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.
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