The breath between them held like the hush before a storm.
Cregan stood in the center of the clearing, surrounded by wolves. They did not move. Nor did he. Frost clung to their fur like dusted ash, eyes unblinking, bodies still but taut with ancient purpose.
One step would mean everything.
He took it.
Snow cracked under his boot as he moved slowly toward the black alpha. Its ears did not flick. Its eyes remained locked to his, deeper than glass, colder than steel. When he reached it, Cregan stopped.
And then, he knelt.
Not in submission—but reverence.
A slow, deliberate motion, one knee to the earth, his head bowed just enough to mark the sacred. Not to worship. Not to surrender. To honor.
The black wolf stepped forward.
A low rumble started in its throat—not a growl, but a sound like stone rolling in an ancient cave. It circled him once, tail low, eyes sharp. When it passed behind him, Cregan did not turn. He remained still, his breath visible in the cold air.
The wolf came full circle.
Then it pressed its brow to his.
The touch was firmer than before. A moment of absolute stillness. When it pulled away, it lowered its head—not to the ground, but in alignment. As if saying: I see you.
Cregan rose.
He turned slowly in place. One by one, the others met his gaze.
A scarred grey stepped forward and lowered itself before him. Then a brindled one. Then a white with mismatched eyes. No sound passed between them. No gesture called them. They simply followed.
When he took a step toward the forest's edge, the black alpha did the same.
The rest fell into place behind.
Not as pets.
Not as beasts.
As kin.
They moved through the trees as one.
---
Cregan emerged from the trees at dusk, the snow a pale silver beneath the dimming sky.
The black direwolf walked at his side like a shadow given flesh, enormous and silent. Behind them came the rest—twelve wolves in total, their eyes catching what light remained, pale flames in the cold. They moved in perfect rhythm, not like beasts but like soldiers. Like ghosts. Like sentinels returning to a land that had forgotten their shape.
No horn sounded their arrival. No raven had flown ahead.
And yet, the gate of Winterfell opened.
Not with a shout, nor with command. The heavy timbers groaned open as if urged by something deeper—memory in the stone, perhaps. Or reverence. The guards stationed there stepped back without knowing why, lowering their spears as if to honor not a lord, but something older.
Cregan stepped through first, the black wolf keeping pace with every stride. The rest followed behind him, a formation born not of training, but instinct. The courtyard, busy moments before, froze in place. Blacksmiths let hammers hang mid-swing. A bucket slipped from a washerwoman's hands. Two stableboys stepped behind a post and did not emerge.
None of the wolves snarled. None barked. And still, fear rippled across the stone like frost chasing wind.
Two of the pack broke away and sat, one on either side of the gate. They did not look at the guards—they watched everything. Like gargoyles of fur and fang, anchoring the threshold.
As the column reached the Great Keep, another wolf drifted from the line and sat at the main doors, lowering itself slowly, regal and still. Its ears twitched once, then ceased movement altogether.
The rest followed Cregan deeper.
And Winterfell opened to them.
No command was given, yet the pack dispersed with purpose. One padded toward the children's corridor and lay outside the chamber where Robb, Jon, and Sansa slept. Another settled beside the bedchamber of Ned and Catelyn, curling against the stone wall without a sound. A third strode the hallway leading to Benjen's quarters, stopping just short of the door, and lowered its head to rest on crossed paws.
Another found the solar—Cregan's study—and seated itself outside the door with an expression that did not speak of loyalty, but of vigilance. Of judgment.
The last wolf, the black one, followed him to the top of the tower, never once falling behind, never once breaking pace.
They entered together.
The courtyard began to move again—but not to speak. They whispered. Murmured. Wondered aloud as though afraid to be heard.
"Did you see the way they moved?"
"Are they his?"
"No collar. No command. They just... knew."
From the kitchens, a steward swore he saw one of the wolves bow its head to the godswood and then vanish into mist.
A few remembered tales from Old Nan's youth. Most didn't want to say them aloud.
