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The day after Ned returned to Winterfell, he sent the septa and the septon packing. Catelyn was furious at his callousness. It was bad enough that he had brought his bastard home and insisted on raising the child with his trueborn brother, he was practically forcing her to feel like a stranger in her own home. Ned tried to placate her with building a sept, but Catelyn coldly told him that a sept is not much use without a septon and a septa.

(Her husband built a sept anyway, and Catelyn can’t stay mad at him after that. There was something about those big grey eyes).

Ned didn't even have the decency to tell her why. He just cryptically informed her that Winterfell cannot have any outsiders living in the castle.

She would not find out the reason for two years.

One night, Catelyn had gone into Robb's room and found instead of her son, a red direwolf pup was lying in his bed, on his torn nightshirt. Naturally, she screamed bloody murder because for all she knew her a wolf had eaten her sweet baby boy.

To her shock, the servants who had come running into the chambers seemed more concerned about the wolf pup who was now yapping up a storm, scared out of its fur. Jory and Rodrick at least go to her, assuring her that everything is all right---why they would think that is beyond her. To her horror, a second wolf appeared, fully grown with brown fur. The direwolf charged at the pup----and started licking it fiercely, wrapping his whole body around it until it calmed down.

Catelyn just watched with bewilderment and confusion, wondering if she somehow stepped into some bizarre tale where this was normal and why wasn't anyone wondering where Robb was? The pup had stopped yelping and was now looking at her with...hurt. He yipped at her, causing her to step back, still frightened. She glanced around the room, trying to understand why she was the only one disturbed by all of this.

The adult wolf licked the younger one's head, a low growl rumbling from his throat. As if it could not get any more bizarre, the wolf began to change as did the pup. Their fur started fading away, their faces and bodies became more human until her husband and son were staring up at her. Her naked husband and son. Fortunately, Lord Poole had gotten a robe for Ned to put on and a second one to be wrapped around the toddler.

"See, Momma, it's me!" Robb exclaimed. "You recognize me now, right?"

"Ned?" Catelyn asked after she had grabbed her son and kissed his sweet head repeatedly.

"I didn't think you'd believe me," Ned explained sheepishly, ducking his head.

Catelyn sighed. She supposed he had a point. Still, a warning would have been nice. "Will all our children be able to do this?"

"If they are all Starks, they will," Ned answered.

Catelyn can't help but laugh at that. For she had been so worried that her son and her newborn daughter wouldn't be seen as Starks compared to Jon Snow and yet Robb turning into a wolf was all the proof for which she could hope.

Now Catelyn understood Ned's need for secrecy. Many followers of the Seven would call the Starks turning into beasts a wicked thing and they should be exterminated. In fact, only the people of the Starks immediate household knew and were sworn to keep it hidden. Not even the most loyal of the North bannermen were allowed to learn the truth. Granted, it was an open secret among most of them since the Starks had intermarried their bannermen so often, there was at least one wolf popping up in their descendants.

Despite still being still unnerved by the situation, Catelyn began to accept it. And when, years later, three wolf pups climbed into her bed, she was able to see that they were not wild beasts, but little children who missed their father. She can't even find it in her to push Jon Snow away when he laid his little grey head on her stomach, huffing cutely. Instead, she just wrapped all three of them in her arms and fell back asleep.

She just sighed and shook her head when Ned returned from the Greyjoy rebellion and she brought him into the nursery to show him the newborn Arya, only to find a brown wolf pup curled up in the crib.

Years later, Arya would declare herself the most Stark of all Starks because she had changed into her wolf form the earliest. She pouts when Ned informs her that her Aunt Lyanna had turned into a wolf an hour after being born.

Bran took the longest to turn into a wolf---something Catelyn was secretly glad for because she was tired of checking on her children only to find that they have shifted into wolves in their sleep. He was five when he finally managed it, and quickly gets back at Arya who had been teasing him for being a late bloomer. His method of punishment was jumping on her and licking her fiercely.

Rickon was like Ayra and changed just a few months after he was born.

(Catelyn didn't know when Jon Snow changed into his wolf form, but she suspected it was around the same time he arrived at Winterfell, considering how many nights, Ned had spent sleeping in his nursery and Sansa was three when she first changed).

Now Catelyn sat on the grass, stroking Sansa's head and scratching Rickon's belly as she watched the fully grown wolf being chased by bundles of red, grey and brown fur. She felt oddly sad by the sight, wishing she could join them, she could be like them.

"But then again, I suppose I would be a trout not a wolf," she mused out loud.

Rickon nipped at her finger, and she glanced at down at him. "Oh? You would like that, wouldn't you? I would make a fine meal," she guessed. Rickon's tongue lolling out makes his grin even more adorable. "Well perhaps this trout will gobble you up." She then buried her face in his fur and gave his belly a raspberry before tickling him.

She heard a bark and looked up in time to see five wolves charging towards her. Rickon and Sansa---the traitors---quickly get out of the way as Catelyn Stark found herself being smothered by kisses and furry bodies.

"Stop that, stop that, right now!" Catelyn shouted---at least she tried to in-between her fits of laughter.

She was a trout, but she was a member of the pack, nonetheless.

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Catelyn was sewing.  Or at least, she was trying to. She bit back a groan as the large direwolf nearly pushed her off the bed as he nuzzled her hair. He didn't just use his muzzle, but his entire face like he was trying to rub his scent onto her. 

Finally having enough, Lady Stark snapped: "Ned, I am trying to concentrate!"

With a soft whine, Ned moved to the edge of the bed, placing his head on his paws, staring up at her with big grey eyes.

"Warrior, give me the strength," Catelyn muttered to herself. "Don't look at him. Don't look at him. Don't look at him."  She remained strong for all of five seconds, before her gaze meet the mournful and pleading grey orbs. She inhaled sharply and set her embroidery aside, patting her husband's head. "Fine."

Ned let out a bark of joy, jumping up and burying his face into her hair, his tail wagging like crazy. 

(Later, once he was back as a human, she would tell Ned that every time he messed up her hair, he would have to brush it himself. Judging by the smirk, he tried to conceal, Catelyn got the distinct impression that had been his plan all along).

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There are whispers of the Starks. Wild rumors. Dark stories of blood and vengeance. The Starks were blessed by the Old God, granting them the strength and agility of a thousand direwolves, allowing them to turn into beasts at will. Legends have it that King Theon the Hungry Wolf ate his unfortunate victims, that Brandon the Builder built passageways at Winterfell that only a wolf could access. That Rodrick slew the Ironborn to win back Bear Island using his teeth and claws. That Brandon the Ship Burner spent many nights before he burnt all his ships, sailing out to the ocean, howling at the wind, hoping for a response.

They say that a pack of Starks broke guest right to slaughter their own bannermen. They turned into wolves at the dinner table and murdered every man, woman, and child, wiping out an old bloodline in a single night. Even their own retainers were caught in the middle of the bloodbath.

("If you hear a wolf howling, watch out," Ravenna Dreadstark claimed with a toothy grin, her eyes glinting with mischievous delight. "For it means you have angered a Stark and they are now out for your blood.").

They say that Torrhen Stark married his daughter to Lord Ronnel Arryn. After her husband's imprisonment, Lady Stark was burnt on orders of Lord Jonos, claiming that she was bewitched, having turned into a wolf, and attacked him. Many believed that story is just a desperate attempt by Lord Jonos to stop the North from coming to his brother's aid.

("We can never allow them to marry South. My father was willing to take that chance, but I am not," Ned declared gruffly. Catelyn followed his gaze to where Arya and Jon were talking. She shuddered at the thought of what might happen to Arya who turned into a wolf at every chance she got. Even Sansa could be in danger as the knights and princes she dreamed of might turn on her in an instance if they learned her secret).

They say that as he watched his father burn, Brandon Stark changed into a wolf, the rope breaking as he did so. He leapt at King Aerys, his jaws open, hungry for blood. The mad king would have died that day had Jaime Lannister not reacted swiftly. Those present insisted that it didn't happen, it was a mass hallucination, the Seven had actually cursed Brandon for his sins by turning him into a monster, the Old Gods had turned their barbarian into a vicious monster and the Seven had guided Ser Jaime to slay it.

("I wish I had let Brandon Stark kill the mad king," Ser Jaime admitted bitterly as he pat a wolf's head. The wolf had stumbled on his brooding spot. "He could have saved us all a lot of trouble. Then he'd be the kingslayer and I'd be---well, I guess I'd be no one." The wolf let out a questioning whine and rolled over. Jaime stared incredulously. "I'm pouring my heart and soul out to you, and you just want a bully rub?"   The wolf let out another whine and Jaime complied with a sigh.)

They say when Oswell Whent's body was sent home, his throat was ripped to shreds.

("When your sister learned of what happened to your father and brother, she wanted to leave. Prince Rhaegar wouldn't let her," Ser Arthur Dayne explained as he lay dying. "Before we knew what was happening, your sister turned into a wolf. He didn’t even have time to draw his sword before she had sunk her teeth in his throat. Lord Commander Hightower wanted to kill her. He called her and the child she carried demons. He refused to protect her, rode with Rhaegar to battle on the Trident. Left me all alone.")

They say when Petyr Baelish held a knife to Ned Stark's throat, he turned into a wolf, fleeing the throne room before anyone could react.

They say King Joffrey Baratheon offers a thousand dragon reward for the capture of the wolf as did the Faith who condemned the Starks as demons. There are whispers that the wolf is somewhere in the city plotting the demise of those who betrayed him, stole his sword, and slaughtered his household.

(Catelyn waited on the battlements. She ignored the calls of her uncle and brother to come back inside. She waited and waited, her blue orbs scanning the hills and the trees. Then a wolf burst out of the woods, his brown fur matted with dried blood. She screamed at the archers not to fire as she ran through the castle, pushing past the guards. The wolf leapt on her, licking her fiercely as she hugged him. Her husband was home. He was safe and that was all that mattered.)

(That night, howls reverberate throughout the Riverlands as a raven flew to Dragonstone. Then another to Harrenhal and a third to King's Landing. The message was clear: Winter was coming for the Lannisters).

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Her septa had taught her all about bastards' deceitful and sneaky nature. And Jon Snow certainly fit the bill of sneaky.

