Cregan wasted no time. "I've heard from Bael that you've ordered the masons to build a sept in Winterfell."
Ned hadn't expected this topic, but he immediately understood where Cregan's concerns lay. He knew that building a sept in the heart of Winterfell wasn't a decision to be taken lightly, yet after all Catelyn had endured—especially with Jon under their roof—he felt he owed her this concession.
Catelyn, having not anticipated the matter being about her, sat up a little straighter, her expression turning serious.
"I did," Ned replied slowly. "The sept is for your good-sister, and for Septa Mordane. I thought it only right. I plan to ask Lord Wyman to send a trusted septon from White Harbor to oversee it."
Cregan shook his head, his voice firm but respectful. "Then you're making a grave mistake, Lord Stark."
Ned raised an eyebrow. "A mistake? It's a small sept, Cregan. It's for Catelyn and those who follow the Seven. It won't affect the North as you fear."
"It will affect the North," Cregan countered, his voice rising slightly but remaining measured. "The North follows the Old Gods. House Stark is the Warden of the North, and Winterfell is its heart, both as a home and as a symbol of our faith. Building a sept here, even for a few followers of the Seven, sends a message that Winterfell—the North—is changing."
Ned sighed, trying to defuse the tension. "It's not as dire as you think, Cregan. The people will understand."
Cregan's eyes sharpened. "No, they won't. You may not see the consequences right away, but the North remembers. The smallfolk and the nobles look up to House Stark. Your decisions—every decision—resonate far beyond these walls. They may not rebel outright, and their loyalty won't falter overnight. But they will remember the first Lord of Winterfell who brought the faith of the Seven into their ancient stronghold."
Turning to Catelyn, Cregan softened his tone. "I have no ill will towards those who follow the Seven, my lady. This isn't about faith—it's about the trust and tradition of the North. Our people take pride in the old ways, and as much as they respect you, they'll see this as a crack in that foundation."
Cregan paused, letting his words sink in before concluding, "House Stark stands for more than just strength. It stands for the Old Gods, for the North's way of life. This sept might seem small to you now, but to our people, it'll be remembered long after it's built. And as you know better than most, my lord—the North never forgets."
A deep silence settled in the room, the weight of Cregan's words hanging in the air.
As if to approve Cregan's warning, Old Nan, sitting quietly until now, nodded and murmured softly, "The North never forgets."
Her voice, frail but full of the wisdom of her years, sent a chill through the room. Even Catelyn, who had held her ground so far, seemed to falter slightly at the weight of those words. Ned, staring into the distance, said nothing for a long moment, clearly troubled by the gravity of the decision.
Even though Maester Luwin had completed his studies in the south, his Northern roots made him a valuable advisor to House Stark. He spoke cautiously but firmly, "Cregan is right, my lord. You must carefully consider the implications of building a sept inside Winterfell."
Lady Catelyn, her patience wearing thin, couldn't help but interject. "There is a sept in White Harbor, and it's never been an issue."
Cregan nearly laughed but managed to stop himself. "House Manderly follows the faith of the Seven. They have been loyal to the Starks since they were given land to settle in the North after escaping the South, and likely will remain so. But tell me, how many houses in the North truly trust House Manderly with their whole heart? I'm sure even Lord Wyman would not believe that."
Ned wanted to challenge him—How would you know? You're just a child. But he kept his thoughts to himself. Cregan was right about how the Northern lords viewed House Manderly. His father had always trusted Lord Wyman, but he had warned his sons to remain cautious, to be watchful. After House Bolton, the Manderlys were second on the list of houses that could turn dangerous if not handled carefully.
Cregan pressed on, his voice steady but urgent. "The Old Gods don't hold sermons, and they don't hand out free food or coin. So, tell me—how many days, weeks, months, years, decades, or even centuries will it take for one smallfolk to convert to the Seven, then two, then three... until one day, we wake up to civil war at Winterfell's doorstep?"
Catelyn frowned, ready to defend her beliefs, but before she could speak, Cregan shifted his gaze to her. "Lady Catelyn, surely you intend to teach Robb and all the other children that come after about the Seven Gods?" he asked, his voice probing but polite.
Catelyn opened her mouth, but no words came out. She hesitated, caught off guard.
Cregan turned to Ned. "Ned, as a loving father and husband, you'd naturally honor Lady Catelyn's wishes, wouldn't you? You might even allow Septa Mordane to teach your children about the Seven. And if you have a daughter, she may learn from the Septa how to be a noble lady—one shaped by the values of the Seven. Am I wrong?"
Ned's silence lingered, heavy in the air. Cregan's words had hit their mark.
"Of course, you'll teach them about the Old Gods as well," Cregan continued, his voice calm but pointed. "But what will the other Northern lords think when they come for the harvest festivals? When they step into Winterfell and see a sept within its walls, a Septa teaching your children—what will they whisper? How long before they start wondering if House Stark, the ancient protectors of the North, are straying from the Old Gods?"
Cregan's gaze hardened as he delivered his final point. "Robb will one day become Lord of Winterfell. Tell me, will the Northern lords trust him as they trust you, Ned?"
The room seemed to still as Cregan pressed on, his voice quiet but forceful. "Just tell me this: who do they trust and prefer—the man who fostered under House Arryn, a family that follows the Seven... or Brandon Stark, who would've stayed true to the ways of the North?"
Ned's expression faltered. Cregan's words had cut deep, making clear the potential consequences of bringing the Faith of the Seven into Winterfell. The ties to the Seven, even through fostering or the construction of a sept, might sow doubts that would ripple far beyond the walls of their ancestral home. This was no longer a simple matter of faith; it was about trust, tradition, and the legacy of House Stark.
"Our enemies won't sit idle," Cregan continued, his tone now somber but resolute. "Those who hold grudges against House Stark will seize any opportunity to sow discord from the shadows. You may not see it now, but there will be problems down the line."
The room fell into a tense silence once more. Maester Luwin and Old Nan exchanged glances, both looking at Cregan with newfound respect and awe. His wisdom went beyond his nine namedays, and they could see the strength of a true leader in him.
'Alas,' Maester Luwin thought to himself, 'he is not the eldest.'
Old Nan's thoughts mirrored the maester's. Cregan would have made a great Lord of House Stark—one whose name could have been written in the annals of history, alongside his ancestors. He has the heart of the North in him.
Ned, still deep in thought, seemed to weigh Cregan's words heavily. The matter had grown far beyond a simple promise to his wife; now it had become a question of his children's future, his people's faith, and the very strength of Winterfell's foundations.
Cregan, sensing the tension, spoke calmly but firmly. "I can only give advice, not orders. The future of House Stark and your children rests in your hands, husband and wife." He paused, his gaze steady. "There are many dangers in allowing the Faith of the Seven to take root in Winterfell, but I've said enough. I trust you both to make a wise decision."
OOO
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