The old stone moved like breath held too long.
Dust rose as the hidden wall at the back of the crypt shifted open, groaning against ancient hinges that hadn't turned in centuries. Runes flared faintly across its surface—red at first, then blue-white like moonlight on snow. Cregan Stark, just three years old in body but carrying a soul forged in fire, betrayal, and war, stepped through.
His torch guttered in the gloom, and for a moment the air felt… aware. Watching.
There, waiting in silence, stood the statue.
It was no king of winter, no carved likeness of an ancestor worn by time. This one was pristine. Cloaked in stone that rippled like real fabric, the man stood with one hand resting on a massive black mace—the other on the head of a direwolf carved so precisely it seemed ready to lunge.
At the base, two lines were inscribed in both High Valyrian and Old Tongue:
"Brandon the Builder."
"Mischief Managed."
Cregan's breath caught.
He knew, instinctively, what this was. Not just a relic. Not just a name. Sirius.
Emotion surged, sharp and hot in his chest. Not the cool resolve of his Northern role, but the grief of a boy who lost everything once already. His fingers trembled.
At the statue's feet lay three items: a black war mace, a wand of pale weirwood, and a book bound in onyx leather, sealed by a sigil he hadn't seen in years—the crest of the House of Black.
The mace was terrifying in its beauty. Its handle thick, spiked head like a falling star forged in frozen night. Dark bronze runes ran down its length, glowing faintly blue. Cold mist clung to it.
The wand responded to his hand before he even touched it. The weirwood grain shimmered faintly under his fingers—an unknown core thrumming with quiet, ancient power.
The grimoire opened to his blood, willingly. No resistance. The magic within knew him. It had always known.
Rituals. Blood wards. Family rites. Defensive enchantments with both Northern and darker ancestry. But nothing chaotic—everything structured, tested, written in Sirius's hand.
And beneath the direwolf statue's paw, embedded into the stone, a pulsing wardstone. He cut his palm and bled over it.
It drank deep.
The runes flared. And Winterfell stirred.
The magic wasn't awakening.
It was welcoming him home.
---
He brought Ned and Benjen the next morning.
Neither spoke as they entered the hidden tomb, only the crackle of torchlight and the hollow thud of boots against the ancient stone.
"This wasn't in the maps," Benjen said, voice hushed.
"It was never meant to be," Cregan replied.
Ned approached the statue slowly, fingers brushing the hilt of the mace. "I've seen sketches. In Rodrik's war scrolls. They called it the Fist of Winter. Lost during the Age of Heroes."
"It wasn't lost," Cregan said. "It was buried. Guarded."
Ned turned toward the wand and the book. "This isn't Stark heritage."
Cregan's voice didn't waver. "It's mine. That man—" he nodded to the statue "—was my godfather. His name was Sirius Black. He died protecting me. He fell through a veil, and I followed years later. In my world, it was only a few seasons. Here…" His fingers tightened. "Thousands of years passed."
Benjen blinked. "You're saying…"
"I'm saying he came here. He became something else. A builder. A founder." He looked up at the inscription. "He became the man this place remembers."
Benjen took a half-step back. "Brandon the Builder?"
Cregan nodded. "He came through the veil and made something new. And now I'm here… and Winterfell knows it."
---
They sat in silence beside the weirwood that night. Ned, Benjen, and Cregan, cloaked against the snow, firelight flickering in the godswood.
"I've already completed two rituals," Cregan said softly. "One for physical resilience. One for reflex."
Benjen glanced over. "And it works?"
"It hurts," Cregan admitted. "But yes. I'm stronger. Quicker."
Ned frowned. "How many of these can a man survive?"
"Seven," Cregan said. "Safely. I've only used two. I'll design a path for each of us. I won't force it. But I won't be the only wolf prepared when the winds change."
Benjen looked at the weirwood bark. "And if we say yes?"
"Then we do it together. Like a pack."
Ned's voice was low. "You're sure this won't corrupt?"
"This isn't about power," Cregan said. "It's about protection. I was an orphan once. I won't see the North suffer—not from Southern ambition, not from betrayal. I'll do what must be done. But not alone."
They nodded.
And beneath the heart tree, with its red eyes weeping in the snow, a pact was made.
Not with words.
But with understanding.
---
The next eighteen moons passed not in thunder, but in silence—the kind that settles in deep snow, hiding the work of roots beneath the frost.
Cregan Stark did not ride to war. He did not make grand declarations. He moved like a glacier—slow, deliberate, and impossible to stop once set in motion.
He completed two more rituals after the discovery in the crypts. The first reshaped the fibers of his strength: tendons grew denser, muscles more efficient, bones more resistant to shock. His weight increased subtly, not in bulk, but in density. He could split a log with his bare hand by spring. The second ritual sharpened his mind. He found himself thinking in patterns—mapping tactics mid-conversation, noticing subtle cues in speech, posture, and scent. Sleep became more restful, dreams clearer, and memory more exact. But with these gifts came a burden: emotions felt more distant, more observed than felt. It worried him.
He did not speak of that part.
The work began quietly. A distillery was designed and discreetly constructed outside Winter Town, its barrels intended not only for commerce, but preservation, medicine, and fire. Canals were marked for future dredging—linking Winterfell to old tributaries and frozen streams, ways to move grain and stone when snow gave way to thaw. Roads were cleared and widened, connecting House Stark not just to lords, but to the idea of centrality. All these would be announced at the Spring Harvest, but the foundations had already begun.