“Do you think I don’t know what you are doing?” Catelyn demanded, glaring at the pup who dared to look at her with the same sorrowful grey eyes his father had, instantly melting her heart.  “This is blatant emotional manipulation.”

The dratted boy had the nerve to whine lowly, and then in an act of a true master manipulator, he rose to his hind legs, put his furry little paws on her shoulders, and licked her nose.

Only someone with a heart of stone could contend with such cunning and skill. With a huff, Catelyn wrapped her arms around the pup, moving him to her lap so she could stroke his soft fur.

Devious little pup, Catelyn grumbled to herself. She was never cruel to him, just put reasonable boundaries to make sure that Jon understood he could never take Robb or any other trueborn Stark’s place. Daemon Blackfyre was probably also once a cute little seven-year-old with dimples. However, thanks to his father and his mother’s actions, he grew up believing he was better suited for the throne than Daeron the Good.

The Blackfyre rebellion had been a bloody lesson that was still affecting Westeros years later, one that Catelyn needed to learn from, least history was doomed to repeat itself.

“You don’t understand,” she muttered as she ran her fingers through his fur. “I know it isn’t your fault, but….” She trailed off, unable to figure out a way to explain to the young child, why she had to be cautious.

“Jon, what are you doing!” Catelyn nearly jumped as Ned suddenly appeared in the doorway, his eyes wide and his face dark. “Turn back this instant!”

 The child pressed his body against her and let out a low whine that sounded almost like a plea.

Ned’s expression did not change, his features could have been carved from marble. “Jon, we talked about this. Turn back.”

Catelyn was bewildered by her husband’s sudden hostility. He did mention that some Starks had gone full animal, losing their human parts completely, never being able to change out of their wolf form. However, he stressed that as long as their children were in control of themselves, there was no danger.

Although, now that she thought of it, Ned had seemed less concerned with Robb, Sansa, and Arya, but often went out of his way to keep an eye on Jon.

Her husband took the chair next to her, reaching over to scratch his son’s ears. “You know it is dangerous for you to stay as a wolf for too long. I spoke to Robb, I know you haven’t changed back since this morning.”

Jon let out another pitiful whine but leapt down from Catelyn’s lap and trudged out of the room, his tail between his legs.

“Ned, is something wrong?” Lady Stark questioned, reaching out to touch his arm.

He jumped as if he had not realized she was next to him. “No. It is nothing.”  He averted his eyes before vacating his seat to hurry after Jon.

Catelyn pressed her lips together in frustration. Clearly something was wrong, but as usual Ned refused to tell her anything about his bastard.

Enough was enough. She was getting to the bottom of this.

Catelyn waited until their children were fast asleep before she strode into her husband’s solar, her expression determined.

“I want answers, and I am not leaving until I get them!” she proclaimed, sticking out her chin defiantly. “Tell me the truth about Jon Snow.”

“The truth,” Ned repeated, swallowing thickly. “He is my son. That is all you need to know.”

His wife glared at him, all the frustration she had for the past seven years boiling over. “There is more to that story. You refuse to name his mother, you have him grow up alongside our children, you fuss over him like he might burst into flames the minute you take your eyes off of him.”

“Cat.” The Lord of Winterfell’s manner was placating. “It is nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

“If you can trust me with our children’s secret, why can you not trust me with the boy’s secret?” Catelyn blurted out, half-wanting to stomp her foot like a child.

Ned opened his mouth, only to close it. His brows knitting together as if he were stumped by the question. “You’re right.”

Catelyn could have slapped him. How had it not occurred to him if she could be trusted to keep the secret of their children and of the Starks in general, she could also keep whatever mystery was surrounding Jon Snow.

He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Sit down. It is a long story.”

Catelyn did so with a tingle of anticipation, eager to understand what was going on.

“When we found my sister Lyanna in the Tower of Joy, we discovered that she had died as a wolf,” Ned explained, causing his wife to stare at him, perplexed.

“What does that have to do with Jon?” she questioned.

“She was curled around a wolf pup,” divulged Ned. “Her son.”

Catelyn gasped, putting the pieces together. “Are you telling me that Jon is Lyanna’s son?” Her eyes widened as she realized who the father had to be. “Oh gods, Rhaegar is the father, isn’t he?”

Ned averted his gaze. “That’s why I had to lie. If anyone were to find out that Jon was Rhaegar’s son, there would be a target on his back.”

His wife nodded, a mixture of emotions swirling in the pit of her stomach. Anger at Ned for lying, for allowing her to believe he had dishonored her. Fear for their family if anyone were to find out---not even Ned’s friendship with King Robert would be enough to stop the backlash. Then came the dawning horror of why Ned thought it dangerous for Jon to stay shapeshifted.

“Was he born a wolf?” she inquired.

“I don’t know,” admitted Ned. “We found him as a pup, and it took two days for me to get him to change into a baby. Now I keep worrying that if he spends too long as a wolf, he will lose his human side.”

“Does he know?” Catelyn felt a stab of guilt as everything clicked.

Jon was a perceptive child and he had picked up on the fact that she was far more affectionate to him when he was in his wolf pup form. The idea that this boy thought the only mother figure he had liked him only when he was a cute bundle of fur was bad enough. Now it was coupled with the notion that he was willing to risk being stuck as a wolf forever if it got him cuddles instead of coldness just about tore the Lady of Winterfell apart.

“No,” Ned replied, his manner uncomfortable.

Catelyn sighed. “Well maybe you should tell him.” At the very least, he should know why his father didn’t want him spending so long as a wolf.

“When he is older,” her husband insisted.

After that, there were no more words to be said. Catelyn left the solar and went straight for Jon’s room. He was sleeping soundly. However, as soon as she entered, he began to wake up.

Half-afraid he might shapeshift in a misguided attempt to please her, Catelyn rushed to him, pulling the boy in her arms.

“Jon,” she began, and it surprised her how easily his name fell off her tongue. “I want you to promise me that you will listen to your father. No more changing into a wolf for an entire day. Promise me."

“I promise,” the boy sleepily replied, snuggling into her embrace, a smile on his face.

His master plan has finally succeeded, Catelyn mused, unable to resist a soft smile in the boy’s direction as she stroked his hair.

Chapter Text

Lord Petyr Baelish, former Master of Coin for the king, was running. He had been traveling to the Vale, but the ship had to make a stop at Maidenpool which had just recently been taken by the gods damned Starks. It was as if they had known of his coming beforehand and waited for him. He had barely slipped past the Northern oafs and was now making haste towards the Bloody Gate.

But as he traveled, he heard the sounds of wolves howling, and he was suddenly aware of eyes peering at him through the trees. This was happening with an alarming frequency. People he met on the road seemed to avoid him like the plague, and inns refused to allow him to stay.  At first it made no sense to Littlefinger, for surely if it was known who he was then why wasn’t he being captured. Then one night when the wolves howled their loudest, did it finally hit him. He was being hunted.

The Starks, blessed by their savage gods, knew where he was. They were simply toying with him, letting him think he was fleeing to safety when in truth they were on his heels, ready to strike.

Littlefinger ran. He wasn’t even sure if he was going in the right direction. All he knew was he had to put a wide distance between himself and the Northern barbarians. Unfortunately, after so many sleepless nights, he tired easily and stumbled down a small hill, breaking his ankle of all things.

Tired, paranoid, and scared out of his wits, he screamed at the darkness, “JUST GET IT OVER WITH ALREADY!”

Suddenly the light of a lantern illuminated the clearing and out of the gloom, came the woman of his dreams, his angel of mercy, his goddess.

“Hello Petyr,” Catelyn whispered, her face as hard as stone. The lantern she carried gave her pale skin an almost unearthly glow. Her blue eyes gleamed with malice. “My apologies for our tardiness. Lady Melisandre’s missive was delayed.’

Littlefinger frowned, wondering what Stannis’ mistress had to do with anything. He did not have long to ponder the matter as a low growl alerted him to Catelyn’s companions. Two direwolves were prowling beside her like the two lions of Summer Island’s goddess of war. One of them was red, the other grey; both were baring their teeth.

The sight of them brought back the horrible memory of Ned Stark’s transformation. Only the Seven knew why Stark had not slaughtered them all that dreadful day. Instead, he had run away, never to be seen again until news came that Ned Stark was now leading his army against the Lannisters.

“Catelyn, forgive me,” Littlefinger pleaded. “I had no choice. It was the queen. She knew of your husband’s plan. She had already bribed the city’s watch. She threatened to kill me if I didn’t help her capture the Lord Stark. It wasn’t my…”

He trailed off when the grey wolf growled again, lurching forward, only to stop when Catelyn grabbed the fur of his neck, tugging at it.  

“No, Jon, no. Down,” she commanded sternly as if she were admonishing a dog.

The direwolf whined lowly, but obeyed, lying down at her feet, its head on its paws. The red wolf seemed highly amused at this and rubbed against Catelyn’s leg as if wanting a pat. She gave him one while not taking her eyes off of her former friend.

“You will answer for your betrayal with Ned,” Catelyn proclaimed in that same eerily calm voice. “I have a different grievance to air with you. Who did the dagger belong to?”

“The dagger,” Littlefinger repeated, perplexed. It was hard to think with the two monstrous beasts glaring at him.

“Yes, the dagger.” Catelyn’s blue orbs blazed with fury. “The dagger used in an attempt to kidnap my daughter. Do you recall me coming to King’s Landing? Do you recall you telling me that it belonged to Tyrion Lannister?”

“Catelyn….” He tried, only to fall silent and back away when the wolf named Jon raised his head and growled, his brother joining him.

“My sons are reminding you that I am Lady Stark to you,” Catelyn hissed. “You would do well to remember not to disrespect me, not when I am the only thing keeping you from being torn to pieces.”

Littlefinger swallowed, his bowels were becoming water as he stared at two sets of sharp, glistening white teeth.

“You lied to me. Both Tyrion and Jaime Lannister insist, separately might I add, that your story is false.”  Catelyn smiled toothily. “I have found that having a large direwolf at my side make men quite willing to tell the truth.”

Baelish did not need her to elaborate as he was having a hard time coming up with lies at the present moment himself as he pictured the two wolves ripping his throat out. However, he had to try.

Oh, my sweet Cat, these brutes have poisoned your mind, he bemoaned silently. They must have used dark sorcery to make a good Seven-worshipping woman their mouthpiece. If he could convince her that he was on her side, perhaps he could snap her out of it.

