# The Crossing, The Twins Bridge
*Later that afternoon*
The great stone bridge of the Twins stretched before them like the spine of some slumbering leviathan, its ancient stones worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain and the tread of armies both victorious and defeated. Far below, the Green Fork glimmered dully in the pale afternoon light, the waters black-green and restless, catching sun and shadow like scattered coins. The twin towers rose stark and ugly on either bank, squat keep-fortresses of grey stone, their arrow slits staring down like hostile eyes, the silent sentinels of House Frey.
The northern column moved across in ordered ranks, iron-shod hooves and leather-booted feet striking stone in relentless rhythm. The sound rolled out across the waters, a harsh echo that mingled with the cries of river gulls and the steady murmur of the Green Fork. It was the music of armies: a martial symphony of discipline and blood, a song as old as Westeros itself.
But within the lacquered carriage that creaked across the bridge, the music was of a different sort.
Cregan Stark sat amongst silk cushions, straight-backed despite his tender years, his violet eyes wide and unblinking. The boy did not fidget like most children would; he watched. Every tree that blurred past the window, every shifting light of sky on water, he took it in as if weighing and measuring it against some silent ledger only he could read. For the first time in his short life he crossed into the North—the land his father had died for, the kingdom his uncle had kept in trust, the realm that must someday rest in his hands.
Ashara Dayne sat opposite, her beauty a dark flame against the pale northern light. She watched her son as a hawk might watch its fledgling, half-pride and half-fear. Elia Martell was beside her, Aegon at her breast, his small fists kneading silk as if he, too, would claim the world as his. Catelyn Tully, hair like burnished copper, held her infant close, her eyes never far from the windows, alert and measuring. And between them all, like a sun that refused to be dimmed, sat Princess Rhaenys. She leaned forward, curls spilling over one shoulder, her lips curved in that sly half-smile that seemed always on the edge of laughter.
"It feels different, doesn't it?" Rhaenys said at last, her voice lilting, dark eyes bright as polished jet. She pushed back the curtain to peer at the wild lands unspooling before them. "The air tastes of secrets, and winter, and promises too old to break. Even the light seems sharper here, as if it cuts to the truth of things." She tilted her head, studying Cregan. "I think I understand why your father loved it so much. I could love it too."
Cregan's eyes flickered toward her, but he did not answer. His gaze went back to the window, fixed upon the moorland beyond, where dark forests brooded under a pewter sky.
Ashara reached out, her hand cool on her son's small shoulder. "What do you see, little wolf?" she asked, voice gentle, though a faint thread of worry laced her tone.
The boy's brow furrowed as he searched for words. For a long moment, he was silent. At last, he spoke with careful gravity, each word seeming chosen and weighed. "Responsibility."
Rhaenys arched a brow, mischief quick as a blade. "Seven hells, Cregan, you sound like a maester twice your age. Would it kill you to say 'trees' or 'stones' like other children?"
"It would not," Cregan said, solemn as ever, "but it would be untrue." His small hands clenched upon his knees. "Every stone, every tree, every stream… they depend upon their lord's choices. Good choices mean safety, prosperity, joy. Bad choices mean suffering. Death. The loss of all they love."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the steady clatter of wheels on stone and the distant rush of the river below.
Elia studied him, dark eyes soft with something like awe. "You already feel the weight of it," she said. "Most men spend their lives fleeing that truth, or else they learn it too late, when their folly has already ruined thousands."
"Most men," Rhaenys said airily, "aren't born with that Stark look in their eyes, as if the gods themselves whispered duty into their cradles." She leaned close to Cregan, lips quirking. "You must be a dreadful playmate. Do you ever laugh, cousin? Or must the whole North tremble solemnly with you?"
Cregan turned to her then, his violet eyes steady and unblinking. "I will laugh when my people are safe. When I know no one suffers needlessly under my care."
Rhaenys laughed for him, a peal of bright sound that filled the carriage. "Seven save us, Ashara, you've birthed a knight of legend already. He speaks like a ballad, and he's not yet out of swaddling."
Ashara only smiled faintly, though her eyes lingered on her son with a softness that belied the steel in her tone. "Better a knight of legend than a fool. Let him keep his solemn words if they armor him for the burdens to come."
Catelyn, rocking Robb gently, added quietly, "He understands something many never do—that power exists to serve others, not oneself. If he holds to that, the North will not suffer for its lord."
"Or perhaps the North will suffer for lack of laughter," Rhaenys countered, though her smile had gentled. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, her gaze lingering on Cregan as though measuring him anew.
Beyond the windows the North unfolded, mile upon mile of stark beauty: dark forests of ironwood and sentinel trees, their branches clawing skyward; moors that rolled to the horizon; streams flashing silver as they hurried seaward; and ancient stone circles, grey monoliths brooding over the land like forgotten gods. Above it all stretched the sky, vast and merciless, grey as old steel and sharp as truth.
Cregan watched a hawk wheel high above the moors, its wings steady in the northern wind. His voice was low when he spoke again, but steady, certain. "This is what Father died for. Not land, nor title, nor ancient right. This." His eyes never left the hawk. "The duty to protect something wild, and beautiful, and irreplaceable."
No one answered him at once. Perhaps there was no answer to give.
"Tell me about it," Rhaenys said suddenly, her voice breaking the quiet like the crack of a whip. The princess leaned forward, eyes alight, curls tumbling over her shoulder as if she commanded not only people but the very space around her. "The North. What it means to rule here. I want to understand what I'm marrying into."
Ashara Dayne's lips curved, warmth softening the words before they left her. "The North is not like other kingdoms, little princess. Too vast. Too harsh. Too wild. You cannot rule it with fear, nor with sweet words alone. A Northern lord leads by example, or not at all. Respect must be earned, for the people here can vanish into the forests if they find a lord unworthy."
"They follow only if they choose to," Elia Martell added, shifting Aegon in her arms. Her dark eyes caught the faint light that filtered through the carriage window, her beauty sharpened by the stark northern air. "And when they do choose, their loyalty is a fortress stronger than stone. But betray it once, and you'll find no forgiveness in ten lifetimes."
