The sails of the Wolf's Wake furled slowly as the ship eased into the harbor, its hull cutting through the choppy green waters like a knife through wet parchment. White Harbor's great gates loomed tall and open, flanked by carved wolves with weathered snouts. Braavos had faded behind them, but the sea still clung to their boots and breath.
Cregan stood at the prow, silent, unreadable as ever. His cloak stirred in the wind, lined with grey fur, the Stark direwolf pinned at his collar. The sun glinted off the copper-plated cargo ship that followed close behind—the Greywolf, her brazen hull a promise of things yet to come.
Benjen stood beside him, arms folded. "Feels smaller than I remember," he muttered, eyeing the white walls and bustling wharves.
"It's not smaller," Cregan said. "We're larger."
---
Lord Wyman Manderly waited at the dock in a high-collared robe of sea-green and silver, a velvet mantle draped across his shoulders, trimmed in white bear fur. His smile was wide. His eyes were sharp.
"Lord Stark," he said, bowing low. "White Harbor welcomes you with bread and salt"
"Lord Manderly, thankyou for the welcome," Cregan replied.
Wyman let out a chuckle that turned into a wheeze. "Ah, of course my lord."
The formalities passed with wine and ceremony. Cregan's party was housed in the Merman's Hall, granted warm rooms, dry boots, and hot broth spiced with river herbs. But the hospitality had edge—Manderly was weighing more than their cargo.
At supper, Cregan was seated beside him. Wylla Manderly, granddaughter of the Lord, was brought forward briefly. She wore sea-silk and pearls, her hair in a braid too tight for comfort. She was pretty in the way northern girls often were—sturdy, clear-eyed,
"This is my grandaughter Wylla" Wyman said between bites, "she prefers the tales of Alyssa Farman and Corly Velaryon, Good breeding. Good heart. And she's tall. That matters, with you."
Cregan glanced at Wylla, then back to her grandfather.
"My lord, I have no wife. But I'm not in search of one not yet anywhere, i take your offer under consideration.."
Wyman's smile barely shifted. "Marriage cements more than loyalty. It cements memory. The North forgets quickly without bones in the same ground."
Cregan looked out across the table. "Let them remember by what we build."
The matter was not raised again.
---
Later, Wyman summoned him to a quieter chamber in the east wing—lined with half-forgotten sea charts, harbor maps, and miniature models of ships carved from driftwood.
"We speak plainly here," Wyman said, pouring two cups of green apple mead. "You've drawn lines between the old world and what's to come. If you mean to rule the North differently, you'll need more than swords."
Cregan took the cup but didn't drink. "I'll need those who know water. How it flows. How it bends."
Wyman leaned forward. "You mean to give me a seat."
"I mean to offer you one," Cregan said. "Master of Ships. When the council is formalized."
Wyman paused.
"I thought you might come south to trade. I didn't expect you to return with salt enough to reshape the coast."
Cregan finally sipped the mead. "I brought copper. Obsidian. Timber contracts. But you're right. What I returned with is vision."
The Lord of White Harbor nodded slowly. "Then I accept. And you'll have my ships."
---
They made ready to depart the next morning. Cregan meant to ride west, to inspect the early work at Moat Cailin and the Fever River canal sites. The air was cold but bright, the wind cutting from the north. Benjen was already mounted, and the others were loading packs.
That was when the shouting began.
A group of men in faded septon's robes stood at the foot of the harbor steps, blocking the lane to the gate. Their leader, squat and red-faced, held a staff topped with the carved likeness of the Warrior. His voice carried like a bell cracked on the rim.
"Heretic!" he bellowed. "Northern beast! You consort with shadows and devils!"
"The old gods are demons!" another cried. "Your wolves are death spirits!"
"You would tear down the Seven!" the leader roared, stepping forward. "Burn the trees! Burn him! Burn the heretic boy!"
Cregan halted.
His party paused in motion—Rodrick at the reins, Smalljon tightening a saddle strap, Myra gripping her blade, not yet drawn.
Benjen's horse stamped.
And Cregan turned slowly—not to the septons, but to Lord Manderly.
It was a test.
A moment's breath held in frost.
Wyman's jowls quivered with silent fury. He stepped forward with deliberate calm.