“I swear to you, Ca----Lady Stark, it was the Lannisters. They were angry at the refusal of the betrothal,” Baelish insisted, not even lying about that part for the queen and her son raged at the insult Lord Stark had given to them for daring to refuse to betroth his daughter to the crown prince. “They thought if they took the girl, you would have choice but to accept.”

Catelyn raised an eyebrow. “Who thought?”

Littlefinger swallowed. He decided he might as well come clean. The dratted king had let it slip after Eddard Stark had escaped, lamenting that if his man had his job, he would have skinned the Stark girl and brought him her pelt.

“It was King Joffrey,” he affirmed. “He wanted his bride and he decided he would take her.” It had been nothing short of stupidity and the former prince was lucky his father had not caught wind of the plot for he would have killed his son right then and there.

“Sansa was never his,” Catelyn snarled, glaring at Petyr with deep hatred. “She is a lady of the North.  A Stark she-wolf as that catspaw found out.”

The Lord of the Fingers licked his lips, wondering if he would share the footpad’s fate. He suspected it was a gruesome one. There were whispers of a legend of the Starks slaughtering their bannermen, every man, woman, and child. At a feast no less.

Savage monsters. Petyr grimaced.

“I can be useful,” he implored. “I can get your sister to send the knights of the Vale to aid Lord Stannis---”

“King Stannis,” Catelyn corrected dryly. She narrowed her eyes. “Now why would my sister listen to you when she has ignored the pleading of her siblings?”

“Lysa is not in her right mind,” Littlefinger explained. “She has become paranoid and violent. She only trusts me. She only listens to me.” And he thanked the gods for that. If he were to die at the Stark’s hand, then Lysa would raise the banners of the Vale to fight for the Lannisters.

Catelyn seemed to consider this for a moment. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps we still need you despite the wrongs you have done to us.”

 Littlefinger’s hope soared like a bird. Clearly the spell holding his Cat trapped was not strong enough to overcome the love she had for him---and she did love him, even if she was convinced otherwise. He only needed to get her away from that brute of her husband and those wild monsters she birthed, and then they could be together as they should have been, had he slain her first fiancé.  

“But alas, your sentence has already been decided,” Catelyn remarked as she turned on her heels and strode away, her sons trotting after her. She called over her shoulders, “He is all yours, Ned.”

Petyr’s eyes widened as he suddenly felt hot breath on his neck and heard a low growl right next to his ear. He turned his head to see the gigantic brown direwolf that had been haunting his nightmares for the past year.

Petyr Baelish, Lord of the Fingers, screamed as the wolf leapt upon him, his gigantic maw closing around his neck.

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Everything happened so fast. One moment, Bran was climbing up the battlements of Winterfell, the next he was falling in front of his horrified family. Jon didn’t even think----he just lunged forward, desperate to grab his brother before he could hit the ground.

He barely even registered that he had changed into his wolf form, working on instinct alone. He leapt in the air, catching the collar of Bran’s shirt with his jaws, managing to use his wings to----HIS WHAT!

Jon kept his mouth firmly shut as he glanced down at the ground which was now very far away. A small crowd had gathered, and they were all staring up at him in shock.  His father was shooing the gawking servants away. Catelyn was too busy gesturing frantically for Jon to put Bran down immediately. His siblings, minus Bran, were staring up at him with wide eyes. As for Jon’s youngest brother, he was craning his neck, trying to get a better look at the wings.

Once both Jon and Bran were safely on solid ground, the family crowded around them.

“Do we also get wings?” Arya asked excitedly as she inspected the extra limbs protruding from her half-brother’s back.

“How long have you been able to fly?” Robb spluttered, sounding hurt as if he thought his brother had been keeping this from him.

“They look like dragon wings,” observed Sansa as she studied them curiously. She had seen an illustration of dragons in a book about Aegon’s conquest. The only difference was Jon’s wings were covered with snow white feathers.

“Can I touch them!” Bran requested as he struggled to wiggle free from his mother’s embrace.

“You are not allowed to climb anything taller than the stairs leading up to your bedroom.” Catelyn felt there were far more pressing issues than Jon’s wings, namely ensuring that her youngest son never scared her like that again.

“I suppose you want an explanation,” Ned said bashfully, causing his family (including the winged wolf) to turn and give him the same “you think” look.

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Rickard Karstark was smiling. No, Catelyn amended. He was smirking. He seemed quite pleased with himself.

“Rickard,” Ned began with a sigh, rubbing his temples.  

“You know the law set forth by King Brandon the Tenth,” Rickard remarked, looking like a cat who had gotten a canary. It was as if he had succeeded in some great triumph. “If a maiden shows her wolf's blood, she is to marry the Stark heir.”  

Out of the corner of her eye, Catelyn could see Maester Luwin frantically searching his pockets for parchment, eager to add this to what he called his wolf lore notes. She would have to ask to borrow them later as this was all too new to her.

“I am aware of our customs.” Ned sounded tired, if not a little offended. “As I recall Lord Ryswell spent several months trying to convince my father that Lady Barbey had wolf blood. He even tore her clothes and captured a she-wolf, pretending it was her.”

Catelyn suddenly felt very sorry for Lady Dustin, no wonder she was so sour and resentful. Not even Hoster Tully was so desperate in marrying his daughters off to the point where he would make up lies.  

She frowned as she recalled another member of Ned’s bannermen: the Lady of Dreadfort. There were such peculiar stories of rapists and poachers being victims of a wolf attack, a great black she-direwolf, their victims claimed, prowled the lands protecting the smallfolk.

Then she shook her head, if Lady Dreadstark could turn into a wolf, she would have been married to Brandon despite being a few years older than him.

Catelyn shifted in her seat as she was brought back to the situation at hand.

“I assure you, Lord Stark, this is no mummer's farce,” Rickard assured, as he beckoned his wife forward. She held the toddler in her arms. Alys Karstark seemed more interested in sucking her thumb than her father’s attempts in marrying her off.

Before Karstark could say anything else, the doors flew open, and a brown wolf she-pup came bounding in.

“My lord, the Manderlys are here to see you,” Poole announced out of breath as he tried to grab the pup. Unfortunately, it seemed to think it was a game as she kept jumping out of reach.

Minutes later, Wyman Manderly waddled in, a jovial smile on his visage. “Lord Stark, you must forgive my granddaughter, she is rather excitable.” His tone was apologetic, but smugness rolled off of him in waves especially upon seeing the scowl on Karstark’s face.

Alys Karstark did not seem to notice her father’s displeasure, all she saw was that a new friend had appeared. Within seconds, she was covered in fur, leaping out of her mother’s arms and began to chase the Manderly girl.

Beside his wife, Ned let out a groan, sinking in his seat. It was bad enough having one bannerman push his daughter or granddaughter on Robb, but now he had two.

“My lord, Alys turned into a wolf when she was only a year old,” Rickard informed him. “Her blood is strong.”

“Really? It took her that long,” Wyman said in astonishment, his tone smooth. “It only took Wylla about a month.” Rickard looked as if he was trying to reduce the round man to a smoldering pile of clothes.

Catelyn glanced at Ned, wondering if it was unusual that Robb had only begun his transformation when he was two. Surely that didn’t mean that his blood was weaker, did it? Had her Andal blood somehow tainted her children? When had the bastard began to transform? Ned spent so much time in his nursery when the boy was a babe. Did that mean he was more Stark than Robb?

Her husband didn’t look at her, but he must have sensed her anxiety because he reached over to pat her hand, giving her fingers a comforting squeeze.

“My lords, thank you for coming to me.” Ned spoke in his lord voice. “I shall abide by the law my ancestors set forth, but my son cannot have two wives.”

“Of course not, but surely---” Rickard started to say.

Ned interjected, “This is a matter for another day.” His tone broached no argument. This seemed to deflate both men, but they did not raise any objections. “For now, I offer you bread and salt. I’m sure Robb and Jon would be most pleased with having two new playmates.”

Catelyn wanted to object to the boy’s inclusion, but then Wylla bounded up to her and gazed at her with big blue eyes and she had no idea what she was thinking about in the last ten seconds.

Chapter Text

When they left Winterfell, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. But upon arriving at Dreadfort, the sky was grey and there was a thick fog covering the ground. It gave Dreadfort a haunted and creepy aura. 

Arya never felt more excited to meet one of her father’s bannermen. She, Sansa, and Robb had accompanied Lord Stark to meet Lady Dreadstark. Bran was grounded both figuratively and literally. As for Jon, he was visiting the wall to meet his uncle and learn a bit about his father’s side. Catelyn was feeling under the weather, having thrown up for the past two mornings.

Sansa shivered as they entered the castle, huddling closer to their father who wordlessly wrapped an arm around her. Robb’s eyes darted around, scanning their surroundings, trying to detect any threat.

Arya was taking in her surroundings as well, but for a less practical reason. She wondered if it were true that the floors of the banquet hall were still stained with blood. Perhaps, she could go down to the catacombs and find the ancient torture chambers left behind by the flayed men.

“Welcome Starks of Winterfell. Dreadfort is yours as am I.” Ravenna Dreadstark stood in the main hall, in front of her household. If Dreadfort was spooky, its mistress was ethereal. She had pale skin, waist long black hair, smokey grey eyes, and she wore a black dress. She curtsied with a flourish. “I am forever at your disposal. Please just give me a command and I shall obey.”

“That will do, Ravenna,” Ned said in a tired tone. His lips curved upwards as if he were trying to suppress a smile.

“And what is this?” The lady’s eyes lit up. “You have brought your darling children. How delightful!”

Arya immediately straightened, eager for the lady’s praise. She was the truest Stark among her siblings, having changed into her wolf form when she was just a small babe, her siblings had been late bloomers compared to her. Everyone said she looked exactly like her Aunt Lyanna which only proved it more.

To her disappointment, Ravenna went to Robb first, studying his features intently. “My my. You have your father’s long face and his most exquisite jawline. But your mother blessed you with your crimson locks. Kissed by fire. You have been doubly blessed, young one.”

Robb nodded politely, not quite sure what to make of those words. He still thanked her graciously.

“And you!” Ravenna turned towards Sansa, a smile spreading across her face. “You dress in silk and bows, but in your eyes, I see the wolf, powerful and strong. Let her out more often, child. You will not lose yourself in process.”

