Cregan's POV
Alright, picture this: it's another one of those wicked cold mornings at Winterfell, the kind that makes your breath freeze the second it leaves your mouth. I'm standing at the gates, trying to look all cool and collected like a Stark lord should—except I'm twelve, and the only thing "cool" about me is probably the temperature. To my side is Jon Snow (who's actually Jaecaerys Targaryen, but, you know, long story), bouncing around like a puppy that's had too much ale. Brooding puppy, but still, puppy.
The Reeds were about to arrive, and trust me, if you've never met the swampy, mystical, and a little bit terrifying family from Greywater Watch, you're missing out. Imagine an army of frogs that might just be the least intimidating thing about them.
Sure enough, a moment later, they showed up. First came Meera, hopping off her horse like she'd just won a wrestling match with a croc. And then there was Jojen, the moody, mystical little guy, looking like he knew exactly what was about to happen to the future of Westeros—and me, probably. His eyes were weirdly intense, like he'd already figured out my fate, my breakfast choices, and my entire life's arc. Creepy, right? But also… impressive.
Jon, of course, lit up like a Hearthfire at their sight. "Meera! Jojen!" He waved like he hadn't seen them in years, which is kind of funny since they just rode here.
Meera grinned, stepping forward with a bold, friendly confidence. "Still breathing, Snow? Thought the North might have swallowed you whole."
Jon chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know me, can't keep me down." Then he shot me a quick look, a silent challenge to keep up the banter.
Jojen just stood there, giving one of his signature "I'm-quiet-but-deep" looks. "Winterfell," he murmured, the wind ruffling his shaggy hair, "it's as timeless as the old gods themselves. I think I'll like it here."
I mean, what am I supposed to say to that? "Oh, sure, Jojen, we're all really deep and philosophical here. No biggie."
But I gave it a shot anyway. "Welcome to Winterfell," I said in what I hoped sounded like a "powerful Stark leader" voice. It was definitely the voice of someone who'd been practicing in front of a mirror and trying not to sound like a complete idiot.
Meera gave me an approving nod. "Not bad, Lord Stark," she teased. "You don't sound nearly as scary as your father."
I shrugged like it was no big deal, but inside I was doing a happy little victory dance. Compliments from Meera Reed? Yeah, I'll take that.
"Your father's loyalty to the Starks is well-remembered," Ned Stark—my dad, for all the brooding, noble, and "I'm the responsible one" reasons—said. He had that same serious look on his face, the one that screamed 'I am the Lord of Winterfell, and I take my family loyalty way too seriously.'
Meera bowed slightly. "Thank you, Lord Stark. It's an honor to be here."
Jojen gave a small, knowing smile. "Winterfell does not change, but those who walk its halls must. We will see what the old gods have in store."
Uh, thanks, Jojen, real uplifting stuff there. I wasn't terrified or anything.
After the pleasantries (which, let's face it, took longer than a direwolf's nap), Jon insisted on giving the Reeds the grand tour. Of course, I wasn't going to let him have all the fun. I tagged along because a) Jojen's cryptic mumbo jumbo always freaks me out, and b) I wasn't about to miss out on whatever weird Reed wisdom was about to happen.
We walked through Winterfell's halls, and Meera looked like she couldn't quite believe how solid everything was. "It's so... massive," she said, running a hand along one of the stone walls. "Everything here feels like it was built to last a thousand years."
"Yeah, well, nothing moves much up here," I quipped. "Except the people, if you can get them to stop eating their own weight in mutton."
Meera rolled her eyes. "I'll bet. Winterfell is... it's unlike anything I've ever seen."
Jojen, of course, had to mystify the conversation. "Greywater Watch floats on the surface, Winterfell endures in the earth. The magic of both places is strong, but one is tied to the land, and the other... to the sky."
Right. Cryptic Reed quotes. They were starting to become the verbal equivalent of a riddle. And trust me, twelve-year-olds like me don't have the patience for riddles.
Eventually, we ended up at the godswood. Because, naturally, when you're dealing with people who may or may not be able to predict your untimely demise, you take them to a place where the trees whisper secrets and watch your every move.
Jon, leaning against one of the weirwood trees, had that look—the one that says "I'm really glad you guys are here." Not in a sappy way, though. More like in a I really, really need someone to help me not lose my mind way.
"I'm glad you're here," Jon said, sounding more serious than I'd ever heard him. "It's been hard to figure everything out, and having friends like you makes it better."
Meera grinned, slinging an arm around Jon's shoulders. "You're like a lost puppy, Snow. You always need saving."
