Cregan's POV
So, the first thing I notice when Jorah Mormont walks into my tent is that he looks like he's been through a dragon fight—except he doesn't even have the good fortune of fire-breathing enemies to blame. His hair's all over the place, like he's just lost a wrestling match with a bear, and his armor is dented and scratched like it's been used as a personal punching bag. But despite all that, he stands there like some knight out of an epic song, and I swear, if I didn't know better, I'd say he was ready to march right back out and pick another fight with anyone who looked at him wrong.
"Lord Cregan," he greets me with a nod, which—honestly—takes me by surprise. He's been pretty formal with everyone, but something about the way he says it makes me feel like we're not about to talk strategy or politics. More like... I don't know, like we're about to grab a drink and talk about how our lives have gone to chaos since the last time we met. He nods to my uncles too, Ned and Benjen, and I catch a glance at Uncle Benjen. He looks like he's seen the end of the world and decided, "Yeah, I'll stick around for round two." He's been that way a lot lately. Probably thinking about how I'm gonna mess up everything he's worked for. But whatever, we're family, and family sticks together. Mostly.
"Ser Jorah," I say, standing up from the table. I make a point not to knock over the maps. I know, I'm ten. But those maps are like gold to me—especially since it's my job to make sure everyone else knows where the hell they're supposed to be, and I'm not about to let someone mess with my perfectly lined-up borders. "Thanks for coming." I gesture to a chair, but Jorah just looks at it, like the idea of sitting down after whatever madness he's been through isn't even on his radar. Fine by me. I like a guy who's ready to get to business. "We've got a lot to discuss."
I try to sound all grown-up, but let's be honest, it's hard to sound serious when you're still wearing a tunic with half the hem missing because you've been too busy running around with a sword the size of your leg. Still, I get the feeling that Jorah's expecting me to know what I'm doing. I'm not sure I do, but hey, I'll fake it till I make it.
Ned, looking as grim as ever, steps up. That's Uncle Ned for you—serious and soldierly, like a guy who's seen too much and hasn't had enough sleep to fix the bags under his eyes. "Your bravery at the breach was commendable, Jorah," he says, nodding. He doesn't give out compliments freely, so when he does, you know it means something. I look over at Jorah to see his reaction, but the guy's as stone-faced as ever. Not that it bothers me. He doesn't need to thank anyone for anything.
"We've got a crucial task for you," Ned continues, giving Jorah this look that says, "Don't mess this up."
Jorah doesn't miss a beat. "I'm ready to serve, my lords," he says, straightening up like a soldier who's just been handed a new sword. Classic Jorah. Always ready to serve, even if it means walking into more madness.
I step in, because let's be real, if I let Ned do all the talking, we'd be here until next winter. "The Northern share of the spoils of war will be put to good use," I say, channeling my inner grown-up. "First priority: Sea Dragon Point. Once it's rebuilt, it'll be Uncle Benjen's seat."
Now, Uncle Benjen, who's been looking like he's ready to jump into the nearest hunting party since he walked in, perks up. "I'll make sure Sea Dragon Point stands strong. The North will be ready for anything."
I give him a smile, because seriously, that guy might be the most solid person I know. He's like... well, like the iceberg that never melts. Tough, reliable, but with a heart that's probably bigger than half the North. "You're the man for the job, Uncle," I tell him.
Jorah smiles at Benjen, like he's impressed by the guy's seriousness. "It's good to see you taking on such a vital role, Lord Benjen. And with you being Lord of Sea Dragon Point, Dacey will be closer to Bear Island. It's a win for all of us."
I can't help but snort. "Right. And a win for Uncle Benjen, since he's married to a Lady of Bear Island. But yeah, it's a win for the whole North."
Uncle Benjen just nods, like he's secretly plotting out the best places to build a bear trap, and I'm not even sure if he's listening. But hey, it's all part of his charm.
I turn back to Jorah. "But there's more. Other ports need expansion too. Bear Island included. Your family's been loyal forever, Jorah, so it's time to fortify your lands. We'll need it to keep the western coast secure."