"Guards," he said. "Arrest them."
The septons shouted. One tried to run.
He didn't make it far.
"Strip them of their robes. Gag them. They leave on the next tide."
One guard hesitated. "To the dungeons, my lord?"
"To Oldtown," Wyman said. "With no tongues to preach. White Harbor has heard enough."
A silence followed. The crowd that had begun to gather said nothing. The water lapped the quay.
Wyman turned to Cregan.
"My son kneels at the heart tree each moon. My grandchildren speak their names beneath weirwood, not stone. We built a sept once, for peace. But peace should not spit on its host."
Cregan gave a single nod.
"Then you are the North. And the North remembers."
----
The Neck was a land of murk and memory, where every step sank, every breath smelled of damp moss and rot. Moat Cailin rose slowly from that mire—still squat and dark, but no longer broken. The towers stood taller now. The ruins had shape.
Benjen Stark pulled his cloak tighter as his horse picked a careful path through the spongy ground. Fog coiled between the reeds. Ravens called from dead trees.
But the old fortress was stirring.
Stone scraped on stone as workers hauled a fresh slab into place near the east tower. Scaffolding wove around the battlements like a ribcage. There were voices everywhere—Northern masons, crannogmen marsh-guides, hill clansmen hauling mountain-stone. All soaked to the bone and caked in mud. All working.
Benjen dismounted slowly, watching the Drunken Tower loom straight and steady at the heart of the fort.
It no longer leaned.
It stood tall, joined now by eleven others, all raised from deep foundations, laid in stone dragged from the western mountains. The old black basalt had been reinforced with pale granite, and the circular curtain of towers was now nearly closed. Only the southern flank remained exposed.
A foreman in a heavy leather cloak approached, bowing low before Cregan.
"My lord. You're just in time. We've started the trenchworks for the curtain wall."
Cregan gave a nod, his eyes already scanning the landscape. "And the stone?"
"Comin' down river from the ridge. Still slow, but steady. No rot. No crackin'. And your engineers from Braavos—they've been useful."
Benjen arched a brow. "Useful?"
"They yell a lot," the man said, grinning through broken teeth. "But they know what keeps a wall from drowning."
---
Cregan walked the length of the fort slowly, Benjen and Rodrick following behind.
The foundations had been cleared and braced. Older towers—collapsed or unstable—had been broken down and rebuilt around reinforced cores. Every stone now bore marks: runes etched into the undersides, copied from the crypt beneath Winterfell. They were not for show. They were not for magic tricks.
They were for memory.
"They're building it faster than I thought," Rodrick murmured. "It's… more than repair. It's resurrection."
Benjen didn't answer right away. His eyes were locked on the horizon, where the Fever River curled in the mist. Canal flags marked the floodline. Trenches had been dug there, wide enough for barges, reinforced with timber frames and clay sluice gates. Crannogmen in reed cloaks supervised the dredging—pale-eyed and barefoot, muttering to themselves as they worked.
"This was a ruin," Benjen said at last. "A graveyard."
Rodrick looked around. "Still is, in places."
Benjen nodded. "But now it's also a gate."
---
They reached the base of the Drunken Tower—no longer crooked, now ringed by fresh-cut stones stacked in tight spiral. A ladder ran up the scaffold, and Cregan climbed it without hesitation.
At the top, the view opened like a blade.
To the north: the marshes, still untouched, wild and grey.
To the east: the rising road from White Harbor, already staked and marked for paving.
To the west: the bite of the canal cutting toward the Fever.
And to the south: the Neck itself—dense, endless, waiting.
Benjen joined him at the top. Cregan stood still.
"This tower once watched the whole world pass," Cregan said. "And for centuries, it did nothing."
Benjen looked out with him. "Now it watches us build."
"Aye," Cregan said softly. "And when we're done… it will warn."
---
They came down into the central yard where temporary lodgings had been built—wooden barracks for the workers, blacksmiths' tents, storage sheds. Fires burned low. Mud clung to boots and carts alike.
A raven croaked overhead.
Myra met them at the base of the main tower. She had ridden ahead two days earlier with Wyl the Woodsman and a small detachment to scout the canal forks. Her hair was tied back in a wet knot, boots caked to the knee.
