Chapter 71 - The Wolf Of Winterfell (part 2)

125 AC

The fourteenth day of the second moon

Cregan Pov

"The lords are grumbling, Cregan," Arra's voice was laden with concern as she settled into a chair in my solar. I hunched over a meticulously detailed map of the North, trying to make sense of the intricate web of territories and the discontent that simmered beneath its surface.

"Cregan, are you listening to me?" Arra's persistence was a reminder that the lords' murmurs could not be ignored.

"Aye, I am," I replied, but the irritation in my tone was unmistakable. The discontent of the lords, their grumbling, was a heavy burden on my shoulders. I was well aware of their complaints, and the weight of their judgments sat like a shadow over me.

"Let those fuckers grumble," I growled, my voice laced with a simmering anger. "Because when I am done with them, they will know the consequences of abandoning their liege lord."

Arra's voice was a calming counterpoint to my fiery determination. "Cregan, do not be hot-headed," she cautioned, her eyes fixed on mine, her voice soft yet firm.

"Hot-headed?" I erupted, my rage spilling forth like a torrent. "What do they know of how it feels to be a prisoner in your own castle?" The words tumbled from my lips, the years of captivity under my treacherous uncle's rule turning my anger into a searing fire.

The memories of my helplessness, the humiliation of being held captive within my own home, surged through me like a storm. The lords' grumbling was not just a nuisance; it was a reminder of their abandonment when I needed them the most. The anger I had suppressed for so long now demanded to be acknowledged.

With clenched fists and a heart heavy with the weight of injustice, I vowed to make the lords understand the depths of my determination and the consequences of their actions. The anger that had been festering for years would be a driving force in my mission to reclaim the honor and authority of House Stark.

Sara Pov

The grand halls of Winterfell were abuzz with the presence of Northern nobility, a sight not witnessed within these ancestral walls since the somber gathering that marked the passing of our father. It was an assembly of the North's most influential houses, each with its own history, grudges, and hopes.

As I gazed across the hall, I couldn't help but recall that mournful occasion. The memory of my father's solemn farewell still lingered.

Beyond the walls of Winterfell, Wintertown mirrored the energy within the castle. Its streets were alive with activity, merchants and townsfolk hustling about, preparing for the festivities and discussions that would soon commence. It was a stark contrast to the usually quiet and frigid atmosphere, and it spoke of the importance of the occasion.

The air was charged with anticipation, and as I observed the nobles and townsfolk coming together.

The lords were growing increasingly impatient and agitated, grumbling among themselves about Cregan's apparent absence. They remained oblivious to the brewing storm that Cregan held in store for them. As I observed him from a distance, it was evident that he was stewing in a simmering cauldron of anger, his restrained fury poised to erupt at any given moment.

Today marked the grand feast, a significant event that had the lords on edge. The nervous chatter among them hinted at the weight of anticipation, the anticipation of what Cregan had planned for this crucial gathering.

I had chosen to wear a dark grey dress, a gift from Lord Manderly, one that accentuated the elegance of the occasion. It draped gracefully, and its rich color seemed to mirror the aura of intensity that permeated the castle.

I approached Ulf's door and knocked, the hollow echoes of my knuckles on the wood breaking the silence of the corridor. With no immediate response, I decided to enter the room. My gaze was drawn to the sight before me: Ulf, standing shirtless, meticulously wrapping a bandage around his waist. His pure white hair framed a ruggedly handsome face, and his toned abs were on full display, accentuated by the trousers that hugged his hips.

"Sara," he greeted me, his pale lilac eyes meeting mine, and in that moment, I felt my cheeks ignite with a crimson blush. His presence was magnetic, and the intensity of his gaze sent shivers down my spine.

"Let me help you," I found myself saying, drawn closer by a force that transcended mere concern for his well-being. My heart quickened as I approached him, taking the bandage from his grasp and delicately wrapping it around his waist.

Desire and attraction, emotions I had kept hidden, began to bubble to the surface. The lines between duty, friendship, and something more blurred in the proximity of this enigmatic and magnetic man, and as I worked on the bandage, I couldn't escape the pull I felt toward Ulf, a sensation that left me yearning for something beyond the ordinary.

"Let us go," he gently urged, pulling me from my momentary reverie.

​

As we strolled through the winding corridors of Winterfell, it was impossible not to notice the curious and appreciative glances cast in Ulf's direction. His presence drew the attention of all who crossed his path, yet he remained unaffected by the admiration that followed him. Ulf was unlike the southerners of whom the people of the North spoke with disdain. He was neither pompous nor arrogant; he was a humble man, treating every individual with respect, regardless of their station—be they servant, noble, or even a bastard like me. His kindness was a beacon that radiated warmth wherever he went.

I couldn't help but reminisce about the days when Ulf lay unconscious for a grueling seven days, having sustained grave injuries in his battle against my treacherous uncle. The relief I felt when he awoke was immeasurable. 

In my desire to learn the art of the sword, I hesitated, fearing that my request might be met with resistance due to my gender. However, Ulf's response had been both unexpected and empowering. "One should learn how to defend themselves," he had said, his eyes filled with a conviction that transcended traditional norms. "It matters not if it's a man or a woman."