Catelyn brushed a strand of red hair from her cheek, her voice quiet but steady. "They remember. Kindnesses and cruelties both. They hand those memories down as carefully as heirlooms, from father to son, mother to daughter. A reputation in the North is not forged in a single act, nor lost in one misstep. It is built across lifetimes."
Through the rattling window, a village appeared—scarcely more than a dozen houses clustered about a muddy green, smoke curling from squat chimneys. Barefoot children chased one another across the yard of a timber hall that might have been a sept, or a school, or both. The sight seemed small, ordinary. But to Cregan, it was everything. He stared, violet eyes fixed, his little hands tightening on his knees until the knuckles whitened.
"They trust us," he said at last, his voice soft but cutting through the carriage all the same. "Even though they don't know us, even though we're only children, they trust we'll put their welfare above our comfort. That's…" He faltered, searching for words big enough. "Terrifying. And wonderful. And the most important thing in the world."
Rhaenys laughed then, sudden and bright as bells. "Seven save me, listen to him! Terrifying, wonderful, important. Gods, you sound like some long-bearded maester reciting wisdom in the Citadel. You're a boy, Cregan. You're meant to be thinking of hounds and wooden swords, not terrifying responsibilities."
Cregan turned his gaze upon her, steady and solemn, his violet eyes impossibly old in so young a face. "A lord does not have the luxury of boyhood."
"Oh, don't tell me you were born with a sword in your hand," Rhaenys teased, leaning close enough to bump his shoulder with hers. "If you go on like this, I'll start to wonder whether I've agreed to marry a husband or a septon."
Ashara's laughter joined her daughter's, rich and musical. "A septon would at least smile, sweetling. My son, however, seems determined to bear the woes of the world upon shoulders scarcely grown broad enough for his doublet." She smoothed Cregan's dark hair with tender fingers. "You have your father's gravity, little wolf. But you are still a child, whether you like it or not."
"Children do not carry legacies," Cregan answered, unblinking. "But Starks do. From the first Brandon to the last. The people expect it."
Catelyn shifted Robb in her arms, her coppery hair gleaming in the dim light. "And perhaps that is why the Starks are remembered when other houses are forgotten. Because they never let themselves forget what was owed."
Rhaenys made a face, half pout and half grin, as she flopped back against the cushions with theatrical flair. "And so the Stark solemnity conquers even his aunt and his betrothed. Seven hells, no wonder Northerners brood by the fire all winter. Too much responsibility in the air, it's choking." Her eyes sparkled, though, as she glanced at Cregan again. "Still, I suppose it's better than marrying a fool. You'll do, wolf. Even if I must make you laugh one day, if only to prove you can."
The carriage rattled on, wheels turning over rough stone, carrying its passengers deeper into the land that was neither forgiving nor forgetful. Behind them, the Twins dwindled to grim silhouettes against a darkening sky, their tolls paid, their lord's malice left festering behind. Ahead lay Winterfell, with its smoking chimneys and its long shadows, and beyond that futures none of them could truly foresee.
Cregan Stark sat amid silk cushions and princesses, but his gaze was fixed outward, on villages and forests and hawks wheeling above the moors. He thought of his father dead in the snow, of the words written into his bloodline for eight thousand years.
Winter was coming. But he would be ready.
And so, by extension, would the people who placed their trust in him.
That, after all, was what it meant to be a Stark.
---
The carriage rocked and swayed as it pushed deeper into the North, its wheels creaking over rutted earth that had swallowed the soft grasslands of the Riverlands. The very air had changed. Gone was the damp heaviness of rivers and reeds; here the wind came sharper, keener, carrying scents of pine, peat smoke, and snowmelt. It was cleaner somehow, colder, as if the land itself wished to strip away pretense and leave only what was true.
Rhaenys pressed her face close to the glass, breath fogging the pane as she stared out with the hunger of a girl who had grown up in halls of stone and heat, where the sea was never far and the streets pressed too tight. Her dark eyes glimmered with wonder. "It's so much bigger than I expected," she said, her voice carrying that note of command she wore as naturally as a crown. "In King's Landing, you can see from one end of the city to the other, if you climb the Red Keep high enough. But this—" she gestured to the endless sweep of hills, forests, and sky, "—this just goes on forever. Miles upon miles, all of it under one house."
"Not belongs," Cregan corrected, his tone quiet but weighty. His violet eyes never left the window. "Serves. A lord serves the land, and the land serves the people. The moment he believes he owns it, instead of protecting it, everything begins to break."
Ashara Dayne turned her head sharply at that, violet eyes—so like her son's—meeting Elia's across the carriage. It was not the words of a child, and both women knew it.
"Where did you learn that distinction, sweetling?" Elia asked, her voice smooth and measured, as if she were testing a jewel against the light. "Between owning and serving?"
Cregan was silent for a long moment, his gaze following a flock of ravens that rose black and sudden from a distant wood. "From watching what happens when lords forget," he said at last. His small voice was steady, but it carried a chill that did not come from the northern air. "From what the Mad King did to people he should have protected. From knowing that power without purpose is nothing but destruction waiting to happen."
The words lingered, heavy as a drawn blade. Even baby Aegon shifted uneasily in his mother's arms, fussing until Elia pressed him close.
"Power without purpose," Catelyn repeated softly. She stroked Robb's small head where it rested on her shoulder, her copper hair catching the thin northern light. "That's wisdom most men do not gain until they've wasted half their lives."
"I've been watching," Cregan said simply, as if it were explanation enough. His gaze flickered from one woman to the next. "Uncle Ned. Uncle Arthur. You, Mother. How you make choices, what you weigh, how you treat people who can do nothing for you. That part matters most."
Ashara's hand lingered on his small shoulder, pride and ache mingling in her look. "My little wolf," she murmured, "you see too much."
