Chapter 4: The North Awakens
The journey back to Winterfell from White Harbor was undertaken with a grim, almost feverish urgency. Lord Manderly, his jovial facade entirely replaced by the stern countenance of a liege lord preparing for war, had pledged his full support and began issuing his own summons even before Ciel's party had cleared the city gates. The news of King Viserys's death and Aegon's usurpation traveled with them like an ill wind, whispered in hushed tones by the men-at-arms, their faces reflecting a mixture of shock and grim anticipation. War was no longer a distant rumor from the South; it was a cold, hard reality lapping at their very borders.
Ciel rode at the head of his column, Ser Rodrik Cassel beside him, Sebastian a discreet shadow just behind. Sarx, seeming to sense the shift in his master's mood and the charged atmosphere, ranged further afield than usual, a silent grey scout melting in and out of the treeline, his golden eyes occasionally meeting Ciel's with an unnerving understanding.
"The men are uneasy, my lord," Ser Rodrik observed, his weathered face etched with concern. He was Winterfell's Master-at-Arms, a man of ingrained loyalty and martial prowess, but also one who understood the cost of conflict. "They speak of the old king's goodness, of the Princess Rhaenyra. They also speak of the Hightowers' ambition and the Greens' treachery. But mostly, they wonder what this means for their homes, their families."
"War always means uncertainty and hardship for those who must fight it, Rodrik," Ciel replied, his voice devoid of emotion, though Cregan's youthful features were set in a stern mask. "Our duty is to ensure the North weathers this storm with its strength intact, its honor upheld, and its people protected as much as possible. That begins by honoring our oaths."
"Aye, my lord. To Princess Rhaenyra," Rodrik affirmed, though a shadow of doubt flickered in his eyes. "A queen on the Iron Throne… it will be a hard thing for many in the South to accept, oath or no oath."
"Their acceptance is not my primary concern," Ciel stated flatly. "The stability of the realm, the sanctity of sworn vows, and the security of the North – these are paramount. The Greens have broken faith. Such actions cannot go unanswered, lest all oaths become meaningless." His gaze swept over the wintry landscape. "The North remembers. We will remind them."
Later, as they made camp, Ciel conferred with Sebastian. "The speed of this usurpation is… efficient. Hightower has played his hand boldly."
"A decisive stroke, my Lord," Sebastian agreed, pouring Ciel a cup of wine he'd somehow kept at a perfect cellar temperature despite the journey. "It forces immediate declarations. There will be little room for neutrality in the conflict to come. Those who hesitate may find themselves caught between two raging fires."
"And hesitation is a luxury the North cannot afford," Ciel mused. "We are distant, our armies slow to muster. We must project unity and unwavering resolve from the outset." He felt a familiar stirring, the cold thrill of a high-stakes game. This was not the shadowy underworld of London, but the fate of kingdoms hung in the balance. The principles, however, remained the same: power, leverage, and the ruthless exploitation of an opponent's weakness.
His greensight had been blessedly quiet on the return journey, offering no grand, terrifying visions of dragonfire, but rather unsettling, fleeting glimpses. Once, staring into the campfire, he'd seen the Dreadfort, the ancient seat of House Bolton, its stark walls momentarily overlaid with an image of a flayed man, then a cruel, knowing smile on a pale face. A reminder, perhaps, that not all Northern loyalties were guaranteed. He made a mental note: Roose Bolton's heir, a young man named Ramsay, if memory served the Maester's lessons, would require careful watching. Or perhaps the current Lord Bolton himself.
Winterfell, when they finally reached it, was a hive of subdued anxiety. Bennard Stark and Maester Lorcan met them in the courtyard, their faces grave. The news had preceded them by swifter ravens.
"Nephew," Bennard greeted him, forgoing any preamble. "The die is cast. The Greens have stolen a crown."
"And we shall help the rightful Queen reclaim it," Ciel stated, dismounting, his travel-stained cloak swirling around him. "Maester Lorcan, has word arrived from our other principal bannermen?"
"Ravens have been sent to all major houses, my lord, apprising them of the King's death and the… subsequent events in King's Landing, as reported by Lord Manderly's sources," Lorcan confirmed, his hands fidgeting with the links of his chain. "We await their replies, and their lords, if they choose to come in person."
That evening, the Great Hall of Winterfell, usually boisterous with the clamor of the household, was more subdued, though no less crowded. Ciel sat at the high table, Bennard to his right, Maester Lorcan to his left. Ser Rodrik stood nearby. Sebastian, ever-present, ensured Ciel's goblet was never empty, his watchful eyes missing nothing.
