Cregan's POV
So, there I was, a ten-year-old sitting at the big, intimidating oak war table, surrounded by some of the deadliest warriors in Westeros. A guy could get used to this.
Across from me, Uncle Ned—the undisputed King of Brooding—was staring at a map of the coast like it had personally insulted his honor. His solemn face could probably make a wildling rethink their life choices. Uncle Benjen, who was basically Ned but with better jokes, was leaning back in his chair, smirking like he knew something we didn't.
Then there was my other uncle, Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Freaking Morning, sitting there looking all noble and deadly. You just knew he woke up in the morning thinking, Ah yes, another day of being better than everyone at sword fighting.
And of course, Aunt Dacey. You don't mess with Aunt Dacey. You just don't. If House Mormont had a motto, it would be "Try Me and Die Screaming", and she lived it every day.
Me? I was currently fighting the urge to carve "Cregan was here" into the table with my dagger because, let's be real, war meetings are long, and maps? Boring.
Uncle Ned finally broke the silence. "The Ironborn have grown bold. They raid our shores as they please, and we have done little to stop them."
I cleared my throat. "Correction, you have done little to stop them."
Uncle Ned sighed. It was a very father-of-five sigh. "Cregan."
"What? I'm just saying, maybe if we stopped treating them like naughty children who stole an extra loaf of bread and started treating them like, I don't know, the bloodthirsty pirate maniacs they actually are, we wouldn't have this problem."
Uncle Benjen chuckled, because he appreciates fine sarcasm. Ned ignored me, because he does not.
He pointed to a place on the map. "Seagard. The Mallisters have held strong against the Ironborn for generations. Their walls are high, and their fleet is capable."
Uncle Benjen nodded. "Seagard's a smart choice. We could hold the coast and hit back if needed."
Uncle Arthur, who somehow managed to look both thoughtful and dangerously calm at the same time, tapped a finger against the map. "The Ironborn won't fight a conventional war. They strike where we least expect it."
Aunt Dacey rolled her eyes. "Yeah, because they're basically Westerosi raccoons—except instead of trash, they steal people."
I raised a hand. "Okay, but has anyone considered actually attacking them for once?"
Silence.
Four fully grown warriors turned to look at me like I'd just suggested we have a snowball fight against a dragon.
Uncle Ned, patron saint of Doing Things the Hard Way, frowned. "What do you mean?"
I leaned forward. "What's the closest Iron Island to us?"
Uncle Ned studied the map. "Harlaw."
"Cool, let's burn it."
More silence. But this time, it was the holy-seven-hells-he's-serious kind of silence.
Uncle Arthur tilted his head, considering. "That would be... bold."
Uncle Benjen grinned. "It'd also be hilarious."
Aunt Dacey gave me a look. "And insane. The Ironborn don't take kindly to people burning their homes."
I shrugged. "Yeah? Well, we don't take kindly to them treating our coasts like an all-you-can-plunder buffet. They steal our crops, our gold, our people. And we just sit here. Waiting. Freezing. Brooding."
Uncle Ned's frown deepened at the brooding comment.
I jabbed a finger at the map. "We have the Fever-Bite Canal. We can move ships faster than they think is possible. If we strike first, we catch them off guard. Burn their fleet. Leave before they can regroup."
Aunt Dacey raised an eyebrow. "And the smallfolk?"
"We don't touch them," I said firmly. "This isn't about hurting women and children. This is about sending a message. We don't get raided. We raid."
Uncle Arthur tapped his fingers on the table, thinking. That was probably the most dangerous thing that had happened all night. If Arthur Dayne thinks your plan might work, you know you're onto something.
Uncle Ned let out another deep sigh, the kind that said I deeply regret agreeing to raise my nephew.
"If this is the course we choose," he said at last, "we must be prepared for the consequences."
I grinned. "Let them come. The North isn't afraid of a fight."
Aunt Dacey smirked. "You're lucky you're cute, pup, or I'd throw you in a snowbank for this."
Uncle Benjen leaned forward. "I hate to admit it, but the kid's got a point."