Plans for Moat Cailin's restoration were whispered behind thick doors—survey teams sent under pretense of mapmaking, ancient stone tested, forgotten causeways uncovered. Even Sea Dragon Point, long abandoned, was being quietly evaluated as a potential naval outpost. The North would no longer be only defensive. It would prepare.
And yet, the land stirred.
The smallfolk of the White Knife began to talk of new activity—black stones unearthed where old walls once stood, odd birds returning to marshes that hadn't held life in generations. A merchant from Barrowton claimed the Nightfort had grown colder near the gate, though none dared investigate.
But most of the realm knew nothing of magic. They saw roads being cleared in winter, heard rumors of Winterfell sending messages to ancient, sleeping castles, and wondered what the boy-lord was doing.
---
Northern Voices
"He's clever," said Lord Harwin Slate of the Rills, sharpening his axe as snow fell outside his longhall. "Quiet. Makes folk uneasy. A good Stark—maybe too good."
Lady Barbrey Ryswell was less generous. "A child rules us," she snapped to her kin. "A child who plays with roads and stone and trade while the South sharpens knives. He should have taken the North by fire, not parchment."
Others were slower to judge.
"He visits the barrow-fields," said the old Septon of Long Barrow. "Leaves no offering, says no prayer. But he listens. The land knows him. That's enough."
House Manderly, cautious and calculating, sent fewer letters but more grain. Their harbor bustled with new traders from Essos—some say by Cregan's quiet invitation. Lord Wyman spoke well of the young Stark to guests, but behind closed doors he watched the Neck with interest.
Even the Umbers, loud and boisterous, respected Winterfell's silence. "Let the boy try," Greatjon's father was heard to say. "Winter carves the soft away. If he's still standing come the next frost, we'll call him Lord."
---
Ned and Benjen
The ritual had changed them both.
Ned Stark moved more smoothly now—there was a quiet power in how he sat, how he stood. Not larger, just… more. He noticed the way snowflakes curved in wind, the way a horse shifted weight before it bucked. But more than that, he noticed how others noticed him. He did not like it.
Benjen, ever the freer spirit, embraced the change. He raced up Winterfell's walls in early dawn, hunted with Wyl the Woodsman without making a sound, and often trained alone until moonrise. But even he felt the toll—the gnawing hunger, the subtle tremble before sleep, the creeping edge of something unspoken.
They had done only the first ritual: perfection of the body. More remained, if they chose. Neither had yet said whether they would continue.
Ned once asked Cregan, alone in the godswood, "Do you still feel like yourself?"
Cregan had replied, "I feel like who I was meant to be."
It gave Ned no comfort.
---
In the Quiet of Night
On the coldest nights, when the wind howled beyond Winterfell's walls and the towers groaned like old trees, Cregan would slip into the nursery.
There, Robb's hair tousled in sleep, Jon curled close beside him as he always did—quiet and watchful even in slumber. And baby Sansa, barely a year old, nestled in her wooden crib with one hand balled near her cheek.
Cregan sat beside them, warmed the fire just enough, and opened an old book—one from his own world, smuggled through the veil and bound in cracked red leather. It had no spells. Just stories.
He read aloud in a low voice—not as the wolf of Winterfell, not as the boy who bent rituals to his blood, not as the heir of Sirius or Brandon the Builder.
Just as Cregan.
And the words filled the stone chambers with a warmth older than magic.
-----
The Spring Harvest at Winterfell was a quieter affair than in years past. The halls were warmed by fire and filled with the smells of roast venison, baked turnips, and blackberry wine. The snow had retreated from the godswood paths, the skies a pale northern blue streaked with dusk. And yet, the tension that clung to the stones was unmistakable.
For the first time, the lords of the North saw Cregan Stark not as a shadow behind a regent or a whisper through their raven-keepers, but as a boy of seven standing alone before them—poised, unsmiling, eyes sharp as hoarfrost.
The great hall had been scrubbed clean. Sigils hung along the walls in orderly symmetry: the roaring bear of Mormont, the sword tree of Tallhart, the white knife of Manderly, and others. Even the flayed man of House Bolton was present—though its banner had been quietly tucked near the back.
Cregan stepped forward after the final course, his voice calm, clear, and confident.
"My lords and ladies of the North," he said, "Winterfell thanks you for honoring this day. Spring has come. With it, we honor not just survival—but growth."
No fanfare followed. No roar of drums or call of horn. Just the boy, his small hands resting lightly on the table's edge, his posture as still as a statue.
"I have spent these past moons walking our halls, our walls, and our borders. Not all of you have known me. That ends now. I intend not to rule with silence, but with vision."
He turned first to Lord Umber.
"Last Hearth has long provided warriors without equal—strength of arm, strength of will. You are to oversee the establishment of a Northern distillery. Not for indulgence alone, but preservation, barter, and healing. You will have the first stills by midsummer."
Greatjon Umber looked momentarily stunned. Then he grinned and raised his cup.
"To honest drink and harder work, then!"
Cregan nodded and turned next to Wyman Manderly, his white beard combed and oiled, eyes watchful.
"White Harbor will construct five ships over two years. 2 trade vessels, and 3 warships. The Forresters of Ironrath have agreed to supply ironwood for the hulls. Together, you'll revive our fleet by the end of the decade I want 20 of each flying the Stark banner."