"We must call the banners," Bennard stated unequivocally, his voice rough with emotion. "Every Stark bannerman, every man capable of wielding a spear or a sword. Your father, Lord Rickon, swore his oath to Rhaenyra. We must honor it."
"Honor, yes," Ciel agreed, his gaze sweeping the hall. "But honor alone does not win wars, Uncle. We need strength, strategy, and a clear understanding of our objectives, both short and long term."
"Our objective is to seat Queen Rhaenyra on the Iron Throne!" Bennard insisted, thumping a fist on the heavy oak table.
"That is an objective," Ciel corrected, his tone cool, cutting through Bennard's fervor. "A primary one, perhaps. But my objective, as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, is the security, prosperity, and enduring strength of the North itself. If seating Rhaenyra serves those ends, then we shall pursue it with all our might. But the North's blood will not be spilled cheaply, nor its resources squandered without careful consideration."
A silence fell over the high table. Even Bennard seemed taken aback by the cold pragmatism in his nephew's voice. This was not the rash, honor-bound boy he had expected to lead the North into war. This was something… different. Sharper. More calculating.
"What are you saying, nephew?" Bennard asked, his voice low. "Would you forsake your father's oath?"
"Never," Ciel stated firmly. "An oath sworn by House Stark is an oath kept. But the manner in which we keep it, the price we exact for our loyalty, and the position the North will hold when the bloodletting is done – these are matters for careful deliberation, not blind fervor." He turned to Maester Lorcan. "What is the state of our granaries, our armories? How many men can we realistically field and sustain through a harsh winter campaign, should it come to that?"
Lorcan, grateful for a question he could answer with facts rather than sentiment, began to recite figures. The numbers were sobering. The North was vast, its population scattered. Mustering a large army would take time, and supplying it through the South, especially if winter truly took hold, would be a logistical nightmare.
"Lord Manderly's support will be crucial," Ciel noted. "His ships can transport men and supplies, his port can be a staging ground. We must also secure the loyalty and full cooperation of every Northern house. Send fresh ravens. Not just with news, but with my summons. All lords loyal to House Stark are to present themselves in Winterfell within the month, with a tally of the forces they can commit. Those who are slow to respond will receive a personal visit. From me. And Sarx."
The implicit threat hung in the air. The young wolf was showing his teeth.
Over the next few days, Winterfell transformed. The clang of the smithy's hammer rang out from dawn till dusk as armor was mended and weapons forged. The training grounds were filled with men drilling under Ser Rodrik's stern eye. Messengers on swift horses galloped in and out of the castle gates, carrying summons and replies. Ciel himself was a whirlwind of activity. He reviewed every ledger, inspected every contingent of the household guard, and pushed himself relentlessly in his private training sessions with Sebastian.
"Your stamina improves, my Lord," Sebastian observed one evening, after a particularly grueling session with practice blades that had left Ciel breathless but exhilarated. Cregan's body was responding well, growing stronger, faster. "The raw physicality of this world suits you, in a way. Less need for subtle poisons, more for the direct application of force."
"Poison still has its place," Ciel retorted, wiping sweat from his brow. "But the ability to cleave a man in two has a certain… clarity." He was discovering a grim satisfaction in the physical demands of this life, a stark contrast to the more cerebral battles he had fought in London.
His warging ability became an invaluable tool. He sent Sarx out on patrols far beyond Winterfell's walls, the direwolf's senses acting as an early warning system. Through Sarx, he felt the pulse of the land, the movements of game, the subtle shifts in the wind that heralded changing weather. It gave him a connection to the North that was visceral, almost primal.
The greensight, however, remained a fickle and often disturbing companion. One afternoon, while overlooking the training yard, a wave of dizziness washed over him. The sounds of shouting men and clashing steel faded, replaced by a chilling silence. He saw a field, snow-covered, under a sky the color of lead. Northern banners – the Stark direwolf, the Merman of Manderly, the Karstark sunburst – lay trampled and bloodied. And over it all, he heard a sound that was not quite a roar, not quite a shriek, but something cold and ancient, full of an icy malice he couldn't comprehend, though it had nothing to do with the Others of legend – this was a human malice, a strategic coldness. Then the vision shattered, leaving him leaning heavily against a parapet, gasping for air.
"My Lord?" Sebastian was at his side instantly, his expression unreadable.
"A… a defeat," Ciel managed, his voice strained. "Northern banners… fallen in snow. But where? When?" The vision offered no context, only a stark warning.
