Cregan Stark stood in the shadowed corridor outside the guest wing of Winterfell, arms folded across his black breastplate, wolf-pelt cloak draped over one shoulder like a living shadow. The torchlight played across the midnight armor, making it drink the flame rather than reflect it. Shadow sat at his heel, red eyes fixed on the heavy oaken door before them. The direwolf's ears flicked at every distant sound—servants' footsteps, the low murmur of the feast hall below—but he remained still, patient as stone.
Cregan had been sent here by his father. Not with a command, but with quiet words after the welcome feast had begun to wind down.
"Escort Lady Myrcella to the hall when she's ready," Ned had said in the solar, voice low. "She's young. The castle is strange to her. And… make sure Jon attends. Tell him it's my wish. I don't care what your mother thinks tonight."
Cregan had only nodded. He understood the undercurrent. Catelyn's dislike of Jon was an old wound, never quite healed. She tolerated him in the yard, in the stables, but never at the high table when guests of rank were present. Tonight, with the king and queen under their roof, she would have preferred Jon remain unseen—out of sight, out of mind.
Ned had chosen otherwise.
Cregan waited. The corridor smelled of pine resin and beeswax, the faint sweetness of southern perfumes drifting from beneath the door. Myrcella's chambers had been prepared with every courtesy Winterfell could offer: fresh rushes on the floor, braziers burning hot against the northern chill, a basin of rosewater, and furs piled high on the bed. Still, he knew a girl raised in the sunny gardens of the Red Keep would find the stone walls and howling wind outside unsettling.
Minutes passed. Shadow's tail gave a single, slow thump against the flagstones.
The door opened.
Myrcella Baratheon stepped out, small and golden in a gown of soft yellow silk trimmed with white ermine. Her curls were pinned with pearl combs, cheeks flushed from the cold—or perhaps nerves. Two handmaids hovered behind her, Lannister girls in crimson and gold, eyes darting to the black-armored figure and the red-eyed wolf with poorly concealed alarm.
Myrcella curtsied, slight and practiced. "Lord Cregan."
"Lady Myrcella." He inclined his head, then offered his arm—gauntleted hand steady. "The hall awaits. I'll guide you."
She hesitated only a heartbeat, then placed her small hand on his forearm. The contrast was stark: pale fingers against black steel. Shadow rose smoothly, padding forward to walk at Cregan's other side, a dark guardian between them and the world.
They started down the corridor. The handmaids trailed at a respectful distance, whispering to each other.
"You have a direwolf," Myrcella said softly, glancing at Shadow. "He's… beautiful. And frightening."
"His name is Shadow," Cregan replied. "He won't harm you. He knows you're mine to protect."
Her eyes widened a fraction. "Yours to protect?"
"The betrothal makes it so," he said plainly. "Until the day we wed—or until the gods decide otherwise—I am your shield in the North. As you are my lady."
She looked up at him then, truly looked—grey eyes meeting grey, searching. "You're not like the knights in the songs. They wear silver and smile. You wear black and… you don't smile much."
Cregan's mouth curved, just enough to be called a smile. "Smiles are for southern tourneys. In the North, we save them for when the work is done."
They descended a short flight of stairs. Torchlight flickered across her face, catching the gold in her hair.
"I've heard stories about you," she said. "From Father. He says you rebuilt Moat Cailin. That you have an army dressed all in black. That you pay debts no one asked you to pay."
"Stories grow taller in the telling," Cregan answered. "Moat Cailin stands again because the North needed it to. The army trains because winter is coming—and worse things with it. The debt… that was only right. Your father sent gold when we asked. We repay what we borrow."
Myrcella nodded slowly. "Mother says the North is wild. Cold. Full of savages and trees that watch."
"Your mother sees what she expects to see," Cregan said quietly. "The North is hard. But it endures. And it remembers."
They reached the bottom of the stairs. The sounds of the great hall grew louder—laughter, clinking cups, a bard plucking a lute. Cregan paused at the arched doorway leading to the lower corridor.
"One more thing," he said.
Myrcella looked up.
"My brother Jon," Cregan continued. "He's a Stark, same as me. Same blood. He'll be at the high table tonight. My father wishes it. If anyone questions it—my mother, or yours, or anyone—tell them Lord Eddard commanded it. And I stand with him."
Myrcella's brow furrowed slightly. "I've heard… whispers. About the bastard."
"He's no bastard in my eyes," Cregan said, voice flat. "He's my brother. Blood and pack. If the queen or her son make him feel otherwise tonight, they'll answer to me before they answer to your father."
She studied him a long moment. Then she squeezed his arm—small, but firm. "I won't let them shame him. I promise."
Cregan nodded once. "Good."
They stepped into the hall.
The long tables were packed: Northern lords and ladies, the royal retinue, household knights. Robert sat at the high table beside Ned, already deep in his cups, roaring with laughter. Cersei sat rigid, green eyes scanning the room like a hawk. Joffrey lounged beside her, smirking at some jest from Sandor Clegane. Robb stood near the hearth with Theon, Grey Wind at his feet. Sansa sat primly beside her mother, eyes bright with excitement. Arya had already escaped her seat and was sneaking honey cakes from a passing tray.
Jon stood apart, near the shadows of a pillar—black cloak, dark hair, Ghost pale at his side. His face was closed, watchful. He had not approached the high table.
Cregan guided Myrcella forward. Heads turned. Whispers followed. The black wolf and the golden lioness.
He led her straight to the high table, stopping before Ned.
"Lady Myrcella, as requested," Cregan said.
Ned rose, bowed slightly. "Welcome, my lady. Your seat is here, beside Sansa."
Myrcella curtsied again, then glanced toward Jon.
Cregan did not hesitate. He released her arm, strode to where Jon stood, and clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder.
"Come," he said, loud enough for nearby ears. "Father wants you at the table. Tonight and every night the king is here."
Jon met his eyes—searching, uncertain. Then he nodded once.
Together they walked back. Cregan guided Jon to a seat near Robb, close enough to the royal party to be seen, far enough to breathe. Shadow and Ghost settled beneath the bench like twin sentinels.
Robert noticed. He raised his cup, grinning. "There's the other wolf pup! Come, lad—drink with your king!"
Jon hesitated, then took the offered cup. Robert clapped him on the back, nearly knocking him forward.
Cersei's lips thinned. Joffrey's smirk faltered for half a heartbeat.
Myrcella caught Cregan's eye across the table. She gave the smallest nod—approval, gratitude.
Cregan took his own seat beside Robb, Shadow curling at his feet.
The feast rolled on—music, meat, wine, laughter.
But in that moment, the pack had claimed its own.
And the Black Wolf had drawn the first quiet line in the snow.