rills stank of damp stone, old hay, and secrets.
Cregan Stark—at least, that's who he was now—breathed it in through his nose, steady and deep. He held it. Then let it go, slow and measured.
Wolf's Breath, he called it.
His own. Not some mystical thing stolen from Eastern monks or anime martial artists. Just control. Just focus. Just his.
The nine-year-old boy knelt barefoot in the frost-hardened courtyard behind the keep in front of the godswood.
Snow flurries caught in his dark hair, clinging like threads of silk. He didn't shiver. Not anymore.
He could hear his mother's voice through the window. Barbrey Ryswell.
Fierce. Bitter. Brilliant. She was arguing with her father again—Lord Rodrik—about grain shipments, or maybe the cost of fencing steel. Or maybe about him. Probably him. It usually came back to him.
"You think I wanted this?" Barbrey's voice cut through the stone like a dagger. "He is his son. That doesn't make him a weapon."
"Aye," came Rodrik's gravelly growl. "But we're all weapons, girl. The question is who gets to swing us."
She loved him, though. In her own way.
He couldn't remember the real Barbrey from the books. Just fragments—vague mentions, secondhand bitterness. But here, in this cold, she was real. Warm hands and sharp eyes. She taught him how to read ledgers, how to flatter stubborn bannermen, how to spot a man's weakness before he knew it himself.
His grandfather taught him how to use them.
Rodrik Ryswell, scarred from the Skagosi Rebellion, had no patience for slow thinkers. But he respected cleverness. Even in a boy. Especially in a boy who listened more than he spoke.
"Words are knives, lad," Rodrik had once said, pressing a calloused hand to Cregan's chest. "But silence is the sheath. Don't draw unless you mean to cut."
Cregan listened. He remembered everything.
And still, none of it prepared him for the raven.
The letter came wrapped in Stark grey, sealed in black wax.
By the time Barbrey's eyes skimmed the first lines, her knuckles had turned white. By the end, she'd folded in half, like something inside her had cracked down the middle.
"Brandon," she whispered. "Oh, Seven damn him. Brandon's dead."
Cregan froze. "And… Lord Rickard?"
Barbrey nodded, eyes glistening, mouth a hard line. "Burned. Like kindling. Like fools. They knew better."
He had known. Of course he had. He remembered the books. The TV show. The wiki pages. All of it. But he was powerless. Even his naming as Stark of Winterfell had to be carefully considered by his grandfather.
But knowing was not the same as seeing. As hearing the choke in Barbrey's voice when she read it aloud. As feeling the frost turn to glass beneath your knees while the world splintered around you.
He hadn't even met his father in person until last year.
A secret visit. One night, beneath the godswood, while the moon hung low and red like a fresh wound. Brandon had laughed like a man already haunted, drunk on guilt and duty, but he'd knelt before Cregan all the same and pressed a Stark signet into his hand.
"I was a fool," Brandon had said. His voice had cracked like old leather. "But you—seven hells, you look like her. Don't tell your grandfather I said that."
"Why are you really here?" Cregan had asked.
Brandon had smiled, tired and crooked. "Because wolves look after their own. Even the lost ones."
He'd told them then—Barbrey, and through her, Cregan—what Rickard had planned in the shadows of his ambition. The grain shortages. The Southern hunger to bleed more northern gold next winter along with all wood and furs to pay for it. The pressure from King's Landing. The fish-lord with his grinning daughters and growing influence. The Targaryens growing mad and wanting something to snub Lannister again after Duskendale.
Rickard Stark had drawn up a letter. Quietly. Legally. Brutally simple. If he and Brandon both died, Winterfell would pass not to Eddard stark his son even though he loves him but doesnt have any idea what is happenenign but to Cregan. A trueborn son. Hidden from the South, yes. But not forgotten.
And now, both were dead.
Aerys had moved faster than even Rickard had expected.
Cregan sat in his room as Barbrey handed him the letter—signed in his grandfather's unflinching hand—and told him what had to happen next.
"Read it," she said, placing the parchment in his lap. Her voice was hoarse. "You're old enough."