The carriage passed another village then, larger than the last. Smoke curled from thatched roofs. Children herded goats with sticks twice their height, women pinned damp linens to a line that flapped in the wind, and weary men trudged home with mattocks over their shoulders. The scene could have belonged to another age, another century; the world outside shifted kings and crowns, but the rhythm of hearth and field endured unchanged.
Rhaenys pressed her palm to the glass as if she might reach through. "Those people," she said softly, "they're why it all matters, aren't they? Not the castles or songs or titles. Just people living, wanting to be safe while they do it."
"Everything else is decoration," Cregan agreed, his tone carrying no doubt. "Pretty words. Ceremonies. Traditions. But beneath it all, only one question matters: are your people better off because you exist, or worse?"
Rhaenys turned, lips curling into a smile that was half admiration, half mockery. "Seven hells, listen to you. You speak like some old maester with a book for a face. Do you never think of games, or hunting, or—" she tilted her head with a wicked grin, "—kissing?"
Ashara's laugh rang low and musical. "Do not scandalize him yet, little princess."
Cregan, unblinking, met Rhaenys's dark eyes with the same grave certainty he gave the land outside. "A lord cannot afford to play until his people are safe."
"Oh gods," Rhaenys groaned, throwing herself back against the cushions with theatrical despair. "What have I gotten myself into? A wolf who broods more than he laughs. When we're wed, I'll be obliged to dance and sing just to keep Winterfell from drowning in solemnity." Her eyes sparkled nonetheless. "Mark me, Cregan Stark, I will make you laugh one day, if only to prove the North is not made entirely of stone."
"Stone endures," Cregan said, the faintest curl at the corner of his lips betraying what might have been the ghost of humor. "Laughter fades."
"That's no answer," Rhaenys shot back, but her grin only widened.
Ashara touched her son's hair again, her expression softening. "You need not bear the world upon your shoulders before you are even grown enough to lift a sword."
"But I must understand it," Cregan replied quietly, eyes fixed once more on the stark horizon. "Because when I am old enough to carry a blade, they will trust me to wield it wisely. And wisdom is not learned at the last moment."
The carriage rolled on into the deepening dusk. Behind them, the Riverlands dwindled into memory. Before them stretched moorland dark with gathering shadows, forests crowding close, and beyond, mountains rising like black teeth against a sky streaked copper and gold. The air grew colder, sharper, and in that chill twilight the future seemed to draw near: uncertain, unyielding, but theirs to claim.
Winter was coming. But this time, the little wolf was watching for it.
[Rewrite with more detail (5000 words or more) and Dialogue (and a lot more banter), along with more of Rhaenys being Rhaenys (as though Portrayed by Deva Cassel), more of Cregan being Cregan (as though Portrayed by Henry Cavill), more of Ashara being Ashara (as though Portrayed by Katie McGrath), more of Elia being Elia (as though Portrayed by Deepika Padukone), and more of Catelyn being Catelyn (as though Portrayed by Eleanor Tomlinson)]# The Crossing, The Twins Bridge
*Later that afternoon*
The great stone bridge of the Twins stretched before them like the spine of some slumbering leviathan, its ancient stones worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain and the tread of armies both victorious and defeated. Far below, the Green Fork glimmered dully in the pale afternoon light, the waters black-green and restless, catching sun and shadow like scattered coins tossed by some capricious god. The twin towers rose stark and ugly on either bank, squat keep-fortresses of grey stone that seemed to crouch like malevolent beasts, their arrow slits staring down like hostile eyes—the silent sentinels of House Frey, ever watchful, ever grasping.
The northern column moved across in ordered ranks, a river of steel and leather flowing over ancient stone. Iron-shod hooves struck the bridge in measured beats, leather boots followed in lockstep, and the sound rolled out across the waters like thunder made manifest. It was a harsh echo that mingled with the cries of river gulls wheeling overhead and the steady murmur of the Green Fork below, creating a symphony both martial and melancholy—the music of armies, a song as old as Westeros itself, sung by ten thousand voices raised in unison.
But within the lacquered carriage that creaked and swayed across the bridge, protected by silk curtains and cushioned walls, the music was of a different sort entirely.
Cregan Stark sat amongst embroidered silk cushions, his small frame held straight-backed despite his tender years, every inch the young lord despite the childhood softness that still clung to his features. His violet eyes—so startling in a face that bore the strong bones of his Northern father—were wide and unblinking as they took in the world beyond the carriage windows. The boy did not fidget as most children would, did not kick his heels or pluck at the curtains or demand sweets from his mother's travel satchel. Instead, he watched with an intensity that was almost unsettling in one so young.
Every gnarled oak that blurred past the window, every shift of light on water, every glimpse of distant cottage smoke curling into the grey sky—he absorbed it all as if weighing and measuring each detail against some invisible ledger only he could read. For the first time in his short life, he was crossing into the true North, leaving behind the gentler lands of his early childhood. This was the realm his father had died for in the snows beyond the Wall, the kingdom his uncle Ned had kept in trust through war and winter, the ancient domain that must someday rest in his small hands like a crown too heavy for any mortal head.
The weight of that knowledge sat upon his shoulders like a mantle of lead.
Ashara Dayne occupied the seat opposite, her legendary beauty transformed by motherhood into something both softer and more fierce—a dark flame burning steady against the pale northern light that filtered through the carriage windows. Her violet eyes, mirrors of her son's, watched the boy with the focused attention of a hawk observing its fledgling's first flight. There was pride in that gaze, yes, but also fear—the bone-deep terror of a mother who saw her child growing too fast, understanding too much, bearing burdens that should have been years in the future.
Beside her, Elia Martell sat with infant Aegon at her breast, the babe's small fists kneading silk as if he too would claim the world as his birthright. Her Dornish beauty seemed somehow sharpened by the northern air, her dark eyes more penetrating, her bearing more regal. She had survived the Sack of King's Landing through luck and quick thinking, and now she moved through the world with the careful grace of one who had learned that safety was always temporary, that peace was a luxury that could be snatched away in a heartbeat.