Inside, the servants moved more quietly that night. Guards took double watches at the outer wall but left the inner halls to the wolves. They didn't speak of it, but each man who passed the corridors walked a little softer than before.
And near the fire, Old Nan sat in her long chair, the flames painting her face with dancing gold.
She stared not at the hearth, but at the door.
And in her whisper-cracked voice, dry as winter leaves, she said:
"They're here again. The Starks of old.
And this time, they brought the pack."
---
Winterfell was quiet, but not still.
The wolves moved through the halls like smoke—never running, never chasing, but always present. When the guards changed shifts, they stepped lightly around the one lying at the door to the children's chambers. When servants passed the stairwell outside Cregan's solar, they bowed their heads. Not in reverence. In instinct.
It was only a matter of time before someone broke the silence.
It was Catelyn.
She stormed into the Great Hall mid-morning, robes rustling like a flag in battle, hair half-unbound, Sansa clinging to her hand and Arya dragging behind, red-faced and fuming.
"They are not dogs!" she snapped at the guards flanking the passage. "They're beasts. They are not safe. They sleep in our halls. They prowl beside our children!"
A handful of stewards froze mid-task. The black wolf lifted its head from where it lay beside the hearth but did not move.
Catelyn pointed. "That thing followed me to the corridor. It stared at me as if it were waiting for something! I won't have this—I won't have these things near my children!"
Footsteps echoed behind her.
Cregan entered without a word, cloak unfastened, boots still crusted with frost. The alpha walked beside him, silent, heavy as a shadow.
Catelyn turned on him immediately. "You brought monsters into this house. Into their rooms. I will not stand for it, do you hear me? I will not have wolves beside the cradle or the kitchens. You endanger them all—"
"Enough," Cregan said.
The word stopped her mid-stride. It was not loud. But it struck harder than a shout.
He descended the steps of the high seat and came to stand just before her. He did not shout. His voice was low and winter-cold.
"You have lived in the North for nine years," he said. "And yet you still speak of it as if it were foreign. Still act as if you were above it."
She paled. "I only—"
"You look down on our ways. You judge our blood. You have filled Sansa's head with southern niceties and courtesies she'll never need in the land of her birth. You've raised Jon with nothing but distance and contempt. You've tried to make our hall into a place of silk and fear."
Her jaw tightened. "They're animals—"
"So are we," Cregan snapped, eyes locked to hers. "We are of the North. We were not made for golden cloaks or soft gardens. The wolves know their place better than most men. And better than most guests."
Catelyn swallowed hard.
Cregan leaned in slightly, voice lower now. "If I hear even a whisper of the Seven's rites in the halls of Moat Cailin—if I find even one Septa whispering prayers in corners—I will repeat what I did to Mordane."
She flinched.
Then he stepped back, expression unreadable.
"Go."
She turned, face pale, and left the hall with the girls in tow.
The black wolf lowered its head again, and the hall held its breath.
---
The doors had barely closed behind Catelyn when Ned emerged from the shadows of the side corridor, Benjen a step behind him.
Neither spoke for a moment.
The black wolf turned its head toward them, watching, then returned to stillness beside the hearth.
Cregan stood with his back to them, arms loose at his sides, breath quiet. The fire threw long shadows across the stone floor.
Benjen broke the silence. "You didn't need to speak to her like that in front of everyone."
"I did," Cregan said without turning. "Because she's been speaking behind doors for too long."
Ned stepped forward, his face unreadable. "She's still their mother."
"She's their mother," Cregan said, "but this is still our house."
He turned then, eyes shadowed but steady. "And she's taught Jon to doubt his place. Tried to shape Sansa into a southern doll. Arya she ignores. And all the while, she looks down at the North as if it were a sickness she must endure."
Benjen rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You're not wrong. But she's a Tully, Cregan. She wasn't raised for wolves and snow."
"She's been here nine years," Cregan said. "A tree takes root in half that time."
Ned said nothing. He looked tired.
Cregan stepped past him, heading toward the side door leading to the tower stairs. The black wolf followed without sound.