Uncle Arthur gave a rare smile. "We strike hard. We strike fast. And we don't stay long."
I spread my arms wide. "See? This is why I like you guys. You understand drama."
Uncle Ned closed his eyes briefly, like he was praying for patience. "Then it's decided. We move against Harlaw."
I nodded, grinning. "Oh, and one more thing. When this works, I get to name a ship Kraken Cruncher."
Aunt Dacey groaned. Uncle Benjen cackled. Uncle Arthur just shook his head.
Uncle Ned? He just stared at me for a long moment before finally, finally, cracking the smallest, tiniest smile.
Winter was coming.
And for once, we weren't waiting for it.
—
The Northern Fleet cut through the sea like a pack of direwolves on a full moon hunt—silent, swift, and about to cause absolute chaos. Harlaw Island loomed ahead, all dark and brooding, the kind of place you just knew had some serious main villain energy. If this were a bard's tale, the narrator would probably call it "the calm before the storm." Me? I was just trying not to puke over the side of the ship.
Look, nobody warned me that naval warfare meant riding waves that bounced us up and down like a drunk giant playing with a toy boat. And I don't know who decided that war strategy required sailing, but I'd like to have a word with them. Preferably while I'm on solid land, with a bucket.
Next to me, Roose Bolton—yes, that Roose Bolton, the man who looked like he enjoyed funerals a little too much—stood at the bow of the ship, his cloak billowing dramatically. He had this eerie way of just existing without making a sound, like a shadow that had somehow learned to talk. "The Ironborn won't know what hit them," he murmured, which was Bolton-speak for this is about to be a massacre.
When Roose Bolton thinks something's about to get messy, you start checking escape routes.
Benjen Stark, my uncle and the only person here who seemed mildly concerned for my well-being, stepped up beside me. "You holding up, pup?" he asked, nudging my shoulder.
"If by 'holding up,' you mean 'trying not to empty my guts onto my boots,' then yes. Doing great," I muttered.
Benjen chuckled. "You get used to it."
"Or I die first. Either way, problem solved."
Dacey Mormont, my honorary aunt and full-time terrifying force of nature, smirked from the other side of the deck. "If you die, pup, I'm taking your sword. It's a nice sword."
"Gee, thanks," I grumbled. "Good to know my corpse won't be totally useless."
Uncle Arthur stood like a walking, talking hero statue, arms crossed, gaze locked on the island. "Focus," he said in that deep, noble voice of his. "We have work to do."
I could have focused. I could have stayed silent and looked intense, like Arthur. But that's not really my thing.
"So," I said, rubbing my hands together, "how mad do we think the Ironborn are going to be about this?"
Dacey snorted. "Oh, absolutely furious."
Benjen smirked. "Livid."
Roose's lips twitched in something that might have been a smile or just him deciding whose skin he'd wear as a coat next. "They will remember this for generations."
Arthur sighed, which was his version of saying please stop talking, and I grinned.
The plan was simple: torch every longship we found, wipe out the warriors, and leave the civilians alone—because unlike the Ironborn, we weren't total monsters.
"You ready for this, my lord?" Benjen asked.
I adjusted my sword belt. "Define ready. If you mean 'ready to do something that will absolutely haunt my dreams for the next twenty years,' then yeah, totally."
Benjen laughed, and Dacey clapped me on the back hard enough to knock the wind out of me.
"Just don't die, pup."
"Again, great advice."
We hit Harlaw like a thunderclap. Our warriors stormed the docks, swords flashing, torches lighting up the night like the world's most violent festival. The Ironborn, caught mid-snore, came stumbling out of their halls, grabbing axes and curses in equal measure.
Fire bloomed across the harbor as ship after ship went up in flames. I hacked my way through a group of reavers who were clearly not happy about the home invasion.
"Rodrik Harlaw!" I bellowed, dodging a wild axe swing. "Someone bring me his soggy, pirate-y hide!"
Roose appeared at my side, completely unbothered by the carnage, like he was taking a relaxing evening stroll. "Alive or in pieces?"
I shot him a glare. "Alive."
Roose tilted his head, considering. "Pity."