Catelyn Tully—soon to be Catelyn Stark, though the wedding was still weeks away—held her own infant son close to her chest, her hair like burnished copper catching the light whenever she moved. Her blue eyes, bright as winter stars, were never far from the windows, alert and measuring. She studied the landscape with the intensity of a general planning a campaign, memorizing every hill and stream and copse of trees. This would be her home now, her children's inheritance, and she was determined to know it as well as any woman born to it.
And between them all, like a sun that refused to be dimmed by cloud or distance, sat Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. She leaned forward with unguarded curiosity, her silver-gold curls spilling over one shoulder like a waterfall of precious metal, her lips curved in that sly half-smile that seemed always poised on the edge of laughter or mischief—sometimes both. Her purple eyes, darker than her young betrothed's, sparkled with the kind of restless energy that made her seem larger than the space she occupied, as if she commanded not only people but the very air around her.
The silence in the carriage had grown thick, weighted with unspoken thoughts and careful observations. Outside, the bridge stones passed beneath them with metronomic regularity, each clatter of wheels marking another yard closer to the North proper, another step toward futures none of them could fully foresee.
"It feels different, doesn't it?" Rhaenys said at last, her voice breaking the quiet like a stone thrown into still water. The words carried that natural authority that seemed bred into Targaryen bones, though softened by genuine curiosity. She pushed back the heavy curtain with one pale hand to peer more closely at the wild lands unspooling before them like a scroll written in languages of stone and tree and sky. "The very air tastes different. Of secrets, and winter, and promises too old to break."
She paused, head tilted as if listening to music only she could hear. "Even the light seems sharper here, as if it cuts through pretense to the truth of things. Everything feels more... essential, somehow. Raw." Her gaze shifted to study Cregan, taking in his solemn expression and rigid posture. "I think I begin to understand why your father loved this land so desperately. I could love it too, given time."
Cregan's eyes flickered toward her for just a moment—a brief acknowledgment—before returning to the window and the endless vista beyond. His attention fixed upon the moorland that stretched to the horizon, where dark forests of ironwood and sentinel trees brooded under a pewter sky like ancient guardians keeping watch over secrets older than memory.
The silence stretched again, but it was a different quality now—expectant rather than heavy.
Ashara reached out, her hand cool and gentle on her son's small shoulder. "What do you see out there, little wolf?" she asked, her voice pitched low and warm, though a faint thread of worry laced the words like silver wire through silk. "What captures your attention so completely that you forget there are people here who love you?"
The boy's dark brow furrowed as he searched for words adequate to the thoughts churning behind those unusual eyes. For a long moment he was silent, his gaze never wavering from the landscape beyond the glass. When he finally spoke, each word seemed chosen and weighed with the care of a jeweler selecting gems for a crown.
"Responsibility," he said simply.
The single word fell into the carriage like a stone into deep water, sending ripples of surprise and something approaching awe through the assembled women.
Rhaenys blinked, then threw back her head and laughed—a sound like silver bells in a high wind. "Seven hells, Cregan!" she exclaimed, her eyes dancing with mirth and no small measure of disbelief. "You sound like some ancient maester with two hundred years of wisdom behind his beard. Would it actually kill you to say 'trees' or 'stones' or 'pretty birds' like other children your age?"
Cregan turned to face her fully for the first time since she'd spoken, his violet eyes meeting hers with steady seriousness. "It would not kill me," he replied with perfect gravity, "but it would be untrue. And lies serve no one, least of all those who must depend upon truth to make their choices wisely."
His small hands clenched upon his knees, the knuckles showing white through the skin. "Every stone out there, every tree, every stream and hill and cottage—they all depend upon their lord's choices. Good choices mean safety, prosperity, joy for the people who call this home. Bad choices mean suffering. Death. The loss of everything they love and hold dear."
The words hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre, heavy with implications none of them wanted to examine too closely.
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the steady clatter of iron-rimmed wheels on ancient stone and the distant rush of the Green Fork flowing toward the sea far below. Even baby Aegon seemed to sense the weight of the moment, settling more quietly against his mother's breast.
Elia studied the boy with new interest, her dark eyes soft with something that might have been wonder. "You already feel the weight of it," she said quietly, her Dornish accent lending music to the words. "The burden of rule, the knowledge that your choices ripple outward like stones cast in water, touching lives you may never see or know. Most men spend their entire lives fleeing from that truth, or else they learn it far too late, when their folly has already cost thousands their happiness—or their lives."
Catelyn shifted baby Robb to her other arm, her copper hair catching the light as she moved. "It's a heavy burden for anyone," she said softly, her blue eyes fixed on Cregan's face. "But perhaps especially for one so young. Are you certain you want to carry such weight so early? Childhood passes quickly enough without hastening it along."
Cregan's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—a flash of something deeper than his years should have allowed. "I have no choice in the matter," he said simply. "The weight exists whether I acknowledge it or not. Better to understand it now, while there are still people around me wise enough to teach me how to bear it properly."
"Most men," Rhaenys interjected with theatrical flair, settling back against her cushions like a cat finding the perfect spot to curl up, "aren't born with that particular Stark look burning in their eyes—as if the old gods themselves whispered duty and honor into their cradles instead of lullabies." She leaned forward suddenly, bringing her face close to his, her smile both fond and exasperated. "Tell me truly, cousin—do you ever laugh? Ever play games or chase butterflies or do anything that doesn't involve brooding over the fate of kingdoms? Or must the whole North learn to tremble solemnly alongside you?"
For the first time, something that might have been amusement ghosted across Cregan's features—so brief it was almost imagined. "I will laugh," he said with perfect seriousness, "when my people are safe. When I know that no one suffers needlessly under my care, that no child goes hungry because their lord preferred comfort to duty, that no village burns because their protector chose personal glory over their welfare."
Rhaenys stared at him for a moment, then burst into delighted laughter that filled the carriage like birdsong. "Seven save us all, Ashara, you've given birth to a knight of legend before he can even properly hold a sword! He speaks like something out of the most romantic ballads—all noble duty and selfless sacrifice. I half expect him to start composing poetry about honor and winter roses."