Sansa seemed to be trying to puzzle out whether the woman was insulting her or not. But like Robb, she only thanked her and curtsied.

Arya was fighting the urge to tap her foot impatiently as Ravenna stepped in front of her. She raised her chin, locking their grey orbs, wanting to show the older she-wolf that she was not afraid.

“You are your aunt reborn,” Ravenna proclaimed. For a moment there was a flicker of melancholy on her countenance. “Oh, my sweet Lyanna. Brave, fierce, and proud. I pray you remember what she did not: that a wolf is stronger with her pack.”

She then smiled again. “I hear you have been pestering your father about the story behind my house.”

“I have,” Arya confirmed, her eyes lighting up. “Will you tell me about it?”

“At supper mayhaps,” Ravenna told her with a sly wink. “But I warn you. It is a grim and dark tale.”

“The best ones are,” Arya declared with a smirk. Sansa never liked those kind of tales. She preferred the ones with knights and heroes. It just showed how Southern she was, barely a Stark at all.

The lady threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, I like you.”

“Ned!” A stout brown-haired man, dressed in furs, entered the main hall. “I hope you will forgive my tardiness in greeting you. I was out hunting when I received the news of your arrival.”

“It is quite all right, Mark,” Ned assured, greeting the man with a hug. “We just arrived. It’s good to see you, old friend.”

Ravenna swept up to her husband. “Anwylyd, did you manage to find that nasty she-wolf who has been terrorizing our lands?”

Mark’s expression was similar to the one Arya had seen on her mother’s face before her parents disappeared for an hour at least. “No. The wolf escaped me again, Anna. But I hope to capture her tonight.”

His wife licked her lips and rubbed an odd bruise on his neck. “Well when you do, make sure to tie her up. You know how she bites.”

The Stark children swapped confused looks. They were even more perplexed at the titters of some of the members of the Dreadstark household. The Dreadstark heir seemed to want the ground to swallow him up. Ned inhaled sharply, covering his face with his hand in embarrassment.

Hours passed before they had supper, and Arya was dying with anticipation. She tried to sit still and listen as Mark regaled Sansa and Robb with the story of the fight at the Tower of Joy where Ser Arthur Dayne had acted like a one-man army. She fought against the urge to interrupt her father and Ravenna as they discussed wildling raids on the Umber lands (strangely only supplies were stolen with no lives lost).

Finally, Ravenna whispered something in Eddard’s ear, nodding her head towards Arya with a smirk. She nodded at her eldest son, Farlen who quickly left the room. She then rose from her seat, tapping her wine glass with a spoon. “My friends, my loves, my honored guests, it is time to tell the Fall of the Boltons.”

A hush fell over the banquet hall, and everyone was still, staring at the dark-haired lady with rapt attention.

Ravenna was clearly in her element, her tone light and playful. “Long ago, these halls held the most disreputable of men. The Boltons. The Red Kings. The bane of the Starks. Their hands were bloody, their cloaks were made of human skin, and their blades were always sharp.”

She snapped her fingers and a nearby servant ran forward, uncurling an old and torn banner of a flayed man. Upon closer inspection Arya noticed that the tears were in the shape of three claw marks.

“They loathed being under the thumb of the Starks,” Ravenna continued. “They wanted to rule over the North. They were a treacherous lot, but our ancestors forgave them and accepted their allegiances time and time again. In fact, an old King of Winter hoped to bind the Starks and the Boltons by offering a daughter to the Bolton heir and taking a Bolton lass for his heir in return.”

She grimaced, her expression growing dark. “A pact was made. A deal was struck. A feast to celebrate the newfound friendship was planned in these very halls. The soon to be brothers by marriage went for a hunt before they shared a meal.”

Ravenna paused, allowing her words to sink in, giving her eager listeners a sense of foreboding. Even those who must have heard the tale a thousand times were visibly shaken as they began to recognize where this was going.

“Instead of waiting for them to return, the Boltons and the Starks decided to begin their meal,” she continued. “The Starks feasted on bread and salt. They drank and danced, unaware of the storm brewing. And then, just as the hour of the owl…”

Suddenly there was a clap of thunder just before the doors flew open and Farlen Dreadstark strode in, wearing a pink cape, dark red paint on his face and hands. He held up what appeared to be a wolf’s head and crowed, “No Stark shall have what is mine, but I shall have all that is his!”

“And then he threw the head of the Stark’s heir onto the high table,” Ravenna continued. Farlen tossed the presumably fake wolf head at Robb. The current Stark heir caught it instinctively, unable to tear his gaze from the storyteller. Sansa was pale as a ghost and moved away from the severed head. Eddard and Arya were just enjoying the show.

“Winter has come for House Stark!” Farlen was clearly enjoying himself, having his cloak billow around him. “Let us flay the wolves so we can make clothes out of their fur!”

Ravenna waved her hands with a flourish. “Believing their foes were drunk and disoriented, the Boltons answered his call. They were certain it would be a slaughter, and they were right! But what they failed to anticipate was instead of House Stark’s destruction, they had secured their own demise!”

She grinned toothily. “Rather than being weakened, the Starks were emboldened by their rage and grief. They turned into wolves and dispensed their justice on every unfortunate soul that was under this roof.”

Farlen turned his cloak around, to reveal a badge with a black wolf’s head on a white field. He threw it at his mother who recited, “Once it was all over, the King of Winter declared his fourth son the new lord of Dreadfort. The boy took the name Dreadstark, for all enemies should dread the Starks and their ruthless justice.”

Ravenna’s eyes sparkled with mischievous delight. "If you hear a wolf howling, watch out. For it means you have angered a Stark and they are now out for your blood."

She then cupped her hands over her mouth and let out an eerie howl that sent shivers down everyone’s spine.

Arya decided then and there that Lady Ravenna Dreadstark was everything she wanted to be when she grew up.

Chapter Text

Lord Jon Arryn felt old and weary as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He was tired, oh so tired. Another long day. He returned to his chambers, ready to climb into his bed, and fall asleep. Only he couldn’t because there was already someone there.

Any other man would have been alarmed to see a wolf, albeit a pup, lying at the foot of his bed. Not just a wolf but the famed direwolf supposedly extinct.

However, Jon had once stumbled on Steffon Baratheon cuddling a fully grown direwolf in his tent during the Ninepenny Kings’ war after his father died. (The two men had continuously denied that there was any sort of cuddling. They had merely fallen asleep and just happened to fall asleep near each other). He was well aware of the Stark's secret even before Rickard had opted to send his seven-year-old son to the Vale.

Careful not to waken the slumbering pup, Jon scooped him up in his arms, placing him onto one of his pillows, pulling up the covers just in case he returned to his human form in the middle of the night.

Jon then sat on the other side, patting his head, smiling as the pup made a murmur of contentment.

“I know you’re homesick, Ned,” he whispered. “I don’t blame you. You can come here as often as you like.” He understood how out of place Ned felt in the South, especially when it was potentially dangerous for him to change into a wolf. He had done his best to make the boy feel welcome, even going as far to plant a real weirwood tree in his godswood so Ned could have a piece of the North.

The pup whined lowly, nuzzling his hand, revealing he had been awake the entire time. He scrambled over to Jon, curling up on his legs, his head lying on his foster father’s stomach.

“You’re welcome,” Jon said, his smile growing wider. It felt like all his worries and anxieties were being washed away as he stroked the soft fur. His bones still ached, and he was still tired, but he felt at peace for the first time in thirty years.

He closed his eyes and dreamt of a fully grown direwolf wrapped around a baby falcon, staring down all those who might wish to hurt him, but at the same time keeping the falcon safe and warm.

Chapter Text

295

“Father, am I a true Stark?”

Ned looked up from his papers with a puzzled frown. He had expected this question from Bran who had still yet to change his wolf form. Instead, it was his eldest daughter who was looking up at him with her blue eyes shining with unshed tears. 

The Stark lord regarded Sansa carefully before beckoning her closer. He lifted her up onto his lap when she reached him. “Of course, you are. Why do you ask, sweetling?”

He knew the answer before it even passed his daughter’s lips. “Arya said I’m more fish than wolf. That I act more like a pampered pet.”

Ned frowned. He knew Arya was delighted having turned into a wolf when she was just a babe, showing a mastery of her power from a young age. Whenever she and Sansa or she and Bran got into a fight, she was sure to remind them of that fact.

He would have to talk to her again. Her wolf blood was something to be proud of, not something to be used as a weapon, especially not against her siblings. But for now, he would comfort his eldest girl.

“Sansa, sweetling,” he began with the air of a man choosing his words carefully.  His eyes lit up as he realized the perfect anecdote. “Did I ever tell you the tale of Sara Snow?”

“Sara Snow?” Sansa’s brow furrowed in surprise. “I thought she was made up by the dwarf, Mushroom.”

 Ned chuckled. In truth, there was little evidence of the supposed bastard sister of Cregan Stark. The little there was had been locked away in the solar of Winterfell, with only the Lords allowed to lay eyes on them.

“Oh, Mushroom certainly exaggerated a few details,” he admitted. “She never married Prince Jacaerys for one thing. However, according to Cregan, she was a sweet girl, just like you. She would allow the children of Wintertown to ride on her back, cuddle with her.”

“Oh just like A…I didn’t know that.” Sansa quickly changed course mid-sentence, glancing down at her shoes.

Ned fought back a smile. As if he wasn’t aware of his youngest daughter’s trips to Wintertown. He was surprised that Sansa was not willing to tattle on Arya despite their fight. But then again, he knew Arya also sneaked lemon cakes from the pantry. He now suspected they were bribes for her sister’s silence.

Deciding not to press her on it, Eddard continued, “Sara Snow accompanied her brother to King’s Landing, during the hour of the wolf. But when her brother returned to the North, she stayed at court.”

“Why?” Sansa questioned, now even more confused.

“Because she loved all children, and it hurt her to see two broken ones,” Ned explained.

Sansa’s eyes widened as it began to dawn on her. Her voice was filled with awe. “She was the white beast. The one who mauled Unwin Peake to death despite being riddled with crossbow arrows and swords.”

Ned nodded, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “She was seen as King Aegon and Queen Jaehaera’s pampered pet, but when they were threatened, she unleashed the full fury of a direwolf.  Never underestimate a wolf, just because she prefers cuddles which neither your mother nor I are planning on discouraging.”