Rodrik Harlaw was dragged before me a few minutes later, looking bloodied but furious, which was impressive considering the amount of bruises already forming on his face. His dark eyes locked onto me, filled with a mix of rage and, I'm pleased to say, just a little bit of terror.
"You'll regret this, Stark," he spat. "The Ironborn don't kneel."
I grinned, leaning in slightly. "That's fine. We don't need you to kneel. We just need you to scream."
Roose actually chuckled. Which, let me tell you, is one of the most horrifying sounds in existence.
"With your permission, my lord?" he asked, his voice all polite and deadly.
I hesitated. On one hand, Roose Bolton definitely had some ideas about how to make Rodrik reconsider his life choices. On the other hand, Roose's 'ideas' usually involved nightmares, screaming, and a lot of missing body parts.
Still. If we let Rodrik off easy, the Ironborn would just come back.
I let out a slow breath. "Do what you must."
What followed was… well. Let's just say I now understand why people are afraid of the Boltons. And why you never, ever want to owe Roose a favor.
By dawn, Harlaw was a smoldering ruin. The Ironborn fleet was nothing but splinters. Survivors huddled together, their terror so thick you could taste it. The women and children we left unharmed, true to our word, but the warriors? The ones who'd raided our lands for generations? They stood in chains, broken and defeated.
I looked out at the wreckage, Nightfall clutched tightly in my hand. The Valyrian steel blade gleamed, heavy with meaning.
"You've made your point," Benjen said quietly.
"And then some," I muttered. The smell of burning wood and death clung to the air, making my stomach twist.
"This isn't over," Dacey warned. "The Ironborn don't just give up."
"No," Roose agreed, ever the ray of sunshine. "But they will fear."
I turned back to the prisoners, my voice carrying over the waves. "The North remembers," I said, my tone cold as the winter winds. "And so will they."
As we sailed back, I couldn't shake the weight of what we'd done. Victory, it turns out, tastes a lot like ash.
Still. The Ironborn had learned their lesson. And I'd gained a Valyrian steel sword.
So, you know. Silver linings.
Also, note to self: Never, ever let Roose Bolton plan a victory party.
—
The North Remembers (And Also, It Holds Grudges)
The flagship's cabin smelled like old wood, damp wool, and way too many people who'd been stuck together for two weeks without proper baths. Seriously, whoever decided war meant spending weeks at sea with the same sweaty warriors clearly never had to share a room with them. This wasn't some grand, luxurious voyage; it was more smelly pirate ship meets bad decisions.
And speaking of bad decisions—
"I assume you've got an explanation for Harlaw," Uncle Ned said, his voice all calm and reasonable, which was never a good sign. That was his Dad Voice, the one that made you feel guilty even when you weren't sure what you'd done wrong yet.
Benjen, Arthur, and Dacey were lurking nearby, all looking like I was about to get the "disappointed family intervention" treatment. Which was great, because I love when people gang up on me about my brilliant leadership choices.
I crossed my arms and leaned against the map table. "You mean the part where the Ironborn now know not to mess with us? Yeah, I've got an explanation for that. It's called effective ruling."
Benjen made a sound like he'd just bitten into something rotten. "You let Roose Bolton flay Lord Harlaw alive."
Okay. Technically, yes. But in my defense—
"I delegated," I said, holding up my hands. "Leaders delegate. I can't personally be everywhere, smiting our enemies. That's what terrifying bannermen are for."
Ned rubbed his temples like this whole conversation physically hurt him. "Cregan, the Starks don't flay their enemies."
I shot him my best you sure about that? look. "No? Tell that to Theon Stark. You remember him, right? The guy who wiped out the Marsh Kings and took their lands? Pretty sure he didn't do that by giving out participation trophies."
Arthur sighed, crossing his arms like a particularly exhausted babysitter. "You're talking about Theon the Hungry Wolf. He lived in The Age of Heroes. It was a different time."
"Oh, so murder was fine back then, but now we're suddenly supposed to be polite about it?" I tilted my head. "Pretty sure our enemies didn't get the memo, Uncle Arthur."