"I'll be seeing to the children's instruction from now on," Cregan added. "Sansa will learn Northern history, not ballads. Arya will train as she wishes. Robb and Jon will know the land as well as their swords. And Jon will be treated as he is—Stark blood. No less."
Ned's mouth opened, then closed.
"I won't undo your marriage," Cregan said. "But I will not let her soften the bones of this house. If she wishes to serve the gods of the South, she can do it in silence."
He paused at the base of the stairs.
"And if she doesn't—she may find Winterfell colder than she remembers."
Then he was gone.
Benjen let out a long breath and muttered, "That'll go well."
Ned just stared at the fire, quiet.
Then: "Maybe it's time the children learned what it means to be Starks."
---
By the next morning, changes had begun to ripple through Winterfell like cracks beneath ice.
The schoolroom overlooking the godswood had been stripped and reformed. Gone were the banners of the Seven Kingdoms and southern calligraphy drills. In their place hung hand-drawn maps of the Wolfswood and the Barrowlands, carved runes from the age of the First Men, and the lineage of the Stark kings stretching back beyond memory. Where once had been silk cushions, there were benches of pine and thick woolen cloaks draped over pegs. A fire burned steadily in the hearth. There was no warmth in the air, only focus.
The southern tutor had left the night before. Quietly. Her trunks packed, her horse saddled, and no goodbye offered. No one asked where she had gone.
no maester's chain. Only scars and respect.
Robb and Jon arrived first, blinking at the changes. Arya bounded in next, her face flushed from racing the corridors. Sansa followed at a measured pace, her expression pinched with something between confusion and disapproval.
Cregan was already there, seated in the corner.
"Sit," he said.
They did.
"Each day begins with Northern history. Then geography. Then lessons in survival. You'll spar after the midday meal. Sansa, you'll stay for all of it."
She hesitated. "But I—"
"You'll stay," he repeated.
Arya smirked.
Maester Luwin cleared his throat gently. "We begin with the reign of King Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf…"
Cregan said nothing more. He watched. Listened. Measured every glance, every question, every answer.
When the lesson ended, he rose and left without ceremony.
---
The wolf joined him on the walk back to his solar.
The halls of Winterfell felt sharper now. More aware. The very air had changed since the wolves took their posts. Servants moved quieter. The hearths burned cleaner. Even the snow that collected on the stones outside the Great Keep seemed to fall more slowly, as if respecting the silence.
Rodrik Cassel waited in the solar with Whisper beside him—hooded, faceless, still.
"A bird was intercepted at a coastal rookery," Rodrik said. "Hidden among trade ledgers. One of Whisper's men retrieved it before it crossed the Vale."
The scroll was already unsealed.
Cregan read it once, silently.
It was addressed to Lord Tywin Lannister.
The words were veiled but unmistakable. Observations from "a cautious Northern voice" about the pace of change in Winterfell. Mentions of direwolves, silence, discipline. Subtle warnings that unchecked ambition might unbalance old orders—and that "southern allies may still find purchase among the wary."
There was no name signed.
But Cregan knew the hand. The diction. Cold, composed. Careful, even in betrayal.
Roose Bolton.
He refolded the parchment and handed it to Whisper.
"I already have one in the Dreadfort," he said. "I want more. A network. I want to know who dines with Roose, who he favors, what words are spoken at night."
Whisper inclined their head.
"And Domeric," Cregan added. "He's to be watched in the Vale—closely, but untouched. I want every raven he sends read before the ink dries."
Another nod.
"And Tywin. Every bird that flies to Casterly Rock, I want eyes on it. If it carries my name, I'll see it before he breathes on it."
Whisper was gone before Rodrik could exhale.
Cregan turned back to the fire, quiet for a long while.
"Not yet," he said. "No summoning. No accusations. Not until I see the whole of it."
His voice was soft, final.
"And when I do… the Dreadfort will remember who holds the North."
---
Snow packed firm beneath their boots.