Jon elbowed her. "Says the girl who still thinks she's the better fighter."
Meera laughed, flashing her mischievous grin. "I am."
Jojen, who had been giving me that cryptic I-see-through-you stare, piped up, "The winds of winter are rising. We must all be ready, Jon Snow. The old gods have plans, and they are always watching."
Right. Doom and gloom. I felt so much better.
"I think I'm going to go take a nap," I said, stepping back from the ominous vibes. "You guys can figure out your prophecies and magic stuff without me."
Jojen's eyes shifted to me, and I swear, for a second there, he actually saw through me. "You are not alone in this," he said quietly, his voice softer than usual.
I blinked, not sure how to respond to that. Normally, Jojen just drops cryptic bombs like that, and we all act like we didn't hear him. But today, it felt... different. Almost comforting.
For the rest of the evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills and the godswood's shadows stretched longer, something about having the Reeds here—about having Jon, Meera, and Jojen by my side—felt right. We were part of something bigger than ourselves, something older than all the wars and struggles.
Maybe Winterfell was frozen in time, but in that moment, I felt like the world was still turning—like maybe, just maybe, we could make a difference.
And who knows? Maybe having an eleven-year-old Targaryen, a pair of Reed siblings, and a Stark with the Savage Burn at his back could change the game.
---
Alright, so here's the deal: Winterfell is cold. Like, "you'll freeze your nose off just by breathing" cold. But after a few days of being here, you kind of get used to it. I mean, sure, my toes feel like little ice cubes, but hey, at least my brain isn't frozen, right? Right.
So, I, Cregan Stark, am officially the leader of a bunch of kids—none of whom asked for this job, but it's happening anyway. This includes Jojen Reed, the tiny prophet who's probably already predicting the exact moment I'm going to snap and go full berserker mode. Not that it's a big deal. Meera, his older sister, is the opposite—she's like a human tornado with a spear. And for some reason, I'm always around when the trouble starts.
But hey, what else are older brothers for, right?
"Keep your head in the game, Cregan," I muttered to myself as I looked out at the courtyard. There were like a hundred things happening at once, and half of them had something to do with the direwolves running around, probably looking for someone to maim.
Robb Stark—my older cousin, the "golden boy" of Winterfell—was over by the practice yard, giving the look to Wynafryd Manderly, who had a special talent for making everything into a competition. She was already making moves on a game of strategy, probably plotting her way to make Robb do the dishes for the rest of the week.
Meera, meanwhile, was hurling her spear through a target like it was a wooden toy. I watched as the tip of her spear hit dead-center. "You know, I'm pretty sure that was your best throw, and you still looked bored doing it," I said to her, leaning casually against a wall, trying to look cooler than I felt in my too-big Stark clothes.
Meera grinned and twirled the spear. "You should try it sometime. Get your hands dirty," she teased, her voice light but serious. "You might like it."
"Oh, trust me, I know how to get my hands dirty." I gave her a wink, which may or may not have been a little too confident, but hey, I'm Cregan Stark. The Savage Burn, future badass of the North, I told myself.
"Cregan, stop talking to the spear-wielding menace and get back to work," Jon Snow—my best friend, who was technically a Targaryen—chimed in. He was standing with his arms folded, looking like he was in deep thought about something completely broody. Probably about how his life was way too complicated for an 11-year-old. Classic Jon.
I shrugged. "I'm supervising, Snow. Just making sure the future heroes of the North don't accidentally stab each other with their sharp sticks."
"Cregan," Jon said flatly, narrowing his eyes. "You're just trying to look cool in front of Meera again, aren't you?"
"Hey, I have to maintain my reputation," I said, throwing a hand up in mock despair. "I can't let it all fall apart now."
"Yeah, because that's the most important thing," Jon muttered sarcastically.
"It is, Jon Snow," I shot back, poking him in the ribs. "You wouldn't get it. You've never had to dodge a hundred flying daggers and a compliment all in the same breath."
"Well, at least you're good at dodging," Jon said, deadpan. "Except when it comes to actual danger."
"Ha, ha. You're so hilarious. You should take the comedian job. I'd be a great audience, promise."
And just as Jon opened his mouth to fire back with something equally sarcastic, we heard a voice. "Well, well, looks like someone is enjoying the sunshine in Winterfell."
I turned to see Alys Karstark and Cley Cerwyn walking up the steps, both of them looking like they'd just stepped out of a battle scene, too cool to be bothered by the fact that it was freezing. Alys looked all serious, as usual, her dark eyes sharp as ice daggers. Cley was just as serious but seemed like he was about to crack a joke or two.