Sansa giggled as her father hugged her tightly.

298

Maester Luwin’s expression was regretful. “I’m sorry, Lady Sansa, I did the best I could.”

Sansa studied her appearance in the mirror, touching her ruined left ear. Despite his shock and horror at seeing her turn into a wolf, the catspaw had gotten a lucky hit on her, slicing her ear with his Valyrian steel dagger.

The eldest Stark girl could still remember that awful man with a knife to Jeyne’s throat, threatening to kill her if Sansa did not come with him. She had not even thought twice before she was sprouting fur and claws.

Thankfully, her assailant had been so surprised he let go of Jeyne who immediately ran for help. But by the time the Winterfell guards had arrived in Sansa’s rooms, they found a dead catspaw and a blood covered red direwolf. The latter was still growling and would not stop until Jeyne was at her side, safe and sound. 

Sansa was brought back to the present when her sister burst into the room, her face flushed as if she had run all the way.

“Is it true? Did you maul him?”  Arya looked far too excited about it.

“I had no choice,” Sansa insisted with a sigh. “He was threatening Jeyne and meant to kidnap me.” She tried to hide her ear with her hair, but Arya’s sharp eyes had already spotted it.

“And you get a cool battle scar to brag about,” Arya proclaimed, a trace of envy in her eyes. “You are so lucky.”

“I don’t feel lucky,” Sansa snapped, wondering why her sister had to bother her right now. Couldn’t she go bug Jon for sword lessons?

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Arya insisted, her smile darkening slightly. “I was just so proud of you. You’re like the Starks of the old who took their justice with their teeth.”

It was then that Sansa remembered the conversation with her father years ago.  She smiled proudly. “I guess you could say I was a true Stark.”

“Of course you are, stupid.” Arya playfully punched her arm. “Who ever said you weren’t?” 

Sansa swiveled to stare at her in disbelief. “You did! Every time we had an argument.”

Arya spluttered. “Well, you used to call me horseface!”

“You were having such a nice moment,” Maester Luwin muttered as he decided to retreat to the ravenry.

“Jeyne did that!” Sansa protested as neither she nor her sister took any notice of the maester.

“You laughed!” Arya pointed an accusing finger at her.

“Only because you said I was a useless trout.”

“And what is wrong with a trout?” Catelyn asked, appearing in the doorway, an eyebrow raised, unamused.  

“Nothing, Mother,” the girls replied in union, trying to look innocent.   

“Jon, Rodrick, and I will be leaving for King's Landing in a few days,” Catelyn reminded them, deciding to let the matter rest. “I expect you both to behave while we’re gone and listen to your brother.”

She then walked over to them, kissing their heads. “I’m very proud of you, Sansa, and I know your father will be too. You’re both are a credit to the Starks. Remember that." She wrapped her arms around her daughters, praying that their gifts would always protect them.

Chapter Text

Ser Jaime Lannister remembered the day he first learned of the Starks’ secret. It would forever be imprinted in his mind. He stood nearest to that hideous throne as King Aerys commanded Rickard Stark to be hung from the rafters as a fire was lit beneath him.

Jaime found himself wondering had his father stayed as hand would it be Tywin Lannister slowly cooked to death in his armor instead of the Lord of the North? He then glanced at Brandon Stark, picturing himself in the other man’s place.

All eyes were on Rickard Stark so that was why no one noticed. But Jaime was looking straight at the Stark heir and so he saw the change. Brandon’s eyes flashed red, fur began to sprout, teeth got longer and sharper, hands turned into paws with very deadly looking claws.

The Tyoshi noose broke and the big black direwolf charged towards the Iron Throne. Jaime acted without thinking and swung his sword against the beast managing to drive it into one of the throne’s swords before he sliced off its head.

So many theories of that day circled with speculation and theories to explain away the transformation. But Jaime knew the truth and he cursed every day that he had not simply stepped aside and let Brandon Stark rip Aerys apart.

Almost two decades later, Jaime was not as lucky. He was in the Whispering Woods fighting against Robb Stark. He had cut down two men to get to the red wolf.

He would strike at the beast’s neck. Tyrion theorized that might be their weak spot as the white beast (a direwolf undoubtedly) of King Aegon III had taken several swords and axes before it finally died.

“I slew your uncle, pup,” he taunted. “And now I’ll present your head to the king.”

But Robb Stark did not give to his taunts, eyeing him carefully. Then when Jaime swung his sword, the dratted beast headbutted him. This caused the knight to lose his balance, stumbling forward much to his humiliation.

Robb then lunged forward, knocking Jaime to the ground and sat on him. If Jaime didn’t want to kill the boy before, he certainly did now. He tried to lift his sword, but he couldn’t reach it.

“Get off me and fight me like a man!” he shouted. The red wolf just snorted in his face as one of his bodyguards got rope to tie the famous kingslayer up.

Jaime was sitting in his comfortable cell, staring at the damp walls of the dungeons of Riverrun. He heard the door open, and he stood, getting close to the bars. He suspected it was Robb Stark, his bastard brother, or his mother coming to taunt the caged lion.

He was wrong. The next thing he knew a white wolf came bounding in the room, and leapt at him, trying to bite him through the bars, growing and snarling as it did. Jaime stepped backwards, trying to flatten himself against the wall.

He very much hoped that was water dripping down his pants’ leg. The wolf seemed to be trying to squeeze itself through the bars or bust through them to get to Jaime.

The knight barely heard the footsteps darting into the dungeon, but he was quite relived when a white-haired man with a white sun embroidered on his doublet appeared, grabbing hold of the direwolf, attempting to lift it.

“Alys, stop it! Alys, stop it this instance!” the man ordered. The wolf, a she-wolf apparently, did not listen, still trying to get herself in Jaime’s cell. “Young lady, I am your father no matter what form you wear, you will heed me!”

By some miracle this seemed to work as the white wolf stopped, wining softly as she stared up at her the older man.

“I know, child, I know.” He pat her head before throwing Jaime a dark look. “If it were up to me, he would be dead for killing Torrhen and Mark. But Lord Robb said he’s better kept alive for now.”

Then if things could not get more bizarre, the old lord knelt down and started scratching her. The ferocious beast who had been ready to tear Jaime limb from limb, suddenly started acting like a puppy, rolling over on her belly.

“You’re daddy’s good girl. Yes, you are,” the man cooed as the wolf licked his cheek, her tail wagging like crazy.

Jaime was starting to think he might be hallucinating.

Jaime’s next visitor was on a moonlit night. He was surprised when a cloaked figure stood in front of his cell. The figure pulled the hood back, revealing a black-haired woman. She opened the door with a key before going to his shackles and unlocking them.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“No one important,” the woman replied with a toothy smile.  She then pressed a finger to her lips as she led him towards the dungeon door. “Your brother is distracting Lord Edmure. We must wait for the signal before you can escape.”

Jaime’s eyes lit up as he understood. His father had arranged for his escape. He studied the woman in front of him, noticing how her pale skin seemed to glow under the torch light. He realized that the cloak was adorned with a badge of the head of a black wolf on a white field: Dreadstark.

It seemed that not all of Stark’s bannermen were loyal.

There was a loud bang and then he could hear people shouting. “Subtle signal,” Jaime noted sarcastically.

“Oh, he does love his dramatics,” the woman laughed before she grabbed a second cloak from behind the door and covered Jaime with it.

It seemed that whatever his brother had done to distract the people of the Riverrun had worked as the halls were empty as they crept through them, managing to cross the drawbridge.

The woman led him to a forest, telling him that his brother would meet them there within a half hour.

“Tell Robb Stark that Jaime Lannister sends his regards,” Jaime proclaimed.

She flashed another toothy smile at him, her teeth sharpening as her eyes flashed red. “Oh, I shall be glad to, my lord. But first, let’s go hunting.”  It wasn’t until she was sprouting black fur, did Jaime realize that she had never given him any means to defend himself.

The ever-merciful King Stannis had decided to send the Kingslayer to the Wall. Apparently, his red witch thought he would be needed to fight a great evil.

“How am I going to do that without a hand?” Jaime muttered as he glanced down at his missing appendage. He wondered if that deranged Dreadstark woman had purposely left him alive just so he could suffer the humiliation of being without his sword hand.

Tyrion had not been exaggerating about how big the wall was. Not Jaime had much time to admire it as he was hustled inside Castle Black. He blinked when the first thing he saw were children. Children riding a white direwolf with one eye.

Before he could stop himself, he shouted, “How many wolves are there!” He was beginning to lose count.

Jeor Mormont came up to him accompanied by a slender man with brown hair. “Some of the children were rather frighted of the Black Brothers so Mors is giving them rides to calm them down.

Jaime stared at him bewildered. “I suppose that clears that up.”

“We will explain everything, Ser,” the slender man assured him. “But first let me introduce you to my wife's grandfather.” He let out a whistle, causing the direwolf to look at him.

“All right, you lot, off you go,” a dark-haired woman commanded, ushering the children away and then putting a white bear cloak around the direwolf.

Moments later, the direwolf was now as human as the rest of them. He was a large man with a white beard. He eyed Jaime for a few moments before nodding.

“Jaime Lannister meet the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mors Umber.”

King Robert Baratheon needed a new hand and he had chosen Stark. So now the royal court were in the frozen North, guests at Winterfell.

Seeing the Starks just reminded Jaime of his greatest regret, not allowing Brandon Stark to kill the mad king so he had gone to the Broken Tower to brood. He just sat there, staring off into space when suddenly he felt a warm, furry body pressed up against him. He glanced down to see a red direwolf, not as big as the black direwolf who haunted his dreams.

“Shoo,” Jaime tried. The wolf glanced up at him with big sorrowful eyes, gave a little snort, and then nuzzled him.

Only the Stranger could contend with such cuteness. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, Jaime patted his head, then started stroking the fur. The wolf’s tail began to wag.

“I swear if you're Ned Stark, I’m going to be very annoyed,” Jaime muttered. The direwolf somehow managed to look shocked, his jaw falling open in a very human like manner. The knight couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped past his lips.

“That’s right, little pup, I know your secret,” he teased. He sighed. “Because of Brandon Stark.”

