Chapter 4 – "Blood and Salt"
Cregan Stark stood on the ramparts of Winterfell, Kael at his side, the wind combing through the wolf's thick fur as the banners of House Stark danced below. The great gates were opening slowly, groaning on their ancient hinges. Riders approached. Familiar ones.
His father had returned.
Cregan narrowed his eyes against the low sunlight. There was Robb, riding tall with that natural command in his seat. Jon beside him, more shadow than soldier, but no less steadfast. And Ned Stark himself, the Lord of Winterfell, looking every inch the North.
But it wasn't them Cregan focused on.
It was the boy trailing behind.
Dressed in grey, but not of the North.
Hair like seaweed. Eyes like sullen coal.
Saltborn.
Reek of war still clinging to him.
Cregan's lip curled.
Kael let out a low growl.
"Easy," Cregan murmured, though his tone was more to himself than the wolf. "I don't like it either."
He descended from the tower in three bounds, Kael padding after him. The courtyard filled with cheers and bustling servants. Sansa stood by Catelyn, eyes wide and unsure. Arya peered out from behind her, clutching the edge of her mother's skirts, too curious to hide. Bran was two, toddling near the steps under Old Nan's eye, while Rickon had just been born and would be in the nursery still.
But Cregan stood still, arms crossed, expression dark.
Ned dismounted. Robb reached him first, hugging his father fiercely. Jon came next with a quiet word and a firm nod.
And then Theon stepped forward, half-grinning, half-arrogant. He was taller than them by nearly two years and looked down on Winterfell's sons like a prince among squires.
"This him?" Cregan muttered aloud.
Ned turned, face creasing with weariness—and then warning. "Cregan."
The boy stepped forward anyway. Tall for his age, broad-shouldered and proud. Kael flanked him like a silent wraith.
"You bring the son of a traitor into our home?" he asked, voice sharp enough to silence the courtyard.
Ned blinked. "He is my ward—"
"He's a hostage," Cregan snapped. "Call him what he is."
Theon flinched, but said nothing. His pride kept his lips shut.
"You think this is wise?" Cregan continued, eyes burning. "After they burned the coast and butchered our men? After the Myres? The Stonetrees? Harlen Tallhart's sons? You bring the kraken's get into our house and think it won't rot the stones beneath us?"
"Enough," Ned said, quiet but firm.
But Cregan didn't stop. "You told us never to forget the names of the fallen. And now you ask us to smile at the son of the man who killed them?"
Kael growled again, low and guttural.
Rodrik Cassel took an uneasy step forward, but Ned raised a hand.
"I do not ask you to smile," he said, stepping closer to his son. "I ask you to obey. He is here by law. By duty. You may not like it—gods know I don't—but he is under our protection now."
Cregan stared hard into his father's eyes. "I remember what you said about wolves, Father. That we don't forget. That we never forget."
"And you think bringing him here makes me forget?"
"I think it smells like forgetting."
Silence stretched, thick and cold.
The younger children watched, confused. Catelyn's lips pressed thin. Arya clung to her, frowning at Cregan. Sansa shifted nervously, her small hand gripping her mother's. Bran babbled nearby, unaware of the tension.
Then, Robb stepped up beside his twin.
"He's right, Father," Robb said, voice steady. "We lost good men. Bringing a Greyjoy here like a guest… it doesn't sit right."
Ned's jaw tensed, but he didn't interrupt.
Jon moved behind them, silent as ever, but the look he gave Theon was cold, unwelcoming. He said nothing—but his place was clear.
Finally, Ned stepped back. "Come to the hall. We'll speak more inside."
Cregan didn't move.
Theon stepped forward as if to speak.
Kael growled.
Theon stepped back.
That night, the great hall was lively. Fire roared. Ale flowed. Songs were sung.
Cregan sat at the far end with Kael beneath his feet, eating in silence. He didn't look at Theon. Didn't laugh. Didn't join in the stories.
Robb sat beside him, quiet but loyal, throwing Theon a glance now and then like one might a rabid dog kept too close.
Jon said nothing, but kept his distance.
Later, in the godswood, Cregan sat beneath the weirwood and whispered to its roots.
"You should've left him in chains."
Kael rested his head on Cregan's lap.
In his blood, the wolf stirred. Angry. Untrusting.
Whatever oath his father had sworn, Cregan Stark would never trust a Greyjoy.
Not while the sea still whispered war.
Not while the North remembered.