The wind had changed by the time Robert Baratheon stepped ashore.
The iron scent of blood still lingered in the salt air, but the smoke had thinned. Pyke stood silent. The great stone towers, once raised in grim defiance of mainland kings, now bore wolf banners that snapped in the morning gale. The kraken had not only been broken—it had been erased.
No honor guard met them. No heralds. Only a formation of Northern soldiers lined the dock, stone-faced and steel-eyed. The Crown's party walked between them in silence.
Robert said nothing as he passed the piled corpses still smoking on the sea-facing cliff. He barely glanced at the iron cross where Euron Greyjoy still hung, lungs exposed and pulsing like dying sails in the wind. His eyes remained fixed on the keep.
Within Pyke's gutted hall, the air was cool and clean—too clean for what had happened here. The chamber was stripped of trophies and tapestries. A single Stark banner hung behind the great seat. Cregan Stark stood beneath it, armored in blackened steel, a wolf's head clasp at his shoulder. He did not bow.
Robert stood before him. Behind the king, Tywin Lannister, Jon Arryn, Stannis Baratheon, and Ser Barristan fanned out like a wall of judgment. But they were late, and every man there knew it.
"We came expecting a siege," Robert said at last. "Found a graveyard."
Cregan didn't blink. "That's what happens when you bury rot."
There was silence.
Tywin Lannister stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. His voice was smooth, but his eyes were cold. "The treasures of the Ironborn—gold, weapons, records—they belonged to the realm. Not the wolves who happened upon them first."
Cregan turned his head. Just slightly.
"We took them by the iron price," he said. "As the Ironborn once took from us. The wealth stays with the houses who earned it."
Tywin's mouth thinned. "You do not dictate law, Lord Stark."
Cregan met his gaze. "Neither do you. Not here."
The air snapped like the banner above them.
Jon Arryn moved to speak, lifting a hand. His tone was softer. "Lord Stark… some have questioned the severity of your actions. The executions. The… display on the cliffs. The realm expects justice, not spectacle."
Cregan stepped down from the dais.
"You think this was a show?" His voice never rose. "The Ironborn have raided our coasts for centuries. They burned villages. Took children. Cut throats for sport. The realm did nothing."
Arryn shifted. "The Crown—"
"The Crown wasn't there when they butchered Tall Trees town," Cregan said, cutting him off. "Or when they dragged a boy from Widow's Watch behind a horse until his skin came off."
He took another step, now level with the gathered lords.
"The North will no longer take wounds without reply. The Ironborn were a plague. And when there is plague—you burn the corpse, not bury it."
No one spoke.
Robert looked up, past Cregan, at the banner behind him. Then to the windows, where he could see the smoke from the pyres still curling skyward. Finally, he met Cregan's eyes.
"You've made your point."
Cregan nodded once. "Then we're done here."
He turned without waiting for dismissal. At the doorway, Whisper appeared behind him like a shadow, silent and watchful. The two departed, not as guests, but as men who no longer needed the Crown's permission.
Tywin said nothing. Stannis's jaw clenched tight. Jon Arryn looked down.
Only Robert remained still, eyes narrowed, watching the sea beat itself against the stone.
The North had answered.
And the realm would not forget.
----
The smoke had long cleared from Pyke, but it still clung to the realm in rumor.
When the royal fleet returned to King's Landing a week later, there were no cheers at the harbor, no great fanfare. Only the creaking of ropes, the thud of boots, and the weight of silence. The streets had already heard what had happened. The Iron Islands had fallen in a single night. Not to the Crown. Not to the storm. But to the North.
Inside the Red Keep, Robert Baratheon passed through the gates without speaking. He went straight to his chambers, peeled off his armor with his own hands, and poured wine until the pitcher shattered. He didn't ask for a new one.
The next day, the Small Council met.
Jon Arryn read the ledger aloud, though none had asked. "A hundred anf forty-seven ships burned in the bay of Pyke. Over 15,000 ironborn slain in the night. All houses of the iron islands ripped our root and stem l, Not a single prisoner returned to the Crown and the entire ironborn treasurary taken by the North."
Tywin Lannister sat still. "But a blood-eagled corpse was left to rot for all to see,"
Varys leaned forward gently, voice soft. "They say he's still breathing."
Stannis looked up from his silence. "Not anymore."
No one laughed.
"The realm is unsettled," Jon said. "Lords ask if the Crown sanctioned such a thing."
