133 AC
Cregan Stark POV
The next day, by mid-day, the inner courtyard of Winterfell was a scene of grim, purposeful activity. Three hundred men of the Wolf Pack stood ready, a silent, formidable force. They were clad in their full armor, plates of gleaming Northern steel that reflected the pale sunlight, each man bearing a sword, spear, and shield. Their breath plumed in the cold air, their faces hardened with anticipation. They were ready to march.
I stood with Roddy, my back to the castle keep, my gaze sweeping over the assembled warriors. Roddy, ever the pragmatic one, was double-checking supplies, his voice a low rumble of commands.
"Are they all accounted for, Roddy?" I asked, my voice barely above a murmur, though it carried in the crisp air.
Roddy turned, his helmet clanking softly as he nodded. "Every man, my Prince. Three hundred of the finest. Hungry, as you commanded." His eyes, visible through the visor, held a knowing glint. "And curious. They know this isn't a simple patrol."
"No," I confirmed, my gaze distant. "It's not."
"They've heard the whispers, my Prince," Roddy continued, leaning closer, his voice dropping slightly. "About the King's passing. About the dragon banners flying in King's Landing." He paused, then: "And about Princess Visenya's tears."
I clenched my jaw, the memory of her weeping face fresh in my mind. "Let them whisper."
"Always, my Prince," Roddy affirmed, a hand going to his sword hilt. "But the destination... it's not a secret for long. We'll be riding South. Are we to inform them of our purpose before we depart?"
I turned to face him fully, my eyes hard. "They are sworn to House Stark. They will follow where I lead. But yes, before we set off, I will address them. They will know what they ride into. They will know why."
Roddy nodded slowly, his expression serious. "Understood, my Prince. They are ready when you are." He glanced at the men, then back at me. "Three hundred, you said. A good number for a swift blade. But for a war..." He left the thought unspoken, the sheer scale of the conflict in the South hanging in the air between us.
"We are Asgardians," I replied, my gaze drifting to the distant peaks. "One of us is equal to a hundred of the southerners." My words, though quiet, carried the conviction of years spent mastering Northern techniques and understanding the true advancements of our realm.
As I stood with Roddy, the quiet hum of the prepared Wolf Pack filling the courtyard, a familiar presence made itself known. My grandfather, King Antares Stark, approached, his stern gaze sweeping over the armed men, followed closely by my father, Rickon Stark.
"Cregan," Grandfather's voice cut through the air, low and measured, "what is the meaning of this? I told you we were not going to participate in the war."
I turned, meeting his gaze directly, a carefully constructed nonchalance masking the defiance churning within me. "No, Grandfather," I replied, a slight shrug. "We are not going to war." I gestured vaguely at the assembled men. "I am merely taking a stroll, stretching my legs. These three hundred men are, of course, purely for my protection."
Father Rickon's eyes narrowed. "Protection? From what? And where, pray tell, are you planning to stroll that requires such a retinue?"
I looked at the ranks of the Wolf Pack, their faces impassive, perfectly playing their part. Then I turned back to my grandfather, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching my lips. "I haven't really thought about it, to be honest. But now that you ask..." I paused, feigning contemplation. "I suppose I'll head South. I heard it's a bit warm down there right now, gotta enjoy the warm breeze, aye?"
The courtyard fell silent, save for the distant clang of a hammer from the forges. Grandfather Antares stared at me for a long time, his expression unreadable, a silent battle of wills playing out between us. Then, slowly, a faint grin spread across his face, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. He saw the defiance, the determination, and perhaps, a reflection of the Stark blood that ran in his own veins.
"Well then," he said, his voice dropping, a hint of something unsaid in its depths. "Enjoy the vacation down there, Cregan. And don't come back until I say so."
I met his gaze, a quiet nod acknowledging the unspoken truth. This wasn't a vacation; it was an exile, a calculated move to allow me to act without officially implicating Asgard. He was giving me permission, a way to keep my oath, even if it meant breaking his own decree. He knew. I knew he knew. And I knew that a Stark had to keep his oath, no matter the cost, no matter the distance from home.
"I understand, Grandfather," I replied, my voice steady. With a final glance at the assembled men, I turned and walked towards the waiting horse. The South awaited. And with it, the Dance.
After a surprisingly tense mid-day meal, where the silence spoke volumes, I made my way back to the courtyard. The three hundred men of the Wolf Pack stood in formation, a formidable wall of Northern steel and grim faces. They watched me, their anticipation a tangible thing in the cold air.
I walked to the front of the formation, my gaze sweeping over each man, acknowledging their loyalty and their silent question. I let the silence stretch for a long moment, allowing the weight of the moment to settle. Then, I spoke, my voice carrying clearly.
