Volantis — The Company's Camp

Canvas snapped in the brisk river wind, the air thick with the smells of smoke and spiced stew drifting up from the soldiers' cookfires. In the center of the camp, Edwyle Snow unrolled a weather-stained letter and peered at Cregan Stark, eyebrows raised in mild disbelief.

Edwyle's voice was half-resentful, half-amused as he spoke. "Your father's sent a dozen letters in as many days—making sure nobody in half of Essos forgets you were summoned back to Westeros. You'd think he's expecting siege engines at the doorstep."

Cregan snorted, running a hand through hair gone unruly with travel and worry. "He never did like waiting. Well, it may just be good timing. Our work here is wrapped up for now…" He hesitated, gaze drifting across the camp's patchwork of banners. His voice dipped, wary but resolved. "Edwyle, before we leave, I have a task for you and a few of the men. Something sensitive."

Edwyle's look sharpened, wary and knowing. "You know I loathe a riddle before breakfast. What is it this time? More spies, or have the bravosi cunts creating trouble again."

Cregan nearly smiled. "Neither. Tell me, how fares our illustrious pirate king these days? Still wearing those fool's silks and pretending he's no one's dog?"

Edwyle chuckled darkly. "He obeys, so far. Our man is still in his crew; stepstones run red with blood but his flag stands. He knows where his bread is buttered, and who provides the knife to cut it. Why?"

Cregan lifted his chin, seriousness hardening his expression. "Tell him: the time's come to repay his debts. Quietly, but directly. We've enough men now—Jon's done good work—to not worry about Essosi politics for a time. With Daenerys threatening their east, sooner or later they'll come crawling to us."

Edwyle's eyes narrowed. "Playing that hand openly has its risks, you know. He provides trade routes nobody else could deliver, not even the Triarchs. The less the Volantenes see, the less they steal. But… aye, I see your point. The winds are shifting."

Cregan's next words were soft, pointed. "Remind him—discretion, not cowardice. But if he's ever called to name a friend, he knows who to name."

Edwyle scuffed a boot through the gravel, choosing his words. "I suppose the politics in Volantis will suffer our pride for a time. This threat of Queen of Dragons has made you a more valuable friend than a silent one. But you're not just after trade now, are you?" He grinned, sly. "So what's next, cousin? Sacking Bravos? Dethroning a Sea Lord? Or does the Wolf of Ruins have wilder storms to chase?"

Cregan's lips twisted in amusement. "Not quite, though both cross my mind on long nights. There's talk from the Stepstones—Valen, our pirate, is stronger than ever under our watch. But there's word of two others, a Lyseni captain and a Greyjoy—Euron, by what my men say. I hear the Greyjoy's mad enough to sail the old Valyrian roads, ibelieves there's coin or magic to be had."

Edwyle made a face, shaking his head. "Euron Greyjoy. Gods help us. The last time I heard his name, a corsair's head washed up on Volantis's docks, too badly burned to identify. That one dreams dragons and madness—he's not to be trusted, not even by the Stranger himself."

Cregan nodded, his face turning sharp. "Have Valen prepare. I want him—Greyjoy—alive and breathing. I want him broken . I've no taste for the ruins myself, not yet. But some of our men would risk death and demons for a chance at glory—or dragon's steel."

Edwyle laughed, audibly delighted. "There's never been a shortage of wild men and fools in your service, cousin. Qono the Exile comes to mind. Too bold for Westeros, too loyal to leave you."

A grin split Cregan's tired features. "Send Qono. If anyone can get in and out of Old Valyria and come back with tales—or a dragon egg—it's him. Tell him: the Old Gods watch over all who dare the dark for a Stark."

Edwyle sobered, leaning forward. "And if he finds dragon eggs? Or Valyrian steel?"

Cregan considered, the weight of old stories in his eyes. "If they hatch, I don't expect to ride them. But perhaps I'll raise them true. When I met the dragons, there was a bond—not like a Targaryen's, no. There is a difference. Theirs is dominion; mine is respect, perhaps… something closer to brotherhood."

Edwyle nodded, respect clear in his gaze. "A rare gift, cousin. The North breeds strange magic, but you—perhaps blessed by the Old Gods, or cursed, if you listen to the enemies."

They both smiled, the cold night between them for a moment warm.

After a pause, Edwyle asked, "What of the Queen? She is a variable."

Cregan leaned back, exhaustion warring with calculation. "Daenerys is unpredictable, but not reckless. I've sown enough caution in her heart—she'll wait for atleast 5 years. Sell her calm. Keep our merchants in her good graces, let her think she's satisfied with Meereen a illusion … and if Westeros becomes hell, well, perhaps we'll remember each other fondly."