"The Crown arrived late," Tywin said coldly. "That is what they know'
"They ask who truly rules now," Varys added.
Jon looked toward the door where Robert should have been. "And what do we tell them?"
Tywin answered without pause. "We tell them nothing. We do not give fear a voice, Robert is king, let the North have the stories we know who holds the power"
---
In the high halls of Oldtown, the Conclave met beneath green glass and silver chains. Maesters from across the Reach had sent scrolls inked with terms like 'excessive force' and 'extra-legal retaliation.' But it was Archmaester Vaellyn who rose last.
"We are not the realm's judges," he said. "We are its record. Let us not mistake truth for permission. The North has declared its intent: no more tolerance for violence unanswered."
A murmur passed through the hall.
"And if the South fails to heed this?" someone asked.
Vaellyn did not reply. He simply dipped his quill and kept writing.
---
In Sunspear, Prince Oberyn of Dorne sat on a shaded balcony with his brother Doran.
"So they gutted the krakens before the stag could even unsheath his sword?" he mused.
Doran said nothing.
"They flayed Euron alive," he continued. "And when Robert arrived, there was no one left to kill."
Still, he said nothing.
Finally, Oberyn asked, "And what do we say of them?"
Doran's fingers tapped once on the stone table. "We say nothing. We listen. And we remember, he has dornish blood he will not move against us"
---
At Highgarden, Lady Olenna Tyrell dismissed her court early. In private, she poured herself a cup of rosehip tea and spoke to her son Mace without looking at him.
"You may wish to smile at tournaments and kiss banners," she said, "but mark this—the North will never kneel again. Not truly. They've tasted dominion."
Mace shifted uncomfortably. "But they're wolves. They stay in the snow."
"For now," she said. "But snow melts. And what lies beneath may not be so patient."
---
In taverns across Westeros, the songs were spreading faster than ravens.
A bard in Gulltown sang: "No gold for the kraken, no crown for the stag,
The wolves came from silence with iron in their bag.
No mercy, no banner, no trumpet nor boast,
Just a boy with a hammer who made salt of the coast."
At the end of the song, the room never clapped. It just sat quiet, staring at the fire.
---
In the market squares of Lannisport, smallfolk told stories with hands over mouths.
"They say the boy never blinks."
"He buried a sword in Euron's spine and pulled out his lungs with his hands."
"They say his eyes glow when he's angry. And he hasn't smiled in two years."
"He's only eleven," someone whispered.
"Doesn't matter," the baker muttered. "They say the sea listens when he speaks."
---
North of the Neck, the old lords spoke less—but listened more.
At Barrowton, Lady Dustin walked his battlements with a quiet smile. "Aye. That's a Stark I'd follow, a proper wolf. Just like my Brandon"
In Bear Island, Jeor Mormont knelt before his godswood and said nothing at all.
At the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton sealed a letter in pitch-black wax. He said only this to his steward: "Send word to Tywin, the boy cannot grow any stronger."
---
In White Harbor, the treasure ships returned to wild celebration. Thralls rescued from the Iron Islands were given food, shelter, homes. Manderly banners flew alongside the wolf's head. A girl who once served in chains now lit the hearth fire in the Wyman's hall.
They had seen a new kind of war.
And they told their children: the North had burned a kingdom in a night. And then walked away.
---
Back in the Red Keep, Robert Baratheon finally emerged.
He stood in the council chamber, now half-emptied of its power, and stared at the carved table. When Jon Arryn asked what should be done about the North, the King did not speak for a long time.
Finally, he said, "Let them keep the Sisters."
Stannis shifted. "And the sea?"
Robert looked west. "They've already left it bloodied and broken who is given the iron islands long term can be disussed soon"
---
And in the quietest corner of the Citadel, Maester Norryn received a new task.
His Archmaester handed him an old book. Blank.
"Begin a new ledger," he said. "Not of bloodlines or battles. One for signs."
"Signs of what?" Norryn asked.
The old man looked north. "Of winter. Not the season. The idea."
---
The realm remembered. Not the names. Not the edicts. But the silence that followed the storm. The hush after Pyke. The boy who never spoke twice.
And the fact that when the wolves came south… no one could stop them.
Chapter 6, Part 4.8 – The Crownless Court (Segment 1)
The snows had come early that year.
Thin white flakes drifted down through the sky like silent witnesses as the lords of the North assembled in Winterfell's great hall. The stone banners of House Stark lined the walls, their direwolves stitched not in black, but silver and red. Great fires burned in the braziers, and long tables had been cleared. This was no feast.
