The fire crackled in Winterfell's solar, thick logs hissing against the hearthstone. The snow outside the narrow windows blew sideways—late spring clinging to the walls like it belonged. Within, warmth and silence shared the room.
Cregan stood at the map table. Benjen leaned against the stone sill, arms crossed, while Rodrik Cassel hovered beside the hearth with Ned seated at his side. No council, no scribes. Just the men Cregan trusted most.
"I leave at week's end," Cregan said.
Benjen's expression didn't change. He already knew. Ned simply nodded.
"Oldtown first," Cregan continued. "Then across the Reach, south to Starfall. From there, up to King's Landing. After that, Braavos."
Rodrik blinked. "Braavos?"
"For coin, a meetingw with the iron bank. For knowledge. For things the Citadel hides," Cregan said. "Then back north by White Harbor."
Ned looked at the map, his fingers resting on Winterfell. "That's nearly three years."
"Aye," Cregan said. "If not more."
Benjen gave a quiet grunt. "And what madness have you planned while you're gone?"
Cregan smiled faintly. "You'll like it."
He reached into the drawer beside him and pulled out a small, darkened shard—polished obsidian, almost black as night. The runes etched along the edge pulsed faintly red in the firelight.
"Mirrors," Cregan said. "Not just to see—to speak. I'll keep one. Ned will have the other."
Rodrik narrowed his eyes. "Like glass candles?"
"Better," Cregan said. "Not from Valyria. Northern. Drawn from weirwood ash and frozen fire."
Benjen let out a low whistle. "You think it'll work?"
"It already does," Cregan said. "I tested them with Reed."
Ned leaned forward. "You mean to speak across half the world with magic—and trust I'll hold the North in your absence."
Cregan met his gaze. "I don't trust you, Ned. I know you."
There was silence after that. The kind that didn't need to be filled.
Rodrik finally spoke. "Who's going with you?"
"Benjen," Cregan said. "And three of the recruits. One from Umber. One Reed. One Karstark. I need eyes that see differently. And I want each to learn what the South forgets."
"Smart," Rodrik muttered. "Take Northern steel, not Southern smiles."
"They won't like you," Ned warned. "The Citadel. The Faith. The lords in King's Landing."
"I'm not going to be liked," Cregan said. "I'm going to be remembered."
Benjen gave him a sidelong look. "And if they try to trap you?"
"I'll burn the trap," Cregan said. "And the hand that set it."
Rodrik chuckled low. "The wolf's grown teeth."
Cregan turned back to the map. His gloved fingers passed over the southern coasts. "They think the North is settled. Tamed. Ruled by a boy."
He looked up.
"Let them think it."
Ned stood and approached the table, placing one hand on Winterfell. "We'll hold here. Whatever storms you stir down south, we'll be ready when you return."
Cregan nodded once. "When I return, we rise."
---
---
The ship was called the Wolf's Wake. She was newly built from ironwood and mountain oak, her hull dark and narrow, her sail a pale gray emblazoned with the direwolf of Stark. She smelled of pitch, pine, and cold steel—Northern to the bone. And she was fast.
Her captain, Thoren Pyke, was of Bear Island stock—square-jawed, hard-eyed, and loyal to Winterfell since before Cregan was born. The crew were Northerners, too: men from Barrowton, Skagos, White Harbor, and the Flint Cliffs. None were merchants. All were veterans of the Rebellion, chosen for steadiness over speed of tongue.
They set out from the narrow harbor east of Karhold, where the waves struck jagged against ice-dusted stone. The wind took their sail like a ghost's sigh, and the ship slipped south along the coast, the last fingers of winter curling in its wake.
---
Benjen
Benjen watched the coast disappear beneath a rising fogbank, arms folded over his chest.
"This never feels right," he muttered. "Leaving the North. Like we're wolves shedding fur."
Cregan stood beside him at the prow, quiet as stone. "We're not shedding anything. Just showing teeth where they least expect it."
Benjen gave him a sidelong glance. "You think Oldtown will listen?"
