Cregan's POV
Dinner at Winterfell was like something out of an old storybook—a feast fit for kings, queens, and, most importantly, very hungry eleven-year-olds. The tables were practically groaning under the weight of food. Roasted boar, honeyed duck, fresh bread, cheese wheels bigger than my head—you name it, it was there. The fire crackled in the hearth, throwing shadows on the stone walls, and for once, the Great Hall wasn't filled with talk of war, White Walkers, or who was going to marry who for political alliances (because, really, who cared?).
And then there was Prince Oberyn Martell.
Now, Oberyn wasn't just a guest at Winterfell; he was the event of the evening. He didn't just sit at the table—he owned it. He had a goblet of wine in one hand, a smirk on his face, and the kind of presence that made you think, Yeah, this guy could probably talk his way out of being executed.
He leaned back in his chair like it was the most comfortable throne in the world. "Alright, children," he announced, swirling his wine like he was about to make the world's most dramatic proclamation. "Let me tell you about my adventures in Essos."
Cue the dramatic music. If I had a drum, I would've done a little bum-bum-bum.
The entire table leaned in—Rhaenys, the Sand Snakes, Robb, Jon, Aegon, even the little twins, Arya and Sansa, who were normally too busy competing for who could make the better disgusted face at each other to pay attention to anything else.
"Essos is a land of wonders," Oberyn began, stretching out his arms like he was trying to physically encompass all of Essos in his storytelling. "And in Volantis, the oldest city of them all, I found myself at the grandest festival imaginable. Lanterns floated down the river, stars shone so brightly you'd swear the gods had polished them just for the occasion—"
"Ugh, poetry," Obara muttered, rolling her eyes. "Get to the part where you beat someone up."
Oberyn grinned. "Patience, my fierce little warrior. Violence, like wine, must be properly aged before it is truly enjoyable."
Nymeria, ever the smooth one, smirked. "That's your way of saying you got into trouble, isn't it?"
"You wound me, sweet daughter," Oberyn said, clutching his chest in mock pain. "But yes, obviously. A festival in Volantis without a brawl would be disgraceful."
Rhaenys clapped her hands. "What happened?"
Oberyn took a dramatic sip of wine, savoring the moment before continuing. "There was a tavern, filled with Volantene warriors, all boasting about their conquests—"
"Like you do every time you enter a room," Tyene pointed out.
"Exactly," Oberyn agreed, nodding sagely. "So naturally, I decided to join them. And by the end of the night, we were dancing on tables, singing in six different languages, and engaging in friendly combat with wooden swords."
Jon, who had probably never heard the words friendly and combat used in the same sentence before, raised an eyebrow. "And by 'friendly,' you mean...?"
Oberyn flashed his most innocent grin. "Well, no one died. So, friendly."
Robb snorted. "That's a low bar."
"Life is better when the bar is low," Oberyn said wisely, taking another sip of wine.
Rhaenys, always eager for the real action, leaned forward. "But what about actual danger, Uncle? Surely you faced something truly perilous?"
Oberyn's smirk widened. "Ah, danger. That unwanted guest at every party. In the fighting pits of Meereen, I faced a champion."
"A champion?" Arya perked up. "Like a real one? Not just some drunk you tripped on the way to the latrine?"
Oberyn pointed at her. "Excellent question, little wolf. This man was huge. Not 'tall guy at the bar' huge. No, this man could probably lift a horse without breaking a sweat. Maybe two horses, if he was in a particularly good mood."
Obara crossed her arms. "And you beat him, obviously."
"Obviously," Oberyn said, looking offended at the mere suggestion that the story could have ended otherwise. "With style."
Sansa, who up until now had been more interested in the lemon cakes than the story, raised an eyebrow. "How?"
Oberyn grinned like a cat who'd just found a particularly juicy canary. "I let him think he had the advantage. Then, just as he was preparing to crush me like a Dornish grape, I struck. Quick, precise, elegant." He tapped his temple. "Remember, children: brute strength is nothing without wit."
Cregan—me, your favorite sarcastic narrator—tilted my head. "But weren't you scared?"
The table went silent for a moment. Because, honestly, I would have been scared.
Oberyn's smile softened, just a little. "Fear is a companion on every journey, young Cregan. But courage is the ability to keep walking forward, even when fear walks beside you."
That was actually kind of deep. And for a second, I thought we were about to have a real moment.
Then Rhaenys, ever the queen of perfectly-timed interruptions, asked, "Did you ever see a dragon?"