He read. And then he read it again.
Barbrey knelt before him and gripped his shoulders. "You are not your father. And you are not Rickard. But you are a Stark. Do you understand me?"
He nodded. "Yes, Mother."
"No more hiding," she whispered. "Not for you."
Winterfell awaited.
The Tullys and the Starks had circled each other for years, sniffing like wolves before the bite. Rickard had delayed that marriage alliance on purpose, feeding them trade and promises instead. He'd meant to spring the trap later—once the South was lulled, once the food lines were secure.
Now, someone else was moving the pieces.
But Cregan Stark would not be their pawn.
Barbrey had packed swiftly, her grief turned inward, sharpened into purpose.
As she tightened his cloak before they rode, her hands lingered on the brooch. "Remember what Rodrik said," she murmured. "Silence is the sheath."
"And when do I draw?" he asked.
She looked at him, eyes flinty. "When it's your war. Not theirs."
The Ryswell guards rode tight around them, steel polished, eyes watchful.
Cregan rode at the front, Rickard's letter tucked beneath his furs, and the weight of Winter itself in his lungs.
He was nine years old.
And Winterfell would be his.
A new hour of the wolf was coming—for the South.
------
The gates of Winterfell groaned open like a waking giant.
Cregan Stark sat his pony straight-backed, flanked by Ryswell men with sharp eyes and sharper silence. Snow dusted the walls, the godswood's ancient boughs, and the frozen gravel underfoot. The wind rolled through the courtyard like an old ghost, nosing at cloaks and ears.
No horns. No banners. Just watchers.
Benjen Stark stood beneath the archway in a too-big cloak, barely taller than Cregan himself. His face was raw from the wind, and his eyes darted, uncertain.
"Cregan," he said, voice flat.
"Benjen."
They stared at each other, both too young, both too old in their own ways.
Benjen broke first. "You came fast."
"My mother doesn't linger."
"Is it true?" Benjen asked. "About Father? Brandon?"
Cregan dismounted. "Would I be here if it weren't?"
Benjen swallowed hard. "Maester Walys said the raven was mistaken. That the court would never—"
"Maester Walys is wrong."
And a liar, Cregan thought but didn't say—not yet.
He looked past Benjen to the keep rising behind him. The towers were older than most cities. The walls thick with frost and memory.
"You shouldn't have trusted him."
Benjen blinked. "He's served this house for—"
"Too long," Cregan said. "Long enough to forget it serves him in return."
The audience with the steward was brief. The keep knew blood when it walked in, even if it came wrapped in boy's skin. Rickard's seal and Rodrik's signature left no room for argument.
By nightfall, Cregan had been led to Brandon's solar. It still smelled of oil and leather. His name would be burned into the books before dawn.
Maester Walys knocked softly before entering. Balding, thin-lipped, and reeking of calm authority. A man who'd survived three lords by knowing how not to make enemies—until now.
"My lord," Walys said with a low bow. "Allow me to offer my condolences—"
"Do spare them," Cregan interrupted. "You sent a raven south doubting the crown's letters. Why?"
Walys blinked. "I… was merely cautious, my lord. It is not unheard of for false tidings to spread in times of unrest. I feared an imposter."
"You feared the truth," Cregan said coldly. "You delayed my claim. You questioned my blood."
Walys stepped closer. "You must understand, a nine-year-old boy arrives under Ryswell guard, claiming—"
"I don't claim anything," Cregan cut in. "I am Lord of Winterfell."
Silence pressed thick between them.
Cregan rose from the chair. The wolf sigil behind him cast its shadow long in the firelight. "You will swear fealty, Maester. Or you will leave the castle before sunrise."
Walys's mouth worked silently for a beat. "I… I swear, my lord. Forgive my doubt."
Cregan nodded once. "Good."
Later that night, Cregan stood on the battlements. Benjen found him there, watching the snow fall onto a sleeping Winterfell.
"You had him silenced, didn't you?" Benjen asked. "Walys."