"No," Cregan said. "I think they'll smile, and nod, and write reports in ink I'll never see. But they'll remember."
Benjen huffed. "And after that?"
"We let them wonder what we'll do next."
---
Below Deck – The Recruits
The three recruits—Harrion Karstark, Myra Reed, and Torrhen Umber—trained in the lower hold each day. Sword drills. Balance tests. Observation runs. Even meditation, taught by Myra, who sat still as stone and listened to the creak of the ship's bones like they spoke a forgotten tongue.
Harrion kept his blade sharp and his questions quiet. He hadn't challenged Cregan since Winterfell, but he watched everything—the crew, the sea, Benjen's moods. Torrhen laughed more often, but he carried himself like a battering ram waiting for the right wall. Myra? Myra was never loud, but she saw what others missed: the patterns of water, the shifts in Cregan's gaze.
None of them spoke much during meals. They didn't need to. Their presence was part of something larger now.
---
Crew – Captain Snow
Thoren Snow stood at the helm as the sun dropped into a red sea. He had seen wars and storms and what happened when lords got clever—but this boy wasn't like the ones he remembered.
Cregan gave no orders without reason. He didn't pace. He watched, learned the rhythms of sail and wind. He helped pull lines once. Ate salt meat with the crew. Slept little. Asked much.
When Thoren asked him directly if he feared the South, Cregan only said: "I fear what happens if they keep underestimating the North."
He didn't speak after that. He didn't need to. He'd seen wolves before. This one just had green eyes.
---
Night Watch – Benjen and Cregan
On the sixth night, the moon broke clear above the waves. Benjen and Cregan sat near the prow, their cloaks drawn tight. Below, the crew murmured in low voices. The sea was calm.
Benjen passed him a waterskin. "Let's talk Oldtown."
Cregan took a drink and nodded.
"The Citadel won't forgive what we did to Walys," Benjen said. "They'll smile, but every word you speak will be weighed. Every look."
"I expect that," Cregan said.
"They'll offer pre-approved maesters."
"I'll refuse."
"They'll test your patience."
"I'll test their spine."
Benjen grunted. "You really planning to threaten them?"
"If I must. I'll do it politely. But clearly."
"What's the threat?"
Cregan's voice dropped. "That if they raise another hand to the North in silence—through ink, poison, or proxy—we'll bring another Hour of the Wolf to their gates."
Benjen leaned back, watching the stars. "And you think they'll believe you?"
Cregan looked out over the black water. "They'll believe it when they look into my eyes and realize I'm not asking."
---
Arrival
They sighted Oldtown on the 18th day.
The fog peeled back like breath from a mirror, and the city revealed itself—vast, gleaming, old as legend. White walls rose in tiers. The Hightower cast its long shadow over the harbor, its beacon like a slow-moving eye. And there, across the river, the Citadel spread like a stone hive, its domes glinting with colored glass and age.
At the center stood the Starry Sept, its tower topped with a seven-pointed star. Southern, polished, sun-touched—everything the North was not.
The crew slowed their sails. The Wolf's Wake moved quietly into port.
Cregan stood at the bow, his cloak whipping in the sea breeze, the direwolf snapping behind him like a silent banner.
Benjen stepped beside him. "They'll be watching."
"Good," Cregan said. "Let them."
---
The Wolf's Wake arrived in silence, her sails folding like the wings of a patient predator. Even here—among gold-painted cogs and flower-draped galleons—the Northern ship stood out, all ironwood and grey cloth, its direwolf sigil sharp against the rising sun.
Before disembarking, Cregan addressed the assembled party on deck.
"We speak the Old Tongue," he said, voice firm, eyes steady. "To each other. At all times. Only when a southerner addresses us directly will we use Common, and then only what is necessary."
"Even on the streets?" Torrhen Umber asked, adjusting the strap on his axe.
"Especially on the streets," Cregan said. "Let them hear it and know we remember things older than their books."
Myra Reed gave a small nod. "Yar ketha murnak," she murmured. Words with roots. Harrion said nothing but gave a sharp nod of agreement.
