Chapter 50 – "Swords and Sand"
The sun was cold over Frosthall, the light casting long shadows across the snow-swept courtyards. Winter had not yet come in full, but its fingers reached further each day. Cregan Stark stood atop the battlements, cloak wrapped around him, hair tousled by the wind. Before him, a raven took flight, the latest in a series sent to his partners across Essos.
"Tell the Qohorik smiths that shipment will arrive within the fortnight," he told the young steward beside him. "And warn the Pentoshi guild—if they try to negotiate prices again, we'll trade with Myr."
"Yes, my lord," the steward bowed.
Behind him, Jon Snow emerged from the main hall, parchment in hand. "Reports from the eastern merchants. The blockade on Westerosi goods is already raising prices in Lannisport. Goldcloaks tried to seize a cargo in Gulltown, but our men avoided it."
Cregan smirked. "Let them choke on their pride. We've diverted enough trade east to make their threats meaningless."
"Still no response from King's Landing," Jon added.
"No need," Cregan said. "They'll break themselves before they admit they need us."
They walked toward the great hall where frostwolves lounged on the steps, hounds rested in the sun, and even one great northern elk dozed beside the hearth. It was a strange sight to any outsider—but here, it was simply home.
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The Hound Arrives
The gates of Frosthall opened slowly as a lone rider approached, dark-cloaked and broad-shouldered atop a tired horse. The guards stepped forward, tense—until they saw the face. Burned. Familiar. Recognizable.
"Sandor Clegane," one guard muttered. "The Hound?"
The man dismounted without a word. Around him, massive wolf-hounds sniffed, but did not growl. A albino direwolf(Ghost)lounged in the snow nearby, watching him with his red gleaming eyes.
"What in the fuck is this place?" Sandor muttered.
Animals roamed freely. A black wolf paced beside a butcher. A massive horse drank calmly from a trough surrounded by growling hounds. No cages. No fear.
He followed the directions to the main keep, where Cregan sat before a long table, going over maps and merchant ledgers. Jon Snow stood beside him.
"Stark," Sandor said, voice rough.
Cregan looked up.
Sandor stood straight. "I came because I saw what you did. You killed the Mountain. Not like a knight, but like a warrior.
He paused. "I want to fight for that."
A silence fell. One of Cregan's bannermen—, spoke quickly. "He's the Mountain's brother. He served the Lannisters. He's a killer."
Cregan stood and approached. He circled Sandor slowly, staring at him. The Hound didn't flinch.
Jon watched cautiously. "You trust him?"
"I trust my instincts," Cregan said.
"And they say?" Jon asked.
"They've never lied to me," Cregan replied. "He's got blood on his hands, but not his brother's blood. That stain runs deeper."
Sandor looked up. "I'm not here to beg. I just want to swing my sword where it matters. And maybe keep my fucking head on my shoulders."
Cregan smirked. "Done. Swear it, and you're one of mine."
Sandor nodded. "Then it's sworn."
He knelt—and in the hall of Frosthall, among wolves and cold stone, the Hound became a wolf.
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The Red Viper in Winterfell
Far to the west, Prince Oberyn Martell rode beneath the gates of Winterfell. His arrival was unexpected, his retinue minimal. He was met by Lord Eddard Stark in the great hall.
"Prince Oberyn," Ned said with measured politeness. "The snows welcome no man, but you are not unwelcome."
Oberyn grinned. "I bring no daggers. Only a proposal."
He explained his offer plainly—one of his daughters, a Sand Snake, could become Cregan's paramour, or perhaps something more.
"I've seen your son fight. He is not merely a warrior—he's a storm in wolf's skin."
Ned listened in silence.
When Oberyn finished, Ned gave a tired breath. "If it were me you wished to convince, the matter would be simpler. But Cregan is his own man. Wild, willful, and not mine to command. Even I cannot make that boy do something against his nature. If you wish to propose anything, it is him you must convince."
Oberyn chuckled. "A father who does not rule his son? That is rare."
Ned looked him in the eye and sighed. "A wolf can be trained. But not tamed."
The Red Viper nodded thoughtfully. "Then tomorrow, I speak to the wolf."
He turned to leave, stopping by the tall hearth. "Your son—he does not fear fire. Not even rage. I think... he might be the most dangerous man in Westeros."
Ned only said, "He is a Stark."
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Whispers in the Snow
Across Frosthall, the presence of Sandor Clegane created ripples. Soldiers murmured. Blacksmiths whispered. Direwolves watched.
"He killed men," someone said.
"He swears his sword to the wolfs," another countered.
"But he's one of them."
"No. He left them. That's more than most ever dared."
Cregan paid it no mind. He walked with Shadow beside him, nodding to Jon as they examined new trade routes and smuggling reports. His axe hung on one hip. His Valyrian sword—cleaned, reforged, and newly named Frostbite—rested on the other.
"Essos thrives," Jon said. "Westeros is watching. The Reach and Stormlands remain quiet, but uneasy."
"They will speak when they feel brave," Cregan muttered. "Until then, we bleed them without blades."
Jon chuckled. "You sound like father."
Cregan grinned. "No. He speaks of honor. I speak of wolves."
And somewhere, deep in the frozen halls of Frosthall, the bloody wolf bared its fangs once more.
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