Cregan didn't flinch. "Yes. he is still alive"
Benjen's voice rose. "He is loyal!"
"is he?" Cregan said, low and sharp. "But not to me. And not to Winterfell not to grandfather not to father then who is he loyal to? . He hesitated, Uncle Benjen. And hesitation is betrayal when the knives are out."
Benjen turned away. "He is a maester, not a traitor."
"He is a gate. A gate they could use to open me up, to unseat me before I ever warmed the chair. You want the truth?"
Benjen glanced back at him.
"There are eyes on this house already," Cregan said. "Southrons. Spymasters. Bastards who think the North is raw meat. If they knew everything—about me, about what Rickard planned—they'd carve us up before we took our first breath of power."
"So we lie?"
"No. We speak carefully."
Benjen looked unsure. "You sound like your Grandfather."
Cregan's voice dropped to a near-whisper. "Then maybe he was right."
A silence settled between them. Cold and heavy.
"You should sleep," Cregan said.
"Tomorrow's the first council. The castle will want to know who's leading them."
Benjen hesitated. "Is it you?"
Cregan's eyes gleamed like ice in the dark.
"No. It's us, Uncle," he said quietly. "I want you to lead with me."
Benjen blinked. "You… mean that?"
"I do. Uncle Eddard's still in the Vale. By the time he comes here, I want to know what happened. All of it. How it happened. Why my father went to King's Landing in the first place. Why my grandfather trusted a Targaryen. And a Tully. So easily."
His jaw clenched, thin and sharp like a blade still being honed. "I'm already half in mind to let Bolton have Walys."
Benjen stiffened.
"But I'll wait," Cregan said, almost thoughtfully. "If he behaves like kin, it'll be fine. If not… I'll extract what's needed from him myself."
There was no fire in his voice. No fury. Just calm, calculated promise.
Benjen stared at him. "You sound…"
"Like someone who's tired of being lied to," Cregan finished. "Help me, Benjen. Stand beside me. Let's find the truth before it buries us."
Benjen nodded, slowly. "Alright. I'm with you."
Cregan turned back to the snow-dusted walls of Winterfell, voice low.
"Then the North just got stronger."
-*******-
POV: Cregan Stark
When I was born into this world, I was terrified.
Not because I was a baby—no. It was the memories that followed me. The knowledge of what this world held, what horrors awaited. Westeros wasn't a story. It was a trap, a slow, burning fall into madness dressed in honor and feasts.
What truly baffled me was how the North—proud, ancient, stubborn—had lost so much of its culture in just three centuries of Targaryen rule. The erosion wasn't loud. It was insidious. Rituals became superstitions. Language became dust. Faith became fiction.
So I agreed with my new mother's distrust of maesters. In fact, I leaned into it more. Something about them—it itched at the back of my head. After the Blackfyre rebellions, the maesters seemed more active in reshaping history. And that bastard, Bloodraven, hiding across the Wall? No way in hell was I ignoring that problem.
When I was four years old, my mother took me to the godswood. I prayed. Not like a child—like someone making a deal.
The old gods listened as they were the ones who bought me here.
I didn't ask to be king, or for dragons. I asked for boons that will help me and north as a whole.
Memory plasticity. A perfect memory. The ability to think better, sharper, faster.
Reflexes I could hone. Taskmaster-level instincts, forged over time.
And finally, the seeds of a breathing method. Something intuitive. Something that could let me feel when something was wrong—off. That method would also shield me from Bloodraven's gaze… until I was ready.
They gave me all three.
As I grew, I buried myself in study and swordsmanship. The deeper I went, the more respect I gained for the lords of my old world. Medieval logistics weren't simple. Running a keep? Feeding bannermen? Holding power without losing your head? It was an art form.
But lords were also prideful. Stagnant. Like my grandfather, Lord Rodrik Ryswell. A man who grasped at every southern alliance he could, as if he feared the North standing alone.
When I turned five, I asked my mother to find someone who could teach me the Old Tongue. Someone who still remembered the First Men. If I was to be Lord of Winterfell, I would not be another southern puppet. I would be Stark, in truth and in blood.