Oberyn blinked. "Dragons?" He took a long sip of wine. "Ah, now there's a tale."
Nymeria groaned. "Please don't say 'dragon eggs.' That's boring."
"Ah, but these eggs," Oberyn said, waggling his fingers like a magician about to pull a rabbit from a hat, "were not boring. In Qarth, I once held an egg in my hands, smooth and gleaming like polished stone. It pulsed with a strange, ancient energy, as if it knew it was meant for something far greater than a dusty vault."
Arya's eyes widened. "And then?!"
Oberyn leaned back. "And then I put it down. Because stealing a dragon egg would be insane."
"Disappointing," Arya muttered.
"Practical," Sansa countered.
Jon, still skeptical, smirked. "Ever met anyone really strange?"
Oberyn chuckled. "Ah, my dear Jon, Essos is filled with strange people. I once shared wine with a faceless man in Braavos."
The table went silent.
"Like... an actual faceless man?" Rhaenys whispered.
Oberyn nodded. "Oh yes. We discussed life, death, and the importance of never playing dice with a man who can change his identity at will."
Tyene, always eager for the juicy details, bounced in her seat. "And then what?"
Oberyn's grin was positively wicked. "And then, my sweet daughter... I left before I became part of his collection."
Laughter erupted around the table. Even Lord Stark, who had been watching from the high table, cracked a small, knowing smile.
And just like that, the night stretched on, with more stories, more laughter, and the rare feeling that, just for a little while, Winterfell wasn't a castle preparing for war—it was a home, filled with warmth, mischief, and one very dramatic prince who could hold a room better than any king.
—
General POV
Winterfell's Training Yard: Where Badasses Are Born (And Roasted by Oberyn Martell)
The morning air in Winterfell was crisp, the ground a little frozen, and the atmosphere had a distinct "winter is coming, but we're going to kick butt anyway" vibe. The usual clang of swords and grunts of effort filled the yard, but today, something new was happening.
Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne, self-proclaimed God of Sass, and professional "cool uncle," had decided to bless Winterfell with a spear lesson. Not that anyone asked for it. But, let's be honest, no one in their right mind was going to turn down a free lesson from the Red Viper.
Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen—two royal dragon-spawn with more confidence than was probably healthy—stood in front of him, spears in hand, ready to absorb the wisdom of a man who looked like he could win a battle while simultaneously seducing the enemy's entire noble court.
Oberyn spun his spear in a blur of motion, grinning. "A spear," he declared, "is not just a weapon. It is an extension of your soul, a tool of finesse, and, in the hands of an artist—" He struck a dramatic pose. "—a masterpiece."
Obara Sand—his eldest daughter and resident Badass-in-Chief—rolled her eyes from where she stood with her sisters, Nymeria and Tyene, watching from the sidelines. "You mean it's a stick with a pointy end, and you don't suck at using it."
Oberyn gave her a deeply wounded look, like she had just insulted his fashion sense. "Obara, you wound me. Deeply. I am trying to impart wisdom here."
"I'm trying to not die of secondhand embarrassment," Obara shot back.
Nymeria, lounging against the fence, smirked. "Honestly, I kind of want to hear him keep going. This is comedy gold."
Tyene, the picture of innocence (which meant she was definitely up to something), clasped her hands. "Father, is this where you tell them that spears are also useful for skewering people who are rude to you?"
Oberyn sighed like a man burdened by a family that was just too good at banter. "Yes, Tyene. And this is why I never let you near the poison stash unsupervised."
Meanwhile, Aegon was laser-focused, his grip on the spear tight. "Like this, Uncle?"
Oberyn scrutinized his stance like an artist analyzing a half-finished painting. "Hmm. Not bad, but you look tense—like a constipated knight before battle. Loosen up, flow with it. Think of it like a dance. A very stabby dance."
Aegon adjusted, his brow furrowing. "Better?"
"Yes! Now, thrust forward. Imagine you're stabbing a Lannister tax collector."
Aegon executed the move with all the force his ten-year-old arms could muster. Oberyn nodded approvingly. "Not bad. You'll be running circles around knights in no time. Unless, of course, you let Rhaenys beat you to it."
Rhaenys, ever the overachiever, was already attempting some unnecessarily dramatic spin move. Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "While I appreciate the flair, dear niece, you are not auditioning for a traveling circus."
Rhaenys huffed. "It looks cool."