Jorah's all business now. "House Mormont stands ready, Lord Cregan. We will do whatever it takes to protect the North."
I stare at him for a moment, taking in the weight of it all. You can see it in Jorah's eyes—the way he doesn't flinch, doesn't second-guess it. The guy's been through more than most people will ever understand. And he's still standing, still ready to fight. I have no doubt he's a brother in arms now.
There's a beat of silence before Jorah shifts his weight, like he's trying to get comfortable in a conversation he's not used to having. "I had planned on going south for the tourney at Lannisport," he says quietly, like the words are a confession he wasn't expecting to make. "Hoping to earn a name, win some gold..." He trails off, and I get it. We all want our moment in the sun. But at the end of the day, there's no time for that when there's work to do.
I flash him a grin. "Yeah, I know how that goes. But here's the thing—now, it's all about the North. And I'll need you more here than anywhere else."
Jorah's quiet for a moment, his face hardening like someone just set a sword in front of him. "I'll stay. For the North."
And just like that, I know we've got another brother. The North might be cold, it might be brutal, but we always stand together. Even if we don't always get the glory, we fight for what's ours.
As for the rest of us? Well, we'll just have to see if we can find time for a little bit of glory along the way. But knowing us? Probably not.
—
If you've never had the pleasure of standing in front of King Robert Baratheon while he's holding a goblet of wine at dawn—well, first off, count yourself lucky. But for the rest of you, here's the mental image: picture a bear that's just woken up from hibernation, wearing a crown, smelling faintly of spilled ale, and booming laughter that could knock over an entire tavern. That's Robert in a nutshell. And I, Cregan Stark—10-year-old badass (don't let the age fool you)—had the distinct honor of being his audience.
I'm standing there with my uncles—Ned, ever the noble and serious one, and Arthur Dayne, who looks like a god carved out of marble, probably the only man who could make wearing a full set of armor look like a casual outfit. We're waiting for Robert to get to the point, which, knowing Robert, could take a while. He was busy waving that goblet of his around like it was a scepter, still slurring his words a bit from last night's revelries.
"So, the Starks are leaving me, eh?" Robert boomed, his voice carrying through the hall, making the very walls shake. "Back to your wolves and snowdrifts already?"
I resisted the urge to crack a joke about how we'd rather not freeze to death on his lovely Iron Islands, but Uncle Ned—bless him—beat me to it. "The North calls, Your Grace," Ned said, giving Robert a respectful bow. "We've much to rebuild."
Translation: "You've been great, Robert, but we'd rather not catch frostbite on this lovely island of yours."
Robert grinned like he just won the lottery. "Aye, but not before a drink! We've crushed a rebellion, by the gods! What's a little snow compared to that?"
Before we could argue, Robert raised his goblet high, eyes twinkling. "To House Stark and the Demon Wolf!" His gaze locked on me, and for a moment, I thought I was going to get squashed by the weight of it. "You've got a fine nephew here, Ned. Fought like a true wolf. Didn't even flinch when I told him we'd be storming the gates."
I couldn't help myself. "Would've been nice to get a bit more of a heads-up on that, Your Grace. You know, a 'by the way, you might die horribly tomorrow' would've been appreciated."
Robert threw his head back and laughed so loud that even the hall seemed to laugh with him. "You've got a sharp tongue, boy. I like that. You'll go far."
Far enough to get out of awkward royal toasts, hopefully, but I wisely kept that thought to myself.
Uncle Ned, ever the gentleman, stepped in to steer the conversation back to the serious stuff. "Your Grace, before we go, there's a matter we'd like to discuss. The lands known as 'The Gift.'"
Ah, here it was. The part of the conversation that was bound to make things a little less fun. I glanced at Uncle Arthur, who gave me one of his subtle "Don't worry, Cregan. I've got this" nods. I appreciated that—mostly because Uncle Arthur could probably fight his way out of a locked chest, but I wasn't entirely sure how much of this mess he could help me navigate.