Benjen raised a brow. "And when they ask what we're saying?"
"We let them feel excluded," Cregan said. "Let them wonder. Let them fear they are being spoken of, not to."
The plank lowered. The wolf stepped into the lion's den.
---
Oldtown
The streets of Oldtown curled like script around the hills. Everything was soft here—sun-warmed stone, purple wisteria on the balconies, perfume in the breeze. The people wore silk, linen, ivory-tipped boots. Even the guards' armor gleamed more for show than for war.
The Northerners walked like a column of ash through color.
Every few steps, voices dipped. Children were hushed. Even dogs grew wary.
Myra walked near the rear, her eyes scanning archways, balconies, and rooftops—not for archers, but for watchers. She noted a scholar pausing mid-step with a bundle of scrolls. A girl in Hightower livery clutching her skirts at the sight of Benjen's dark cloak. A group of young nobles clustered outside a winehouse, whispering.
> "Is that him?"
"That's the Stark who killed a maester."
"No chain, no kneeling. Just wolves in skin and fur."
"Tamri sava tak mora," she said quietly. They speak like we're ghosts.
"Then let them be haunted," Harrion muttered back.
---
High Gardeners
A gilded carriage passed them near the hill of fountains—flanked by men-at-arms in green and gold. Inside sat a woman with long auburn curls and sharp cheekbones, fanning herself lazily.
She turned her head, studying Cregan.
"A boy?" she asked aloud. "That is the North's reply to the South?"
Her cousin beside her, a lean young man with Hightower eyes, replied, "That boy has wolves at his back and blood on his hands. Don't blink at him."
They rode on. But they looked back.
---
Cregan
Cregan felt their stares.
He didn't flinch. He didn't respond. But he catalogued.
The fear was present. So was the mockery. And beneath both—curiosity. They wanted to measure him, not for crown or crown's favor, but to see if he would bend.
He would not.
---
The Citadel Gate
The outer gate of the Citadel loomed ahead, carved stone weathered smooth by centuries. Its statues—scholars, blindfolded kings, and judges with knives in their scrolls—stood silent watch.
Two gatekeepers waited beneath the arch. Pale robes. Silver chain loops. Expressions as polished as the walls.
Cregan approached alone, speaking in clipped Common.
"I am Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell. I sent notice of my arrival to the Seneschal."
The elder of the two gatekeepers didn't so much as blink. "There is no record of that notice."
"It was sent three times," Cregan replied. "With seals and markings confirmed."
"Then it must not have arrived," the man said coolly. "You may wait in the lower gallery. Perhaps an archmaester will see you."
Benjen stepped forward, his cloak shifting. Harrion's hand rested subtly near his belt.
Cregan raised a hand to halt them.
"I do not wait in galleries."
The gatekeeper gave a closed smile. "Then you may return another day."
Cregan stared at him for a long, unbroken moment. His voice when it came was a breath quieter—but no less cold.
"Timar kor nak," he said. We speak to wolves, not dogs.
Then he turned his back on the Citadel and walked away.
The Northerners followed without a word.
---
The Manse
Manse 9 sat behind high garden walls, ivy crawling up its weather-stained stone. It was not large, but secure—an old house with heavy shutters, thick locks, and a small godswood sapling growing in its inner court.
The servants were chosen for silence. Their gold came stamped with a direwolf.
Benjen stood at the narrow balcony overlooking the city below. "They'll talk about this."
"Good," Cregan said. "Let them wonder if we came to kneel or to dig graves."
He crossed to the writing desk. Inked a letter with firm strokes. Sealed it with a strip of weirwood wax.
> To the Seneschal of the Citadel,
We arrived at your gate at the appointed hour. It did not open.
We are now established at Manse 9 on the Hill of Vines. If you wish to speak, you may come to me.
—Cregan Stark
He handed the scroll to Myra, who nodded once and disappeared down the stair.
---
Later
The fire burned low. Benjen poured himself a cup of bitterleaf tea, passed another to Cregan, who accepted it silently.
