The Journey South"

Chapter 20 – "The Journey South"

Winterfell buzzed with the flurry of preparation. Blacksmiths hammered out new fittings for armor, seamstresses stitched wool and fur into fine coats, and ravens carried letters bearing the direwolf sigil to bannermen and allies. The North was stirring, and its fiercest wolf was heading south.

Cregan stood in Frosthall's war room, the large table before him scattered with maps, rosters, trade reports, and lists of responsibilities. The fire burned low, casting shadows across the blackstone walls. Across from him, Jon Snow stood in silence, arms crossed.

"I hate this," Cregan muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Leaving you behind. Leaving this."

Jon smirked faintly. "You're not abandoning us. You're representing us."

Cregan looked at him. "Frosthall is more than a keep now. It's a symbol. And you're the one who keeps it beating while I gallivant through Essos and now the South."

Jon stepped closer, picking up one of the scrolls. "Everything is in order. Trade is stable. The blacksteel supply remains secure. The new forges in Moat Cailin are operational. I'll make sure the rangers are rotated properly and the outer villages stocked before winter."

Cregan clapped him on the shoulder. "If I die in that southern pit of silk and poison, it's all yours."

Jon rolled his eyes. "You're not dying. Just try not to stab a Lannister unless they deserve it."

"That rules none of them out," Cregan muttered.

Jon snorted.

The great doors of the hall creaked open, and heavy paws padded in.

Kael entered.

The direwolf had grown even larger over the past few years. His once sleek coat was now a thick mass of grey and black, marked by old scars from countless battles beside Cregan—fangs bared in Essosi bloodfields, paws bloodied against raiders and beasts alike. One ear was notched, and a long scar ran down his left flank. He moved like a general now, not a pup. His eyes glowed with intelligence.

But he didn't approach Cregan.

He stood at the side, watching.

Cregan gave him a nod. "You're not coming."

Kael huffed.

Jon spoke, his voice softer. "He's staying because he has a pack to lead now."

"The kennel reports six new pups trained under him," Cregan said proudly. "Bigger, leaner. They follow him like shadows."

Kael walked to Jon, bumping his head against his side.

"We'll keep each other safe," Jon said. "Won't we, old friend?"

Kael let out a low growl of agreement, then turned and padded off without a glance at Cregan.

Cregan watched him go.

"He used to follow me everywhere."

"Now he leads," Jon said. "Just like you."

---

Kael's Thoughts

The two-legged alpha was leaving again.

Kael watched from the shadows of Frosthall's kennel yard, the cold breeze ruffling the thick fur on his neck. The scents of the departing pack filled the air—Cregan's strong and stubborn, Jon's calm and cool, Robb's iron-tempered. Familiar smells. Family smells.

Kael had once followed Cregan wherever he went—across the Wolfswood, into frozen valleys, even into war. But things had changed.

His body bore the tales of a dozen hunts and battles. The scar along his flank burned when snow fell too fast, and the notched ear still tingled when storms approached. He wasn't the pup anymore. He was the pack leader now.

Behind him, younger wolves snarled and sparred, their fangs still white and clean. They would learn. Kael would teach them.

The humans thought they trained the wolves.

But wolves trained each other.

His two-legged wolf-kin would go to strange lands again, where stone walls were thinner and the people smelled of flowers and steel. Kael didn't belong there.

This was his den now.

The Frosthall woods. The northern wind. The howls of his pack and the scent of pine.

He would protect it.

For Cregan. For Jon. For the blood that made them his.

The wolf turned, padding away from the courtyard with a deep, rumbling growl.

His keep. His land.

His duty.

---

In the halls of Winterfell, preparations were underway.

Robb stood before a rack of armor, blacksteel plates polished to a dark sheen. Beside him, Arya inspected a set of daggers, grinning.

"You sure you don't want me to come?" she asked.

"You'll stab someone before we even get past the Neck," Robb said.

"Only the annoying ones."

Ned entered then, his grey cloak swirling behind him.

"The ravens are sent. Supplies are being packed. Sansa is organizing the gifts. And the guards are armed and mounted."

Robb turned. "And your thoughts, Father?"

Ned looked between his sons. "We show the South that the North is united. And we show them our strength comes not from gold or silk, but blood and bond."

Cregan entered, donning his blacksteel pauldrons, the direwolf etched deep into the shoulder.

"If they want a spectacle," he said, "we'll give them one."

Ned raised a brow. "Just not too much of one."

Sansa appeared in the doorway, flanked by Arya and Rickon.

"Your horses are ready. Gifts for the Queen and the royal family are prepared. Even the food is packed."

"And Lyanna and Torrhen?" Cregan asked.

"Already arguing over who gets to wear the ceremonial wolf cloak first," Sansa replied.

Rickon snorted. "Lyanna said she's going to order the king to give her a baby dragon."

"She would," Arya laughed.

Ned smiled slightly, but his gaze returned to his sons. "Remember: the South watches us. Every word, every look."

"We'll speak loud and clear," Robb said.

"And walk in as wolves," Cregan added.

As the sun rose the next morning, the banners of House Stark and House Froststark flew side by side. Direwolves howled from the towers. And the pack began their journey.

To the South. To the lion's den.

And behind them, Kael stood atop the Frosthall walls, watching.

Alpha no longer in name, but in spirit.

The North remained guarded by its fiercest shadows.

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