Winterfell stood grey and silent under a sky the color of old iron. Snow dusted the battlements, the godswood leaves red as fresh blood against the white. The great hall had been scrubbed and aired, hearths roaring, trestle tables laden with what the North could offer in late summer: roasted venison, black bread, barley stew thickened with potatoes from the new fields south of the Neck, and casks of Northern Fire that Cregan had sent ahead by wagon. The air smelled of pine smoke, hot stone, and nervous anticipation.
Eddard Stark stood on the battlements above the main gate, hands clasped behind his back, grey eyes fixed on the kingsroad south. He wore his plain wool and leather, Ice sheathed at his hip, no cloak of office. Beside him waited his family, arrayed in order of age and station as custom demanded.
Robb, sixteen and already taller than most men, stood straight-backed in mail and direwolf-grey cloak, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. The grey direwolf pup—Grey Wind—sat at his heel, ears pricked, tail still. Robb's face was calm, but Ned saw the flicker of excitement in his eyes. A king coming to Winterfell was no small thing.
Sansa, twelve, smoothed the skirts of her blue wool gown for the tenth time, cheeks flushed with cold and dreams. Lady, her gentle direwolf, pressed against her leg, white fur dusted with snow. Sansa had spoken of little else for weeks: the golden queen, the handsome prince, the songs of courtly love. She believed the South would be everything the singers promised.
Arya, nine and restless, fidgeted beside her sister. Nymeria paced at her feet, lean and wild-eyed. Arya's gown—matching Sansa's—was already mud-splashed at the hem from sneaking to the stables earlier. She kept glancing south, as if willing the royal party to appear faster so she could escape the waiting.
Bran, seven, clung to the stone parapet, eyes wide with wonder. Summer sat beside him, golden-furred and watchful. Rickon, barely three, rode on Old Nan's hip, clutching Shaggydog's scruff with tiny fists. The black-furred pup growled softly at shadows.
Catelyn stood closest to Ned, her auburn hair braided and pinned beneath a fur-lined hood. She wore Tully colors—blue and red—over Northern grey, a quiet statement. Her face was composed, but Ned knew her worry: the Lannisters rode with the king, and old grudges died hard. She had lit candles to the Mother that morning in the sept she kept quietly in the castle, though she had knelt with the family beneath the heart tree the night before. Faith was a private thing with her.
Jon Snow was absent from the wall. He had chosen to stand with the men-at-arms in the yard below, dark cloak blending with the shadows. Ghost sat beside him, silent as ever. Ned had not pressed him to join the family line. Some wounds needed no reopening.
The wind carried the faint sound of horns from the south.
"There," Robb said, pointing.
A black banner appeared first—three hundred Wolf Hoplites in wedge formation, black armor swallowing the weak sun, spears leveled like a forest of iron thorns. Behind them rode the royal column: the crowned stag of Baratheon snapping high, Lannister crimson and gold, Baratheon yellow and black. And at the king's right hand, unmistakable in midnight plate and wolf-pelt cloak, rode Cregan.
Ned felt his chest tighten. His second son looked older than his thirteen years—tall, broad-shouldered, grey eyes steady. Shadow loped beside his horse, red eyes catching the light like rubies. The boy had sent word he would ride ahead to greet the king at Moat Cailin and escort him north. Ned had approved it in the raven's reply. Security for the royal party, yes—but also a chance for Cregan to show what he had built.
"He's grown into the armor," Catelyn murmured, voice soft with pride and something sharper. "Black as night. Like the wolf he claims."
Ned nodded. "He chose his path. We'll see if it serves the North."
The column drew nearer. Robert's laughter boomed even at distance—great, roaring gusts that carried over the snow. He rode a massive black destrier, warhammer across his back, beard wild and streaked with grey. Cersei sat sidesaddle in a crimson litter borne by white horses, golden hair gleaming beneath a fur hood. Joffrey rode beside her, chin high, golden curls bouncing. Myrcella and Tommen followed in smaller litters, guarded by Kingsguard in white enamel.
The Wolf Hoplites peeled off at the outer gate, forming a black wall along the approach road—honor guard, not threat. The Centurions had stayed behind at Moat Cailin, Cregan's message had said; the Moat would not be left undefended.
Cregan rode through the gate first, reining in before his family. He dismounted smoothly, knelt briefly to Ned.
"Father. Mother. The king is here."
Ned stepped forward, clasped his son's forearm. "You've done well, lad. The king sings your praises."
Cregan's mouth twitched—a small, private smile. "He drinks as loudly as he praises. Winterfell will need more ale."
Catelyn embraced him briefly, careful of the black armor. "You look well, my son. Strong."
"I am, Mother." His eyes flicked to Sansa and Arya. "Sisters. You've grown."
Sansa curtsied. "Brother. The port… the stories are true?"
"True enough," Cregan said. "Ships from Braavos dock daily. The sewers work. The fever is gone."
Arya grinned, sharp and bright. "Did you fight anyone?"
"Not yet." Cregan ruffled her hair. "But the spears are sharp."
Robb clapped him on the shoulder. "You brought half an army with you."
"Enough to keep the king safe. And to remind the South the North has teeth."
Ned turned as Robert's horse clattered into the courtyard. The king swung down with a grunt, boots crunching snow. He strode forward, arms wide.
"Ned! By the gods, it's good to see your sour face!"
Ned met him halfway, clasped forearms, then pulled him into a rough embrace. "Your Grace. Welcome to Winterfell."
Robert laughed, clapped Ned's back hard enough to make mail ring. "None of that 'Your Grace' shite between us, you old wolf. We're brothers."
His gaze swept the family, landing on Cregan. "And there's the black pup himself. Come here, lad."
Cregan stepped forward. Robert gripped his shoulders, studied him like a prize bull.
"Gods, you've grown into a proper killer. That armor—looks like you forged it in the dark. And the direwolf…" He eyed Shadow, who stared back without blinking. "Red eyes. Suits you."
"Thank you, Your Grace."
Robert turned to Ned, voice dropping. "You've got a second son who pays debts, builds fortresses, and breeds wolves with demon eyes. What in seven hells have you been feeding him?"
"Potatoes and duty," Ned said dryly.
Robert roared with laughter. "Come inside, all of you. I'm freezing my royal arse off. Wine—good strong stuff—and meat. Then we'll talk of old days and new alliances."
He slung an arm around Ned's shoulders, steering him toward the keep. Cersei's litter opened; she stepped down, green eyes cool as she surveyed the grey castle and the black-armored men still lining the approach. Joffrey sneered at the snow. Myrcella peeked out, golden curls framing wide eyes, catching sight of Cregan for the first time.
Cregan met her gaze across the yard. She smiled shyly. He inclined his head—polite, reserved.
The king had come to Winterfell. The pack waited within.
And the game of thrones edged one step closer.