Manderly bowed his head slightly. "We will see the North sail proud once more, my lord."
Lord Forrester gave a small, solemn nod—his son beside him beaming.
He then turned to Lord Ryswell and Barbrey Dustin.
"We have spoken already," he said , "and I intend to keep my word. My cousins in Dorne have agreed to send us a selection of there breeding stock of sand steads in return for some of our northern thoroughbred. Within three years, we'll breed a line that can cross winter fields without slowing, and the agility for the mountains that we have."
"Make sure they can cross marsh and mountain too," muttered Lord Cerwyn from further down the table, earning a ripple of laughter.
Cregan raised a hand—not to silence them, but to guide the moment forward.
"Benjen Stark has returned from the high passes. The mountain clans will send one youth from each family to learn our language, laws, and histories. In return, they will teach us theirs. The Reeds will assist in this, and a master of the Old Tongue will be placed in every hall."
This sparked murmurs. Some lords glanced at one another. Lord Whitehill leaned toward another and muttered, "He would have us speaking like savages now?"
Cregan took note of the houses who took issue and who was pleased at returning to their roots.
Lord Reed stood quietly, face unreadable his murky green eyes and diminutive nature belayed the dangerous man that he was. "The Reeds will be happy to take any man woman or child who wishes to learn" he declared bowing to Cregan
Cregan continued.
"There is more. The Tallharts and Cerwyns will oversee village reclamation along the Winter's March. Glover and Karstark men will guard the roads whilst recruiting small folk to ensure they are kept clean and free of debris, these costs will be supplemented by Winterfell"
He paused, sweeping the room with his gaze.
"You are not my subjects. You are the blood of the First Men. These projects are not commands. They are offers. If you accept them, we strengthen together, if any of you have projects you would like to attempt please provide them to My Uncle and we will review them for funding"
There was a silence—not heavy, but curious.
Lord Glover stood slowly.
"I came down the cleared road from Deepwood Motte," he said. "Three days shorter than before. We passed no snowdrifts, no washed-out trails. Just stone and log, well-marked and clean. That's a first."
He looked directly at Cregan.
"Say what you like, lad—but that road wasn't built by a child."
It broke the tension. Cups raised. Heads nodded. Even Lady Dustin, sharp-eyed and skeptical, gave a slow, measured clap.
---
Later that night, as guests were ushered off to chambers and the hearths burned low, Ned found Cregan near the silent heart tree. Snow had begun to fall again—light, dry, a reminder that winter still watched.
"You spoke well," Ned said. "Even the bitter ones listened."
"They'll test me soon," Cregan replied. "Words are a good blade. But I'll need a shield next",
"Who do you trust to stand with you?"
Cregan glanced toward the hall. "Not all. But enough, Whitehill and Bolton will be the biggest issue. If I can get Lady Dustin on side or at least neutral there block falls apart.
---
The additional 600 words are being written now to fully flesh out the solar gathering scene as promised. Below is the continuation, directly following where the last excerpt left off:
---
Lord Forrester gave Cregan a solemn nod—his son beside him, stiff with unspent energy. The great hall was quiet now, its heat and noise replaced by creaking rafters and the occasional echo of a servant clearing tankards. The torch outside the solar flickered as another figure approached.
Greatjon Umber filled the doorway like a siege tower. His warhammer was not at his belt—it wouldn't have fit through the doorframe. He ducked inside, took one look at the others, and grunted.
"Well, this'll be cozy."
He claimed a corner chair with a thud, stretching one leg out as if daring someone to challenge him for space. Forrester's brow twitched, but he said nothing.
Ser Mandon Manderly entered next, hair tied back, sea-washed cloak trailing faint salt behind him. Unlike the others, he didn't offer a nod or a word—just moved to a chair and sat. His spear rested against the wall, polished and unreadable.
Rickard Karstark followed in silence. He took in the room with the cold scrutiny of a man who had learned to spot a trap before he stepped into one. His gaze lingered on Benjen, then moved to Cregan. He did not bow.
Last came Harwin Reed. He entered as if he'd been there the whole time—boots soundless, cloak dripping with melted snow. He leaned beside the hearth and said nothing.
Ned took his place near the fire, his expression calm, but alert. He looked to Cregan.
"They're all here."
Cregan stepped forward from the shadows. For the first time, the lords saw him not as the boy at the high table, or the polite host of the feast—but as a young wolf among seasoned men.
His green eyes met each of theirs in turn.
Karstark, rigid and unreadable. Forrester, quiet and waiting. Umber, lounging but observant. Manderly, calculating. Reed, still as ice. Benjen, present and protective. And Ned—his shield, but not his voice.
Cregan let the silence breathe. Let them feel the quiet weight of the crypts beneath, of the godswood behind, of the castle around them.
"I imagine some of you are wondering why I've gathered you here," he said at last, voice even. "Some may even bristle at being commanded by a child…
----
The fire in the solar crackled low, throwing light against the stone and steel. The lords were seated, not in a circle of equals, but before Cregan—though he stood no taller than a man's chest. He met each of their gazes without flinching.
"You are not here for honors," he said. "You are here because each of you is the best the North has to offer."
He turned to Ned first. "Sword."
To Lord Forrester. "Axe."
To Ser Mandon Manderly. "Spear."
To Harwin Reed. "Tracking, terrain, and stealth."
To Greatjon Umber. "Hammer. Force."
To Rickard Karstark. "Discipline. Formation. Cold command."