But her laughter, while genuine, carried an edge of something more complex—admiration mixed with concern, fondness tempered by the knowledge that such intensity in one so young might be both blessing and curse.
Ashara smiled, though her eyes remained fixed on her son with that mixture of pride and worry that seemed to define her these days. "Better a knight of legend than a fool," she said, her voice carrying the steel that had made her famous across seven kingdoms. "Let him keep his solemn words if they serve as armor for the burdens he must carry. The North has little patience for lords who smile prettily while their people suffer."
"True enough," Catelyn agreed, adjusting her hold on baby Robb as he stirred against her shoulder. "But there's something to be said for balance. A lord who never smiles, never shows joy or warmth, may inspire respect but struggle to earn love. And love, freely given, is often stronger than fear or duty alone."
Elia nodded thoughtfully. "In Dorne, we say that a ruler who cannot laugh with his people in good times will find it hard to ask them to weep with him in bad ones. Joy shared makes the burdens easier to bear when they come."
Cregan considered this with the same grave attention he gave everything else, his violet eyes distant as he weighed their words against his own understanding. "Perhaps," he said at length, "but first comes safety. Then prosperity. Joy is the flower that blooms when the roots of security run deep. A lord who seeks laughter before laying that foundation builds his happiness on sand."
Rhaenys groaned dramatically, throwing herself back against the cushions with exaggerated despair. "What have I gotten myself into? A wolf who broods more deeply than philosophers twice his age. When we're wed, I'll be obliged to dance and sing and jest constantly just to keep Winterfell from drowning in noble solemnity." Her eyes sparkled despite her words, mischief and affection warring in their depths. "Mark my words, Cregan Stark—I will make you laugh one day, if only to prove that even the North is not made entirely of stone and winter winds."
"Stone endures," Cregan replied, and this time there was definitely the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Laughter fades with the season that brought it."
"Ha!" Rhaenys pointed at him triumphantly. "I saw that! The tiniest curl of your lips—you're not made of stone after all, are you? There's hope for you yet, little wolf."
"I never claimed to be made of stone," Cregan said mildly. "But stone is what people need from their lords when the storms come. They need to know that their protector will not bend or break, no matter what winds blow."
Ashara reached over to smooth her son's dark hair with gentle fingers, her touch tender despite the strength in those hands. "You have your father's gravity, sweetling. His sense of duty, his understanding of what leadership truly costs. But you are still a child, whether you wish it or not. The world will wait a few more years for you to shoulder its burdens fully."
"Will it?" Cregan asked quietly, his gaze returning to the window where the landscape continued to unspool in endless variety. "Children do not inherit legacies that stretch back eight thousand years. But Starks do. From the first Brandon to the last, every one has known that their choices echo down through generations. The people of the North remember, Mother. They expect their lords to remember too."
The weight in his voice was almost palpable, as if the ghosts of those ancient kings rode in the carriage with them, their presence pressing down on small shoulders that should have been concerned with games and lessons, not the fate of kingdoms.
Catelyn shifted uncomfortably, her maternal instincts warring with her practical nature. "And perhaps that is both the blessing and the curse of your house," she said carefully. "That the Starks are remembered when other houses fade into obscurity. Because they never allowed themselves to forget what was owed—to the land, to the people, to the future itself."
"The Starks endure because they understand service," Elia added softly, her voice barely audible above the creaking of the carriage wheels. "Not rulership as dominion, but as sacred trust. That understanding has kept your line strong when others crumbled."
Rhaenys made a face that was half pout, half grin, flopping back against the cushions with theatrical flair that set her curls dancing. "And so the Stark solemnity conquers even his mother and future good-mother," she declared with mock despair. "Seven hells, no wonder Northerners spend their winters brooding by the fire. Too much responsibility hanging in the very air—it's positively suffocating!"
But her eyes sparkled as she glanced at Cregan again, mischief and something deeper dancing in their purple depths. "Still, I suppose it's better than marrying a fool. You'll do well enough, little wolf, even if I must make it my personal mission to teach you that laughter doesn't weaken the foundations of kingdoms. Someone has to balance all that noble gravity, after all."
The carriage hit a particularly deep rut, jostling them all and causing baby Aegon to fuss briefly before settling again. The moment of levity passed, but something had shifted in the atmosphere—a recognition that perhaps both seriousness and joy had their place in the grand scheme of things.
"Tell me more about it," Rhaenys said suddenly, her voice losing its teasing edge as genuine curiosity took hold. She leaned forward, curls tumbling over her shoulder as she commanded the attention of everyone in the carriage with the natural authority of one born to rule. "The North. What it truly means to hold power here. I want to understand what I'm marrying into—not just the pretty words and ceremonies, but the reality of it. The daily weight of it."
Ashara's expression grew thoughtful, her violet eyes taking on a distant quality as if she were seeing beyond the confines of the carriage to something larger and more complex. "The North is not like other kingdoms, little princess," she said slowly, choosing her words with care. "It's too vast, too harsh, too wild to be ruled by fear or pretty words alone. You cannot sit in your castle and issue commands expecting them to be obeyed simply because of your birth or your crown."
She paused, gesturing toward the window where endless miles of forest and moor stretched toward the horizon. "A Northern lord leads by example, or he does not lead at all. Respect must be earned through actions, not granted by accident of birth. The people here have seen too many winters, survived too many hardships, to follow someone who cannot prove their worth through deed as well as word."
"And they have options," Catelyn added, her voice carrying the practical wisdom of someone who had grown up understanding the realities of power. "If they find a lord unworthy, if his choices bring more harm than good, they can simply... disappear. Into the forests, into the mountains, to distant relatives or hidden settlements. The North is too big, too wild for any lord to control every corner of it. They follow only if they choose to."
Elia nodded agreement, shifting Aegon to a more comfortable position. "But when they do choose to follow, when they decide you are worthy of their trust, their loyalty becomes a fortress stronger than any wall of stone. It passes from parent to child like a sacred inheritance. Betray that trust once, though, and you'll find no forgiveness in ten lifetimes. They have long memories in the North."