"It's good," she said. "But the south canal trench near the old causeway is taking water. Might be a spring under the clay shelf."
"Can it be fixed?" Cregan asked.
"We're trying. Might need stone lining, not wood."
Cregan nodded. "Then we line it."
Rodrick stepped forward. "The men are working past dusk. Some are sleeping soaked."
"I'll send new tents and dry straw," Cregan said. "And triple rations for the next fortnight."
Benjen gave him a sidelong glance. "Soft?"
"No," Cregan said. "Grateful."
---
That evening, they took shelter inside the Drunken Tower. The hearth had been lit with pinewood. Smoke rose cleanly through the new chimney. A rough table had been built from fallen oak and strewn with maps.
Cregan sat alone at one end, fingers tracing the markings of the Neck—canal paths, tower perimeters, ferry posts.
Rodrick broke the silence.
"This place… you mean to keep it manned, even in peace?"
Cregan looked up. "It will be Uncle Neds, and the one being built on Sea Dragon Point will be yours."
Benjen leaned against the wall. "And if the kings of the South demand to pass?"
"Then they'll knock," Cregan said. "And wait."
He stood and moved to the arrow slit that faced south.
"They south has never cross the Neck before yet we got complacent in peace and we let Moat Cailin crumble. No more. The road narrows here. Let it also harden."
---
Outside, the towers stood like teeth, silent and patient in the fog. Moat Cailin no longer looked dead.
It looked nearly finished.
---
Snow greeted them before the walls came into view. Not a storm, but a slow, drifting hush that settled on cloaks and horses like memory.
Winterfell's gate stood open when they arrived, torchlight glowing against fresh-fallen white. The courtyard was quiet, still—until the doors opened and warmth spilled out with it.
Ned stood at the threshold, a wolf-hound at his side. He looked tired, but solid. Behind him, Catelyn stepped into view, a bundled infant in her arms and two boys at her skirts. The taller one held his brother's hand.
The wind shifted. Cregan dismounted.
The moment held.
"Uncle!" Robb's voice broke first, loud and bright.
Jon followed, quieter but grinning, snow in his lashes.
Cregan crouched as they ran into him, throwing his arms around both at once. "Seven hells, you've grown." He looked up at Catelyn. "And this one?"
Catelyn smiled. "Her name is Arya."
Cregan rose, taking the infant from her gently. She blinked at him—dark hair, quiet eyes. Her small fingers curled into his cloak as if she already owned it.
"She's strong," he said softly. "I can feel it."
"And Sansa's inside, warm and wild as ever," Catelyn added. "She's three, and has decided she's a queen."
Cregan chuckled. "Then Winterfell's already hers."
---
That night, they gathered in the great hall—not a feast, but a family meal. Stew thick with boar meat and barley, flatbread, baked squash, and a heavy cider spiced with orange peel and cloves.
The boys sat beside him, peppering him with questions.
"Did you see Braavosi knights?" Robb asked.
"No knights," Cregan said, sipping. "Just men with masks and women with sharper steel than sense."
"Did you bring swords?"
"I brought books," Cregan said. "The kind that cut deeper."
Jon raised a brow. "That sounds like something a maester would say."
Cregan smiled, but didn't argue.
Benjen joined late, brushing road-dust from his sleeves, dropping into the seat beside Ned with a tired sigh. "You missed him arguing a Braavosi banker into silence. I thought the man would faint."
"And the Sea Lord?" Ned asked, low.
"He gave him docking rights and trade routes like a man granting favor to a force of nature."
"I didn't demand," Cregan said. "I explained."
"You explained by standing there and letting them come to conclusions you never spoke aloud," Benjen muttered. "You were terrifying."
---
Later, with the children abed and Arya asleep in Catelyn's arms, Cregan and Ned walked the godswood in silence. The snow whispered beneath their boots, and the red leaves overhead shivered like breath.
"The heart tree missed you," Ned said.
"She never forgets."
They reached the bench near the roots. Cregan knelt and placed a small black mirror at the base of the weirwood—obsidian, veined with faint light.
"They're watching," he said. "The Faceless Men. One walks our halls now."
Ned tensed. "You trust them?"
"I don't need to. They know my title from my old life. That's loyalty enough for now."
