believed in turning tail and running. But he was a man who believed in not dying to some gods-cursed, invisible sea sorcery that he couldn’t punch in the face.

And right now? The sea was winning.

With a face like thunder, he growled, “Fine.”

The men paused, shocked. Had Victarion Greyjoy—the Victarion Greyjoy—just admitted defeat?

He corrected them immediately.

“We regroup,” he snapped. “This isn’t over.”

The wind howled again, pushing the ship even further from the coast, as if the sea itself was saying, Yes, yes it is.

Victarion ignored it. He’d be back. He didn’t care if the North had sorcery, ghosts, or some smug wizard child screwing with his ships. The Ironborn didn’t quit.

But first? They were going to need some serious drinks. Maybe a lot of drinks. Because nobody wanted to admit that they’d just been bodied by the ocean.

—

Cregan's POV

I was just about to prove to Jon that my snowball technique was superior when that weird feeling hit me. You know, the kind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up like you've just stepped into a dragon's den. It wasn't a good feeling. It was more of the "something's about to explode, and it's not gonna be fun" vibe. I tried to ignore it. Not the best idea, obviously.

Just as Arya and Jon were engaged in their usual sibling sparring over who could throw the best snowball (spoiler: it was me), Uncle Ned strode into the hall. Now, when your father walks into the room like he’s carrying the weight of the world, you know something’s up. He had that look on his face—the "I’ve just received Very Bad News" look. And in his hand? A raven’s message. No good news comes from ravens. Trust me, I've asked.

"Cregan," he said, his voice low and serious, that thing he does when he’s about to drop a bomb on us. "A word."

Instantly, everyone froze. Even Arya stopped mid-argument, which is impressive, considering she doesn’t freeze for anyone except maybe Bran when he’s sitting in that weird tree thing.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, trying not to sound like a terrified ten-year-old. I mean, I was ten, but I could at least fake being tough.

Uncle Ned didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “The Ironborn have launched an attack. Their fleet’s been spotted near the western coast. Winterfell needs to prepare.”

Well, that was just perfect. As if my life wasn’t complicated enough—now, pirates were involved. I glanced around at my cousins. Just moments ago, we’d been laughing, throwing snowballs like it was some sort of contest. Now? Now it was time to face the reality that life as the Lord of Winterfell wasn’t going to be all fun and games.

I gave Jon a look. His face was twisted in that way it gets when he knows something's wrong but doesn't want to admit it. And Arya, with her wild eyes and quick reflexes, wasn’t much better.

“What do we do?” I asked, trying to channel my best “Lord of Winterfell” voice. I mean, that’s the role I was born for, right? It wasn’t exactly on my to-do list at the moment, but here we were.

“We strengthen our defenses,” Uncle Ned said, his voice steady as ice, even though I could tell he was bracing for something much worse. “Fortify the coasts, call the banners, and prepare for war.”

War. Right. Just another day in the life of Cregan Stark. But I wasn’t ready to back down. Not now. Not ever.

“Maester Luwin,” I said, my voice surprisingly firm, even though my insides were scrambling like a mouse caught in a trap. “Send word to the Northern lords. Tell them to rally their men. Winterfell calls.”

Luwin gave me that nod—half impressed, half worried, like I was a young boy playing a game with grown men. Which, I guess, I was. “At once, my lord.” And off he went, probably to write a letter that would make the Northern lords wish they were anywhere but Winterfell.

I turned to my cousins, who were all looking at me with wide, concerned eyes.

Rhaenys, always the thoughtful one, gave me a look like I’d just announced I was taking a bath in dragon fire. “Cregan,” she said, her voice shaking with something like fear. “You’re not really going to war, are you?”

I shot her a look, the same one I give when someone’s doubting my decisions. “I’m the Warden of the North,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m practically an adult by Stark standards.”

Benjen, ever the skeptic, snorted. “You’re ten, Cregan. What do you know about war?”

“Hey,” I replied, flashing him a grin. “I’m basically an expert.”

Benjen didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue either. Probably because, deep down, he knew I was right. When you’re from the North, you learn to survive early. And, sure, I was technically still a kid, but the North had a way of forcing kids to grow up fast.

“I have to lead,” I said, turning to Rhaenys. “If I don’t, the lords won’t take me seriously. Besides, Uncle Ned, Uncle Benjen, Uncle Arthur and Aunt Dacey will be there to babysit—uh, I mean, guide me.”

At the mention of Aunt Dacey, Benjen’s face went a little red. Oh, it was so obvious. I made a mental note to tease him about it later. But for now, I had more pressing matters.

Rhaenys sighed, her brow furrowed. “Just… promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise,” I said, giving her a reassuring smile. “Besides, what could possibly go wrong?”

Arya crossed her arms and gave me a look that could’ve frozen over a lake. “You’re ten. Everything could go wrong.”

Robb nodded, looking even more serious than a kid should at this age. “She’s right. You’re too young for this.”

Sansa, ever the diplomat, added, “Maybe Father should handle it.”

“Maybe Uncle should take a vacation,” I retorted, my grin slipping into something more serious. “But the North needs me. And I’m not letting it down.”

The hall fell silent. Even the usual sounds of Winterfell seemed to hush, as if waiting for the storm to hit. I could feel the weight of their stares, all of them worried for me, but I couldn’t back down. Not now. Not when the North needed me more than ever.

Jon’s voice came, quiet but steady. “Whatever happens, we’ll help however we can.”

I gave him a small nod. “I know, Jon. But this is mine to face.”

It wasn’t easy, and I could feel the heat in my chest—the same heat that always came when I was about to step into something dangerous. But this wasn’t just about me anymore. It was about Winterfell. It was about the North. And it was about being a Stark.

The playful mood of earlier was officially gone, replaced by something heavier. The looming reality of war. But that didn’t scare me. Not when I had my family by my side.

And so, with one last glance around the room, I stood taller, trying to remember that even though I was still just a kid in the eyes of some, I was the Lord of Winterfell. And I would prove it.

—

The days after that raven arrived were like someone flipped the switch from "childhood fun" to "oh crap, real world stuff." If I had a dime for every time I looked down at my boots, wondering how they got so big all of a sudden, I’d be a rich lord. But no, I’m just Cregan Stark, the ten-year-old Lord of Winterfell. No big deal. It’s not like there’s a slightly bigger responsibility hanging over my head or anything, right?

Winterfell turned into a bee’s nest of chaos. Soldiers were clanking around like armored chickens, Maester Luwin was practically running a one-man postal service, and I was pretty sure I saw someone trying to put a snowball on a catapult for... I don’t know, dramatic effect? I was hoping for a few days of peace, you know? Maybe some snowball fights, a few moments of “can we have pudding after dinner?” But no—war. That’s what the Ironborn brought with their nasty little fleet, and I was supposed to lead. Just me. The kid who, last week, still had a hard time reading my maps without looking like a confused raccoon.

But it was fine. It’s not like anyone was acting like I was a child. Oh wait, no. Everyone was acting like I was a child. Arya’s “You don’t even know how to fight with a sword” was ringing in my ears, Robb telling me that maybe I should "grow a beard first" (I mean, sure, like that was going to help), and Sansa—oh, Sansa, with her helpful “Are you sure you're ready for this?” Ugh. Well, guess what? Yes, I was. Because that’s what Stark kids do. We step up. We don’t whine, we don’t complain, and we sure as hell don’t back down just because we’re ten years old.

So there I was, strutting around Winterfell like I actually knew what I was doing. Spoiler alert: I didn’t. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from being part of this crazy family, it’s that if you walk like you know what you're doing, eventually people will start believing it.

Uncle Ned? Oh, he was as serious as a direwolf on a mission. “Cregan,” he’d say in that voice that was always full of gloom and doom. “We need to prepare for war.” And I’m sitting there thinking, Yeah, sure, but can we maybe prepare for pizza night instead?

Ned, being the Stark that he is, didn’t even blink. “This is no time for jokes, Cregan.”

Jokes? What does he think I’m doing? Joking? I’m the one who has to deal with all this nonsense. Sure, I could’ve locked myself in my room, grabbed a book, and pretended everything was fine—oh wait, that’s not an option because the entire North depends on me now. My very mature responsibility came with a side order of anxiety and an entire mountain of work.

So while the soldiers were off trying to make themselves look like proper warriors, I was stuck going through every detail like a paranoid squirrel on caffeine. What if we ran out of bread? What if we didn’t have enough arrows? What if someone brought the Ironborn a bowl of soup instead of a sword and they actually took it seriously?

You think I’m exaggerating? No. I spent hours checking on supplies, getting reports, and even telling Maester Luwin to send more ravens. We needed to know where the enemy was. And guess what? The enemy? They’re not sending "Hello, here’s where we’ll attack" postcards, so everything was a guess.

But then, in those quiet moments when the chaos wasn’t surrounding me, I’d look around Winterfell’s giant halls and think, “How did I end up here?” I mean, I was ten. Ten. What do I know about leading armies, making battle strategies, or giving inspirational speeches? Pretty sure the only inspiring thing I’ve said in my life was, "I’m gonna throw this snowball so hard you’ll feel it for a week!" But the thing is, when you’re a Stark, you can’t back out. You don’t get to decide when the big moments come. You just... deal with them.

I’d lie on the cold stone floor of my chambers, maps scattered everywhere, and wonder, “What would Harry Potter do?” (Yeah, I know—past life weirdness, right?) I mean, I had to be somewhat qualified for this whole “saving the North” thing. I’d like to think I was a bit of a badass. At least in my head.

Jon, Robb, and Aegon—they had my back. Jon was way too serious, even for an eight-year-old, but I liked him. He’d give me the whole “We got this” vibe, even when we definitely didn’t. Aegon would try to play it cool, but I could see the worry in his eyes. And Robb? Robb thought I was too young, but we both knew I was the one who needed to make the hard calls. I was Lord of Winterfell, after all. Yeah, still a weird sentence to say out loud.

And then there was Arya. Who, by the way, had some serious skill in making fun of me. “You’re too little,” she’d say. “I can run circles around you.” Like I needed reminding. “I’m not too little, Arya,” I’d shoot back. “I’m just... way more mature than you.”

That shut her up. For about five seconds.

Sansa, of course, had her doubts. “Cregan, this is too much for you. You’re a child.” She said it in that way that only Sansa can, like I was about to trip and spill wine all over the maps. “Don’t worry, Sansa,” I shot back. “I’m handling this.” Which, to be fair, I had no idea if I was, but hey, I wasn’t the one freaking out, so I felt like I should get credit for that.

So yeah, things were intense. But I wasn’t going to let the North fall apart just because I couldn’t grow a beard yet. In fact, the Ironborn better start practicing their apology speeches, because they’re about to get the Savage Burn from a ten-year-old lord who was definitely not going to let anyone take Winterfell.

And just for the record, if anyone tries to attack me, I’ll make sure they get hit with the largest snowball imaginable. Because you better believe that’ll leave a mark.

—

You know how when you’re ten, you’re supposed to be worrying about things like not accidentally insulting your aunt at dinner or mastering the art of not tripping over your own feet in front of your friends? Well, that was me—until the whole “lead the North into battle” thing happened. Suddenly, I’m standing in front of my entire army (okay, mostly warriors old enough to be my grandpa), trying to look like I know what I’m doing. Spoiler alert: I don’t.

But hey, being Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell (yes, me—the one with the oversized boots and hair that’s more windblown than a Direwolf’s tail in a storm), means one thing: You figure it out, or you freeze to death. Not that dying young is on my bucket list, but it’s really hard to be a kid and not feel like your life is a giant game of “don’t get killed” every time you make a decision. You know, no big deal. Just leading an army, no pressure.

Our march to White Harbor was a study in chaos—and I don’t just mean the “how do I tie my cloak properly” kind of chaos. I’m talking serious, get-your-life-together chaos. The North was just as grim and icy as usual, making me feel both at home and incredibly not at home all at once. As we trudged through the snow, I looked at the grim faces of the men around me—half of them were probably thinking about the last time they saw a warm meal, and the other half were thinking about how to avoid the inevitable war they knew was coming. Me? I was trying to figure out how to walk like I wasn’t about to trip on my own feet.

Then we got to White Harbor, and I swear it was like stepping into an entirely different world—one where it didn’t feel like the universe was trying to freeze your soul out of your body. White Harbor wasn’t just a city; it was a fortress with a killer view. The Manderlys really knew how to do things. I mean, it smelled like salt and bread—two things that were apparently important for surviving battles, who knew?

Lord Wyman Manderly met us at the gates with a grin big enough to swallow the sun. Seriously, it was like this man was about to offer me a pie and a warm hug. “Lord Cregan!” he boomed, voice bouncing off the walls like he was the North’s personal thunderstorm. “Welcome! The fleet is yours.”

“Thanks, Lord Wyman,” I said, trying to act cool and not trip over my own excitement. The fleet was mine? Oh boy. “Let’s hope the Ironborn regret ever learning to swim,” I added, hoping it didn’t sound as dumb as it felt.

Wyman laughed like I had just told him the funniest joke in the world. Honestly, I liked that about him. He wasn’t all doom and gloom—he was all about the fight, but he knew when to relax. And if he knew when to relax, maybe I could pretend I knew when to do the same.

The docks were a madhouse of activity—guys running around, crates being tossed about like they were playing catch, and ships creaking and groaning like they were about to set sail for a pirate-filled party. And the ships? Oh, the ships. Have you ever designed a warship that you thought might actually be able to beat the odds and turn the tide of an entire war? No? Well, I have. The Winter’s Wrath was the jewel of our fleet, a beauty of ironwood and direwolf pride. I’d spent months sketching and re-sketching, making sure every inch of that thing was both a work of art and a floating weapon of mass destruction. If the Ironborn didn’t want to get their faces smashed by a ship, they should’ve stayed on their islands and built sandcastles.

Uncle Benjen gave the ship a once-over and then gave me a casual nod. “Not bad, nephew,” he said, as if I hadn’t spent days measuring angles like a medieval nerd.

“Not bad?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Uncle, we could take on the entire Iron Fleet with these beauties and still have time for tea.”

Benjen’s lips twitched, probably trying to hide a smile. I would’ve high-fived him if he wasn’t, you know, my uncle and also an expert in looking grumpy no matter how awesome things were.

At this point, I was feeling pretty good about life—too good, actually. You know how when you get a little too cocky, the universe likes to step in and humble you? Yeah. That happened when I climbed up on a crate to address my troops. If you want to talk about awkward, try standing on top of a crate, holding a sword that’s definitely too big for you, and trying to look like the giant bad guy on top of the mountain.

But hey, when you’ve got a crowd of Northern warriors staring at you, the last thing you want to do is look like a 10-year-old who doesn’t know what he's doing.

I took a deep breath, channeled every ounce of Stark seriousness I could muster (which, to be honest, wasn’t a lot), and said, “Men of the North! The Ironborn think they can raid our shores and get away with it. Spoiler alert: they can’t. Because we’re going to send them running back to their little islands so fast, they’ll forget what dry land feels like!”

There was a moment of silence, and then they cheered. It wasn’t the loudest cheer, but it was thunderous enough to rattle the snow off the rooftops. I grinned. Victory—before the battle even started.

Aunt Dacey clapped me on the back. “Not bad for a boy barely out of shortcloaks.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks. Now let’s hope the Ironborn are as easy to win over as you are.”

With a fleet that could practically sink a mountain and a plan that could either make or break me, I was ready. We were ready. And if the Ironborn wanted a fight? They were going to get the fight of their lives. After all, when you’ve got Stark blood running through your veins, there’s one thing you know for sure: we fight. No one messes with Winterfell. Not while I’m in charge.

And if they did? Well, let’s just say I was hoping they liked getting hit with snowballs. The very large kind.

—

You ever notice how everything looks cooler at night? Like, seriously. The flickering torches along the docks? Totally “dungeon crawler” vibes. The ships casting long, dramatic shadows over the water? I could practically hear the “duh-duh-duh” music in my head. It was like the stage was set for an epic showdown—and guess who was the reluctant hero? Me, obviously. I wasn’t technically supposed to be leading this army of tough, grizzled Northerners at the age of ten, but here we are. No pressure.

I took a deep breath, trying to look all battle-hardened, but honestly, I felt like I might burst into a series of awkward nervous laughs at any second. My fleet. My baby. And I was about to use it to wipe the floor with the Ironborn. What could go wrong?

Just then, Uncle Ned slid in next to me, his quiet-but-stern aura practically radiating from him. “You’ve done well, Cregan,” he said, his voice the calm before the storm. Classic Ned Stark, all serious and wise. You could practically hear the "moral backbone" in his voice.

I nodded, trying to act like a hardened leader. "Thanks, Uncle. But let’s hope the Ironborn get the memo. Winter’s coming, and it’s bringing a whole lot of angry Northerners with it."

He gave me one of those half-smiles, the kind that only Starks do. It was like a standing ovation, but without the applause. And then, like the master of emotional restraint he is, he just nodded and walked off. Because, you know, being stoic is basically Ned Stark’s second job.

By the time dawn hit, the fleet was ready, and so was I. The men boarded the ships with that grim determination that only people about to go fight pirates can have. They had that look in their eyes, like, “Yeah, this is probably going to suck, but at least we’re not going to let the Ironborn steal our stuff again.”

As the sails unfurled, they snapped like they had something to prove. “Let’s do this,” they seemed to say. I was at the helm of the Winter’s Wrath, my pride and joy, my flagship, and the single most badass ship in all of Westeros. I may have designed it myself (okay, fine, I borrowed a few ideas from the Byzantine Empire, but who's counting?) but that’s not the point. The point is, this ship was going to wreak havoc, and I was at the wheel, looking the part of some legendary sea captain.

I gripped the wheel and tried to look all stoic and captain-y, but inside, my brain was like, "We got this. We’ve got a killer fleet. The North’s united. And if these idiots think they can mess with us, they’ve got another thing coming."

I glanced at my crew. They were serious, no-nonsense types, except when it came to their ridiculous tattoos and facial hair. I could practically hear them muttering, “Ironborn are toast.” And honestly? I was with them. These raiders thought they could waltz in and ruin everything we held dear? Ha. Joke’s on them.

Then came my Aunt Dacey, striding up to me with that look she always gets right before she does something extra badass. You know, the look that says, “I could snap you like a twig, but I’ll just give you a hug instead.” I bet you didn’t think that was possible, but it’s Dacey Stark we’re talking about here.

“You sure you know what you’re doing, Cregan?” she asked, her grin making it clear she wasn’t too worried. Then again, if there was anyone who could survive a fight with a dozen Ironborn and still come out looking like she belonged on the cover of a warrior magazine, it was her. She smacked me on the back, and I almost fell off the ship. “Just don’t get cocky.”

“Me? Cocky?” I raised an eyebrow. “I’m the one with the fleet. You’re just here for the show-off moments, Aunt Dacey.”

She laughed, and for a second, I almost forgot about the battle ahead. Almost.

By then, the ships were gliding out into the open sea. The horizon stretched out before us, dark and foreboding, like a really dramatic painting. And yet, as the Winter’s Wrath cut through the waves, I couldn’t help but feel this weird thrill. Like, yes, I was about to go to war. But also, heck yes, we had the coolest fleet in the Seven Kingdoms. Maybe in the world. We were like the Avengers of the sea, except with less shiny suits and more axes.

“I’m going to make those Ironborn regret ever learning how to swim,” I muttered under my breath.

“Don’t get cocky, kid,” came the voice of Uncle Benjen from the side. He had that way of showing up without making a sound, like some kind of Northern ninja. “But yeah, they’re probably going to regret it.”

Benjen, always the realist. But at least he wasn’t wrong. The Ironborn might be tough, but they had never gone up against the full wrath of the North. And with the Winter’s Wrath under my command? They wouldn’t stand a chance.

The wind picked up, and I could feel the adrenaline surge. The Ironborn thought they were going to raid our shores and get away with it. Well, they had another thing coming. This was the North. We didn’t run. We didn’t give up. And we definitely didn’t let invaders steal our stuff.

And just like that, I was ready. Ready to defend my home. Ready to lead these men. Ready to show off my way too-nerdy-for-this-10-year-old self as a brilliant strategist and a ship designer.

As the fleet sailed into the horizon, I couldn't help but think: Well, this is going to be one heck of a story to tell when I'm older. But then again, I’d probably just skip the part where I started freaking out about being a ten-year-old lord leading an army. That bit was definitely staying off the record.

Cregan’s POV

So, there I was, a ten-year-old sitting at the big, intimidating oak war table, surrounded by some of the deadliest warriors in Westeros. A guy could get used to this.

Across from me, Uncle Ned—the undisputed King of Brooding—was staring at a map of the coast like it had personally insulted his honor. His solemn face could probably make a wildling rethink their life choices. Uncle Benjen, who was basically Ned but with better jokes, was leaning back in his chair, smirking like he knew something we didn’t.

Then there was my other uncle, Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Freaking Morning, sitting there looking all noble and deadly. You just knew he woke up in the morning thinking, Ah yes, another day of being better than everyone at sword fighting.

And of course, Aunt Dacey. You don’t mess with Aunt Dacey. You just don’t. If House Mormont had a motto, it would be “Try Me and Die Screaming”, and she lived it every day.

Me? I was currently fighting the urge to carve "Cregan was here" into the table with my dagger because, let’s be real, war meetings are long, and maps? Boring.

Uncle Ned finally broke the silence. “The Ironborn have grown bold. They raid our shores as they please, and we have done little to stop them.”

I cleared my throat. “Correction, you have done little to stop them.”

Uncle Ned sighed. It was a very father-of-five sigh. “Cregan.”

“What? I’m just saying, maybe if we stopped treating them like naughty children who stole an extra loaf of bread and started treating them like, I don’t know, the bloodthirsty pirate maniacs they actually are, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

Uncle Benjen chuckled, because he appreciates fine sarcasm. Ned ignored me, because he does not.

He pointed to a place on the map. “Seagard. The Mallisters have held strong against the Ironborn for generations. Their walls are high, and their fleet is capable.”

Uncle Benjen nodded. “Seagard’s a smart choice. We could hold the coast and hit back if needed.”

Uncle Arthur, who somehow managed to look both thoughtful and dangerously calm at the same time, tapped a finger against the map. “The Ironborn won’t fight a conventional war. They strike where we least expect it.”

Aunt Dacey rolled her eyes. “Yeah, because they’re basically Westerosi raccoons—except instead of trash, they steal people.”

I raised a hand. “Okay, but has anyone considered actually attacking them for once?”

Silence.

Four fully grown warriors turned to look at me like I’d just suggested we have a snowball fight against a dragon.

Uncle Ned, patron saint of Doing Things the Hard Way, frowned. “What do you mean?”

I leaned forward. “What’s the closest Iron Island to us?”

Uncle Ned studied the map. “Harlaw.”

“Cool, let’s burn it.”

More silence. But this time, it was the holy-seven-hells-he’s-serious kind of silence.

Uncle Arthur tilted his head, considering. “That would be... bold.”

Uncle Benjen grinned. “It’d also be hilarious.”

Aunt Dacey gave me a look. “And insane. The Ironborn don’t take kindly to people burning their homes.”

I shrugged. “Yeah? Well, we don’t take kindly to them treating our coasts like an all-you-can-plunder buffet. They steal our crops, our gold, our people. And we just sit here. Waiting. Freezing. Brooding.”

Uncle Ned’s frown deepened at the brooding comment.

I jabbed a finger at the map. “We have the Fever-Bite Canal. We can move ships faster than they think is possible. If we strike first, we catch them off guard. Burn their fleet. Leave before they can regroup.”

Aunt Dacey raised an eyebrow. “And the smallfolk?”

“We don’t touch them,” I said firmly. “This isn’t about hurting women and children. This is about sending a message. We don’t get raided. We raid.”

Uncle Arthur tapped his fingers on the table, thinking. That was probably the most dangerous thing that had happened all night. If Arthur Dayne thinks your plan might work, you know you’re onto something.

Uncle Ned let out another deep sigh, the kind that said I deeply regret agreeing to raise my nephew.

“If this is the course we choose,” he said at last, “we must be prepared for the consequences.”

I grinned. “Let them come. The North isn’t afraid of a fight.”

Aunt Dacey smirked. “You’re lucky you’re cute, pup, or I’d throw you in a snowbank for this.”

Uncle Benjen leaned forward. “I hate to admit it, but the kid’s got a point.”

Uncle Arthur gave a rare smile. “We strike hard. We strike fast. And we don’t stay long.”

I spread my arms wide. “See? This is why I like you guys. You understand drama.”

Uncle Ned closed his eyes briefly, like he was praying for patience. “Then it’s decided. We move against Harlaw.”

I nodded, grinning. “Oh, and one more thing. When this works, I get to name a ship Kraken Cruncher.”

Aunt Dacey groaned. Uncle Benjen cackled. Uncle Arthur just shook his head.

Uncle Ned? He just stared at me for a long moment before finally, finally, cracking the smallest, tiniest smile.

Winter was coming.

And for once, we weren’t waiting for it.

—

The Northern Fleet cut through the sea like a pack of direwolves on a full moon hunt—silent, swift, and about to cause absolute chaos. Harlaw Island loomed ahead, all dark and brooding, the kind of place you just knew had some serious main villain energy. If this were a bard’s tale, the narrator would probably call it “the calm before the storm.” Me? I was just trying not to puke over the side of the ship.

Look, nobody warned me that naval warfare meant riding waves that bounced us up and down like a drunk giant playing with a toy boat. And I don’t know who decided that war strategy required sailing, but I’d like to have a word with them. Preferably while I’m on solid land, with a bucket.

Next to me, Roose Bolton—yes, that Roose Bolton, the man who looked like he enjoyed funerals a little too much—stood at the bow of the ship, his cloak billowing dramatically. He had this eerie way of just existing without making a sound, like a shadow that had somehow learned to talk. “The Ironborn won’t know what hit them,” he murmured, which was Bolton-speak for this is about to be a massacre.

When Roose Bolton thinks something’s about to get messy, you start checking escape routes.

Benjen Stark, my uncle and the only person here who seemed mildly concerned for my well-being, stepped up beside me. “You holding up, pup?” he asked, nudging my shoulder.

“If by ‘holding up,’ you mean ‘trying not to empty my guts onto my boots,’ then yes. Doing great,” I muttered.

Benjen chuckled. “You get used to it.”

“Or I die first. Either way, problem solved.”

Dacey Mormont, my honorary aunt and full-time terrifying force of nature, smirked from the other side of the deck. “If you die, pup, I’m taking your sword. It’s a nice sword.”

“Gee, thanks,” I grumbled. “Good to know my corpse won’t be totally useless.”

Uncle Arthur stood like a walking, talking hero statue, arms crossed, gaze locked on the island. “Focus,” he said in that deep, noble voice of his. “We have work to do.”

I could have focused. I could have stayed silent and looked intense, like Arthur. But that’s not really my thing.

“So,” I said, rubbing my hands together, “how mad do we think the Ironborn are going to be about this?”

Dacey snorted. “Oh, absolutely furious.”

Benjen smirked. “Livid.”

Roose’s lips twitched in something that might have been a smile or just him deciding whose skin he’d wear as a coat next. “They will remember this for generations.”

Arthur sighed, which was his version of saying please stop talking, and I grinned.

The plan was simple: torch every longship we found, wipe out the warriors, and leave the civilians alone—because unlike the Ironborn, we weren’t total monsters.

“You ready for this, my lord?” Benjen asked.

I adjusted my sword belt. “Define ready. If you mean ‘ready to do something that will absolutely haunt my dreams for the next twenty years,’ then yeah, totally.”

Benjen laughed, and Dacey clapped me on the back hard enough to knock the wind out of me.

“Just don’t die, pup.”

“Again, great advice.”

We hit Harlaw like a thunderclap. Our warriors stormed the docks, swords flashing, torches lighting up the night like the world’s most violent festival. The Ironborn, caught mid-snore, came stumbling out of their halls, grabbing axes and curses in equal measure.

Fire bloomed across the harbor as ship after ship went up in flames. I hacked my way through a group of reavers who were clearly not happy about the home invasion.

“Rodrik Harlaw!” I bellowed, dodging a wild axe swing. “Someone bring me his soggy, pirate-y hide!”

Roose appeared at my side, completely unbothered by the carnage, like he was taking a relaxing evening stroll. “Alive or in pieces?”

I shot him a glare. “Alive.”

Roose tilted his head, considering. “Pity.”

Rodrik Harlaw was dragged before me a few minutes later, looking bloodied but furious, which was impressive considering the amount of bruises already forming on his face. His dark eyes locked onto me, filled with a mix of rage and, I’m pleased to say, just a little bit of terror.

“You’ll regret this, Stark,” he spat. “The Ironborn don’t kneel.”

I grinned, leaning in slightly. “That’s fine. We don’t need you to kneel. We just need you to scream.”

Roose actually chuckled. Which, let me tell you, is one of the most horrifying sounds in existence.

“With your permission, my lord?” he asked, his voice all polite and deadly.

I hesitated. On one hand, Roose Bolton definitely had some ideas about how to make Rodrik reconsider his life choices. On the other hand, Roose’s ‘ideas’ usually involved nightmares, screaming, and a lot of missing body parts.

Still. If we let Rodrik off easy, the Ironborn would just come back.

I let out a slow breath. “Do what you must.”

What followed was… well. Let’s just say I now understand why people are afraid of the Boltons. And why you never, ever want to owe Roose a favor.

By dawn, Harlaw was a smoldering ruin. The Ironborn fleet was nothing but splinters. Survivors huddled together, their terror so thick you could taste it. The women and children we left unharmed, true to our word, but the warriors? The ones who’d raided our lands for generations? They stood in chains, broken and defeated.

I looked out at the wreckage, Nightfall clutched tightly in my hand. The Valyrian steel blade gleamed, heavy with meaning.

“You’ve made your point,” Benjen said quietly.

“And then some,” I muttered. The smell of burning wood and death clung to the air, making my stomach twist.

“This isn’t over,” Dacey warned. “The Ironborn don’t just give up.”

“No,” Roose agreed, ever the ray of sunshine. “But they will fear.”

I turned back to the prisoners, my voice carrying over the waves. “The North remembers,” I said, my tone cold as the winter winds. “And so will they.”

As we sailed back, I couldn’t shake the weight of what we’d done. Victory, it turns out, tastes a lot like ash.

Still. The Ironborn had learned their lesson. And I’d gained a Valyrian steel sword.

So, you know. Silver linings.

Also, note to self: Never, ever let Roose Bolton plan a victory party.

—

The North Remembers (And Also, It Holds Grudges)

The flagship’s cabin smelled like old wood, damp wool, and way too many people who’d been stuck together for two weeks without proper baths. Seriously, whoever decided war meant spending weeks at sea with the same sweaty warriors clearly never had to share a room with them. This wasn’t some grand, luxurious voyage; it was more smelly pirate ship meets bad decisions.

And speaking of bad decisions—

“I assume you’ve got an explanation for Harlaw,” Uncle Ned said, his voice all calm and reasonable, which was never a good sign. That was his Dad Voice, the one that made you feel guilty even when you weren’t sure what you’d done wrong yet.

Benjen, Arthur, and Dacey were lurking nearby, all looking like I was about to get the “disappointed family intervention” treatment. Which was great, because I love when people gang up on me about my brilliant leadership choices.

I crossed my arms and leaned against the map table. “You mean the part where the Ironborn now know not to mess with us? Yeah, I’ve got an explanation for that. It’s called effective ruling.”

Benjen made a sound like he’d just bitten into something rotten. “You let Roose Bolton flay Lord Harlaw alive.”

Okay. Technically, yes. But in my defense—

“I delegated,” I said, holding up my hands. “Leaders delegate. I can’t personally be everywhere, smiting our enemies. That’s what terrifying bannermen are for.”

Ned rubbed his temples like this whole conversation physically hurt him. “Cregan, the Starks don’t flay their enemies.”

I shot him my best you sure about that? look. “No? Tell that to Theon Stark. You remember him, right? The guy who wiped out the Marsh Kings and took their lands? Pretty sure he didn’t do that by giving out participation trophies.”

Arthur sighed, crossing his arms like a particularly exhausted babysitter. “You’re talking about Theon the Hungry Wolf. He lived in The Age of Heroes. It was a different time.”

“Oh, so murder was fine back then, but now we’re suddenly supposed to be polite about it?” I tilted my head. “Pretty sure our enemies didn’t get the memo, Uncle Arthur.”

Ned exhaled sharply, and I swear I could hear him counting to ten in his head. He really should’ve figured out by now that I don’t make things easy.

“The North has always stood for justice,” he said, very much in honorable mode. “We don’t need to be butchers to be strong.”

I grinned. “Tell that to the people we butchered in the name of justice.”

Benjen groaned and ran a hand down his face. “You’re ten years old, how are you this cynical already?”

“Good parenting?” I offered.

Dacey—who had been listening quietly—snorted. “If that’s the case, maybe Ned needs to reconsider his approach.”

Uncle Ned gave her a look. Dacey just smirked.

“I don’t like Bolton,” I admitted, because duh, I’m not an idiot. “He’s creepy, he only smiles hen he skins people alive, and I’m fairly certain he doesn’t blink. But he’s useful. And that’s what matters.”

Ned’s jaw tightened. “You think you can control Roose Bolton?”

“Uncle Ned, I’m ten, not stupid,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t trust him. I trust that he’s predictable. He’s like a really mean dog—dangerous, but useful as long as you keep him on a short leash.”

Arthur leaned forward, his face unreadable. “And if he slips that leash?”

I met his gaze without flinching. “Then we put him down.”

A long silence followed that statement. Probably because it was true, and everyone in this room knew it.

Ned shook his head, looking impossibly tired. “Cregan, there’s a difference between being strong and becoming the thing we fight against.”

I sighed. “And there’s a difference between playing at honor and actually winning wars.”

Dacey hummed. “He’s not wrong.”

Ned shot her an exasperated look. She just shrugged.

“I’m not saying we turn into monsters,” I clarified. “I’m saying we remember what the Starks of old knew. The North doesn’t stay strong by hoping our enemies behave. We survive because people fear what happens if they cross us.”

Benjen, predictably, looked so done with me. “The only thing worse than listening to Ned’s lectures is listening to you explain why he’s wrong.”

I grinned at him. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Uncle Benjen.”

Arthur exhaled through his nose. “So, what? You think you can balance being feared and being honorable?”

“I think we don’t have a choice,” I said, my voice quieter now. “We’re at war. I don’t like that we have to be ruthless. But I like the alternative a whole lot less.”

Dacey crossed her arms, studying me like she was seeing me for the first time. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

I nodded.

Ned didn’t look happy. But, for once, he didn’t argue.

“We proceed with caution,” he finally said, voice heavy. “The North stands together.”

I smirked. “Starting to think you missed your calling as a poet, Uncle.”

“Shut up, Cregan.”

I grinned. “That’s fair.”

—

General POV 

The Small Council chamber of King’s Landing was tense—tense in the way a bar gets when someone smashes a chair over someone else's head, and now everyone's just waiting to see if the bouncers intervene or if they get a free-for-all.

At the center of it all, sprawled across his massive chair like he owned not just the Seven Kingdoms but also the furniture, was King Robert Baratheon. He slammed a meaty fist onto the table, sending goblets wobbling like terrified peasants.

"Now that’s what I like to hear!" he bellowed, his grin as wide as a feast day boar. "Those Ironborn bastards have been begging for a good thrashing since my first mug of ale! Cregan Stark’s got the right idea—hit 'em hard, hit 'em fast, and leave nothing standing but their shame."

To Robert’s left, Stannis Baratheon sat as stiff as a sword stuck in a tree trunk, his expression making it clear that he had about as much patience for his brother’s theatrics as a septon had for brothels.

"The Ironborn have always been a plague on the seas," he said, his voice as dry as Dornish sand. "If Lord Stark’s actions secure the coast, then they were necessary." A pause. "Perhaps now they’ll think twice before raiding the mainland."

"Yes, Stannis, but what about the innocents?" Renly Baratheon drawled from his seat, looking far too comfortable for a man discussing a potential diplomatic crisis. "Or does Northern justice have a ‘no refunds’ policy on collateral damage?"

Petyr Baelish chuckled, tilting his head like a cat toying with a particularly dumb mouse. "Ah, Lord Renly, ever the romantic. War isn’t a song for the minstrel’s lute. It’s a bloody, messy game, and the North is simply playing by its own rules."

Varys, seated in his usual position like a spider watching a particularly amusing fly, steepled his fingers. "True, Lord Baelish," he murmured, voice smooth as silk. "But bold moves often come with unintended consequences. A wolf baring its fangs might frighten its enemies, but it also tempts challengers who crave the hunt."

Jon Arryn, who up until this point had been letting the younger, louder men exhaust themselves, cleared his throat. A simple, measured noise. A man could win wars with a well-placed throat clearing.

"The North’s actions, while effective, must be weighed carefully," he said, his voice the kind of calm that preceded either great wisdom or great disaster. "A message sent without foresight is as dangerous as a blade in the dark. We cannot let chaos spread beyond the Iron Islands."

Robert waved a dismissive hand, nearly knocking over his wine goblet again. "Spare me the lectures, Jon. The Starks are doing what they’ve always done—protecting their own. If the Ironborn want to play the reaving game, they have to be ready to pay the price."

Renly raised an eyebrow. "And what price do we pay if this escalates? You know the Ironborn—they collect grudges like some people collect debts. We could be inviting a fleet to our shores."

"Let them come," Robert declared, slamming his fist into his chest like he was still wielding a warhammer instead of a goblet of wine. "I’ll crush them myself, like I did on the Trident! Gods, I haven’t had a good fight in years!"

Varys smiled politely, in that way that meant he was very much not reassured. "How very… comforting," he murmured. "But perhaps we should consider the ripple effects. The Riverlands, for example, might find such brutality concerning."

Baelish leaned forward, his smile as sharp as a Valyrian steel dagger. "The Riverlands will fall in line. They always do. Besides, fear is a better ally than love. It’s harder to lose."

Jon Arryn, who had spent enough years managing Robert’s impulses to know exactly how much chaos a little unchecked savagery could create, frowned. "We must proceed with caution," he said, addressing no one in particular but commanding the room all the same. "The North’s strength is its unity. If Lord Stark’s methods alienate his bannermen, or the crown’s allies, the consequences could be dire."

Robert drained his goblet, wiped his mouth on his sleeve (to the visible horror of at least three people in the room), and grinned. "Dire? Come now, Jon. A little Northern savagery is good for the realm. Reminds the rest of us what real men look like."

The room fell into a contemplative silence—except for Robert, who was already motioning for more wine.

Somewhere, in the shadows of the Red Keep, you could practically hear Varys thinking: Oh, this is going to be fun.

—

On the deck of the Lady Joanna, Tywin Lannister stood like the human embodiment of a storm cloud—dark, looming, and ready to unleash his thunder. The wind whipped around him, tugging at his cloak as if trying to get his attention, but Tywin? He wasn’t one for distractions. He didn’t even flinch. You could probably set off a dozen firecrackers around him and he’d keep staring at the horizon like a man who had no time for nonsense. And really, he didn’t.

The sunset was a bit dramatic, even by Westerosi standards—molten gold spilling across the water in that way that makes you wonder if someone up there is trying to make a statement. Tywin, however, wasn’t in the mood for poetry. He’d had enough of poetic sunsets and dramatic sea views for a lifetime. In fact, he’d probably even look at something like that and think, “Could’ve been more red. Looks like someone dropped a bit of butter on the ocean.”

His mind, however, was nowhere near the sea. No, it was fixed on a certain Northman—a certain young Northman, to be specific. Cregan Stark. The news from Harlaw had reached him hours ago, and while his face was as impassive as ever, inside, Tywin’s brain was working overtime. If anyone could hear the gears grinding in his head, they might’ve been worried about the noise. A sailor fumbled below deck, knocking over a barrel, and Tywin’s gaze flicked in the direction of the clamor. The poor man probably thought he'd just ruined Tywin's perfect moment of ominous contemplation.