This was war council in peacetime.
Cregan Stark sat the high seat in silence. His cloak was black, his eyes shadowed beneath the wolf-head mantle clasped at his shoulder. Around him, every great house of the North was represented—Glover, Karstark, Umber, Mormont, Reed, Manderly, Dustin, Cassel. Some had brought sons. Others had come alone. All knew why they were here.
The Iron Islands had fallen. The Crown had offered thanks, then stepped aside.
Now came the matter of what came next.
"The Sisters," Cregan said without preamble. His voice was low, but it carried. "We've received no word offrom the crown that the ironborn had left nobody alive. The blood-soaked letter they sent to the South now serves as our claim, the islands are empty and keeps ready for new lords to sit in. A perfect gateway to the Vale if needed and a trading hub for mow.
He looked down the table. "The Crown has acknowledged our rule over the Three Sisters, so long as we keep them clean. That we shall do."
A murmur passed between lords. Glover leaned forward. "Will they be given to one house?"
Cregan shook his head. "No single house will claim them—for now. I'll be sending a raven to the Company of the Rose. They are Northern and I would like to bring them home, A fighting force to keep order with experience in essosi warfare will be useful if they come, we share the islands with them. If not, we divide the land among those willing to invest and add in our own men to keep order."
Karstark nodded once. "A way to bring lost kin home whilst getting a foothold further south"
Cregan's eyes flicked to the fire.
Karstark's comment drew quiet nods, the sort that didn't ask for permission. The room fell still again.
Then Cregan leaned forward, one hand resting against the arm of the high seat.
"There's more."
He let the silence hold a moment longer before speaking again.
"A standing army will be raised. Volunteers first. Selected men from each of your houses. Three thousand strong by spring's end. They will sail east to the Disputed Lands to be blooded."
That drew more reaction.
"A mercenary war?" asked Lord Manderly, frowning beneath a thick beard. "We've never marched across the Narrow Sea."
"We've also never been truly prepared," Cregan said. "This army will not serve coin. It will serve readiness. I want Northern captains who've seen blood before the real war comes."
Greatjon Umber slapped his hand on the table, grinning. "A fine idea. About time our lads swung steel somewhere other than snowdrifts."
"Who commands them?" Galbart Glover asked, more serious.
"We will choose six field commanders," Cregan said. "Names to be announced in a fortnight. I want each of you to send recommendations. No cowards. No boys too soft to bury a blade."
Howland Reed spoke then, quiet but firm. "And if the Crown objects?"
"They gave us no fleet, no coin, and no help beyond too-late words," Cregan said, his tone icy. "They have no ground to protest if we train our own hands for the killing yet to come, and we are not bringing any war to their shores"
He stood, slowly, and all eyes followed him.
"Moat Cailin is nearly complete. The wall stands. The towers are fortified. Roads from the Neck to the Wolfswood have been carved clean. Come winter's end, it will be a stronghold unmatched to be taken over my my Uncle Ned."
"And Sea Dragon Point?" asked Lady Maege Mormont.
"The docks are complete. The new shipwrights have begun their apprenticeships. We'll have ten new ships before year's end. Thirty within three, this seat will by Uncle Benjen's."
Wyman Manderly nodded. "Winterfell commands the heart. Moat holds the throat. Sea Dragon guards the mouth. The shape of a kingdom."
"And what of the treasure?" asked Roose Bolton, his voice smooth and low.
All talk ceased.
Cregan looked at him without blinking.
"The treasure will be divided. One third goes to rebuilding. Roads. Towers. Bridges. Dams. One third goes to the fleet — construction, resupply, the permanent defense of our shores."
"And the last third?" Bolton asked.
Cregan's gaze swept the table.
"To the lords who earned it."
There was a pause. Then a slow, heavy nod from Karstark. "That is just."
"Agreed," said Glover.
"Damn right," growled Umber.
Cregan wasn't finished.
"Three weapons of note were taken in the campaign. They will be kept by the houses who earned them."
He raised a hand.
"House Glover holds Red Rain."
Galbart Glover did not smile, but he touched the sword's hilt with something that might have been pride.
"House Karstark retains Nightfall."
Rickard Karstark inclined his head, silent and satisfied.