Ned looked at the mirror but didn't touch it. "And if their memory fades?"
"Then we remind them what Northmen are."
---
Inside the solar, a fire burned low. Cregan laid out Braavosi letters, trade seals, and two rune-stones. Ned turned them slowly in his hands, frowning.
"Benjen placed them clean?" he asked.
"Like in Oldtown," Cregan said. "Everything within the Braavosi library is being copied as we speak."
"And Marwyn?"
"Happy as a hog in a vault. He'll be weeks sorting the echoes."
Ned leaned back. "How many books now?"
"More than Oldtown was willing to give. And these aren't censored. We'll build a second library in White Harbor when the stone arrives."
"And the acolytes?"
"Fifty-three arrived. Thirty-seven remain. The rest failed the discipline." Cregan was quiet a moment. "The ones who stayed—those are the roots."
Ned nodded. "Luwin says they've already begun a new system. Less chain, more learning."
Cregan poured a measure of wine into two wooden cups. "Good. The Citadel's broken. I don't need their approval. I need truth."
---
Ned took a sip, then set his cup down.
"You mean to keep building."
"I mean to never stop."
Ned glanced toward the frost-glazed window. "And Moat Cailin?"
Cregan nodded. "It will be ready by year's end. You should take it."
Ned looked at him, caught off-guard.
"It's the choke point," Cregan continued. "We'll hold the North from it. You're the one they'll follow."
"I'm not worthy."
"You are and so will Robb be when you pass it onto him, your house name and banner have already been made.
Ned looked back into the fire. "And if war comes?"
"It will come. And when it does, they'll knock. From south, or from beyond the Wall."
---
The fire burned low. Wind crept under the eaves.
Outside, Winterfell slept.
Inside, the wolves stirred.
Spring had come to Winterfell not with flowers but fire—six hearths blazing in the great hall, smoke curling in the rafters, roast meat and root vegetables served on trenchers still warm from the ovens. The feast marked the turning of the season, the first since Cregan's return, and the first time in years so many Northern banners flew above the old stone walls.
The Stark table was full. Ned and Catelyn sat to either side of Cregan, who bore the place of honor. Arya slept in Catelyn's arms, her small fist wrapped in the edge of her mother's shawl. Sansa, wide-eyed, clutched a honeycake too big for her hands. Robb and Jon leaned toward one another, trading snickers about the musicians.
"They play worse than the ones last year," Jon whispered.
"They're louder, too," Robb added. "Maybe that's so no one hears the old ones dying."
Cregan gave a quiet snort, not unkind. "They hear you just fine."
Ned raised a brow, but said nothing. There was a light in his eyes tonight that had been missing the past year.
---
Beyond them, the hall thrummed with voices. Lords from the Rills, Barrowton, the Dreadfort, Karhold, and Last Hearth drank from the same casks, though not always at the same pace. Music rose and dipped. There was laughter, and clapping, and boasts—but also something quieter beneath it. A sense of watching.
Roose Bolton sat near the fire but did not speak. He drank slowly, one hand idly brushing his throat as though checking his pulse. His pale eyes flicked from lord to lord, then lingered on the Stark high seat.
He had expected absence to breed doubt. Instead, it had grown teeth.
Cregan had returned not with merchants or courtiers, but knowledge and resolve. The boy had gone to Braavos, and a ruler had come back.
Bolton drank deeply, then set the cup down with deliberate care.
---
After the third round of courses and the second turn of musicians, Cregan rose.
He stepped down from the dais not with flourish, but calm, his cloak trailing behind him. One by one, he found the men he needed to speak to—not all at once, not in spectacle, but with quiet gravity.
---
Rickard Karstark was standing near the long bench by the northern column, his cup untouched. His beard was grey at the edges now, eyes as flinty as the hills his house ruled.
"You've returned stronger," Rickard said when Cregan approached.
"Stronger, yes. But with more burdens."
Rickard looked around. "A feast. Songs. But no bluster. No banners thrust in faces."
"I'm not a southern king," Cregan said. "I don't need declarations to make things real."
"What do you need, then?"
"A war-counselor. Someone to prepare, not react. One who understands not just where to send men, but when to keep them back. The Master of War, when the council is formed."
Rickard looked at him, long and level. "You want me to think like a maester."