"They'll send someone," Benjen said.
Cregan sipped. "They already have."
He gestured toward the distant rooftop—barely visible in the torchlight, a figure in gray shifting on the tiles.
A watcher.
"They fear another Hour of the Wolf," Benjen muttered.
"They should," Cregan replied.
---
At Moonrise
The raven returned with a scroll bound in gray ribbon.
The Seneschal would arrive at dawn.
Cregan read the words once, folded the message, and tossed it to the fire.
"The ground shifts," he said.
Benjen leaned back in the chair. "Good. That means they're listening."
---
The Seneschal of the Citadel arrived at dawn.
He did not come alone.
Six robed maesters trailed behind him, each marked with thick, glinting chains of varied metals. Two ink-stained acolytes followed with scroll satchels and narrow eyes. The Seneschal himself was tall and austere, with bone-white hair pulled into a silver clasp and a chain that hung like a strangler's rope—long, wide, and heavy.
The Northern party received him not in the courtyard, but in the main hall of Manse 9. No guards. No servants. Just cold firelight, an ironwood table, and the direwolf banner hanging behind Lord Stark's chair.
Cregan did not rise to meet them. He remained standing at the head of the hall, a step above, arms behind his back. Benjen stood at his shoulder, and behind them, the three recruits stood flanking the walls—gray and silent.
The Seneschal did not bow. He dipped his chin. "Lord Stark."
"Seneschal," Cregan said evenly.
"I received your message. Unorthodox in tone. And posture."
"I received your gatekeeper," Cregan replied. "He was unorthodox in courtesy."
The Seneschal's lip curled slightly. "You must understand, the Citadel has procedures. Appointments. Confirmations. You arrived without sanction, and your claim to a scheduled audience was—"
"Documented," Cregan said. "Three ravens. All sealed."
"If they were sent, they were not acknowledged."
"Then that is your oversight, not mine."
Silence stretched between them. One of the younger maesters shifted uneasily. Another glanced toward the direwolf banner.
The Seneschal's voice dropped slightly. "The execution of a sworn maester is not a matter the Citadel views lightly."
"Then perhaps the Citadel should have looked into his crimes before binding his chain."
The maester to the Seneschal's left—a round, sweat-shined man with a silver-and-copper link prominent at his throat—cleared his throat. "We understand the North has... customs. But to hang a learned servant of the realm—"
"He was not a servant," Cregan interrupted. "He was a snake in robes. He murdered my grandmother with poison. He sent letters to Southern hands asking for religious conversions, economic pressure, and cultural erasure. He used your name while doing it."
The Seneschal's expression remained neutral, but the hall grew heavier.
"You are young," another maester said, a beady-eyed man with a heavy scrollcase. "Emotion may cloud judgment—"
"My judgment was clear," Cregan said. "And final."
Benjen shifted behind him, arms folded. The recruits stood stiffer now—ready, but still.
The Seneschal finally spoke again. "You understand this puts the Citadel in a difficult position."
"No," Cregan said. "I understand that you are uncomfortable facing the consequences of neglect. That is not my concern."
The Seneschal stepped forward, folding his hands behind his back. "We do not answer to Northern law, Lord Stark."
"You placed a man in my hall. You trained him. Forged his links. That gives you responsibility—if not legally, then morally. You don't get to name him and disown his deeds."
A pause.
"I will remind you that the Citadel is a neutral institution."
"No institution is neutral when it chooses sides in silence," Cregan replied. "Walys's silence murdered my kin. His ink carried more weight than his chain. You gave him both."
The Seneschal exhaled. "What is it you want?"
Cregan stepped down from the dais slowly. Each footstep echoed on the stone floor.
"I want your next offering to be worthy. I want someone who knows the cost of loyalty—and the price of betrayal. I want the Citadel to remember the North is not your backwater. We are not your field to till with ink and fire. We are a kingdom in all but name. And we keep our own justice."