"It does look cool," Oberyn admitted. "But let's save the dramatic flourishes for when you're already winning. First, master your stance."
"Like this?" She adjusted, her footwork precise, her eyes gleaming with challenge.
Oberyn grinned. "Perfect. You'd make even the best warriors in Dorne jealous."
Just then, movement caught his eye. Someone lurking behind a wooden post. Someone very small, with a stick in hand, mimicking every move.
Oberyn smirked. "Lady Arya, I see you hiding over there."
Arya Stark—Winterfell's resident tiny menace—froze like she'd just been caught stealing extra lemon cakes from the kitchens.
Obara snorted. "Nice stealth skills. If you were any more obvious, you'd be waving a banner that says, 'I am spying on you.'"
Arya scowled but stepped forward, still clutching her stick. "I just wanted to watch."
"Well, if you're going to watch," Oberyn said, twirling his spear, "you might as well learn something. Come."
Arya hesitated for all of half a second before stepping into the circle. She gripped her stick like it was an actual weapon and mimicked the stance she had seen. Oberyn watched, and to his delight, she picked up the movements like she was born for this.
He let her go through a few thrusts, then stopped her with a quick tap of his spear. "Not bad at all. You're fast. Speed is your best weapon. But," he gave her a pointed look, "if you don't use proper balance, you'll end up flat on your face."
Arya adjusted, determined. "Better?"
Oberyn grinned. "Much. If you keep this up, you'll be putting knights twice your size in the dirt."
Nymeria leaned toward Tyene. "She's like a tiny, angry version of you."
Tyene beamed. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
Arya, utterly focused, went through the motions again, this time smoother.
Oberyn clapped his hands together. "Excellent! That is the energy we want. Now, my dear students, do you know what the most important part of fighting is?"
Aegon, ever the eager student, said, "Precision?"
Rhaenys, more competitive, guessed, "Speed?"
Arya, thoughtful, said, "Not getting hit?"
Obara snorted. "Okay, that one's actually smart."
Oberyn wagged a finger. "All good answers! But the correct one is…" He leaned in, eyes twinkling. "…looking cool while doing it."
There was a collective groan from his daughters.
"Father—"
"Nope! I stand by it." Oberyn struck a pose. "If you can't look cool while fighting, then what is even the point?"
The kids laughed, though Arya, to her credit, looked like she was considering the wisdom of the statement.
By the time they finished, Aegon, Rhaenys, and Arya were panting, sweat dripping, but all grinning like they'd just conquered the world.
Aegon, still catching his breath, said, "That was awesome. Thank you, Uncle Oberyn."
Rhaenys gave him a hug. "We'll make you proud. Promise."
Arya, now holding her stick like it was the greatest thing ever, looked up at him. "I'll practice every day. I want to be as good as you someday."
Oberyn, ever the dramatic, put a hand over his heart. "Arya Stark, I have no doubt that you will be terrifying one day."
Arya grinned. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
Oberyn winked. "Just don't forget—if you can't look cool doing it, what's the point?"
—
Lions, Squids, and Tywin Lannister's Master Class in Intimidation
The council chamber of Casterly Rock was doing the most. Gold-threaded banners, marble pillars, and a floor so polished it probably had a better reflection than half the nobles in the Westerlands. If there was ever a room that screamed Lannisters are rich, and you will respect that, this was it.
Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the absurdly long table, looking like he'd just finished conquering a kingdom and was deciding what to do with the spoils. His expression was the usual: somewhere between "I will tolerate your presence" and "if you waste my time, I will personally ensure you regret it."
To his left sat Kevan, ever the dutiful second-in-command, hands folded neatly like he was about to mediate a particularly tense trade dispute. To Tywin's right, Tygett lounged in his chair like he'd rather be anywhere else, arms crossed, one boot tapping impatiently against the marble floor. And at the far end, grinning like he'd just pulled off a heist, was Gerion—the youngest and most openly annoying of the Lannister brothers.
The reason for this gathering? The Iron Islands. Specifically, how to make sure the recently subjugated squids didn't start thinking rebellion was a fun weekend activity.
Tywin steepled his fingers, which was his way of saying Listen very carefully, or else.
"We are now Wardens of the Iron Islands," he said, each word as sharp as a Valyrian steel dagger. "A 'gift' from Cregan Stark." The way he said gift suggested he would rather receive a venomous snake in his bed.
Tygett let out a noise that was half scoff, half groan. "A gift wrapped in barnacles and bad decisions."