But the reality was, the only thing that really bothered Tywin at the moment was Cregan Stark. Brandon Stark’s son. A boy who, despite barely ten name days, was making waves in the North like he had inherited the entire Stark tradition of being stubborn, honorable, and completely uninterested in the subtle art of compromise.

"If Ned Stark had been half as ruthless as his nephew," Tywin muttered to no one in particular—though he might as well have been shouting at the gods, because they definitely weren’t listening—"I wouldn’t be dealing with this mess."

There was a pause, as if the very act of saying that out loud gave him a brief, if somewhat ridiculous, sense of satisfaction. “Ned Stark and his blasted honor,” Tywin muttered. “If he didn’t value loyalty more than his own future, he might have been useful.”

Ser Kevan Baratheon—Tywin’s ever-loyal, somewhat less dramatic brother—was standing nearby, looking like someone who was considering whether or not to make a witty remark about how Tywin’s voice was the perfect background to a peaceful evening. But instead, he wisely chose to remain quiet and just stand there. And by stand there, I mean, look at his older brother like he’d just announced that the sun was setting in the West. No surprise. No comment. Just… Kevan.

Tywin sighed dramatically, taking in the sight of the setting sun with a disdainful sniff. “Cregan Stark’s got the North riled up, hasn’t he?” he asked Kevan, like he already knew the answer, just waiting for Kevan to say something useful. “Seems he’s forgotten that wolves don’t scare lions. They just make for a good meal if they’re too stupid to know when to back off.”

Kevan’s eyebrows twitched as if he might respond with something like, Maybe we should just let the wolves be wolves and not provoke them, but then he thought better of it. “Yes, my lord,” he said instead, looking out at the sea. “The North is, uh, certainly… different now.”

"Different?" Tywin echoed, his voice the perfect mix of incredulity and mockery. "The North was always different. It was a land of men too stupid to know when to keep their heads down and their swords sheathed." He paused. “And now it’s a land of men too stupid to know when to stop drawing attention to themselves.”

Kevan wisely let that one slide, even though he could have said something about how attention was a luxury in the Seven Kingdoms, not a threat. But Tywin wasn’t interested in hearing anything but what he wanted to hear. He rarely was.

“You know what this means, don’t you, Kevan?” Tywin said, his tone shifting from bitter to a kind of dry amusement. “It means eventually there will be war. A war I didn’t want. But one I’m more than happy to deliver.”

Kevan just gave a slight nod, a man resigned to his fate. “As you say, my lord.”

“And don’t get me started on the Stark boy’s little game,” Tywin muttered, shaking his head. “The boy plays at power like he’s born for it. But he lacks finesse. He’s no different from his father, for all his posturing.” He turned to face Kevan with a knowing look. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

Kevan hesitated for a second, then sighed. “Yes, my lord. When they eventually come for us, we crush them.”

Tywin gave a smile that, under normal circumstances, would’ve made people think he was being generous. “Exactly.” Then he glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the horizon once again. “Let the wolves howl. If they want war, I’ll give them one. But they won’t like the rules I’m setting.”

Kevan didn’t bother responding, knowing that if he did, it would only encourage Tywin to keep going. Instead, he quietly observed as Tywin’s golden armor shimmered in the fading light of the sunset. The lion was roaring, and everyone in Westeros was about to hear it.

And just before the scene could spiral into the kind of scheming that only Tywin Lannister was capable of, Kevan muttered, almost under his breath, “War never really is simple, is it?”

Tywin shot him a sidelong glance, his lip curling slightly. “No, Kevan,” he said. “But it’s always fun to watch the fools think they can win.”

And just like that, the Lannister plot machine started grinding into motion again—faster, colder, and more calculated than ever. The wolves had made their move. Tywin would make his response, and it was going to be one for the history books. Just as soon as he figured out how to crush them properly.

Because after all, the lion doesn’t just fight. He wins.

—

Cregan's POV

If you’d told me, Cregan Stark, ten-year-old terror of the North, that I’d be turning the Iron Islands into a bonfire-worthy disaster, I’d have said you were insane. But here we are. I mean, come on. I didn’t exactly wake up one day and think, You know what? I’m going to become the stuff of nightmares for an entire set of islands. No, that came after I watched them try to mess with my home. And then it got personal.

First up: Great Wyk. And if I’d known how fun it was to destroy stuff, I might have asked for more practice. The Ironborn didn’t know what hit them. One minute they’re throwing axes and shouting about "We do not sow!" (as if that was going to scare us) and the next minute, they’re dealing with a bunch of wildlings, some of the toughest soldiers in Westeros, and my dad—Ned Stark, the one with the “I’m about to get serious” face, you know the one. He was like a walking warning sign. You could tell the Ironborn were about to have their plans thoroughly wrecked just by looking at him.

We rolled into Great Wyk like a storm had suddenly turned into a parade float made of swords and iron. The first wave came crashing in, and the Ironborn tried to stand their ground, but honestly? They were outmatched. They were used to raiding weak villages, not facing the wolf pack. Not to brag, but I’ve had enough practice with my sword (thanks, Uncle Benjen) to know exactly how to cut through armor like butter. And cutting through bad guys? Even better.

There was this one Ironborn who tried to shout something about “We do not sow!”—and I’ve got to give credit where credit is due, he was probably hoping for a fight. But I was having none of it. I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “Good, because we don’t share crops anyway.” And bam, knocked him out of the way with a swipe from my sword. The look on his face? Priceless.

But I wasn’t about to stop there. Nope. I led the charge into Old Wyk, and that was when I realized I was having the time of my life. I can’t remember if I was enjoying the battle or just the fact that I was riding into the heart of the Iron Islands with all these crazy skilled people—my Uncle Benjen was at my side, and honestly, he’s the best at making things feel like a whole new level of dangerous. And Uncle Arthur Dayne was there too, and if you’ve never seen a guy fight with a sword like it’s an extension of his own hand, you’re missing out. He looked like he was about to dance the Ironborn straight into the afterlife, and honestly? I could barely keep up.

And then there was Red Rain—House Drumm’s fancy sword. When I grabbed that thing after the battle, I felt like I’d just picked up the ultimate toy. You know, like one of those magical, glowing things that you see in old books that come with a "this weapon could destroy armies" warning? Yeah, that was this sword. I held it up, dripping with Ironborn blood, and honestly, I looked pretty awesome doing it. The whole place was burning down around me, and I’m standing there like, “Yeah, the wolf’s in charge now, deal with it.”

So, you’d think the Ironborn would have learned their lesson, right? Well, nope. I was off to Orkmont next. Let me tell you, it didn’t even take us long to burn down their defenses. I mean, fire’s a great motivator, but when your enemies can barely organize a defense, it’s almost too easy. They didn’t know what hit them—literally, we came at them like lightning. And if I’m being honest, I wasn’t even breaking a sweat.

And then came Blacktyde, where we gave them the full Northern treatment: walls flattened, keeps turned into ash, and any Ironborn still standing got a special VIP seat in the worst decision of their lives club. My dad had this grim look on his face like he was counting down the minutes until the rest of the Ironborn gave up their old ways. But I didn’t care. By that point, I was having too much fun.

But you know what’s the best part? I didn’t do this because I had to. I did it because the North had to prove that we didn’t take kindly to outsiders messing with us. And the Ironborn? Well, they learned that the hard way.

And sure, they called me “The Demon Wolf.” I guess it sounds cool, even if it’s a little metal band-ish. But it’s better than “Cregan Stark, the guy who razed four Iron Islands and made it look easy.” Which, okay, might be a better band name, now that I think about it.

Still, I don’t just kill for fun. I’m not some bloodthirsty beast. I just... want to protect the North. It’s a lot easier when you’ve got some shiny new Valyrian steel in your hand and an army of people who actually know how to fight.

But in the end, when the fire died down and the smoke cleared, the one thing the Ironborn knew for sure was this: Cregan Stark doesn’t play nice.

And that was just the beginning.

—

“Alright, Cregan,” Uncle Ned said, looking proud but still kind of grim—he has that way about him, like he’s constantly carrying a secret weight of all of Westeros on his shoulders. “The Ironborn might’ve been defeated, but the bigger game is still ahead.”

I looked at him, a little too smug for a ten-year-old. “Then let’s go burn down the next bunch of idiots who think they can mess with us.”

“We’re not burning anyone down just yet,” Benjen said, all serious, which, you know, totally kills the vibe.

But I wasn’t worried. The North was stronger than ever, and the next chapter of this war? Oh, that was going to be a lot more interesting.

And if I had anything to say about it? It was going to be way more fun.

General POV

The Straits of Fair Isle were the sort of place you visit if you really enjoy the idea of being trapped in a maritime version of a reality TV show—except the only prize is survival, and the challenges include fire, axes, and possibly drowning. On one side, you had Stannis Baratheon and his fleet, looking like they were preparing for a very angry barbecue. On the other side, you had Victarion Greyjoy and the Ironborn, who, while skilled at raiding and yelling things like “We do not sow,” were about to learn that you don’t always get to choose your battles. Sometimes, the battle chooses you—and it chooses the worst possible time.

The thing about Stannis is that he doesn’t do “fun” in the usual sense. The man was as joyful as a raincloud during a drought, but when it came to battle, he was a force of nature. If you could bottle up Stannis Baratheon’s mood and use it as a weapon, the entire Iron Fleet would’ve already been sunk before the first arrow even left the bow.

He stood on his flagship, Dragonstone’s pride, with that permanently grim expression of his, like he was just waiting for the world to end so he could go on being right about everything. He didn’t need a battle cry—his very presence was enough to make the Ironborn rethink all their life choices. And if that didn’t do the trick, well, his ships would.

Stannis’s tactics were simple. He didn’t just blockade the Ironborn; he boxed them in. Every possible escape route was cut off, every potential reinforcements denied. The Ironborn could only scream in frustration as their ships piled into one another like a broken game of bumper cars. It was the nautical equivalent of getting caught in a trap, and Stannis was the one holding the strings.

The Redwyne fleet was out there too, firing arrows, catapulting flaming rocks, and probably using some ancient Arbor wine to wash it all down. Their sailors were like the overachievers in a group project, ensuring that every Ironborn ship had at least a few dozen arrows sticking out of it—just in case they weren’t feeling sufficiently miserable.

Victarion Greyjoy wasn’t going down without a fight. Oh, no. If anything, he was probably getting angrier by the second, that seething rage only someone with a name like “Victarion” could pull off. He stood tall on his ship, slashing his axe at anything that moved, yelling at his men, yelling at the sea, probably even yelling at the sky just for good measure. “This is MY fight!” he roared, which would have been more intimidating if he wasn’t facing down an entire blockade, an endless wave of arrows, and ships that didn’t seem to care about his feelings.

There was a moment of chaos when one of the Ironborn ships tried to break free, ramming through the blockade, but it was like watching a mosquito try to break through a concrete wall. The ship barely made it a few yards before Stannis’s fleet closed in with the grace and efficiency of a giant, very angry machine. Every time Victarion tried to push through, a Redwyne ship would rain down more fire and arrows, and for a moment, it must have seemed like the Ironborn weren’t even fighting an enemy—they were fighting a weather system, an unrelenting storm.

To make matters worse, the Ironborn had underestimated Stannis’s approach to leadership. You see, Stannis didn’t just command from the front; he commanded from everywhere. His soldiers weren’t out there just for glory—they were there because if they failed, they’d have to deal with Stannis’s grim stare. That alone was enough to make them work harder than a Redwyne sailor in a summer heatwave. The blockade tightened. The Ironborn ships grew smaller and smaller, their attempts to break free growing more desperate with every passing minute.

The final nail in the coffin was the Ironborn’s defeat at the hands of the Redwyne’s perfect storm of naval tactics. Their ships were shredded like paper in a fire, and Victarion’s fleet didn’t stand a chance. The sea churned with wreckage, blood, and flaming ships—the Ironborn’s last-ditch efforts to fight back met with the cold, impersonal efficiency of a man who had already made peace with the fact that things were going to burn.

In the end, Victarion Greyjoy was left on his ship, watching as his fleet fell apart, and he was forced to slink away—probably swearing vengeance and trying to ignore the fact that his fleet was currently a very sinking metaphor for his entire life.

Stannis, meanwhile, stood there with his arms crossed, taking in the wreckage. He wasn’t smiling—Stannis never smiled—but there was something in his eyes, something that might’ve been satisfaction or just the vague sensation of not caring about anything but winning. Either way, he wasn’t about to throw a victory party. He might’ve been the one to win, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to look like he was enjoying it.

“I guess that’s one way to block a blockade,” a sailor on the deck muttered, earning a cold, steel-eyed glance from Stannis. The guy shrank back. No one talked around Stannis. They just did what he told them to.

And as for Victarion? Well, he might’ve been the one to start this fight, but in the end, he wasn’t the one finishing it. That honor went to Stannis Baratheon, the man who could turn a battle into a chess match and then light the chessboard on fire just to prove a point.

So, in conclusion, the Ironborn learned a valuable lesson that day: Never mess with a guy whose face looks like it’s permanently been struck by a storm. It never ends well.

—

Aeron Greyjoy, a.k.a. the Damphair (which, spoiler alert, is a title that sounds way cooler than it actually is), was having a really bad year. First, he’d been plucked from the midst of a naval battle by none other than Jaime Lannister—who, in case you were wondering, was annoyingly good at winning. And by "winning," I mean making everyone else look like they were playing checkers while he was playing 3D chess. Aeron, on the other hand, was just trying to keep his ship from sinking and his dignity from being completely obliterated. Spoiler: neither of those things went well.

And what does Jaime Lannister, Lord of the Kingslayer fame, do after capturing Aeron? Does he throw him a party? Perhaps offer a snazzy "I'm Sorry I Defeated You" medal? Nope. Jaime takes him to Casterly Rock, a place that looks like someone built a fortress and then forgot to add the amenities. Instead of a grand hall or a hero’s welcome, Aeron ended up in a dungeon so dark and dreary, it made the Red Keep look like a resort. The air smelled like seawater, mildew, and the faint scent of “you’ve made some questionable life choices.”

Now, let’s talk about the cell he was stuck in for a second. Bed? Nonexistent. View? A whole lot of stone. Food? Well, let’s just say that even the rats that occasionally scuttled by looked disappointed in the meal offerings. Seriously, Aeron had eaten better while stranded on an abandoned raft in the middle of the ocean. But hey, what else is a Drowned God priest supposed to do? The answer: complain. And complain he did. He was basically on a first-name basis with despair by this point.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into well, when will this end? Aeron passed his time counting the cracks in the ceiling—482, in case you were wondering. It was a nice distraction from the existential dread, but even that lost its appeal when he realized the cracks were multiplying faster than his patience.

And Jaime? Jaime didn’t even bother to show up to rub it in. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Aeron would’ve preferred a dramatic monologue about how much better Jaime was than him. At least that would have meant someone cared.

Instead, Aeron spent his time alone in the dark, letting his thoughts drift like a ship lost at sea. The sea. Oh, the sea. Of course, it was always there in his mind, lurking like an old friend you can’t shake off no matter how hard you try. He missed it more than he missed breathing. He imagined the waves crashing against the rocks, the salt spray in the air, and the Drowned God—who, let’s be honest, was probably rolling his watery eyes and muttering, “You’ve really messed this up, haven’t you, Aeron?”

And then there were his brothers. Balon, the “let’s rebel against everyone” guy. Euron, the walking hurricane of chaos who could probably destroy a kingdom just by showing up. And then, of course, there was Victarion—his very own personal reminder that “stubborn” isn’t always a good trait, especially when you’re trying to survive a massive naval defeat.

Aeron wasn’t sure if he missed them or if he just missed being anywhere but here. He couldn’t even decide if he’d rather be on a ship or if he'd prefer a nice, quiet stroll through a battlefield. At least there, he could get a proper fight going. Instead, he was locked away, forgotten by the world.

But here’s the thing about Aeron Greyjoy. He was like a stubborn weed. You could try to uproot him, but he wasn’t going anywhere. Sure, his chains clinked and his spirit felt like it had been dunked in the coldest, most uncomfortable seawater imaginable. But deep down, deep, deep down where even the Drowned God’s judgment couldn’t reach, there was still a flicker of rebellion. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Every day, that little spark of defiance whispered in his ear, “Hey, Aeron, remember when you weren’t locked in this rock dungeon? Let’s get back to that, yeah?” The Drowned God wasn’t answering his prayers (classic), but Aeron liked to think the old sea deity was at least mildly impressed by his persistence.

As the war raged outside and his brothers continued to be way more dramatic than him (and by “dramatic,” I mean Euron-level dramatic), Aeron was still there, stuck at Casterly Rock. Forgotten by most. But not by him. Not yet. Somewhere, out there, the sea was still calling. And Aeron Greyjoy—who had probably spent a little too much time alone in his head—was determined to answer it.

Or, at the very least, complain about it loudly enough until someone threw him overboard. Whatever worked.

—

Stannis Baratheon, ever the moody overachiever, had just pulled off what could only be described as the naval equivalent of a mic drop. The Iron Fleet? Reduced to floating scraps. Victarion Greyjoy? Who knows, probably crying into his own beard somewhere. And now, with the waters around Fair Isle secured like a freshly made bed, it was time for Robert Baratheon to do what he does best—make everything explode in a chaotic, glorious, very loud fashion.

Picture it: Robert Baratheon—King of the Stormlands, the man who could drink an entire tavern dry and still somehow keep his warhammer upright—leading an army to the Iron Islands. His goal? To crush the Ironborn rebellion, spread his legend, and make everyone remember why it was a terrible idea to mess with the Baratheon dynasty. Spoiler: The Ironborn were about to get a crash course in why “anger issues” were Robert’s greatest superpower.

With Stannis acting as the unamused naval gatekeeper (seriously, how does the man never smile?), Robert and his fleet of battle-hardened knights set sail. Was it a daring move? Well, yeah. The Iron Islands were less “vacation paradise” and more “nature’s obstacle course,” with jagged rocks, howling storms, and a population that viewed "pillage and burn" as a valid career choice. But Robert Baratheon was nothing if not stubborn. And there was no way he was going to miss a chance to smack the Ironborn around for old time’s sake.

The journey? Oh, it was fun. Or at least, Robert made it sound like it was. The ships were crowded like a cattle drive, the air smelled like fish and unwashed soldiers, and Robert’s personal commentary about how much he hated boats could be heard echoing from every corner of the deck. But you know what? No one dared complain. Not when the king was actively trying not to hurl into the sea while holding a warhammer the size of a small tree.

When they finally reached the shores of the Iron Islands, the scene was less of a stealth invasion and more of an in-your-face, “Hey, Ironborn, we’re here to ruin your day!” Robert, probably holding his warhammer aloft and yelling something inspiring (like, “For the realm!” or “I really hate this damn saltwater!”), led the charge. Knights swarmed ashore, banners flapping, swords gleaming, and the sound of battle drums pounding so loudly even the seabirds took flight in terror. It was as if the earth itself was shaking under the weight of Robert’s enthusiasm.

And the Ironborn? Well, let’s just say they weren’t exactly prepared. Their entire navy had been turned into a heap of floating scrap metal, which meant they had roughly as much fight in them as a wet cat. The villages along the coast fell like dominoes—except they didn’t even get the satisfaction of that much resistance. Every Ironborn stronghold that tried to stand their ground was quickly smashed under the sheer force of Robert’s battle-hardened army. It was almost sad, really—like watching someone try to stand up to a bear with a toothpick.

Meanwhile, Robert himself was in his element. Battle was his happy place. There was something about smashing things with a hammer and shouting orders that just made him feel alive. And sure, he might have been more interested in getting the job done quickly so he could go home and crack open a barrel of ale, but for now, he was having the time of his life. You’d think he’d be exhausted by the constant slaughter, but nope—Robert Baratheon was like a kid in a candy store, except the candy was destruction, and the store was the entire Iron Islands.

The knights in his army, though? They were less focused on winning and more concerned with things like bragging rights and loot. (A lesson for all future conquerors: never let soldiers who’ve just pillaged a village get competitive about who can steal the most interesting thing. It never ends well.) One knight even tried to steal a ceremonial fish from an Ironborn priest—yeah, that didn’t go over too well. Word of advice: never mess with an Ironborn priest’s fish. It’s practically sacred.

But as the green hills of the Iron Islands slowly turned red with the aftermath of Robert’s unstoppable march, it became clear: this wasn’t just a military victory. No, this was Robert Baratheon making a statement. The Ironborn rebellion was dead in the water. Their forces? Broken. And Robert? Well, he was probably already thinking about how he could throw a victory feast and get another drink in his hand. The man lived for this.

As for Stannis? Oh, he was probably somewhere, watching from the deck of his ship and not smiling, because, let’s face it, smiling isn’t in Stannis Baratheon’s emotional range. But he had done his part—held the seas and given Robert the perfect opening to stomp through the Iron Islands like a giant, drunken toddler. The war was turning in the Baratheon’s favor, and the Ironborn had finally learned the very hard way that poking the Baratheon bear was not the smartest move.

And the Ironborn? Well, they were learning a harsh truth: messing with Robert Baratheon was like trying to face off with a hurricane—unpredictable, devastating, and most likely to leave you broken and bitter. The tide had turned, and there was no going back.

—

Okay, picture this: The Iron Islands, a rocky mess of sea and savage warriors, were about to get the Westerosi equivalent of a wrecking ball—only this one came with a warhammer, a bad attitude, and a king who was one bad mood away from punching through walls. Yeah, that’s Robert Baratheon for you.

Robert wasn’t just any king. Oh no, he was the kind of king who walked into a room and made the walls nervous. The guy had muscles the size of small mountains, a temper that could melt steel, and a hammer that looked like it was designed for smashing, not thinking. He had decided that it was time to teach the Ironborn a lesson, and honestly, if you were the Ironborn, you were probably already regretting life choices.

Now, this wasn’t some half-baked invasion. No, no. Robert was planning a full-on smash-and-grab. And the base of operations? Botley Castle. It wasn’t the most luxurious place on the map, but it had a hell of a view over what was left of Lordsport. By “what was left,” I mean it was a pile of rubble that could’ve been a villain’s lair if it weren’t so… well, depressing. Seriously, it looked like someone had handed a toddler a sledgehammer and said, “Go wild.”

But the banners? Oh, the banners were top-notch. The Baratheon stag, the Lannister lion, and Stark direwolf all fluttering in the wind like some kind of medieval parade. If you squinted and ignored the whole “impending battle” thing, you might’ve thought this was some kind of noble version of Coachella, only with more armor and less music. Robert might’ve even been dancing to the beat of his own drum—except he’d probably just punch the drummer for the fun of it.

Now, this battle wasn’t just about Robert getting to swing his hammer around. No, the Northern Army still hadn’t shown up. Word on the street was that they were either lost, taking a snack break, or just slow-moving—take your pick. Either way, Robert didn’t seem concerned. And why would he be? He was too busy making battle plans that mostly consisted of, “We march. We crush. We win.” Subtlety was apparently a foreign concept to him.

The soldiers on the ground? Oh, they were busy being soldiers. The usual stuff: sharpening swords, yelling at each other, and figuring out who would get stuck with latrine duty (spoiler: it wasn’t the king). The air was thick with tension—like when you know you’re about to fail a test but you don’t want to admit it. Even the seagulls were getting into it, circling overhead like they were expecting a disaster. It was like watching a nature documentary where the animals know more about the situation than the humans do.

As the sun began to set, the sea turned into a giant mirror of fire. The waves caught the dying light, reflecting Robert’s mood—fierce, angry, and ready to burn down everything in his path. If you asked Robert what he thought about the situation, he’d probably say something like, “Well, I’m just here to beat some Ironborn senseless and remind them why you never mess with a Baratheon.”

The troops were ready. The Ironborn were not. And as Robert marched off to the front lines, his warhammer swinging at his side, you could practically hear the drums of battle in the distance. It was the perfect setup for a history-changing moment.

Except, you know, Robert didn’t really care about making history. He cared about making the Ironborn regret ever thinking they could take on a Baratheon. The fate of the Iron Islands, the fate of the Seven Kingdoms, heck, the fate of dinner that night was hanging in the balance. But Robert? Robert was just thinking, “I really hope there’s ale after this.”

And, just like that, the stage was set for the final hammer blow.

—

The war chamber at Botley Castle was buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. Lords crowded around the massive table, their hands waving dramatically over maps, their voices full of ominous phrases like “strategic bottleneck” and “logistical nightmares.” But Robert Baratheon? Robert was not into all that. No, Robert was more of a “kick down the door and start smashing things” kind of guy.

"Damn it all, Jon!" Robert roared, slamming his fist onto the table with a thud that could’ve knocked over a mountain. "We’ve been sitting here for days! DAYS! I didn’t come all this way to sit around and play knights and maps. I came to smash some Ironborn skulls!"

Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King and a man whose patience could probably rival a saint’s, sighed. Long and deep. “Your Grace, if you smash their skulls without a plan, they’ll smash back. And you won’t like it.”

Before Robert could explode (because, let's be honest, he was about to), the heavy doors of the war room creaked open with a groan, cutting through the tension like a broadsword slicing through butter. A messenger stumbled in, looking like he’d just run the length of the North while being chased by an angry bear.

“Your Grace, Lords,” the messenger gasped, clutching a stitch in his side like his lungs were trying to escape his chest, “the Northern Army has arrived!”

There was a brief, electric moment of silence. You could practically hear the collective breath of the room held in suspense. Robert’s scowl slowly morphed into the kind of grin that usually came right before someone had to start a drinking contest.

"Are you sure?" Robert boomed, already halfway to the door, knocking over a chair in the process.

“Yes, Your Grace!” the messenger wheezed. “The Northern Fleet is anchored in the harbor! Their banners are flying high!”

At this point, Tywin Lannister, who had been standing in the corner like a particularly well-dressed thundercloud, opened his mouth in his signature voice—the one that dripped disdain like honey on a cold morning. “This changes everything. With the North reinforcing our position, we can press the advantage and coordinate a full assault.”

Robert, oblivious to Tywin’s typical “I’m so much smarter than you” attitude, slapped him heartily on the shoulder. A little too heartily, maybe, because Tywin stiffened like he’d just been branded with a hot iron.

“Brilliant!” Robert barked, oblivious to Tywin’s discomfort. “That’s what I like to hear. A proper plan!”

Mace Tyrell, eager to contribute but struggling with the whole “coherent sentences” thing, piped up. “Yes, Your Grace! Quite, um… remarkable news! With the Northern banners… uh… flying, and the harbor—harbored? We’ll be victorious in no time!”

Tywin shot him a look that could’ve frozen a river. Seriously, Mace, just go back to gardening, buddy.

Jon Arryn cleared his throat, stepping in like the diplomatic powerhouse he was. “It is indeed good news, but we must proceed with caution. Pyke isn’t some small village to be raided. It’s a fortress, and the Ironborn are at their most dangerous when cornered.”

Robert grunted, clearly unimpressed. “You always have to rain on my parade, don’t you, Jon?”

Jon, deadpan as ever, raised an eyebrow. “It’s why you keep me around, Your Grace.”

Without missing a beat, Robert roared at the nearest squire. “Fetch Ned Stark and his nephew. If we’re going to break down Pyke, I want the North in the room. Stannis can hold the harbor, but I need someone who knows how to fight like a wolf. Not some overgrown stag.”

The squire scrambled out of the room as fast as his legs could carry him, probably because he didn’t want to be anywhere near Robert’s rage when he inevitably decided to break something else.

Turning back to the council, Robert beamed. “Right, lads. This is it! The final nail in the Ironborn coffin! By the time I’m done with Pyke, even the Drowned God will be wondering what hit him!”

Mace, attempting to chuckle in agreement, produced a sound somewhere between a cough and a hiccup. Tywin pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to block out Robert’s enthusiasm like it was a particularly loud party next door. And Jon? Jon just shook his head, muttering under his breath, “War councils shouldn’t feel like tavern brawls waiting to happen.”

And then, just like that, the room erupted into chaos. Lords shouting, Robert gearing up to do whatever it was Robert did best—smash things—and everyone else trying to keep up. The Northern Army was on their way, and the siege of Pyke? Oh, that was about to get very interesting.

As the door slammed behind the squire, Robert turned back to the table, his grin returning in full force. “Alright, lads, let's make sure the Ironborn get the warmest welcome ever. And after we’ve crushed them, there’s a barrel of ale with my name on it!”

And just like that, the fate of Pyke—and maybe the entire Iron Islands—was about to be decided. But hey, no pressure, right? It was just Robert Baratheon, a warhammer, and a whole lot of anger.

—

Cregan’s POV

You’d think walking into a war council packed with lords, knights, and the occasional slightly grumpy king would be intimidating. Spoiler alert: It wasn’t. Not for me, anyway.

I mean, when you’re ten years old, heading into a room full of grown men yelling about swords, strategies, and making plans to wipe out a bunch of Ironborn, you’d think you'd feel a little out of place, right? Nah. Not with Uncle Ned and Benjen flanking me and Arthur Dayne—yes, the Arthur Dayne—walking beside me, looking like he could slice a mountain in half if he wanted to. Pretty sure the mountain would apologize first.

My two Valyrian steel swords, Red Rain and Nightfall, were strapped across my back. Yeah, I looked awesome. They were more than just sharp metal though—when you’ve got blades like that, you’re basically walking around with a couple of "do-not-mess-with-me" signs. Practical? Not really. Cool? Oh, absolutely.

The war room went dead silent the moment we stepped inside. The kind of silence you get when a whole bunch of important people realize you just walked into their fancy meeting, and they didn’t even hear you coming. Robert Baratheon, predictably, was the first to speak up. You could always count on him to break the ice—usually with a bang.

"Lord Cregan!" Robert boomed, his voice carrying like a thunderclap. "You’re just in time! We were just about to start smashing skulls!"

I could practically hear the grin in his voice. Robert always sounded like he was two seconds away from either grabbing a flagon of ale or starting a war. Sometimes both. I gave him a polite nod, keeping my face as serious as possible. Because hey, this was war, not a game of tag.

“Your Grace,” I said. “We are here to lend our strength to the cause.”

Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, gave me that fatherly, diplomatic nod he always did. It was like he was trying to remind everyone that war wasn’t just about smashing things. Not that I disagreed. There was definitely some smashing that needed to happen.

“Welcome, Lord Cregan,” he said, his voice warm but carrying that undertone of "I’m probably disappointed in you but trying to be nice." “Your presence will strengthen us.”

Right. Probably disappointed. Great. Uncle Ned shot me a look that said, “Don’t roll your eyes, Cregan,” but you know what? I was ten. I’m pretty sure eye-rolling is part of the package deal at this age. So, yeah. Eye-roll, but only on the inside.

“Thank you, Lord Arryn,” I said, keeping it polite. “I’m ready to discuss our strategy for the siege of Pyke.”

Which, I should’ve known, wasn’t gonna happen just yet. Because Lord Robert was already leaning forward, looking at me like I was some kind of pet project he wanted to take on. Or maybe he just wanted to play a drinking game. Hard to tell with him.

Jon’s face suddenly took on that "I’m about to make you feel like you’re in trouble" expression. I don’t know how he does it. One minute, he’s all chill, and the next, he’s got you feeling like you just lost a game of “Who Can Stay Quiet the Longest.”

“I must express my concern, Lord Cregan,” he said, making sure everyone in the room knew he was all about the concern. "The conduct of the Northern Army during this war has been... less than exemplary."

Ouch. Like a sword to the gut. Okay, deep breath. Don’t flip the table.

I straightened up and kept my voice steady. “I assure you, Lord Arryn, our actions were necessary to secure victory.”

Uncle Ned, as always, backed me up. “We faced a dangerous enemy, one that required swift action,” he said, putting that Stark seriousness into his words. He didn’t need to say much more. That was the Stark way. Kill or be killed.

Jon, though, wasn’t having it. "Swift action, yes, but at what cost? We cannot lose sight of our values.”

I may have actually rolled my eyes this time. I’m not even sorry. Values? I’d seen the Ironborn destroy whole villages. I wasn’t about to let them run around like they owned the place. But instead of snarking, I just let the words fall out of my mouth before I could stop them.

“The Ironborn show no mercy. They deserve none in return,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant. “In the North, we understand that survival sometimes requires sacrifices.”

And just like that, the room froze. Even Robert stopped grinning for a moment. I think Jon Arryn might’ve been trying to figure out if he should lecture me or just agree with me. Either way, I could practically hear the awkward tension. Tywin Lannister looked at me like I’d just kicked his dog. But then, Robert, ever the optimist (or, more likely, the I’m-gonna-make-this-fun-no-matter-what guy), cleared his throat and grinned like a madman.

“Well, speaking of victories…” he said, like he was suddenly remembering a joke he’d been dying to tell. “I’ve heard they’ve started calling you the Demon Wolf, Cregan. Quite the name, I must say.”

I nodded, trying not to look too pleased. “It’s an honor to serve the North and the realm,” I said, keeping it cool.

“Oh, sure,” Robert said, slapping the table like I’d just told him I was giving him all my gold. “An honor! But those swords—Red Rain, Nightfall—they’re magnificent.” He practically drooled at the mention of my swords. “Where do I get a pair of those?”

I shrugged. “Maybe when you’re done fighting the Ironborn, we can talk about it.”

Tywin Lannister, of course, couldn’t just let Robert have his fun without adding his two cents. “Congratulations on your victories, Lord Stark,” he said, all smooth and calculating. “But tell me this—how did you manage to travel from White Harbor to Harlaw so quickly and without anyone noticing?”

And just like that, the room went still again. Tywin, always playing the chess game even when we’re just trying to get through the day.

I grinned and leaned back, crossing my arms. “A northern lord must know his lands well, Lord Lannister,” I said, my voice smooth as butter. “We’ve constructed a canal that connects the Fever and the Bite rivers. It allows for swift passage across the North.”

Yeah, that definitely got their attention.

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, but he stayed quiet, calculating. Mace Tyrell actually looked impressed for once. I mean, I did just drop the knowledge bomb of the century. And Robert? He was grinning like someone who’d just been given a free pass to everything he wanted.

“We’re refurbishing Moat Cailin,” I added, dropping the mic like I was born for this. “Once that’s finished, it’ll be open to all. And the tolls will help make the North stronger.”

The room buzzed with murmurs. Mace Tyrell, who usually couldn’t string two sentences together without embarrassing himself, managed to look impressed. Even Brynden Tully seemed like he understood the value of this little northern gem. And Robert? Robert was clapping the table like he’d just been told he could keep all the dragons.

“That’s brilliant!” he exclaimed. “By the gods, Stark, the North’s getting stronger every day!”

I just gave a slight nod, trying to look like I had it all together. Inside, though? I was already imagining the tolls raking in. Let’s just say my “Northern Investments” plan was looking pretty solid.

And yeah, it was only getting started.

Cregan's POV

Oh boy. You know that feeling when you’re the smartest person in the room, but you’re pretending not to be? Yeah, welcome to my life. The war chamber hummed with the kind of egos that could rival the size of Dragonstone itself. Everyone was practically bursting at the seams with self-importance while hashing out how my canal would change the realm.

I leaned back in my chair, trying my best to look casual, like I wasn’t mentally cataloging every insult I wanted to throw at Jon Arryn later. (Spoiler alert: there were a lot.) The man was like a human bloodhound, sniffing around for lies with his little spectacles perched on his nose.

“Lord Cregan,” he said, his voice high and mighty like he’d just found out the North invented fire, “how exactly was this canal funded? The crown’s agreement was limited to the refurbishment of Moat Cailin. Surely a project of this scale required... substantial resources.”

Oh, Jon. Sweet, summer Jon. Always asking the tough questions, like he didn’t know everyone in the room was probably lying about something. But I had my poker face on, and my voice was as smooth as butter, even though I was practically vibrating inside. “Indeed, Lord Arryn,” I said, feeling all calm and collected, even though my brain was screaming don’t blow this, don’t blow this. “House Stark funded the canal entirely. We saw it as a vital investment for the North’s future.”

Okay, so that was, like, half true. Sure, we used some Stark gold, but the real magic—pun absolutely intended—was in the paperwork. You see, Petyr Baelish might think he’s the Master of Coin, but when you’re playing the Game of Thrones, never underestimate a Stark with a plan... and a wand.

I’d “accidentally” inflated the costs for Moat Cailin’s refurbishment. And by inflated, I mean I made it look like we were importing gold-plated bricks and unicorn hair mortar. The best part? Every single invoice I sent to the Master of Coin had been... charmed. I’m talking irresistible—like the kind of charm that makes a grown man go “Is it Christmas already?” Petyr probably signed those invoices with a grin, thinking he was going to swindle me. Joke’s on you, Baelish.

The room’s attention shifted back to Jon Arryn, but I could practically feel him still trying to untangle my words. His Maester-like brain was already spinning, trying to figure out if I was hiding something—which, of course, I was. But I just smiled and said, “The North takes care of its own, Lord Arryn. Always has, always will.”

There was a pause. You could almost hear the wheels turning in Jon’s head. He was going to corner me about this, but later. He was too much of a stickler for rules, and I could see him mentally drafting a dozen more questions for me. But for now? I was the wolf at the table, and I was doing just fine.

The room buzzed again with murmurs, and I could practically feel Tywin Lannister’s icy glare piercing through my skull. He wasn’t saying anything, but you could tell he was calculating. Everything. All the time. Meanwhile, Mace Tyrell—bless him—looked like I’d just told him bread was the meaning of life. Which, to be fair, maybe it was.

Robert Baratheon was grinning like I’d just handed him a horn of ale, his fingers wrapped around a goblet like it was a lifeline. The man’s always two drinks away from a full-on speech about how “the realm’s better off with a few more jests and a few less speeches.”

I leaned back even farther, putting my feet up on the table like I owned the place. Hey, I was ten years old, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t throw a little swagger in my step. Sure, I looked like a little kid, but everyone around that table had been around enough to know the old “looks can be deceiving” line. And if they hadn’t? Well, they were about to find out.

“That’s bold talk for a kid,” Tywin’s voice came, sharp as ever. But I could hear the edge of curiosity in it. He knew. Tywin always knew when someone was holding cards close to their chest.

I shot him a grin. “Just because I’m young doesn’t mean I’m not smart enough to outplay the lot of you, old man.”

He narrowed his eyes, clearly ready to dissect my words, but before he could, Benjen Stark, my uncle, chuckled and gave me a look that said, Don’t push your luck too far, kid. I grinned back at him, like I was going to blow up the whole room in one shot and absolutely get away with it.

“Alright, alright,” Robert interrupted, raising a hand. “Enough with the staring contest. If the kid says the North’s got it covered, I’m inclined to believe him. Though,” he added, taking another long drink, “I wouldn’t mind a bit more proof next time. Maybe a horn of ale?”

I nearly choked on my own laughter. “I’ll take that under advisement, Your Grace.”

There was a pause before Uncle Arthur finally spoke up. He wasn’t the kind to throw his weight around, but when he did, it was usually worth listening to. “It’s clear that House Stark has big plans,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “The canal will change the tides of the realm. I know my nephew has thought through the consequences, Lord Hand.”

“Always,” I said, with way more confidence than any ten-year-old probably should’ve had.

And, as the conversation flowed into a hundred other boring topics, I sat back, just a little smug, watching as Jon Arryn tried and failed to not look suspicious. There was no real way to pull off what I’d just done without a little finesse—and a lot of luck—but that’s the thing about being a Stark. We don’t need luck. We’ve got the Savage Burn.

—

Alright, imagine you’re stuck in a tent with a bunch of people who are supposedly "in charge" of the Seven Kingdoms, and every single one of them thinks they’re the only one with a good idea. That’s exactly what this war council felt like. There I was, ten years old and somehow the one with the most common sense in the room. Go figure.

Robert Baratheon, who probably weighed more than half the damn room combined, was sitting at the head of the table, leaning back like he owned the place. And in a way, he did—he was King, after all. But right now? He looked less like the king of Westeros and more like a drunk uncle at a family reunion, sloshing ale around and shouting for everyone’s attention.