She agreed.
We spoke often—privately—about the alliances my grandfather was weaving.
I laid it all out.
"The heir to House Stark is marrying the Tully girl—tying the North to the Riverlands. Uncle Eddard is being raised with Robert Baratheon in the Vale—bonding us to the Stormlands and the Vale. Lyanna is betrothed to Robert too, who might one day sit on the Iron Throne."
"It looks like the Starks are preparing to depose the Targaryens."
My mother had stared at me, speechless. I was only eight.
That conversation happened after Harrenhall. After the Great Tourney. When my grandfather returned, he and my mother talked long into the night. Then he wrote his will. Named me heir of Winterfell. And left.
Now, I kneel at the godswood. with my hands on roots and say my sorrows but not ask anything
It's been sixteen days—maybe more. I stopped counting. The banners have been called. My mother now runs the daily affairs of the castle while I prepare for what's coming.
I met with everyone I could. There was a reason, in the world I came from, that people always said Old Nan was the only true source left.
At first, she treated me like a boy. Told me scary stories. Tried to spook me.
I let her.
Then I asked real questions.
"Why did the culture of the First Men vanish? Why are the gods of the North forgotten, even here?"
Her answers were clear—and infuriating.
It hadn't vanished. It had been buried. Suppressed.
The Winter Wolves still exist the old move out to 'hunt' if hey come back they come back only after winter ends they have their own pride. The maesters know it. The wise know it. But the South—the Citadel, the Faith—they made sure the wisdom didn't pass down. That it withered.
The North wasn't defeated by fire and blood. It was gutted by whispers and ink and hunger.
My wolf's blood howled.
I nearly lost myself to the hunger, to the rage of the old kings—the Hungry Wolf, the Red Kings, the Kings of Winter. But I calmed. I went back to the godswood.
Then I acted.
I called the banners.
I instructed the Flints of Flint's Finger, the Flints of the Mountains, the Manderlys, and the Reeds to muster their levies and quietly move near Moat Cailin. They would hold the bottleneck, that ancient choke point. Their own people would lead them. No southern-trained captains. No maester-schooled stewards.
Meanwhile, I summoned the rest to Winterfell.
The Umbers, Karstarks, Boltons, Ryswells, Dustins, Tallharts, and Cerwyns—each with their levies, their sworn houses, their old banners and battle-scarred veterans. The heart of the North would gather at the seat of Winter.
The ravens were sent. The gods were witness.
Now, I wait for Uncle Eddard.
From what I've gathered, just like in the old timeline, Aerys has ordered his and Robert Baratheon,s heads. Jon Arryn reefused to sully his honor and raised his baners lets see how much was honr how much was their scheme at riverlands.
Uncle Eddard was on his way, moving from the Vale, through Sisterton and then to White Harbor before making the final journey to Winterfell.
In the past sennight, I've extracted much from Maester Walys.
He was sent to make the Starks more reliant on the Seven. To weaken us. He funneled ledgers, shifted grain deals, traded gold for food only from the Reach—slow, careful measures that made Winterfell dependent on the South.
And worse—he admitted Olenna Tyrell had my grandmother killed. Because she saw the pattern. Because she realized that we were being bled, just a little more every winter.
That was enough for Olenna to act.
No more.
I will not let the North bleed while we smile politely.
I am Cregan Stark. Son of Brandon Stark and Barbrey Ryswell. Lord and Stark of Winterfell.
The wolf who remembers.
--------------------------------------------------
Anyway, this is the last chapter for today. I'll be posting again in 2–3 days, depending on how progress goes with my other fics. Check them out if you've got the time.
I need a lot of material and ideas to fuel both the Targaryen and Stark stories, so any help or suggestions are always appreciated.
You can support me on
P@treon/LUCIFER482(replace the @ with an "a").
Tier Benefits:
Free Members: Access to one chapter ahead of all other platforms.
Grunts: Access to two chapters ahead.
Barons and Originals: Access to all chapters as soon as they're ready.