The direwolf cocked his head, clearly confused. That ruled out Lord Stark and his brother. Jaime let out a sigh. The only other person, he had told this story to was Tyrion as he doubted his father nor Cersei would believe him.

He found himself spilling everything, even the wildfire, the truth spilling from his lips like water from a burst damn.

"I wish I had let Brandon Stark kill the mad king," Jaime admitted bitterly. "He could have saved us all a lot of trouble. Then he'd be the kingslayer and I'd be---well, I guess I'd be no one." The wolf let out a questioning whine and rolled over. Jaime stared incredulously. "I'm pouring my heart and soul out to you, and you just want a bully rub?"   The wolf let out another whine and he complied with a sigh

Afterwards, Jaime and the wolf went their separate ways. He wasn’t sure which one of the Stark children who had found him. That is until the court was getting ready to leave. He had just helped a fuming Cersei into the wheelhouse and was about to join Joffrey on the horses when Bran Stark ran up to him and hugged him.

“I think you’re the most honorable knight in all of Westeros, Ser Jaime,” Bran declared before he darted back to his dumbfounded family.

Jaime blinked a few times, shocked by the gesture. He didn’t know he was smiling until Joffrey pointed it out.

“What are you so happy about, Uncle?” he snapped, rubbing his black eye.

“Nothing,” he lied, still beaming.

Chapter Text

“Edmure Tully.”

“Yes, sweet sister?”

“Give her back before I tell Ned of your kidnapping attempt.”

“Not happening, Cat. And besides, she came looking for me! I guess I must be her favorite!” 

“Edmure, you have five seconds to hand her over!”  

“No! She’s mine now! She has the tiniest little paws and the cutest little pink nose!”  

“Edmure, give her back!”

“Never! Besides, she wants to stay with her Uncle Edmure, doesn’t she?! I give the best cuddles!”

“Don’t you confuse her with your lies! She prefers me because I know how to actually pet her instead of just tapping on her head every few minutes. Not to mention you constantly stroke her fur the wrong way.” 

“You’re just jealous because I’m her favorite! Wait, Eddra, where are you going?!”

“HA! It seems she wants her grandmother! No, Eddra, sweetheart, I’m over here. Where are you going, precious?”

“Cat? Edmure? What are you two----oh, there’s my best girl! Yes, I missed you too! Yes, I did! Wanna go play fetch! Let's go play fetch!"

"....He never played fetch with me." 

Chapter Text

Tywin Lannister was not a man who would believe in talks of grumkins and snarks. The tales of the Starks turning into wolves were nonsense that only fools and madmen believed. Aerion Targaryen used such legends to insist that he could turn into a dragon. King Baelor said that the Stark wolves were sent by the Seven to protect troubled children. And as for the Mad King Aerys, he had thought burning people using kindling from weirwood trees would grant him supernatural powers.

Even when Jaime and Maester Pycelle had claimed to have seen Brandon Stark turned into a wolf, Tywin refused to believe it, insisting that the fumes of the wildfire had caused them all to hallucinate.

A decade later and he received a letter from his daughter, rambling gibberish about Ned Stark trying to usurp the throne, turning into a great beast and trying to attack Joffrey. Utter rubbish of course, but no matter, his son would deal with the pup and if the father showed up, he too would be handled.

But then more strange things happened, packs of wolves attacking his army, men lead by a red wolf who captured Jaime. Reports of the direwolves grew even more widespread with his men claiming to be picked off by packs of wild wolves. Then a letter arrived, from Ned Stark, declaring that Winter was coming for the Lannisters as if this was something to make him quake in fear.

“The Starks have their little mummer tricks,” Tywin snarled, ignoring the eye roll from his least favorite child. “But that does not change the fact that they are mortal. My son proved that when he slayed Brandon Stark!”

This time Tyrion could not keep it with a simple eye roll, instead he snarked, “Oh, now you believe him about Brandon Stark. Where was this when you spent a whole hour telling him that he clearly misremembering skewering a fully grown black direwolf with dripping jaws and wild eyes.”

Tywin gnashed his teeth, furious at Tyrion mocking him in front of his bannermen. The stunted fool would pay for that. Perhaps he would send him to negotiate with Edmure Tully. Yes, that would do nicely, send the dwarf into the enemy camp, send Kevan to King’s Landing to rule in his name. And there was a letter he needed to write to Genna’s good father, turn the tale of the Bolton massacre on the Starks instead.

He would ask for Robb Stark’s head in payment for daring to humiliate his son. Oh, he would make the boy’s death as painful as possible. Lannisters always paid their debts.

“The Lord of the Light has blessed the Starks,” Melisandre declared, causing all the members King Stannis’ council to stare at her.

Davos cleared his throat. “Don’t they follow the old gods?”

The red-haired woman looked at him like he lacked less wits than Patchface the Fool. “They might believe that their true gods are in the trees they worship, but it is clear as day that R'hllor blessed them with their awesome powers to help defeat the Great Other.”

While her sycophants nodded in agreement, the other members of the council exchanged questioning glances. Stannis, on the other hand, was unbothered, focusing on more important matters.

“As long as he bends the knee to me, I care not,” he said firmly. Whether he meant which gods they believed in or the fact that they could turn into wolves, he did not elaborate.

“I have no doubt that he will,” Monford Velaryon remarked smoothly. “Lord Stark is an honorable man, known to be a believer in justice. He will set the wrongs done by the Lannisters right.” There was something in his tone that convinced all it was not just the raping of the Riverlands he was speaking of.

Melisandre’s eyes twinkled “And once we have restored Azor Ahai to his rightful place on the throne, the Starks will aid us against the true enemy. I have seen it in the flames. The wolves will howl and breathe fire on the ice creatures.”

Wolves can breathe fire? Davos wondered, shaking his head in confusion.

“I’d prefer their help against the Lannisters and my deceitful brother,” Stannis opined cooly, frowned darkly. “News from the Reach has been disturbing.”

“Yes. It is always disturbing to hear of such religious fervor,” Queen Selyse agreed, speaking up for the first time, her manner appalled. “I pray that my family has not gotten caught up in such blatant intolerance and fanaticism.”

Even Melisandre and Stannis gave her a disbelieving glance.   

Jon tried to ignore the painful gripping of his fur. It seemed that while little Robin Arryn was having the time of his life flying through the clouds, he was still keenly aware that if he were to fall off, he would be falling not flying.

After a while, Jon returned through the moon door where the Falcon court was waiting. Robin immediately leapt off of Jon and ran to his mother. “Mama, I flew! Did you see me!”

Far from the hysterical woman she was an hour ago, Lysa Arryn bent down and hugged her son. “I saw you, Sweetrobin, you were so brave, so strong. I’m so proud. So very proud.” 

“Mama, what’s wrong?” Robin might not be the brightest boy, but he clearly noticed something was off about his mother.

Lysa glanced back to where Catelyn and Lord Royce were standing. While Catelyn’s sympathy and sorrow shone on her visage, Yohn kept his expression stoic, his steely gaze sharp with anger.

The younger Tully woman took a deep breath, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears. “Mama did a very bad thing, and she has to go away now.”

Robin reeled back in shock. “What! NO! You can’t go! I won’t let you!”

Lysa let out a sob, grabbing her son into a hug. “I’m so sorry, baby. I love you so much. I want you to know I did it for you! I was protecting you! That horrible old man---”

“How dare you!” Yohn Royce growled, stepping forward, only to step when Catelyn darted before him.

“Please, you said it yourself,” she reminded him. “My sister isn’t well. Please, let me handle this.” She then walked over to her sister, crouching beside her. “Lysa, you’ve said your goodbyes. It’s time to go.”

“No! I won’t go! I won’t let you take him from me!” Lysa screamed as she clutched her son to her body, holding him so tightly, he shrieked in pain. “I won’t let you take him like you took Petyr! I won’t let you, Cat!”

“Lysa, please! You’re hurting him!”  Catelyn grabbed her sister’s arm, losing her grip just enough for Robin to wiggle free and dart towards Jon.

Jon wrapped his whole body around the shaking boy, allowing him to bury his face in his fur. Then he bared his teeth, making it clear that anyone who wanted to harm the little lord would have to go through him.

Lysa wailed loudly but she allowed her sister to help her to her feet, gently leading her towards the door. Lysa came to a stop in front of Yohn Royce, speaking in a slightly calmer voice. “You’ll take him to see me, won’t you? Just for a short visit.”

Yohn’s expression softened just a mite. “If he wants to see you, I will arrange for it.” 

Lysa let out a whimper of relief. She glanced back at her son who was peering at her through Jon’s fur, still shaken by her outburst. “My Sweetrobin. You be good now. Fly like a falcon, my darling boy.”

“Yes, Mama.”  

I’ll make sure of it, Jon promised silently, giving the boy a nuzzle. He would stay in his wolf form until the little Lord of the Eyrie fell fast asleep.

Chapter Text

Cersei Lannister was fuming. She was surrounded by incompetent fools. She could still remember that horrible day when Ned Stark had been captured after trying to usurp Joffrey’s throne for his own ambition. Oh, he claimed he was doing it for Stannis Baratheon, but Cersei knew that he truly wanted the throne for himself. Why else would he refuse the generous offer of making his pitiful daughter Joffrey’s bride?

She had relished the look on his face when the gold cloaks had killed his guards, and Littlefinger had held a knife to his throat. But her moment of triumph had burnt out like an extinguished candle.

Stark revealed his true form, a terrifying beast with dripping jaws and massive claws. It was a horrific creature straight of tales of the old. Had Cersei not seen it, she wouldn’t have believed it happened. She could only thank the Seven that Stark had proved to be a coward and had fled instead of attacking. However, that relief was short lived when she realized that the kingsguard and the gold cloaks had not even attempted to defend herself and Joffrey from that savage beast.

She had every gold cloak including that odious Janos Slynt who had been present in the throne room thrown in the black cells for their incompetence and would see their heads on pikes very soon. She had half a mind to do the same to the useless Barristan Selmy and Arys Oakheart, but she was convinced to dismiss them from the kingsguard instead for their failure.

They should be glad they were allowed to keep their lives, Cersei thought coldly as she sipped her wine.

“Your Grace?” Varys inquired, reminding Cersei that she was in the middle of a small council meeting.

The dowager queen glanced at the men who sat around the trouble and wondered why she was cursed with such incompetent fools.