Ned exhaled sharply, and I swear I could hear him counting to ten in his head. He really should've figured out by now that I don't make things easy.
"The North has always stood for justice," he said, very much in honorable mode. "We don't need to be butchers to be strong."
I grinned. "Tell that to the people we butchered in the name of justice."
Benjen groaned and ran a hand down his face. "You're ten years old, how are you this cynical already?"
"Good parenting?" I offered.
Dacey—who had been listening quietly—snorted. "If that's the case, maybe Ned needs to reconsider his approach."
Uncle Ned gave her a look. Dacey just smirked.
"I don't like Bolton," I admitted, because duh, I'm not an idiot. "He's creepy, he only smiles hen he skins people alive, and I'm fairly certain he doesn't blink. But he's useful. And that's what matters."
Ned's jaw tightened. "You think you can control Roose Bolton?"
"Uncle Ned, I'm ten, not stupid," I said, raising an eyebrow. "I don't trust him. I trust that he's predictable. He's like a really mean dog—dangerous, but useful as long as you keep him on a short leash."
Arthur leaned forward, his face unreadable. "And if he slips that leash?"
I met his gaze without flinching. "Then we put him down."
A long silence followed that statement. Probably because it was true, and everyone in this room knew it.
Ned shook his head, looking impossibly tired. "Cregan, there's a difference between being strong and becoming the thing we fight against."
I sighed. "And there's a difference between playing at honor and actually winning wars."
Dacey hummed. "He's not wrong."
Ned shot her an exasperated look. She just shrugged.
"I'm not saying we turn into monsters," I clarified. "I'm saying we remember what the Starks of old knew. The North doesn't stay strong by hoping our enemies behave. We survive because people fear what happens if they cross us."
Benjen, predictably, looked so done with me. "The only thing worse than listening to Ned's lectures is listening to you explain why he's wrong."
I grinned at him. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Uncle Benjen."
Arthur exhaled through his nose. "So, what? You think you can balance being feared and being honorable?"
"I think we don't have a choice," I said, my voice quieter now. "We're at war. I don't like that we have to be ruthless. But I like the alternative a whole lot less."
Dacey crossed her arms, studying me like she was seeing me for the first time. "You really believe that, don't you?"
I nodded.
Ned didn't look happy. But, for once, he didn't argue.
"We proceed with caution," he finally said, voice heavy. "The North stands together."
I smirked. "Starting to think you missed your calling as a poet, Uncle."
"Shut up, Cregan."
I grinned. "That's fair."
—
General POV
The Small Council chamber of King's Landing was tense—tense in the way a bar gets when someone smashes a chair over someone else's head, and now everyone's just waiting to see if the bouncers intervene or if they get a free-for-all.
At the center of it all, sprawled across his massive chair like he owned not just the Seven Kingdoms but also the furniture, was King Robert Baratheon. He slammed a meaty fist onto the table, sending goblets wobbling like terrified peasants.
"Now that's what I like to hear!" he bellowed, his grin as wide as a feast day boar. "Those Ironborn bastards have been begging for a good thrashing since my first mug of ale! Cregan Stark's got the right idea—hit 'em hard, hit 'em fast, and leave nothing standing but their shame."
To Robert's left, Stannis Baratheon sat as stiff as a sword stuck in a tree trunk, his expression making it clear that he had about as much patience for his brother's theatrics as a septon had for brothels.
"The Ironborn have always been a plague on the seas," he said, his voice as dry as Dornish sand. "If Lord Stark's actions secure the coast, then they were necessary." A pause. "Perhaps now they'll think twice before raiding the mainland."
"Yes, Stannis, but what about the innocents?" Renly Baratheon drawled from his seat, looking far too comfortable for a man discussing a potential diplomatic crisis. "Or does Northern justice have a 'no refunds' policy on collateral damage?"
Petyr Baelish chuckled, tilting his head like a cat toying with a particularly dumb mouse. "Ah, Lord Renly, ever the romantic. War isn't a song for the minstrel's lute. It's a bloody, messy game, and the North is simply playing by its own rules."