Robert squinted, clearly trying to put together what he'd just heard through the fog of his hangover. "The Gift? Isn't that Night's Watch territory?"
Uncle Ned nodded, looking serious, but not in his usual, grim way. More like a man who knew exactly how to play his cards. "It is, Your Grace. But with the Watch in decline, those lands are underutilized. The North could put them to better use—fortifying our borders, rebuilding, protecting the realm."
Jon Arryn, who apparently believed that every conversation was an opportunity for a debate that sounded more like a maester's lecture, raised an eyebrow. "That land was given to the Watch for a reason, Ned. Reclaiming it might upset—"
"Oh, to the abyss with upsetting people!" Robert boomed, waving his goblet around like it was a weapon. "The North deserves its due. Take 'The Gift.' Use it to rebuild, secure your borders, whatever you need."
I blinked, then glanced at Uncle Arthur, who was doing his best to hide his surprise behind a smirk. "That was... easier than I expected," I muttered under my breath.
Uncle Arthur leaned in, ever the strategist. "Yeah, I was half-expecting him to turn this into a drinking game."
"Maybe next time," I shot back.
Robert, oblivious to our side conversation, took another swig from his goblet and grinned like he'd just won a tournament. "What's the harm? The North's got enough going on. Take what you need."
I couldn't help but feel like I was in a dream. The King of the Seven Kingdoms, a man who could barely remember his own name most days, had just handed us a huge chunk of land without so much as blinking. The North was about to get a lot stronger—and probably a little colder.
"Thank you, Your Grace," Uncle Ned said with a bow, clearly keeping it together in front of the king, but I could see the relief in his eyes. I shared the same feeling—like we'd just dodged a wagon full of manure.
As we turned to leave the hall, Uncle Arthur leaned in and muttered, "Well, that went better than expected."
"Yeah, but now we've got to explain to the Night's Watch why they're losing half their land," I whispered back.
Uncle Arthur smirked. "Good luck with that."
"Thanks, Uncle Arthur," I muttered, rolling my eyes. "Really."
But honestly? If we had to face a few disgruntled Night's Watchmen to secure the North's future, so be it. After all, I was Cregan Stark, and I'd already stared down a rebellion. I think I could handle a few grumpy old men in black cloaks.
—
Sailing away from Pyke felt like I was the star of a play where all the props had been stolen, and the actors were mostly just trying not to trip over the set. Seriously, if there was ever a moment I was supposed to look brooding and heroic—wind whipping through my hair, maybe a dramatic seagull screeching overhead for added effect—this wasn't it. Instead, I was leaning against the prow of a ship, squinting into the wind, and praying it didn't steal my face along with my hair.
We were heading back to the North, and Pyke was fading behind us like an embarrassing family memory I didn't plan to revisit anytime soon. Sure, fighting Ironborn had its perks, like feeling like an actual warrior and getting to wear cool battle scars, but the smell of Pyke? Imagine if a wet dog lived in a brewery and then set fire to a pile of fish. That was the island. No thank you.
Uncle Ned and Uncle Arthur were deep into some serious conversation behind me, discussing "logistics" or whatever. Which, at ten years old, was definitely a conversation I was going to ignore in favor of more exciting things like... I don't know, the possibility of getting a nap before we arrived? But no, the 'Demon Wolf' tag was still hanging over my head like a rotten fish tied to my back. No way to get rid of it. Not that I hadn't earned it, mind you. It's just, a little warning next time? Please?
"I can't believe you made it out of there in one piece," Arthur Dayne, aka Uncle Arthur, said as he clapped me on the back. You know, the Arthur Dayne. The guy who'd probably been able to slice a raider in half with his sword while blindfolded and probably laughing. If I wasn't terrified of him, I'd be in awe.
"Demon Wolf, huh?" I muttered, taking another look back at the disappearing Pyke. "Not the nickname I'd choose."