"They remember everything," Catelyn confirmed quietly, her blue eyes serious as winter sky. "Kindnesses and cruelties both. They hand down those memories as carefully as heirlooms, from father to son, mother to daughter. A reputation in the North is not forged in a single moment of glory or lost in one misstep. It is built across generations, maintained through constant vigilance and care."
Through the rattling window, another village appeared—larger than the scattered hamlets they had passed earlier. Perhaps two dozen houses clustered around a muddy common, their thatched roofs sending thin streams of smoke curling into the grey sky. Barefoot children chased one another between the buildings, their laughter faint but clear through the glass. Women pinned damp linens to lines that flapped like banners in the northern wind, while men with mud-caked boots trudged home from the fields, their tools slung over shoulders bent by honest labor.
The scene could have belonged to any century, any age. Kingdoms might rise and fall, kings might come and go, but the rhythm of hearth and field, of birth and death and the endless cycle of seasons, endured unchanged.
Cregan stared at the village as they passed, his violet eyes fixed on the children playing in the mud, the women hanging wash, the weary men heading home to supper and warmth. His small hands tightened on his knees until the knuckles showed white, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"They trust us," he said, the words carrying a weight that seemed too heavy for his young throat. "Even though they don't know us personally, even though we're strangers passing through their lands, they trust that we'll put their welfare above our own comfort. Above our desires, our ambitions, our personal happiness. That's..." He faltered, searching for words big enough to contain the enormity of what he felt. "That's terrifying. And wonderful. And the most important thing in all the world."
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the steady rhythm of hooves and wheels on stone. Even the babies seemed to sense the gravity of the moment, settling quietly in their mothers' arms.
Rhaenys was the first to break the spell, but when she spoke, her usual teasing tone was gentled by something approaching awe. "Seven save me, listen to you," she said softly. "Terrifying, wonderful, important—you make it sound like some grand philosophical treatise. You're eight years old, Cregan. You should be thinking about wooden swords and hunting hounds and whether cook will let you lick the bowl after making lemon cakes."
But even as she said it, her eyes remained fixed on his face, studying him as if seeing him clearly for the first time.
Cregan turned his gaze upon her, steady and unblinking, his expression carrying that unsettling maturity that seemed to make him older than his years. "A lord does not have the luxury of childhood," he said simply. "Not when people's lives depend on his choices. Not when his mistakes can mean death for innocents who never chose to trust him but had no other option."
"Oh, don't tell me you were born with a sword in one hand and a book of laws in the other," Rhaenys said, but her teasing lacked its usual bite. She leaned close, bumping his shoulder with hers in a gesture that was both affectionate and slightly desperate. "Please tell me that somewhere beneath all this noble gravity lives a boy who can laugh at silly jokes and steal sweets from the kitchen and maybe, just maybe, think about things that don't involve the fate of kingdoms."
Ashara's laughter joined the conversation, rich and musical despite the worry that never quite left her eyes when she looked at her son. "A septon would at least manage the occasional smile, sweetling," she said, reaching over to smooth Cregan's dark hair with fingers that trembled slightly. "My son, however, seems absolutely determined to bear all the woes of the world upon shoulders that are barely broad enough for his doublet."
Her touch lingered, maternal and protective. "You have your father's gravity, little wolf. His sense of duty, his understanding that leadership is service rather than privilege. But you are still a child, whether you acknowledge it or not. The world will not end if you allow yourself moments of joy."
"Children do not carry legacies that span eight thousand years," Cregan replied, his voice carrying no trace of self-pity—only acceptance of a truth he had long since internalized. "But Starks do. From the very first Brandon the Builder to whoever will be the last, every single one has understood that the people expect certain things. Honor. Duty. Sacrifice when necessary. They expect their lords to remember what was owed, even when—especially when—it would be easier to forget."
Catelyn felt something twist in her chest as she listened to him speak. She thought of her own son, still an infant in her arms, and wondered what kind of world they were building for these children who spoke of duty before they could properly hold a sword.
"And perhaps," she said carefully, "that is exactly why the Stark name endures when others are forgotten. Because they never allow themselves to forget the price of power, or what happens when that price goes unpaid."
Rhaenys made an exasperated sound that was half frustration, half admiration. She threw herself back against the cushions with theatrical flair, purple eyes rolling toward the carriage ceiling as if seeking divine intervention.
"And so the Stark solemnity conquers all," she declared with mock despair. "His mother, his future good-mother, probably his nursemaids and tutors and anyone else who spends more than five minutes in his presence. Seven hells, it's no wonder the people of the North brood by their fires all winter long. The very air up here is thick with responsibility and noble sacrifice—it's practically choking!"
But when her gaze returned to Cregan, her expression softened despite her dramatic words. "Still," she said more quietly, "I suppose there are worse things than marrying a future lord who actually understands the weight of his position. You'll do well enough, little wolf. Even if I do make it my personal mission to teach you that joy and laughter don't make kingdoms crumble into dust. Someone needs to balance all that noble gravity, after all."
The carriage rolled on through the gathering dusk, wheels turning over stone worn smooth by countless travelers who had passed this way before them. Behind them, the twin towers of the Frey stronghold dwindled to grim silhouettes against a sky streaked with copper and gold, their tolls paid, their lord's grasping malice left festering in their wake. Ahead lay leagues of wild country, ancient forests where the old gods still held sway, and beyond that the smoking chimneys and long shadows of Winterfell—home to a dynasty older than recorded history.
And still further north, beyond the great castle and its godswood, beyond the scattered holdfasts and loyal bannermen, lay the Wall itself. That tremendous barrier of ice and magic and accumulated sacrifice, where Cregan's father had died in service to something greater than any single kingdom or crown.
The knowledge sat heavy in the carriage, unspoken but understood by all. This was more than a homecoming for the young heir. It was a taking up of burdens that had been carried by his bloodline since the Age of Heroes, a stepping into a role that would define not just his own life but the lives of countless others who would never know his name but would depend upon his choices nonetheless.
