"Wolves Wed and Winter Grows"
Chapter 15 – "Wolves Wed and Winter Grows"
The halls of Winterfell bustled with life as the North gathered. Flags of old houses fluttered in the wind—Karstark, Mormont, Hornwood, Tallhart, and most prominently, the roaring giant of House Umber.
For today, the heir of Winterfell, Robb Stark, was to be wed.
The bride, Lady Aelwyn Umber, daughter of the Greatjon, was a vision of northern pride—tall, broad-shouldered, with hair like wildfire and eyes like a snowstorm. She laughed loud, rode hard, and sparred like a sellsword. But when she smiled at Robb, even the coldest maester might've melted.
The great hall swelled with northern music, drums and horns echoing off the stone. Ale flowed freely, and meat sizzled on spits. The fire roared in the hearths, and wolves howled beneath the moons.
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Cregan stood near the high table, draped in black and grey. He offered no speech—but instead, a gift.
The sword was long, slightly curved, forged from Wolfsteel. Its edge caught the firelight like starlight off ice. The hilt was wrapped in midnight leather, its pommel a direwolf's head.
"Black steel for a true wolf," Cregan said as Robb unwrapped it.
Robb grinned. "You want me to look like a villain?"
"You'll scare fools and inspire men," Cregan replied. "A proper heir of the North."
And beside it, a suit of armor—obsidian-dark, trimmed in silver, engraved with the runes of the old North. Not for vanity. For purpose. Strong. Light. Fitted to Robb's frame with care.
Robb's voice grew quiet. "You had this made years ago."
"I knew you'd need it," Cregan said simply.
The brothers embraced.
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In the days that followed, Winterfell did not rest. There were tournaments, hunts, and feasts. Laughter echoed from the towers.
Cregan took time with his siblings, his ever-growing shadow of leadership softened by familial warmth.
He spent mornings sparring with Bran and Rickon, both wild and determined to prove themselves. Cregan, half laughing, half serious, tossed them into snowbanks and shouted war cries as they charged.
He taught Arya how to hold a blade tighter, how to pivot on frost-slick stones. She called him a wild wolf. He called her a thunder pup.
Sansa, ever graceful, surprised him most. Gone was the girl who once dreamed of golden-haired knights and southern balls. She asked about tactics now, about Wolfsteel and fortresses. When Cregan offered to teach her archery, she accepted.
"You're not like the stories," Cregan said one day as she loosed a near-perfect shot.
"I make my own stories now," Sansa replied with a proud smirk.
Arya and Sansa, once at odds, found balance again. They walked together. Teased each other. Sansa braided Arya's hair on feast days. Arya pulled her sister into snowball fights.
"You're still too proper," Arya said.
"You're still too loud," Sansa answered.
Cregan watched with a grin.
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Even in celebration, his charisma shone. He danced when he pleased, cracked jokes that had Manderly choking on his wine, and challenged Glover's son to an axe-throwing contest—with a blindfold.
, he won.
Not with sight. But with instinct.
Cregan's animalistic instincts were sharp as ever—his connection to the world around him something not taught, but born. He could sense movement, feel danger in the air, track sounds others missed. Like a wolf, he adapted, reacted, and struck.
It wasn't luck. It was something primal.
It had saved him in battle a dozen times. And now, it helped him land an axe squarely in the target, to cheers from the crowd.
"Not all wolves need eyes," he quipped. "Some just smell victory."
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At night, around the fire, his stories lit the room: tales of Essos, of Frostbite's invention, of bartering with drunk magisters and racing sellsails in the storm.
Jon stood by him often, smiling softly. They spoke in half-sentences. In silence. In trust.
Cregan's wildness hadn't left. But now it was harnessed. Directed.
He wasn't just a storm. He was the wind at the sails of the North.
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The night of the wedding, after the vows and toasts, Ned Stark looked at his sons—his pack.
Robb, the calm heart.
Jon, the quiet strength.
Cregan, the burning fire.
He raised his cup, and for once, didn't worry.
Winter was coming.
But so were the wolves.
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