Varys, seated in his usual position like a spider watching a particularly amusing fly, steepled his fingers. "True, Lord Baelish," he murmured, voice smooth as silk. "But bold moves often come with unintended consequences. A wolf baring its fangs might frighten its enemies, but it also tempts challengers who crave the hunt."
Jon Arryn, who up until this point had been letting the younger, louder men exhaust themselves, cleared his throat. A simple, measured noise. A man could win wars with a well-placed throat clearing.
"The North's actions, while effective, must be weighed carefully," he said, his voice the kind of calm that preceded either great wisdom or great disaster. "A message sent without foresight is as dangerous as a blade in the dark. We cannot let chaos spread beyond the Iron Islands."
Robert waved a dismissive hand, nearly knocking over his wine goblet again. "Spare me the lectures, Jon. The Starks are doing what they've always done—protecting their own. If the Ironborn want to play the reaving game, they have to be ready to pay the price."
Renly raised an eyebrow. "And what price do we pay if this escalates? You know the Ironborn—they collect grudges like some people collect debts. We could be inviting a fleet to our shores."
"Let them come," Robert declared, slamming his fist into his chest like he was still wielding a warhammer instead of a goblet of wine. "I'll crush them myself, like I did on the Trident! Gods, I haven't had a good fight in years!"
Varys smiled politely, in that way that meant he was very much not reassured. "How very… comforting," he murmured. "But perhaps we should consider the ripple effects. The Riverlands, for example, might find such brutality concerning."
Baelish leaned forward, his smile as sharp as a Valyrian steel dagger. "The Riverlands will fall in line. They always do. Besides, fear is a better ally than love. It's harder to lose."
Jon Arryn, who had spent enough years managing Robert's impulses to know exactly how much chaos a little unchecked savagery could create, frowned. "We must proceed with caution," he said, addressing no one in particular but commanding the room all the same. "The North's strength is its unity. If Lord Stark's methods alienate his bannermen, or the crown's allies, the consequences could be dire."
Robert drained his goblet, wiped his mouth on his sleeve (to the visible horror of at least three people in the room), and grinned. "Dire? Come now, Jon. A little Northern savagery is good for the realm. Reminds the rest of us what real men look like."
The room fell into a contemplative silence—except for Robert, who was already motioning for more wine.
Somewhere, in the shadows of the Red Keep, you could practically hear Varys thinking: Oh, this is going to be fun.
—
On the deck of the Lady Joanna, Tywin Lannister stood like the human embodiment of a storm cloud—dark, looming, and ready to unleash his thunder. The wind whipped around him, tugging at his cloak as if trying to get his attention, but Tywin? He wasn't one for distractions. He didn't even flinch. You could probably set off a dozen firecrackers around him and he'd keep staring at the horizon like a man who had no time for nonsense. And really, he didn't.
The sunset was a bit dramatic, even by Westerosi standards—molten gold spilling across the water in that way that makes you wonder if someone up there is trying to make a statement. Tywin, however, wasn't in the mood for poetry. He'd had enough of poetic sunsets and dramatic sea views for a lifetime. In fact, he'd probably even look at something like that and think, "Could've been more red. Looks like someone dropped a bit of butter on the ocean."
His mind, however, was nowhere near the sea. No, it was fixed on a certain Northman—a certain young Northman, to be specific. Cregan Stark. The news from Harlaw had reached him hours ago, and while his face was as impassive as ever, inside, Tywin's brain was working overtime. If anyone could hear the gears grinding in his head, they might've been worried about the noise. A sailor fumbled below deck, knocking over a barrel, and Tywin's gaze flicked in the direction of the clamor. The poor man probably thought he'd just ruined Tywin's perfect moment of ominous contemplation.
But the reality was, the only thing that really bothered Tywin at the moment was Cregan Stark. Brandon Stark's son. A boy who, despite barely ten name days, was making waves in the North like he had inherited the entire Stark tradition of being stubborn, honorable, and completely uninterested in the subtle art of compromise.
"If Ned Stark had been half as ruthless as his nephew," Tywin muttered to no one in particular—though he might as well have been shouting at the gods, because they definitely weren't listening—"I wouldn't be dealing with this mess."