"For those of you who don't know where we are going," I began, a slight, knowing smirk playing on my lips, "we are going to the South. To take a stroll." A ripple of chuckles, low and guttural, spread through the ranks. I heard Roddy's booming laugh from near the front.
I let my own chuckle join theirs, a shared understanding passing between us. "I heard the weather is quite nice down there this time of year," I continued, "and I want to enjoy it. Maybe even catch a warm breeze, aye?" More chuckles, some of the men nodding in agreement, a few even muttering "Aye!" in a hushed tone.
"So," I concluded, my voice dropping slightly, "if anyone among you doesn't fancy a bit of warmth or a long ride, you can stay right here." My eyes hardened, moving from face to face. "But I warn you, the South is a strange place. There may be bandits, or thieves, or worse, down the road. Don't start complaining during the journey."
With the last "AYE!" echoing in the courtyard, we turned, the three hundred Wolf Pack warriors moving as one cohesive unit towards the Wintercity train station. The cold Northern air bit at my cheeks, but my blood was hot with purpose.
Just as we approached the main gates of winterfell, a flash of silver-white caught my eye. Visenya. She came running, her cloak flying behind her, her face streaked with fresh tears. She reached me, breathless, her small hands clutching my arm.
"Cregan!" she cried, her voice trembling. "Please, be safe. Take care of your health. Promise me!"
I caught her in a quick embrace, holding her tightly. "I will, my love," I murmured into her hair. "I promise you. There's no need to worry." I pulled back, looking into her tear-filled violet eyes. "I have the Wolf Pack with me, the finest warriors in Asgard. We are more than capable." I leaned closer, lowering my voice so only she could hear. "And remember, I have my ice dragon, should the need truly arise. I am safe."
Her eyes widened slightly at the mention of the dragon, a flicker of relief in their depths. Then, she reached up, pulled my face down, and gave me a deep, lingering kiss – a public display of affection that solidified our bond and sealed our secret pact, even as curious eyes watched.
When we finally broke apart, she was still breathing hard, her gaze fixed on mine.
"Listen closely," I told her, my voice urgent but low. "Once you've composed yourself, send a message to your mother. Tell her... tell her to wait for a message from me. I will send it to her after visiting King's Landing."
Visenya nodded, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"And," I continued, a grim smile touching my lips, "send another message. To King's Landing. To the usurper king." My voice hardened, laced with a cold defiance. "Tell him that Cregan Stark is coming, with his three hundred men, to the capital for sightseeing. And make sure they properly welcome me."
Her eyes widened further, understanding dawning. It was a thinly veiled threat, a declaration of intent cloaked in Northern arrogance. She nodded again, a fierce light in her gaze. "I will, Cregan. Be careful."
I gave her one last, reassuring squeeze, then turned to mount my horse. The whistle of the train sounded, a harsh cry signaling our departure. Visenya stood watching as I joined my men. With a final glance back, a silent promise exchanged across the distance, I urged my horse forward, leading my Wolf Pack onto the tracks. The journey South, and the true beginning of the Dance, had begun.
As the train began to pull away from the Wintercity station, carrying me and my 300 men South, my mind was already racing, plotting the next moves on this deadly chessboard. The messages I'd tasked Visenya with sending were a carefully calculated gamble, a gauntlet thrown.
Aegon and his lickspittle Hand, Otto Hightower, would undoubtedly be receiving the chilling news. I could practically see Otto's shrewd mind working, frantically devising plans to contain me. He knew the true threat of the North, the might of Asgard, and he certainly knew of the ice dragons. My presence, and the thinly veiled threat of my numbers, wouldn't be dismissed lightly. I would be their main focus now, a diversion, a looming question mark on their battle plans.
But even more crucial was the message to Rhaenyra. The news that a Stark was marching, that I was marching, would be a beacon of hope for her. She would have the assurance that an ice dragon was indeed aiding them, a powerful, unspoken promise that the North, through me, was on her side. It might just be the morale boost she needed, a sign that not all was lost, and that her claim still had formidable, if unconventional, allies. The Dance was upon us, and I intended to make my first steps loud and clear.
We boarded the train, the familiar clang of the doors sealing us inside. The warmth of the car was a stark contrast to the biting cold outside, but my blood still thrummed with a different kind of chill—the thrill of the impending conflict. As the train began to pull away from the station, slowly at first, then gathering speed, I looked out the window at the receding landscape of Winterfell.
Then, with a silent thought that stretched across the bond we shared, I called for her. My ice dragon, Saphira, previously ridden by the Great Wolf, Theon Stark, would soon join us. She would be our watchful shadow, a silent, powerful guardian, making the South aware of the North's true, terrifying might. The game had begun.