"And I," Cregan said, glancing at Benjen, "am none of you. Not yet."
He stepped back and clasped his hands behind his back, a gesture too deliberate for a boy. "I want you all to come to Winterfell. For three moons of each year. For the next three years."
There was a beat of silence.
"To train you?" Greatjon said, one eyebrow raised.
"To train with me," Cregan said. "And to train others. I want a force—Stark guards. An elite company, bound not by coin or fear, but oath and ability. Ten from each major house. Volunteers. They will learn each skill, each art, from its master."
"For what purpose?" Karstark asked, his voice cool. "You planning wars already?"
"I'm planning not to lose them," Cregan replied.
Ned spoke, voice even. "He means to build something that cannot be bought, cannot be broken."
"Something the South doesn't have," Benjen added. "A Northern answer to their gold cloaks and pageantry."
Reed finally spoke. "And what would you have them learn from me? To vanish in fog and fight with frogs?"
Cregan met his gaze. "I want them to learn what a lord's men forget—how to move unseen. How to strike and vanish. How to know the land better than any map."
Reed nodded once, without further comment.
Manderly leaned forward. "And what of armor? Uniforms? Banners?"
"They'll wear gray and white," Cregan said. "No sigil but the direwolf. No titles. No songs."
"A guard," Ned said softly, "not a parade."
"They'll go where I go," Cregan continued. "North, south, into battle, into peace. When a Stark rides, so will they."
Silence followed. Not resistance—consideration.
Perfect—here's the continuation of Chapter 3, Part 4, picking up from the silence in the room. This section gives you each lord's internal reaction (in limited POV), followed by a full discussion with tension, challenges, and varying responses to Cregan's plan.
---
Greatjon Umber rubbed his chin, studying the boy. Not a bad idea, he thought. Not at all. But bold. Too bold, maybe. The South would see it as preparation for war. Then again—when hadn't they? "You train wolves long enough," he muttered to himself, "some start biting."
Lord Forrester leaned forward in his seat, fingers curled over his knee. He'd fought enough battles to know discipline didn't come easy. Teaching it across houses? Across rivalries? But still… the thought of ten axe-wielders from Ironrath standing shoulder to shoulder with reeds, spears, and swords had weight. A new kind of unity. Not just banners and bloodlines.
Ser Mandon Manderly was calculating. Ten men trained in spear-work and shield wall tactics, hardened under real command? It was a fleet on land. If it succeeded, White Harbor would benefit as much as Winterfell. But if it failed—no, it wouldn't fail. Not with structure. Not if he shaped it properly.
Rickard Karstark was harder to read. His mind turned toward legacy. The Stark name meant safety in the snow, but safety came from iron. He didn't trust the boy's softness, but he couldn't deny the sense of it either. Still, too many houses in one room bred more suspicion than strength.
Harwin Reed didn't think of it in terms of armies. He thought of ghosts—of men moving through trees like breath. Could such discipline be taught to men raised on steel and sound? Maybe. If they listened. If the boy understood it wasn't all blood and blades.
Ned was watching them all. He saw the lean of Manderly's shoulder, the tightness of Karstark's jaw, the stillness of Reed. They weren't just listening—they were deciding.
Greatjon finally broke the silence. "Three moons a year, eh? That's no small ask. Pulling ten lads from the hearth? Who watches our walls while they're off learning to play nice with each other?"
Cregan nodded. "It's a cost. But it buys something we don't have—a shared blade. A force that moves as one. Each of your men will return better trained. Harder. Smarter. What they learn, they carry home."
"You mean to make soldiers into teachers," said Forrester. "You may get blood. You won't get obedience."
"That's your part," Cregan said. "You don't just train them. You train me. You shape the core."
Karstark crossed his arms. "You'd make us your tutors."
"I'd make you the architects of something the South can't copy," Cregan replied. "A fighting force that answers to no crown but the direwolf."
Reed gave a low chuckle. "And when your southern kin send a raven asking what you're building, what message will you write?"
Cregan looked at him. "That the North remembers, that the last time a Stark was left with minimal guards and don't want to be in that position again, as distasteful I find it we can use Robert's 'love' for lyanna to build and improve."
Excellent—here's the next part of Chapter 3, Part 4, continuing directly from the tense moment after Cregan says "The North remembers." This section expands on each lord's thoughts, deepens the conversation, and shows Cregan asking what they need from him to make this vision real.
---
Greatjon Umber leaned back in his chair, heavy arms crossed. "You speak like a lord grown," he said at last, "but talk's cheap in these halls. This force you want—will they be fed? Clothed? Armed? Who pays when some green boy from House Slate gets his skull cracked during spear drill?"
"Or when he kills another," Forrester added quietly.
Cregan nodded. "If men are injured or die in my service, their families will be compensated from Winterfell's treasury. Grain, coin, or steel—whatever is needed."
Manderly arched a brow. "That's a generous offer. And costly."
"I'm not buying loyalty," Cregan said. "I'm investing in strength. One wound unpaid breeds ten refusals."
Karstark grunted. "And what of command? Who leads these guards? You? Or some captain from House Dustin who answers to his uncle before you?"
Cregan turned to him. "The command is mine. But each of you will have a hand in shaping the hierarchy. I want a structure we all trust."
The fire popped softly. Reed shifted his weight, finally speaking. "Ten men per house. Trained in seven disciplines. How many do you imagine make it through to the end?"