There was a pause, as if the very act of saying that out loud gave him a brief, if somewhat ridiculous, sense of satisfaction. "Ned Stark and his blasted honor," Tywin muttered. "If he didn't value loyalty more than his own future, he might have been useful."
Ser Kevan Baratheon—Tywin's ever-loyal, somewhat less dramatic brother—was standing nearby, looking like someone who was considering whether or not to make a witty remark about how Tywin's voice was the perfect background to a peaceful evening. But instead, he wisely chose to remain quiet and just stand there. And by stand there, I mean, look at his older brother like he'd just announced that the sun was setting in the West. No surprise. No comment. Just… Kevan.
Tywin sighed dramatically, taking in the sight of the setting sun with a disdainful sniff. "Cregan Stark's got the North riled up, hasn't he?" he asked Kevan, like he already knew the answer, just waiting for Kevan to say something useful. "Seems he's forgotten that wolves don't scare lions. They just make for a good meal if they're too stupid to know when to back off."
Kevan's eyebrows twitched as if he might respond with something like, Maybe we should just let the wolves be wolves and not provoke them, but then he thought better of it. "Yes, my lord," he said instead, looking out at the sea. "The North is, uh, certainly… different now."
"Different?" Tywin echoed, his voice the perfect mix of incredulity and mockery. "The North was always different. It was a land of men too stupid to know when to keep their heads down and their swords sheathed." He paused. "And now it's a land of men too stupid to know when to stop drawing attention to themselves."
Kevan wisely let that one slide, even though he could have said something about how attention was a luxury in the Seven Kingdoms, not a threat. But Tywin wasn't interested in hearing anything but what he wanted to hear. He rarely was.
"You know what this means, don't you, Kevan?" Tywin said, his tone shifting from bitter to a kind of dry amusement. "It means eventually there will be war. A war I didn't want. But one I'm more than happy to deliver."
Kevan just gave a slight nod, a man resigned to his fate. "As you say, my lord."
"And don't get me started on the Stark boy's little game," Tywin muttered, shaking his head. "The boy plays at power like he's born for it. But he lacks finesse. He's no different from his father, for all his posturing." He turned to face Kevan with a knowing look. "You know what this means, don't you?"
Kevan hesitated for a second, then sighed. "Yes, my lord. When they eventually come for us, we crush them."
Tywin gave a smile that, under normal circumstances, would've made people think he was being generous. "Exactly." Then he glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the horizon once again. "Let the wolves howl. If they want war, I'll give them one. But they won't like the rules I'm setting."
Kevan didn't bother responding, knowing that if he did, it would only encourage Tywin to keep going. Instead, he quietly observed as Tywin's golden armor shimmered in the fading light of the sunset. The lion was roaring, and everyone in Westeros was about to hear it.
And just before the scene could spiral into the kind of scheming that only Tywin Lannister was capable of, Kevan muttered, almost under his breath, "War never really is simple, is it?"
Tywin shot him a sidelong glance, his lip curling slightly. "No, Kevan," he said. "But it's always fun to watch the fools think they can win."
And just like that, the Lannister plot machine started grinding into motion again—faster, colder, and more calculated than ever. The wolves had made their move. Tywin would make his response, and it was going to be one for the history books. Just as soon as he figured out how to crush them properly.
Because after all, the lion doesn't just fight. He wins.
—
Cregan's POV
If you'd told me, Cregan Stark, ten-year-old terror of the North, that I'd be turning the Iron Islands into a bonfire-worthy disaster, I'd have said you were insane. But here we are. I mean, come on. I didn't exactly wake up one day and think, You know what? I'm going to become the stuff of nightmares for an entire set of islands. No, that came after I watched them try to mess with my home. And then it got personal.
First up: Great Wyk. And if I'd known how fun it was to destroy stuff, I might have asked for more practice. The Ironborn didn't know what hit them. One minute they're throwing axes and shouting about "We do not sow!" (as if that was going to scare us) and the next minute, they're dealing with a bunch of wildlings, some of the toughest soldiers in Westeros, and my dad—Ned Stark, the one with the "I'm about to get serious" face, you know the one. He was like a walking warning sign. You could tell the Ironborn were about to have their plans thoroughly wrecked just by looking at him.