"I want you to think like a wolf planning for the third winter, not the next meal."
There was silence, broken only by the strings of a harp echoing off stone.
Rickard's voice lowered. "You know my son trains under your name."
"He shows promise."
"Then build him. And I'll help build your wall."
They clasped forearms, nothing more.
---
Greatjon Umber was less subtle.
"You mean to give me a council seat?" he said, already grinning, meat still in his teeth. "And for what—talking loud and breaking chairs?"
"Master of Laws," Cregan said, unflinching. "Not just for justice, but to keep lords from cheating tax, breaking pacts, or playing at power behind closed doors."
Greatjon blinked. "You want me to watch them?"
"I want you to hold them accountable. The North answers to the Starks—but I can't be everywhere at once."
Greatjon sat back, rubbing his jaw. "I'm no judge, Cregan."
"No," Cregan said. "But you are feared. And that will do for now."
The Umber lord barked a laugh and raised his cup. "Well, I'll drink on it. But you'll need a bigger table."
---
The final conversation came hours later, when the hall had begun to empty. Cregan and Benjen stood near the doors leading into the yard, cold air blowing through as servants cleared plates and snuffed lanterns.
"You've done well," Cregan said quietly.
Benjen scoffed. "I've done numbers. Lists. Grain tallies."
"You've tracked coin through every channel from White Harbor to the Rills. You've rooted out corruption without fanfare. You even caught the smuggler ring in Widow's Watch."
"I had help."
"You had sense."
Benjen shifted. "You're circling something."
"I want you as Master of Coin. Not now. But soon. We'll need someone to manage the taxes, trade, and rebuild from here to Sea Dragon Point."
Benjen folded his arms. "You trust me with that?"
"I trust you with the truth."
They stood in silence for a moment, just long enough for a snowflake to drift in and melt on Benjen's shoulder.
"Let me train someone else, too," Benjen said. "Someone quiet. Not a lord. Just sharp."
Cregan nodded. "Then it begins."
---
When the hall was nearly empty, and the wind had dulled to a hush, Cregan returned to the dais. Robb and Jon had long since fallen asleep curled beneath his cloak. Sansa lay in Catelyn's lap, still clutching a crust of cake, dreaming with a smile.
Ned sat across from him, still holding the last of his wine.
"Well?" he asked.
"They'll come. Some quick, some slow. But they'll come."
"And if they don't?"
Cregan looked down at the boys sleeping at his feet.
"Then we'll build without them something that they can live in without fear." He said nodding at the boys at his feet.
---
The feast had lost its roar, but the fire still burned.
By the time the moon hung high over Winterfell, the Spring Harvest celebration had dulled to quiet songs and low voices. The tables, once overflowing with steaming meats and dark bread, now held half-drunk flagons and scraps of apple peel. Even the dogs curled beneath the benches slept.
Cregan sat at the high table, the weight of command pressed lightly on his shoulders—not heavy, but present, like an old cloak he had not removed. His eyes moved over the room slowly, thoughtfully. He didn't need to speak. He had spoken enough already.
To his left, Sansa lay curled against Catelyn's arm, the sticky remnants of a honeycake still clutched in her hand. Arya slept deeper in Catelyn's lap, a tiny fist pressed to her cheek. Across the table, Robb and Jon had nodded off as well, both slumped over the table with a shared fur draped over their shoulders.
Benjen nursed his drink slowly, quiet but watchful.
"They all look older," he murmured to Cregan.
"They are," Cregan replied. "Even if they don't know it."
In the center of the hall, a bard strummed a final song—soft, slow, and northern. No tales of Targaryen dragons or Andal knights. Just a woman by the sea and a man who never returned.
Greatjon Umber sat with a pipe between his teeth, nodding along with half-lidded eyes. He'd held court earlier with laughter and shouted boasts, but now he was still, like a bear in his den.
Rickard Karstark stood near the far hearth, arms folded, watching the flames. He had spoken little since their conversation earlier, but Cregan caught his gaze once across the room—and they shared a nod.
Wyman Manderly, already half-dozing, had retired after the third course. Lord Ryswell had lingered longer, dicing with Lord Slate and losing coins with a grin.