"Hey, Alys," Jon said, giving them a nod, though I could tell his mind was a million miles away. "What's up?"
"I was hoping you'd tell me," Alys said, flashing him a grin. "Something about you looks like you're plotting world domination."
"Oh, that's just Jon," I said casually. "Always plotting to save the world, or ruin it. It's really hard to tell, honestly."
Alys gave me a look, one eyebrow raised in that "I'm not impressed" way. "You're insufferable, Cregan. Just like your dad."
I laughed. "At least I've got the good Stark genes."
Just then, Smalljon Umber and Domeric Bolton came stomping over, both of them looking like they were ready to start a fight. Honestly, it was just their way of saying hello.
"Oi, Snow," Smalljon said in his usual loud tone, "I hear you've got some big plans for the North, eh? Too bad it's full of frostbitten idiots."
"Charming, as always, Smalljon," Jon said with a smirk.
"Don't make me break your face, kid," Domeric Bolton piped in, his face set in that unbreakable expression he had. Like his face was designed to be unmovable, even if his words were meant to insult. I could practically hear the "don't mess with me" warning.
"Maybe later," I said, turning my back to them. "But for now, let's stick with not fighting."
Just then, Meera appeared behind me, tossing her spear into the air like it was a casual trick. "I think they all want to start something, Cregan," she said, catching my eye.
"Oh, we don't do the 'starting something' thing," I said dramatically, flipping my hair like I was some sort of brooding hero. "We just finish what's already started."
Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. But it worked, because Domeric, Smalljon, and even Alys looked mildly impressed. At least, for a moment.
"You know," I continued, my voice getting quieter. "We all have a role to play in this. Whether it's fighting with swords or fighting with wit," I added, giving Jon a pointed look. "We all have to step up, sooner or later."
"Right," Jon said, pulling his coat tighter. "But it'll be better if we're ready for whatever comes next."
And in that moment, I actually felt the weight of his words. This wasn't just about swords and spears. It was about something bigger. The kind of thing that no one could predict. But for once, I wasn't totally scared. Because I wasn't in it alone.
"You know," Meera said thoughtfully, "the old gods have plans for all of us. We're just waiting for the right moment to step into them."
And as the last of the sun dipped below the horizon, I thought—maybe she's right. Maybe the future really was waiting for us, and all we had to do was get through the next winter. Together.
—
So here's the thing about Winterfell's forge: it's like stepping into the mouth of a dragon. The heat hits you like a punch to the face, and the noise is so loud you start wondering if your ears are going to spontaneously combust. Every time the hammer hits the anvil, it feels like the whole world shakes. You've got the fire, the smoke, the rhythmic clang of steel against steel—it's enough to make you think, Yeah, this is where all the best bad decisions happen. And that's exactly why I'm here.
Now, I'm not just here to gawk at the fire or to pretend I know anything about smithing. (Spoiler alert: I don't.) No, I'm here for a much bigger job—something that involves a lot of secrets, a lot of hammers, and a whole lot of people who probably shouldn't be trusted with what I'm about to ask them to do. But hey, that's my life—secret identity, secret plans, secret swords. Classic.
I step into the forge, feeling like a mini-storm. My boots hit the stone floor with that heavy echo, and immediately, both Tobho Mott and his apprentice, Gendry, turn to look at me.
Tobho's a piece of work. He's the kind of guy who can forge a sword out of a broken spoon if you ask him nicely enough. His hands look like they've wrestled with dragons for fun, and his face is all sharp angles and soot. He's the blacksmith equivalent of that grumpy uncle who tells you you're doing everything wrong but somehow makes the best damn cookies. You know the type.
Gendry's right next to him, standing there like some miniature version of a hero in training. He's already covered in black soot, like he's been rolling around in a chimney for fun. The kid's got that look in his eye, like he knows exactly how to swing a hammer, and probably how to save the world if it ever needed saving.
Tobho wipes his forehead with a rag, then gives me this side-eye like he knows I'm up to something. "Lord Stark," he grunts. "What's got you stirring the forge today?"
I put on my best "I'm-not-here-for-anything-weird" face, which, let's be real, is a challenge for me. "Just checking on the materials. They should be here in a fortnight."
Gendry looks up at me, eyes wide, like he knows this isn't just about metal. His brow furrows, and you can almost see the wheels turning in his head. The kid's smart—he knows when something's a little off, even if he doesn't know exactly what yet.