“Alright, enough squawking! What’s the first move?” Robert boomed, like he’d just declared war on every kingdom in the realm. He looked down at me, squinting through that scruffy beard of his. “You, boy. What do we do first? You’re the one with the fancy plans, eh?”

I crossed my arms and gave him a smirk that I’m pretty sure made me look way older than I actually was. "First move? Easy. We secure the coastline. If we don’t keep the Ironborn from sneaking behind us, this whole siege is gonna end up being one big splash. And not the good kind."

There was a murmur of approval around the table, though most of them looked like they were just trying to pretend they hadn’t had that idea first. Ned Stark, my dear old dad, nodded and gave me that rare look of pride. The one that meant, "Well done, son," but in a way that made you feel like you'd just been handed a puppy and told to care for it.

“Divide our forces,” Ned said, voice like gravel. “Smaller units along the coast. That way, they can’t regroup.”

Benjen Stark, ever the brooding figure, glanced around the room with those piercing eyes of his. "Ambushes will be inevitable," he added, crossing his arms. “You’ll need to keep moving.”

Uncle Arthur Dayne, still as tall and noble-looking as ever, chimed in with that serious tone of his. "The Ironborn don't fight fair. Expect raiding parties, surprise attacks—anything that could mess with your plans."

I shot him a grin. "Don’t worry, Uncle. I’ve got that covered. If they want to fight dirty, I’ll make sure they regret it."

Arthur just raised an eyebrow, not quite buying my swagger. To be fair, I did have a bit of a penchant for making my enemies wish they’d never been born—sometimes with fire, sometimes with a little bit of Savage Burn. Yeah, that’s a thing I do now.

Anyway, Robert, who had clearly forgotten the original question by now, was still looking at me like I had a few more good ideas up my sleeve. “Alright, alright, but what about the walls, eh? We’re gonna bash down those walls, right?”

Ugh. Walls. Great. I leaned forward, hands on the table, trying to look like I knew what I was talking about. "The walls of Pyke won’t be easy to bring down. I mean, we’re not dealing with a sandcastle here, Your Grace.”

“That’s why we brought the siege engines!” Robert roared, slamming a fist down on the table.

I ignored the fact that he nearly knocked over his own ale. "Yeah, but they’re not invincible. So, we’re gonna need something more… creative."

Cue the Maester, who I’m still not sure has a name. He's got that nerdy, frazzled look—bald, a little twitchy, and way too excited about scrolls. He started shuffling papers like he was trying to locate the last cookie in the jar. “Well, the eastern and southern walls are the weakest points,” he said, his voice carrying an air of "I totally have this figured out." “The stone’s old and crumbling.”

“Ah! Crumbling walls!” Robert exclaimed like it was the greatest discovery since he found out wine could be poured into a cup. “Perfect! Siege engines! Smash it to pieces!”

Tywin Lannister—who was still sitting there, looking like he could crush us all with a single look—steepled his fingers and gave one of those looks that made you think he was about to deliver the worst news of your life. "Siege engines might take too long,” he said smoothly, like he had just come up with a brand-new idea that would change the game. “We need something faster, something… explosive.”

Oh, this is where it gets good.

Robert leaned in, eyes wide. "Explosive? I like the sound of that. What do you have in mind?"

Tywin just smiled that predatory smile. “Wildfire.”

The room went silent for a moment. It’s like we all just collectively remembered that wildfire is a little more unpredictable than your average Thursday morning.

I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "Wildfire’s like playing with fire while blindfolded, my lord. One wrong move and we’ll be the ones going up in flames."

Tywin, who probably thinks the sun rises just for him, shrugged. "That’s why we’ll use precision," he said like that was supposed to reassure us. Spoiler alert: it didn’t.

Robert, though, was practically bouncing in his seat. “Wildfire! I like it! Let’s make it go boom!” He slapped his hands together like he was about to go on a hunting trip with his mates. “Prepare the wildfire! Let’s end this rebellion with a bang!”

I resisted the urge to bang my head against the table. The fate of the entire realm, ladies and gentlemen. In the hands of a man who thinks "strategy" is the same as "let’s blow stuff up."

But, hey, at least I had Red Rain and Nightfall ready to go. That should make me look cool when everything inevitably goes to hell, right?

—

Alright, let’s set the scene here. Picture this: the war chamber, all polished wood and ancient stone, practically vibrating with the ego of every lord in the realm who thought he was the smartest guy in the room. And trust me, when you're ten, like I am, being surrounded by all these grown men who think they’re the big brains of Westeros? It’s like being at a tavern with a bunch of drunk uncles arguing about who’s got the best beard. Which, by the way, is obviously me.

Jon Arryn, the human embodiment of ‘I’m-just-trying-to-make-this-situation-awkward’, had just dropped the bombshell of a question that no one really wanted to deal with. “What happens after we capture Balon Greyjoy?” he asked, all furrowed brows and serious tone. Like the guy hadn’t already seen enough bloodshed to know the answer. But nooo, Jon had to go for the diplomatic route. Typical.

Robert, of course, was ready to do what Robert Baratheon did best: hit things until they broke. "We kill him," he said, like it was the easiest decision in the world. Classic Robert—straightforward and a bit too enthusiastic about the whole violence thing.

Jon’s brow furrowed deeper, if that was even possible. The guy looked like he was preparing to lecture a child about the dangers of candy, which... I mean, I get it. He’s the Hand. But this wasn’t a time for deep thoughts about the soul of the Ironborn, or whatever he was about to get into.

"We kill him?" Jon repeated, his voice a little too calm, like he’d just discovered a new flavor of porridge. “Killing him may only make things worse. It might breed resentment. Maybe there's a better way, something that ensures the peace of the realm.”

I can feel the sarcasm rising in my throat. Really, Jon? I mean, I get that you’ve got a big book of nice-guy quotes, but we’re in a room of seasoned killers, and no one here’s interested in reading How to Win Friends and Influence Ironborn.

I leaned back in my chair, twirling the edge of my cloak. “Clemency?” I almost choked on the word. “You mean like the mercy we showed the last time we gave the Ironborn a pass? How’d that work out for us, huh?”

I didn’t even need to say it out loud. The room went as silent as a crypt. Because, let’s face it, the last time we “showed mercy,” those dirty Ironborn had burned a couple of villages, took our ships, and stole half the coast. It was not pretty, and not the kind of thing you’d want to bring up at dinner with your in-laws.

Jon didn’t blink. He was like one of those statues that pretends to care about the little people while being all wise and “let’s-just-make-this-peaceful” about everything. “We offer him terms of surrender,” he said, looking more serious than a broken axe. “Let the Iron Islands stay under our rule, but offer them a chance for peace. A show of clemency.”

I could feel my face scrunching up, like I had just bitten into something sour. Clemency. That word was like saying “let’s all have a picnic with the wolves.”

“Right,” I muttered, leaning forward. “And how exactly is that gonna work out? What’s next, Lord Hand? You wanna give them hugs and some nice pastries too?” I could practically feel my past self—Harry—snickering somewhere. Clemency. Yeah, right. You can’t hug a sword to peace.

Robert slapped the table. SLAM. Everyone jumped a little. “Enough!” he bellowed. “We’ll deal with Greyjoy when we have him. But for now, our job is to end this rebellion. And securing peace—real peace—is going to take more than hugs and handshakes.”

He looked at Jon like Jon was the annoying fly in his soup. "Got it?" Robert added, clearly done with this whole peace-and-mercy act.

Jon, always the stubborn mule, nodded, but I saw the glint of something behind his eyes—maybe it was hope. Maybe it was sheer frustration. Either way, it didn’t matter. Because in the end, we all knew that peace wasn’t going to come from a handshake or a clever speech.

That’s the thing about this world. You can talk all you want about “peace” and “mercy,” but the people you’re dealing with? They’ve got axes and swords, and they don’t care about your speeches. They care about power—and they’ll take it from you any chance they get. And me? Well, I was already thinking about the next move, because I was the one who’d have to clean up after this mess.

Tywin Lannister shot me a glance across the table, those cold, calculating eyes of his like a dagger through a heart. He didn’t say anything, because that would’ve given away the fact that he was already thinking about how to use this situation to his advantage. The thing about Tywin is, you don’t need him to speak—he makes it clear with a look.

Mace Tyrell, of course, was looking at Robert like he’d just told him the secret to eternal life. Mace would’ve been impressed by someone just mentioning bread. But hey, who am I to judge?

I leaned back again, feeling that smug little wolf smile creep onto my face. Because while Jon and Robert were busy fighting over the “right way” to rule, I knew exactly how this game was going to end. It wasn’t going to be clemency. It wasn’t going to be peace. It was going to be fire. And, for once, I didn’t mind burning a few things to get what I wanted.

And Jon? Well, he’d just have to learn that the hard way.

—

Okay, so here’s the deal: I was sitting alone in my tent, trying to wrap my head around the latest mess that had just dropped into my lap, like a hot, steaming pile of dragon dung. I mean, seriously, who knew being a young Lord of the North would come with so much drama? I was pretty sure they didn’t teach this stuff at the Winterfell school of sword fighting.

I stared at the flickering torches. They danced like bad actors in a play that no one wanted to watch. Shadows stretched out over the walls of the tent like they were trying to escape. Honestly, I might have been impressed if I weren’t so deeply entrenched in trying not to completely lose my cool. Spoiler alert: I was failing.

My brain? Oh, it was a mess. Like someone had tossed a bunch of puzzle pieces in the air and told me to figure it out before sunrise. Except the puzzle pieces were broken glass. And fire. And maybe a couple of angry wolves. The reason? That little moment in the council where I’d decided to do something probably considered “unethical” in the world of politics. But hey, if you’ve got Legilimency on your side, why not take a peek into Jon Arryn’s brain? I mean, who knows what gems of information might be lurking in there between his thoughts about taxes and crop rotations, right?

So I looked. And, oh boy, I found a doozy. Jon Arryn, the guy with the whole “voice of reason” routine, had been playing us all like puppets. He wasn’t just dealing with the Greyjoy rebellion the way we’d been told. No, turns out Jon and Varys, Mr. “I’m Always Watching” himself, had been nudging Balon Greyjoy into rebellion. You know, just a little power move to make sure Robert Baratheon’s rule looked solid. Nothing to worry about, right? Just some backroom scheming and a lot of “for the greater good” nonsense.

Yeah. Big surprise there. And of course, everyone thought the Ironborn were the bad guys. Classic. The whole rebellion was like a bad soap opera, and Jon Arryn was the villain wearing a big ol’ cloak of “I’m Doing This for Everyone’s Benefit!” I was furious. And when I say furious, I mean steam-coming-out-of-my-ears, hands-clenching-around-swords level of furious. Betrayal? Sure. Everyone does it. But betrayal wrapped in a “this is for your own good” bow? Nope. That’s a whole new level of annoying.

I was fuming so hard I probably could have set the tent on fire with just my glare. So, naturally, my hands found their way to the hilts of my swords—Red Rain and Nightfall. Red Rain felt like an old friend. The cool steel in my grip was comforting, like it knew the exact amount of pressure I needed to calm my nerves. Nightfall? Well, Nightfall was more of a reminder that I could end people, and I didn’t even need to try. Which, you know, was a nice thought. But I had bigger plans than just killing people. For now, anyway.

I took a deep breath. The North had never been about playing nice. It was about honor, duty, and a few punches thrown in when the time called for it. And Jon Arryn? Well, he was the kind of guy who probably thought playing nice meant stabbing people in the back while smiling politely. Not on my watch.

And then there was the whole thing with Varys, because, of course, there was. The Spider. The guy who knew everything. Or so he thought. Well, he didn’t know one thing: me.

The Demon Wolf. I was not the guy you used as a pawn in your schemes. Not unless you were ready to see what happened when you poked a sleeping wolf. Spoiler alert: it’s not pretty. And let’s not forget the little fact that I had a few tricks up my sleeve—like the whole Savage Burn thing. Yeah, that was my personal favorite move. I could practically feel the heat bubbling up just thinking about it. Jon Arryn thought he had it all figured out? Cute.

But I wasn’t about to make my move just yet. No, no, that wouldn’t be fun. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my... experience (I’m being modest here), it’s that you wait. You wait and you let them think they’ve won. Then, when they least expect it, you set their world on fire.

Anyway, the next move was coming, and it was going to be big. Because if there’s one thing the North didn’t need, it was some pompous southerner thinking he could play us like chess pieces. No, Jon Arryn was about to learn the hard way that the Stark family doesn’t play by the rules.

And me? I was ready to show him exactly why they called me the Demon Wolf.

—

The sun decided to show up, though I’m pretty sure it was just to mock us. Dawn on Pyke wasn’t one of those "ah, nature" moments. No, this was the kind of dawn where the sky looks like it’s about to rain doom, and the air feels thick enough to cut with a sword. The sea spray? It didn’t hit your face like a gentle breeze—it slapped you like your older brother after you stole his last piece of bread. In other words, Pyke had no intention of making this easy.

I was standing at the front of our army, doing my best to look fierce. I mean, I’m 10 years old, but people act like I’m some kind of berserker already. I had Red Rain and Nightfall strapped to my back, both Valyrian steel and looking as sharp as a raven’s beak, just waiting for someone to mess with me. No one was stupid enough to do that, though. I think the "Demon Wolf" nickname was enough of a deterrent.

Beside me stood my Uncle Ned, who was in full “serious Northern lord” mode, and Uncle Benjen, who was definitely not smiling. Not even a little. He had that look like he was planning to ruin someone’s day, but in the most professional way possible. Like, "Oh, I’m not gonna kill you, I’m just going to make you wish you were never born."

Then there was Uncle Arthur. Yeah, the Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, with his shining armor and impossible-to-ignore presence. Dude made even the deadliest fighters look like amateurs, and he didn’t have to say a word. He didn’t need to. You just knew if you crossed him, you'd be kissing your own sword. He stood next to me, doing his usual “I am a master of swordplay and calm, cool confidence” thing. Even with all that swagger, I swear, I could almost hear him thinking, Please don’t let me get stuck fighting the Ironborn. They’re gross.

And let’s not forget Robert Baratheon, who thought the whole "pre-battle speech" was his personal time to shine. "Today," he bellowed, swinging his hammer around like it was an extension of his arm, "we end Balon Greyjoy’s treachery!" Honestly, it sounded like he was trying to rally the troops for some kind of giant beer-drinking contest, not an actual battle. But then again, Robert was more of a "smash things and hope for the best" kind of guy. And that hammer? Might’ve been more of a personality trait than a weapon.

Jon Arryn, always the "voice of reason" (which, if I’m being honest, was probably the most boring thing ever), chimed in, all calm and collected, like he was giving advice about crop rotations instead of, you know, war. "We must be strategic," he said, as if no one else had a plan. "Focus on the weak points that Ser Arthur Dayne has identified." Yeah, well, the only weak point I was concerned with was the enemy's weak points, and how many I could get through with Red Rain and Nightfall.

Then there was Tywin Lannister, standing in the back, with that look that made you feel like you owed him an apology for existing. Seriously, the man was born with a scowl permanently etched into his face. His presence alone was enough to make you wonder if you were about to be offered a poisoned cup of wine or an empty chair at his next family dinner. Spoiler: it was the wine.

And don’t even get me started on Mace Tyrell, who was standing there looking like he might burst into song at any second. His armor was so shiny it practically blinded me. You know, Mace Tyrell—huge, jolly, and about as intimidating as a wet sponge in a fight. It wasn’t that he wasn’t capable of swinging a sword; it’s just that every time I looked at him, I thought, Why does this guy look like he should be holding a bouquet of flowers instead of a lance?

I glanced around the battlefield, the Northern banners snapping in the wind, the direwolf emblem staring down the Ironborn like it was about to eat them for breakfast. My heart was pumping with that wild rush of excitement. Sure, I was only 10, but hey—sometimes life throws you into the deep end, and you either sink or swim. And me? I was pretty sure I was made of some kind of magic that made me always swim. Or at least sink with style.

Robert clapped me on the back, nearly knocking me over in the process. "Ready, Cregan?" he grinned, his eyes bright with that warrior madness.

"Born ready, Bobby B," I said with a grin that was equal parts deadly and mischievous. "Just try not to blow up everything in sight this time."

Robert chuckled. "No promises, kid."

"Prepare the wildfire!" he shouted, as if it was the best idea since sliced bread. I glanced over at Uncle Ned, who had the exact same look on his face as when he found out one of the servants had burned his dinner. It was that "I can’t believe we’re doing this" look. Uncle Benjen just sighed like he was considering running for the hills.

But it was too late to turn back now. The siege engines creaked as they were prepared, the sound cutting through the air like a bad omen. The Ironborn were probably inside, eating bad stew and trying to figure out how they’d get through the day without being burned alive.

"Get ready!" I called to my men, feeling the fire inside me rise. This is it. This is the moment.

Then, for a split second, I saw something in the distance—a lone Ironborn scout, probably hoping to get a head start on the running-away portion of the battle. He looked right at me, and I swear, I saw his eyes go wide.

Yeah, he’d figured it out. I was the Demon Wolf, after all. And I wasn’t about to let him forget it.

With a wild grin, I unsheathed Red Rain, and Nightfall followed suit. Time to show Pyke exactly why they should’ve stayed in bed this morning.

—

Dawn had barely cracked open its eyelid when the chaos kicked off. Imagine a storm hitting a powder keg while a dragon barfed fire at it—that was the sound of the first stone hitting Pyke’s walls. Boom! You could feel the rumble in your bones. It wasn’t just an explosion; it was an announcement: The Seven Kingdoms have come to collect, and you’re going to pay for your bad decisions.

And me? Oh, I was at the front of the line, grinning like a wolf who’d just found a fresh carcass. I was still ten years old, but between the two Valyrian steel swords on my back—Red Rain and Nightfall—and my... well, let’s just say, questionable decision-making skills, I was ready to make history.

To my right, Uncle Ned was as grim as ever, his face a mask of stoic determination. He looked like he’d just finished wrestling a bear and was considering making it his next coat. "Stay close, Cregan," he muttered, his voice like gravel scraped against stone. "This will be no easy fight."

I nodded, but honestly, I was kind of hoping for an easy fight. But when your army consists of guys like Arthur Dayne, legendary Sword of the Morning, you sort of have to roll with whatever mess comes your way. And Arthur? He was over there polishing his sword like it was a newborn baby, looking as elegant as a knight who was about to ruin someone’s day. He didn’t even look like he was sweating, which made me wonder if he was actually a god disguised as a human, because he sure didn’t look human.

And then there was Benjen. My good ol’ Uncle Benjen, ever the serious one, looking like he just rolled out of some epic battle and was still too tired to care. But trust me, don’t let that calm demeanor fool you. He could probably cut someone in half without even blinking. Benjen never blinked. He was like a knight who got bored of blinking long ago.

Behind us? Robert Baratheon. The Robert Baratheon. King of the Seven Kingdoms, hammer enthusiast, and proud owner of a stomach that had its own gravitational pull. "Time to show these Ironborn why they should’ve stayed in the ocean!" he yelled, lifting his warhammer like he was auditioning for Thor’s body double. His voice could’ve cracked the sky, and as soon as he spoke, the Northern army surged forward. Everyone just followed the sound of that hammer.

A second later, the southern wall of Pyke went down with the force of a thousand angry gods. The Ironborn had no time to scream. They had no time to do anything before the entire world around them went sideways. One moment, they were standing strong, probably thinking they could take us on with their axes and fancy sea god chants, and the next—BOOM! It was like Pyke had decided to swallow them whole.

I was already charging, swords in hand, my heart hammering like Robert’s warhammer, my blood pumping with a mix of excitement and okay, don’t die today. But you know what? I didn’t die. I got this. I always get this.

"Charge, you sons of winter!" I yelled, already elbowing my way to the front. The soldiers around me were a mix of grumpy Northerners and sweaty Southern knights who didn’t have the sense to run when they should’ve. But hey, we were all in this together.

And then, bam! I was face-to-face with the first Ironborn idiot who thought he could kill a Stark. He came at me swinging an axe with all the grace of a drunken walrus, yelling, "For the Drowned God!" Yeah, that was cute.

I sidestepped and let Red Rain do the talking. The blade cut through his axe like it was made of butter, and then swish—his head was gone. Just like that. No biggie.

My twin sword, Nightfall, was already in motion, meeting another Ironborn’s sword with a sickening clang, and before he could blink, Nightfall was sinking deep into his ribs. It was a brutal mess. Blood, guts, and more blood—but at least I was making an impact. Hey, I was only ten, but I didn’t mind making history if it meant a few Ironborn would stop breathing today.

Ned and Benjen were cutting down enemies to my left, while Arthur Dayne... Arthur was doing that sword thing where he’d slice people with the grace of a dancer—except they were dying, so maybe it was more of a slaughter ballet? And over there, Robert Baratheon was cracking heads with that hammer of his like he was at the pub smashing barrels of ale. The man’s idea of fun? Everything.

"Keep pushing!" yelled Tywin Lannister, always the voice of cold, calculated reason. He had this look on his face that said, "I will burn this place to the ground, then I will drink my wine in peace." Tywin was one of those people who always looked like he was two steps ahead. Two steps ahead of everyone, except for me, because I was already making things explode.

"You heard the man!" yelled Mace Tyrell, who was, as always, a bit too excited about... everything. He raised his sword and got immediately sidetracked by some Ironborn who decided they wanted to test his dancing skills. Mace wasn’t a dancer, folks. He was a terrible dancer. But he was a good fighter, so they were going to regret it soon.

I took a moment to pause, mostly because I was a bit too excited, but also because I wasn’t stupid enough to think I could keep killing like this forever. I looked over my shoulder and saw Jon Arryn standing there, looking very Jon Arryn-ish. He didn’t yell like Robert or make dramatic speeches like Tywin, but you could feel his calm like an anchor in the chaos. "Focus!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the madness. "Focus on the enemy! Don’t let them regroup!"

Right. Regrouping wasn’t on my agenda. Neither was dying. So, I went back to what I was good at—killing. The rest of the battle was a blur of swordplay, death, and enough carnage to make even the most hardened warrior reconsider their life choices. But hey, at least the North was taking it's pound of flesh.

Cregan's POV

Fun fact about battle: It’s really, really loud. Like, louder than Robert Baratheon at a feast when he’s deep into his third roast boar and ranting about the good old days.

The second fun fact? Being ten years old doesn’t stop people from trying to kill you.

The Ironborn didn’t care that I was a kid. They saw a Stark with two Valyrian steel swords and thought, Hmm, maybe we should remove that problem before it removes us. To be fair, that was a reasonable concern.

I stood at the front, sandwiched between Uncle Ned, Uncle Benjen, Aunt Dacey, and Uncle Arthur Dayne—basically, the Westerosi version of an all-star band, except instead of instruments, they were playing an intense game of Let’s See How Many Ironborn We Can Cut Down Before Lunch.

And then there was Thoros of Myr, the Red Priest, the drunk, the absolute maniac. His sword was on fire. Wildfire, to be exact. That’s not a metaphor. It was literally burning green, and he was swinging it around like a kid with a sparkler, except instead of impressing his friends, he was setting people on fire.

The Ironborn stared at him in horror. "What in the name of the Drowned God—"

Thoros grinned and charged. "Come forth, heathens, and embrace your cleansing!"

Uncle Benjen groaned. "I really wish he wouldn’t say things like that."

The Ironborn scrambled, suddenly very aware that their fight until death plan might need some revising.

Uncle Ned sighed. "The siege wasn’t supposed to go like this."

I blinked at him. "We breached the walls, the enemy is terrified, and Thoros is being terrifying. What was your plan?"

"Less fire," he muttered.

Aunt Dacey barked a laugh, swinging her battle-axe with the casual ease of someone who definitely belonged in a war. "You should’ve invited Lord Stannis, then. He’s got the personality of a wet log. No fire there."

I grinned. "I hear logs have more humor, though."

Uncle Benjen snorted, cutting down a charging Ironborn without even looking. "It’s funny because it’s true."

Speaking of Ironborn, one of them decided that a ten-year-old was his best target in this whole battle. He lunged at me with an axe, screaming something about the Drowned God.

I parried with Red Rain, sidestepped, and swung Nightfall in a clean arc. The next sound was a wet one, and his head took a brief vacation from his body.

"Blessed be the drowned," I murmured to the corpse.

Uncle Arthur—because of course he had time to supervise my technique in the middle of battle—gave an approving nod. "Good form. A little more weight on your back foot next time."

"Will do, Uncle Arthur."

Meanwhile, Thoros was absolutely unhinged. He had just set Maron Greyjoy on fire, and the guy was running in circles screaming like a human torch. Thoros, being the helpful guy he was, put him out of his misery with a brutal downward swing.

"You know," I called out over the chaos, "I'm fairly certain your god doesn’t actually require this much fire."

Thoros just grinned. "It’s a conversation starter."

"Yeah, but have you tried not setting people on fire?"

"Not as fun!"

Uncle Ned pinched the bridge of his nose. "We are never letting him being a part of a siege again."

At this point, the Ironborn were very much rethinking their life choices. The breach was flooded with soldiers from the North, the Reach, and the Westerlands. (I could practically feel Lord Tywin's disapproval at how messy this all was. He probably wanted a clean, professional slaughter, and instead, he got Thoros the Mad Pyromaniac.)

The moment Uncle Robert charged through the breach, it was all over.

"NOW!" Robert bellowed, warhammer raised. "SHOW THESE SALTWATER BASTARDS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THEY MESS WITH THE SEVEN KINGDOMS!"

The collective roar from the army was deafening. I think even the Drowned God flinched.

Ironborn morale? Gone.

At that point, we weren’t fighting an army. We were chasing down panicked raiders who’d realized, oh no, we made a huge mistake.

I cut down another Ironborn who was trying to run. He barely even swung his sword, just held it up like it could magically block a Valyrian steel strike. Spoiler: it couldn’t.

Uncle Benjen clapped me on the back. "You fight well for a ten-year-old."

"Thanks. I aim to traumatize."

Aunt Dacey laughed and decapitated another raider. "You take after me."

And that’s how the Battle of Pyke turned into the Massacre of Pyke.

The walls had crumbled. The Ironborn were scattered. And me?

I was ten years old and had just helped break a rebellion.

Not bad for a day’s work.

—

Here’s the thing about being a ten-year-old leading a charge into a castle: people don’t take you seriously. Sure, they call me the Demon Wolf, and yeah, I’m swinging not one but two Valyrian steel swords like I’m trying to dual-wield my way into legend, but somehow, the grown-ups still look at me like I should be off playing with wooden swords or, I don’t know, collecting cool rocks.

Case in point: Dagmer Cleftjaw.

Now, I don’t know who started the rumor that this guy was some kind of legendary warrior, but I’d like a word with them, because he looked less like a fearsome Ironborn and more like a pile of bad decisions that learned how to swing an axe. His face? A nightmare. A mangled mess of scars and bad hygiene, like someone tried to carve a map into his skull but got bored halfway through.

And he was laughing at me.

Behind him, Balon Greyjoy sat on his creepy Seastone Chair looking like someone had stolen his favorite longship. His son, little Theon, was gripping his dad’s arm so hard his knuckles had gone white. Poor kid looked like he’d just realized bedtime stories about the Demon Wolf weren’t just bedtime stories.

But Cleftjaw? Oh, no, he was feeling bold. He spat on the stone floor and smirked at me. Smirked. Like I wasn’t standing there with two of the deadliest swords in Westeros, backed up by some of the most terrifying people alive.

“A green boy leading the charge?” Cleftjaw’s voice was a deep growl, like a bear who’d gargled gravel for fun. “Have the Starks grown so desperate that they send babes to do a man’s job?”

Okay. First of all, rude. Second, I wasn’t about to let this guy turn me into a meme for the entire Iron Fleet.

I squared my shoulders, gripping Red Rain and Nightfall just tight enough to remind myself that, yes, I was a terrifying little nightmare with two Valyrian steel swords. “You’ll find Starks are more than capable of handling themselves,” I said, keeping my voice steady, cool. “But I understand if you need a moment to collect your courage. I’d hate to be the reason you embarrass yourself in front of your king.”

Thoros of Myr, standing beside me with his blazing green wildfire sword, let out a booming laugh. “Hah! The pup’s got sharper teeth than you, Cleftjaw!”

Behind me, Uncle Arthur stood tall, Dawn gleaming like it had been carved from a star. Aunt Dacey rested her battle axe against one shoulder, smiling in that terrifying I’m about to ruin your entire day way. Uncle Ned and Uncle Benjen had their swords drawn, their Stark grey eyes cold and unreadable. If the Ironborn weren’t scared yet, they were about to be.

Cleftjaw sneered. “Think your nursemaid should be changing your nappies instead of leading men into battle?”

Wow. The originality. Really top-tier stuff. Clearly, the Ironborn’s best insults were all lost at sea.

“Save your breath,” I said, rolling my shoulders. “You’ll need it for begging when I’m through with you.”

Then I lunged.

—

Fighting Dagmer Cleftjaw was like trying to cut down a moving tree—except the tree had an axe and wanted to turn me into kindling. The first time our weapons clashed, the impact nearly rattled my arms out of their sockets.

“Not bad, pup,” Cleftjaw grunted, swinging his axe down like he was trying to turn me into a Stark-shaped pancake.

I barely dodged. My heart was hammering, my breath sharp. But I grinned. “Funny, I was just thinking you’d need more than an ugly face to scare me.”

Uncle Arthur chuckled. Thoros whooped. Aunt Dacey shouted, “Give him the bite of the Demon Wolf!”

Cleftjaw scowled. His grip on his axe tightened. Perfect. Angry opponents make mistakes, and mistakes win battles.

I feinted left, then right. Nightfall swept low, forcing him to step back. I twisted, brought Red Rain down in a vicious arc—only for Cleftjaw to catch the blade with his axe handle and shove me backward.

I stumbled.

Oh. That’s… not great.

Cleftjaw’s grin turned savage. “Not so sharp now, are you, pup?”

Okay. New plan: make him bleed.

—

Around us, the battle was chaos.

Uncle Arthur fought like he had his own theme music, Dawn flashing in wide, deadly arcs, cutting through Ironborn like they were extras in his legend.

Uncle Ned and Uncle Benjen were back-to-back, cutting down Greyjoy men like it was personal. (Which, okay, it kind of was.)

Aunt Dacey was laughing as she swung her battle axe, splitting one poor fool’s helmet in half.

And Thoros? He was just on fire. Not literally. But his sword was, and he was having the time of his life, cutting through Ironborn like some unhinged, flaming saint.

Across the room, Balon Greyjoy looked more and more like a man who’d made several bad life choices. And Theon? The poor kid was hiding behind the chair. (Smart.)

Cleftjaw, meanwhile, came at me swinging. I ducked, rolled, slashed out with Nightfall. Metal bit into his side, a thin line of blood blooming across his armor.

“First blood,” I said, flashing my best smug grin.

Cleftjaw roared.

Then he charged.

For a split second, my brain did the math and realized: oh no, this is going to hurt—

And then the world exploded into fire, steel, and fury.

—

General POV

Robert Baratheon burst into the great hall of Pyke like a drunk man who had just been told there was free ale—so, basically, like Robert Baratheon at any given moment. Behind him, a parade of Westerosi powerhouses followed: Ser Barristan Selmy, the living embodiment of chivalry; Tywin Lannister, looking like he was already calculating how this whole rebellion could make him richer; Jaime Lannister, smirking like he had just won a bet no one else knew about; Randyll Tarly, radiating judgment for all things less disciplined than his beloved military formations; and Jon Arryn, watching everything with the patience of a tired father chaperoning a field trip of warlords.

What they weren’t expecting?

A ten-year-old, drenched in sweat and Ironborn blood, dual-wielding Valyrian steel swords, and currently fighting a man who looked like someone had tried (and failed) to sculpt a face out of driftwood.

Cregan Stark, the Demon Wolf of the North, was in the middle of trading blows with Dagmer Cleftjaw, a veteran Ironborn who had clearly assumed “child” meant “easy target.” The clanging of steel against steel echoed through the hall, punctuated by Cregan’s sharp footwork and Cleftjaw’s increasingly frustrated grunts. The young Stark’s swords—Red Rain and Nightfall—moved in a deadly rhythm, slicing through the air with precision that no ten-year-old had any business having.

Robert stopped dead in his tracks. “Seven hells. Is that the Stark boy?”

Ser Barristan, standing beside him, watched the fight with the quiet appreciation of a man who had seen many warriors—and was now seeing one in the making. “A true wolf of the North.” That was Barristan-speak for damn, this kid’s good.

Tywin Lannister, ever the strategist, tilted his head slightly, his sharp golden gaze dissecting every movement. “Impressive.”

Jaime, arms crossed, leaned toward Randyll Tarly, who was frowning so hard it looked like it physically hurt. “The pup has fangs,” the Kingslayer said, grinning. “How embarrassing would it be if the Ironborn fell to a ten-year-old?”

Randyll huffed. “If they do, they deserve it.”

Meanwhile, in the middle of the carnage, Cregan ducked under a wide swing from Cleftjaw’s axe and countered with a sharp slash to the ribs. The Ironborn’s armor saved him from being split open, but the force of the blow sent him staggering.

“You picked the wrong fight, boy,” Cleftjaw growled.

Cregan flicked blood from Red Rain, his cold grey eyes gleaming with something too old for a child’s face. “That’s funny,” he said, stepping forward with all the confidence of a king in the making. “I was about to say the same thing to you.”

Robert let out a booming laugh. “By the gods, the lad’s got fire! Ned must be so proud.” He turned to Tywin, clapping a meaty hand on his shoulder. “You see that? Stark blood, through and through!”

Tywin, as usual, remained unreadable, but his silence spoke volumes.

Jon Arryn, who had been watching with the quiet patience of an old general, finally sighed. “We should probably step in before the boy kills half the Ironborn himself.”

“Why?” Robert countered, still grinning. “I want to see how this plays out.”

Back in the fray, Cregan moved like a predator, circling Cleftjaw with sharp, calculated steps. The Ironborn, for all his experience, was getting tired. His swings were slower, his breathing heavier. Cregan, meanwhile, was doing what all the best wolves did—wearing down his prey.

Cleftjaw snarled and swung his axe in a desperate, brutal arc. Cregan ducked, slid between the Ironborn’s legs, and slashed upwards with Nightfall, cutting deep into his calf.

Cleftjaw let out a roar of pain, staggering.

Cregan came up behind him, pressing the advantage. “You getting tired, old man?” he called, his tone almost mocking. “Or am I just too fast for you?”

Jaime snorted. “Oh, I like him.”

Randyll Tarly, on the other hand, looked positively scandalized. “Discipline, skill, and respect win battles—not childish bravado.”

Jaime smirked. “Tell that to Cleftjaw. Oh wait—you can’t, because he’s losing to a child.”

Cleftjaw, now bleeding and furious, spun and swung at Cregan with all his might. The force of it sent Cregan skidding back, but instead of looking intimidated, he just grinned.

“Finally,” Cregan taunted, twirling his swords. “I was worried this would be too easy.”

The fight wasn’t over yet—but if the look on Cregan’s face was anything to go by, it was only a matter of time before Dagmer Cleftjaw realized that the Demon Wolf of the North wasn’t just a name.

It was a promise.

—

Cregan's POV

First rule of fighting Ironborn: they don’t believe in fighting fair. Second rule? They also don’t believe in deodorant.

This was something I was painfully aware of as Dagmer Cleftjaw—who smelled like a drowned rat marinated in week-old fish guts—swung his axe at my head.

I ducked, Red Rain in one hand, Nightfall in the other, because what’s the point of having two hands if you don’t put blades in both of them? The axe whooshed past, missing my face by a hair. My hair, by the way, was currently slick with sweat and, quite possibly, other people’s blood.

“Fast little wolf,” Cleftjaw grunted, shaking his arms out. “But you’ll tire soon enough.”

I grinned. “Yeah? That makes one of us.”

See, here’s the thing—Cleftjaw was big, brutal, and experienced. But he was also old. Well, old to me, which meant at least thirty—ancient. I, on the other hand, was ten, which meant I had the energy of an overexcited direwolf pup and absolutely zero intention of standing still long enough for him to squash me.

He swung again, wide and heavy, putting all his weight behind it. I rolled under the blow, slicing my dirk across his exposed side on my way past.

It wasn’t deep, but it was enough to make him stumble.

“Come on, Cleftjaw,” I called, flipping Red Rain in my grip. “You’re making this too easy.”

There was a collective oof from the gathered warriors. Insulting a veteran warrior mid-duel? Bold move. But hey, my father always said if you’re going to do something, do it properly. And if I was going to piss off an Ironborn, I was going to really piss off an Ironborn.

Cleftjaw bared his teeth. “Cocky little pup.”

“Hey, someone’s gotta balance out all the brooding Northerners,” I shot back.

Laughter rippled through the hall, but I didn’t let it distract me. Cleftjaw was angry now. And angry fighters made mistakes.

He charged, throwing all that bulk at me like a human battering ram. I sidestepped, bringing Red Rain down across his leg as he thundered past. Another shallow cut, but I wasn’t aiming to kill him yet—I was aiming to exhaust him.

Ironborn liked fights that ended quick. They weren’t built for drawn-out battles. Too much effort. Too much thinking.

Me? I had plenty of energy.

So I did what any reasonable ten-year-old would do: I kept dancing around him, slicing him up like a particularly aggressive kitchen knife.

Clang. Parry. Duck. Slice. Dodge. Sidestep. Repeat.

The crowd was starting to catch on. Even Robert Baratheon, who had barged into the hall like he was looking for a drinking contest, was now watching with undisguised interest.

“He’s playing with him,” Robert muttered, sounding both impressed and a little offended. “Aye, that’s a bloody Stark, alright.”

Beside him, Jon Arryn nodded thoughtfully. He had the look of a man carefully filing this information away, probably for some future political maneuvering. “A Stark with a wolf’s cunning and a swordsman’s speed.”

Tywin Lannister, meanwhile, was studying me like I was a particularly promising investment opportunity. “He’s testing his opponent’s limits,” he murmured. “Calculating.”

I really, really didn’t want to know what kind of schemes were forming in that skull of his.

Jaime Lannister, leaning casually against a pillar, grinned. “I like this kid.”

“Oh, we know you like him,” Randyll Tarly grumbled, arms crossed. “But if he were truly disciplined, he’d have ended this by now.”

“If he were disciplined, he wouldn’t be enjoying himself,” Jaime countered, clearly having a great time watching me make a seasoned Ironborn warrior look like an idiot.

Meanwhile, Mace Tyrell was looking around, trying to find someone who’d agree with whatever opinion he was about to form. “Ah, yes, truly a display of great—er—skill, wouldn’t you say, Lord Arryn?”

Jon Arryn didn’t even bother to respond.

Back on the battlefield (read: middle of the great hall, now splattered with a truly artistic amount of blood), Cleftjaw was heaving. His swings were slower. Sloppier.

And me? I wasn’t even breathing hard.

Cleftjaw spat on the floor. “You’re a slippery little shit.”

“I prefer ‘tactically elusive,’” I said, before darting in and slicing another cut across his arm.

“Fight me proper, boy!” he roared, sweat dripping into his one good eye.

“Okay.” I stepped back, rolling my shoulders. “Here’s a proper fight.”

Then I exploded.

Not literally, though that would’ve been an impressive exit. No, I moved. Faster than he could react, I lunged forward. Red Rain and Nightfall blurred in the torchlight.

Slash.

Cleftjaw jerked back, a deep red line opening across his thigh.

Spin. Slice.

Another cut, this time across his ribs.

Pivot. Slash.

A third, right across his sword arm.

He bellowed in rage, swinging wildly, but I ducked, twisting away. His axe hit the stone floor with a resounding crack.

I planted my boot on the handle and kicked it away.

It clattered across the hall. Cleftjaw stood there, panting, weaponless, blood dripping from half a dozen cuts.

I leveled Red Rain at his throat. “Yield.”

For a moment, I thought he might say no. Might lunge at me, fists swinging, trying to drag me down with him.

Then he dropped to his knees.

The hall erupted.

