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.
---
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