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.
---
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