Robert let out a thunderous laugh. “GODS, BOY! You fight like you’ve got the Old Gods themselves guiding your hand!” He clapped Tywin on the shoulder, who looked like he was deeply unamused by being manhandled.

Jaime, laughing, gave me an exaggerated bow. “A duel well fought, young Stark.”

Randyll Tarly looked like he’d swallowed something sour. “Reckless,” he muttered.

“Oh, absolutely,” Jaime agreed cheerfully. “But you have to admit, it was entertaining.”

Jon Arryn studied me for a long moment. “A boy who can fight like this at ten…” His voice trailed off, but I got the feeling he was already picturing me as Warden of the North.

Tywin’s gaze was sharp. Calculating. I could practically hear him doing the math on what kind of alliance my sword hand was worth.

Mace Tyrell just nodded sagely, as if he’d predicted all of this, despite looking deeply surprised two seconds ago.

And me? I wiped my swords clean and sheathed them, turning to the king with as much composure as a ten-year-old who’d just humiliated an Ironborn in front of half the realm could muster.

“The hall is yours, Your Grace.”

Robert grinned. “Aye, lad. But the story is yours.”

And as the hall filled with laughter, cheers, and the smell of too much Ironborn sweat, I let myself smile.

Because, yeah. It really was.

—

Here’s a fun fact about fighting: No one tells you about the aftermath.

Yeah, sure, you hear all the stories about heroic last stands and glorious victories, but what they don’t mention is that after you win, you still have to deal with the awkward family reunion part. And let me tell you—standing there, covered in blood (some mine, mostly not), with my heart still trying to punch its way out of my chest, having everyone stare at me like I just rode in on a dragon was...a lot.

First up: Uncle Ned.

Now, my uncle is basically the living embodiment of "stoic Northern honor," which means his version of losing his mind with pride is a slow nod and maybe—maybe—the hint of a smile. Which, in Stark terms, is basically the same as throwing me a feast and composing a song about my greatness.

“Well done, Cregan,” he said, his voice all noble and serious, like he was pronouncing judgment over my soul. “You’ve proven yourself worthy of the Stark name.”

No pressure, right? Just centuries of honor, responsibility, and a legacy of ice and blood resting squarely on my very small, very tired shoulders. Cool. No big deal.

Then there’s Uncle Benjen, who usually expresses emotion about as much as a block of frozen mammoth meat. But today? Today he was smiling. Smiling. I was so thrown off I almost checked over my shoulder to see if someone else was standing behind me.

“I always knew you were a fierce one, lad,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to rattle my ribs. “But you’ve outdone yourself today.”

Translation: I might actually be his favorite nephew now. Score.

And then came him.

Uncle Arthur. The Sword of the Morning. The guy whose name alone made knights rethink their life choices. Having him for an uncle is like playing dice with the gods—either you win the ultimate bragging rights, or you constantly feel like you should be training harder just by standing near him.

He looked at me, all serious and noble, and gave me the nod. You know the one. The kind that makes it feel like the gods themselves are evaluating your worth.

“You fought with the valor of a true knight,” he said, his voice so solemn it might as well have been carved into a Valyrian steel sword. “The realm will sing of your bravery for generations to come.”

Generations. Great. No pressure at all.

And then came Aunt Dacey.

Dacey Mormont is basically the human embodiment of "mess around and find out." She’s fearless, brutally honest, and terrifyingly good with an axe. Also, she’s my favorite because she doesn’t treat me like some delicate child in need of coddling.

She stormed forward with that wild grin of hers, grabbed me in a crushing hug (pretty sure I heard something crack), and then pulled back, giving me the look. The one that said, I’m proud of you, but I will absolutely kick your ass if you get cocky.

“You absolute little monster,” she said, ruffling my hair like I hadn’t just fought for my life. “That was some of the best blade work I’ve seen in years. You’ve shown the world what it means to be a Stark.”

Yeah, because nothing says Stark pride like a ten-year-old absolutely wrecking Ironborn raiders in their own hall.

I tried to look appropriately humble, which is difficult when you’re covered in gore, exhaustion is creeping up your spine, and your stomach is loudly reminding you that you forgot to eat breakfast before this whole mess.

Everyone was still staring at me, their expressions ranging from quiet pride to full-on is he even human awe. And me? I just wanted a bath, a stiff drink (okay, fine, some apple cider—stupid age restrictions), and about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.

But mostly? Mostly, I needed to figure out how to handle being the guy everyone expected to save the North.

No pressure.

Just another day in the life of Cregan Stark—Demon Wolf, accidental hero, master of the Savage Burn, and the ten-year-old who somehow keeps ending up in these ridiculous situations.

—

You ever have one of those days where you’re standing in the middle of a blood-soaked room, covered in grime and gore, and you just know that everyone’s looking at you like you’ve been crowned the next king of Westeros—or at least the next person to ruin someone’s day in the most badass way possible?

Yeah, that was me.

So, picture this: the smoky, cavernous hall of Pyke, which smells like wet dog and sea salt (you’d think the Greyjoys could afford some air fresheners by now), and there’s Robert Baratheon, that big thundercloud of a man, giving one of his signature “I’m a king, and I’ll squash you like a bug” speeches to Balon Greyjoy. Now, I’ll admit, the old man’s got a certain presence about him, all booming voice and clenched fists, like a mountain with a bad attitude.

“You’ve caused enough suffering, Balon,” Robert grumbles, his massive warhammer, Oathkeeper (I know, how epic is that name?) aimed at Balon like it’s got a personal vendetta. “This rebellion ends today.”

Balon, of course, doesn’t exactly seem impressed. He’s lounging on his Seastone Chair like he’s the king of all the fish in the sea, his legs spread wide, his smug face just asking to be slapped. “You may take my life, Baratheon,” he sneers, “but you’ll never break the spirit of the Ironborn!”

And then, because he’s so obviously feeling himself, Balon spits right at Robert’s feet. Like, really? Couldn’t be more predictable if he tried.

I lean over to Uncle Benjen, who, I should mention, is standing there with about as much expression as a frostbitten rock, and whisper, “Pretty sure that was rehearsed in front of a mirror. A very salty mirror.”

Benjen looks at me for a second, his lips twitching, but he stays quiet. He knows better. Unlike me, he values not having his head chopped off, and I can respect that.

Now, you’d think Robert Baratheon—the guy who once tore through an entire army at the Battle of the Trident—would just crush Balon there and then, but no. He tightens his grip on Oathkeeper like he’s deciding whether to turn Balon into mincemeat or just throw him into the ocean and let the fish deal with him. “Your spirit matters little to me,” Robert growls. “What matters is peace, which you’ve thoroughly wrecked.”

And that’s when I lose it.

“Peace?” I yell, loud enough to make everyone stop and stare. “You mean the kind of peace the Ironborn gave us when they raided our shores and burned our villages down? That ‘peace’?” I practically spit the word.

Jon Arryn, standing to Robert’s side with his best “wise old sage” expression, raises a hand like he’s going to defuse the situation with some kind of “Let’s all calm down and think things through” speech. “Your Grace,” he says, in that calm, drawling voice, “might I suggest a more measured approach?”

I snort loudly enough to rattle the windows. “Measured approach?” I mimic, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because the Ironborn were so measured when they were sacking our homes, killing our families, and drowning our people? You gonna ‘measure’ that too, Jon?”

Jon Arryn, the old man who’s seen more battles than most people have had hot meals, turns to me, his expression a mixture of exasperation and begrudging admiration. “Lord Cregan, we must rise above vengeance.”

“Rise above?” I scoff. “Rise above what? The scores of families who lost everything because of these scum? You think that’s just gonna poof disappear because you say ‘peace’?”

There’s a long, awkward silence in the room, with only Jaime Lannister’s muffled laughter breaking it. He’s trying not to laugh, but it’s like holding back a tidal wave with a toothpick. Tywin Lannister glares at him, and for a second, I think the old man’s gonna try to freeze Jaime into a statue. But Jaime just shrugs like, “What can I say? It’s funny.”

“Justice, Lord Stark,” Jon Arryn tries again, “does not mean vengeance.”

“Justice?” I bark, my voice louder than I intended. “Then what does it mean? Because if it means letting this pompous squid waltz off after what he’s done to us, I’m out.”

I don’t know what I was expecting, but then Tywin Lannister—yes, Tywin Lannister himself—actually agrees with me. “Lord Stark makes a compelling argument,” he says, voice like a snake’s hiss. “Perhaps the time for talks is over.”

Even Mace Tyrell, who’d rather negotiate with a direwolf than have an argument, reluctantly nods in my direction. “We can’t afford to appear weak.”

One by one, the other lords start backing me up. It’s like I’ve got my own personal fan club, which is terrifying because now I realize I’m the one leading this charge, and Robert’s warhammer is probably about to turn Balon into a fine paste.

Robert raises his hand for silence. It’s the kingly version of a mic drop. “Enough,” he booms. “The Ironborn have spilled enough blood. Let justice be done.”

I have to say, I’ve never seen someone look quite as disgusted as Robert did when he turned to Balon, whose face had gone pale. “You will be executed tomorrow morning, while your son is coming with us to King’s Landing,” Robert says, voice dripping with finality. “The rebellion is over. Your fates are mine to decide.”

Balon opens his mouth to argue, but Robert shuts him down with a glare that could’ve turned a whole army to stone. “One more word, Greyjoy, and I’ll let Lord Stark handle it. Trust me, he’s got ideas.”

And that’s when I give Balon my best Demon Wolf grin. You know the one. The kind that says, “I’m about to make your life hell, and I’m kinda enjoying it.” For the first time all day, Balon actually looks nervous.

As the guards drag Balon away, I catch Theon’s eyes. He looks like a rabbit caught in a trap—scared out of his mind, probably wondering what happens now. Who knows? Maybe he’s already planning his own rebellion or maybe he’s just trying not to cry. Either way, he doesn’t have it easy.

Robert slaps me on the back as we exit the hall. “You’ve got fire in you, Cregan,” he says, laughing. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

I flash him a grin. “Don’t worry, your Grace. I save my bad side for squids like Balon.”

And just like that, the tension in the air starts to lift, but I can’t shake the feeling that the Greyjoys are far from finished. This wasn’t the end of the story. It was just the beginning.

And if you ask me, it’s going to get a whole lot messier before it’s all over.

Cregan's POV

Here’s the thing about executions: they’re messy, awkward, and rarely as dramatic as people want them to be. Unless, of course, you’re ten-year-old me, standing in the freezing courtyard of Pyke, watching as King Robert Baratheon gets ready to turn Balon Greyjoy into a headless cautionary tale.

And let me tell you, I was here for it.

I mean, the guy burned villages, murdered innocent people, and thought he could challenge the Iron Throne with a bunch of pirates who still believed bathing was optional. You don't get to do all that and not have a very bad day.

The air smelled like salt, blood, and regret. The Ironborn, who usually acted all tough and grim, looked more like sad, wet cats. Balon stood in the middle of them, his once-proud kraken sigil now stained with blood and dirt, like a particularly ugly dishcloth. His hands were bound, his beard was a mess, and he had the overall energy of a man who had realized that, yes, maybe this whole rebellion thing was a mistake.

I stood between my uncle Benjen and my sister Dacey, both of whom were way too good at looking serious and intimidating. Me? I was mostly trying to stop my teeth from chattering. Not because I was nervous. It was just really cold. Also, I might’ve been vibrating with excitement.

Robert Baratheon was on a raised platform, slouching in his chair like he was seconds away from demanding a drink. His warhammer, which had been used to reduce many of Balon’s men into something resembling squid chowder, rested against the arm of his throne. Tywin Lannister stood nearby, looking like he had personally invented disappointment. Jon Arryn, wise and composed as ever, was watching everything with that quiet “I am surrounded by idiots” expression that all old men develop eventually.

“Balon Greyjoy,” Robert finally said, standing up. His voice boomed across the courtyard, making some of the Ironborn flinch. “You defied the Iron Throne, spilled innocent blood, and brought war to the realm.”

Balon lifted his chin, summoning up the last of his doomed pride. “You may take my life, Baratheon, but the Ironborn will never bend.”

I leaned toward Benjen and whispered, “You think he practiced that line in front of a mirror?”

Benjen let out a very undignified snort. Dacey elbowed me, but I could see the corners of her mouth twitching. Even Jaime Lannister, standing behind his father, coughed suspiciously into his hand. Tywin, in true Tywin fashion, ignored me like I was an unfortunate stain on his cloak.

Robert, meanwhile, just looked done.

“Oh, shut up,” he grumbled, waving a hand. “Nobody cares about your honor speech. You lost. You’re dead. Let’s get this over with.”

That’s when Ser Ilyn Payne stepped forward, dragging his massive greatsword behind him like a man who had nowhere better to be. He had this permanent grimace that made it look like he was smelling something deeply unpleasant (probably the Ironborn, honestly). He stopped in front of Balon, giving him a long, slow look.

I caught movement at the edge of the crowd—Theon Greyjoy. The poor kid looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. I almost felt bad for him. Almost. Then I remembered the burning villages, the screaming children, and the countless bodies left rotting on the shores of the Westerlands and the Reach. Yeah. No sympathy.

Robert raised his hand, signaling for silence. The entire courtyard went still. Even the wind seemed to pause, as if it wanted a front-row seat to what happened next.

Ser Ilyn lifted his sword.

One swing.

One sickening crunch.

One very separate head.

The body slumped forward, twitching slightly before going still. The head rolled once, coming to a stop at Robert’s feet. There was a long, quiet moment where everyone just stared at it, and then Mace Tyrell, bless his delicate Reachman soul, turned and vomited spectacularly onto the ground.

Dacey made a face. “Gods, Tyrell, have some dignity.”

Jaime smirked. “That was his dignity.”

I grinned. “That was the most useful thing he’s done all war.”

Robert, wiping a bit of Balon off his boot, turned to Tywin. “Make sure the Greyjoys get the message. If they so much as think about rebelling again, I’ll come back and burn every last ship myself.”

Tywin nodded, already planning twenty different ways to be terrifying in writing.

Theon was led away, stiff-backed and pale, his future as a glorified hostage beginning. And just like that, it was over.

As we turned to leave, Robert clapped me on the back, nearly knocking me over. “You’ve got fire in you, Cregan.”

I smirked up at him. “Don’t worry, Your Grace. I save my bad side for squids.”

Robert roared with laughter, and for the first time that day, the tension in the air eased. But as we stepped out into the cold, I had a feeling that this wasn’t really the end. Westeros had too many idiots for that.

And, honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

—

You ever sit through a meeting so long and dull that you start contemplating self-inflicted injury just to escape? That was exactly the vibe in Pyke’s damp, barnacle-scented hall. The grand war council had assembled, which was a fancy way of saying “a bunch of sweaty, grumpy lords in a room pretending they didn’t want to stab each other.”

I stood beside my uncle, Ned Stark, who looked like he was mentally chopping firewood and wondering why the gods had cursed him with politics. Across the room, Robert Baratheon lounged on his makeshift throne, nursing a drink and the world’s most obvious hangover. Tywin Lannister, meanwhile, was standing so stiffly upright that I suspected he’d been born in that exact position.

In the middle of the table sat several chests, brimming with Greyjoy gold. The Ironborn had paid the ultimate price for rebellion—mostly in blood, but also in coin. You’d think that much wealth would brighten the mood, but no, these lords looked like someone had just canceled the next tourney.

Robert slammed his cup down, making Mace Tyrell jump like a startled cat. “Right. Let’s divide this lot before I drink myself to death just to escape this discussion.”

“The gold should be split among the kingdoms that suffered in the rebellion,” Jon Arryn said, his tone the verbal equivalent of steel—calm, measured, and absolutely not up for argument. The man always looked like he knew something no one else did, which, given the crowd in this room, was probably true.

Robert waved a hand. “Fine. Split it between the Crownlands, the North, the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Reach, and the Stormlands. The sooner we’re done, the sooner I can celebrate.”

Tywin Lannister, gold-hoarder supreme, didn’t even blink. He simply nodded, probably already calculating how much of this wealth would eventually find its way back to Casterly Rock. The chests were opened, the gold distributed, and the room collectively sighed as if we’d just accomplished something meaningful.

Yeah. No. We still had the Iron Islands to deal with.

Robert cracked his neck like he was preparing to headbutt someone. “Now,” he said, voice booming. “What do we do with the Ironborn?”

Cue the awkward silence. The Ironborn were basically that one drunk uncle at every feast who wouldn’t stop talking about how much better things were in ‘the old days’ and then tried to steal the silverware. They were going to be a problem whether we wanted them to be or not.

“We dismantle their fleets, garrison their lands, and keep them under close watch,” Tywin suggested in the same way one might suggest trimming a hedge.

Mace Tyrell nodded sagely, as though he understood a single word that had just been said. “And we should appoint a warden. A loyal man, strong enough to keep them in check.”

I leaned toward my uncle and whispered, “Maybe one who doesn’t fall asleep during war councils.”

Ned sighed but didn’t argue, which was basically his version of agreement.

Brynden Tully—the Blackfish himself—spoke next. “If we take everything from the Ironborn, they’ll just rise again in another generation. We need to give them a reason to not rebel.”

“Fear is reason enough,” Tywin said, ever the cheerful optimist.

That was when Uncle Ned nudged me forward. It was his silent way of saying, Your turn, wolf pup. Let’s see what you’ve got.

I stepped up. “The Ironborn respect strength above all else,” I said. “If we just crush them, they’ll come back twice as angry. We need to make them dependent on the Crown. Maybe instead of putting some new warden over them, we integrate them into the Westerlands.”

That got everyone’s attention. Tywin’s eyebrow lifted—by Lannister standards, that was the equivalent of falling out of his chair in shock. “You suggest the Westerlands absorb the Iron Islands?” he asked, his tone cool.

“Well, they do love their gold,” I said, giving him an innocent look. “And now they’d have iron to go with it. House Lannister could ensure their fleets remain in check, and the Ironborn get the benefit of stable rule under the realm’s richest house.”

Translation: Congratulations, Tywin. You just won a rebellious headache.

Tywin’s eyes did the math. Robert, meanwhile, grinned like he’d just won a bet he didn’t remember placing. “Done!” the king declared, slapping the table. “Tywin, you’ll handle the Ironborn. See to it they behave.”

Tywin inclined his head in what was probably meant to be gracious acceptance. “The wealth of House Lannister is at the Crown’s service, Your Grace.”

Yeah, sure, if by service he meant long-term investment opportunity.

Before we could escape, Robert clapped his hands. “Right, then! Time to celebrate. We’ll have a tourney in Lannisport!” He turned to Tywin, beaming. “Paid for by the Lannisters, of course.”

Tywin didn’t even flinch. He just nodded, probably running the numbers in his head. Mace, on the other hand, looked absolutely thrilled, as though he’d just been promised an unlimited buffet.

That was my cue. I stepped forward. “Your Grace, House Stark must decline the invitation,” I said, keeping my tone as respectful as a ten-year-old could manage. “When we left for this campaign, my uncle’s wife had just confirmed she was with child. By now, my cousin is likely born, and we must return to Winterfell.”

Robert’s expression softened, his gruff exterior giving way to something gentler. For all his bluster, the man was a family man at heart. “Of course,” he said, nodding. “Family comes first. Return home with my blessing.”

Ned gave a grateful nod, and Robert clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to nearly knock him over. “But before you go,” he said, grinning. “Meet me later for a drink. We’ll toast to your newest child—and to your nephew, who’s got more bite than half the lords here.”

I smirked. “More than half, Your Grace.”

The council chuckled. Even Tywin, maybe. Hard to tell with him.

As the meeting ended, Uncle Ned placed a firm hand on my shoulder, his version of praise. “You spoke well,” he said.

Benjen Stark, standing nearby, smirked. “Too well. If he keeps this up, he’ll be running the realm before he’s grown.”

Robert threw an arm around me. “Aye, and when he does, the first thing he’ll do is outlaw war councils.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I muttered.

The war council was over. The war was won. The Ironborn were crushed. But if there was one thing I knew about Westeros, it was this—victory never lasted long.

And I had a feeling the real trouble was just beginning.

—

Cregan Stark and the Art of Savage Burns

The inside of my tent smelled like wet wool, old blood, and bad decisions—basically, a typical day in the North. Uncle Ned sat across from me, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, maybe brooding on a cliff somewhere or solemnly petting a direwolf. Uncle Benjen was toying with a dagger, flipping it between his fingers like a man debating whether to stab the next person who annoyed him. Aunt Dacey had her arms crossed, radiating "you better impress me, kid," while Uncle Arthur leaned back, all effortless warrior cool, like a man who knew exactly how terrifying he was but didn’t feel the need to prove it.

Oh, and I was there too. A ten-year-old sitting at a table with some of the deadliest warriors in Westeros, planning the future of the Iron Islands like it was my personal school project. No pressure.

“So,” Uncle Ned said, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand bad ideas we had to clean up. “The lords have agreed to integrate the Iron Islands into the Westerlands.”

Aunt Dacey’s face was the dictionary definition of unimpressed. “And we’re letting Tywin Lannister handle that? Might as well give a starving direwolf the keys to the meat hall.”

I grinned. “Not a terrible idea, honestly. At least the direwolf wouldn’t demand tax payments.”

Uncle Benjen snorted. Arthur Dayne smirked. Ned Stark sighed like a man questioning every life decision that had led him to this moment.

I leaned forward, dropping my voice like I was telling some grand secret. “The truth is, the North doesn’t need the Iron Islands. They’re like that annoying kid in Wintertown who keeps stealing pies and then wonders why no one invites him to supper.”

Benjen made a noise that might’ve been a laugh. Ned gave me The Look—the one that meant You are supposed to be taking this seriously, stop being a little shit. I, of course, ignored it.

“Think about it,” I continued. “The Ironborn don’t farm, don’t trade, and their entire business model is ‘steal things and hope nobody stabs us.’ The North doesn’t have the resources to play babysitter to a bunch of glorified sea bandits. The Westerlands, on the other hand? They’ve got gold coming out of every hole in the ground.”

Dacey raised an eyebrow. “And you trust the Lannisters with this?”

I shrugged. “I trust them to look out for themselves, and that’s all we need. Tywin will turn the Ironborn into a problem for someone else, which is exactly what we want.”

Uncle Arthur, who’d been quiet until now—probably just waiting for the most dramatic moment to weigh in—tilted his head. “Tywin Lannister doesn’t do charity. You hand him the Iron Islands, he’ll expect something in return.”

I met his gaze. “Oh, definitely. But that’s the beauty of it—he’ll be too busy keeping the Ironborn in line to cause us trouble. He gets a headache. We get peace. Everybody wins.”

Dacey narrowed her eyes. “And if the Ironborn rebel again?”

I smiled. “Then the Lannisters will learn what happens when you take in a pack of rabid dogs and expect them to sit nicely. Either way, it’s not our problem.”

Benjen finally spoke, flipping his dagger once more before stabbing it into the table. “And while Tywin’s busy wrangling pirates, what do we do?”

I leaned back in my chair. “We use our share of the Greyjoy gold to rebuild Sea Dragon Point and fortify the western coast. If the Ironborn do try anything, they’ll find the North waiting with sharp swords and even sharper tempers.”

Ned nodded, which in Stark terms was the equivalent of a standing ovation. “It’s a sound plan.”

Dacey sighed, then gave me a grudging nod of approval. “Fine. But if this backfires, I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so.’”

Arthur smirked. “I believe you’d say it regardless.”

Dacey smirked back. “You bet I would.”

The tension in the room loosened, but I could still feel the weight of the decision hanging in the air. We’d just handed Tywin Lannister an entire kingdom’s worth of problems. The question was, would it keep him too busy to make trouble for us?

Probably.

Hopefully.

Maybe.

Uncle Benjen stretched, then gave me an expectant look. “And by ‘we,’ you mean me, right? Because I’m the one who always gets stuck cleaning up your messes.”

I grinned. “Obviously. What else are uncles for?”

Arthur chuckled. “You’ll make a fine lord one day, Cregan.”

“Yeah,” I said. “If I survive long enough.”

And that, my friends, was far from guaranteed.

—

General POV

The Northern camp roared with celebration. Fires blazed, meat sizzled, and ale flowed faster than Benjen Stark’s patience when Cregan got bored and started "practicing" his swordplay on unsuspecting objects—like Benjen’s boots. The air was thick with the scent of roasting boar, spilled beer, and the unmistakable energy of men who had fought, bled, and somehow lived to tell the tale.

And tell the tale they did. Loudly.

"Bjorn, if you say one more time that you killed three Ironborn with just your helmet, I will personally see to it that you test that theory on a rock," Dacey Mormont announced, raising her tankard like a queen issuing a decree.

Bjorn, who had clearly already had one tankard too many, opened his mouth—only for Benjen to clap a hand over it. "Just take the win, Bjorn. Before she challenges you to prove it."

Across the camp, the real troublemakers arrived—bards. Not just any bards, either. The kind that walked in like they were about to drop the hottest album of the century. They had the swagger, the instruments, and the sheer audacity to command attention in a camp full of rowdy, half-drunk warriors.

The first pluck of a lute string was enough to silence the nearest group of soldiers. Then the melody kicked in—low, haunting, and just dramatic enough to make the drunkest fighters sit up straighter.

The lead bard grinned. "Gather 'round, lads, and hear the tale of the Demon Wolf!"

Oh, great. Cregan had his own theme song now.

"From the frostbitten lands of steel and snow,

Rose the Demon Wolf, the Reaper’s shadow.

A child in years, a warrior in might,

He waded through battle, a lord in the fight."

At this point, someone let out a war cry of approval. Possibly Bjorn. Definitely not Benjen, who was now massaging his temples like this song was giving him a headache.

"With Nightfall dark and Red Rain bright,

He cleaved through foes in the pale moonlight.

The Ironborn stood, defiant and proud,

Until the boy carved their fate in the shroud."

"Shroud?" Benjen muttered. "Pretty sure he meant ‘a pile of severed limbs.’"

Dacey smirked. "Poetic license. Let them have their fun."

"Dagmer Cleftjaw, iron and bone,

Felt the Demon’s bite, cold as stone.

One stroke, one cry, then silence fell—

The Ironborn knew the song of hell."

A tankard went flying toward the bard, but this time, it was in support, not protest. Someone howled like a wolf.

Benjen sighed. "Cregan’s never gonna let this go, is he?"

"Of course not," Dacey said, grinning. "He’s ten. And he’s already a legend."

Meanwhile, in Cregan’s Tent…

Cregan Stark, Destroyer of Ironborn, Master of the Savage Burn, and official recipient of the Most Likely to Get a Ballad Before Puberty award, sat in his tent, polishing Nightfall and pretending very, very hard that he couldn’t hear the song.

"A shroud? Really?" he muttered. "I was going for ‘tidal wave of carnage.’"

"Well, they left out the part where you called Dagmer ‘a goat with a bad attitude’ before you cut him down," came a dry voice.

Cregan glanced up to see Benjen leaning against the entrance of the tent, arms crossed.

"I mean, it was accurate," Cregan said, smirking.

Benjen sighed, rubbing his face. "Cregan. You’re ten."

"And?"

"And you’ve already got a body count that makes grown men nervous. And a song. If your head gets any bigger, we’re gonna have to build you a second tent."

Cregan snorted. "You’re just jealous I have a theme song and you don’t."

Benjen opened his mouth—then closed it, grumbling something about ‘ungrateful nephews’ and ‘back in my day.’

Outside, the song hit the final verse:

"From Pyke’s black shores to the sea’s dark tide,

The Demon Wolf’s name shall never die.

With a grin of steel and a warrior’s might,

He is winter’s wrath, the Ironborn’s blight."

The camp erupted into cheers.

Cregan stood, stretching like a cat. "Well. That was fun."

Benjen raised an eyebrow. "Are you seriously about to go out there and bask in your own glory?"

Cregan gave him a deadpan look. "Uncle Benjen. I just crushed an entire rebellion before my voice changed. Of course I’m going to go out there."

Benjen groaned. "Gods help us all."

—

The campfire crackled, sending sparks into the crisp Northern air. Somewhere in the distance, someone was butchering the lyrics to The Demon Wolf’s Howl—a song that had apparently been played so many times it was now the official anthem of "Drunk Men Who Think They Can Sing." Ned Stark tried to ignore it. Robert Baratheon did not.

"By the gods, Ned," Robert grumbled, swirling the ale in his cup like a man contemplating whether to throw it at someone, "if I have to hear one more wailing fool ruin that song, I might start executing people for crimes against music."

Ned raised an eyebrow, the very picture of Northern patience. "You’re assuming you’d be sober enough to aim properly."

Robert snorted. "I always aim properly." He took a long, dramatic gulp of ale, then gestured vaguely at the poor bard currently suffering a battle he could not win against his own lack of talent. "Remember when men sang about us, Ned? The Stag and the Wolf, they called us. We were legends! Now? Now we get overshadowed by a ten-year-old with a sword bigger than he is."

Ned smirked. "To be fair, Cregan did personally take down Dagmer Cleftjaw. At ten. And he managed to insult Cleftjaw’s entire bloodline while doing it."

Robert barked a laugh. "Aye, the lad's got a mouth on him. Reminds me of myself."

"That should concern me," Ned said dryly.

Robert grinned like a man who had never once been concerned about anything in his life. "Bah. It's good for him. Makes him a proper Stark. Unlike you, you brooding, honor-obsessed—"

"I'm aware of the insults, Robert. You’ve been repeating them for years."

The king waved a hand. "And I’ll repeat them for more. Because I love you, you miserable bastard." He thumped Ned on the back with enough force to nearly knock him into the fire.

Ned, to his credit, barely flinched. "And yet you insist on showing affection through violence."

"It’s called camaraderie, Ned. Try it sometime."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, watching the fire flicker. Robert took another swig of ale, then glanced at his old friend. "You ever miss it?"

Ned knew exactly what he meant. The battles. The freedom. The days when the only thing that mattered was who swung their sword the hardest. "No," he said, because Ned Stark did not lie. "I have my family. My home. That is enough for me."

Robert made a noise that was either a laugh or a burp. "Sentimental fool." But there was something wistful in his eyes, something heavy. "I miss it, you know. The war. The way things were."

Ned sighed. "You miss Rhaegar."

Robert's jaw tightened. "I miss killing him. I should have done more. Burned every last Targaryen to the ground."

Ned didn't say anything. He had learned, long ago, that arguing with Robert about this was like trying to reason with a storm.

After a long pause, Robert shook his head, shaking off the darkness. "Ah, enough of this. Let's talk about something else. Remember Duskendale?"

Ned let out a rare, quiet chuckle. "You mean the time you nearly got us both killed over a tavern brawl?"

Robert grinned. "Bah, details! I maintain that was the best ale I’ve ever had."

"You passed out before finishing your first cup."

"A sign of quality!"

Ned sighed. "I had to bribe the barkeep to stop him from throwing us in a ditch."

Robert grinned. "And yet you stayed my friend. Truly, you are a glutton for punishment."

Another silence stretched between them, but this one was different. Warmer. The fire flickered, casting long shadows over the two old friends—two men who had shaped the world, who had fought and bled and lost too much.

For now, though, none of that mattered. For now, they were just Robert and Ned, a stag and a wolf, sharing a drink by the fire.

It was enough.

—

Jaime Lannister walked toward Ser Arthur Dayne like a man who knew he was about to get a lecture—and maybe a punch. And okay, maybe he deserved it. After all, the Ser Arthur Dayne was the guy who could take on an entire battlefield without breaking a sweat while Jaime could barely get out of a duel with a sword in his good hand. But, hey, he was the Kingslayer. He was supposed to be the one giving speeches, not the one who had to hear them.

"Ser Arthur," Jaime said, trying to sound casual about the whole thing, like this was some sort of friendly chat instead of, you know, confessing that he’d stabbed the king in the back. Literally.

Arthur didn’t flinch, because of course he didn’t. The man had the calm demeanor of a saint, or a man who was very, very good at pretending to be a saint. He gave Jaime a look, the kind that made you think he had seen this conversation coming a mile away. “Go on, Jaime. Say what’s on your mind.”

Okay. Here it was. Jaime took a breath, and then, bam, it came out. “I killed the Mad King,” he said, wincing a little, like the words themselves might set something on fire. “I stabbed him to stop him from burning the city to ash. Not exactly knightly, but it was the only way to save everyone.”

He braced himself for Arthur to, you know, pull out a sword and swing. That would be very much on-brand for Arthur Dayne. Instead, the man just stared at him for a second—no judgment, no disgust, just a steady look. How did he do that?

Arthur, in his usual Arthur way, didn’t blink. “You did what you had to do, Jaime,” he said, like it was obvious. “Sometimes the right choice doesn’t look like the right choice. Trust me. I’ve been there.”

Jaime blinked. Okay, what? This wasn’t exactly what he’d expected. Arthur Dayne was supposed to be the knightly ideal, the “he who does no wrong” kind of guy. But here he was, basically saying, “Hey, it’s cool, dude. You saved everyone. Good job.” Jaime had been fully prepared for a lecture that would end with a pat on the back and an apology for not being as perfect as Arthur.

But Arthur wasn’t done. Oh no, he had a bombshell coming. “Princess Elia once told me about what happened,” Arthur continued, his voice dropping to a more reflective tone, like he was recounting some epic saga. “She spoke of your bravery, Jaime—not just in saving her and her children, but in fighting the Mountain even after losing your hand. She said you were a true knight, Jaime. A man who chose valor and sacrifice over self-preservation.”

Jaime froze. Wait, what? True knight? Him? The guy who had gotten the nickname Kingslayer? The guy who’d lost his hand and his dignity to an oversized brute, all while trying to convince everyone he wasn’t a total screw-up?

Jaime almost choked on his own surprise. “She—she said that about me?” he stammered, caught completely off guard. He tried to play it off like he was too cool for this kind of emotional mush, but it was working way better on Arthur than it was on him. True knight. That sounded… like something out of a legend. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or, uh, do something more ridiculous and emotional.

But Arthur just gave him one of those looks, the kind that made you think the man had lived through a hundred battles and had seen the best and worst of humanity, all while keeping that irritatingly serene face. “You did the right thing, Jaime. Don’t let anyone—anyone—tell you otherwise.”

Jaime tried to brush it off with a smirk, but it was a little hard when Arthur Dayne was basically telling him he wasn’t a total failure. “Speaking of doing the right thing,” Jaime said, trying to shift gears like a horse in a full sprint (and failing spectacularly), “have you heard the latest ballad about your nephew, Cregan?”

Arthur’s face lit up like he’d just been given the best news in the world. “Ah, yes. The boy’s quite the talk of the town, isn’t he?” he said with a grin that made Jaime wonder if the man was secretly a proud uncle at heart. “Though, I like to think that some of that talent comes from my training.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Some of it? I'm sure that and talent he’s got, it’s all from you. And, of course, your experience in teaching from when I was your squire.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, his smirk turning into that classic I know something embarrassing about you look. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten. You certainly were a challenge to train.”

Jaime leaned back, feigning nonchalance, though his heart was doing a weird happy little dance. “Challenge? You mean ‘greatest success’?”

Arthur chuckled, and it wasn’t one of those “polite laughs,” it was a genuine laugh, the kind that made Jaime think they were actually friends after all. “Greatest success?” Arthur teased. “Let’s not get carried away, Jaime.”

Jaime grinned. “And yet, here I am—your greatest success.”

They both laughed, and for a moment, everything felt light. The tension from the confession, the weight of their past mistakes, the world outside with its chaos and bloodshed—all of it seemed far away. It was just two men, sharing a drink, cracking jokes like they hadn’t spent years fighting battles and losing parts of themselves.

When the laughter finally died down, Arthur’s expression turned serious, though his eyes still held that unspoken understanding. “You’ve done well, Jaime,” he said, his voice carrying the kind of weight that made it impossible to brush off. “Even after everything you’ve been through. Learning to fight with your left hand after losing your right? That’s strength. That’s what makes you a knight—not your sword, but your perseverance.”

Jaime felt something tug in his chest—something heavy and kind of… good. He had to clear his throat to hide the fact that he wasn’t sure what to say next. “Thanks, Arthur. That… that means more than you know.”

They sat there, watching the fire flicker and crackle, their camaraderie hanging in the air like the last good joke. The night stretched on with stories, laughter, and the occasional jab at Jaime’s expense (because, come on, that was just how it went).

For once, it didn’t matter that they had broken oaths, betrayed kings, or worn too many scars. For a brief, fleeting moment, it was just two knights sharing a drink and remembering that honor, while complicated, could still be found—even in the least likely places.

Cregan's POV

So, the first thing I notice when Jorah Mormont walks into my tent is that he looks like he’s been through a dragon fight—except he doesn’t even have the good fortune of fire-breathing enemies to blame. His hair’s all over the place, like he’s just lost a wrestling match with a bear, and his armor is dented and scratched like it’s been used as a personal punching bag. But despite all that, he stands there like some knight out of an epic song, and I swear, if I didn't know better, I’d say he was ready to march right back out and pick another fight with anyone who looked at him wrong.

“Lord Cregan,” he greets me with a nod, which—honestly—takes me by surprise. He’s been pretty formal with everyone, but something about the way he says it makes me feel like we’re not about to talk strategy or politics. More like... I don’t know, like we’re about to grab a drink and talk about how our lives have gone to chaos since the last time we met. He nods to my uncles too, Ned and Benjen, and I catch a glance at Uncle Benjen. He looks like he’s seen the end of the world and decided, “Yeah, I’ll stick around for round two.” He’s been that way a lot lately. Probably thinking about how I’m gonna mess up everything he’s worked for. But whatever, we’re family, and family sticks together. Mostly.

“Ser Jorah,” I say, standing up from the table. I make a point not to knock over the maps. I know, I’m ten. But those maps are like gold to me—especially since it’s my job to make sure everyone else knows where the hell they’re supposed to be, and I’m not about to let someone mess with my perfectly lined-up borders. “Thanks for coming.” I gesture to a chair, but Jorah just looks at it, like the idea of sitting down after whatever madness he’s been through isn’t even on his radar. Fine by me. I like a guy who’s ready to get to business. “We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

I try to sound all grown-up, but let’s be honest, it’s hard to sound serious when you’re still wearing a tunic with half the hem missing because you’ve been too busy running around with a sword the size of your leg. Still, I get the feeling that Jorah’s expecting me to know what I’m doing. I’m not sure I do, but hey, I’ll fake it till I make it.

Ned, looking as grim as ever, steps up. That’s Uncle Ned for you—serious and soldierly, like a guy who’s seen too much and hasn’t had enough sleep to fix the bags under his eyes. “Your bravery at the breach was commendable, Jorah,” he says, nodding. He doesn’t give out compliments freely, so when he does, you know it means something. I look over at Jorah to see his reaction, but the guy’s as stone-faced as ever. Not that it bothers me. He doesn’t need to thank anyone for anything.

“We’ve got a crucial task for you,” Ned continues, giving Jorah this look that says, “Don’t mess this up.”

Jorah doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m ready to serve, my lords,” he says, straightening up like a soldier who’s just been handed a new sword. Classic Jorah. Always ready to serve, even if it means walking into more madness.

I step in, because let’s be real, if I let Ned do all the talking, we’d be here until next winter. “The Northern share of the spoils of war will be put to good use,” I say, channeling my inner grown-up. “First priority: Sea Dragon Point. Once it’s rebuilt, it’ll be Uncle Benjen’s seat.”

Now, Uncle Benjen, who’s been looking like he’s ready to jump into the nearest hunting party since he walked in, perks up. “I’ll make sure Sea Dragon Point stands strong. The North will be ready for anything.”

I give him a smile, because seriously, that guy might be the most solid person I know. He’s like... well, like the iceberg that never melts. Tough, reliable, but with a heart that’s probably bigger than half the North. “You’re the man for the job, Uncle,” I tell him.

Jorah smiles at Benjen, like he’s impressed by the guy's seriousness. “It’s good to see you taking on such a vital role, Lord Benjen. And with you being Lord of Sea Dragon Point, Dacey will be closer to Bear Island. It’s a win for all of us.”

