Chapter 6 – "Blood and Brotherhood"
From the age of eight, Cregan Stark grew into his name more than ever—a wolf among wolves, proud and untamed. If his father had hoped that time would smooth the wild edges, Winterfell saw the opposite.
He climbed the highest walls. He raced the guards' hounds until they gave up. He fought Robb in the practice yard with a ferocity that left Ser Rodrik frowning and muttering about discipline. And wherever Cregan went, Jon Snow followed.
The bond between them had sharpened into something fierce and quiet. Where Robb had Sansa and the training of a future lord, Cregan had Kael and a blood-deep instinct for danger. Jon, once unsure of his place, found steadiness at his side.
And Theon Greyjoy, two years older, often the target of their shared disdain.
It began with a name.
"You're only here because of your father's failure," Theon had said one morning in the yard, tone clipped. "Don't act like you're one of us, Snow."
Jon stiffened. His hand was on his wooden practice sword—but it was Cregan who moved first.
He crossed the yard in three strides and slammed his fist into Theon's face. There was the loud, sharp crack of bone, and Theon staggered backward, hands clutching his nose as blood poured through his fingers.
"You call him that again," Cregan growled, "and I'll feed your tongue to Kael."
Theon spat blood and fury. "He is a—"
Another punch silenced him.
It took two guards to pull Cregan off. Even then, Kael stood poised beside him, teeth bared.
Jon didn't say a word. He only looked at Cregan the way younger brothers look at older ones when they see something impossible and right.
Later, Jon had asked, "Why did you do that?"
"Because you're my brother," Cregan said simply.
Jon nodded. "You fight like a shadowcat."
"You talk too much."
"And you think too little."
They grinned.
From that day on, Jon walked with more weight in his step. He trained harder. He argued with Robb more. He even stood up to Ser Rodrik once—something Cregan had done the week prior.
They became a pair of wild things—one bold and reckless, the other quiet and sharp. They raced across the battlements. Stole honey from the kitchens. Scaled the bell tower on a dare from Arya. Hunted frogs in the godswood.
Cregan taught Jon how to throw a knife without spinning it. Jon showed Cregan how to fish with string and bone hooks. Kael followed them everywhere, ears twitching, eyes always watching. He seemed to understand the bond between them better than most men.
Maester Luwin sighed more often. Ser Rodrik carried a permanent scowl. Catelyn, never cruel, still watched the two boys from a distance, worry flickering in her eyes. And Ned, for all his stern words, never stopped them—not truly.
"They remind me of Brandon," he told Maester Luwin one evening.
"And Lyanna," Luwin had replied. "Wild wolves, both."
One of the more defining incidents came during a visit from a wandering septon who had been invited by Catelyn to conduct prayers to the Seven in the Winterfell sept.
Cregan stood at the edge of the hall, arms folded, face unreadable.
When the septon called for all to bow their heads before the Stranger and the Mother, Cregan did not move. He did not kneel. He did not pray.
"I bend my knee to the old gods," he said, voice hard and cold. "Not to foreign idols and their gilded stories."
The room had gone silent. Catelyn's face paled. Robb had stepped forward, voice measured.
"Brother," he said gently, "Mother means no harm. It's her faith."
"I don't stop her from praying ," Cregan said sharply. "BUut She shouldn't try to turn us into southerners we are blood of north ."
Catelyn was flabbergasted
Even Ned had paused, looking between his wife and second son.
Later that night, Robb found Cregan near the empty sept, holding a lit torch.
"What are you doing?" Robb demanded.
Cregan turned. "Thinking about it."
"You can't," Robb said. "You can't burn it down."
Cregan stared at the flickering flame. "It doesn't belong here."
Robb stepped closer, voice low. "And you are right. We are of the North. You carry the wolf blood—but don't become the fire that turns this house to ash. Mother needs it "
For a long moment, Cregan said nothing. Then he doused the torch in the snow.
"I hate what it represents."
"So do I," Robb admitted. "But I'll be Lord someday. And if I rage at every southern intrusion, I'll start a dozen wars before winter even comes."
Cregan looked at his brother and smirked faintly. "That's why you're heir."
"And you're the storm," Robb replied. "But I'll weather you."
Despite their differences, Robb and Cregan made a perfect counterbalance. Where Cregan burned with wild temper and fierce instincts, Robb brought calm thought and steady judgment. One charged headfirst into trouble; the other planned two steps ahead.
In every decision, in every moment of chaos, they found their rhythm. Cregan stirred the fire, and Robb shaped its warmth into something lasting. And in that balance, the Stark brothers began to shape not only themselves but each other.
One night, Jon stood at the window of the tower room they shared.
"Do you think we'll leave Winterfell?"
Cregan tilted his head. "One day. But not alone."
Jon looked over. "You mean it?"
"I always mean it."
The moonlight spilled over the room. Kael stretched out by the fire, tail flicking.
From age eight to ten, Jon Snow became stronger, bolder—not because he was taught to be, but because Cregan showed him how. Not in lessons, but in loyalty. In defiance. In blood and bruises.
They were not lord and bastard.
They were brothers.
And Winterfell, for all its cold stone, had never felt warmer to Jon than when he ran wild with Cregan and the wolf at their heels.