Gerion smirked. "Oh, come on, Tygett. You might not enjoy the idea of lording over a bunch of damp, angry pirates, but I find it hilarious."
Kevan shot Gerion a look of exasperation. "It's a responsibility, not a joke."
"That depends," Gerion said cheerfully. "If we handle it well, it's a responsibility. If we don't, it will become a joke—one that ends with Ironborn raiders stabbing us in our sleep."
Tywin exhaled through his nose. The closest he ever came to sighing.
"We will bring order to the islands," he said, like it was already a fact written in history. "The Ironborn will obey, or they will learn the price of defiance."
Tygett rolled his eyes. "Right, because the Ironborn are famous for their love of order." He mimed a thoughtful expression. "What's that phrase they use? 'We Do Not Sow'? Wonderful. So, we're in charge of a people who openly admit they contribute nothing."
Gerion grinned. "I mean, at least they're honest about it."
Kevan, ever the pragmatic one, pushed a scroll across the table. "There are opportunities here. If we control their resources—their iron, their shipyards—we strengthen the Westerlands."
Tygett snorted. "Assuming we can get them to do anything other than raid and set things on fire."
Tywin gave him The Look. The one that made lesser men reconsider their life choices. "Then we make them useful. They will work our mines. They will build our fleets. If they refuse, they will be replaced."
Kevan nodded. "We could encourage Westerlander families to settle on the islands. Provide incentives."
Gerion's grin widened. "Right. Give some poor farmer a nice, cozy plot of land on an island full of homicidal, fish-worshipping lunatics. That'll go over great."
Tywin ignored him. "We will control the islands. We will civilize them."
Tygett leaned back, arms crossed. "And when they inevitably rebel?"
Tywin's expression didn't change. "Then we remind them why no one challenges House Lannister."
The room went silent. Not the comfortable kind. The Tywin Lannister just declared something ominous, and everyone is taking a moment to process it kind.
Gerion finally broke it. "You know," he mused, "I think what I like most about our little family gatherings is the uplifting sense of optimism."
Tygett smirked. "That, and the knowledge that if things go wrong, we're going to be fighting damp murderers with axes."
Kevan, ever the realist, simply said, "I'll begin drafting the necessary orders."
Tywin nodded, which was the closest he ever came to saying good job.
As the meeting ended and they rose to leave, Gerion clapped Tygett on the shoulder. "Look on the bright side, brother. Maybe you'll finally get a pet kraken."
Tygett shot him a deadpan look. "If I see a kraken, I'm feeding you to it first."
Tywin, already halfway out the door, didn't even turn around as he said, "If we fail, the kraken will be the least of our problems."
And with that, the lions of Lannister left the council chamber, their next conquest set in stone. The squids just didn't know it yet.
—
Gulltown smelled like a fishmonger's armpit. A very enthusiastic fishmonger who'd spent the last decade bathing exclusively in regret.
Melisandre of Asshai wrinkled her nose but otherwise maintained her usual I am mysterious and definitely not judging you expression as she stepped off the ship. Her crimson robes billowed dramatically in the sea breeze, which was perfect. If a Red Priestess wasn't making an entrance worthy of a prophecy, what was even the point?
The dockside crowd took one look at her—red hair blazing in the sun, robes flowing like molten wine, an aura that screamed divine fire and possible arsonist—and immediately decided they had somewhere else to be. Which was fair. Most people who crossed paths with Melisandre either ended up blessed, burned, or profoundly confused. Sometimes all three.
A merchant with a tray of suspiciously shiny apples made the mistake of calling out to her.
"A fruit for the lady in red? Keep the darkness away!"
Melisandre barely paused. "The darkness is where I thrive," she said smoothly.
The man paled and wisely decided he did not want to know what that meant.
She moved through the streets with the kind of purpose that made people get out of her way. Her destination? An inn that looked like it had last been cleaned when the Targaryens still had all their dragons.
The innkeeper—a stout man who had big "I am terrified of confrontation" energy—immediately looked nervous when she approached.
"I need a room," she said, her voice smooth as silk, firm as steel.
The innkeeper gulped. "Of course, my lady. You—uh—come from afar?"
Melisandre gave him a knowing smile. "Farther than you can imagine." Which was true, but she wasn't about to explain that Asshai made Gulltown look like a quaint little murder town. "I am on a pilgrimage."
The innkeeper's curiosity was warring with his self-preservation instincts. Sadly, curiosity won. "A pilgrimage? To where?"