Cregan didn't blink. "Fewer than half."
That gave them pause.
"Then why do it?" Karstark asked.
"Because the ones who do," Cregan said, "will be ironbound. Fit to guard the next generation of Starks. Fit to carry the North's weight without splintering."
Benjen spoke up for the first time in a while. "It's not just about skill. It's about unity. If this works, the North fights as one—not in scattered banners, but as a wolfpack."
Greatjon let out a slow breath. "A fine dream, lad. But dreams don't feed men or settle blood feuds."
Cregan turned to him directly. "Then tell me what you need to make it real."
There was another pause. A shifting of weight. A subtle change in the room.
Forrester spoke first. "A say in the drills. I won't send my best to be broken by fools."
"Done," Cregan said. "Each of you will oversee your own discipline."
Manderly followed. "If we're to help lead this, we'll need full access to Winterfell's logistics—armory counts, grain stores, medical staff. We can't train ghosts."
"You'll have it," Cregan promised.
Karstark's gaze narrowed. "And when war comes—and it will—what do you expect of us then?"
Cregan held his stare. "I expect your best men beside mine. And I expect to bleed with them."
That answer, more than any speech, seemed to settle something.
Reed gave a quiet nod, almost to himself.
"Then we begin at the break of spring," Forrester said, glancing around the room.
Manderly folded his hands. "Let's see if the boy's wolves have teeth."
"Thankyou" cregan spoke. "You may all leave, My Uncle Ned will ognaise the logistsic with yourselves Lord Reed please remain."
---
The other lords had gone, their voices trailing into the stone corridors. Only Harwin Reed remained, unmoving by the hearth, still as a forgotten root.
Cregan shut the door.
"I want to speak plainly," he said. "I've heard the stories. About the Reeds. Skinchanging."
Reed raised an eyebrow. "Most call those stories."
"I don't," Cregan said. "I've walked through walls carved with runes. Touched power older than the Andals. I know what's real."
Reed didn't speak—just waited.
"I'm not asking for green dreams or frog riddles," Cregan continued. "I want to know what's usable. Can skinchanging be trained? Focused? Used to spy, scout, infiltrate?"
Now Reed's head tilted slightly. "Why?"
"Because I don't just want swords and spears in my guard. I want eyes no wall can block. Ears in every hall. I want men who can slip past patrols, into castles, and out again without raising an alarm."
Reed considered that. "That's not how most talk about it."
"I'm not most."
Reed finally moved, pulling his damp cloak tighter. "It's rare. Usually born. Not taught. But it can be sharpened—if the spark's already there."
"Can you test for it?" Cregan asked.
"Yes. Slowly. With patience. And not safely, if the wrong man pushes too far."
"I'll take that risk. Quietly. No names, no banners. Just results."
Reed looked into the fire, then back at the boy.
"There are a few in my clan who can guide such things. Two young, one old. They'll come."
"Good."
"And if your guard gains these skills, what then?"
"They'll be the eyes of the North," Cregan said. "I want five of them—no more—for now. Skinchangers, or those with the gift. Not loud. Not public. Just shadows. Trained right."
Reed gave a slow nod. "That's a dangerous idea."
"So is leaving the South unwatched."
---
The clang of steel echoed across Winterfell's yard. Snow had fallen that morning, soft and dry, but it did not soften the blows. Thirty young men moved through drills under the watchful eyes of six northern lords and one silent Stark.
Cregan stood to the side of the sparring ring, breathing hard, wooden sword in hand, face flushed from a morning spent matching the others blow for blow. His chest rose and fell in rhythm with theirs. He wore no sigil today. None of them did.
The training began in threes. Ten men had come from major houses—Glover, Manderly, Cerwyn, Forrester, Reed, Hornwood, Tallhart, Karstark, Umber, and Flint. A few were sons. Most were seconds or cousins—good blood, hungry to prove themselves. Each chosen by their lord. Each sent for three months of the year to Winterfell.
They were bruised, tired, and slowly becoming something else.
Lord Forrester shouted instructions at the axe circle. His voice cracked like a whip. "Balance before power! Weight forward, not wild!"
Across the yard, Ser Mandon Manderly watched his spear line reset after a grueling team bout. "Shields together! One unit, not scattered sons."
Greatjon Umber laughed as he corrected form with the hammer-weighted clubs he'd designed himself. "You break bones by choice, not by accident! Look your enemy in the eye and earn the crush!"
Benjen handled the swordwork when Ned was on patrol—his style quick, precise, and tireless. Cregan sparred with him each morning, bruises like maps forming across his ribs and forearms. He wore them with pride.
Harwin Reed's circle trained away from the others—never at the same hour, never in the same place. The Reed men taught their students to move with silence, to mark terrain, to vanish into fog and return without a sound.
Lord Karstark's contribution was different. He taught in silence—discipline, drilling, formation, and what he called "cold command." His men moved as a wall. When they marched, no one spoke.
Cregan had ordered them all to rotate. Every three days, each group moved to a new master. Axe men learned stealth. Spear men learned hammer strikes. The sword line learned how to track and vanish. At first, it bred chaos. Frustration. Broken fingers and tempers. But as weeks bled into months, something began to take root: rhythm.
By midsummer, the yard had the pulse of a forge.