I can’t help but snort. “Right. And a win for Uncle Benjen, since he’s married to a Lady of Bear Island. But yeah, it’s a win for the whole North.”

Uncle Benjen just nods, like he’s secretly plotting out the best places to build a bear trap, and I’m not even sure if he’s listening. But hey, it’s all part of his charm.

I turn back to Jorah. “But there’s more. Other ports need expansion too. Bear Island included. Your family’s been loyal forever, Jorah, so it’s time to fortify your lands. We’ll need it to keep the western coast secure.”

Jorah’s all business now. “House Mormont stands ready, Lord Cregan. We will do whatever it takes to protect the North.”

I stare at him for a moment, taking in the weight of it all. You can see it in Jorah’s eyes—the way he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t second-guess it. The guy’s been through more than most people will ever understand. And he’s still standing, still ready to fight. I have no doubt he’s a brother in arms now.

There’s a beat of silence before Jorah shifts his weight, like he’s trying to get comfortable in a conversation he’s not used to having. “I had planned on going south for the tourney at Lannisport,” he says quietly, like the words are a confession he wasn’t expecting to make. “Hoping to earn a name, win some gold...” He trails off, and I get it. We all want our moment in the sun. But at the end of the day, there’s no time for that when there’s work to do.

I flash him a grin. “Yeah, I know how that goes. But here’s the thing—now, it’s all about the North. And I’ll need you more here than anywhere else.”

Jorah’s quiet for a moment, his face hardening like someone just set a sword in front of him. “I’ll stay. For the North.”

And just like that, I know we’ve got another brother. The North might be cold, it might be brutal, but we always stand together. Even if we don’t always get the glory, we fight for what’s ours.

As for the rest of us? Well, we’ll just have to see if we can find time for a little bit of glory along the way. But knowing us? Probably not.

—

If you’ve never had the pleasure of standing in front of King Robert Baratheon while he’s holding a goblet of wine at dawn—well, first off, count yourself lucky. But for the rest of you, here’s the mental image: picture a bear that’s just woken up from hibernation, wearing a crown, smelling faintly of spilled ale, and booming laughter that could knock over an entire tavern. That’s Robert in a nutshell. And I, Cregan Stark—10-year-old badass (don’t let the age fool you)—had the distinct honor of being his audience.

I’m standing there with my uncles—Ned, ever the noble and serious one, and Arthur Dayne, who looks like a god carved out of marble, probably the only man who could make wearing a full set of armor look like a casual outfit. We're waiting for Robert to get to the point, which, knowing Robert, could take a while. He was busy waving that goblet of his around like it was a scepter, still slurring his words a bit from last night’s revelries.

“So, the Starks are leaving me, eh?” Robert boomed, his voice carrying through the hall, making the very walls shake. “Back to your wolves and snowdrifts already?”

I resisted the urge to crack a joke about how we’d rather not freeze to death on his lovely Iron Islands, but Uncle Ned—bless him—beat me to it. “The North calls, Your Grace,” Ned said, giving Robert a respectful bow. “We’ve much to rebuild.”

Translation: “You’ve been great, Robert, but we’d rather not catch frostbite on this lovely island of yours.”

Robert grinned like he just won the lottery. “Aye, but not before a drink! We’ve crushed a rebellion, by the gods! What’s a little snow compared to that?”

Before we could argue, Robert raised his goblet high, eyes twinkling. “To House Stark and the Demon Wolf!” His gaze locked on me, and for a moment, I thought I was going to get squashed by the weight of it. “You’ve got a fine nephew here, Ned. Fought like a true wolf. Didn’t even flinch when I told him we’d be storming the gates.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Would’ve been nice to get a bit more of a heads-up on that, Your Grace. You know, a ‘by the way, you might die horribly tomorrow’ would’ve been appreciated.”

Robert threw his head back and laughed so loud that even the hall seemed to laugh with him. “You’ve got a sharp tongue, boy. I like that. You’ll go far.”

Far enough to get out of awkward royal toasts, hopefully, but I wisely kept that thought to myself.

Uncle Ned, ever the gentleman, stepped in to steer the conversation back to the serious stuff. “Your Grace, before we go, there’s a matter we’d like to discuss. The lands known as ‘The Gift.’”

Ah, here it was. The part of the conversation that was bound to make things a little less fun. I glanced at Uncle Arthur, who gave me one of his subtle “Don’t worry, Cregan. I’ve got this” nods. I appreciated that—mostly because Uncle Arthur could probably fight his way out of a locked chest, but I wasn’t entirely sure how much of this mess he could help me navigate.

Robert squinted, clearly trying to put together what he’d just heard through the fog of his hangover. “The Gift? Isn’t that Night’s Watch territory?”

Uncle Ned nodded, looking serious, but not in his usual, grim way. More like a man who knew exactly how to play his cards. “It is, Your Grace. But with the Watch in decline, those lands are underutilized. The North could put them to better use—fortifying our borders, rebuilding, protecting the realm.”

Jon Arryn, who apparently believed that every conversation was an opportunity for a debate that sounded more like a maester’s lecture, raised an eyebrow. “That land was given to the Watch for a reason, Ned. Reclaiming it might upset—”

“Oh, to the abyss with upsetting people!” Robert boomed, waving his goblet around like it was a weapon. “The North deserves its due. Take ‘The Gift.’ Use it to rebuild, secure your borders, whatever you need.”

I blinked, then glanced at Uncle Arthur, who was doing his best to hide his surprise behind a smirk. “That was... easier than I expected,” I muttered under my breath.

Uncle Arthur leaned in, ever the strategist. “Yeah, I was half-expecting him to turn this into a drinking game.”

“Maybe next time,” I shot back.

Robert, oblivious to our side conversation, took another swig from his goblet and grinned like he’d just won a tournament. “What’s the harm? The North’s got enough going on. Take what you need.”

I couldn’t help but feel like I was in a dream. The King of the Seven Kingdoms, a man who could barely remember his own name most days, had just handed us a huge chunk of land without so much as blinking. The North was about to get a lot stronger—and probably a little colder.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Uncle Ned said with a bow, clearly keeping it together in front of the king, but I could see the relief in his eyes. I shared the same feeling—like we’d just dodged a wagon full of manure.

As we turned to leave the hall, Uncle Arthur leaned in and muttered, “Well, that went better than expected.”

“Yeah, but now we’ve got to explain to the Night’s Watch why they’re losing half their land,” I whispered back.

Uncle Arthur smirked. “Good luck with that.”

“Thanks, Uncle Arthur,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. “Really.”

But honestly? If we had to face a few disgruntled Night’s Watchmen to secure the North’s future, so be it. After all, I was Cregan Stark, and I’d already stared down a rebellion. I think I could handle a few grumpy old men in black cloaks.

—

Sailing away from Pyke felt like I was the star of a play where all the props had been stolen, and the actors were mostly just trying not to trip over the set. Seriously, if there was ever a moment I was supposed to look brooding and heroic—wind whipping through my hair, maybe a dramatic seagull screeching overhead for added effect—this wasn’t it. Instead, I was leaning against the prow of a ship, squinting into the wind, and praying it didn’t steal my face along with my hair.

We were heading back to the North, and Pyke was fading behind us like an embarrassing family memory I didn’t plan to revisit anytime soon. Sure, fighting Ironborn had its perks, like feeling like an actual warrior and getting to wear cool battle scars, but the smell of Pyke? Imagine if a wet dog lived in a brewery and then set fire to a pile of fish. That was the island. No thank you.

Uncle Ned and Uncle Arthur were deep into some serious conversation behind me, discussing “logistics” or whatever. Which, at ten years old, was definitely a conversation I was going to ignore in favor of more exciting things like... I don’t know, the possibility of getting a nap before we arrived? But no, the ‘Demon Wolf’ tag was still hanging over my head like a rotten fish tied to my back. No way to get rid of it. Not that I hadn’t earned it, mind you. It’s just, a little warning next time? Please?

“I can’t believe you made it out of there in one piece,” Arthur Dayne, aka Uncle Arthur, said as he clapped me on the back. You know, the Arthur Dayne. The guy who’d probably been able to slice a raider in half with his sword while blindfolded and probably laughing. If I wasn’t terrified of him, I’d be in awe.

“Demon Wolf, huh?” I muttered, taking another look back at the disappearing Pyke. "Not the nickname I’d choose."

Uncle Arthur chuckled, his laugh as easy as if we were talking about the weather instead of cutting through an island full of psychopaths with axes. "They won’t forget it, lad. And neither will you."

Behind us, Uncle Benjen and Aunt Dacey were having one of their important talks, but I was too tired to care. I could already hear Aunt Dacey in my mind, all calm and serious. “We will rise stronger.” Classic. No one does grim optimism like Aunt Dacey. She could make the apocalypse sound like a minor inconvenience, and the North could learn a lot from her. “The North will endure,” she’d say, like that’s supposed to make me feel better about having nearly died twice in the last week.

"Benjen," I caught Aunt Dacey saying, voice full of determination, "We must make sure the people know—this battle was just the beginning. We can’t let fear rule us. We will rebuild."

“And the North never forgets," Uncle Benjen added. That man could say three words and make them sound like a speech fit for a king. "We stand together."

Which, I guess, is true. It's just that standing together felt a little more like standing in the cold, under a heap of stress, while people whispered about how much of a ruthless 10-year-old I was becoming. Not the most fun kind of togetherness.

From behind, I heard Uncle Ned’s voice—steady, calm, and as always, like he could tell me I’d just lost a hand and still sound like it was no big deal. “You did well, Cregan. The North is proud of you.”

I shrugged, trying to act like his words didn’t feel like a warm blanket of approval I never realized I needed. "We’ve got a lot to do, Uncle. Rebuilding, defenses... We can’t afford to let our guard down."

Ned nodded, squinting at the horizon like he could already see the problems that would be waiting for us. "We won’t. The North will be ready for whatever comes next."

Yeah, we were always ready for the next disaster, weren’t we? Because in the North, it’s not a matter of if trouble’s coming—it’s when.

The ship groaned under the waves as we pushed farther from Pyke, and I watched the men around me—warriors, hardened from the chaos we’d just survived—go about their tasks. Some patched up their wounds, some were already boasting about their heroics in the battle, even though I knew full well half of their stories were exaggerated to the point of absurdity. One guy claimed he killed an Ironborn raider with nothing but a fishing hook and a rope. Yeah, and I fought a dragon with a toothpick.

But me? I just stood there at the prow, feeling the salty air slap me in the face, letting the wind twist my thoughts and churn away the bad memories of the fight. Because in the end, whether I was the ‘Demon Wolf’ or just Cregan Stark, I was a Stark. And when you're a Stark, you don’t back down. Ever.

The North never kneels.

I didn’t say it aloud, but the words were there, ringing in my head like a battle cry that was more of a promise than anything else. No matter how many battles, how many wars, or how many people whispered about my name, I would carry that truth with me. The North never kneels.

—

Alright, picture this: You’re standing at the bow of a ship, and in front of you are the Demon Gates—the massive, towering wooden jaws of a canal that could probably swallow a whale without even breaking a sweat. And let me tell you, it wasn’t just the crew staring at them like they were seeing the gods themselves; I was doing a little staring, too. Mostly because I was the one who’d had the insane idea to build the thing. Well, okay, I didn’t exactly hammer every nail myself—I'm not a madman—but I was there for all the important stuff. You know, like the strategic vision, the plans, and, uh, pointing at stuff while saying things like, “Yeah, make that part bigger,” and “How about a dragon here?” (I might’ve been kidding about the dragon. Maybe.)

I mean, you should’ve seen it: this thing rose from the water like a vision out of an old Valyrian epic. And sure, maybe it didn’t have actual dragons involved (again, who’s gonna argue with me about that), but it was still one of those moments where you just let the feeling wash over you. Like, “I totally made this happen,” and then quickly shove that feeling into a box so you don’t get all too emotional.

Uncle Ned was standing next to me, doing his usual thing: looking as grim and stoic as a bear that had just found out it wasn’t allowed to hibernate anymore. The only thing missing was the fact that his hand wasn’t actually on my shoulder right now. He had to save that for when it was a full-on life lesson.

Uncle Arthur was on the other side, and trust me when I say this—Arthur Dayne looking impressed is like the sun looking sunny. The guy’s a legend, a literal sword master, and he was staring at this thing like it was the most impressive piece of metalwork he’d ever seen. I mean, if the guy could have married the canal, I think he would’ve.

“The Demon Gates,” Arthur said, voice low and full of reverence, like he was talking about a piece of artwork. “A fitting name. A fitting name for a feat of engineering such as this.”

Fitting? Oh yeah, absolutely. If we’d called it "Cregan’s Slightly Cool Canal," I don’t think anyone would’ve taken it seriously. Names matter, folks.

Uncle Ned’s voice was quieter but no less weighty, and that’s how I knew he was about to lay some serious praise on me. “The North owes much to Cregan’s foresight and determination,” he said, looking out at the gates. “These gates will forever stand as a testament to his legacy.”

Okay. Whoa. Legacy? I wasn’t ready for that word yet. I’m eleven. I mean, I’d been the Demon Wolf for a while now (don’t get me started on how that name got stuck), but I wasn’t exactly thinking about monuments and legacies and all that jazz. I just wanted to get through this whole thing without completely screwing it up.

But, you know, it was Uncle Ned. I’m pretty sure he could tell you you were a king and make it sound like you were supposed to mop the floors afterward. So instead of making a scene, I just said, “It’s nothing,” and pretended the wind was super interesting all of a sudden. Like, really interesting.

As our ship slid through the gates, I caught one of the crew members whispering to his friend like they were talking about some ancient magical artifact. “Do you think the Southerners could build something like this?”

The other one scoffed. “Not unless they bribed half the Reach to do it for them.”

I snorted—yeah, okay, it was a bit of a proud, unashamed snort—but I had to admit, they weren’t wrong. Southerners had their flashy castles and glitzy parties, but when it came to actually making something that worked? Well, that was a whole different story. The Demon Gates weren’t just about making ships pass through—this thing was a statement. It was us showing the South that the North wasn’t just about harsh winters and wildlings. We could think, too. Big picture stuff.

Still, I had to admit—watching it all unfold, the ships sliding through as though the gates were some sort of mystical portal (totally not magical, by the way), was enough to make even a jaded Stark like me take a second to soak it all in.

I looked back at the crew, who were clearly still in awe, and overheard another conversation. This time, it was one of the younger sailors chatting with his mate. “I still don’t get it,” the younger one said. “How’s it work?”

The older guy shook his head. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, kid.”

I could’ve explained it. Probably would’ve made for a fun lecture, too. Instead, I just gave them a wink. “It’s magic,” I said, “but not the kind you’re used to.”

They both stared at me like I’d just started spitting fire. I made a mental note to tease them later, when I wasn’t busy, you know, running the North.

Eventually, the last of the ships passed through, and the gates slowly lowered behind us. The crew was still buzzing about, and I could see the way some of them were puffing out their chests like they’d had something to do with it. I could hardly blame them. This was the kind of thing you’d tell your grandkids about—“Remember when we helped build the thing that kept the Southerners from laughing at us? Yeah, that was us.”

But as I stood there watching, I got that feeling again. The one that had started creeping in on me back at Pyke. The one that was like, “This is just the beginning, kid. You’ve built something big, but the real work? It’s only just starting.”

And I didn’t have a choice. Because when you're a Stark, you don’t just stop after one big win. There's always something more waiting. And as long as I was breathing, I was going to be ready to face whatever came next.

But hey, no pressure. Just another day in the life of Cregan Stark, the Demon Wolf, trying to keep the North from falling apart—one ridiculously cool engineering project at a time.

—

The fleet docked at Moat Cailin’s shiny new harbor, and let me tell you, it was something. Picture this: flags from House Stark fluttering like they were made of pure badassery, waves crashing against the rocks like they were giving us a round of applause, and me—Cregan Stark, the 11-year-old engineering prodigy (humble, I know)—standing there, trying to not look too smug. It’s a hard thing to do when your new fortress looks like it just came straight out of a Targaryen dream and you made it all happen.

Moat Cailin used to be a dump. No joke. I mean, it was practically a ruin. Muddy streets, crumbling walls, and the kind of smell that could knock out a warg. So, sure, I may have spent the last year redesigning the place, overseeing every stone and beam, and insisting that they put in proper plumbing. Why? Because someone had to do it, and I have standards. But hey, I was only 10 when I started this whole “restore Moat Cailin” project, so cut me some slack.

As we disembarked, I tried not to be too obvious about my pride. Yeah, I spent way too many sleepless nights sketching blueprints and arguing with Uncle Ned about how much indoor plumbing we actually needed. (Spoiler: the answer is a lot.) But when I saw Moat Cailin standing there, all shiny and impressive? I felt like I could take on a dragon and a half.

“Remarkable,” Uncle Ned said, in that quiet, “I’m proud but I’m not gonna show it” way that only he can pull off. He stood there, staring up at the towers with his arms folded like he was trying to look serious and sage. Which, let’s be honest, he could’ve been the perfect poster child for the "stoic dad" role. "You’ve turned this place into a stronghold, Cregan," he continued, his voice like gravel scraping against stone. "One that will stand as a bulwark against any threat to the North."

I tried to look all modest, but it was a lost cause. “Yeah, thanks, Uncle Ned. It’s... alright.” I waved my hand around like it wasn’t a huge deal. “But I’m still figuring out the whole ‘Demon Wolf’ thing, so maybe hold off on the legacy talk, yeah?”

Uncle Arthur Dayne—yes, the actual Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning—was standing off to the side, looking like he was trying to find the best angle to assess the fortifications, like a knightly architect. “Impressive,” he said, nodding with that stern expression of his, the one that says, “I’m about to give you a compliment, but I’ll do it in a way that makes you feel like it’s a challenge.” Coming from him, that was high praise.

Benjen, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with excitement. And when I say “vibrating,” I mean he looked like he wanted to burst into a long explanation about how the plumbing system worked. Which, honestly, I was fine with. Benjen was the kind of guy who could turn fixing a leaky pipe into an epic tale of survival and success. “Just wait till I tell everyone back at Winterfell about the sewage system,” he muttered, grinning like a kid who’d just discovered candy.

“And Dacey,” I said, nodding towards her, “probably already planning how to turn the market square into a fortress of its own.”

She gave me that look. You know, the one that says, “Don’t underestimate me, Cregan, I’ll have this whole place built up like a citadel by next week.” And sure enough, she was already walking off to inspect the market, her eyes scanning everything with a mix of awe and the kind of focus that only Dacey Stark could pull off.

“Who’s ready for a drink?” I asked, loud enough that everyone around me could hear. I stretched my arms out, taking in the sights and sounds of Moat Cailin, bustling with life. Merchants hawked wares, craftsmen put the finishing touches on stonework, and kids ran around pretending to be knights protecting the Demon Gates (which, by the way, is the coolest name for a canal EVER).

Benjen raised a fist and cheered. “I’m in! They better have ale, though, or I’ll start a riot.”

Uncle Arthur smirked, obviously trying to suppress a chuckle. “Only you would turn a drink into an epic quest, Benjen.”

Uncle Ned sighed, the kind of sigh that was just short of a full-on “I’ve seen it all, and I still love you despite your madness.” "We’re here to keep the North safe, Cregan. Not for ale.”

“But Uncle Ned, think of the morale boost!” I said, grinning. “The North deserves some fun after all this rebuilding. It’s not like we can only survive on hard work and duty—sometimes, we need to celebrate.”

Dacey shot me a playful glare from the market square as if to say, I’ve already thought of that, Cregan.

I leaned toward her and said, “Don’t worry, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll handle the grand opening.”

“Don’t you start planning any parties, Cregan,” Uncle Ned warned. “You’ve got enough on your plate.”

“Yeah, but this one’s for the people,” I replied with my most charming grin. “We’ve earned it.”

And just like that, we were all off—ready to celebrate, ready to face whatever came next, and definitely ready to add a tavern to Moat Cailin. After all, what’s a fortress without a place to kick back and enjoy a drink? Moat Cailin was officially the North’s pride and joy... and, apparently, the future center of all celebrations.

Honestly, though? I’d earned the smug.

Cregan’s POV

I was standing on the battlements of Moat Cailin, trying to look all brooding and stoic like a Stark should, but let's be honest, I was probably just squinting into the wind and looking like a kid who hadn’t had his breakfast yet. The salty air hit me like a slap to the face, carrying a weird mix of seaweed and whatever was cooking down at the docks, which honestly wasn’t the worst scent I’d smelled—there’s a reason they keep the kitchens far from the bedrooms in Winterfell.

I glanced over at Uncle Ned, who was staring out at the horizon with that serious, “I’m in deep thought” look that’s probably just him deciding whether to shave or not. I don’t know how he does it, but that guy can brood harder than anyone in Westeros. He doesn’t even need to try.

“Uncle Ned,” I said, breaking the silence because, well, someone had to. “Now that you’re planning to start your own House after my wedding to Rhaenys, have you thought of a name yet?”

He stopped, looking like he was consulting the Old Gods for an answer. Or maybe he was just stalling. “I’ve given it some thought,” he finally muttered, which in Ned-speak means, “I haven’t, but I appreciate you asking.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Still undecided? That’s not like you. You’re the guy who makes winter prep lists two years in advance.”

He looked at me, his mouth barely twitching as if he might crack a smile, but then he went full-on serious. “Naming a house isn’t like stockpiling grain, Cregan. It’s about legacy—about reflecting our values, our lineage, the future we’re building.”

I nodded like I was paying attention. “Wow, Uncle, that was deep. I was thinking you might just call it ‘Moatstark,’ though. Easy, right?”

That got me the rare, barely-there smile from him. A real one. I silently high-fived myself. Getting a smile out of Ned Stark is like winning the Westerosi lottery, so I’ll take it where I can get it.

Uncle Benjen, who’d been lurking in the background, suddenly appeared at my side like a shadow who could talk. “What about your House words, then? Got those figured out, or is Lady Catelyn handling that too?”

Ned shot him a look that was equal parts amusement and “keep pushing me, Benjen, and I’ll put you on broomstick duty.” “As a matter of fact, I’ve left that to Catelyn. She has a way with words that I could never match.”

“Smart move,” Uncle Benjen chuckled, his face lighting up with that mischievous glint that usually means he's about to say something that’ll get him in trouble. “Lady Catelyn’s words could charm the scales off a dragon.”

“Or terrify it into submission,” I added, because I’m helpful like that.

The three of us chuckled, and let me tell you, that was a rare occurrence in the Stark family. But, of course, things couldn’t stay light for too long, because we’re Starks, and brooding is basically in our DNA.

“What about you, Benjen?” Uncle Ned asked, suddenly serious again. “Have you thought about what your House will be called?”

Benjen scratched his chin like he was solving the mysteries of the universe. “I’ve been thinking about it, but nothing quite fits yet. I want it to reflect the strength and resilience of the North. Something that people will respect—and fear, if necessary.”

I clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit! Just don’t go overboard, or you’ll end up with something like ‘House Snowfall’ and regret it forever.”

Before Uncle Benjen could come up with a witty retort (he’s got a ton of them), Uncle Arthur Dayne appeared. Honestly, Arthur could probably show up and tell me the world was ending, and I’d just nod and ask him if he wanted to have a duel while we waited. He always looks like he’s stepped out of a painting of "Epic Knights Doing Epic Things." “The horses are ready,” he said, like it was the most momentous event of the century.

“Thanks, Uncle Arthur,” I said, giving him my best “I’m the heir to a great House and trying to look cool doing it” nod. (I’m still working on it. I think I pulled it off though.)

Uncle Ned shot a glance at us. His expression was a mix of pride and “I will never admit this, but you’re not completely hopeless.” “Then let’s get moving. Winterfell awaits, and we have much to prepare.”

We made our way to the stables, but I couldn’t resist looking back at Moat Cailin one last time. It stood there, towering and proud, a symbol of what we’d accomplished. I mean, I’d personally had a hand in making sure the place didn’t smell like old fish, so I’m going to take full credit for that.

And as for the future? Well, I’ve got a lot more plans for this place. I mean, I might have saved the North from a watery death with that new sewage system, but that doesn’t mean I’m done. No way. Moat Cailin isn’t just a fortress. It’s a reminder that the North isn’t just about surviving the cold. It’s about thriving in it.

Also, yeah, I’m pretty sure the sewage system is my greatest achievement. Fight me.

—

So, here's the thing about marching back to Winterfell after a war: it’s basically just walking for days through frozen mud with a bunch of sweaty, grumpy soldiers. If you’re imagining some kind of heroic procession, with banners waving and bards singing of our legendary deeds—don’t. It’s more like a never-ending field trip that no one asked for, except you’re all wearing leather armor and are one blizzard away from mutiny.

I rode up front with Uncle Ned—who looked like he was personally carrying the entire weight of the North on his shoulders, as usual (classic Ned, right?). And beside him was Uncle Arthur Dayne, the perfect picture of stoic knightly coolness. Seriously, this guy could probably get struck by lightning and still look like he was brooding dramatically on a cliff, waiting for a storm to pass. They were all business. Meanwhile, Aunt Dacey and Uncle Benjen were riding a few paces behind, giving each other enough side-eye to start a fire. Spoiler: Aunt Dacey was winning the Glare-Off, hands down. She's terrifying.

The rest of the lords of the North were scattered among us. Lord Manderly? That guy had his head so far in the feast waiting at Winterfell, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he was already chewing through a roast boar in his mind. Meanwhile, Lord Umber was walking like he was about to body-slam a bear for sport. I mean, I couldn’t blame him. It was cold enough to make you feel like you needed to wrestle something just to stay warm.

Now, the march wasn't all doom and gloom. At night, when the fire crackled and everyone was packed like sardines around the campfire, things were more fun. Sure, my boots were probably frozen to the ground, but you could always count on a good story. And let me tell you, I definitely told a few that night. “The Demon Wolf” needed to keep up his reputation, after all. That was my excuse for exaggerating the part where I singlehandedly took down a whole band of raiders with just my bare hands and a wooden spoon. The soldiers ate it up.

Uncle Ned spent most nights huddled with Uncle Arthur and the other lords, talking strategy. Me? I was busy throwing out ideas like, “What if we started with getting some hot baths when we get to Winterfell?” The looks they gave me? Priceless. But honestly, I was so over being cold and muddy.

After what felt like a hundred years—okay, maybe more like three days—we finally saw Winterfell’s massive walls looming on the horizon. The castle looked like an old man who’s been sitting in a chair for too long, all grumpy and stone-faced, but definitely ready for a nap. As we passed through the gates, the townspeople started cheering, and I swear, my legs almost gave out.

My family was there, of course, waiting in the courtyard to welcome us. My mother, Lady Ashara, was front and center. She looked like she was holding it all together, but I knew her well enough to spot the relief in her eyes. Aunt Catelyn was holding a tiny bundle in her arms—who I immediately assumed was a stack of blankets or something. Nope. It was a baby. A tiny, squishy baby.

“That’s Brandon,” she said, with a smile that could’ve lit up Winterfell’s entire courtyard. “Your cousin.”

I leaned down to peer at the little thing. “Brandon? Big name for a little guy.” The baby made a noise that sounded like a burp mixed with a squeal. “I’m pretty sure he agrees.”

Uncle Ned clapped me on the shoulder, giving me that look of his—the one that made you feel like he was about to teach you life lessons but also totally kick your ass if you messed up. “Your father would’ve been proud, Cregan.”

That hit me in the gut. Brandon Stark. Yeah, that was a name I’d have to live up to. No pressure or anything.

And then, of course, there was her—Rhaenys. My betrothed. She was standing there, looking like she just walked out of a painting or something, all poised and regal, like she was born to be queen. Her purple eyes? Yeah, they definitely had magic in them. I could feel it, like they were some kind of secret weapon. Probably because she was a Targaryen, and those people were all kinds of weird.

She smiled when I approached. “Welcome home, my lord,” she said, her voice sweet but with a hint of that fire she always had.

Okay, I’m not going to lie, I nearly melted into a puddle of mush. But I did my best to keep it together. “It’s good to be home,” I said, because I couldn’t exactly say, “I’ve been dreaming about your face for the last year,” right?

And then, in that moment, it happened. The thing that I definitely didn’t see coming. “I’ve heard the stories,” she said, stepping closer. “The Demon Wolf... Quite the reputation you’ve earned.”

I groaned inwardly. “Ugh, don’t remind me. Now half the North thinks I eat wildlings for breakfast. You know how it is. The truth is... well, it’s more complicated.”

“Hmm,” she teased, eyes sparkling. “I think it suits you. But I also see the man beneath the legend.” She winked at me, and I swear my brain almost short-circuited.

Okay, what do I say to that without turning into a pile of awkward? “And I’m honored to have you by my side.” Nailed it. Probably.

The moment lingered. We stood there, surrounded by family and friends, and I realized something: this was it. This was why we’d fought. To protect our homes, our families, and our future. The challenges ahead? Yeah, they were coming, I could feel it in my bones. But with my family at my side, I was ready to take them on.

And—I was definitely going to pitch that hot bath idea again. Just saying.

—

Alright, let’s paint the scene: I'm back at Winterfell, after what felt like a century of wandering around, probably missing more than I should have, but hey, no one ever said being a Stark was easy. If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s this: being a Stark means you get to brood with style. So, of course, I’m surrounded by family, and none of them seem to have gotten the memo about not looking like they’ve stepped off a painting.

But before I could get too distracted by my betrothed—Rhaenys, who I swear the gods themselves sculpted out of moonlight and impossible beauty—I’m nearly knocked off my feet as Robb comes charging at me. This kid’s got a smile that could outshine the sun, and when he slaps me on the back, I swear my ribs shifted.

“Prodigal Stark returns!” he laughs, and I feel the weight of his grin all the way down to my toes. “Now we can get back to normal! Whatever that means.”

“Oh yeah, normal, like surviving assassination attempts and fighting off wildlings in our spare time? I’ve missed you too, you ridiculous bastard,” I smirk.

He chuckles and ruffles my hair, which honestly I don’t mind. No one ruffles my hair like Robb does without me pretending to be annoyed. That’s just how we roll.

Jon’s next. Jon Snow, the most brooding of the brooding bunch. He somehow manages to crack a smile—not that you’d call it a grin, but it’s a smile for Jon, which is like a national holiday in these parts. "It’s good to have you back, Cregan," he says, and I swear, the sun probably set a little slower when those words hit the air.

“Nice to see you too, Snow,” I reply, doing my best impression of someone who doesn't find Jon’s awkward sincerity charming. Spoiler alert: it is charming. But only because he’s Jon, and that’s basically his thing.

Then, out of nowhere, Arya’s at my side. Arya, who’s now at that age where she looks like she might have a dozen assassination plans tucked up her sleeves. She crosses her arms and gives me a look that says, “I’ve been busy being awesome, but now you’re back, and I’ll have to share the spotlight.”

“The place’s been so boring without you,” she says with a grin that’s as devious as it is gleeful. “I tried teaching some children from Wintertown to sword fight, but apparently, that doesn’t count as playing.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And here I thought you were supposed to be learning manners, not how to carve children into tiny Arya-shaped pieces.”

She grins even wider, then throws her arms around me in a hug that almost knocks the wind out of me. “It’s good to have you back, idiot.”

“You’re a menace, Arya,” I tease, even as I pull her back and mess with her hair. It's the only way to get back at her for those knife-sharp glances she’s been throwing lately.

And then, as if she’s been waiting for her moment to be the ultimate example of calm and collected, Sansa steps forward. Sansa, who’s basically the embodiment of grace, composure, and, let’s be honest, a bit of an overachiever. But hey, she’s a Stark, so I can’t hate her too much for being perfect.

“It’s been far too quiet without you, Cregan,” she says, her voice like honey mixed with iron. “Winterfell needs your steady hand to keep things running smoothly.”

I can’t resist. “Ah yes, because chaos has never been a Stark specialty.”

She lets out a little laugh—barely a chuckle, but it counts. “You do have a point there.”

I wink at her. “Don’t get too soft on me, Sansa. If I don’t keep you sharp, who will?”

Before she can respond, I catch sight of him. Aegon—Rhaenys’ little brother, who’s suddenly the size of a small tree. I’m talking, this kid’s practically towering over me now, like he grew a whole extra set of limbs in the time I was gone.

“Aegon!” I greet him, and he actually grins at me. I swear, this kid’s smile could rival any of the sunny days down south. “You’ve grown—again. At this rate, you’ll be able to throw me over your shoulder by next season.”

His grin widens, showing just a hint of mischief. “I missed you, Cregan,” he says sincerely, and I see something in his eyes that’s both wildly reassuring and a little terrifying. “The North missed you. We all did.”

“You’re not wrong,” I reply, throwing an arm around his shoulder, which feels weird because, you know, he’s taller. “I probably drove everyone here insane while I was gone, but hey, that’s a Stark tradition, right?”

Aegon laughs and pats me on the back in that way that’s like a high-five but with more brotherly affection.

Just as I’m getting lost in the warmth of being surrounded by my madcap family, I notice her again—Rhaenys. The girl is absolutely radiating an aura that could probably melt the Ice Wall if she tried. She's standing there, arms crossed, with that knowing smile of hers that says: Yes, I’m gorgeous. Yes, I’m completely out of your league. No, I won’t be giving you a chance to mope around.

I give her a little wink, just to remind her that, yes, I’m still me—and I can totally manage being surrounded by all this beauty without losing my mind. Probably. “You’re looking stunning as always, Rhaenys,” I say with a grin that would’ve made any bard proud.

She rolls her eyes, but there’s affection in it. "Welcome home, you idiot."

And just like that, I realize that despite everything—despite the wildlings, the politics, the looming doom—this? This moment of family, of chaos, of being together? It’s enough.

For now, at least.

I’ll savor it. Because I know it won’t last long. It never does.

—

So, picture this: it’s a victory feast in Winterfell. Now, if you’ve never been to one, let me paint you a picture. Imagine a bunch of northern warriors, all fueled by beer, meat, and pride, gathered in one massive room where the only thing bigger than the feast is their egos. It’s like the whole hall is one giant pit of chaos and joy wrapped in fur and iron. If you’ve ever wondered what happens when you throw half the North into a room with enough food to feed a village, well, the answer is: loud, messy, and very likely someone’s going to end up with a roast boar stuck on their head.

Anyway, the Great Hall is lit up like it’s a mummer’s play audition, with torches casting long shadows and banners hanging down like they’re preparing for the end of the world. There's enough food on the tables to feed an army—because, well, we are one, even if half of us look like we just got out of a wildling bar fight. Roasted meats are stacked high, bread piled like some sort of carb mountain, and if there was a prize for ‘Most Likely to Make You Regret Your Life Choices,’ the onion pies soaked in ale would take home the gold.

So, where do I sit in all this glory? Right in the middle, of course. Right at the high table, flanked by Rhaenys on one side and my esteemed relatives on the other. Let me tell you something about Rhaenys: she’s thirteen, and already looks like she could convince a dragon to bow down to her. She was wearing this Dornish gown that made her look like she belonged in a painting, not in a hall full of people who hadn’t seen a bath in weeks. It took all my self-control not to gape at her like a love-sick pup. (Spoiler alert: I totally did, but I’d never admit it.)

On my other side? Uncle Ned, the man of few words who somehow manages to be terrifying and comforting at the same time. I couldn’t tell if he was proud of me or just hoping I wouldn’t do something ridiculously stupid in front of all these people (which, given my track record, was a valid concern). Aunt Catelyn was right next to him, shooting me that look of “I’m proud, but please don’t embarrass me,” the kind of look that makes you feel like you’re 6 years old again. It was honestly a miracle I didn’t spill my wine at the mere sight of it.

Then there’s my mother, Lady Ashara Dayne. If elegance was a person, it would be her. The woman just radiates grace like she was born with it, but with a sharp edge underneath that makes you think twice before asking her if you can have more food. My Aunt Elia, ever the soft-spoken beauty, was fussing over baby Bran, who, let’s be honest, was probably already planning a coup. And Uncle Arthur, the Sword of the Morning himself, stood nearby, looking like he was about to give someone a speech about honor and chivalry. Seriously, the man might as well have been carved from marble.

Aunt Lyanna was leaning against Benjen’s arm, looking like she was already thinking about which horse she’d be stealing by the end of the night. Honestly, if you left Lyanna unattended for more than five minutes, someone was getting pranked or worse, a horse was getting “borrowed.”

Then, of course, there were my cousins. Robb, Jon, Arya, and Sansa—my personal squad of chaos. Robb was off in the corner, flexing his arms like he was already practicing for an arm-wrestling match with Greatjon Umber (who was no slouch in the arm-wrestling department, let me tell you). Jon was sitting next to him, looking broody but in that “happy but still brooding” kind of way that only Jon can pull off. Arya? She was on her third pie. I’m not even sure how she was still alive after that. And Sansa? She was already planning out her thank-you notes for all the lords who had made the trek to Winterfell. I’m pretty sure her life’s goal was to be the perfect host at a dinner party.

Prince Aegon was sitting nearby, charming everyone with that easy smile of his. The kid could probably convince a direwolf to hand over its dinner if he tried hard enough. I was just waiting for someone to ask him to charm the fire into the hearth or something, which, knowing Aegon, he’d probably manage.

Anyway, the night was already off to a roaring start when the bards kicked things off. The music started, and I kid you not, everyone in the hall began stomping their feet like it was the most natural thing in the world. And the dancers? They spun around so much I thought they were trying to summon a tornado. It was like someone had spiked the punch and told everyone to “go wild.” (The fact that no one got injured was a miracle.)

At some point during all this madness, I stood up to give my obligatory toast. Not like I had a choice—being the center of attention was sort of the price you pay when you’re seated at the high table.

I cleared my throat, raised my goblet (which was half-full of wine and half-full of regret), and said, “To the brave men and women of the North,” I began, because that’s what you say at a toast, right? “May we always stand strong and united in the face of adversity. To victory!”

The response? Pure chaos. Everyone clinked their goblets together like they were trying to start a war, and half the hall started shouting “To Cregan Stark!” like I was some sort of legendary hero instead of the kid who can barely drink a full cup of ale without spilling it. But, hey, I wasn’t about to ruin the vibe. I flashed a modest smile, nodded like I was used to this level of attention, and tried not to look too awkward.

And then, just to make sure no one could ever forget that this was a victory feast, Greatjon Umber stood up, goblet in hand, and bellowed, “To the Demon Wolf!”

And let me tell you, that was it. The hall went absolutely bonkers. The noise, the cheering, the chanting—I could barely hear myself think, much less wonder how on earth I was suddenly a mythical figure in the North. I waved my goblet again, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when people cheer for you.

Was it all a little much? Absolutely. But in that moment, with my family laughing, the wine flowing, and the fire roaring, I couldn’t help but feel like I was exactly where I was meant to be. Even if “The Demon Wolf” was a little over-the-top for my tastes.

Still, it was good to be home.

—

If you’ve ever had the joy of being roasted by your cousins in front of your entire family, then you know exactly how I felt sitting at the high table at Winterfell. I’m just minding my business, trying to enjoy a decent meal, when Jon and Robb start whispering like they’re plotting the downfall of the entire North. Great. I’ve got that to look forward to.

Jon’s got this grin, the kind he pulls when he’s about to stir up some trouble. “So, Cregan,” he starts, all innocent-like, “I hear you’ve earned yourself a new title.”

I raise an eyebrow. This can’t be good. Robb, the co-conspirator, snickers beside him. “Yeah, ‘The Demon Wolf,’ huh? Pretty impressive, cousin.” His smile is way too smug for someone who’s about to get roasted himself.

Aegon, ever the Targaryen with a flair for drama, leans in, his eyes twinkling. “It does have a nice ring to it,” he says, like he’s auditioning for some kind of royal bard. “Very fearsome. Intimidating, even. What do you think, Demon Wolf?”

Okay, so I had two choices. Option one: glare at them until they shrivel up like a prune under the weight of my cold, deadly stare. (Spoiler: That never works.) Option two: roll with it and hope they get bored. Guess which one I picked?