The younger maesters fidgeted. The elder ones stiffened. One muttered, "Bold words for a boy."
Cregan turned his head, eyes locking with him. "The last boy who spoke for the North ruled King's Landing for a fortnight. The Smallfolk called it the Hour of the Wolf. Ask the Faith how many bells they rang that week."
The maester fell silent.
The Seneschal studied him now, longer, the weight of the room shifting.
"You would threaten the Citadel itself?"
"I would never threaten knowledge," Cregan said. "But I would end those who abuse it. And the next time someone poisons a Stark under your chain, I will not send a letter."
There was no anger in his voice. Just frost.
The Seneschal bowed his head slightly. "Then I assume you will be expecting to review candidates?"
"I will be at the Citadel tomorrow," Cregan said. "I will walk your halls. I will speak with your archmaesters, your apprentices, your outcasts. I will evaluate not the sharpness of their quills, but the weight of their conscience. If there is a maester worthy of serving Winterfell, I will find them."
"And if not?"
"Then I leave without one. And the North names its own."
The Seneschal's mouth tightened—but he gave a nod. "We will receive you."
"Good," Cregan said. "And Seneschal—"
The man turned back.
"Do not send another gatekeeper to greet a wolf."
Without a word, the Seneschal turned. The other maesters followed, quieter now, each casting one last glance at the banner behind Cregan before they passed through the doors.
Only the youngest lingered in the threshold. He looked back—not in fear, but in something closer to wonder.
Then he was gone.
Benjen stepped up beside Cregan.
"They'll talk."
"They're meant to," Cregan said.
He turned from the door, the firelight catching in his eyes.
"Tomorrow, we walk their library. Today, they walked into ours."
The gates of the Citadel opened not with fanfare, but with wary silence.
Cregan Stark stepped through first, flanked by Benjen and the recruits. His cloak, trimmed in northern black, barely stirred in the Reach wind. Around them, the streets of Oldtown whispered.
Benjen cast a glance up at the towering walls. "Feels like we're being swallowed by stone."
"They built it to last longer than kings," Cregan murmured. "But nothing lasts forever."
The Seneschal greeted them beneath the Hall of Lanterns. His robes were flawless. His tone less so.
"We will proceed as agreed. A full tour. Selected candidates."
"Not selected by you," Cregan said. "We'll see them all."
The Seneschal did not protest—yet.
---
The Upper Halls
They began with order.
The Ravenry hummed with soft caws. The scriptorium rang with the scratching of fresh ink. Maesters bustled between chambers, eyes flicking toward the Northerners with the subtle, practiced disdain of those unaccustomed to being questioned.
Cregan moved through it all like a wolf in a gallery—still, alert, silent.
Benjen walked just behind. "They hate this."
"They're meant to," Cregan said. "This place has had no audience for centuries."
He stopped before an ornate arch, where silver-link maesters were mid-lecture. One turned to greet him, mouth already opening.
Cregan said nothing. Just watched. After a long moment, they moved on.
"They expect us to ask permission," Myra whispered. "To seek approval."
"We offer none," Harrion replied.
---
The Vaults
The deeper they went, the less polished the halls became. The light dimmed. Dust thickened. And eyes grew sharper.
Here, beneath the gilded domes, were the castoffs—the brilliant, the bitter, the forgotten.
Cregan paused before a chamber lined with melted candles and cracked tomes. Inside, a group of acolytes copied texts by lamplight. One wore a robe too short for his arms. Another's chain had no metal links, just carved bone.
A third—broad-shouldered and thick of jaw—looked up at the sound of the Old Tongue. His eyes gleamed.
Cregan stepped inside.
"You understand me," he said in that ancient growl.
"I remember more than most care to," the man said, standing. "Marwyn. Formerly of the Quill Tower. Now keeper of dust."
The Seneschal appeared behind them like a pale shadow. "Lord Stark, this man is not—"
Cregan raised a hand. "You've spoken enough."
To Marwyn: "You studied in the Quill Tower?"