Cregan Stark sat amid silk cushions and royal company, but his gaze remained fixed outward, on villages and forests and the endless sweep of moorland that stretched toward horizons he could not yet see. He thought of his father, dead in the snow beyond the Wall in service to duty older than kingdoms. He thought of the words that had been written into his bloodline with eight thousand years of sacrifice and service: Winter is Coming.
The words meant more than seasonal change, more than the promise of cold winds and longer nights. They were a reminder that hardship was constant, that comfort was temporary, that those who held power must always be prepared to give up everything—including their lives—for those who trusted them to stand guard against the darkness.
Winter was coming, as it always had, as it always would.
But this time, the little wolf was watching for it. Learning from it. Preparing to meet it with the accumulated wisdom of a hundred generations of Starks who had stood their ground when easier paths beckoned.
And if the weight of that knowledge sometimes seemed too heavy for such young shoulders, if the burden of expectation threatened to crush the boy beneath the lord he was destined to become... well, that too was part of the price. Part of what it meant to be born into a name that carried the hopes and fears of an entire kingdom.
—
The carriage rocked and swayed with increasing violence as it pushed deeper into the North, its iron-rimmed wheels creaking and groaning over rutted earth that had long since swallowed the soft grasslands of the Riverlands. The very air had transformed around them, as if they had crossed some invisible boundary between worlds. Gone was the damp heaviness of rivers and reeds that clung to clothes and skin like a second garment; here the wind came sharper, keener, carrying scents that spoke of wildness and ancient things—pine resin sharp as wine, peat smoke curling from distant chimneys, and the clean bite of snowmelt running down from mountains older than memory.
It was cleaner somehow, this northern air, but also colder and more demanding, as if the land itself wished to strip away pretense and courtly nonsense, leaving only what was true and essential. Even the light seemed different—harder, more honest, casting everything in shades of silver and grey that made the soft colors of the south seem like children's paintings.
Rhaenys Targaryen pressed her face close to the carriage window, her breath fogging the thick glass as she stared out with the hungry intensity of a girl who had grown up confined within halls of red stone and sweltering heat, where the narrow sea was never more than a few miles distant and the crowded streets pressed tight with the smell of too many people living too close together. Her violet eyes—darker than sapphires, deeper than amethysts—glimmered with unguarded wonder as she took in the endless vista unfolding beyond the glass.
"It's so much bigger than I ever imagined," she breathed, her voice carrying that natural note of command that seemed bred into Targaryen bones, though softened now by genuine awe. She gestured with one pale hand toward the window, where the landscape rolled away in waves of forest and moor that seemed to stretch beyond the edge of the world itself. "In King's Landing, you can see from one end of the city to the other if you climb high enough in the Red Keep. Stand on the throne room balcony and you can count every tower, every street, every major building."
She paused, shaking her head as if trying to reconcile the immensity before her with everything she had known. "But this—gods, this just goes on forever and ever. Miles upon miles upon miles, all of it supposedly under one house, one family's rule. How does anyone govern something so vast?"
"Not govern," Cregan corrected with quiet precision, his tone carrying a weight that seemed far too heavy for such a young voice. His unusual violet eyes—inheritance of his Dayne mother—never wavered from the window and the wilderness beyond. "Serve. A lord serves the land, and through that service, the land serves the people who call it home. The moment he begins to believe he owns it instead of protecting it, the moment he thinks of it as his possession rather than his sacred trust, everything begins to break down."
The correction hung in the air like incense, solemn and somehow portentous.
Ashara Dayne's head turned sharply at her son's words, her own violet eyes—mirrors of his, though tempered by years and experience—meeting Elia Martell's dark gaze across the swaying carriage interior. Both women recognized the sentiment for what it was: not the parroted wisdom of a child repeating lessons, but understanding earned through observation and reflection. It was unsettling, somehow, to hear such mature philosophy from lips that should have been concerned with sweetmeats and wooden toys.
"Where exactly did you learn to make that distinction, sweetling?" Elia asked, her voice smooth and measured as Dornish wine, though underneath lay the sharp attention of a woman who had survived the Sack of King's Landing through wit as much as luck. She shifted baby Aegon in her arms, studying Cregan as if he were some fascinating puzzle that had just revealed a new piece. "Between ownership and service, between ruling and protecting? It's not a lesson most lords learn until they're grey and bent with age—if they learn it at all."
Cregan remained silent for a long moment, his small face turned toward the window where a great flock of ravens had risen sudden and black from a distant copse of trees, their harsh cries faintly audible even through the glass. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a chill that had nothing to do with the northern wind.
"From watching what happens when lords forget the difference," he said simply. "From seeing what the Mad King did to people he should have protected—people who trusted him, who believed their safety was his sacred responsibility. From understanding that power without purpose, authority without service, is nothing but destruction waiting to happen."
The words settled over the carriage like a funeral shroud, heavy with implications that none of them wanted to examine too closely. Even baby Aegon seemed to sense the gravity of the moment, shifting restlessly in his mother's arms and fussing until Elia drew him close against her breast.
"Power without purpose," Catelyn Tully repeated softly, her voice barely audible above the creaking of wheels and harness. She stroked baby Robb's downy head where it rested on her shoulder, her copper hair catching the thin northern light that filtered through the windows. "That's wisdom most men don't gain until they've wasted half their lives making terrible mistakes. How did you come to understand it so young?"
Cregan's gaze flickered from one woman to the next, taking in their expressions with that unsettling intensity that made him seem far older than his years. "I've been watching," he said, as if that simple statement explained everything. "Uncle Ned, when he visits. Uncle Arthur, before he had to leave. You, Mother. All of you—how you make decisions, what you consider important, how you treat people who can do nothing for you in return. That last part matters most of all."
He turned back to the window, where another village was coming into view—larger than the scattered hamlets they had passed earlier, with perhaps thirty or forty buildings clustered around a central green. "Everyone watches their lords when they need something, when they're asking for favors or seeking advancement. But the measure of a ruler is how they behave toward those who have nothing to offer, who can't help them gain anything at all."