“Oh, hilarious,” I say, keeping my voice deadpan. “I’ll be sure to consult you three next time I need a nickname. ‘The Brooding Brigade,’ maybe?”

Jon actually laughs at that, which is a little surprising. Arya, of course, sees this as her cue to join the fun. She leans forward, looking like a wolf about to pounce, and announces to the entire hall, “Watch out, everyone. The Demon Wolf is here. Who knows what he’ll do next? Maybe he’ll... growl at someone?” She grins like she’s just cracked the code to the universe.

The entire table erupts into laughter, and honestly, at this point, I’m just praying for a trapdoor to swallow me whole. Even Greatjon Umber’s booming laugh echoes through the hall like a rumbling thunderstorm.

Then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, Sansa—my oh-so-dignified cousin—leans over to Arya with that I’m-so-disappointed-in-you look she’s perfected since she was born. “Arya,” she says, her voice smooth as silk but laced with the kind of judgment that could melt steel, “That’s unladylike.”

Arya just rolls her eyes, the motion so exaggerated that I half expect them to fall out. “Oh, come on, Sansa,” she says, grinning wide. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

Sansa sighs dramatically, glancing at Arya like she’s already plotting her next I-told-you-so speech. “I’ll leave the adventure to you, Arya,” she says with a mock-sweet smile. “But let’s at least try to maintain some decorum.”

“As you wish, Lady Sansa,” Arya replies with an overly dramatic bow, her eyes still twinkling with mischief. Then she turns back to me, her grin never fading. “So, Demon Wolf, any plans to howl at the moon later?”

I sigh, already knowing this is going to get worse before it gets better. “Not unless you start behaving, Little Wolf,” I shoot back. “And don’t push me. I’ll embarrass you in front of the whole hall.”

She grins even wider, clearly seeing this as a challenge. Yeah, it’s on. I just know it’s going to be one of those nights.

Then there’s Uncle Ned, sitting at the high table like the pillar of responsibility he is, trying to hold it all together. He glances over at me, giving me a stern look that only Ned Stark could pull off. “Cregan,” he says in that low, gravelly voice that carries weight. “If you’re going to be the Demon Wolf, you might as well start acting like it.”

I blink, caught off guard. “What does that even mean?”

He just gives me that ‘I’m your father, so just deal with it’ look. “It means don’t let your cousins think they can get away with this nonsense. Show some spine, lad.”

Well, that’s not intimidating at all. But I give him a nod of approval, silently thanking him for backing me up—while also praying he doesn’t expect me to start a wolfish rampage right here in front of everyone.

As for Aunt Catelyn, she's over there looking all prim and proper, doing her best to pretend she’s not part of this circus. She raises a brow at Arya’s antics, but I can tell she’s fighting a smile. “Really, Arya?” she says softly, but with that sharp edge that only Catelyn Stark can carry. “Can’t you at least try to be a little ladylike for once?”

Arya’s face turns into a classic smirk. “I’ll be a lady... as soon as you stop giving me looks, Aunt Catelyn.”

Then there’s Benjen, standing there like the quiet, brooding, slightly terrifying figure he is. He gives me a nod of respect, like, “Yeah, you’re handling it better than I would have at your age,” but that’s the extent of his commentary. Classic Benjen.

Uncle Arthur Dayne—The Sword of the Morning himself—says nothing. He doesn’t have to. His presence alone is enough to make anyone feel like a knight of legend. The way he stands, tall and proud, his sword casually resting by his side, makes me feel like maybe I should start practicing my swordsmanship a little harder. If only to avoid being overshadowed by that guy at family gatherings.

And my mother? Well, she’s Ashara Dayne. She just smiles at me across the table, calm and poised like she always is, sending me a look that says, You can handle this, my son. But I can tell she’s not impressed by the nickname. I swear I saw her roll her eyes the tiniest bit when Arya started her routine.

Then there’s Dacey, my other aunt, who’s practically daring me to take down a whole roast boar by myself. But she’s also watching Arya, shaking her head like she’s in on some joke I’m not quite privy to. It’s a wonder no one in our family ever actually decides to be serious for more than five minutes.

Eventually, I give up trying to salvage my dignity. This is my life now. The Demon Wolf, surrounded by my loud, boisterous, ridiculously supportive family. Honestly, it’s exhausting, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

Well, except maybe five minutes of peace and quiet. Just five minutes. Please?

General POV

The solar at Winterfell was quiet—well, as quiet as a room full of young girls could be. Sansa Stark, poised like she’d been trained by the gods themselves, was seated on one of the sturdy wooden chairs, carefully threading a needle through a piece of fabric. To anyone else, it might have looked like simple stitching, but to Sansa, it was a masterpiece in the making. She was probably imagining how her needlework would one day be the talk of the North. Or maybe the world.

Arya, on the other hand, looked like she was in the middle of a battle with an invisible army of needles. She was slouched in her chair, eyes narrowed as though the fabric was personally affronting her. Every few seconds, she let out an exaggerated sigh, the kind that could shake a tree branch if there was enough drama in it.

“This is so boring!” Arya groaned, flopping onto the table as if she was about to faint from sheer tedium. “Why do I have to do this? I’d rather be out running through the woods or training with swords, like Robb and Jon!”

Sansa, who was sewing what was most definitely going to be a perfect wolf design (no doubt a masterpiece of art that would be remembered for generations), shot her sister a look. “Maybe you’d enjoy it more if you actually tried,” she said in her ever-so-patient tone. “Besides, what else would you be doing? Playing in the mud with the dogs?”

Arya made a face. “Mud’s more fun than this,” she muttered, poking herself with the needle for emphasis. “I bet Jeyne’s having more fun than me.”

Jeyne Poole, who was seated next to Arya, nodded vigorously. “Totally!” Jeyne said, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of being in the presence of all this needlework. "I can totally make dresses one day, and they'll be—"

“No one cares about dresses,” Arya interrupted, rolling her eyes so dramatically it could’ve been a whole play in itself. “What’s the point of making things that just sit there? I want to make something useful. Like a sword. Or a bow and arrow. Maybe a cool axe…”

“Oh, please,” Sansa said, lifting an eyebrow as she carefully tucked a corner of the fabric. “What’s an axe going to do? You’ll ruin your hair just trying to hold it.”

“I don’t care about my hair,” Arya said, smirking at her sister. “If I get too sweaty with an axe, it’s because I’m too busy saving you.”

Jeyne, who was a little more inclined to actually enjoy the sewing, giggled. “You could make a dress with swords, Arya. You could be the first knight lady.”

“Not a lady,” Arya said, pointing at her chest as if that made all the difference. “I’m not like Sansa.”

“I am a lady,” Sansa said, narrowing her eyes at her twin. “And I’ll be the best one. I’ll make dresses for all the ladies in the North. Maybe even the Queen one day.”

Arya snorted. “You’d make a dress for the Queen and then what? Get her all tangled up in thread?”

“Girls,” Aunt Ashara said, her voice soft but firm enough to hush even the most chaotic of them. She was sitting in a chair near the window, her elegance making the rest of them look like a wild pack of puppies. “Patience. It’s a skill every lady needs to learn. Especially one who plans to manage a house as large as Winterfell.”

Arya immediately turned her head toward Ashara. “You mean you expect me to be patient and calm while I do this?” she asked, as if Ashara had just asked her to fly on the back of a dragon.

“Aunt Ashara’s right,” Jeyne said, offering an innocent smile. “It’s important to learn these things. Like how to care for the people you love.”

“Maybe if I loved sewing, I’d care more,” Arya grumbled, staring at her fingers as if they had betrayed her.

Ashara chuckled softly, clearly not expecting Arya to change her mind. “It’s not just about making things, Arya. It’s about putting care and effort into everything you do. That’s what makes it valuable.”

Arya’s response was a spectacular eye-roll so dramatic it should’ve been illegal. “Right,” she muttered, poking herself with the needle again. “I’ll put effort into the sword part when I’m older. You can keep your valuable dresses.”

Before anyone could respond, the sound of horns echoed through the hall. Not the kind of horns you hear when someone’s trying to announce dinner. No, these were the kind of horns that meant something big was happening. Something important.

“Oh, finally!” Arya shot up from her seat, nearly knocking over her sewing basket in the process. “They're back! Jon and Robb are back! Cregan too!”

Sansa's eyes lit up, and she quickly forgot all about her stitching. “Cregan’s home!” she exclaimed, practically jumping out of her chair. “I bet he brought us presents!”

Arya threw her arms around Jeyne. “They’d better have brought something good! I’ll bet they’ve got all kinds of fun stuff.”

Sansa wasn’t listening. “Maybe he brought me some fabric for my next dress,” she said, already imagining a new wardrobe she’d design for herself. “Something in red, I think. Red’s the color of power.”

Jeyne nodded enthusiastically. “Totally! You’ll be the most powerful lady ever.”

Arya glanced at her sister and rolled her eyes—this time with actual affection. “Yeah, Sansa. Power comes from dresses. That’s the real lesson here.”

Ashara, ever the calm one, smiled at the girls. She knew how much they enjoyed their brother’s return. She also knew that Winterfell would be in for one lively evening, with presents, stories, and a little bit of chaos thrown in. As the sounds of the returning party echoed through the courtyard, Ashara stood, watching as the twins rushed to the window.

Below, the gates of Winterfell creaked open, revealing Cregan and his party riding in, their cloaks heavy with snow, their faces full of the kind of stories you only get from traveling through the wild. And just like that, all talk of dresses, needles, and patience were forgotten. The world outside Winterfell was calling—and nothing, not even sewing, could keep them away.

"Do you think he brought anything cool?" Arya asked, her eyes shining.

Sansa gave her a look. "Of course he did."

But before they could argue any further, the front doors of Winterfell burst open, and the next chapter of their story began.

And then, of course, a bear charged straight at Cregan Stark. Because why wouldn’t it?

—

Cregan's POV

I’ve got to say, riding into Winterfell on the back of a direwolf is definitely one of the coolest things I’ve ever done. It’s like stepping into a Hall of Heroes where all the bards stop mid-song and just gape at you. Except it’s not just me they’re staring at—it’s Padfoot, my giant, slightly terrifying direwolf who looks like he could eat a horse and still be hungry for a second helping.

And then there’s Rhaenys, sitting right next to me on Meraxes, her equally massive wolf. Together, we probably look like some kind of legendary pair, straight out of one of Old Nan’s stories. You know, the ones where the hero rides in, all grim and mysterious, and everyone just stands in awe of them. Of course, I’m not sure anyone is going to care much about the fact that I’m rocking a bear-fur cloak. Sigh.

Winterfell’s gates creaked open, revealing the familiar stone towers, the kind that always looked like old friends welcoming you home. And standing in front of those gates—yep, you guessed it—were the twins. Arya and Sansa, already peering out of the window, their faces a mix of excitement, curiosity, and way too much enthusiasm for my taste. Arya was practically bouncing, like a ball of energy that might just explode if she didn’t do something crazy soon. Sansa, on the other hand, was trying so hard to play it cool that it was almost funny.

I turned to Rhaenys. “Brace yourself,” I muttered. “We’re about to get tackled.”

She gave me a smile that could rival the sun. “I think I can handle a couple of overexcited cousins.”

Before I could even hop off Padfoot, the twins were already charging down the steps, My mother trailing behind them with the dignity of a woman who was definitely not running after two seven-year-olds. Arya reached me first, flying at me like a cannonball and wrapping her tiny arms around my waist.

“Cregan!” she yelled, which was probably louder than necessary, but hey, that was Arya. “Did you bring us anything cool? Please tell me you brought something cool.”

Sansa, predictably, wasn’t far behind. She gave me a hug, but it was more of a dignified “I missed you” kind of hug. Not as enthusiastic as Arya’s, but still very warm. And her eyes—yeah, I caught her eyeing my cloak like she was already planning to swipe it. I smirked.

“I missed you both too,” I said, ruffling Arya’s hair and earning a melodramatic groan from her. “And yes, Arya, I brought something cool. But you’ll have to wait until we’re inside for the reveal.”

She crossed her arms and pouted like someone had just ruined her whole day. “Fine,” she muttered, but her eyes darted straight to Padfoot. “Can I pet him?”

“Maybe later,” I said, glancing at Padfoot, who was currently giving me that “Do I really have to like these people?” look. “First, let’s get inside. Padfoot’s a little, uh, selective about who he lets pet him.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Jon, Robb, and Aegon running toward us like they were training for some kind of race. And given the wooden swords still clutched in their hands and the sweat on their faces, I guessed they'd just finished some sort of mock battle. I could practically hear Ser Rodrik grumbling somewhere in the background about how they were slacking off in their drills.

Jon got to me first, his eyes immediately flicking toward Padfoot. “Cregan, is that a direwolf?” he asked, sounding like he might explode if he didn’t get an answer soon.

“No, Jon,” I said, deadpan. “It’s an unusually large rabbit.”

Robb immediately piped up, his voice full of awe. “No way. That’s a direwolf. Where did you find him?”

“Found him in the woods,” I said, trying to sound casual, but I could tell they were all wondering the same thing: Can I have one of these beasts?

Rhaenys, dismounting Meraxes with the grace of someone who definitely had royal blood, smiled. “The wolves found us,” she said. “And as for getting one of your own...” She shot a playful glance my way. “That depends on whether you can convince one to like you. They’re not exactly the cuddly type.”

Jon and Robb’s eyes lit up like they’d just been handed an impossible quest. Aegon, on the other hand, was eyeing Meraxes with the caution of someone who knew better than to get too close to something that could end you with one swipe of its giant claws.

“Are they dangerous?” Robb asked, still staring at Padfoot, probably trying to figure out how he could train one of these creatures.

“Only if you’re stupid around them,” I said. “If you treat them right, they’ll treat you right. Well, mostly. Padfoot, for instance, has a tendency to ‘accidentally’ knock people over when he’s in a playful mood.” I shot Padfoot a warning glance, but he just looked at me like, What? I’m just big-boned.

Arya, of course, wasn’t paying attention to any of that. She was already inching closer to Padfoot, her hand stretched out like she was trying to make friends with a bear that could eat her whole. “He’s so cool,” she whispered, absolutely starstruck.

“Careful,” Rhaenys advised gently. “Let him come to you.”

And to my surprise—Padfoot sniffed Arya’s hand and then licked it. Arya practically squealed in delight and wiped the slobber off with the most dramatic, “Oh my gods, he likes me!” look on her face.

“Looks like he likes you,” I said, grinning. “Just don’t get too attached. He doesn’t share his dinner.”

By the time we walked inside, the twins were still buzzing about the direwolves, Jon and Robb were arguing over how to track a direwolf, and even Aegon had stolen a few glances at Meraxes like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

As we crossed the threshold of Winterfell, I couldn’t help but grin. The North had its fair share of legends, but today? Today, we brought two of them home.

—

General POV

Oberyn Martell was leaning dramatically against the ship's railing, his dark hair flowing like some kind of brooding pirate lord in a cheap romance novel. Seriously, if he wasn’t the one steering the ship, he’d probably have a black feathered hat by now. A strong gust of salt-laden wind whipped through his hair as he stared out at the horizon with the intensity of someone who probably spent an absurd amount of time practicing that "look" in front of a mirror. It was honestly impressive.

"Stop posing for the seagulls," Ellaria Sand called from beside him, her voice warm but the kind of affectionate teasing that you only get when you've spent a million years with someone. She nudged his arm with a smile that was all fond exasperation. "You’re not fooling anyone. They can't even appreciate your cheekbones."

Oberyn didn’t even flinch. In fact, he gave her a slow, dramatic smile that practically screamed “I know I'm ridiculously attractive.” "My cheekbones," he said, his voice low and smooth, "are a gift to all creatures, feathered or otherwise."

Ellaria rolled her eyes but didn’t look away. "You're insufferable, you know that?"

"Yes," he agreed, "but you love me anyway."

She smiled softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "I suppose."

His gaze shifted north, the endless sea stretching out in front of them, glimmering like molten silver under the sun. "I think about Elia and the children often," he murmured, his voice suddenly quieter, the brooding pirate lord momentarily replaced by the loving father and husband. "It's been too long since I’ve seen them."

Ellaria's expression softened, and she leaned against him, resting her chin on her hand. "I know. I can't wait to see their faces again. And the Sand Snakes will love spending time with their cousins. Rhaenys is going to go absolutely wild."

Just then, as if summoned by the mention of her name, Tyene Sand appeared out of nowhere, practically bouncing across the deck like a dog who’s just been told it’s time for a walk. Her braids bounced with every step as she skipped over to Oberyn, eyes wide with excitement.

“Will Cregan be there?” she asked, her voice so high-pitched with enthusiasm that even the seagulls seemed to pause in midair to listen. “He’s so cool! He has two Valyrian Steel swords now! And that smile that makes people faint! I bet he’s going to make all the bards swoon!”

Oberyn squatted down to meet her gaze, eyes narrowing with mock seriousness. “First of all,” he said, “you’re too young to notice his smile. Second, yes, Cregan will be there. He’s the Lord of Winterfell, after all. And I imagine the bards will be swooning over him before long, just as you predict.”

Tyene grinned and spun around, skipping off in search of her next distraction. Obara, who was leaning coolly against the mast with the air of someone who was way too aware of how awesome they were, watched Tyene with a raised eyebrow.

"Why does everyone talk about Cregan like he’s some hero out of a bard’s tale?" Obara asked, a mix of exasperation and intrigue in her voice. She didn't look at Oberyn, but the words were clearly meant for him. “I’m more interested in seeing if Rhaenys has learned how to hold a sword without tripping over her own feet.”

Ellaria shot her a pointed look, clearly not amused by the implication. "You mean," she said with a raised eyebrow, "you want to fight her again?"

Obara shrugged nonchalantly. “Training, Mother. It’s called training. Look it up.”

Ellaria sighed deeply, though it was clear she was trying to suppress a smile. "You're exhausting, but you're my exhausting."

Oberyn, completely unfazed by the familial chaos, turned back to the horizon, his face once again shifting into that mysterious pirate lord mode. "Let's just hope we bring everyone together this time," he said, his voice deep and full of gravitas. Of course, it was dramatic as hell. Because why not?

Ellaria gave him a playful nudge, this time a little harder, and grinned. "You’re overthinking it, Oberyn. It's a family visit, not a trial by combat. Save the theatrics for when the wine is poured."

Oberyn gave her a sidelong glance, his lips curling into a knowing grin. “But where would the fun be without a little bit of drama?”

As the ship sliced through the waves toward White Harbor, Tyene was already making grand plans in her head about how she would get Cregan to let her hold one of his Valyrian Steel swords. Obara, always the practical one, was busy sharpening her daggers with a look that screamed, "Rhaenys better be ready for this rematch."

Nymeria, who had been sitting off to the side with a book, shot her sister a glance that said she was secretly hoping to join the rematch. And then, as always, Oberyn stood at the bow, watching the horizon, enjoying the feeling of being surrounded by his family. Quietly savoring the thought of all the chaos yet to come. And though it appeared calm now, anyone who knew Oberyn Martell knew better. Peace didn’t last long around him.

But for now? For now, he could savor the journey. Even if, knowing him, the calm would last all of five minutes.

—

Cregan's POV

The Winterfell training yard was alive with the kind of noise that could make you think we were preparing for a war—or at least an awkward family dinner. Swords clanged, people grunted, and occasionally someone ate dirt. It was the usual chaos that came with me teaching my cousins how to wield swords, like an unintentional medieval circus act.

I, Cregan Stark—Master of the Savage Burn (okay, I made that part up)—stood at the ready, my twin wooden swords held in perfect stance, not because I was showing off, but because I definitely was. Padfoot, my loyal direwolf, padded along beside me like he had better things to do, but still kept a watchful eye on the action. I swear, he could probably teach these guys a thing or two about actual intimidation.

Uncle Arthur Dayne—aka “The Sword of the Morning” and the man who could make a sword look like an extension of his arm—watched us with his arms crossed. If he wasn’t so cool, he would’ve looked like a grumpy old knight who'd forgotten how to smile. As it was, he just looked legendary. His gaze was intense, like he was one bad swing away from sighing and declaring us all hopeless.

Across the yard, my cousins stood in formation, ready for their inevitable defeat. Jon, looking like he had just read a book about "How to Be Brooding and Intense," tightened his stance like he was preparing for a duel with a dragon. Robb, my next challenger, looked like he was trying to figure out whether he should swing at me like a bear or a man. And Aegon? Well, Aegon was doing his thing—being annoyingly confident, smirking as if he had something to prove. Which, spoiler alert, he didn’t. But hey, confidence was half the battle, right?

“Ready to see what you’ve got, boys?” I called out, twirling one of my swords just to make it look like I had style, and not because I definitely needed to distract them.

Jon gave me one of those serious nods. “Let’s do this.”

“Alright then,” I grinned. “Prepare to have your minds blown.”

Ser Rodrik Cassel, the toughest guy in the yard (even if he looked like he had a permanent scowl), raised a hand to start the match. Instantly, I leaped into action, my swords flashing like lightning—fast, brutal, and, if I’m being honest, a little bit unnecessarily flashy. Jon lunged first, all speed and precision, like a Stark should. Robb came next, all muscle and power, which wasn’t a bad approach, except when you’re up against me. And Aegon? Well, Aegon tried his best spin move—which looked more like he was trying to dance than fight.

“Come on, guys!” I taunted, easily dodging Jon’s strike and parrying Robb’s overhead attack. “This is supposed to be a challenge, right?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed, which was his signature move. Robb growled under his breath, swinging harder, and Aegon attempted some ridiculous flip-kick thing that almost worked, until I casually sidestepped and sent him tumbling backwards.

Over by the sidelines, Arya was practically vibrating with excitement. She was whisper-yelling to Sansa, who was holding back giggles like a proper lady—mostly. Sansa, of course, was more interested in how my technique compared to everyone else’s. Rhaenys, on the other hand, stood nearby with Meraxes, her direwolf, observing like she was definitely taking notes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was just waiting for me to screw up.

Uncle Arthur didn’t help much either, standing there with his usual “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed” face. If there were an Olympic event for looking stoic and annoyed, he’d win gold every time.

The fight carried on like this—me dodging, blocking, and occasionally using my swords to dramatically spin in ways that made me look cooler than I actually was. Jon and Robb were getting sharper, no doubt about that. And Aegon, bless his heart, was trying. It was like watching a puppy try to be fierce. Cute, but not entirely successful.

Finally, I’d had enough. “Alright, alright, enough,” I said, stepping back, chest heaving like I’d been through a marathon. “Not bad, lads. You’ve definitely gotten better. A little.”

Jon smirked, a rare thing for him. “You’re still impossible to hit.”

Robb, wiping sweat from his brow, grinned. “But we’re getting closer.”

Aegon, who was dusting himself off after my last epic move, added, “Next time, you’ll be the one on the ground.”

I gave Jon a friendly ruffle of his hair—because nothing says “brotherly love” like messing with someone’s personal space. “Keep dreaming.”

Just as I was about to strut off like the victorious knight I was (because obviously I was), Uncle Arthur stepped forward, his presence immediately commanding everyone’s attention. “Well done,” he said, his voice as deep as a mountain, and just as intimidating. “All of you.” He paused just long enough to make me squirm under his gaze. Then he added, “Cregan, you’ve improved.”

Cue me trying to act cool, even though I was doing a happy dance on the inside. Uncle Arthur, the man who’d killed a hundred men before breakfast, was proud of me. Proud. That was like getting a gold star from a legend.

“Thanks, Uncle,” I said, trying not to look like I’d just been handed a trophy.

As we headed back toward the hall, Arya was practically hopping on her feet, asking Jon for tips on footwork. Rhaenys was walking next to Aegon, giving him a look that might’ve been a mix of “you’re lucky I didn’t step in and save you” and “I’ll lecture you later.”

Me? I was just trying to keep a smug grin from spreading across my face. Sparring was fun, but watching my cousins improve made it even better. And when they finally did manage to land a hit? Well, I’d be there to congratulate them—because, hey, a little humility never hurt anyone. Right, Uncle?

I glanced over at Rhaenys, catching her eye for a second. She smiled, just the tiniest curve of her lips. Yup, she was watching. And she definitely approved of my “kicking their butts” technique. I grinned back.

Hey, if I had to go down in history as the best swordsman of my generation, I was okay with that.

—

General POV

The ship creaked as it docked at White Harbor, its wooden planks groaning like an old man trying to get out of bed. The city itself was a hive of activity—a constant buzz of merchants shouting their wares, sailors bickering over who should’ve tied the ship, and fish. Lots of fish. Seriously, if you didn’t like seafood, White Harbor was probably not the place for you.

At the prow stood Oberyn Martell, looking every bit the seasoned traveler he was—tall, confident, and with that swagger that made him look like he could charm the pants off any noblewoman or tavern wench he came across. He was leaning against the railing, grinning as if he had just discovered the world’s most perfect secret. Beside him, Ellaria Sand stood close, her dark eyes scanning the crowd with a mix of curiosity and amusement, her lips curled into that smile that made you wonder exactly what she was thinking. And judging by the way she was eyeing him, Oberyn had a good idea it wasn’t about fish.

Behind them, the Sand Snakes were, as always, on edge—each of them ready to burst into action at the slightest provocation. Obara, ever the bold one, was practically vibrating with energy, her fingers itching for a fight. Nymeria had that calm, calculating look she always wore—like she was figuring out the most efficient way to rob a merchant. Tyene, the youngest, looked more than a little excited, though she masked it behind her coy, shy smile.

“You’re staring, my love,” Ellaria said, leaning in close enough that her breath tickled his ear. “Not that I mind, but you seem distracted.”

Oberyn chuckled, his voice low and teasing. “I’m just admiring the view, my dear. The harbor, the people, the chaos—it’s... quite the sight.”

“And yet you have eyes for only one thing.” Ellaria’s smile deepened, that spark of mischief dancing in her eyes.

“Maybe two things,” Oberyn quipped, nudging her playfully as he gave her a wink that could have melted the sun. “But who’s counting?”

The Sand Snakes exchanged looks that ranged from disinterested to mildly entertained, but none of them said a word. They were used to their parents being... well, them.

The ship finally docked with a thud, and the gangplank was lowered with a creak that could only belong to something that had seen better days. On the dock, Lord Manderly was already waiting, his massive form towering over the crowd like an overenthusiastic bear.

“Prince Oberyn! Always a pleasure, my friend!” Lord Manderly boomed, his voice carrying across the pier as if he were announcing the start of a grand feast. His arms were wide open, ready for a hug that could probably suffocate anyone under a hundred pounds.

Oberyn stepped forward with a grin, offering a handshake that was as firm as the Lord’s gut (and probably more than a little sweaty). “Lord Manderly, the pleasure is mine,” he said, his tone smooth as butter, though his eyes flicked briefly to Ellaria, who looked like she was silently daring Manderly to try something funny.

Obara Sand stepped up next, all confidence and fire. “I’m Obara Sand,” she said, her voice low and challenging, a smirk tugging at her lips. “And you’re Lord Manderly, yes? Tell me, do you prefer your fish fresh, or are you the kind to appreciate a good salted one?”

Manderly chuckled deeply, shaking her hand with the kind of enthusiasm that would’ve made anyone else feel a bit self-conscious. “A strong one, I see. Well, Obara, welcome to White Harbor,” he said, his voice thick with amusement. “I do love a good salted fish, though I’ll admit, I prefer my guests un-salted.”

Nymeria Sand was next, her eyes flicking over the Lord with the cool detachment of someone who had already decided whether or not they’d like him. “Nymeria Sand,” she introduced herself, her voice sharp and to the point, just like her personality.

“Ah, Nymeria,” Manderly said with a twinkle in his eye. “It’s a pleasure to have you in White Harbor. If you need anything—anything at all—don’t hesitate to ask. I’m a man who enjoys a good trade.”

“Good to know,” Nymeria said with a smile that was half-curious, half-skeptical. “I’m sure I’ll take you up on that offer, Lord Manderly.”

Then there was Tyene. Sweet, innocent Tyene—who, for all her softness, could probably twist a dagger in your heart before you had time to blink. She stepped up, shy smile and all, and said simply, “Tyene Sand.”

Lord Manderly’s grin softened, his voice almost tender as he spoke. “Ah, Tyene. It’s a pleasure to have you here, my dear. You’re the one who’ll make this place feel... a bit more lively, I’m sure.”

Ellaria raised an eyebrow at the Lord’s reaction, but said nothing, letting Tyene’s charm work its magic.

Oberyn couldn’t help but laugh under his breath. “You have a way with people, don’t you, my love?”

“Don’t start,” Ellaria muttered, though the smile on her face betrayed her.

Finally, with the greetings out of the way, the group made their way through the bustling docks and into the heart of the city. Oberyn felt that familiar twinge of nostalgia as the salty air filled his lungs and the chaos of the place enveloped him. White Harbor had always been a place of opportunity, of potential fun, of mischief—and he wasn’t about to let that reputation die on his watch.

“I do love the North,” Oberyn remarked, his tone more serious now, but still playful. “It’s rugged, untamed, and full of... possibilities.”

Ellaria’s laugh was light, but there was something underneath it, a promise of more to come. “Yes, it is. And who knows? We might just find what we’re looking for.”

“What are we looking for?” Oberyn asked, his hand brushing against hers in a way that could’ve meant nothing—or everything.

Ellaria’s smile was slow, seductive. “You know exactly what we’re looking for, my dear. Adventure. And perhaps... something more.”

Oberyn’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Ah, always something more.” He winked, clearly enjoying the game they played.

And with that, they moved through the city, the Sand Snakes trailing behind them like the storm they were always ready to be. If White Harbor didn’t have the reputation of being a place of chaos before, it would now. But Oberyn wouldn’t have had it any other way. After all, what was life without a little bit of drama—and a few memorable encounters along the way?

General POV

After a long, hearty dinner that was probably the most satisfying thing Oberyn had eaten since he’d left Dorne, and an evening spent lounging by the fire while the Manderlys tried to figure out who could drink the most wine without falling asleep in their food, Oberyn and Lord Manderly retired to a private sitting room for some more “serious” conversation. Of course, “serious” in Oberyn’s world still had plenty of room for banter, teasing, and, if he was lucky, some flirtation. Not that he was complaining.

The room they entered was cozy, the warmth of the hearth mingling with the rich scent of aged wood and spiced wine. Oberyn sank into a plush armchair that felt suspiciously like it had been made for someone twice his size—typical of a Manderly. Across from him, Lord Manderly, looking like he could wrestle a bear and then cook it for dinner, poured himself a glass of deep red spiced wine, the kind that could probably set fire to your insides if you weren't careful. But that wasn’t Oberyn’s concern; he preferred the smoother taste of Arbor gold, which he now took a delicate sip of, enjoying the familiar warmth as it slid down his throat.

"Your hospitality has been… shall we say, exceptional," Oberyn said, leaning back in his chair, his eyes twinkling. "I could get used to this."

Lord Manderly's wide smile nearly cracked his face in half. "Well, you're always welcome here, Prince Oberyn. You know how we feel about our Dornish friends. Always a pleasure to host someone who knows how to drink with style."

Ellaria, seated beside him, flashed a smile that could melt the snow off the Stark’s castle walls. She was leaning in a bit closer to Oberyn than necessary, her fingers brushing his lightly as she reached for her own goblet. Of course, the touch was innocent enough. Or was it? Oberyn wasn’t sure anymore, but with Ellaria, it was hard to keep track of the line between what's friendly and what’s, well, not.

"Too much talk about wine," she murmured, her voice smooth and rich, like velvet. "Is it not the purpose of a journey to seek more than just drink?"

Oberyn chuckled. "Always looking for adventure, aren’t you?" His gaze lingered on her lips for a moment too long. "But you’re right. And it’s a good thing I’m not here just for the wine, or the company," he added with a wink, enjoying the way she rolled her eyes. Yeah, she loved me anyway, I could tell.

Lord Manderly, oblivious to the electric tension hanging in the air, chuckled good-naturedly. "Aye, but there is a certain charm to the hospitality of White Harbor. Even your sister might approve of our culinary delights. More than once I’ve had a Dorne visitor forget they had business to attend to because they were distracted by our food."

"Oberyn might not forget his business, but I could be distracted by the food, if there’s enough of it." Nymeria Sand, sitting next to Ellaria, spoke up, her sharp gaze sweeping the room with the kind of cool calculation that always made Oberyn wonder if she was about to start a fight or broker a deal.

"I believe you could, Nymeria," he teased, swirling his goblet in his hand. "In fact, I'm sure you could sell a Manderly servant some fish, and still leave with a full plate."

"Only if they didn’t try to charge me extra for the sauce," Nymeria replied, the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

Obara Sand snorted. "Do you think they could tell you two apart if you both had your knives out, trying to haggle over fish?"

Lord Manderly laughed loudly at that, his belly shaking. "Oh, I’m sure I’d recognize you, my lady, from the sheer enthusiasm you’d bring to any transaction. Though I’d say your knives might be a tad overkill, hmm?"

"Oh, I’m sure you’ve seen worse," Obara said, her grin wicked. "But I won’t promise to keep them sheathed if we go to that tavern down the road."

Lord Manderly raised a brow, clearly amused by the boldness of the Sand Snakes. "Ah, well, the tavern… It has a bit of a reputation. Good luck if you go there, though, it’s not the place for those looking for peace and quiet."

Ellaria’s gaze sharpened, and she leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "You don’t think we’re here for peace, do you, Lord Manderly? We’ll take all the trouble we can get."

Her eyes never left his, and for a second, Oberyn thought he might need to step in, but then Manderly chuckled, his voice warm and deep. "Trouble’s one thing, my lady. But if you’re looking for more than that, you’re in the wrong city. White Harbor knows how to throw a good feast, but you’ll have to go a bit farther north for true adventure."

"I’m not looking for adventure," Oberyn interrupted smoothly. "I’m looking for family." He let that word settle in the room before continuing. "I plan to make my way to Winterfell."

The room quieted, and even Lord Manderly’s usual jovial demeanor softened slightly. "Winterfell? That’s quite the journey you’re planning, Prince Oberyn. What’s your business with the Starks?"

Oberyn leaned forward, his voice taking on a more serious note. "Family matters, my lord. My niece, Rhaenys, and my nephew, Aegon, are there. As is my sister, Elia. It has been too long since I’ve seen them, and I wish to ensure their safety. The North can be a dangerous place, even for those with strong allies."

Manderly stroked his beard thoughtfully, clearly taking Oberyn’s words seriously. "A wise plan. The roads are passable this time of year, though I’d recommend a small retinue to be on the safe side."

Oberyn nodded, clearly appreciating the advice. "Your wisdom is always valuable, Lord Manderly. Would you be able to assist us with supplies for the journey? And perhaps some word to your northern contacts? We’ll need all the help we can get."

"I’ll have it arranged," Manderly said, already planning in his head. "I’ll send word ahead to the villages along the way. No one will dare turn you away, I promise you that."

"I knew I could count on you," Oberyn said with a smile that was half gratitude, half mischief. He leaned back in his chair, giving Ellaria a playful glance. "And perhaps, once we’ve made our way north, we can see whether the Stark family is as agreeable as we hope. Maybe with a little more… Savage Burn to warm them up."

Ellaria laughed softly, eyes flashing. "Always Savage Burn, my love. But perhaps we should keep it in reserve for now."

"Agreed," Oberyn said, raising his goblet. "To family, then. And to the adventures yet to come."

"To family," Lord Manderly echoed, his tone full of approval. The room relaxed, the warmth of wine and good company filling the air, and Oberyn felt the familiar anticipation of the journey ahead. It was going to be a long road, but with friends like these—and Ellaria by his side—he wasn’t worried in the least.

Of course, with the Sand Snakes around, he knew there would be trouble. And trouble, as they all knew, was always more fun.

—

Oberyn Martell slid into the chamber like a shadow, the warmth of the hearth welcoming him like an old friend. The fire crackled merrily, its golden light casting dancing shadows on the walls. But it wasn’t the fire that held his attention. No, it was Ellaria Sand, lounging by the hearth with a glass of wine in hand, her eyes glimmering with that irresistible mix of mischief and mystery that had been his undoing for years.

"Oberyn," she greeted him, her voice low and rich, the kind of sound that could make even the coldest night feel like summer. "The children are asleep. They’re getting so used to your bedtime stories about chaos and mischief."

Oberyn smirked as he crossed the room toward her. "I’m just giving them the kind of bedtime stories they won’t hear from anyone else. A little adventure, a little danger—keeps their imaginations sharp."

Ellaria raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into that teasing smile of hers. "You certainly give them enough material to keep them occupied. What was tonight's story? Another narrow escape from a snake pit? Or did you defeat a dragon while blindfolded again?"

Oberyn laughed, sitting down beside her and reaching for her hand, brushing his fingers against hers just enough to make sure the spark between them hadn’t dimmed. "I think it was more of a near-death experience involving some very bad decisions and a very enthusiastic sandstorm. But it made for a great tale."

She chuckled, squeezing his hand. "You’re a walking disaster. And yet, somehow, it’s... well, charming."

"I know," he said with a wink. "It's my best feature." He let the words hang there for a second before adding, "But it's only because of the people I’ve had the privilege of getting into trouble with. You, for example."

Ellaria leaned in closer, her voice dropping into a soft whisper. "You know, Oberyn, I think this... this quiet moment right here might be the most valuable adventure of all. No one’s trying to kill us. No armies are marching on us. Just you, me, and the fire."

"True," Oberyn said, his gaze locking with hers, the space between them crackling with more than just the warmth of the flames. "But I have a feeling that quiet won’t last. Not with the way you look at me."

She smiled that smile that made him weak at the knees, a smile that had been his undoing since the first time he saw her. "Oh, it won't last. But for now... let's enjoy it."

Before either of them could continue, a soft rustle echoed from the shadows, like something—or someone—was about to make their presence known. Oberyn’s head snapped to the side, his hand instinctively going for the dagger at his side, but he stopped himself when he saw her.

The woman who stepped into the firelight was tall, with an air of elegance and confidence that made her seem like she was born to command the attention of a room. She was dressed in luxurious silks that swayed around her as she moved, each step calculated and graceful. But this wasn’t the grace of a court dancer. No, this was a different kind of art—something wilder, more dangerous, and infinitely more interesting.

Oberyn raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Ellaria," he said, looking at her with that mix of curiosity and amusement he always wore when things were about to get... interesting. "Is this part of our adventure tonight?"

Ellaria’s lips curled into a grin that matched his own. "Why not? We've always enjoyed a good surprise."

The woman—whose name, as it turned out, was Bella—stepped fully into the room. Her eyes were locked on Oberyn’s with an intensity that made him lean forward, just slightly. The room felt like it held its breath, the air thick with something electric. Something... fun.

"Well, well," Oberyn said, leaning back with the kind of lazy confidence that only he could pull off. "This is shaping up to be an evening full of surprises."

Ellaria's chuckle was low, almost a purr. "Why settle for boring, when we can have something far more... entertaining?"

Bella stepped closer, her movements fluid and calculated, each step pulling Oberyn deeper into her spell. "I was hired by your lady," she said, her voice sultry and warm. "To... ensure you both have a memorable evening."

Oberyn’s grin widened. "A memorable evening, you say?" He glanced at Ellaria, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Well, you certainly know how to pick ‘em."

Ellaria leaned in, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, "I like to think I have a good eye for... talent."

Oberyn chuckled. "Clearly."

And just like that, the night unfolded in ways that could never be predicted, with the kind of adventure that left your heart racing and your mind spinning. It was the kind of night Oberyn Martell lived for—full of unexpected turns, wicked fun, and moments where the only thing that mattered was the people you chose to share it with. And as the fire crackled in the background, Oberyn realized that life—and love—were always better when they were just a little bit dangerous.

As for Bella, she was just the cherry on top of an already intoxicating evening, though Oberyn couldn’t help but wonder what other surprises Ellaria had in store for him. Something told him, whatever came next, it wouldn’t be boring.

But that was fine by him. Boring had never been his thing anyway.