"To the one true king," she said reverently. "The man who will lead us through the coming darkness."
The man looked like he wanted to ask more but then remembered that people who asked too many questions about Red Priests often ended up on fire. He handed her a key instead.
Melisandre was just getting comfortable by the fire—because, of course, she had to stare into the flames dramatically—when the door slammed open.
Cue Thoros of Myr, the world's least conventional Red Priest. He looked like he'd fought, drunk, and possibly lost a wrestling match with a barrel of ale, but there was an undeniable energy about him. He was scruffy, slightly singed, and grinning like a man who knew something you didn't.
"Melisandre!" Thoros boomed, waving a tankard of ale. "Fancy seeing you here."
She barely acknowledged him. "Thoros."
He plopped down in the chair opposite her, sloshing ale onto the floor. "Still speaking in ominous riddles?"
"I never speak in riddles."
Thoros snorted. "Right. So, what's the 'one true king' flavor of the month? Because last time I checked, your last pick was very dead."
Melisandre's smile didn't waver. "That fool was not Azor Ahai. I was mistaken."
Thoros raised his eyebrows. "Mistaken? You? I thought that was impossible."
Melisandre ignored him. "I have seen another in the flames." Her voice dropped into something low, reverent, dangerous. "A great black wolf, larger than a horse. And a boy—young, but with a soul as old as the world."
Thoros stopped mid-drink. Slowly, he lowered his tankard.
"Oh, no."
Melisandre's gaze sharpened. "You know of him?"
"Oh, I know him." Thoros rubbed his face. "Lord Cregan Stark. The Demon Wolf."
Before Melisandre could press for details, the door swung open again.
Enter Kinvara.
If Melisandre was mysterious and eerie, Kinvara was terrifyingly enthusiastic. Her smile was too wide, her eyes too bright, and she had the kind of energy that suggested she'd either converted a kingdom or burned it down. Possibly both.
"Thoros!" Kinvara practically glowed. "Melisandre! Fantastic! You've also been called!"
Melisandre blinked. "Called?"
Kinvara clutched her hands dramatically. "The flames, sister! They spoke to me. Our Lord has chosen!"
Thoros groaned. "Oh, this just got worse."
Kinvara ignored him, locking eyes with Melisandre. "A great black wolf. A boy with ice in his veins and fire in his soul."
Melisandre's pulse quickened. "You saw him?"
"I felt him," Kinvara breathed. "He is Azor Ahai, reborn. He is everything."
Melisandre exhaled slowly, letting the truth settle. This was real. This was destiny.
Kinvara, meanwhile, had moved straight past devotion and into actual fanatical obsession mode.
"I will serve him," Kinvara murmured, almost to herself. "Body, mind, soul—everything. He will want for nothing."
Melisandre arched an eyebrow. "We all will."
Kinvara tilted her head, as if reconsidering. "He is young. Do you think he will… require guidance?"
Melisandre smiled. "He will have need of us. To show him the way."
Thoros groaned. "Oh, gods, you two are really doing this." He shook his head. "Look, I fought alongside the boy at Pyke. He's not just some chosen messiah, he's a bloody force of nature. You two planning to show up and throw yourselves at his feet?"
Kinvara absolutely was. Melisandre, to her credit, at least pretended otherwise.
Thoros sighed. "And I assume you two definitely won't take no for an answer?"
Melisandre's smile was unreadable. "We are destined to serve."
Kinvara's eyes sparkled. "The flames have willed it."
Thoros drained the rest of his ale in one go. "I need a lot more to drink."
By first light, the three of them were riding north.
Thoros, grumbling. Kinvara, practically vibrating with excitement. And Melisandre, already imagining the moment she would kneel before Azor Ahai and offer him… everything.
Gulltown was behind them.
Winterfell was ahead.
And the Demon Wolf was waiting.
—
Cregan's POV
The Art of Northern Politics (or How to Annoy Your Uncle Into Agreeing With You)
Being a Stark comes with certain expectations. Brood in a corner? Check. Speak in dramatic one-liners? Double check. Think about winter at least three times a day? Legally required. But if you're me—Cregan Stark, the 12-year-old Lord of Winterfell and the North's resident headache—you also spend a lot of time figuring out how to keep the North from tearing itself apart like a pack of starving direwolves fighting over a single sausage.
Which is why I was standing outside Uncle Ned's solar, rehearsing my argument. I mean, it wasn't like I could just kick open the door and yell, "Hey, Uncle, let's kidnap the kids of our most unpredictable vassals and turn them into loyal allies!" That probably wouldn't go over well.