Tobho gives a grunt of approval. "Good to hear. We'll be ready."
Now comes the tricky part. I lean in a bit, keeping my voice low so only they can hear. "There's a few modifications I need you to make to Winterlight and Dawnshade."
Both of them freeze. The mention of those names gets any blacksmith's attention. Those swords are the stuff of legend. Winterlight's the one that cut through the heart of the last of the Others, and Dawnshade—well, it's got a bit of a darker history. I'm not here to make things easy.
Tobho's eyebrows rise like he's just heard the beginning of a really bad joke. "Modifications, you say?"
I give him a nod. Subtlety's my middle name. "Winterlight's pommel and Dawnshade's handle. I need them hollowed out and reinforced."
Gendry looks at me like I've just asked him to build a castle out of jelly. "Hollowed out, my lord? What for?"
I give him a look. "Can't say. It's... a precaution. Trust me, it's important."
The kid opens his mouth to ask more questions, but Tobho shoots him a look. It's the kind of look that says, Don't ask questions unless you want to end up in the forge forever. Gendry gets the message and shuts up, but he's still staring at me like I'm some kind of mysterious wizard. Which, by the way, I totally am.
"Just make sure they're strong enough," I say, my voice low and serious. "I don't need to explain further, do I?"
Tobho's eyes narrow, but he's not the type to push for answers. He's too good at his craft for that. "Understood. You've got my word, Lord Stark."
"Good," I reply, giving him a nod. "Keep this between us, all right? The fewer people who know, the better."
Gendry looks between the two of us, probably wondering what exactly he's gotten himself into. But, I can tell, he's got that look in his eyes—the one where he's already figured out something's up, but he's too loyal to question it. Or, more likely, he's just too afraid of what happens when you cross me. I can't blame him. My reputation precedes me, even if I'm only twelve.
"We'll get it done, Lord Stark," Gendry says, determination in his voice. The kid's already got more confidence than I did at his age. I mean, I was still trying to figure out how to not get burned alive by my own sword at ten.
"You'll do great," I reply, trying not to grin too widely.
I can already picture it—the swords, with the Resurrection Stone and the Elder Wand hidden inside them, waiting for the right moment to be revealed. These aren't just any swords. They're going to change everything. And that means I can't screw up. The stakes are too high for that.
As I turn to leave, I glance over my shoulder at the forge, the fire crackling in the background. There's something about this place that makes everything feel like it's about to start—like the rhythm of the hammer is signaling the beginning of something huge.
With a deep breath, I step out of the forge, the heat still lingering on my skin. And yeah, I've got a lot of secrets to keep hidden. But hey, what's one more, right? I've always been good at keeping things buried—especially when those things could literally change the course of history.
Plus, if anything goes wrong, I know exactly who to blame: Gendry.
Just kidding. Sort of.
—
Okay, so here I am, standing in the middle of Winterfell's courtyard, trying to act like I'm totally in control of this whole situation. Spoiler alert: I'm not. In fact, if I were a betting man (which I am, but that's another story), I'd bet the farm that in about ten minutes, I'll be sweating bullets, making a fool of myself, and hoping no one notices. But that's life, right? When you're a Stark, you've got to keep a straight face, even when everything inside you is screaming "RUN AWAY."
The sun's doing this dramatic dip behind the walls of Winterfell, casting long shadows across the stone like it's trying to escape before my big moment. I get it. Being around the Stark clan must make even the sun want to skip town. But I've got business to attend to, and it involves someone who's probably the only person in the Seven Kingdoms I trust with my life right now—Prince Oberyn Martell.
Now, if you don't know who that is (though I'm pretty sure you do, considering the fact that he's cooler than a frozen Direwolf and twice as deadly), let me fill you in. Oberyn Martell is the guy who wears chaos like a cloak. He's got a reputation for being charming, deadly, and completely unpredictable—like if you crossed a snake with a rock star, gave him a sword, and let him loose in a ballroom. The man's a legend, and today, he's about to help me with a little adventure I'm planning.
I find him by the wall, staring into the distance like he's trying to decide which god to curse first. He spots me and gives me this smirk that says, "Oh, I know exactly why you're here."
"Prince Oberyn," I say, trying to sound like I've got everything together. Which, let's face it, is a laugh. "I need your advice on something important."
He doesn't even blink. That's the thing about Oberyn—he's got this aura like he's seen it all, and nothing can surprise him. Except maybe if someone actually managed to catch him off guard. But I don't think that's happened since… ever.