---
Cregan kept a journal beneath his bed. Not a lord's ledger or a book of accounts—his own observations. Who improved fastest. Who broke under pressure. Who tried to lead without rank. He made note of alliances forming across house lines. He watched how they adapted. Who hesitated when blindfolded in the maze. Who stopped to help the injured.
His goal was never just strength. It was cohesion. Obedience born not of fear, but of shared blood and pain.
And every night, after the drills ended and the fires dimmed, he walked the yard alone.
Sometimes Rodrik Cassel joined him. Sometimes Benjen.
But often it was just the boy, the snow, and the hard-packed earth—listening to the wolves beyond the walls.
---
Harrion Karstark
Harrion's knuckles were bruised again. The edge of the shield caught harder than he'd meant it to. He didn't wince. He'd stopped wincing weeks ago. Pain was expected. Weakness was cataloged.
He moved in clean drills beside men whose blood he'd once sneered at. Cerwyns. Hornwoods. Reeds. That was the point. His father hadn't said as much, but Harrion knew why he'd been sent. Not to kneel. To watch. To test. To see if the boy lord was made of words or stone.
So far, he was stone. Cold. Quiet. But not brittle.
Harrion still thought about pushing him. But he hadn't decided how.
---
Ethan Forrester
Ethan missed the Wolfwood.
Everything here was louder. Harder. Lord Forrester had told him this was no favor—it was a challenge. "You're not here to win friends. You're here to earn something that won't rot in a title."
He thought of that every time he swung an axe. The Umber drills nearly broke him, but the swordwork with Benjen? That lit something in him.
He liked Cregan Stark—more than he expected to. Not for his name. For his endurance. The boy fought like someone with no choice but to improve. Ethan understood that. He felt the same.
---
Rodrick Snow
They still called him bastard, though most forgot it when they were too tired to think.
Rodrick learned to read the yard like terrain. Where the frost lingered longest. Which drills left men angriest. Who cut corners when the masters weren't looking.
He didn't speak much. He listened. He memorized. And he noticed Cregan was doing the same—watching from the side lines, from rooftops, from windows. The boy saw everything.
Rodrick didn't want command. He wanted in. To something that meant more than Glover scraps and quiet shame.
---
Myra Reed
Myra barely spoke to anyone the first two weeks. Not out of shyness—but choice. They all talked too much. Stamped too loud. Thought in straight lines.
She thrived under her father's training. Her footsteps barely made sound, even on frost. She was faster than most. Smarter than many. Her weakness was rhythm—she didn't fight in patterns. Cregan noticed, and didn't correct her.
He simply told her: "Make your own."
She was still thinking about that.
---
Smalljon Umber
The hammer was heavy, but not heavier than expectation. He was Greatjon's son, and twice the size of any two recruits his age.
That didn't mean he liked hurting people.
He trained hard because it cleared his head. Because the world made more sense when it was broken into weight and motion. He liked Forrester. Didn't trust Karstark. Thought Reed was strange but useful.
And Cregan? The boy was strange. But not weak. He was the only one who didn't flinch when Smalljon charged him. That said enough.
---
Later, in the Hall of Swords
The five sat in the old practice hall beneath flickering torchlight, boots off, arms sore, bandages fresh.
Rodrick was the first to speak. "Do you think this works?"
Smalljon shrugged. "I've stopped thinking. I just swing."
"You swing too hard," Myra said, smiling faintly. "We need you to leave something behind for the next generation."
Ethan smirked. "It works. We're better now than we were. We'd have killed each other week one."
"Still might," Harrion muttered. "Depends on who you trust."
Myra turned to him. "And do you?"
He didn't answer.
Rodrick looked at the others. "What about Cregan?"
They were quiet for a breath.
"He's a lord," Harrion finally said. "But he bleeds with us. That's different."
Ethan nodded. "He knows we're watching. Doesn't flinch."
Myra folded her arms. "He listens. That's rarer than swords."
Smalljon stretched his neck. "I'd follow him. But I want to see how he handles failure first."
Rodrick leaned back against the wall. "You'll get your chance."
They all looked at him.
He didn't elaborate.
He didnt need to, it came during spear drills, a week before the first round of evaluations.
Harrion Karstark stepped forward during Manderly's rotation. The line had been running a fast-paced gauntlet—spear thrusts while advancing and turning under pressure. Harrion had performed well, precise and sharp. But he didn't return to the line.
Instead, he turned toward the observation ledge where Cregan stood, hands clasped behind his back.
"My lord," Harrion called. "You've trained beside us. Bled with us. That's true. But there's something missing."
Cregan's eyes met his calmly. "Say it."
"You haven't been tested. We train to guard you, follow you—some even die for you, if the gods are cruel. But none of us know if you can command when it matters."
A hush fell across the yard. Manderly frowned but didn't interfere. The other lords began to gather at the edge, sensing what this was.
Cregan didn't blink. "You want to test me?"
"I want to see if you're worthy of being followed into a shield wall. Not a throne room."
Manderly looked to Rickard Karstark, who stood just outside the fence. The elder lord did not intervene. His face gave nothing away.
Cregan stepped into the circle. "Spear or sword?"
Harrion tossed his spear aside. "Sword. You choose the terms."
Cregan nodded to Benjen, who brought out two blunted steel blades.
"First to fall or yield," Cregan said.
The recruits formed a circle. So did the instructors. Even Rodrik Cassel stood at the edge, arms crossed.
Cregan moved like a duelist, balanced and cold. Harrion charged like a soldier—brutal and fast.