"I rewrote five volumes of Maester Haereg's early histories," Marwyn said, smiling. "Until I dared mention Valyria's curses weren't just metaphor. Then I was... shelved."
Cregan stepped closer. "Do you wish to serve the North?"
Marwyn tilted his head. "That depends."
"On?"
"Whether you fear truth more than silence."
Cregan grinned. "Walk with me."
---
Testing the Mage
They found a disused chamber—a room for debate or exile. It reeked of disuse and chalk. Cregan sat across from Marwyn. Benjen stood guard at the door.
They spoke in Valyrian. In Old Tongue. In the short, precise dialects used for magical geometry. They debated history. Ritual. Power. Purpose.
Then Cregan gestured to a man in the shadows—older than most, with tired eyes and salt-and-pepper hair.
"And him?"
"Luwin," Marwyn said. "Acolyte. Born to the North. Taught himself to read by copying records in the dark. Passed more trials than most archmaesters. But no link ever came."
"Why?"
The Seneschal's voice came stiff from the corridor. "He questions authority. He... persists."
Luwin stepped forward and bowed. His voice was quiet but unwavering. "I speak when truth is buried. I don't apologize for that."
Cregan stood.
"You're of the North?"
"White Knife, my lord."
"You will return to it," Cregan said. "With Marwyn."
Luwin bowed lower. "Then let me serve as I was born to."
---
Below the Below
The Citadel had secrets still. Forgotten staircases. Unsealed passages. Rooms filled with torn banners and maps of shattered kingdoms.
They passed a long hall where shadows hunched over scraps of vellum. These weren't formal maesters. These were ghosts. Discarded minds and failed ambitions.
Benjen whispered, "This isn't a Citadel. It's a tomb."
One figure turned—a youth with narrow shoulders, robes too large. He offered a nod to Cregan, eyes bright.
Cregan stared at him a moment. The posture. The voice. The high cheekbones under the hood.
That wasn't a boy.
He said nothing. Just returned the nod and moved on.
Another scribe—face half-hidden—watched him warily. Fingers ink-stained, wrists scarred. Her voice trembled in the Old Tongue as he passed.
"My mind is not lesser because my body is different."
Cregan answered in kind. "Then let no one command your silence."
Behind him, the Seneschal paled.
---
The Declaration
They gathered in a wide chamber near the lowest stair, where the air was thick and the walls lined with cracked stone tablets. Around him, a dozen heads turned. Some hesitant. Some angry. Some desperately hopeful.
Cregan turned and faced them all.
"I am Cregan Stark," he said. "Lord of Winterfell. Warden of the North."
He stepped into the center of the chamber. His voice rang across stone and silence.
"This Citadel calls itself neutral. But I have seen how it judges. Not by merit. Not by wisdom. But by obedience. By legacy. By fear."
He looked to a boy with burn scars over one eye. A woman in robes too tight across the chest. A maester with a copper chain dulled by age and neglect.
"The North has no room for fear of knowledge."
The Seneschal entered then, breath quick. "You cannot—this is not permitted!"
Cregan turned slowly.
"Then stop me."
The Seneschal hesitated.
"These people are bound to the Citadel—"
"No," Cregan said. "They're shackled by your pride."
"You seek to steal them?"
"I offer them purpose."
He turned again to the room.
"To any who no longer find home here, I offer you one in the North. You will have tools. Study. Place. Lodging. You will help us grow what the South neglects. You will serve truth—not chains."
The Seneschal's voice rose. "This will be reported—"
"Let it."
Cregan's voice turned steel.
"The Citadel does not hold monopoly on wisdom. And the North does not keep slaves."
Silence answered him.
Then a voice spoke—quiet, unsteady.
"I will come," said the scarred boy.
"So will I," murmured the old copper-link maester.
A third nodded—hood still low. "If there is fire left in learning, let it burn in Winterfell, spread the word any and all are welcome."
Cregan nodded once, then turned to leave. As he walked, others followed.
Benjen looked back and whispered, "You just broke their library."
"No," Cregan said. "I reminded them what it's for."
---