—

In the shadowy depths of Asshai, where the very air felt thick with forgotten whispers and unseen eyes, Melisandre was doing what she did best—sacrificing hours of her life to the flames.

"Azor Ahai," she whispered, eyes half-lidded as she gazed at the flickering brazier in front of her. Her voice was soft, but there was an edge to it—an almost intoxicating edge that hinted at the depths of her obsession. She wasn’t just performing a ritual; she was courting destiny itself. Her robes, crimson and rich, rippled as she moved, the fabric clinging to her like it was as in love with her as she was with the prophecy. Her hands—graceful, delicate, but undeniably powerful—danced through the air like a symphony of longing.

The flames bent toward her, swirling in patterns that mirrored her thoughts. They crackled and hissed, as if urging her forward, encouraging her to continue her search. "I will find you, Azor Ahai," she murmured, pressing her palms to the heat, her breath shallow with something more than just magic. "I will serve you with my body, with my soul. I have waited for you, for this moment... for you to rise, to save the world, to bring light from the dark." She smiled, a slow, sultry smile that made the shadows around her deepen, as though even the darkness knew it couldn’t hide the hunger in her eyes.

The flames twisted higher, almost as if they were responding to her desire. Her heart beat faster, quickening with anticipation. "I’ve seen the visions. I know your fate, Azor Ahai," she continued, her tone a soft caress, her voice dripping with worship. "And I know where you will walk. I will follow, wherever you go, wherever you need me. I will serve you—body, mind, and soul—until the world burns and you are reborn."

Her fingers trembled slightly as she dipped them into the flame, but the fire didn’t burn her. It licked at her skin, as if teasing her, like a lover’s gentle touch. She laughed softly, her eyes closing as the warmth spread through her, making her skin flush.

"I can feel it," she whispered, her voice dropping to a near-sensual purr. "Your fire, your power. It’s inside me. I am the fire’s vessel, the fire’s servant, and when you rise, I will rise with you. Together, we will make this world burn, and from the ashes… I will be yours."

Suddenly, the flames surged violently, and the vision came crashing through. A bleak, snow-covered wasteland spread before her, vast and empty like the hollow spaces in her heart. But then, through the swirling snow, it appeared—a creature. A massive black wolf, its fur darker than the night, its eyes glowing in shades of crimson and amber.

Melisandre froze, her breath catching in her throat. The wolf’s gaze pierced her, as if it could see into her very soul, into the parts of her that even she didn’t dare look at. It was as if the creature were judging her—probing her deepest desires. She could feel it—like it was searching for something more, something buried deep inside her.

"I see you," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "You are a sign. You are part of it. Part of the prophecy."

The wolf didn’t move, its glowing eyes locked on hers, an unspoken communication passing between them. The tension stretched on, thick and palpable, as if the air itself was holding its breath. And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the vision shattered, the wolf’s eyes fading into the swirling patterns of the flames. The fire settled back into its usual restless dance, but the impact of the vision lingered, heavy in her chest.

Melisandre stood there for a long moment, her pulse racing, her thoughts spinning in a thousand directions. "Azor Ahai... or something else entirely," she murmured, eyes dark and hungry. She stepped back from the brazier, her body trembling slightly from the intensity of the vision, from the weight of what she had just seen—and what she was about to do.

She turned toward the shadows that crept in the corners of the room, as though expecting something—or someone—to emerge. A knowing smile curled at her lips. "It’s not just the hero I’ve been searching for," she whispered, a thrill running through her. "It’s something darker, something more powerful. And I will follow it. I will go north, to the very edge of the world, if I must."

She took a deep breath, the firelight casting shadows across her face as she ran her fingers through her dark hair, her lips curling into a smile of pure, unrestrained devotion.

"Azor Ahai... I will be ready for you," she murmured, the words almost a prayer, her body filled with a desire that burned hotter than the flames before her.

Then, with one last lingering glance at the fire, she turned away, ready to face the north—and whatever awaited her there.

—

In the bustling, chaotic streets of Volantis, Kinvara kneeled before a sacred brazier, her dark robes billowing around her like the night itself. The air, thick with the scent of spices and the clamor of foreign tongues, almost seemed to shrink away from her presence. The flames flickered in the brazier, casting her sharp, mesmerizing features into shadow, making her look like some kind of otherworldly being. Well, to be fair, she was a Red Priestess, so there was a good chance people did think she was otherworldly, and not just because of the whole “summoning the fire god” thing. She had that vibe about her, you know?

"R’hllor," she whispered, her voice low and almost hypnotic. It wasn’t so much a prayer as it was an invitation—an invitation for fire to speak to her, to share its divine wisdom, to maybe—just maybe—get her a little closer to him.

You know who. The one everyone’s been talking about. The prophecy guy. Yeah, that’s right. Azor Ahai. The hero of fire. The burning flame of destiny. The man she was destined to serve, and oh, she was going to serve him. Not just with her words, oh no. With everything.

The flames flared up in response. Kinvara didn’t even flinch. She wasn’t new to this. She’d done this a hundred times, maybe more. But tonight? Tonight was different. The fire didn’t just dance—no, it leaped. It snapped and crackled, twisting in impossible shapes, like it had something to say. She could feel the heat of it, the intensity of it, as though it were urging her to understand, to see beyond what was obvious.

The flames spun faster, taking shape before her. Snow. Snow, as far as the eye could see. A wasteland of white, cold, and endless. A place where winter ruled, and the land was as barren as the hopes of anyone foolish enough to try and settle there.

“Ah, the North…” Kinvara muttered, her breath catching in her throat. The sight sent a shiver down her spine. She knew it. This was it. This was the place. Where the cold waited, where darkness hung thick in the air like a storm that would never pass. But it wasn’t just the snow that had her attention. Oh no, it was the wolf.

From the swirling darkness, a massive, jet-black wolf emerged. Its fur was as dark as midnight, and its eyes—oh, those eyes—glowed with the kind of intensity that could burn through a hundred hearts if it wanted. They weren’t just eyes; they were the embodiment of something ancient, something that had seen the rise and fall of empires, that had witnessed the death of stars.

And Kinvara? She felt it. The weight of its gaze pressing against her mind, pushing into her, demanding to be acknowledged.

"Azor Ahai?" she whispered, barely daring to speak. She could feel it. The wolf—was it him? Could it be? “No, no, it’s not just a sign. It's more than that, isn't it?” She inhaled sharply, trying to wrap her mind around it. The wolf wasn’t just a symbol; it was part of the prophecy. It was waiting.

The fire snapped again, and before her appeared a figure. Tall, radiant—he was the embodiment of light. Azor Ahai. The one she had waited for. The one who would rise and bring fire to the darkness. Kinvara’s heart thudded in her chest. Her lips parted in reverence. This was him. This was her destiny. This was everything.

"Azor Ahai," she breathed, her voice trembling. "He will come. He is real." Her hands clenched into fists, the excitement almost too much to contain. He was real. That was all that mattered. And she would follow him, serve him, worship him—completely.

As the vision began to fade, she watched the wolf’s eyes burn out into the ether. The figure of Azor Ahai lingered only for a moment longer, and then the fire began to die down. Kinvara’s pulse quickened, her skin alive with the energy of what she had seen. This wasn’t just a vision. This wasn’t just some hazy prophecy. This was real.

And she was going to be a part of it.

“Wait,” she muttered, her voice almost frantic. “There’s more. The wolf… it’s a warning, isn’t it?” She could feel the weight of it. The darkness. The destruction. It was coming. She could feel it in her bones.

Her heart raced as she pieced together the fragments of the vision. She couldn’t ignore the wolf’s eyes—the burning, unblinking stare. There was something more to it, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but she knew it was important. Azor Ahai was the key, yes, but the wolf? The wolf was the herald of something else entirely. Something even greater.

“I will find him,” Kinvara said, her voice quiet but filled with conviction. “I will find Azor Ahai. I will follow him to the ends of the earth. I will serve him with everything I am.”

Her gaze turned to the shadowed exit of the temple, her thoughts already racing ahead, planning. She was ready. The fire had spoken, and she knew her path now. There was no turning back. She was going north. She would find him, serve him—mind, body, and soul. And whatever came with it? She’d be ready.

Her lips curled into a smile. “This is it. The true fire is coming. And when it does, we will burn the Others to the ground.”

Kinvara stood, her movements purposeful, almost too graceful for someone so consumed with fire. Her hand touched the brazier one last time, and she could almost feel the flames whispering in her ear. As she walked toward the exit, she couldn’t help but whisper under her breath.

“I will serve you, Azor Ahai. I will give you everything. And together, we will light the world on fire.”

And somewhere, far to the north, the wolf waited.

—

In a grand manse in Braavos, where the salty sea breeze mingled with the scent of ancient stone and a hint of fish (because, let’s face it, Braavos had a lot of fish), young Daenerys Targaryen woke up with a gasp. Her heart was hammering like a Blacksmith on his worst day, and for a moment, she was pretty sure she had just woken up from being chased by something out of one of those spooky stories she was told to avoid.

But it wasn’t just any dream. Oh, no. She'd dreamt of him. The wolf.

And not just any wolf, either. This one was huge. Like, “this-wolf-could-happily-eat-your-horse-for-breakfast” big. Its fur was black as midnight, its eyes glowed redder than a Targaryen’s temper on a bad day, and its growl sounded like it could shake the walls of the Red Keep. It was calling to her. Not in a creepy, “come follow me into a dark forest,” kind of way (though, honestly, that was still a little weird), but more like... like it was her destiny to follow.

And that was the problem, because Daenerys Targaryen, future Queen of Westeros (probably), had a lot of destiny stuff hanging around her. But wolves? She didn’t even know she liked wolves. Or if she could even handle a wolf that size. And yet—here she was—staring at the shadows of her room, hearing that wolf’s growl echoing in her mind. It wasn’t a question of if she was supposed to follow. She already knew she was. Her heart and soul? In sync with this monster wolf who was probably one bad day away from being a direwolf from those scary stories the sailors whispered about.

A faint sound, soft and soothing, cut through the chaos of her racing thoughts. “Dany?” The voice was her mother’s, Rhaella Targaryen, the former Queen of Westeros, who had seen her fair share of disasters—and still managed to make sure Daenerys didn’t walk into any dark corners at night.

Daenerys turned, her breath still ragged. There, standing in the doorway, was her mother. With her silver hair flowing like a river of moonlight, Rhaella looked like she had just stepped out of some ancient painting that depicted both royalty and quiet power. The kind of power that made people respect you even when you weren’t trying. The kind of power Daenerys really wished she had right about now.

Rhaella raised an eyebrow as she crossed the room, her presence suddenly calming, like she was the only person who could stop the universe from falling apart. “You’re shaking like you’ve been through a battle,” she said, sitting on the edge of Daenerys's bed and brushing a few strands of silver hair from her daughter's forehead. “What’s going on? Dream?”

Daenerys, who was definitely still freaking out, nodded. “Yeah,” she said, her voice more of a squeak than anything remotely regal. “I... I saw the wolf. The big black one.”

Rhaella’s lips quirked into a knowing smile, like she’d heard this sort of thing before—way too many times, probably. “The big, black, fiery-eyed wolf?” she asked, one eyebrow raised in mock skepticism. “Did it ask you to join it in some delightful hunting expedition? Perhaps you’ve been stalked by an ancient spirit of the woods?”

Daenerys sat up, her wide eyes not at all amused by the joke. “Mothee, this is serious. It called to me. It—it—wanted me to follow. And I think... I think I’m supposed to. I don’t even know why! It’s not like I even like wolves!”

Rhaella let out a dramatic sigh, like she was somehow burdened with the knowledge that her daughter was meant for things bigger than most nine-year-olds could fathom. “You are special, Dany. We both know that. But, listen, not everything that calls to us is our destiny. Some things are better off ignored.”

Daenerys raised her chin, the way she always did when she was being impossibly stubborn (which, if you asked anyone in the room, was almost always). “But it felt real. And it wasn’t just any wolf. It was huge, and I was supposed to be with it. It was like we—like I—belonged together.”

Rhaella blinked, her hand freezing midair as she tucked a piece of Daenerys’s hair behind her ear. For a moment, the weight of the words hit her like a crashing wave. There was something in Daenerys’s voice—something unshakable that made Rhaella realize that, whether it made sense or not, her daughter was, in some odd way, more than just a little girl in a foreign city.

“I see.” Rhaella’s voice softened, like she was trying to figure out the right words for the future. “Destiny is funny like that. It tends to show itself when you least expect it, and it won’t let you forget about it. But it doesn’t mean you have to understand it right now. You’re still young. You’ve got time to figure out what it all means.”

Daenerys stared at her mother for a long moment, trying to process the words. But the wolf was still there in her mind, pacing through the darkness like it was waiting for her to make the next move. And it wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

“I don’t think I can just forget about it, Mom,” Daenerys said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I think I’m supposed to find it. I just know it.”

Rhaella’s smile faded, but there was no judgment in her eyes, only a quiet understanding, the kind that came from being a mother who had seen more than her fair share of strange and unexplainable things.

“Well,” she said after a pause, brushing a stray tear from Daenerys’s cheek, “maybe it’s not about understanding. Maybe it’s about letting it lead you, just a little while longer. But for now, you’re safe here with me. And tomorrow is another day to worry about all that destiny nonsense.”

Daenerys flopped back onto her pillow, but sleep didn’t come easy. The wolf’s growl echoed in her mind, calling to her in a way that couldn’t be ignored. She wasn’t sure how to explain it, but she knew she’d see the wolf again. The question was, when? And would she be ready?

“Do you think I’ll see it again?” she asked, her voice soft but serious.

“Maybe,” Rhaella answered with a slight, knowing smile. “But for tonight, let’s let the dreams take their course. You’ve got plenty of time to chase down wolves later.”

And with that, she tucked Daenerys back in and kissed her forehead. “Rest, Dany. Tomorrow, we face whatever comes next. But for now—sleep.”

But as her mother turned to leave, Daenerys lay wide-eyed in the dark, thinking about the wolf. The night stretched on, heavy with unspoken promises.

The wolf was waiting. And she had no idea what came next.

Cregan's POV

Okay, let’s set the scene. Snowflakes were coming down in fat, lazy clumps, the kind that make you wonder if winter’s decided to stay forever. I was layered up in wool from head to toe, and if I’m being honest, I was sweating like a pig underneath it all. Seriously, who thought this was a good idea? Winterfell, in case you didn’t know, is cold—like, cold enough to freeze your face off just by stepping outside. Not that I’m complaining… okay, maybe I am. But hey, it’s my home, so there’s that.

Anyway, there I was, about to slip off to the training yard—my favorite place to escape the endless duties of being the “Young Lord” (don’t even get me started on that nonsense)—when Maester Luwin burst through the door like the world was about to end. “The Prince of Dorne is here!” he practically yelled, his voice squeaky with excitement. And if you know anything about Maester Luwin, it’s that nothing gets him worked up unless it's the end of the world or a particularly good scroll.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love company as much as the next eleven-year-old lord, which is to say, not at all. But since it’s the Stark way to act like you actually enjoy hosting random royals, I figured I’d suck it up and at least pretend I wasn’t thinking about how much better I’d look in my training leathers than in all these itchy wool layers.

And, of course, just to make my life a thousand times harder, my mother—Ashara Dayne-Stark, the perfect example of elegance in all things—decided it was the perfect time for a lesson in “how to be gracious” (as if I didn’t already know). She swept into the Great Hall, practically glowing in the dim light, and I followed her, trailing like a lost pup, in my ridiculously uncomfortable woolen tunic.

“Smile, Cregan,” she whispered, her violet eyes twinkling like she was talking to a toddler. “And for the love of the Old Gods, don’t scowl.”

“I’m not scowling,” I muttered under my breath. Okay, maybe I was scowling. A little. It’s not like I’m trying to look like I’m about to bite someone’s head off. It’s just how my face works.

As if on cue, the doors swung open, and there he was. The Prince of Dorne himself, Oberyn Martell. I mean, the guy had presence. It was like the entire room shifted to make room for him, and don’t even get me started on those Dornish robes—crimson and gold, rich and wild like a sunset over a desert. The guy practically screamed “Look at me, but don’t mess with me.”

“Welcome to Winterfell, Prince Oberyn,” my mother said, dipping into a curtsy so flawless it could have been practiced for hours. Seriously, how does she always look like a goddess, even in the middle of a snowstorm?

Oberyn smiled, sharp and dangerous, as if he was savoring the moment. “Lady Ashara,” he said, his voice smoother than a glass of Dornish wine, “and the young Lord Cregan.”

The “young lord” thing? Ugh. Whatever. Just because I’m eleven doesn’t mean I can’t run a castle. But I held it together and gave him a serious nod, trying to look all lordly. “Prince Oberyn. We’re honored by your presence.”

I’m pretty sure I nailed it. Probably.

Then, in the most dramatic move I’ve seen in years, my betrothed—yes, betrothed, no pressure—stepped forward. Rhaenys Targaryen. She was thirteen, which meant she was still technically younger than me, but I swear she was already carrying herself like someone who was destined to conquer the world. Her silver hair shone in the dim light, and her violet eyes—just like my mom’s—could probably look straight through your soul and into your deepest, darkest secrets. She smiled like the sun was shining only for Oberyn as she bounced forward.

“Uncle Oberyn!” she exclaimed, her voice full of warmth. And way more enthusiasm than she ever greets me with. (Okay, maybe I was keeping score. What of it?)

Oberyn grinned, sweeping her into a hug like she was the only person in the room, not caring about the winter chill at all. “Rhaenys, you’ve grown into a true Dornish rose,” he said, and I had to admit, it was a pretty sweet thing to say.

“I’m a dragon, Uncle,” she corrected him, grinning. “But thanks.”

You know what? That was cute. If I’m being honest, I might’ve felt a little tug at my chest. It’s not jealousy, though, no way. Not when I was practically getting whiplash from the amount of sass that Rhaenys could throw around.

Next came Aegon, her little brother, who was looking just about as out of place in Winterfell as a flamingo in a snowstorm. He gave a shy smile and a nervous bow, and I swear he was about to trip over his own feet. Classic Aegon.

And then it was my turn. To meet the Red Viper of Dorne. Awesome. The man who was known for making people wish they had never crossed him, and for being charming while doing it.

He gave me one of those long, analyzing looks—like he was trying to figure out if I was going to burst into tears or start throwing knives at him. “So,” he said finally, drawing out the word, “you’re the Stark pup my niece is promised to.”

Yup, that’s me. The Stark pup. I tried not to choke on my own sarcasm. “That’s right.” I put on my most confident face. “Lord Cregan Stark. And don’t worry, I won’t bite.”

He grinned. A slow, dangerous grin. “Good,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Because Rhaenys is half Targaryen and half Dornish. That means twice the fire.”

I crossed my arms and leaned in like I was about to deliver a serious punchline. “Good thing I’m a Stark, then. We don’t burn easily.”

For a second, it felt like the room was holding its breath, waiting for Oberyn to drop the hammer on me. Then, he laughed. Not just a chuckle, but a full, belly-shaking laugh that echoed off the stone walls, and I had to admit, it felt pretty damn good.

“I like this one,” Oberyn said, slapping me on the back with enough force to make me stumble. “You’ll do just fine, Cregan Stark.”

From there, the day was a blur of feasting, laughter, and stories. Oberyn’s tales of Dorne were like nothing I’d ever heard before. The man could make the most ridiculous stories sound like they were straight out of a legend. And my mother, Ashara, kept shooting him these looks—like they shared some secret only the two of them knew about. I couldn’t quite place it, but something about it seemed… not right. Not that I was going to ask. Who needed to know all that?

As for me, well, I survived the day—barely. I managed not to trip over my own feet in front of everyone, which felt like a victory.

But when I caught Oberyn looking at Rhaenys—like she was the sun and he was just a dot in its orbit—I realized something. This wasn’t just another visit from some distant royal. This was Oberyn Martell. And wherever he went, he brought a little bit of Dorne with him.

And that... that was going to make things interesting.

—

You ever have one of those days where everything just seems too big for you? Like, you wake up, stretch, and realize that you’re not even the size of the responsibility that's about to crash down on you? Yeah. That was me this morning.

First off, I’m Cregan Stark. You probably know me as the kid who’s supposed to be "The Demon Wolf" and totally badass, but here’s the thing—I’m eleven. Eleven! That’s like, what, one thousand in adult years? And I’m supposed to lead Winterfell, fight off invasions, and, oh yeah, not embarrass myself in front of important guests. Just another regular Tuesday in the North.

Now, most of my mornings are spent freezing my backside off, trying to outlast the cold and pretending like I know what I'm doing while adults look at me like I’m some kind of mini-giant. But today, today was different. Why? Because Prince Oberyn Martell, also known as the Red Viper, strutted into my life like a fiery sunset. He didn’t just walk into Winterfell. No, no. He made an entrance. Like, the kind of entrance that makes you think, “Is he here to fight someone or steal my heart?”

He and his crew were a literal splash of color in the dull gray of the North. Their Dornish cloaks were this deep, warm red that made the rest of my family’s wardrobes look like they were designed by a bunch of bored ravens. And Oberyn? The man had a swagger that could set fire to the entire Winterfell courtyard and still leave you wanting more.

“Ah, Lord Cregan,” he said, flashing that dangerous grin. “The Demon Wolf. Quite the name for such a young pup.”

I didn’t say anything. I just gave him my best "I’m in charge here" nod, which, in hindsight, probably looked more like I was trying not to sneeze.

“You’ve got a name that’s bound to make any grown man question his life choices,” Oberyn continued. “Tell me, boy, did you truly wrestle a kraken, or was that just a story to impress the tavernmaids?”

I shot him a look that I hoped said I’m not impressed, but honestly, the man could probably charm the skins off a direwolf. “Something like that,” I muttered. “The kraken had a bad day, though. Came across a Stark.”

Uncle Arthur—yeah, that Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning—laughed so loud it echoed off the walls. I swear, this man could make even the grim halls of Winterfell feel like a tavern full of jokes and warmth.

“Not a bad comeback, Cregan,” Arthur said. “He’s got a bite to match his bark, doesn’t he, Oberyn?”

“Ah, the wolf cub has teeth,” Oberyn said, grinning at me. “Good. You’ll need them.”

Now, let me tell you something. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my eleven years, it’s that every word from Oberyn Martell comes with an extra layer of meaning. The guy doesn’t just talk. He thinks while he talks. That’s what makes him dangerous.

Before I could come up with a witty comeback—don’t worry, I would’ve nailed it too—Oberyn’s eyes flicked to the two Valyrian steel swords I had hidden beneath my desk. You know, casual heirlooms from the Greyjoy Rebellion. Just another Tuesday.

“I hear you’ve got some very impressive swords, Lord Stark,” he said, all smooth and lazy. “Nightfall and Red Rain, if I recall correctly?”

I sighed. “Yeah. Don’t remind me. I’m still figuring out what to do with them. Besides, there’s no point in holding onto them if I’m not going to use them. And I could definitely use something that won’t look like a child’s toy in battle.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t want that, now would we?” Oberyn chuckled, but it wasn’t mean. It was that kind of laughter that lets you know someone’s got your number. “You want them reforged, then? I’ll help you find someone who knows what they’re doing.”

That caught my attention. “Really?”

“Of course,” Oberyn said, flashing a grin that could melt glaciers. “You’ll need a master craftsman. The best of the best. And luckily for you, I know just the man. Tobho Mott, from Qohor. If anyone can make those blades sing, it’s him.”

I leaned forward, trying not to look too eager. “You can arrange it?”

“Oh, I will,” Oberyn said, and then, with a glint in his eyes that could only be described as devilish, he added, “But, if you’re going to name a sword after me, I’ll expect to be properly compensated. Perhaps... a feast? A song? A small tribute? You know, the usual.”

“Sure, sure,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Maybe I’ll name one of them ‘Oberyn’s Too Big for His Boots.’”

Arthur Dayne let out a laugh that sounded like thunder, and even Uncle Ned cracked a smile (which, believe me, is a rare sight). But it was Oberyn who broke the tension, leaning back in his chair with the kind of lazy confidence you only get when you’ve seen and done things most people only dream of.

“I’ll take it, boy. As long as it’s well forged. And as for you,” he turned to me with that mischievous glint, “you’ll have your reforged swords in three months. And then... we’ll see if the Demon Wolf lives up to his name.”

The whole room cracked up at that, and for once, I didn’t feel like the eleven-year-old kid stuck in the middle of adult legends. Sure, I was still the kid with the big responsibility, but in that moment? I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could handle it. After all, I’d just made a deal with the Red Viper himself. What could possibly go wrong?

I’ll tell you what: Absolutely nothing. Because, seriously? No one in Winterfell has ever had to face a kraken quite like me.

—

General POV

In the heart of Winterfell’s kitchens, where the warmth rivaled that of a dragon’s lair—minus the fire-breathing and charred eyebrows—Ashara, Elia, Lyanna, and Ellaria were knee-deep in their latest experiment. And by “experiment,” they meant, of course, maple syrup. Yes, the fearsome ladies of Dorne and the North, together in what could only be described as a syrup conquest that would make the gods themselves reconsider their life choices.

Ashara stood over a bubbling cauldron like she was casting an incantation, wooden spoon in hand as if it were an ancient weapon. “Ellaria,” she called, her voice light but sure. “You’ve got to try this.”

Ellaria, who had a longstanding appreciation for trying new things—though less so when those things involved cold water or mandatory cold-weather gear—took a tentative sip from the spoon. Her eyebrows shot up, and her face immediately lit up. “By the Seven... this is incredible! Who knew trees could taste this good? I always thought the North was just about snow, turnips, and... well, existential despair. This though? This is something else.”

Elia, standing nearby with a knowing grin, gave her sister a playful nudge. “Cregan’s the one who started this whole maple syrup phenomenon. Apparently, he’s on a mission to prove the North is more than just cold and grumpy faces. Who knew the secret weapon was... trees?”

Lyanna, who was diligently scraping sap off her fingers, threw in her two cents. “It’s been quite the adventure. First, you have to politely ask the tree for its sap. Then, you boil it down for hours. It’s basically the tree version of milking a cow, except the cow’s taller, far less cooperative, and lacks a distinct sense of humor.”

Ellaria, eyeing the assortment of cauldrons, sticky jars, and what could only be described as the aftermath of a chaotic but charming operation, raised an eyebrow. “You’ve really turned this into a full-fledged operation. I thought Dorne was the one known for throwing extravagant feasts. This... this is impressive.”

Ashara beamed, her smile infectious. “It’s been a learning curve. The first batch... well, let’s just say it was more toffee than syrup. It could’ve been used to make armor. Delicious, though. You could break a tooth on it, but we’re working on that.”

Elia, clearly enjoying herself, chuckled. “And then there was the time we boiled it down too much and ended up with... what did we call it, Lyanna?”

Lyanna, ever the straight-faced comic, shrugged as she wiped sap from her palm. “Liquid regret.”

The room erupted in laughter, the warmth of it all spreading far beyond the kitchen.

Ellaria grinned, wiping a stray bit of syrup from her lip. “I’m definitely taking some of this back to Dorne. The Water Gardens will go wild over Northern syrup. It’s going to be all the rage—‘hot’ and ‘cold’ coming together in perfect harmony.”

Ashara raised an eyebrow, her gaze playful. “You think you can outdo us, do you? We’ve got plenty of syrup here to share. Winterfell’s larders are so full right now, I’m pretty sure the rats are planning to open a bakery.”

As they continued stirring, laughing, and swapping stories, the warmth of the room wasn’t just from the hearth. It was from the camaraderie between them. These women, from vastly different worlds, had come together over something as simple as syrup, and it was moments like this—laughter, shared glances, hands sticky with sweet sap—that made it all worth it.

Lyanna glanced at Ellaria as she stirred, her fingers trailing over the side of the cauldron before meeting her gaze. The way the light from the fire flickered over Ellaria’s face—those dusky eyes, always so intense, so captivating. Lyanna had no trouble catching the soft, knowing smile that passed between them. There was no mistaking the chemistry that was building between them.

Ellaria, catching Lyanna’s gaze, smiled a little wider, the corners of her lips curling sensually. “You know,” she said, the words as smooth as honey, “if this syrup’s half as sweet as you, Dorne will have a serious problem.”

Lyanna’s smirk was mischievous, the same spark in her eyes that had made the Kings of Winter and Storm dare to challenge her. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll work something out. Dorne’s going to need a lot more than syrup if it wants to keep up with the North.”

Ashara looked at them both, her grin widening as she picked up on the banter—a sharp edge to it, but lighthearted and teasing. “Careful, you two,” she teased. “We might need to start charging you for this syrup. There’s a lot of very important ingredients here—like the chemistry.”

Elia raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the playful tension between Lyanna and Ellaria. “If it’s anything like the syrup, I’m sure the cost will be well worth it.”

And as the day wore on, with stories flowing as freely as the sap, the bonds of friendship—and perhaps something a little more—were cemented in Winterfell’s kitchen, sticky floors and all. The syrup was sweet, yes, but it was the moments shared that would remain the most unforgettable, like the lingering taste of something forbidden, something deliciously dangerous.

—

The courtyard of Winterfell was one of those places where, on a rare sunny day, you could almost forget that the North was more famous for its cold than its warmth. Rhaenys Targaryen stood there, feeling like the hero of her own story. She was flanked by her two direwolves, Padfoot and Meraxes, who, for the record, looked like they belonged on the cover of a “Coolest Creatures of Westeros” magazine. If there was a title for "Most Likely to Conquer All of Westeros in Style," it was definitely hers.

Padfoot, the massive black direwolf who looked like a shadow come to life, stretched out next to her with a quiet dignity. His coat was so dark it practically absorbed the sunlight, and his grey eyes? Those were the kind of eyes that could make you reconsider your life choices after just one glance. And then there was Meraxes, the smaller but just as fierce wolf with ash-grey fur and amber eyes that were warm enough to make you feel like she could toast marshmallows—but only if you’d earned her trust first.

Rhaenys, arms folded and a grin that said I’m totally in control here, watched as her cousins, the Sand Snakes, approached. They were a walking storm of sass, charm, and swords, all rolled into one. If Rhaenys had to pick one word for them, it would’ve been epic. Obara, the oldest at fourteen, had a stride that could knock over a mountain. Nymeria, who was twelve and quiet like a shadow, carried an air of mystery about her, as if she was already planning five steps ahead of everyone else. And then there was Tyene, at eleven, her expression an interesting mix of ‘I can’t believe I’m here’ and ‘I might die, but it’s going to be worth it.’

“Ladies, meet Padfoot.” Rhaenys stepped aside as her direwolf gave a big, theatrical stretch. “He’s the big guy who makes even the most dangerous beasts nervous.”

Obara raised an eyebrow as she stepped forward, always up for a challenge. “What, like those bears?” she asked, pointing to a distant group of snowy shapes in the forest.

Padfoot, clearly aware of his reputation, gave a low growl. Not a threatening one—more of a “I’m just warming up” growl. As if on cue, he leaned down and sniffed Obara’s outstretched hand before headbutting her. It was a gentle nudge, but a nudge nonetheless.

Obara froze. Her eyes narrowed, and then, without missing a beat, she smirked. “Well, aren’t you just full of charm?” she quipped, petting him as though he was the most normal thing in the world. "I could get used to this."

Rhaenys let out a laugh. “Oh, trust me, you wouldn’t want to. He’ll knock you over if you’re not paying attention.”

“Good to know,” Obara said, clearly undeterred. "I like a little challenge."

“And this,” Rhaenys continued, turning to Meraxes, who was sitting primly like she was judging a peasant’s plea, “is Meraxes. She’s more of the quiet but deadly type.”

Nymeria took a step forward, studying Meraxes with the precision of someone sizing up an opponent in a duel. “Formidable,” she said after a moment, her voice smooth and thoughtful. "Not too many wolves can make that kind of impact." She wasn't wrong—Meraxes had this air of quiet danger about her that practically hummed in the air.

“Exactly,” Rhaenys said, grinning. “Meraxes is all about precision. Padfoot? He’ll take you down in one big bang, but Meraxes? She’ll make sure you never see it coming.”

Tyene, still hanging back a little, looked warily at the wolves. “They’re not too fierce, are they?” she asked, her voice betraying more than a little apprehension, even though she was trying to sound cool. Her eyes flicked nervously between Rhaenys and the wolves.

Rhaenys crouched down to scratch Meraxes behind the ears, giving Tyene a reassuring wink. “Only if you steal their food or mess with their people. Otherwise, they’re just like big, furry teddy bears. Padfoot sleeps like a rock. Meraxes? She snores louder than my father after a feast.”

As if on cue, Padfoot nudged Nymeria’s hand, his massive head just managing to get in the way of her serious contemplation. Nymeria paused for a moment, and then, to everyone’s surprise, she smiled—a rare occurrence that made it feel like the sun had actually broken through the clouds.

“Looks like they approve of you,” Rhaenys said, trying to suppress her grin. “And trust me, that’s no small feat. They’ve got standards.”

Obara crossed her arms and gave the wolves another calculating look. “They’re more than just... wolves,” she said, her voice turning thoughtful. “They’re symbols, aren’t they? Of strength, loyalty, and maybe a touch of chaos." She glanced at Rhaenys. "I like them.”

Rhaenys’s chest swelled with pride. “Yeah. They’re family. And as much as they might look like furry monsters, they’ve got our backs. Nothing scares them more than someone trying to hurt their people.”

“And if you’re a stranger?” Tyene asked, raising an eyebrow. “Are they that particular?”

Rhaenys smirked, stepping back as Padfoot nudged her affectionately. “If you're a stranger? Trust me, you're about to get a whole new perspective on ‘personal space.’ But if you’re family? You’re golden.”

Obara snorted, clearly impressed. “I think I could get used to this,” she said, her tone almost admiring. “But it’s not just the wolves. It’s you, cousin. Seems like you’ve got a good handle on things up here.”

“Maybe,” Rhaenys replied, feeling that familiar spark of pride flare in her chest. “But if we’re being honest, I think I’ve got the best wolves in Westeros. And no one’s taking them away anytime soon.”

As the Sand Snakes nodded and murmured their agreement, Rhaenys couldn’t help but feel a little smug. After all, not every girl had two giant, slightly terrifying wolves who were willing to guard her against anything—be it rival families, unpredictable weather, or the occasional awkward family gathering.

And frankly? She was totally okay with that.

—

Cregan's POV

The training yard of Winterfell was definitely not where I thought I’d meet my doom, but there I was—frozen to the core, staring down the infamous Sand Snakes while the entire courtyard gawked. And when I say “staring down,” I mean it literally, because Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene had that dangerous glint in their eyes. Not the “let’s sit down and talk about our feelings” kind of glint. More like the “let’s see if you can survive the next five minutes” kind.

Obara Sand stepped forward like she had all the time in the world, twirling her spear with a cocky little smirk. I swear, the girl was born with that weapon in her hands. I also swear I could already see the headline: “Local Northerner Meets Untimely End in Northern Training Yard. News at Eleven.”

“I’ve heard the stories about you, Stark,” she said, practically purring. “The good ones, the bad ones. Are they true? Or are you just another northern boy who talks a big game?”

Nice. Real nice. “Well,” I said, cracking my knuckles, “the stories definitely don’t involve me tripping over my own feet. But who knows? We’ll find out if I’m a complete disaster or a legend.”

That got a few chuckles from the crowd. But not from Obara. Oh no. Obara wasn’t laughing. She was already moving like a blur, her spear aimed straight for my chest.

Let’s just say, I wasn’t exactly ready for her. I mean, who ever is when a Sand Snake comes at you with a spear that looks like it was forged specifically to ruin your life?

I blocked the first jab, but the second one grazed my shoulder, and that’s when I realized—Obara was no joke. Every movement was precise, every strike a lesson in brutality. My two swords? Not enough. I needed about three more, maybe a magic shield, and possibly a personal army.

“Keeping up, are we?” Obara’s voice rang out, full of mockery. “Or are you about to prove that northerners only know how to die bravely?”

“Yeah, well, we do that really well,” I shot back, ducking under another strike. “But I’m not planning on being one of those.”

I twisted one of my swords in her direction, deflecting the spear with a satisfying clang. The crowd cheered, which—okay, yeah, I might’ve been a little smug about it. But just when I thought I had a chance to breathe, Obara launched herself at me again, a deadly storm of pointy death. I swear, she moved faster than my brain could process. But hey, I’m a Stark. We don’t back down from challenges, no matter how ridiculously overpowered they seem.

I fought back, parrying and slashing, and then, just when I thought I might actually land a solid hit, Obara sidestepped me, like she was waiting for me to make a mistake—which, let’s be honest, I probably would.

The fight went on like that for what felt like hours, but in reality, it was only a few minutes. My muscles were screaming, my lungs felt like they were on fire, but then Obara finally stepped back, panting, looking at me like I’d either gained her grudging respect or just amused her enough to keep me around.

“You’re better than I thought, Stark,” she said, lowering her spear.

“Glad to know I’m not a total disappointment,” I said, also panting, and trying not to collapse right there.

Before I could even catch my breath, Nymeria Sand stepped forward. Nymeria, the calm, calculating one, with those deadly daggers glinting in the sunlight. She didn’t move like Obara—she moved like a shadow, as if the wind itself had decided to come alive and mess with me.

“Let’s see if your luck holds out with me, Stark,” she said, her voice almost... soothing. Which was terrifying, because I knew she was about to try and turn me into a human pincushion.

Great. Round two.

I wasn’t sure how Nymeria was faster than Obara, but she was. She darted at me, those daggers flashing, cutting through the air like they were trying to catch me in the act of breathing. It was like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. Impossible.

I blocked and parried as best as I could, but honestly, it felt like I was just flailing in the wind, hoping to get a lucky strike. Nymeria was everywhere—flashing, dodging, darting around me like some kind of dangerous dancer, and me? I was just trying not to get stabbed.

“Not bad,” Nymeria said after a minute, smiling. It was a smile that said, “You almost didn’t die, congratulations.”

“Almost doesn’t count in this world,” I said, barely keeping my balance.

But before I could even collapse in a puddle of relief, Tyene Sand stepped into the ring. Tyene. The youngest, but also the deadliest. And she was grinning like she had a secret that was about to ruin my life.

“You’re a brave one,” she said sweetly, twirling her two slender blades. “I’ll go easy on you... maybe.”

If by “easy,” she meant “turn me into a shredded mess of sweat and regret,” then yeah, that’s exactly what she meant. Tyene was a whirlwind—twisting, slashing, feinting in every direction like she was toying with me. I could barely keep up, dodging and blocking, trying to stay on my feet without looking like I’d just been rolled over by a herd of wild bulls.

I was gasping for air, but I refused to let her see me stumble. A Stark doesn’t give up. And besides, I wasn’t about to let the entire courtyard have a laugh at my expense.

I countered a slash, barely blocking one of her blades, but then—BAM—she tagged me on the side, and I stumbled back. Okay, yeah. Maybe a little too close for comfort. But I wasn’t going down. Not today.

“You’re not bad,” Tyene said, her voice a mixture of amusement and admiration. “Better than I thought. But still not good enough.”

I was about two seconds from falling over when the crowd exploded into applause. I had survived. Barely.

I managed a bow, though it was more like a wobble. “An honor to spar with the Sand Snakes,” I said, grinning through my exhaustion, trying to look like I wasn’t this close to passing out.

Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene shared a quick glance and nodded in approval. “You’re not bad,” Obara said with a smirk. “For a northerner.”

Hey, for a bunch of people who would probably stab me on principle, that was a huge compliment.

And as the crowd began to disperse, I felt a weird mix of pride and relief. I’d survived the Sand Snakes. Sure, my body felt like it was about to fall apart, but my reputation? Well, that was looking pretty good right now. And for a Stark, that’s all that really mattered.

Cregan's POV

Dinner at Winterfell was like something out of an old storybook—a feast fit for kings, queens, and, most importantly, very hungry eleven-year-olds. The tables were practically groaning under the weight of food. Roasted boar, honeyed duck, fresh bread, cheese wheels bigger than my head—you name it, it was there. The fire crackled in the hearth, throwing shadows on the stone walls, and for once, the Great Hall wasn’t filled with talk of war, White Walkers, or who was going to marry who for political alliances (because, really, who cared?).