Uncle Arthur chuckled, his laugh as easy as if we were talking about the weather instead of cutting through an island full of psychopaths with axes. "They won't forget it, lad. And neither will you."
Behind us, Uncle Benjen and Aunt Dacey were having one of their important talks, but I was too tired to care. I could already hear Aunt Dacey in my mind, all calm and serious. "We will rise stronger." Classic. No one does grim optimism like Aunt Dacey. She could make the apocalypse sound like a minor inconvenience, and the North could learn a lot from her. "The North will endure," she'd say, like that's supposed to make me feel better about having nearly died twice in the last week.
"Benjen," I caught Aunt Dacey saying, voice full of determination, "We must make sure the people know—this battle was just the beginning. We can't let fear rule us. We will rebuild."
"And the North never forgets," Uncle Benjen added. That man could say three words and make them sound like a speech fit for a king. "We stand together."
Which, I guess, is true. It's just that standing together felt a little more like standing in the cold, under a heap of stress, while people whispered about how much of a ruthless 10-year-old I was becoming. Not the most fun kind of togetherness.
From behind, I heard Uncle Ned's voice—steady, calm, and as always, like he could tell me I'd just lost a hand and still sound like it was no big deal. "You did well, Cregan. The North is proud of you."
I shrugged, trying to act like his words didn't feel like a warm blanket of approval I never realized I needed. "We've got a lot to do, Uncle. Rebuilding, defenses... We can't afford to let our guard down."
Ned nodded, squinting at the horizon like he could already see the problems that would be waiting for us. "We won't. The North will be ready for whatever comes next."
Yeah, we were always ready for the next disaster, weren't we? Because in the North, it's not a matter of if trouble's coming—it's when.
The ship groaned under the waves as we pushed farther from Pyke, and I watched the men around me—warriors, hardened from the chaos we'd just survived—go about their tasks. Some patched up their wounds, some were already boasting about their heroics in the battle, even though I knew full well half of their stories were exaggerated to the point of absurdity. One guy claimed he killed an Ironborn raider with nothing but a fishing hook and a rope. Yeah, and I fought a dragon with a toothpick.
But me? I just stood there at the prow, feeling the salty air slap me in the face, letting the wind twist my thoughts and churn away the bad memories of the fight. Because in the end, whether I was the 'Demon Wolf' or just Cregan Stark, I was a Stark. And when you're a Stark, you don't back down. Ever.
The North never kneels.
I didn't say it aloud, but the words were there, ringing in my head like a battle cry that was more of a promise than anything else. No matter how many battles, how many wars, or how many people whispered about my name, I would carry that truth with me. The North never kneels.
—
Alright, picture this: You're standing at the bow of a ship, and in front of you are the Demon Gates—the massive, towering wooden jaws of a canal that could probably swallow a whale without even breaking a sweat. And let me tell you, it wasn't just the crew staring at them like they were seeing the gods themselves; I was doing a little staring, too. Mostly because I was the one who'd had the insane idea to build the thing. Well, okay, I didn't exactly hammer every nail myself—I'm not a madman—but I was there for all the important stuff. You know, like the strategic vision, the plans, and, uh, pointing at stuff while saying things like, "Yeah, make that part bigger," and "How about a dragon here?" (I might've been kidding about the dragon. Maybe.)
I mean, you should've seen it: this thing rose from the water like a vision out of an old Valyrian epic. And sure, maybe it didn't have actual dragons involved (again, who's gonna argue with me about that), but it was still one of those moments where you just let the feeling wash over you. Like, "I totally made this happen," and then quickly shove that feeling into a box so you don't get all too emotional.
Uncle Ned was standing next to me, doing his usual thing: looking as grim and stoic as a bear that had just found out it wasn't allowed to hibernate anymore. The only thing missing was the fact that his hand wasn't actually on my shoulder right now. He had to save that for when it was a full-on life lesson.
Uncle Arthur was on the other side, and trust me when I say this—Arthur Dayne looking impressed is like the sun looking sunny. The guy's a legend, a literal sword master, and he was staring at this thing like it was the most impressive piece of metalwork he'd ever seen. I mean, if the guy could have married the canal, I think he would've.