"A possible future, my Lord," Sebastian said softly. "Or merely a fear given form. Greensight is notoriously unreliable, a tapestry woven from threads of what is, what was, and what might be. The key is not to be ruled by such glimpses, but to use them. To discern the pattern, if one exists."
Ciel straightened, his jaw set. "If it is a future that can be, then it is a future I will prevent." The vision, terrifying as it was, only hardened his resolve. He would not lead the North to ruin.
Responses to his summons began to trickle in. Lord Manderly reaffirmed his support, promising a substantial force of knights and men-at-arms, along with ships. Lord Karstark of Karhold, a staunch Stark loyalist, sent word that he would arrive with his sons and all the strength he could muster. Messages of allegiance also came from the Glovers of Deepwood Motte, the Mormonts of Bear Island (Lady Lynesse Mormont promising a small but fierce contingent of warriors), and several smaller houses.
But from the Dreadfort, there was only silence.
"Bolton remains quiet," Bennard observed grimly during one of their evening councils. "It is not like them to be so reticent. They are usually the first to sniff out a change in the wind."
"Perhaps they are waiting to see which way the wind truly blows," Ciel said, his eyes narrowed in thought. "Or perhaps they are plotting their own course." He remembered the fleeting image from the campfire – the flayed man, the cruel smile. "Sebastian, I want you to find out what you can about the current Lord Bolton and his affairs. Discretely."
"It will be done, my Lord," Sebastian replied with his customary bow. Ciel knew that his butler's definition of 'discrete' often involved methods that would make even the most hardened spymaster blanch, but the results were undeniable.
As the days shortened and the first true bite of winter began to make itself felt, the lords of the North started to arrive. They came with their honor guards, their banners snapping in the chill wind – stout Northern lords, weathered and hard, their faces reflecting the harshness of their lands. They filled the Great Hall, their voices loud, their appetites prodigious. And they all came to assess the new Lord Stark, the boy who had cheated death and now proposed to lead them into a war against dragons.
Ciel met them all, his youth offset by the unnerving intensity of his gaze, the sharpness of his mind, and the ever-present shadow of his giant direwolf. He listened to their counsel, acknowledged their concerns, but left no doubt as to who was in command. He spoke not just of honor and oaths, but of supply lines, strategic choke-points, and the potential for Northern expansion of influence should they play their cards right.
One of the first to arrive after Manderly was Lord Torrhen Karstark, a bear of a man with a fiery red beard and sons who were mirror images of their father.
"Lord Stark!" Torrhen boomed, his voice filling the Great Hall as he clasped Ciel's forearm in a grip of iron. "Your father was my friend! His oath is my oath! Karhold stands with Winterfell, to the last man!"
"Your loyalty does you honor, Lord Karstark," Ciel replied, meeting his grip firmly. "The North will need the strength of the Karstarks in the days to come."
Yet, even as he accepted their pledges, Ciel was acutely aware of the challenges ahead. Many of these lords were older, more experienced in war than he. Commanding their respect, truly leading them rather than being guided by their collective will, would require a will stronger than all of theirs combined.
The "Hour of the Wolf." The name echoed in his mind, a phrase Maester Lorcan had used when recounting Stark history. He didn't know what the future held, what role this Cregan Stark was destined to play in the grand, bloody tapestry of the Dance of the Dragons. But Ciel Phantomhive knew one thing: he would not be a pawn. He would be a player. And the North, under his command, would be a force that could tip the scales.
As the month drew to a close, Winterfell was bursting at the seams. The castle and the hastily erected winter town outside its walls teemed with thousands of armed men, their banners a vibrant, restless sea of color against the grey stone and the encroaching snows. The North had awakened.
Ciel stood on the battlements of Winterfell, Sarx at his side, looking down at the assembled might of his domain. The wind whipped his dark hair across his face, carrying the scent of snow and woodsmoke, the murmur of a thousand campfires, the distant neighing of horses, and the clang of steel. It was a raw, untamed power, waiting to be unleashed.
"The ravens from Dragonstone will be expecting a reply soon, my Lord," Sebastian said, appearing silently beside him. "An accounting of what forces the North will commit to Queen Rhaenyra's cause."
Ciel nodded, his gaze sweeping over the martial encampment. "They will have their answer. And it will be one that makes even dragons take notice." He turned, his one visible eye glinting with a cold, hard light. "The wolves are massing, Sebastian. Soon, they will run south. And may the gods help any who stand in their way."
The North was ready. And so was its young, formidable lord. The game of thrones was about to become significantly more savage.