"What troubles you, young Stark?" Oberyn asks, sounding like a man who has all the time in the world to listen to a kid who's probably in way over his head. There's a twinkle in his eye, though, like he's ready to make my life a little more complicated, which—let's be honest—he's probably good at.
I take a deep breath. This is it. The big reveal. "I'm planning a trip to Old Valyria."
There. I said it. No turning back now. I might as well have told him I'm about to ride a dragon into the sea for fun. He raises an eyebrow, which, if I'm being honest, is the most normal reaction I'm expecting.
"Old Valyria, you say?" Oberyn's voice gets all serious for a second, like he's actually considering whether or not I'm completely insane. But that's the thing about him—he has this way of making you feel like you're talking about your biggest decision ever, even if it's just, you know, risking your life in a place that's been a death trap for, well, everyone who's ever gone there.
"You're not serious," he adds, like it's the most casual thing in the world, and I can't help but snort. Maybe he's not taking it seriously, but I sure as hell am.
I try to act calm. "No, seriously. I've got to go to Old Valyria. There's something there I need, and I don't have much time."
Oberyn watches me for a moment, like he's trying to figure out if I'm the next hero to emerge from Westeros or just some reckless kid with a death wish. Honestly? It's probably a little of both. I don't want to die, but I've got a lot of things to figure out, and this trip could be the key to everything.
"I see," he says, like he knows exactly how this is going to end, which is both reassuring and terrifying. "The place is cursed, Cregan. It's a tomb for all who dared to walk its streets. And it's not just the ruins you need to worry about—it's what's still living there. If you plan to survive it, you'll need more than just luck. You'll need preparation."
Great. So I'm not just going on a suicide mission; I'm going to need all the preparation. It's like he's reading my mind. "What kind of preparation are we talking about here?" I ask, even though I know it's a bad question. I'm 12. What the hell do I know about preparing for the end of the world?
Oberyn grins. "Strength," he says, and his eyes glimmer with that Martell fire. "Gather your allies, your weapons, and your wits. Be ready for everything. And remember…" He leans in a little closer, his voice dropping like he's telling me the most important thing ever. "No plan survives contact with dragons."
I blink. "You're not kidding, huh?"
He chuckles darkly, "I rarely am. And you're playing with fire, Stark. Make sure you know how to handle it."
Yeah, because I definitely needed that extra layer of panic. I mean, dragons? Really? I didn't have enough to worry about already?
"Thanks, Prince Oberyn," I say, trying to sound like I'm taking his advice seriously, even though I've got a million thoughts racing in my head. "I'll lay the groundwork, get strong, and… try not to die."
He winks at me. "Good luck, young Stark. You'll need it."
With that, he turns to leave, his cloak swirling behind him like he's on his way to fight another duel or woo some noblewoman. Honestly, I don't know how he does it—being this cool and dangerous all the time. But I'm not about to ask for details. I've got enough on my plate already.
As he walks off, I take a second to process everything. Old Valyria. The dragons. The weapons—Winterlight and Dawnshade, forged by the masterful hands of Tobho Mott and Gendry. And let's not forget about my own very intense training for what might be the most dangerous trip I'll ever take.
I've got a lot to do. But now, at least, I've got a little direction. I'll need all the help I can get—and maybe some Martell advice, if I'm lucky. I've got three years. Three years to get ready for a place that's pretty much been described as "don't go there, ever." Should be fine, right?
Right.
—
The journey from White Harbor to Wintertown had been one of those adventures that sounded better in theory than in practice. Sure, the idea of traveling through the cold, windswept North with a band of oddballs, one of whom was a literal fire priestess, sounded romantic at first. But in reality, it was just a lot of snow, a lot of cold, and a lot of complaining. And no one did complaining quite like Wendel Manderly.
"I swear, Thoros," Wendel muttered, pulling his fur-lined cloak tighter around his broad shoulders, "I'll trade every damn thing I own for a hot bath and a bed that doesn't feel like it's trying to swallow me whole." The gruff lord had a way of making even the most mundane complaints sound like a royal decree. He was really not built for travel.
Thoros of Myr, on the other hand, was thriving in his own chaotic way. The man had a beard that could hide an entire loaf of bread (not that it did, but it could), and his sarcastic sense of humor was probably the only thing keeping him from freezing to death. "You know, Wendel," he said with a crooked grin, "you could always sleep standing up like the rest of us. It's so much more comfortable than lying down."
Wendel scowled. "You're a bloody delight, Thoros."