Their first clash rang across the yard. Cregan caught the blow and spun, striking low at Harrion's knee. The Karstark barely dodged. A second pass brought Harrion's blade to Cregan's shoulder—but the boy rolled with the blow, used it to bring his elbow into Harrion's ribs.
Back and forth. Steel and breath. One for strength. One for precision.
After a dozen exchanges, both were bruised, breathless—but Cregan still had his footing. Harrion's boot slipped on the packed snow, and that half-second was all it took.
Cregan swept his leg, brought him down, and planted his boot on Harrion's chest. Sword at his throat.
The yard was silent.
Cregan didn't speak.
Harrion stared up at him, breath steaming.
Then he nodded.
"I yield."
Cregan stepped back and offered a hand. Harrion took it without hesitation.
From the edge, Rickard Karstark's mouth curled—not into a smile, but something close. He turned and walked away without a word.
Cregan stood still as the circle of recruits slowly closed in, murmuring. Some impressed. Some thoughtful. But he barely heard them.
He could have ended the fight in seconds. The rituals had made him faster than any of them knew—stronger, too. But that wasn't the point. He didn't need to win.
He needed to be seen earning it.
He'd rather bleed beside his men than hide behind them.
That, more than any ritual, would bind them to him.
---
Maester Walys may have thought that Cregan suspicions of the himself had lessened, however the Starks sigil wasn't a direwolf for no reason, like his namesake cregan had stalked and moved the maester in the position to go for the throat.
Walys had taken to retiring early in recent moons, claiming fatigue. Too many nights with weak tea and shaking hands. When he did, Cregan entered the rookery.
He moved with purpose—not reckless, not loud. The maester's desk was cluttered with raven reports, supply requests, and faded ravens from the Vale and Riverlands. But the drawer was different. No dust around the edges. Locked with a clasp of copper, not iron. The kind of thing you didn't want seen unless you needed it.
Rodrik Cassel stood guard at the rookery door without being asked.
Cregan picked the lock himself with a blade thin enough to slip through parchment folds.
What he found was not gold or passwords. It was parchment.
Bundles of it. Hidden correspondence. Most written in the hand of Walys, though a few bore different scripts—some southern, some noble.
Cregan read in silence. The first letter he opened was addressed to an unnamed recipient in Oldtown, dated near the end of the Rebellion. It urged caution about "Stark succession," and argued that the North "must not be allowed to consolidate."
Another was worse—detailing soft efforts to reintroduce the Faith of the Seven to northern towns via septons posing as merchants. Others mentioned southern noble families—Redwyne, Hightower, even a coded signature he recognized from Tyrell records.
One letter was sealed with green wax, faded but unmistakably Tyrell. He broke it.
> "Your reports state Lady Lyarra's sway is growing dangerous. We have invested too much for her to ruin it now if she can't be guided, she must be removed. A subtle poisoning will suffice—untraceable. The gods forgive necessity. You know your duty."
—O.T.
Olenna Tyrell.
Cregan's hand tightened around the parchment.
He didn't speak. Didn't move for a long moment.
When he did, he turned and said one word to Rodrik: "Arrest him and summon my uncles."
They met in Ned's solar, just past midnight. The fire was low, the shutters drawn. No guards outside, no servants. Only blood.
Cregan laid the letters on the table, flattening them with one gloved hand. He didn't speak. He let the words bleed off the parchment and into the silence.
Benjen read the Tyrell note twice, jaw tightening. "This isn't just poison. It's war."
"It's worse," Ned said, eyes locked on the page. "It's quiet war. Whispers, not spears. Faith, not fire. Turn the North from within until it forgets who it is."
"They killed Grandmother," Cregan said. "Because she spoke against them."
He didn't raise his voice. It was worse that way—flat, level, measured.
Benjen looked at him. "Do you think this means someone's planning something now?"
Ned's fingers rested on another letter, his face unreadable.
"Not now," he said. "Then."
He glanced to Cregan. "Robert's Rebellion. What if it wasn't just a spark that caught fire? What if someone lit it on purpose?"
Cregan's showed no reaction yet benjen gasped..
Benjen's voice was low. "You think someone planned the war?"
"I don't know," Ned said. "But it broke the realm. It gutted the North. Took Father. Took Brandon. Took Lyanna. Put Robert on the throne—but who was waiting behind him?"
He tapped the parchment, cracked open. "The South was ready with chains before the ashes cooled, lannister wife, arryn hand,tully blood in eerie they planned tully blood in winterfell"
"They didn't just want to win," Cregan said. "They wanted us slow. Soft. Grieving, they wanted to use our men to put Robert on the throne."
"They took the North's spine," Ned murmured.
Cregan nodded once. "And replaced it with a southern leash,souther policy and destroy the norths trust in the starks"
Benjen stood, pacing slowly. "So what now?"
Cregan looked between them. "We end it. The slow rot. The games. We make an example."
"Walys?" Benjen asked.
"He was the knife they used," Cregan said. "And the North takes care of its own knives."
Ned's gaze sharpened. "The Citadel won't be silent, neither will the faith"
"Let them speak," Cregan said. "We'll answer in truth. In judgment. By our customs."
He stood straight, resolute now. "I'll call a Northern court. Not just any lords—ones the South can't dismiss."
"Who?" Benjen asked.
"Rickard Karstark. Wyman Manderly. Roose Bolton."
Benjen raised a brow. "Bolton?"