Edwyle drew a deep breath, glancing at the stars. "We're safer now anyway. Those scorpions from Frosthall… no dragon will take our lines easily, not unless fate smiles on madness."

Cregan nodded, sober. "But dragons are always wild cards. Even an arrow in the dark might miss, but once is all it takes."

He rose gently, hand resting for a heartbeat on Edwyle's shoulder—a rare, familial touch. "Ready the men. Winter calls us home."

Winterfell — The Next Generation

Inside the sprawling old keep, halls echoed with the shouts and bare feet of children. Lyanna Stark, a whirlwind in wolfskin cloak and tangled hair, darted through the corridors like a storm given mischievous voice.

In the solar, Robb Stark tried—and failed—to bury his mirth beneath stern duty. Before him, his eldest—Lyanna, with her brother Torrhen in tow—raced in and crashed near his desk, scattering scrolls.

Lyanna shouted, voice brimming with outrage. "Uncle Cregan's late again! He promised me gifts twice now and never brought any. I say when he gets back, he has to stay in my room! For a whole year!"

Torrhen grinned conspiratorially, nodding at his big sister with mock solemnity. "We'll lock him up together, then make him serve us. He is yet to give me my shiny sword."

Robb put down his pen and rubbed at his temples, his lips twitching despite himself. "You two make enough mischief to worry even old Maester Luwin—if he could see you now." He fixed both children with a look as stern as he could muster, though affection crept past the edges. "You know, I doubt even He can best both of you, especially if Lyanna's in a mood. But Cregan is already sailing home. Half a moon and he'll be wishing he never left Essos."

Lyanna's face lit up in a wicked grin. "Finally! This time, he's all mine. I'll make sure he can't leave. If he tries to stop me—I'll set Sandor and Kael on him!"

Robb choked on laughter at the thought. "Gods help Sandor Clegane if my daughter gets her way. The realm will tremble at the sight of the Hound serving a five-year-old she-wolf." He ruffled Lyanna's hair as she shrieked in mock protest.

Sandor Clegane stepped into the corridor at just that moment, looming as only he could, muttering under his breath. "If you two keep this up, I'll start guarding the henhouse, not children."

Lyanna stuck out her tongue. "We're not children—we're wolves. You should run, Ser Sandor!"

Robb smiled at the old knight's discomfort. "See, Sandor? I warned you about letting them near the kennels. Lyanna's the new alpha now."

Sandor snorted, but there was affection in his grumble. "I'd rather face a wildling spear-line than another of Lady Lyanna's 'tea parties.'"

As the two children scampered away—Torrhen yelling advice, Lyanna plotting mayhem—Robb's laughter faded into quiet contemplation. He looked toward the closed window, where frost was already creeping along the frame.

"How the world changes," he murmured, "and yet, in the halls of Winterfell, it stays much the same."

After some time

A knock at the door interrupted his reverie. Myrcella Baratheon's gentle voice sounded just beyond. "My lord? May I come in?"

Robb straightened. "Of course, Princess. You never need to ask."

She entered softly, golden hair aglow in the afternoon sun, and paused with a shy smile. "Is it true, my lord? That Lord Cregan is truly returning home?"

Robb gave her a patient, grave nod. "It is. You heard from Lyanna. Has she already told half the castle. God bless Sandor to deal with her ."

Myrcella's laugh was soft and unforced, her voice warmer than the hearth. "She's very… spirited, isn't she? I caught her tormenting the hound with one of her crowns made of daisies."

Robb grinned, shaking his head. "The Hound, tamed by a five-year-old wolf pup. It's a sight I never thought Westeros would know. She was always Cregan's favorite; perhaps she knows she can get away with it when he's near."

Myrcella grew thoughtful, fingers plucking at the fur of her cloak. "Do you think he'll like me, truly? I want to fit into your family, but the North is… different. I heard he is different."

Robb considered, voice gentle but honest. "Cregan is more wolf than man at times. But he's loyal, and he values truth over manners. Be yourself, Princess. In my experience, those who weather the North's cold with honesty are always welcome at our hearths."

Myrcella brightened, her anxiety easing. "I'll do my best, Lord Robb. I promise."

He met her eyes with a father's warmth. "We're all looking forward to his return. Lyanna most of all—though, mind, she'll insist on introducing you to every animal in the Frosthall . And you might want to warn Ser Cleagane that hiding won't spare him."

Myrcella laughed again, and the sound seemed to fill the ancient stones of Winterfell with a hope that even the long winter could not wholly dim.

Somewhere in the keep, Lyanna's voice rang out: "Uncle Cregan, you'd better bring me something good, or you're never leaving my room again!"

The old stones of Winterfell held the laughter, the plotting and longing for loved ones come home—proof that even in a land of blood, ice, and legend, the true heart of the North beat loudest in its family.

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