Instead, I knocked like a civilized person.
"Come," came the familiar voice from within.
I pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped inside. The solar was peak Stark aesthetic—fire crackling in the hearth, sturdy furniture, and exactly one (1) cup of probably cold tea sitting forgotten on the desk. Uncle Ned looked up from the mountain of parchment in front of him, his signature I-haven't-slept-in-three-days-but-don't-worry-about-it expression firmly in place.
"Cregan," he greeted, setting down his quill. His voice had that quiet, steady weight to it that made lords twice his age feel like naughty children. "You look like a boy with something on his mind."
I took the chair across from him, resisting the urge to fidget. "I've been thinking about the future of the North."
That got his attention. He leaned back slightly, giving me the full Dad of the North treatment—calm, patient, but also the kind of serious that made you rethink every bad decision you've ever made. "Go on."
Alright. Here goes nothing.
"We need to secure the loyalty of our bannermen," I said, keeping my voice even. "Not just with words and oaths, but with real bonds. Ties that actually mean something."
Ned raised an eyebrow, but he didn't interrupt. Good sign.
"We foster their heirs here at Winterfell," I continued. "Train them, teach them. Make them part of our pack."
There was a long pause as Ned studied me like he was trying to figure out if I'd hit my head recently. Then he nodded. "It's a sound idea. Which families are you thinking of?"
Okay, round one won. Time for round two.
"For starters, the Manderlys," I said. "Both of Lord Wyman's granddaughters. They're important allies, and it wouldn't hurt to have a future marriage option for Robb."
Uncle Ned actually looked amused at that. "Already making marriage alliances for your cousin?"
"Well," I shrugged. "You always say the pack must survive. And let's be honest, Robb's going to need all the help he can get. The boy can swing a sword, sure, but his strategy in Cyvasse is… let's just say if he ever tries to outthink Roose Bolton, we're all doomed."
Ned actually chuckled. A rare sight. Mark your calendars, folks.
Then I hit him with the tricky one.
"And Domeric Bolton."
The chuckle died instantly. The temperature in the room dropped a solid ten degrees. I half-expected Ned's chair to start growing icicles.
"Roose Bolton," he said, slow and measured. "And that bastard of his…"
"Yes," I cut in quickly, because I really did not want to hear Ned say the words Ramsay Snow out loud. "But Domeric's different. By all accounts, he's nothing like them. If we bring him here, we can shape him into someone loyal to Winterfell. Someone who can take over the Dreadfort without being, you know…" I made a vague hand motion. "A Bolton."
Ned exhaled through his nose. Not a sigh, exactly, but close. "Roose is a dangerous man, Cregan. Bringing his son here could backfire."
"So could leaving him there," I countered. "Right now, Roose is the one shaping him. Do you really want another Roose Bolton running the Dreadfort in twenty years?"
Ned was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. "We'll send for him."
That was… easier than expected. I half-wondered if he was secretly proud of me for thinking like a political schemer. (He'd never admit it, of course.)
Now for the cherry on top.
"I also want Asher Forrester and Gwyn Whitehill," I added.
That got another eyebrow raise. "You want to foster the children of two families who hate each other?"
"Exactly," I said, because I live for chaos. "Those two houses have been feuding forever. If we bring their heirs here, raise them together, we might actually stop the next generation from killing each other before they even hit twenty."
Uncle Ned gave me a long, searching look. "You've put a lot of thought into this."
"Uh, yeah," I said, scratching the back of my neck. "You kind of have to when half the North's lords are either scheming, feuding, or think they're smarter than they are."
That got me another rare Ned Stark almost-smile. "It's a good plan," he admitted.
I let out a breath. "So you'll do it?"
"I'll send ravens in the morning," he confirmed. "We'll make the arrangements."
Well. That was easier than expected. Maybe I really was good at this game.
Uncle Ned stood, resting a hand on my shoulder. "The North will be in good hands with you, Cregan."
Which was both reassuring and deeply terrifying. No pressure or anything.
As I left the solar, my mind was already running through all the potential disasters this plan could cause. Would Domeric Bolton actually turn out decent, or would he try to flay me in my sleep? Would the Manderlys play nice, or would they turn this into a political headache? And would Asher and Gwyn get along, or would they reenact their family feud with real weapons?
Well, only one way to find out.
Welcome to the Game of Starks.
---
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!