"The Demon Gates," Arthur said, voice low and full of reverence, like he was talking about a piece of artwork. "A fitting name. A fitting name for a feat of engineering such as this."
Fitting? Oh yeah, absolutely. If we'd called it "Cregan's Slightly Cool Canal," I don't think anyone would've taken it seriously. Names matter, folks.
Uncle Ned's voice was quieter but no less weighty, and that's how I knew he was about to lay some serious praise on me. "The North owes much to Cregan's foresight and determination," he said, looking out at the gates. "These gates will forever stand as a testament to his legacy."
Okay. Whoa. Legacy? I wasn't ready for that word yet. I'm eleven. I mean, I'd been the Demon Wolf for a while now (don't get me started on how that name got stuck), but I wasn't exactly thinking about monuments and legacies and all that jazz. I just wanted to get through this whole thing without completely screwing it up.
But, you know, it was Uncle Ned. I'm pretty sure he could tell you you were a king and make it sound like you were supposed to mop the floors afterward. So instead of making a scene, I just said, "It's nothing," and pretended the wind was super interesting all of a sudden. Like, really interesting.
As our ship slid through the gates, I caught one of the crew members whispering to his friend like they were talking about some ancient magical artifact. "Do you think the Southerners could build something like this?"
The other one scoffed. "Not unless they bribed half the Reach to do it for them."
I snorted—yeah, okay, it was a bit of a proud, unashamed snort—but I had to admit, they weren't wrong. Southerners had their flashy castles and glitzy parties, but when it came to actually making something that worked? Well, that was a whole different story. The Demon Gates weren't just about making ships pass through—this thing was a statement. It was us showing the South that the North wasn't just about harsh winters and wildlings. We could think, too. Big picture stuff.
Still, I had to admit—watching it all unfold, the ships sliding through as though the gates were some sort of mystical portal (totally not magical, by the way), was enough to make even a jaded Stark like me take a second to soak it all in.
I looked back at the crew, who were clearly still in awe, and overheard another conversation. This time, it was one of the younger sailors chatting with his mate. "I still don't get it," the younger one said. "How's it work?"
The older guy shook his head. "Don't ask questions you don't want answers to, kid."
I could've explained it. Probably would've made for a fun lecture, too. Instead, I just gave them a wink. "It's magic," I said, "but not the kind you're used to."
They both stared at me like I'd just started spitting fire. I made a mental note to tease them later, when I wasn't busy, you know, running the North.
Eventually, the last of the ships passed through, and the gates slowly lowered behind us. The crew was still buzzing about, and I could see the way some of them were puffing out their chests like they'd had something to do with it. I could hardly blame them. This was the kind of thing you'd tell your grandkids about—"Remember when we helped build the thing that kept the Southerners from laughing at us? Yeah, that was us."
But as I stood there watching, I got that feeling again. The one that had started creeping in on me back at Pyke. The one that was like, "This is just the beginning, kid. You've built something big, but the real work? It's only just starting."
And I didn't have a choice. Because when you're a Stark, you don't just stop after one big win. There's always something more waiting. And as long as I was breathing, I was going to be ready to face whatever came next.
But hey, no pressure. Just another day in the life of Cregan Stark, the Demon Wolf, trying to keep the North from falling apart—one ridiculously cool engineering project at a time.
—
The fleet docked at Moat Cailin's shiny new harbor, and let me tell you, it was something. Picture this: flags from House Stark fluttering like they were made of pure badassery, waves crashing against the rocks like they were giving us a round of applause, and me—Cregan Stark, the 11-year-old engineering prodigy (humble, I know)—standing there, trying to not look too smug. It's a hard thing to do when your new fortress looks like it just came straight out of a Targaryen dream and you made it all happen.