Jon and Robb ran the inner yard, breath rising in short, steady clouds, boots pounding frost-hardened earth. Laps—six so far. No complaining. Cregan watched from the shade of the training post, arms folded, black wolf seated beside him like a silent stone.
"Seven laps by the end of this week," he said. "Ten by next. A lord who cannot run a mile cannot ride to battle. And if you collapse in snow, the snow wins."
Robb gasped a breath but nodded. Jon kept pace with him stride for stride.
When they finished, both were flushed, sweating despite the cold.
"Stretch. Then swords."
By midmorning they were paired against Brekk, taking turns in mock engagements—short sword, long sword, shield, dagger. Cregan corrected their footwork with a tap of his cane. Too wide. Too soft. Good parry. Do it again.
He did not praise often.
He did not have to.
Later, he brought them to the keep and into the solar where Ned waited with maps spread across the long table.
"Sit," Cregan said. "Your arms are tired. Use your minds."
Ned nodded toward the parchment. "If three thousand men were massing on the White Knife and your supplies were ten days short, what would you do?"
Robb stared at the ink lines. "Strike early. Use surprise."
Jon frowned. "Ambush from the treeline. But not if there's mist. We'd lose each other."
Ned smiled faintly. "Good, a good leader knows when to use different ideas they listen and reflect and move forward with a single one. Clear concise instructions.
Cregan remained silent, only pointing to another map. "Now do it for Deepwood, and the others. You do this daily before we move onto ethics and the historical wars."
---
Elsewhere in the training yard, Arya stood with her legs apart, eyes focused. Sansa stood five feet away, expression unsure, holding a wooden knife.
"Again," said a tall woman with tied-back hair and a long scar down her chin—Thora, once of the Bear Islands, now sworn to Winterfell's guard.
"Where do you stab?" she asked Sansa.
Sansa swallowed. "The heart."
"No."
Thora stepped forward, grabbed Arya's wrist, and turned her slightly.
"Stomach. Kidney. Thigh. Groin. And here—" She tapped the base of the throat. "Fastest way to kill if you're small."
Sansa looked horrified.
Arya grinned.
"Now grab her," Thora said to Arya.
Arya lunged. Sansa shrieked, tried to twist, failed.
"Wrong," Thora said. "Again."
This time, when Arya grabbed her, Sansa jabbed with the hilt. It clacked hard against Arya's shoulder.
Arya laughed. Sansa blinked, surprised.
"Better," Thora said. "You're not ladies here. You're girls who might be taken. Fight like that, you kick scream bite scratch until your free to run."
---
By the time dusk touched the stones, Robb and Jon were back at the table, kneeling over a carved model of the Dreadfort's walls. Ned sat behind them, thoughtful.
"They're starting to see it," he said quietly.
Cregan nodded. "They'll learn faster in snow than in parchment."
He looked at them both.
"And before winter ends… they'll be ready."
---
The fire in the solar burned low, casting long shadows across the stone walls.
Rodrik Cassel entered without waiting to be called, his boots clicking against the flagstones with the urgency of someone bearing no good news. In his hand, he held a tightly wound scroll, unsealed, bound not with wax but simple twine—the kind used for trade ledgers and caravan manifests. Its simplicity was a disguise. The weight in his eyes said otherwise.
Cregan looked up from the map spread before him. "From?"
"Copied from a letter sent near the coast," Rodrik said. "Whisper's men caught a glimpse before it was launched. It was bound for the westerlands, tywin will receive it shortly."
He passed the scroll forward.
Cregan broke the twine and unfolded it. The writing was crisp and legible, the contents too vague for open treason. But the meaning was clear enough. Mentions of wolves tightening their grip, of certain houses growing wary, of a 'pact of caution and steel' to safeguard ancestral rights.
No names.
Just three sigils drawn in shorthand ink, familiar only to his informants.
A flayed man.
A white hill.
A twisted horse's head.
He didn't need to say them aloud.
Roose Bolton. House Whitehill. Ryswell.
He read it twice more. Then folded the parchment cleanly and handed it to Whisper, who stepped out from the shadow behind the brazier like a spirit called from smoke.