His willingness to teach me, without excuses or prejudice, had left a lasting impression. It was a testament to the depth of his character, his belief in equality, and his unwavering support for those willing to learn. Ulf wasn't just a mentor; he was a beacon of change, reshaping the boundaries and expectations that had confined my world for far too long.

As we entered the grand hall, it was evident that every noble of the North had congregated, their collective attention fixated on Ulf's entrance. The room was an ocean of curious gazes and hushed conversations.

Among the crowd, I couldn't help but notice a figure of undeniable authority—a man whose very presence commanded respect. With a massive grey beard and light grey hair, Lord Roderick Dustin, widely known as "Roddy the Ruin" throughout the North, stood tall. His hands bore the battle scars of countless conflicts, testaments to his fierce reputation.

As the two men locked eyes, a charged silence blanketed the hall, the tension palpable.

"I heard you defeated a thousand men of the Mountain Clans in the Vale," Lord Roderick began, his voice echoing through the hushed hall. "And you singlehandedly bested Bennard and his sons."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the assembled nobles, who were captivated by the exchange unfolding before them.

"But all I see," Lord Roderick continued, a sardonic smile playing on his lips, "is a pretty southerner who does not know how to hold a sword."

Ulf's response was unwavering, his voice carrying the weight of his experiences and victories. "That's precisely what Bennard and his sons thought," he declared, his eyes never leaving Lord Roderick's. "Just like the men of the Mountain Clans. But do you know what happened to every single one of them?"

Ulf's words held the hall in a vise-like grip, his presence radiating a confidence that demanded acknowledgment.

"They all met their end at my hands," he stated, his voice unwavering, "while I survived."

In that moment, a glint of admiration sparkled in Lord Roderick's eyes, and the confrontation had evolved into a mutual respect between two formidable figures.

The grand hall fell into an anticipatory hush as the massive doors swung open with a resounding thud. Cregan Stark made his entrance,  Ice, the revered longsword of House Stark, proudly strapped to his back. His presence was akin to a formidable predator locking eyes with its prey.

As he strode into the hall, the Northern lords instinctively parted like a sea, allowing him to pass through their midst without so much as a glance in their direction. Cregan's demeanor exuded an air of menace and authority, every step calculated, every movement deliberate.

Cregan ascended the throne of Winter, his gaze fixed forward, his visage resolute and unyielding. It was a moment that radiated epic grandeur, as the noble gathering bore witness to the embodiment of Stark authority and strength.

Cregan's voice thundered through the hall, quelling the murmurs and silencing the assembled lords. They appeared bewildered, their expressions a mix of confusion and uncertainty, but their confusion would soon give way to an awakening.

"Why have you all come here?" Cregan demanded, his words sharp and resolute. Shouts erupted from the gathered lords, but their voices became a chaotic cacophony.

"To swear our oaths!" a massive figure, donned in the colors of House Umber, boomed above the din.

Cregan raised his hand, a signal for all to halt their clamor. "To swear your oaths," he repeated mockingly, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he rose from his seat.

"It has been four years since my father died," he declared, his words resonating with a thunderous intensity. "In those four years, my uncle, the traitorous Bennard Stark, seized control of Winterfell and the North, denying me the lordship that is my birthright."

He turned his fierce gaze on the assembled lords, his tone laced with a seething anger. "Where the hell were you when I was imprisoned in my own castle? Where were your oaths, your loyalty to my house?" His voice crescendoed, filled with righteous indignation. "Did it freeze like water when winter comes?" he thundered.

Cregan turned and fixed his piercing gaze upon Ulf, pointing toward the White Knight. "That man right there came and saved me—a Southerner came to the aid of a Stark, while all of you had your heads firmly lodged up your own arses," he declared, his words cutting through the hall like a sword through the darkness.

The speech was a fiery rebuke, a scorching indictment of the lords' inaction and a rallying cry for the North to unite once more under the banner of House Stark. Cregan's words were a tempest, an epic storm of anger and determination that would leave an indelible mark on the assembled nobility.

The lords, heads bowed low, had fallen into a reverent silence that stretched throughout the grand hall. Cregan's words had been a storm, an unyielding tempest that swept through the gathered nobility.

"But Ulf told me that one cannot change the past but must focus on the future," Cregan continued, a glimmer of hope now shimmering in the eyes of the Northern lords.

"Therefore, I am granting you all one more chance to reflect on your past mistakes," he conceded, the hall hanging on his every word, "But..." He paused, his voice lowering, thick with ominous gravity.

"If you repeat the same folly," he warned, his voice growing stronger, "then I will show  you why House Stark has ruled the North for eight thousand years." The weight of his proclamation hung heavy in the air. "I will bring winter to the very doorstep of the houses that dare to fail me," he thundered, his declaration echoing through the hall.

"I am Cregan Stark, son of Rickon Stark," he declared, the air charged with authority and power. "The blood of the Kings of Winter flows through my veins, and if you ever betray me, then know that Winter will descend upon your house." With an air of finality, Cregan raised Ice high, its blade glistening with an undeniable truth. As he firmly planted the sword into the ground, the lords of the North bent their knees in unison, a declaration of unwavering loyalty.

Cregan's words had not only reaffirmed his authority but had also breathed life and renewed devotion into the hearts of the Northern lords. With Ice as their witness, they once again proclaimed Cregan as the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, rekindling the ancient bonds that had held the North together for centuries.