And then there was Prince Oberyn Martell.

Now, Oberyn wasn’t just a guest at Winterfell; he was the event of the evening. He didn’t just sit at the table—he owned it. He had a goblet of wine in one hand, a smirk on his face, and the kind of presence that made you think, Yeah, this guy could probably talk his way out of being executed.

He leaned back in his chair like it was the most comfortable throne in the world. "Alright, children," he announced, swirling his wine like he was about to make the world’s most dramatic proclamation. "Let me tell you about my adventures in Essos."

Cue the dramatic music. If I had a drum, I would’ve done a little bum-bum-bum.

The entire table leaned in—Rhaenys, the Sand Snakes, Robb, Jon, Aegon, even the little twins, Arya and Sansa, who were normally too busy competing for who could make the better disgusted face at each other to pay attention to anything else.

"Essos is a land of wonders," Oberyn began, stretching out his arms like he was trying to physically encompass all of Essos in his storytelling. "And in Volantis, the oldest city of them all, I found myself at the grandest festival imaginable. Lanterns floated down the river, stars shone so brightly you'd swear the gods had polished them just for the occasion—"

"Ugh, poetry," Obara muttered, rolling her eyes. "Get to the part where you beat someone up."

Oberyn grinned. "Patience, my fierce little warrior. Violence, like wine, must be properly aged before it is truly enjoyable."

Nymeria, ever the smooth one, smirked. "That’s your way of saying you got into trouble, isn’t it?"

"You wound me, sweet daughter," Oberyn said, clutching his chest in mock pain. "But yes, obviously. A festival in Volantis without a brawl would be disgraceful."

Rhaenys clapped her hands. "What happened?"

Oberyn took a dramatic sip of wine, savoring the moment before continuing. "There was a tavern, filled with Volantene warriors, all boasting about their conquests—"

"Like you do every time you enter a room," Tyene pointed out.

"Exactly," Oberyn agreed, nodding sagely. "So naturally, I decided to join them. And by the end of the night, we were dancing on tables, singing in six different languages, and engaging in friendly combat with wooden swords."

Jon, who had probably never heard the words friendly and combat used in the same sentence before, raised an eyebrow. "And by ‘friendly,’ you mean...?"

Oberyn flashed his most innocent grin. "Well, no one died. So, friendly."

Robb snorted. "That’s a low bar."

"Life is better when the bar is low," Oberyn said wisely, taking another sip of wine.

Rhaenys, always eager for the real action, leaned forward. "But what about actual danger, Uncle? Surely you faced something truly perilous?"

Oberyn's smirk widened. "Ah, danger. That unwanted guest at every party. In the fighting pits of Meereen, I faced a champion."

"A champion?" Arya perked up. "Like a real one? Not just some drunk you tripped on the way to the latrine?"

Oberyn pointed at her. "Excellent question, little wolf. This man was huge. Not ‘tall guy at the bar’ huge. No, this man could probably lift a horse without breaking a sweat. Maybe two horses, if he was in a particularly good mood."

Obara crossed her arms. "And you beat him, obviously."

"Obviously," Oberyn said, looking offended at the mere suggestion that the story could have ended otherwise. "With style."

Sansa, who up until now had been more interested in the lemon cakes than the story, raised an eyebrow. "How?"

Oberyn grinned like a cat who’d just found a particularly juicy canary. "I let him think he had the advantage. Then, just as he was preparing to crush me like a Dornish grape, I struck. Quick, precise, elegant." He tapped his temple. "Remember, children: brute strength is nothing without wit."

Cregan—me, your favorite sarcastic narrator—tilted my head. "But weren’t you scared?"

The table went silent for a moment. Because, honestly, I would have been scared.

Oberyn’s smile softened, just a little. "Fear is a companion on every journey, young Cregan. But courage is the ability to keep walking forward, even when fear walks beside you."

That was actually kind of deep. And for a second, I thought we were about to have a real moment.

Then Rhaenys, ever the queen of perfectly-timed interruptions, asked, "Did you ever see a dragon?"

Oberyn blinked. "Dragons?" He took a long sip of wine. "Ah, now there’s a tale."

Nymeria groaned. "Please don’t say ‘dragon eggs.’ That’s boring."

"Ah, but these eggs," Oberyn said, waggling his fingers like a magician about to pull a rabbit from a hat, "were not boring. In Qarth, I once held an egg in my hands, smooth and gleaming like polished stone. It pulsed with a strange, ancient energy, as if it knew it was meant for something far greater than a dusty vault."

Arya’s eyes widened. "And then?!"

Oberyn leaned back. "And then I put it down. Because stealing a dragon egg would be insane."

"Disappointing," Arya muttered.

"Practical," Sansa countered.

Jon, still skeptical, smirked. "Ever met anyone really strange?"

Oberyn chuckled. "Ah, my dear Jon, Essos is filled with strange people. I once shared wine with a faceless man in Braavos."

The table went silent.

"Like... an actual faceless man?" Rhaenys whispered.

Oberyn nodded. "Oh yes. We discussed life, death, and the importance of never playing dice with a man who can change his identity at will."

Tyene, always eager for the juicy details, bounced in her seat. "And then what?"

Oberyn’s grin was positively wicked. "And then, my sweet daughter... I left before I became part of his collection."

Laughter erupted around the table. Even Lord Stark, who had been watching from the high table, cracked a small, knowing smile.

And just like that, the night stretched on, with more stories, more laughter, and the rare feeling that, just for a little while, Winterfell wasn’t a castle preparing for war—it was a home, filled with warmth, mischief, and one very dramatic prince who could hold a room better than any king.

—

General POV 

Winterfell’s Training Yard: Where Badasses Are Born (And Roasted by Oberyn Martell)

The morning air in Winterfell was crisp, the ground a little frozen, and the atmosphere had a distinct “winter is coming, but we’re going to kick butt anyway” vibe. The usual clang of swords and grunts of effort filled the yard, but today, something new was happening.

Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne, self-proclaimed God of Sass, and professional “cool uncle,” had decided to bless Winterfell with a spear lesson. Not that anyone asked for it. But, let’s be honest, no one in their right mind was going to turn down a free lesson from the Red Viper.

Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen—two royal dragon-spawn with more confidence than was probably healthy—stood in front of him, spears in hand, ready to absorb the wisdom of a man who looked like he could win a battle while simultaneously seducing the enemy’s entire noble court.

Oberyn spun his spear in a blur of motion, grinning. “A spear,” he declared, “is not just a weapon. It is an extension of your soul, a tool of finesse, and, in the hands of an artist—” He struck a dramatic pose. “—a masterpiece.”

Obara Sand—his eldest daughter and resident Badass-in-Chief—rolled her eyes from where she stood with her sisters, Nymeria and Tyene, watching from the sidelines. “You mean it’s a stick with a pointy end, and you don’t suck at using it.”

Oberyn gave her a deeply wounded look, like she had just insulted his fashion sense. “Obara, you wound me. Deeply. I am trying to impart wisdom here.”

“I’m trying to not die of secondhand embarrassment,” Obara shot back.

Nymeria, lounging against the fence, smirked. “Honestly, I kind of want to hear him keep going. This is comedy gold.”

Tyene, the picture of innocence (which meant she was definitely up to something), clasped her hands. “Father, is this where you tell them that spears are also useful for skewering people who are rude to you?”

Oberyn sighed like a man burdened by a family that was just too good at banter. “Yes, Tyene. And this is why I never let you near the poison stash unsupervised.”

Meanwhile, Aegon was laser-focused, his grip on the spear tight. “Like this, Uncle?”

Oberyn scrutinized his stance like an artist analyzing a half-finished painting. “Hmm. Not bad, but you look tense—like a constipated knight before battle. Loosen up, flow with it. Think of it like a dance. A very stabby dance.”

Aegon adjusted, his brow furrowing. “Better?”

“Yes! Now, thrust forward. Imagine you’re stabbing a Lannister tax collector.”

Aegon executed the move with all the force his ten-year-old arms could muster. Oberyn nodded approvingly. “Not bad. You’ll be running circles around knights in no time. Unless, of course, you let Rhaenys beat you to it.”

Rhaenys, ever the overachiever, was already attempting some unnecessarily dramatic spin move. Oberyn raised an eyebrow. “While I appreciate the flair, dear niece, you are not auditioning for a traveling circus.”

Rhaenys huffed. “It looks cool.”

“It does look cool,” Oberyn admitted. “But let’s save the dramatic flourishes for when you’re already winning. First, master your stance.”

“Like this?” She adjusted, her footwork precise, her eyes gleaming with challenge.

Oberyn grinned. “Perfect. You’d make even the best warriors in Dorne jealous.”

Just then, movement caught his eye. Someone lurking behind a wooden post. Someone very small, with a stick in hand, mimicking every move.

Oberyn smirked. “Lady Arya, I see you hiding over there.”

Arya Stark—Winterfell’s resident tiny menace—froze like she’d just been caught stealing extra lemon cakes from the kitchens.

Obara snorted. “Nice stealth skills. If you were any more obvious, you’d be waving a banner that says, ‘I am spying on you.’”

Arya scowled but stepped forward, still clutching her stick. “I just wanted to watch.”

“Well, if you’re going to watch,” Oberyn said, twirling his spear, “you might as well learn something. Come.”

Arya hesitated for all of half a second before stepping into the circle. She gripped her stick like it was an actual weapon and mimicked the stance she had seen. Oberyn watched, and to his delight, she picked up the movements like she was born for this.

He let her go through a few thrusts, then stopped her with a quick tap of his spear. “Not bad at all. You’re fast. Speed is your best weapon. But,” he gave her a pointed look, “if you don’t use proper balance, you’ll end up flat on your face.”

Arya adjusted, determined. “Better?”

Oberyn grinned. “Much. If you keep this up, you’ll be putting knights twice your size in the dirt.”

Nymeria leaned toward Tyene. “She’s like a tiny, angry version of you.”

Tyene beamed. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Arya, utterly focused, went through the motions again, this time smoother.

Oberyn clapped his hands together. “Excellent! That is the energy we want. Now, my dear students, do you know what the most important part of fighting is?”

Aegon, ever the eager student, said, “Precision?”

Rhaenys, more competitive, guessed, “Speed?”

Arya, thoughtful, said, “Not getting hit?”

Obara snorted. “Okay, that one’s actually smart.”

Oberyn wagged a finger. “All good answers! But the correct one is…” He leaned in, eyes twinkling. “…looking cool while doing it.”

There was a collective groan from his daughters.

“Father—”

“Nope! I stand by it.” Oberyn struck a pose. “If you can’t look cool while fighting, then what is even the point?”

The kids laughed, though Arya, to her credit, looked like she was considering the wisdom of the statement.

By the time they finished, Aegon, Rhaenys, and Arya were panting, sweat dripping, but all grinning like they’d just conquered the world.

Aegon, still catching his breath, said, “That was awesome. Thank you, Uncle Oberyn.”

Rhaenys gave him a hug. “We’ll make you proud. Promise.”

Arya, now holding her stick like it was the greatest thing ever, looked up at him. “I’ll practice every day. I want to be as good as you someday.”

Oberyn, ever the dramatic, put a hand over his heart. “Arya Stark, I have no doubt that you will be terrifying one day.”

Arya grinned. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Oberyn winked. “Just don’t forget—if you can’t look cool doing it, what’s the point?”

—

Lions, Squids, and Tywin Lannister’s Master Class in Intimidation

The council chamber of Casterly Rock was doing the most. Gold-threaded banners, marble pillars, and a floor so polished it probably had a better reflection than half the nobles in the Westerlands. If there was ever a room that screamed Lannisters are rich, and you will respect that, this was it.

Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the absurdly long table, looking like he’d just finished conquering a kingdom and was deciding what to do with the spoils. His expression was the usual: somewhere between "I will tolerate your presence" and "if you waste my time, I will personally ensure you regret it."

To his left sat Kevan, ever the dutiful second-in-command, hands folded neatly like he was about to mediate a particularly tense trade dispute. To Tywin’s right, Tygett lounged in his chair like he’d rather be anywhere else, arms crossed, one boot tapping impatiently against the marble floor. And at the far end, grinning like he’d just pulled off a heist, was Gerion—the youngest and most openly annoying of the Lannister brothers.

The reason for this gathering? The Iron Islands. Specifically, how to make sure the recently subjugated squids didn’t start thinking rebellion was a fun weekend activity.

Tywin steepled his fingers, which was his way of saying Listen very carefully, or else.

“We are now Wardens of the Iron Islands,” he said, each word as sharp as a Valyrian steel dagger. “A ‘gift’ from Cregan Stark.” The way he said gift suggested he would rather receive a venomous snake in his bed.

Tygett let out a noise that was half scoff, half groan. “A gift wrapped in barnacles and bad decisions.”

Gerion smirked. “Oh, come on, Tygett. You might not enjoy the idea of lording over a bunch of damp, angry pirates, but I find it hilarious.”

Kevan shot Gerion a look of exasperation. “It’s a responsibility, not a joke.”

“That depends,” Gerion said cheerfully. “If we handle it well, it’s a responsibility. If we don’t, it will become a joke—one that ends with Ironborn raiders stabbing us in our sleep.”

Tywin exhaled through his nose. The closest he ever came to sighing.

“We will bring order to the islands,” he said, like it was already a fact written in history. “The Ironborn will obey, or they will learn the price of defiance.”

Tygett rolled his eyes. “Right, because the Ironborn are famous for their love of order.” He mimed a thoughtful expression. “What’s that phrase they use? ‘We Do Not Sow’? Wonderful. So, we’re in charge of a people who openly admit they contribute nothing.”

Gerion grinned. “I mean, at least they’re honest about it.”

Kevan, ever the pragmatic one, pushed a scroll across the table. “There are opportunities here. If we control their resources—their iron, their shipyards—we strengthen the Westerlands.”

Tygett snorted. “Assuming we can get them to do anything other than raid and set things on fire.”

Tywin gave him The Look. The one that made lesser men reconsider their life choices. “Then we make them useful. They will work our mines. They will build our fleets. If they refuse, they will be replaced.”

Kevan nodded. “We could encourage Westerlander families to settle on the islands. Provide incentives.”

Gerion’s grin widened. “Right. Give some poor farmer a nice, cozy plot of land on an island full of homicidal, fish-worshipping lunatics. That’ll go over great.”

Tywin ignored him. “We will control the islands. We will civilize them.”

Tygett leaned back, arms crossed. “And when they inevitably rebel?”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change. “Then we remind them why no one challenges House Lannister.”

The room went silent. Not the comfortable kind. The Tywin Lannister just declared something ominous, and everyone is taking a moment to process it kind.

Gerion finally broke it. “You know,” he mused, “I think what I like most about our little family gatherings is the uplifting sense of optimism.”

Tygett smirked. “That, and the knowledge that if things go wrong, we’re going to be fighting damp murderers with axes.”

Kevan, ever the realist, simply said, “I’ll begin drafting the necessary orders.”

Tywin nodded, which was the closest he ever came to saying good job.

As the meeting ended and they rose to leave, Gerion clapped Tygett on the shoulder. “Look on the bright side, brother. Maybe you’ll finally get a pet kraken.”

Tygett shot him a deadpan look. “If I see a kraken, I’m feeding you to it first.”

Tywin, already halfway out the door, didn’t even turn around as he said, “If we fail, the kraken will be the least of our problems.”

And with that, the lions of Lannister left the council chamber, their next conquest set in stone. The squids just didn’t know it yet.

—

Gulltown smelled like a fishmonger’s armpit. A very enthusiastic fishmonger who’d spent the last decade bathing exclusively in regret.

Melisandre of Asshai wrinkled her nose but otherwise maintained her usual I am mysterious and definitely not judging you expression as she stepped off the ship. Her crimson robes billowed dramatically in the sea breeze, which was perfect. If a Red Priestess wasn’t making an entrance worthy of a prophecy, what was even the point?

The dockside crowd took one look at her—red hair blazing in the sun, robes flowing like molten wine, an aura that screamed divine fire and possible arsonist—and immediately decided they had somewhere else to be. Which was fair. Most people who crossed paths with Melisandre either ended up blessed, burned, or profoundly confused. Sometimes all three.

A merchant with a tray of suspiciously shiny apples made the mistake of calling out to her.

“A fruit for the lady in red? Keep the darkness away!”

Melisandre barely paused. “The darkness is where I thrive,” she said smoothly.

The man paled and wisely decided he did not want to know what that meant.

She moved through the streets with the kind of purpose that made people get out of her way. Her destination? An inn that looked like it had last been cleaned when the Targaryens still had all their dragons.

The innkeeper—a stout man who had big “I am terrified of confrontation” energy—immediately looked nervous when she approached.

“I need a room,” she said, her voice smooth as silk, firm as steel.

The innkeeper gulped. “Of course, my lady. You—uh—come from afar?”

Melisandre gave him a knowing smile. “Farther than you can imagine.” Which was true, but she wasn’t about to explain that Asshai made Gulltown look like a quaint little murder town. “I am on a pilgrimage.”

The innkeeper’s curiosity was warring with his self-preservation instincts. Sadly, curiosity won. “A pilgrimage? To where?”

“To the one true king,” she said reverently. “The man who will lead us through the coming darkness.”

The man looked like he wanted to ask more but then remembered that people who asked too many questions about Red Priests often ended up on fire. He handed her a key instead.

Melisandre was just getting comfortable by the fire—because, of course, she had to stare into the flames dramatically—when the door slammed open.

Cue Thoros of Myr, the world’s least conventional Red Priest. He looked like he’d fought, drunk, and possibly lost a wrestling match with a barrel of ale, but there was an undeniable energy about him. He was scruffy, slightly singed, and grinning like a man who knew something you didn’t.

“Melisandre!” Thoros boomed, waving a tankard of ale. “Fancy seeing you here.”

She barely acknowledged him. “Thoros.”

He plopped down in the chair opposite her, sloshing ale onto the floor. “Still speaking in ominous riddles?”

“I never speak in riddles.”

Thoros snorted. “Right. So, what’s the ‘one true king’ flavor of the month? Because last time I checked, your last pick was very dead.”

Melisandre’s smile didn’t waver. “That fool was not Azor Ahai. I was mistaken.”

Thoros raised his eyebrows. “Mistaken? You? I thought that was impossible.”

Melisandre ignored him. “I have seen another in the flames.” Her voice dropped into something low, reverent, dangerous. “A great black wolf, larger than a horse. And a boy—young, but with a soul as old as the world.”

Thoros stopped mid-drink. Slowly, he lowered his tankard.

“Oh, no.”

Melisandre’s gaze sharpened. “You know of him?”

“Oh, I know him.” Thoros rubbed his face. “Lord Cregan Stark. The Demon Wolf.”

Before Melisandre could press for details, the door swung open again.

Enter Kinvara.

If Melisandre was mysterious and eerie, Kinvara was terrifyingly enthusiastic. Her smile was too wide, her eyes too bright, and she had the kind of energy that suggested she’d either converted a kingdom or burned it down. Possibly both.

“Thoros!” Kinvara practically glowed. “Melisandre! Fantastic! You’ve also been called!”

Melisandre blinked. “Called?”

Kinvara clutched her hands dramatically. “The flames, sister! They spoke to me. Our Lord has chosen!”

Thoros groaned. “Oh, this just got worse.”

Kinvara ignored him, locking eyes with Melisandre. “A great black wolf. A boy with ice in his veins and fire in his soul.”

Melisandre’s pulse quickened. “You saw him?”

“I felt him,” Kinvara breathed. “He is Azor Ahai, reborn. He is everything.”

Melisandre exhaled slowly, letting the truth settle. This was real. This was destiny.

Kinvara, meanwhile, had moved straight past devotion and into actual fanatical obsession mode.

“I will serve him,” Kinvara murmured, almost to herself. “Body, mind, soul—everything. He will want for nothing.”

Melisandre arched an eyebrow. “We all will.”

Kinvara tilted her head, as if reconsidering. “He is young. Do you think he will… require guidance?”

Melisandre smiled. “He will have need of us. To show him the way.”

Thoros groaned. “Oh, gods, you two are really doing this.” He shook his head. “Look, I fought alongside the boy at Pyke. He’s not just some chosen messiah, he’s a bloody force of nature. You two planning to show up and throw yourselves at his feet?”

Kinvara absolutely was. Melisandre, to her credit, at least pretended otherwise.

Thoros sighed. “And I assume you two definitely won’t take no for an answer?”

Melisandre’s smile was unreadable. “We are destined to serve.”

Kinvara’s eyes sparkled. “The flames have willed it.”

Thoros drained the rest of his ale in one go. “I need a lot more to drink.”

By first light, the three of them were riding north.

Thoros, grumbling. Kinvara, practically vibrating with excitement. And Melisandre, already imagining the moment she would kneel before Azor Ahai and offer him… everything.

Gulltown was behind them.

Winterfell was ahead.

And the Demon Wolf was waiting.

—

Cregan's POV

The Art of Northern Politics (or How to Annoy Your Uncle Into Agreeing With You)

Being a Stark comes with certain expectations. Brood in a corner? Check. Speak in dramatic one-liners? Double check. Think about winter at least three times a day? Legally required. But if you’re me—Cregan Stark, the 12-year-old Lord of Winterfell and the North’s resident headache—you also spend a lot of time figuring out how to keep the North from tearing itself apart like a pack of starving direwolves fighting over a single sausage.

Which is why I was standing outside Uncle Ned’s solar, rehearsing my argument. I mean, it wasn’t like I could just kick open the door and yell, "Hey, Uncle, let’s kidnap the kids of our most unpredictable vassals and turn them into loyal allies!" That probably wouldn’t go over well.

Instead, I knocked like a civilized person.

“Come,” came the familiar voice from within.

I pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped inside. The solar was peak Stark aesthetic—fire crackling in the hearth, sturdy furniture, and exactly one (1) cup of probably cold tea sitting forgotten on the desk. Uncle Ned looked up from the mountain of parchment in front of him, his signature I-haven’t-slept-in-three-days-but-don’t-worry-about-it expression firmly in place.

“Cregan,” he greeted, setting down his quill. His voice had that quiet, steady weight to it that made lords twice his age feel like naughty children. “You look like a boy with something on his mind.”

I took the chair across from him, resisting the urge to fidget. “I’ve been thinking about the future of the North.”

That got his attention. He leaned back slightly, giving me the full Dad of the North treatment—calm, patient, but also the kind of serious that made you rethink every bad decision you’ve ever made. “Go on.”

Alright. Here goes nothing.

“We need to secure the loyalty of our bannermen,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Not just with words and oaths, but with real bonds. Ties that actually mean something.”

Ned raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t interrupt. Good sign.

“We foster their heirs here at Winterfell,” I continued. “Train them, teach them. Make them part of our pack.”

There was a long pause as Ned studied me like he was trying to figure out if I’d hit my head recently. Then he nodded. “It’s a sound idea. Which families are you thinking of?”

Okay, round one won. Time for round two.

“For starters, the Manderlys,” I said. “Both of Lord Wyman’s granddaughters. They’re important allies, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a future marriage option for Robb.”

Uncle Ned actually looked amused at that. “Already making marriage alliances for your cousin?”

“Well,” I shrugged. “You always say the pack must survive. And let’s be honest, Robb’s going to need all the help he can get. The boy can swing a sword, sure, but his strategy in Cyvasse is… let’s just say if he ever tries to outthink Roose Bolton, we’re all doomed.”

Ned actually chuckled. A rare sight. Mark your calendars, folks.

Then I hit him with the tricky one.

“And Domeric Bolton.”

The chuckle died instantly. The temperature in the room dropped a solid ten degrees. I half-expected Ned’s chair to start growing icicles.

“Roose Bolton,” he said, slow and measured. “And that bastard of his…”

“Yes,” I cut in quickly, because I really did not want to hear Ned say the words Ramsay Snow out loud. “But Domeric’s different. By all accounts, he’s nothing like them. If we bring him here, we can shape him into someone loyal to Winterfell. Someone who can take over the Dreadfort without being, you know…” I made a vague hand motion. “A Bolton.”

Ned exhaled through his nose. Not a sigh, exactly, but close. “Roose is a dangerous man, Cregan. Bringing his son here could backfire.”

“So could leaving him there,” I countered. “Right now, Roose is the one shaping him. Do you really want another Roose Bolton running the Dreadfort in twenty years?”

Ned was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. “We’ll send for him.”

That was… easier than expected. I half-wondered if he was secretly proud of me for thinking like a political schemer. (He’d never admit it, of course.)

Now for the cherry on top.

“I also want Asher Forrester and Gwyn Whitehill,” I added.

That got another eyebrow raise. “You want to foster the children of two families who hate each other?”

“Exactly,” I said, because I live for chaos. “Those two houses have been feuding forever. If we bring their heirs here, raise them together, we might actually stop the next generation from killing each other before they even hit twenty.”

Uncle Ned gave me a long, searching look. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, scratching the back of my neck. “You kind of have to when half the North’s lords are either scheming, feuding, or think they’re smarter than they are.”

That got me another rare Ned Stark almost-smile. “It’s a good plan,” he admitted.

I let out a breath. “So you’ll do it?”

“I’ll send ravens in the morning,” he confirmed. “We’ll make the arrangements.”

Well. That was easier than expected. Maybe I really was good at this game.

Uncle Ned stood, resting a hand on my shoulder. “The North will be in good hands with you, Cregan.”

Which was both reassuring and deeply terrifying. No pressure or anything.

As I left the solar, my mind was already running through all the potential disasters this plan could cause. Would Domeric Bolton actually turn out decent, or would he try to flay me in my sleep? Would the Manderlys play nice, or would they turn this into a political headache? And would Asher and Gwyn get along, or would they reenact their family feud with real weapons?

Well, only one way to find out.

Welcome to the Game of Starks.

General POV

The door creaked open with all the subtlety of a stampeding direwolf, and Cregan couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He knew exactly who it was before Bran’s high-pitched, exuberant squeal filled the room. It was as if the kid had just realized he was in the presence of the greatest father figure to ever walk Westeros.

Bran, still one part baby, one part whirlwind, was being held by Catelyn, who entered the room with all the grace and determination of someone who had just survived a battlefield (which, honestly, dealing with Bran was probably harder than any real battlefield). The firelight caught Catelyn’s red hair, turning it into a halo of fiery brilliance, though, knowing Bran, that wouldn’t stop him from doing whatever it took to make a mess of everything.

“Da!” Bran shrieked, stretching his chubby arms toward Ned, who was sitting at his desk looking like a man who was one letter away from going completely mad.

Ned looked up from his parchment, face softening just slightly at the sight of Bran’s enthusiastic greeting. It was one of those rare moments where Cregan could see that, for all the grim duty and brooding that came with being Lord of Winterfell, Ned Stark was still a father—something that not even the harshness of the North could take from him.

"Ah, there’s my little man," Ned said, pushing aside his stack of letters. Bran immediately lunged, like a tiny berserker, and Ned expertly caught him. “And what brings my lady and our heir to me this fine evening?”

“We thought you might like some company,” Catelyn replied, her voice a mix of affection and a silent plea for a break. “Though it seems Bran’s idea of company involves flailing and demanding attention.”

Ned smiled, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, though it wasn’t the sort of smile that made you think he’d suddenly burst into song. More like the smile of someone who had seen every imaginable mess and still somehow survived. "I can’t imagine where he gets such a... um, shall we say, 'spirited' personality," Ned said, bouncing Bran on his knee. "Certainly not from his mother."

Catelyn shot him a look that said, Don’t push your luck, husband. She was the kind of person who could speak volumes with a glance, and Ned knew it all too well.

"Well," she said, crossing her arms and giving him that trademark Catelyn stare that could melt iron if you weren’t careful, "you have yet to explain why you’re so busy with all these letters."

“Ah, the usual,” Ned said, with all the enthusiasm of a man discussing the most tedious thing in existence. “Cregan and I were just talking about the future of the North.”

Catelyn’s eyebrows shot up, and for a split second, her fingers tightened around Bran. "The future of the North? And what, exactly, are you two plotting?"

“Fostering,” Ned replied, leaning back in his chair, making it look like a more casual thing than it actually was. “Cregan’s idea. We need to strengthen ties with the Northern lords, especially if we want to secure Moat Cailin and ensure our children are properly positioned.”

Catelyn’s expression shifted from curiosity to skepticism in about half a heartbeat. “Fostering, you say? And who exactly is your esteemed nephew planning to recruit for this little venture?”

Ned gave her a look that was somehow both serious and reluctant to get into it, probably because he knew exactly where this conversation was heading. “Well, for starters, we’ll need the Manderlys. Cregan suggests one of Lord Wyman’s granddaughters—Wylla or Wynafryd, perhaps. Strong matches for Robb when the time comes.”

Catelyn blinked, her fingers gently brushing Bran’s hair. “So, you’ve already chosen Robb’s match without consulting me?”

“I haven’t chosen anything,” Ned said quickly, knowing full well that this wasn’t entirely true. “It’s more of a... possibility. One that might help tie the North together. Besides, they’re faithful to the Seven, and their customs are more in line with yours.”

Catelyn sighed, her eyes narrowing just a bit. "And what about the possibility of his future wife having Southern roots, hmm? Isn’t that something worth considering?"

“I’m aware of that, Cat,” Ned said, sounding mildly exasperated but not angry. He set Bran back on his lap as the little one gave a loud, triumphant shriek, as if to say, Dad! You’re not paying attention to me again! “But you know how the Northern lords are. They want loyalty first, then everything else second. I don’t think they’ll care for a Southern alliance, at least not in the way you’re hoping.”

Catelyn stood silent for a long moment, her gaze shifting toward the window as if she were searching for an answer there. "I just want what’s best for Robb," she said softly, her tone betraying her worry.

Ned, sensing the mood shift, placed a hand on her arm, giving it a comforting squeeze. "I know, Cat. I know. But Robb will need both sides of his heritage to rule well. This match, though it might not seem ideal, could bring some balance—both to the North and to our family."

Catelyn looked at him for a long time, then finally nodded. "Maybe you're right," she murmured, though there was still a bit of hesitation in her voice. “But if I’m going to raise a boy who rules Moat Cailin, I need to understand it better. The North is a strange place, Ned, sometimes.”

"You know it better than you think," Ned said quietly, his voice more tender than usual. "And Robb will need both of us to show him the way."

Just then, Bran chose that exact moment to grab a fistful of Ned’s tunic and attempt to yank it off his father’s chest in an act of pure toddler defiance. Ned winced but couldn’t help but laugh.

“And this little one?” Catelyn teased, looking down at Bran as he wriggled to escape Ned’s grasp. "Any plans for him, Lord Stark?"

Ned chuckled and ruffled Bran’s hair. “For now, I think his plans involve terrorizing the kitchens. But one day, he’ll be a Stark too. And the North will be waiting for him.”

Catelyn smiled, her hands resting gently on Bran as she looked at her husband. It wasn’t perfect, this life they were carving out of the stone of Winterfell, but it was theirs. And for now, it would have to be enough.

—

The ravens flitted through the icy winds like messengers on caffeine, clutching the weight of Stark decisions that could make or break alliances. And in Winterfell’s Hall of the Direwolf (yes, that's what Ned liked to call it now, after all the banners were raised), the ink on his letters had dried, and the seals—pressed with a little too much enthusiasm—bore the unmistakable Stark sigil. There it was, the direwolf, fanged and fierce, ready to defend the North. Except today, instead of gnashing its teeth at invaders, it was gnawing on something far more dangerous: the future.

Ned Stark sat at his desk, quill in hand, brow furrowed. He wasn’t contemplating anything deep like, “Why is the sky blue?” or “What does a man really need in life?” No, he was wrestling with the mind-bending conundrum of spelling "Manderly"—which, for the life of him, seemed like an unnecessarily complicated word. It wasn’t that he was illiterate (though he had nearly erased that possibility after the third attempt). It was just that—who names their kids that?

Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, he finished writing the letter to Lord Wyman Manderly. There, done.

To Lord Wyman Manderly:

Lord Manderly, Winterfell welcomes you. I, Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, do send you my regards and hope to strengthen the bonds between our families. To further this, we would like to propose that your granddaughters, Wylla and Wynafryd, be fostered at Winterfell. Their presence would not only reinforce our alliance but also provide a promising future for our children. Particularly Robb—he could benefit greatly from having strong Northern women around. A match between him and one of your granddaughters might be advantageous for both of us. After all, who doesn’t want a future filled with strong heirs? Looking forward to your favorable reply, and—naturally—a grand feast.

Respectfully, Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

Ned paused, reading over his words. He squinted at the parchment as if expecting it to explode in his face. "Well, it’s not exactly poetry," he muttered to himself. "But it gets the job done." With a final flourish, he signed it.

Next up: Lord Roose Bolton. Ned wasn’t exactly thrilled about writing to the man. Roose Bolton’s idea of warmth was a fire—one that was usually made from the bodies of his enemies. But here he was, the next letter to be written. Time to play the diplomacy game.

To Lord Roose Bolton:

Lord Bolton,

Winterfell seeks your cooperation in fostering your son, Domeric Bolton, here at our seat. This opportunity would ensure his alignment with the North’s values and traditions. Domeric will be exposed to the training that makes the North strong. Perhaps, by the time he returns to the Dreadfort, he will have a greater respect for our ways. If not, we’ll at least teach him how to ride a horse properly.

We look forward to your response.

Respectfully,

Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

Ned sighed. "I sound like a… well, Cregan." He’d never been one for unnecessary formalities. But he had to admit—sometimes, when you’re in the North, there’s just no avoiding it.

The next one was… tricky. Lord Gregor Forrester. Now that was a family with more drama than a full season of a southern soap opera. Asher Forrester, young and impulsive, was hardly the kind of man you’d want to foster. But hey, Winterfell was nothing if not full of second chances. Or at least, it was until they ran out of food.

To Lord Gregor Forrester:

Lord Forrester,

Winterfell extends an invitation to foster your son, Asher Forrester. This is not only an opportunity to heal the rift between House Forrester and House Whitehill, but also to give Asher a chance to learn the ways of the North. Trust me—he’ll be swinging a sword before he can say “blood feud.”

We hope you will give this proposal due consideration.

Best regards,

Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

Ned snorted. “Mend the rift? He’s probably going to start another one with the first glance he gives a Whitehill.” But again, he didn’t have the luxury of choosing who to work with. The North needed alliances, even the weird, drama-filled ones.

Lastly, the Whitehills. Lord Ludd Whitehill was everything Ned disliked in a man. Stubborn, prideful, and about as charming as a troll under a bridge. But, much like the Boltons, they were an inevitable part of the landscape. The only hope here was that the Whitehills weren’t completely beyond redemption.

To Lord Ludd Whitehill:

Lord Whitehill,

Winterfell extends an invitation to foster your daughter, Gwyn Whitehill, here at our seat. We believe this will be an opportunity to foster unity between your family and the North. With any luck, Gwyn will learn something about the value of alliances, and perhaps she’ll stop eyeing all Forresters like they’re a pile of meat at a feast.

Your cooperation in this matter would be greatly appreciated.

Yours sincerely,

Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

Ned folded the last letter with a tired sigh. "And now, we wait." He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. There would be replies, of course. And probably feasts, because no one in Westeros did anything without a feast.

But before he could even get the words “Let the games begin” out of his mouth, a raven swooped through the window, dropping a letter. Ned blinked. "Oh, joy," he muttered, looking at the fresh ink. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. It seemed the first reply had already arrived.

"Well," he said, standing up and adjusting his fur cloak, "let’s see what madness this brings."

And with that, Ned Stark took a deep breath, bracing himself for whatever storm the ravens were about to unleash. After all, in the North, things never got boring.

—

Alright, buckle up, because we’re diving back into the icy cold halls of Winterfell, where not even a direwolf’s fur can make the place feel warm. But fear not! Eddard Stark, the brooding but honorable Lord of Winterfell, has a few letters to send off, and honestly, it’s kind of a big deal. This batch of ravens is flying out faster than Jon Snow running to stop his brothers from killing each other, and each letter carries a little piece of political maneuvering—like a chess game, but with more swords and fewer rules.

Now, before you get all nervous about Ned Stark’s no-nonsense seriousness, let’s not forget that he’s still human (mostly). Sure, he’s the epitome of Northern honor—tall, brooding, with a face that looks like it’s been carved out of granite—but there’s still a bit of warmth in there. Somewhere. If you look hard enough, under all the layers of ice and honor, there’s a heart that still beats. Not that he’d ever admit it.

Lord Greatjon is the kind of guy who’d probably yell at you for even thinking of stepping foot on his land without a good reason. He’s massive, loud, and probably hasn’t met a battle axe he didn’t like. So, naturally, Ned’s going to try to be nice.

—

To Lord Greatjon Umber,

Lord Umber,

I write to you from Winterfell, where the cold is biting but the hearth remains warm. As I’m sure you know, the bonds between our houses are as important as any steel we’ve ever wielded. With that in mind, I offer you a proposal—though I know that proposals from me might sound more like challenges to you.

Allow me to welcome your son, Smalljon Umber, to Winterfell as a ward. Don’t worry, I won’t be putting him in charge of any castle walls, but I will give him the finest training we can offer, including lessons on how to avoid getting too drunk at feasts (which, frankly, I’ve yet to master myself).

May your axe remain sharp—and your temper, perhaps, a bit sharper.

Eddard Stark, Regent of Winterfell

—

Now, Medger Cerwyn is a quiet guy. He’s not exactly throwing any grand feasts or leading wild hunts. No, Medger is the guy who makes sure the horses have enough oats and that the stables don’t smell like a battlefield. So, what do you say to a guy like that?

—

To Lord Medger Cerwyn,

Lord Cerwyn,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that you’re not knee-deep in snowdrifts or worse—drownings from an overly enthusiastic stable boy. Winterfell is extending an invitation for your son, Cley Cerwyn, to stay with us as a foster. It may not sound like much at first, but I assure you, Cley will leave with more skills than he arrived with, and perhaps even a few new friends who are not made of snow.

I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

Eddard Stark, Regent of Winterfell

—

The Karstarks? Oh boy. If the North had a family that could win a prize for "Most Likely to Start a Dramatic Showdown," it’d be them. Harald Karstark’s reputation for brooding intensity and not-so-subtle grumbling makes Ned’s letter sound like an attempt to keep the peace.

—

To Lord Harald Karstark,

Lord Karstark,

In these tumultuous times, I find it prudent to offer your daughter, Alys, a place at Winterfell. Alys’ stay here would serve to strengthen the ties between our houses and teach her the art of Northern leadership—which, as you know, requires more patience than a hunting trip with your son, Torrhen.

Let’s call this a step toward building a future that is stronger than a single battle.

Eddard Stark, Regent of Winterfell

—

Howland Reed, the only man in Westeros who probably doesn’t get involved in drama unless it’s necessary. He’s quiet, mysterious, and basically the Gandalf of the North. He’d rather be wandering swamps than dealing with all of this politics stuff, but Ned’s had a long friendship with him. So this letter? It’s more like a family obligation.

—

To Lord Howland Reed,

Lord Reed,

I trust this finds you far from any muddy swamp—or, at the very least, not too deep in one. I extend an invitation for your children, Meera and Jojen, to spend some time at Winterfell. There’s much they can learn here—though, between you and me, they’d probably prefer the swamps. But we all have our duties, and this is one of theirs.

Please consider this a step in ensuring that the House Reed remains strong within the North.

Eddard Stark, Regent of Winterfell

—

So, there you have it. Four letters, each one a little stitch in the intricate tapestry of Northern politics. These are no simple invitations to a feast—they’re moves in a much larger game. Each letter carries the weight of Ned Stark’s careful diplomacy, and if they’re lucky, the recipients will read between the lines. Or maybe they won’t.

In any case, Winterfell is on the move—slowly but surely. And hey, if all goes well, maybe these lords will remember that alliances are meant to last, not crumble like old stone. If not, well… let’s just hope Ned’s axe isn’t needed anytime soon.