Ashara felt her heart clench as she listened to her son speak. Her hand found his small shoulder, gripping gently through the fine wool of his traveling clothes. Pride and ache warred in her chest—pride at his wisdom, ache at how quickly he was growing beyond childhood's simple pleasures.
"My little wolf," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion she tried to hide, "sometimes I think you see too much, understand too much, for your own good."
The village was fully visible now through the carriage windows, and it painted a picture that could have belonged to any century since the first men crossed the narrow sea. Smoke curled lazily from thatched roofs, grey ribbons ascending toward a pewter sky. Children no older than Cregan himself herded goats with wooden sticks that were nearly twice their height, their voices high and clear as they called to the animals. Women moved between houses with purposeful efficiency, pinning damp linens to lines that snapped and danced in the constant northern wind. Men trudged home from the fields with mattocks and hoes slung over shoulders made broad by honest labor, their faces weathered by sun and wind and the endless cycle of seasons.
It was a scene of timeless simplicity, untouched by the great games of thrones and crowns that consumed the attention of kings and princes. Here, the concerns were immediate and elemental: enough food for winter, warm clothes for the children, a roof that didn't leak when the rains came. The eternal rhythm of hearth and field, birth and death, seed time and harvest.
Rhaenys pressed her palm flat against the cool glass of the window, as if she might somehow reach through and touch this alien world of pastoral simplicity. "Those people," she said softly, wonder coloring her voice, "they're why it all matters, aren't they? Not the castles with their soaring towers, not the songs the bards sing, not the titles and ceremonies and ancient rights. Just... people. Living their lives, raising their children, hoping to be safe while they do it."
"Everything else is decoration," Cregan agreed, his tone carrying the absolute certainty of someone who had thought long and hard about such things. "Pretty words and grand ceremonies and ancient traditions—they have their place, but they're not the foundation. Beneath it all, only one question really matters: are the people under your protection better off because you exist, or would they be happier and safer if you had never been born?"
Rhaenys turned away from the window to stare at him, her expression a mixture of admiration and exasperation that was becoming familiar. "Seven bleeding hells, Cregan Stark," she said, though her tone held more fondness than frustration, "you speak like some ancient maester with two hundred years of accumulated wisdom behind his grey beard. Do you never think of normal things? Games and hunting and music and—" she tilted her head with a wicked grin that transformed her entire face, "—maybe kissing pretty girls?"
Ashara's laughter rang through the carriage, rich and musical despite the worry that never quite left her eyes when she looked at her son. "Seven save us, Rhaenys, don't scandalize the poor boy just yet. He's barely eight years old!"
But Cregan met the princess's teasing violet eyes with the same grave certainty he brought to everything else, unblinking and utterly serious. "A lord cannot afford to think of games and pleasure," he said simply, "not when people's lives depend on his choices being wise ones. Not until he's certain that everyone under his protection is as safe and prosperous as he can make them."
"Oh, gods preserve me," Rhaenys groaned, throwing herself back against the silk cushions with theatrical despair that set her silver-gold curls dancing. "What exactly have I gotten myself into? I'm going to marry a wolf who broods more deeply than philosophers and thinks pleasure is some sort of moral failing. When we're finally wed, I'll be obliged to dance and sing and jest constantly just to keep all of Winterfell from drowning in noble solemnity and righteous purpose."
But despite her dramatic words, her eyes sparkled with something that might have been delight. "Mark my words, Cregan Stark—I will make you laugh one day, if only to prove that even the North is not made entirely of stone and duty and winter winds. There has to be joy somewhere in that serious heart of yours."
For the first time since the conversation began, something that might have been amusement flickered across Cregan's young features—so brief it could have been imagination, but real enough to curl the very corner of his mouth. "Stone endures," he said, his voice carrying the faintest trace of what might have been teasing. "Laughter fades with the season that brought it."
"That's not an answer, you impossible boy," Rhaenys shot back, but her grin only widened at the tiny sign that there might be hope for him yet. "That's just more philosophy disguised as wisdom. I saw that little smile, though—you're not completely made of granite after all, are you?"
"I never claimed to be made of stone," Cregan replied mildly, turning back to the window where the endless northern landscape continued to unfold. "But stone is what people need from their lords when the storms come. They need to know that their protector will not bend or break, no matter how fierce the wind or how heavy the rain."
Ashara reached over to smooth her son's dark hair with gentle fingers, her touch both tender and protective. "You have so much of your father in you, sweetling," she said softly. "His sense of duty, his understanding of what leadership truly costs those who must bear it. But you are still a child, whether you wish to acknowledge it or not. The world can wait a few more years for you to shoulder all its burdens."
"Can it wait?" Cregan asked quietly, his voice carrying a weight of knowledge that seemed impossible in one so young. "The people of the North don't see a child when they look at me, Mother. They see the heir to Winterfell, the future Lord of the North, the next link in a chain that stretches back eight thousand years. They expect certain things—honor, duty, wisdom, sacrifice when it's needed. Those expectations don't pause for childhood."
The carriage rolled on through the gathering dusk, carrying them deeper into a land that seemed to grow wilder and more magnificent with each passing mile. Behind them, the gentle hills of the Riverlands had dwindled into memory, while ahead the true North beckoned—vast forests of ironwood and sentinel trees, their branches reaching skyward like supplicating hands; moorland that rolled to every horizon in waves of purple heather and brown grass; mountains that rose like black teeth against a sky streaked with copper and gold.
The air grew steadily colder, sharper, carrying promises of the winter that was always coming in the North, always just over the next hill or beyond the next forest. And in that chill twilight, with stars beginning to pierce the darkening sky like scattered diamonds, the future seemed to draw closer with each turn of the wheels—uncertain and demanding, but theirs to claim.
Winter was coming, as it always did in the North.
But this time, the little wolf was watching for it, learning from those who had faced it before, preparing to meet it with all the accumulated wisdom of a hundred generations of Starks who had learned that true strength lay not in taking, but in giving; not in ruling, but in serving; not in commanding, but in protecting those who could not protect themselves.
That, after all, was what it meant to be a Stark.
---
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