Moat Cailin used to be a dump. No joke. I mean, it was practically a ruin. Muddy streets, crumbling walls, and the kind of smell that could knock out a warg. So, sure, I may have spent the last year redesigning the place, overseeing every stone and beam, and insisting that they put in proper plumbing. Why? Because someone had to do it, and I have standards. But hey, I was only 10 when I started this whole "restore Moat Cailin" project, so cut me some slack.
As we disembarked, I tried not to be too obvious about my pride. Yeah, I spent way too many sleepless nights sketching blueprints and arguing with Uncle Ned about how much indoor plumbing we actually needed. (Spoiler: the answer is a lot.) But when I saw Moat Cailin standing there, all shiny and impressive? I felt like I could take on a dragon and a half.
"Remarkable," Uncle Ned said, in that quiet, "I'm proud but I'm not gonna show it" way that only he can pull off. He stood there, staring up at the towers with his arms folded like he was trying to look serious and sage. Which, let's be honest, he could've been the perfect poster child for the "stoic dad" role. "You've turned this place into a stronghold, Cregan," he continued, his voice like gravel scraping against stone. "One that will stand as a bulwark against any threat to the North."
I tried to look all modest, but it was a lost cause. "Yeah, thanks, Uncle Ned. It's... alright." I waved my hand around like it wasn't a huge deal. "But I'm still figuring out the whole 'Demon Wolf' thing, so maybe hold off on the legacy talk, yeah?"
Uncle Arthur Dayne—yes, the actual Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning—was standing off to the side, looking like he was trying to find the best angle to assess the fortifications, like a knightly architect. "Impressive," he said, nodding with that stern expression of his, the one that says, "I'm about to give you a compliment, but I'll do it in a way that makes you feel like it's a challenge." Coming from him, that was high praise.
Benjen, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with excitement. And when I say "vibrating," I mean he looked like he wanted to burst into a long explanation about how the plumbing system worked. Which, honestly, I was fine with. Benjen was the kind of guy who could turn fixing a leaky pipe into an epic tale of survival and success. "Just wait till I tell everyone back at Winterfell about the sewage system," he muttered, grinning like a kid who'd just discovered candy.
"And Dacey," I said, nodding towards her, "probably already planning how to turn the market square into a fortress of its own."
She gave me that look. You know, the one that says, "Don't underestimate me, Cregan, I'll have this whole place built up like a citadel by next week." And sure enough, she was already walking off to inspect the market, her eyes scanning everything with a mix of awe and the kind of focus that only Dacey Stark could pull off.
"Who's ready for a drink?" I asked, loud enough that everyone around me could hear. I stretched my arms out, taking in the sights and sounds of Moat Cailin, bustling with life. Merchants hawked wares, craftsmen put the finishing touches on stonework, and kids ran around pretending to be knights protecting the Demon Gates (which, by the way, is the coolest name for a canal EVER).
Benjen raised a fist and cheered. "I'm in! They better have ale, though, or I'll start a riot."
Uncle Arthur smirked, obviously trying to suppress a chuckle. "Only you would turn a drink into an epic quest, Benjen."
Uncle Ned sighed, the kind of sigh that was just short of a full-on "I've seen it all, and I still love you despite your madness." "We're here to keep the North safe, Cregan. Not for ale."
"But Uncle Ned, think of the morale boost!" I said, grinning. "The North deserves some fun after all this rebuilding. It's not like we can only survive on hard work and duty—sometimes, we need to celebrate."
Dacey shot me a playful glare from the market square as if to say, I've already thought of that, Cregan.
I leaned toward her and said, "Don't worry, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'll handle the grand opening."
"Don't you start planning any parties, Cregan," Uncle Ned warned. "You've got enough on your plate."
"Yeah, but this one's for the people," I replied with my most charming grin. "We've earned it."
And just like that, we were all off—ready to celebrate, ready to face whatever came next, and definitely ready to add a tavern to Moat Cailin. After all, what's a fortress without a place to kick back and enjoy a drink? Moat Cailin was officially the North's pride and joy... and, apparently, the future center of all celebrations.
Honestly, though? I'd earned the smug.
---
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