"The mutual disdain works for us, no accusations of bias" Cregan said. "And he hates weakness more than anything. He'll judge fairly—if only because betrayal offends his sense of control."
Ned considered it. "And the sentence?"
Cregan's voice did not waver. "He dies. In the old way. Hung by the neck. Entrails fed to the heart tree."
Benjen nodded once, the oath of it already accepted.
Ned's voice was soft, but steady. "Then you understand what this means."
Cregan looked between them—his uncle, his brother in all but name.
"I do," he said. "It means we remember, it means the North no longer will rely on the South for justice we will take our own."
"There will be no mention of the Tyrells, we have enough here to have him hung anyway, his journal lists his crimes and the way he wormed his way into the north"
Both his uncles whipped there heads to look at him when the Tyrells were mention, "Why?" Benjen growled, "They killed my mother" neds voice sent shivers down even Cregans spine.
"Because I want to watch the realm, see who screams, who hides, who panics, I want them watching for me to do something and they're guard down when I don't the North isn't in a position to go to war with the realm, not yet. So let them forget, but like always The North Remebers and there will be no mercy for those who take from the pack"
The great hall of Winterfell was colder than any snow that day. Not from wind, but from silence.
Maester Walys stood alone beneath the direwolf banners, stripped of his chain, his gray robes clinging to him like a second skin. His shoulders hunched under the weight of every eye in the room.
On the dais sat the judges: Rickard Karstark, stiff and unsmiling; Wyman Manderly, quiet beneath his heavy furs; and Roose Bolton, face calm, voice unreadable.
Cregan Stark did not sit in the high seat. He stood before the dais, beside Rodrik Cassel and Ned Stark—not as a crowned figure, but as the voice of his house.
Ned spoke first, his voice clear and firm.
"Maester Walys is charged with high treason against House Stark and the North. With espionage for southern interests. With conspiracy to undermine Northern traditions and faith. With the murder of Lady Lyarra Stark—poisoned by his hand years ago, under orders from a southern benefactor, for offering counsel to Lord Rickard Stark."
Murmurs rippled across the hall, brief and sharp.
Cregan stepped forward, the evidence laid bare in the scrolls behind him. "This trial is held under Northern law. We do not reject the Crown—but we hold the right to judge our own. The accused wore our chain, entered our confidence, and murdered one of our own in silence."
Walys shifted, for the first time visibly rattled.
Rickard Karstark gave his judgment first. "The proof is in the ink. He is guilty."
Wyman Manderly's deep voice followed. "He acted not as a servant of knowledge, but of malice. Guilty."
Roose Bolton leaned forward ever so slightly. "Treason is clearest when no sword is drawn. He is guilty."
Cregan turned to Walys. "You will face sentence in the godswood."
The hall stirred—but before Rodrik could step forward, Walys snapped.
"You think this will stand?" he hissed. His calm broke like a cracked bell. "You think you can hang a man of the Citadel and bury him like a dog in your frozen trees?"
The tension in the hall snapped taut.
"You are savages! Heathens! The Faith will hear of this. Oldtown will not let this pass. You'll be razed for this blasphemy—every weirwood, every stone!"
He spat at the floor, trembling now, sweat on his brow. "I served you for decades and you answer with rope and butchery!"
Cregan met his fury with ice.
"You poisoned a Stark beneath our roof," he said coldly. "You chose the old way when you raised your hand in secret. Now you'll answer to it."
Rodrik Cassel stepped forward.
"Prepare the godswood."
---
They hanged Maester Walys beneath the heart tree of Winterfell.
There were no prayers. No bells. Just a rope looped tight, thrown over a carved branch red with centuries of sap. His feet kicked. His last words vanished in snow.
When the rope stilled, Rodrik Cassel and two sworn men brought him down. His robes were torn open. His belly cut with a northern blade. Entrails spilled into the snow like red rope, steaming, steaming—then gathered in bare hands and laid carefully at the roots of the weirwood.
Blood soaked into bark. The face on the tree did not change.
But the gods had listened.
---
Cregan sent a letter informing the South of this event -
To His Grace King Robert Baratheon, and the Lords of His Council,
On the 19th day of the Wolf Moon, Maester Walys of Winterfell was tried before a Northern court, judged by three lords—Karstark, Manderly, and Bolton—under the old laws of our people.
He was found guilty of high treason: conspiracy to weaken the North, espionage on behalf of southern powers, religious subversion, and the murder of Lady Lyarra Stark—carried out by his own hand, on the instruction of a southern benefactor, in an effort to silence her counsel to Lord Rickard Stark, my grandfather.
His sentence was death.
He was stripped of his chain, dragged in irons to the heart tree in the godswood, and hanged until the life choked out of him. His body was cut open with a northern blade, and his entrails were removed by hand, steaming in the snow. They were fed to the roots of the weirwood in silence. There was no septon. No prayers. The gods of the North received him as they do all traitors—with open roots and blood-soaked soil.
This justice was not symbolic. It was not performative. It was deserved—and final.
Let it be understood: the North remembers its dead—and it remembers betrayal.
I will be travelling to Oldtown to personally select the next maester of Winterfell. No appointment will be accepted that does not pass through my own hand.
If the Crown requires further comment or summons regarding this matter, it may direct its ravens to the Citadel. I will receive them there.
The North remains loyal, but not blind.
—Cregan Stark
Lord of Winterfell
Warden of the North
---