Only Roose Bolton sat untouched by warmth or wine. His face remained unreadable, his movements precise. He watched the fire like a man reading it for secrets.
He had found none.
Maester Luwin entered quietly with his usual soft clinking of chains and whispered something to Ned, who stood and spoke briefly with Cregan before helping Catelyn lift the girls to their chambers. The boys were carried by a pair of guards—neither stirred as they were lifted.
Soon the hall was almost empty.
Benjen rose, stretched his back, and stepped toward the side doors. "You staying here all night?"
Cregan shook his head. "Just long enough to remember this."
Benjen nodded once and left him alone by the dying fire.
The logs cracked. Smoke twisted up the stone chimney like a whisper. The bard finished his song with a final soft chord, then bowed and quietly disappeared through the kitchen hall.
Only Cregan remained.
The warmth on his skin was real—but behind it, beneath it, something colder stirred. Not danger. Not yet. But motion. A pull in the deep places of his mind where instinct whispered.
Winterfell was ready. The North was listening.
And soon… it would need to act.
The chalk circles had to be precise. Too wide, and the strain wouldn't center. Too narrow, and the nerves might seize.
Cregan knelt in silence as he traced the last arc with care. The crypt chamber smelled of stone and iron—oiled lanterns flickering as the still air pressed in around him. In each corner of the circle, carved pieces of ice, weirwood shavings, and powdered shadowcat bone sat in miniature dishes. Each ingredient had been acquired months ago, bartered quietly from across the North.
This was the fourth ritual. The one Sirius had named Reflexus—though the word itself had no direct Common Tongue translation. It wasn't speed. It wasn't instinct. It was anticipation without thought—the body responding before the mind could interfere.
Cregan stepped barefoot into the center. The runes along the outer rim began to glow as his blood—drawn with a silver needle and mixed with smoke water—soaked into the carvings.
His breathing slowed.
Then came the pain.
A convulsion surged through his spine like a bowstring snapping. His vision blurred, then sharpened. The light from the lantern fractured, each flicker slowed and separated into its component pulses. He felt his heartbeat, not as a rhythm—but as a signal. A command.
There was no burst of strength. No brilliant flash. Just sensation, sudden and overwhelming: the drag of air along his cheek, the vibration of dust settling in stone, the minute shifting of weight on the ball of his foot.
A whisper in the dark: Not faster. Sooner.
When it ended, the circle dimmed. His fingers trembled once, then steadied. He stepped outside the circle. The chill no longer touched him.
Later that night, he found the children in the solar.
Robb was curled in a nest of furs by the hearth, snoring softly, half a wooden direwolf clutched in his fist. Jon sat nearby on a low stool, drawing slowly with a bit of charcoal on parchment—his tongue sticking out slightly as he focused.
Sansa, barely more than a baby, was nestled in her mother's arms, one tiny hand gripping Catelyn's braid as she slept.
Cregan stepped in quietly and lowered himself onto the bench near Jon.
The boy didn't look up. "Is it done?"
Cregan raised a brow. "What makes you think anything happened?"
Jon smirked—only a little. "You walk quieter when you've done something big."
Cregan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "It's done. But it's not a thing for pride."
Jon put down the charcoal and looked at him. "Did it hurt?"
"Yes."
"Will you teach me when I'm older?"
"If you still want it, and understand the cost."
Jon nodded, as if that settled it.
Cregan looked down at the boy's drawing—a wolf and a weirwood, a crude sword between them. There was no fire in the picture. No sun. Just snow falling between the shapes.
"You could be a builder," Cregan murmured.
Jon shrugged. "They always say I'm not meant to be anything."
Cregan looked up, meeting the boy's eyes. "Then they're wrong."
He stayed long after the others went to bed.
The fire crackled softly. The wind outside shifted, just enough for him to hear the creak of an old shutter, the hush of snow brushing against the glass.
He flexed his hand.
The muscles obeyed instantly—not with strength, but with precision. If a knife were to fall beside him, he could catch it before it hit the floor. If an arrow flew from behind, he would know, before the sound, before the snap.
It was not a weapon. It was readiness.
The next ritual would require even more. But for now, he allowed himself this quiet.
---
The effects lingered longer than the others.