The Master of Whispers who claimed to be all knowing but missed the tiny fact that all the tales of the Starks were true. The Master of Coin who was decrepit old man who looked as though he would kneel over at any moment. The Grand Maester who was only useful when she needed someone to agree with her. The Master of Laws whose only claim to fame was being lucky enough to marry a Lannister.

And then there was her Uncle Kevan. He thought that because he was acting hand that meant he could order her and Joffrey around. He even had the audacity to suggest a marriage pact with Dorne! Once her father had defeated the Starks and their ilk, he would come to King’s Landing and put his brother in his place.

Speaking of Uncle Kevan, he looked rather annoyed. “Cersei, are you listening?”

“Of course, uncle, I nearly needed a moment to collect my thoughts,” Cersei lied through her teeth. “But I do think for this decision to be made, Joffrey should be here to weigh in as well. He is king after all.”

Kevan looked unimpressed, seeing through her bluff. “And what decision would that be?”

Cersei gritted her teeth, furious that he was trying to humiliate her. Oh, she would make him pay for that. Thankfully, Maester Pycelle came to her rescue, pretending to answer Kevan’s question. “A decision about accepting the Lord Renly’s suggestion of alliance.”

“What?!” The dowager queen nearly spilled her wine in shock. “He’s rebelling against Joffrey, and they expect us to agree to an alliance!” The nerve of that sword swallower and the fat flower that followed him.

“It seems that Lord Renly and Lord Mace believe the witchcraft of the Starks and Stannis is the more present danger,” Emmon Frey explained. “They even suggested a dynastic match between Princess Myrcella and Willas Tyrell.”

Cersei was now shaking in rage, frothing at the mouth in fury. “Lord Renly seeks to usurp my son’s throne and in exchange for ignoring his blatant treason, my daughter will be a hostage, married to a cripple!” The only worse match would be that Stark creature or a Martell.

“Niece, before we dismiss the offer out of hand, perhaps we should consider the benefits,” Emmon blustered.

“I am no niece of yours,” Cersei snarled, throwing her goblet at him. It missed him but the wine at least splashed on his face and doublet. “You are mad if you think we should consider it at all.”

“And who else can we ally with?” Kevan challenged, his voice as cold as her father’s. “The Riverlands are following the North who has declared their support for Stannis. Baelish has yet to report in and there have been no replies from the Vale despite our constant letters. I won’t even mention that Dorne is very unlikely to support us without a royal marriage.”

He took a deep breath. “It is far better to make allies out of enemies, niece. It will be temporary I wager, but if we can avoid fighting a war on two fronts, it will be easier for all of us.”

“Uncle, you are a fool,” growled Cersei. “Renly and the Tyrells will let us do most of the fighting and then pick us off when we are weakened.”

“With the combined strengths of the Stormlands and the Reach, they would do that anyway,” countered Kevan. “We are at a disadvantage either way. Lord Renly is willing to compromise and so must we.”

“My father will never allow this!” Cersei thundered.

“He has told me to act in his name so I shall,” Kevan said firmly, his voice cold. “If you dislike it so much, you are welcome to write to him.”

Cersei glared at him. He knew full well that she had already tried, but he must have intercepted her letters for her father never replied.

“Your Grace, you must step aside,” the septon said in condescending voice. “We have to take the heretic into custody before she bewitches you.”

Normally Margaery would have said something sweet or diplomatic. But the Faith Militant had stormed into her private chambers, seeking to arrest Mira Forrester, simply for being Northern.

“Mira has been my companion for several years,” Margaery proclaimed, keeping herself between the cowering girl and the armed men. “She is not dangerous and certainly not a witch.”

She cursed Renly for allowing the Faith Militant to return. Oh, she had understood his reasoning. With Stannis Baratheon being under the sway of the priestess of R’hllor, the Starks turning into wolves, and the Lannister king being a product of incest, turning it into a religious matter would boost his claim.

But her grandmother had suspected it would only lead to hardened zealots gaining more power. As usual Olenna Tyrell was correct. Anyone even suspected of associating with followers of the old gods and of the red god were subjected to harsh interrogation. One could only imagine the horrors they would subject to an actual follower of the old gods.

That thought was why Margaery refused to allow them to even touch Mira. She wanted to be the queen, but not of a realm where intolerance and fanaticism reigned.

“She has done nothing wrong,” Margaery continued, fixing a steely gaze at the septon. “She has committed no crime.”

“She follows the gods of the Stark demons,” the septon protested. “The Starks could be using their unholy magic to spy through her.”

Margaery opened her mouth to refute him when Renly, Loras, and Garlan stormed in. While her brothers quickly stood in front of her, Renly immediately got into the septon’s face. “You dare barge into my wife’s chambers! You dare terrorize her and her ladies! The High Septon made it quite clear that while the Faith Militant is responsible for keeping infidels from corrupting our people, I, the king, still has the authority to pardon those who are misguided.”

“Your Grace---” the septon tried to speak.

“Out!” Renly thundered, suddenly reminding all in the room that he was the brother of Robert Baratheon.

Seeing no recourse but to retreat, the septon and his men bowed and exited Margaery’s chambers.

Once they were alone, Renly went over to Mira Forrester who was desperately trying to get her breathing under control. “Lady Forrester, I’m afraid I’ve only delayed the inevitable.” His expression was smooth but there was a glimmer of guilt in his eyes. “I have arranged for you to be taken back to the North.”

“I will be escorting you,” Garlan assured her, giving her a gentle smile, silently promising to do all he could to protect her.

Mira nodded, understanding that was her best option. In truth, she had been making her own plans to flee back to the North. But having a knight she could trust escort her would make her journey easier.

“Be safe,” Margaery whispered as she hugged her. As much as she wanted to fight against Mira leaving. It was simply not safe for her to stay.

“You as well.”

“Lady Forrester, I hope you will tell Ned Stark it was nothing personal,” Renly uttered.

Mira suddenly straightened, her expression becoming blank. Then she strode up to him and slapped him across the face. “Neither was that.”

“Look at this face and tell me, he is a demon,” Edmure commanded, cupping his hand under Robb’s snout. “Go on. Look deep into those big eyes and tell me that face was not carved by the maiden herself.”

“Well, the holy book does mention hellhounds,” William Mooton opined, eying Robb nervously.

Behind Edmure, the Lord Blackwood turned and mouthed “Really?” to the Lord Bracken who just looked embarrassed.

Edmure stared at Moonton like he was seriously considering throwing him in the moat. “I’m no septon but last I checked hellhounds are black, have fiery red eyes, and a serpent for a tail.”

With each description, Edmure grabbed Robb’s fur and tail to prove his point. Considering Robb had not bitten his hand off for his prodding, it was all the proof needed that he was not a violent hellhound. Although judging by the way his nostrils were flaring, and his lips were curling, he was seriously considering costing his uncle a few of his fingers.

“Lord Mooton, you know me as a man of the Seven,” Jonos Bracken drawled, ignoring the snort from Tytos. “Not only is Lord Edmure correct, that the Starks do not fit the description of hellhounds, it was the faithless Lions who ravaged my home, killed my sons, and raped my daughters. The Stark wolves on the other hand fought by my side, protecting the innocents better than the false knights of the Westerlands.”

“But they are an abomination!” Moonton seemed to gain some backbone, swelling up like a peacock. “If you insist on supporting the heathen savages, I have no choice but to join King Joffrey in his fight against you.”

Edmure blinked. “These are the sort of declarations you make after getting bread and salt. Or at the very least when you are not within reach of my guards.” He then turned to said guards. “Arrest him for treason against King Stannis.”

As they dragged the spluttering man away, Edmure knelt down and began giving Robb a belly rub. “Who’s the best boy? You’re the best boy!”

Chapter Text

Robb and Alys married in Riverrun. Oh, many would say it was a romantic tale of two lovelorn youths who simply could not wait anymore to be bound in holy matrimony. The truth of the matter was the two teenagers had spent the last year surrounded by death and blood, fighting brutal battles, and seeing the deaths of their friends and family. Traumatized by the horrors they had witnessed, they comforted each other a little too much.

After the deed was done, Robb was appalled that he had dishonored his fiancée, he apologized profusely and wrung his hands in worry over what they would do should there be a consequence to their actions. Alys rolled her eyes and simply said, “Just marry me before nine months have passed, dum-dum.” Then she kissed him fiercely.

They had a small ceremony in the godswood that night, witnessed by Dacey Mormont and Smalljon Umber. Then they had a more public and larger wedding in the sept of Riverrun a few weeks later with several Northen and River lords in attendance.  

If Catelyn and Ned were upset at missing their son’s wedding, they were soon mollified by wondrous news: Alys was pregnant.

(Ned was weeping as he watched the white she-wolf licking her pups. It was a great relief knowing that Alys and her children would thrive.

Catelyn gently led him over to the bed. “Ned, meet Eddra, Edwyle, and Ellard.” Her blue orbs shone with love as she gazed upon them).

Sansa had wanted to marry a knight or a prince. She had dreamt of it for so many years. She had been convinced that they would not hold her family’s gift against her. He would love her just as her mother loved her father. When Prince Joffrey had come, she had hoped he would be the prince she dreamt of. She had been so upset when her father had refused the match, even yelling at him before he left for King’s Landing (she would never have forgiven herself if that had been the last time she had spoken to him).

Then the catspaw happened, her father had been betrayed and almost killed, war had broken out, and Mira Forrester returned with a harrowing tale. Those dreams of knights and princes were shattered. 

Or so she thought.

(“Your favor my lady,” Daryn Hornwood requested, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

Sansa beamed at him and tied her ribbon around his lance. The tourney at White Harbor was not as grand as the ones described in the South, but it was still a lovely event. “Of course, good Ser. I pray by the Old and the New gods, you shall be victorious.”

“With a beautiful winter rose as my wife, how could I not?” he proclaimed. He leaned as forward as he dared, and Sansa stood up on her toes to press a chaste kiss on his lips. It was such a blissful moment that she pretended that she could not hear Jeyne sighing or Arya pretending to gag).

“Wolves eat weasels, you know,” Wylla Manderly commented darkly, her eyes narrowed at her sister’s new husband, her lips curled in a sneer.  “Just something you might want to keep in mind.” Her goodbrother swallowed thickly as he nodded, mumbling something about not being like his family.  