We rolled into Great Wyk like a storm had suddenly turned into a parade float made of swords and iron. The first wave came crashing in, and the Ironborn tried to stand their ground, but honestly? They were outmatched. They were used to raiding weak villages, not facing the wolf pack. Not to brag, but I've had enough practice with my sword (thanks, Uncle Benjen) to know exactly how to cut through armor like butter. And cutting through bad guys? Even better.
There was this one Ironborn who tried to shout something about "We do not sow!"—and I've got to give credit where credit is due, he was probably hoping for a fight. But I was having none of it. I looked him straight in the eyes and said, "Good, because we don't share crops anyway." And bam, knocked him out of the way with a swipe from my sword. The look on his face? Priceless.
But I wasn't about to stop there. Nope. I led the charge into Old Wyk, and that was when I realized I was having the time of my life. I can't remember if I was enjoying the battle or just the fact that I was riding into the heart of the Iron Islands with all these crazy skilled people—my Uncle Benjen was at my side, and honestly, he's the best at making things feel like a whole new level of dangerous. And Uncle Arthur Dayne was there too, and if you've never seen a guy fight with a sword like it's an extension of his own hand, you're missing out. He looked like he was about to dance the Ironborn straight into the afterlife, and honestly? I could barely keep up.
And then there was Red Rain—House Drumm's fancy sword. When I grabbed that thing after the battle, I felt like I'd just picked up the ultimate toy. You know, like one of those magical, glowing things that you see in old books that come with a "this weapon could destroy armies" warning? Yeah, that was this sword. I held it up, dripping with Ironborn blood, and honestly, I looked pretty awesome doing it. The whole place was burning down around me, and I'm standing there like, "Yeah, the wolf's in charge now, deal with it."
So, you'd think the Ironborn would have learned their lesson, right? Well, nope. I was off to Orkmont next. Let me tell you, it didn't even take us long to burn down their defenses. I mean, fire's a great motivator, but when your enemies can barely organize a defense, it's almost too easy. They didn't know what hit them—literally, we came at them like lightning. And if I'm being honest, I wasn't even breaking a sweat.
And then came Blacktyde, where we gave them the full Northern treatment: walls flattened, keeps turned into ash, and any Ironborn still standing got a special VIP seat in the worst decision of their lives club. My dad had this grim look on his face like he was counting down the minutes until the rest of the Ironborn gave up their old ways. But I didn't care. By that point, I was having too much fun.
But you know what's the best part? I didn't do this because I had to. I did it because the North had to prove that we didn't take kindly to outsiders messing with us. And the Ironborn? Well, they learned that the hard way.
And sure, they called me "The Demon Wolf." I guess it sounds cool, even if it's a little metal band-ish. But it's better than "Cregan Stark, the guy who razed four Iron Islands and made it look easy." Which, okay, might be a better band name, now that I think about it.
Still, I don't just kill for fun. I'm not some bloodthirsty beast. I just... want to protect the North. It's a lot easier when you've got some shiny new Valyrian steel in your hand and an army of people who actually know how to fight.
But in the end, when the fire died down and the smoke cleared, the one thing the Ironborn knew for sure was this: Cregan Stark doesn't play nice.
And that was just the beginning.
—
"Alright, Cregan," Uncle Ned said, looking proud but still kind of grim—he has that way about him, like he's constantly carrying a secret weight of all of Westeros on his shoulders. "The Ironborn might've been defeated, but the bigger game is still ahead."
I looked at him, a little too smug for a ten-year-old. "Then let's go burn down the next bunch of idiots who think they can mess with us."
"We're not burning anyone down just yet," Benjen said, all serious, which, you know, totally kills the vibe.
But I wasn't worried. The North was stronger than ever, and the next chapter of this war? Oh, that was going to be a lot more interesting.
And if I had anything to say about it? It was going to be way more fun.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!