It had been three days since Cregan completed the ritual for reflexes, but his body had not fully settled. His senses hadn't dulled. He moved like a shadow among the walls of Winterfell—more precise, more still. His fingers responded to thought without delay. When he reached for a cup, his hand was already there. When he turned to speak, the words were shaped before breath left his throat.
But with that clarity came something deeper—not coldness, but control.
The warmth others offered him still reached him, even more so now. The laughter of Ned's children rang with detail. The hush of falling snow felt like music. He loved them all more sharply, not less. If there was a cost to the ritual, it was not detachment—it was the knowledge that he could no longer afford hesitation.
Benjen had noticed first—not because something was missing, but because something was honed. "You're still you," he'd said after sparring that morning. "But there's less noise in you now."
Cregan had smiled. "I've learned what to hear."
Ned had grown more thoughtful in his presence. He didn't avoid Cregan's eyes. But he weighed his words more carefully now, like a man who respected fire but still walked close to it. Ned knew power when he saw it—and knew Cregan was no longer climbing, but becoming.
The household sensed it too. Guards who'd once tousled his hair now stood straighter. Gage offered nods instead of greetings. Rodrick Snow, ever loyal, watched him like a soldier watches a general—not for orders, but for alignment. Not fear. Just awareness.
That evening, Cregan passed through the nursery. Robb and Jon sat on the floor by the hearth, stacking carved blocks into crooked towers. Robb laughed when his fell. Jon rebuilt his in silence, focused and steady.
Catelyn sat nearby with a mending basket in her lap. Her eyes flicked up the moment Jon laughed.
"He grows bold," she muttered, not quite under her breath. "Like he thinks he belongs."
Cregan turned to her—no word, no scolding. Just a look.
Catelyn dropped her gaze, and her needle moved faster.
Robb paid no mind, already building again. Jon glanced toward Cregan and gave a faint nod, not in deference, but acknowledgment. Understanding passed between them.
Sansa stirred in her cradle, wriggling beneath a fur-lined blanket. Her mouth moved around the sounds of sleep, and a murmur bubbled from her lips.
"Unca Cwegan…"
He stepped forward and brushed a hand across her cheek. Her skin was soft as new snow.
He stayed long enough to see Jon's tower stand taller than Robb's, then turned and walked out into the corridor without a word.
The godswood was quiet. Snow clung to the branches like breath held too long. The heart tree watched in silence, its red eyes half-veiled in frost, its mouth bleeding slow, sticky sap.
Cregan stood beneath the branches and said nothing.
Whisper appeared as he always did—between one blink and the next. One moment the clearing was empty. The next, he was there, cloaked in grey, masked, his eyes dark and still.
"You're early," Cregan said.
"The sea stirs," Whisper replied. "And the tides come quicker now."
Cregan gestured.
"They are building. Not merchants' ships. Raiders. Thin-hulled. Fast. Greyjoy's men do not speak of trade anymore. They speak of the Old Way."
"Balon?"
"He has not declared. But he speaks like a king to those who listen. Salt wives, the old ways reavinng and rasing His captains grow bolder. His priests louder."
"Are the people ready?"
"They are hungry. They want something to follow."
Cregan's jaw tensed. "If he declares—if a raven leaves Pyke for King's Landing with the word 'king' in it…"
Whisper finished for him. "The Crown will call banners. They'll expect yours."
"They always do."
"I've placed three on the islands. One on Pyke. One on Harlaw. One beneath the Salt Hall floor. Seven across Westeros. Twelve more in Essos."
"They know their place?"
Whisper inclined his head. "They serve. As I do. Death is not in question."
Cregan looked toward the frozen pond. "If he makes the move—if even one voice speaks it—bring it to me before the South breathes it in."
"You'll know before the tide hits Blackwater Bay."
"And if someone else hears it first?"
Whisper's voice thinned. "They won't speak it twice."
Cregan didn't respond. Whisper faded as the wind shifted, vanishing between one blink and the next.
Alone beneath the tree, Cregan pressed a hand to the bark. The warmth beneath frost was faint but steady.
He closed his eyes.
And listened—not for danger, not for whispers, but for the laughter in the hall. The weight of Robb's joy. The grit of Jon's silence. The softest babble of a girl who still believed in magic.
It was enough. It was everything.