“Good.” Wylla continued to glare at him until Wynafryd made an excuse to save the poor man from deadly glower of the sixteen-year-old girl.

Bran had to admit that his bride-to-be’s anger was rather attractive when it wasn’t directed at him.

(“Next time you go beyond the wall, you bring me along, you stupid Stark,” she had growled when they had reunited, giving him a death glare. Then she hugged him, and her voice became softer. “I’m glad you didn’t die.”)

“I wish I had an older brother,” Edric Dayne admitted as they took a break from sparring. “Then we could sail off and have an adventure of a lifetime.”

Arya raised an eyebrow. “And what do you call all that time in the Riverlands?” She had heard enough stories of his exploits with Ser Beric Dondarrion. “Not to mention that whole war against the living dead we just fought.” 

Edric shuddered and moved closer to her, grasping her hand. “And as harrowing as they were, I’m glad that I went through them because they brought me to you.”

His wife blushed and then shot him a glare. “Don’t you ever say things like that in front of Sansa. She’ll never let me hear the end of it.” 

Edric chuckled before speaking again, “Arya, what would you say if I gave up my lordship and we sailed west of Westeros?”

“I'd probably say you’re mad and then ask you when do we leave?” Arya didn’t even hesitate, her grey orbs gleaming with wanderlust.

Three decades ago, Robert Baratheon commissioned a hunting lodge on his lands, one that he made sure would have plenty of prey to hunt. He told his brother that it would be a private lodge for himself and Lyanna. It wasn’t until the revelation about the Starks, did Stannis learn why his brother had gone to so much trouble.

Stannis Baratheon was not a sentimental man. Anyone who knew him was aware of that fact. (His younger brother knew it from the beginning to the end). However, when he walked into the room and caught sight of the scene in front of the fireplace, the ice that some said coated his veins melted.

Shireen Baratheon, his heir, was reading. Her scarred face was illuminated by the light of the fire and so was her blissful smile. She lay against a red direwolf, stroking his fur. The direwolf’s tail thumped against the floor while his head rubbed against her side.

He must have felt Stannis’ eyes on him because he lifted his head and growled, bearing his teeth at the interloper.

Shireen rolled her eyes in fond exasperation. “Rickon, that’s Father. You know him. There’s no need to be hostile.”

The remaining Baratheon brother gave the direwolf an approving nod. “He is wise, Shireen. Danger can come from anywhere; you must always be vigilant.” The wars were over for now, but who knew what the future would bring. It pleased him that when he dead and buried, his only living child would have such a staunch protector.

“Have you come to read with me, Father?” Shireen inquired, changing the subject, giving him an imploring smile.

The answer was of course no. He had other matters to attend to and had come to inform his daughter of his departure. But Stannis found that he could not say no to a double dose of puppy dog eyes. Instead, he joined them on the rug, ignoring the creaking of his bones. He indulged in a few head pats as he listened to his daughter as she read from her book, feeling almost like he had been transported back to his childhood.

When Jon had first thought of introducing the woman he had eloped with, he expected them to be skeptical, suspicious even. In truth, they both knew they were hasty, and they had only known each other for a short time. But it was an instant spark, an almost kinship.

Originally, he was planning to introduce her to his parents and Robb before breaking the news to his younger siblings in Winterfell, but then Robb and Alys announced their elopement, the Frey’s betrayal, and the return of the dragons, it simply wasn’t the time.

Then his extended family were all together for the peace treaty and Robin Arryn had let it slip. (In all fairness to his squire, the boy had kept it secret for almost two years).  

Sheepishly, Jon introduced his wife to everyone, waiting for their reactions. He expected surprise, maybe anger at him keeping her a secret.

What he did not expect was for his father to burst out laughing until he was crying when he held Mya’s hand.

(“I hope you will forgive me,” Ned apologized once he had calmed down. “I was just picturing my sister’s reaction to her son eloping with Robert’s daughter.”

“She’d probably blame you,” Benjen commented with a chuckle.

“If one more of my children elopes without having the decency to invite me, I’m disowning them,” Catelyn muttered as she invited Mya to sit down next to her.)

Chapter Text

There was blood everywhere. That was not an exaggeration; the floor, the walls, and even the ceiling were stained with dripping scarlet liquid. King Theon Stark, third of his name, had seen many battlefields in his lifetime where rivers of blood and mud ran thick, threatening to drown all who survived.

But this was no battlefield. It was not a clash between two armies with both sides having equal footings. No, it was a slaughter, plain and simple.

His father had told him of the downfall of the Greystarks. Both sides were strong with wolf blood and could match each other blow for blow. But the cost was too much. In the aftermath King Theon’s grandfather Brandon X had decreed that boys who showed their wolf’s blood were to join the Wall so they could not sire rivals to the Starks and maidens would have to marry in the Stark family.

Looking upon a serving girl, not older than thirteen, with her face clawed off made Theon wonder if his grandfather truly believed that the Starks were more worthy to have the Old God’s blessing.

She was Dacey's age, he thought bitterly as he took off a nearby tapestry and covered her with it.

He certainly did not feel worthy. Not when he recalled this child, this innocent child, begging for her life, swearing by the Old Gods that she had not known of her master’s plot, pleading that she had a family, siblings who depended on her.  

No one could reason with a crazed wild beast. Not one who was mad with grief at seeing his son’s severed head, realizing the Bolton’s treachery. She was not the only one who died by his claw. His best friend from childhood, Milton Mollen had his leg ripped off and had bled to death.

Milton had been with him, acting as his guard, killing the Bolton servants who tried to ambush him. But when there was no one left, Theon had turned on his companion. Milton had not even raised his weapon, instead begging him to remember that he was his ally. When he realized that wouldn’t work, he used his last breath to assure his king and friend that he did not blame him.

“Father.”  Princess Sansa swept up to him, her hair almost red from the amount of blood coating it. She was wearing a man’s tunic and breeches. On closer inspection, it looked like the clothing of her would be bridegroom, albeit tattered and torn. “Mychel is rounding up the survivors. Some may have fled.”

Theon nodded, glancing back at Milton, grief threatening to choke him. “This cannot happen ever again.”

“Perhaps this will be a lesson to those who dare to cross us,” Sansa snarled, baring her teeth. Even as a human and not a wolf, there was something savage about her manner. “Centuries from now, everyone will remember how the Starks destroyed the traitors who dared to harm their pack.”

Theon stared at his daughter in horror. “They will remember us as savage monsters like the Andals claim we are.” He gestured to Milton. “Was he a traitor? A man who served us loyally.” He then pointed to the covered body. “And that girl is the same age as your sister. Did she deserve to die?”

Sansa opened her mouth but before she could, a new voice spoke up. “You are right, Father.” Prince Roose Stark rounded the corner. “The Boltons betrayed us, breaking guest rites, and murdering Robett. But this was a massacre.”

The fourth, formally the fifth, prince’s fingers were stained scarlet, as were his teeth. “There is a difference between justice and vengeance.”

“It makes little difference to a wolf, hungry for blood,” Sansa opined, her expression not softening. “Rejoice, Brother, Father. Our enemies are dead, and our people’s lives were well spent.”

Theon shook his head, his face grave. “This cannot happen again. We are humans who can turn into beasts. Not beasts that can disguise themselves as humans. We must learn how to temper our wolf’s blood, least we lose ourselves.”

Then fear gripped him as a thought occurred to him. The Faith Militant were eager to begin another so-called Holy War against the North since the treaty of Fairmarket. They would not waste time painting the slaughter of Dreadfort in the worst light.

And would my vessels be willing to fight for a king who slew his own loyal men? Theon wondered inwardly. He spoke out loud to his children. “We must cover this up. We cannot let anyone know the truth of what happened here.”

“But Father----” Both his children tried to protest.

The king of Winter held up his hand to silence them. “You will obey my command.”

Wolf’s blood was a blessing from the old gods. But the old gods were not so benevolent. Their gift had terrible consequences if left unchecked. The carnage that was scattered around the Dreadfort was proof of that.

Theon’s countenance was contorted from horrified grief to determination. I will write a warning to my descendants. A secret law for the future Starks. Never lose control of the beast inside of you or disaster is sure to follow.

“Father.” Roose’s voice brought him back to reality. “What should we do about Dreadfort?”

“It is yours, my son,” Theon replied, turning to squeeze his shoulder. “While the rest of us focused on slaughtering the Boltons, it was you who avenged Robertt.”

Roose blinked in surprise, having not expected it. His gaze then fell on the tapestry his father had used as a makeshift shroud. It had the flayed man symbol of the Boltons. “The Boltons committed many crimes, some we overlooked. From now on, Stark justice shall prevail.”

“Our teeth are sharp,” his sister uttered, malice dancing in her grey eyes. “Our claws are blades. Let all men fear the Starks and dread their ruthless justice.” She then shot him a grin. “Perhaps you should be called House Dreadstark.”

“Or perhaps a name less on the nose,” Roose commented dryly.

Chapter Text

“The Long Night is over,” the Children of the Forest sang. “The Others have been vanquished. We have won the Dawn.”

The heroes cheered, pleased by their victory. But their stories were not yet finished. They had more to accomplish.

“I shall go and conquer the highest mountain,” Lann the Clever crowed. “From there I shall rule like a lion, golden in the sun.”

“I shall marry the goddess of the wind and conquer the storm,” Durran Godsgrief boomed. 

“I shall bring prosperity to my domain,” uttered Garth Greenhand. “My lands will be fertile, colorful with flowers and a plethora of fruit and vegetables.”

“I shall slay a sea dragon, make a crown from his teeth,” the Grey King proclaimed. “I shall marry a mermaid so our children shall always know the sea.”

“And what of you, Brandon the Builder? What shall you do now?”

The winter king’s gaze swept northwards, his grey orbs clouded with fear that the battle was not yet over. “I shall build a wall, a hundred leagues long and a hundred feet tall. My men shall stand on the wall, guarding it against the Others should they ever returns.”

The old gods were pleased by Brandon the Builder’s selflessness, and they offered him a reward for his humility. Brandon replied, “Let the Starks be strong, let them be swift, let their senses never dull, let them always be ready for when winter comes.”

Thus, the old gods blessed the Starks, allowing them to turn into fearsome direwolves at will.  For thousands of years, the Starks would use their abilities to guard the North. And when the Others returned, they would attack, united as a pack.