"No reply," Cregan said. "Let them think their message flies free."
Whisper inclined their head in silence and disappeared without a sound.
Cregan lingered a moment by the fire, jaw tight. Then, softly, as if thinking aloud: "At least the Dustins aren't among them."
Rodrik tilted his head. "You were worried?"
"I was prepared." Cregan looked back toward the flames. "Barbrey Dustin has every reason to hate us. Her husband rode with Ned to Dorne. Died bringing Jon home. I thought grief might blind her."
"Maybe it still will."
"Maybe. But the deals we have made with the daynes helps expand her breeding programme and she has expressed no concerns recently." His voice was quieter now. "And that means something."
---
By midday, the yard rang with steel.
The drills had been doubled. Old guards broken into new units. Young recruits marched until their legs burned, lifted weighted logs and hacked at practice dummies until their arms trembled. Archers rotated every hour, no longer permitted the luxury of repetition—each man would know longbow, shortbow, and crossbow alike. The wolves prowled between towers and shadows, ever watching, never snarling.
Cregan moved among them in silence. No cloak. No sigils. He called out corrections when necessary—form, grip, reaction—but otherwise said little. He didn't need to. His gaze alone was pressure enough.
By the end of the day, two men had collapsed, three asked to be reassigned to kitchen duty. They were not dismissed. They were ignored. They had chosen softness.
The war for the Iron Islands may have just ended but the Starks of winterfell refused to be lax.
---
That evening, as torches were being lit along the battlements, a raven arrived from the East Tower.
Its wings bore no crest, but the seal it carried was unmistakable—Braavosi black, lined in gold, stamped with the sigil of the Iron Bank.
Cregan opened it at the high table, beneath the quiet gaze of his direwolf.
Lord Stark,
We confirm your appointment two moons hence with the Company of the Rose.
The meeting shall take place as agreed. Bring what you promised. They await.
No name signed. Braavosi letters rarely needed one.
He ran his thumb across the paper once, then placed it beside the Braavosi seal he'd taken from Oldtown—the one that had once marked the archives as the Citadel's exclusive domain.
That illusion had ended.
---
Later, in the small chamber behind the great hall, Cregan sat with Ned and Benjen, just the three of them, as they had done in years past.
No servants. Only a low fire and the sound of distant snow scraping against the stone.
He poured them each a cup of blackroot tea, and laid the letter between them.
"Another message intercepted," he said. "Bolton is not alone. Ryswell and Whitehill are with him."
Benjen leaned forward, expression tightening. "They'd turn their blades on Winterfell?"
"They'd turn them on anything if it served their ends," Ned said. "Ryswell's always wanted more than his seat offers. Whitehill's land is poor, and he still clings to the Faith. That makes him desperate."
Cregan nodded. "They believe the wolves are growing too sharp."
Benjen frowned. "And the Dustins?"
"They weren't mentioned," Cregan said. "And I feared they would be. Barbrey's bitterness runs deep."
"You trust her?" Ned asked.
"No," Cregan said. "But I trust the good will i have tried to build with her, she remembers what we are doing for the north, and what we fight for, she'll stay her hand I hope."
They sat for a moment in silence.
Then Benjen nodded to the Braavosi letter. "You'll still go?"
"I have to," Cregan said. "If the Company of the Rose joins us, it brings us more experienced fighting men and leader used to other types of combat, will allow for me to have trusted men to lead our company in essos when they go and gives new lords on the Sisters aimed like a dagger to the throat of the Vale."
"And if the North fractures while you're gone?"
Cregan looked to Ned. Not as a boyhood friend. Not even as an uncle.
As a Stark.
"It won't, I leave it in your hands."
Ned didn't flinch.
Cregan rose, finished the dregs of his tea, and turned toward the window. Beyond it, snow clung to the tower walls, and the black wolf below stood facing east.
"Ready the preperations and send word to manderly that i will be taking a ship to bravos" he said. "In six weeks, me and 50 men set sail."