The fire priestess, Mellisandre, flashed a smile so full of mystery and let's-pretend-we-don't-know-what's-going-on that it almost made the air feel warmer. "We are close, Thoros. I feel it in the flames." Her voice was as smooth and velvety as the fur she was wrapped in. She sounded dangerously certain, like someone who'd just finished reading an old prophecy and really believed in it.
And of course, Kinvara was there too. You couldn't get rid of her, not when she had a single-minded focus on her "destiny" and what she was sure would happen when they met this supposed hero. She was even more intense than Mellisandre, if that was possible.
"Azor Ahai," Kinvara whispered, practically drooling with anticipation as she stared into the distance like she was waiting for someone to deliver a giant, flaming sword to her. "I can feel it in my very bones. Cregan Stark will rise. The prophecy is clear, Thoros. The Demon Wolf will take his place beside the Lord of Light." Her eyes were locked on him, as if she could already see him—twelve-year-old Cregan Stark—surrounded by firelight, and she was just waiting to see him in action. You couldn't ever convince her that a twelve-year-old boy might not be ready to save the world.
Thoros, whose patience had been tested by countless battles, looked over at Kinvara and Mellisandre. "You two might want to dial back the whole 'Azor Ahai' thing before we get to the boy. He might think we're all a bunch of fanatics—or worse, that we're planning a weird party."
Mellisandre's eyes sparkled as she responded with a touch of mystery. "But Thoros, you forget—our mission is beyond such petty concerns." She gave him a sidelong glance, her lips curling up just enough to suggest a secret she wasn't sharing. "The boy will need guidance, and it is our honor to serve him—body, soul, and flame." The way she said "body" could've been its own kind of prophecy.
Kinvara, not to be outdone, added, "We will stand by him in every way, Thoros. Every way." She said it so quietly, with such intensity, that it almost felt like a threat.
Wendel made an exaggerated gagging noise. "Great, I'm traveling with two women who're practically fantasizing about a boy. This is exactly what I signed up for."
Thoros raised an eyebrow at Wendel. "Let's just get to the inn before you start fantasizing about a warm drink."
Wendel grumbled something about it being impossible to drink with people like them around, but Thoros barely heard him. The weather in Wintertown was far worse than he remembered. The wind hit them from every direction, biting through layers of wool and fur like they were nothing more than paper.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they reached the Broken Antler, the kind of place that looked like it had been around long enough to develop its own legends, most of them involving the cold, the wolves, and a never-ending supply of ale. The innkeeper was a burly man with a permanent scowl.
"Ain't often we see strangers 'round these parts," he grumbled, eyeing them suspiciously. "What brings you to Wintertown?"
Thoros, ever the charming soul, threw a coin on the counter and flashed his most disarming grin. "We're just passing through. Need a place to rest for the night."
The innkeeper looked them over, finally letting his gaze linger on the two women in the group. He couldn't help but glance at them like they might've been sent by the Lord of Light himself. "Right, right. Well, if you want a room, that'll be a silver for each meal and bed. You'll want a good rest if you're heading to Winterfell tomorrow. Wolves've been howling like they're planning a feast."
Thoros grunted. "Sounds about right." It wasn't as though the wolves had a schedule, but in the North, you learned to take things like that seriously.
The group settled at a table near the fire, and Thoros poured himself a mug of ale, leaning back in his chair like he was at some kind of exotic spa—if spas had fire and dead wolves outside the door.
Wendel grumbled, his voice low. "I don't like this place. Too quiet. Too... empty."
"Quiet?" Thoros chuckled. "Wendel, if you can't hear the wolves howling or the wind crying through the walls, you've probably had too much to drink already."
Kinvara sat across from Thoros, her expression still unreadable, but the intensity in her eyes was clear. She was watching him like he was about to make the biggest mistake of his life. "The flames are speaking, Thoros. The boy will rise. Azor Ahai will return."
"Yeah, yeah, I've heard it all before," Thoros muttered, rubbing his face. He could already feel the headache forming. "Let's just get some sleep. Tomorrow, we meet the Demon Wolf."
And as he stared into the flickering fire, the flicker of doubt came back again. What if they were right? What if this twelve-year-old boy was the savior of them all?
"Maybe this is all just another bloody prophecy," Thoros muttered, half to himself.
But deep down, he knew better. Westeros never made anything easy.
And tomorrow, they'd find out whether the Demon Wolf really was the answer—or just another one of those damnable prophecies that never went quite as expected.
And Thoros? Well, he'd watch and see. After all, what else could go wrong?
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!