"And House Umber will keep the axe taken from Victarion Greyjoy's corpse. Valyrian steel, give it a northern name"
Greatjon blinked, then roared a laugh. "Well now. That'll split more than kindling."
Cregan returned to his seat, letting the noise rise and fall.
Then Lord Dustin stood.
"My lord," he said. "You speak of fleets, roads, and soldiers. But what of the Crown? What of Robert Baratheon? He may have thanked us, but he will not forget what he saw on Pyke, we say the North remembers but the south won't forget this either"
"He won't forget," Cregan said. "But he won't move, either. He saw what a Northern army can do when it moves without leash or chain. He'll let us build as long as we call it peace."
"And when it's not peace?"
Cregan's voice was soft. "Then we'll already be ready."
With that the meeting slowly came to a close, the Northern lords were merry and the worries of the previous winter seemed to have vanished from their lives, the North was Rising.
-- Weeks had passed since the council after the ironborn rebellion, the treasure had been sent, a convoy to the iron bank to set up a meeting between cregan and the leaders of the company of the Rose had been sent and life within winterfell was returning to normality. Cregan had decided that this was the perfect time to advance in his rituals, ned and benjen had done the body, reflexes and strength. This would be cregans 5th.
The winds whispered nothing as Cregan Stark stepped beyond the edge of the Wolfswood.
He had gone alone, without squire or guard. No torches, no standard, no steel. Only a cloak of dark wool, a pouch of chalk, and silence. This was not a place for blades. It was not a place for names.
The clearing lay where the forest met stone—a narrow ledge of frozen earth ringed by pines so tall their tips scraped the grey sky. Snow clung to every branch, but the ground was bare, as if the trees had chosen to leave it untouched. A hollow in the frost. A circle for rites older than even Winterfell's stones.
Cregan knelt and began to draw.
The chalk moved in loops, not lines—slow spirals etched into the frost-bitten earth, each curve careful, precise. Runes not from any book, but from memory so old it came like instinct. Words with no sound. Shapes of meaning, not language.
A sigil for the eye. Another for stillness. A third for blood unshed. A fourth that could not be seen from above—only walked, traced with motion and mind.
He stepped into the center.
The silence was absolute. Not even the birds called here. Not even the snow fell.
He closed his eyes.
The cold seeped into his skin, down to the marrow, but he welcomed it. It stilled the body. Sharpened the breath. He had no need for warmth here.
Inhale.
Exhale.
One by one, his senses began to slow—not dull, but concentrate. Sound became sharp as thread snapping. Smell narrowed to frost, pine, stone. He could feel his own pulse. Hear the heartbeat in his ears. See the red behind his closed lids.
And then—something shifted.
Not the world.
Him.
The pulse… changed. It no longer echoed in his chest, but in the ground beneath him. In the trees. In the very air.
Cregan opened his eyes.
The forest had not moved—but it had become still. Not dead. Not silent. Aware.
He could see things differently now. The twitch of a squirrel's foot ten yards off. The weight of snow about to fall from a branch. The breath of something hidden in a burrow far behind him.
He turned his head and time felt slower. Not frozen, but… wider.
He stepped out of the circle. The runes did not fade. They smoldered faintly in chalky white.
The ritual was complete.
He stood in that hollow stillness for a long while, breathing carefully, adjusting to this new precision.
Then something changed.
Not in the air.
Not in the earth.
In him.
He felt it before he heard it: a second presence. No footfall, no growl, no scent.
Just… being.
Cregan turned.
From the edge of the trees, between two ancient pines, something massive stepped into view.
A direwolf.
Larger than any he had seen in life or dream. Black as the gaps between stars. Fur like shadow wrapped in moonlight. Eyes pale grey, nearly silver.
It did not snarl.
It did not blink.
It stared.
Cregan stared back.
The wolf stood silent, as though carved from stone. It did not bow. It did not advance. It only judged.
Cregan did not move.
A breath passed.
Then another.
And more shapes emerged from the trees.
Not one. Not two. A pack.
Grey, black, silver, albino shaggy and lean a. All as as tall as his uncle others broader than a warhorse. They circled in silence, half-seen in the gloom — twelve of them, perhaps more, padding from snow and shadow like ghosts made flesh.
None growled. None bowed. None advanced.
They simply stood, eyes gleaming pale in the dark, ringing him like sentinels carved from frost and smoke.
Cregan did not move.
Neither did they.
The chalk runes at his feet pulsed once — faint, slow, then still.
And the world seemed to hold its breath.