Chapter 22: The Wolf's Return and Winter's Gearing
The journey north from the war-ravaged Riverlands was a somber passage through lands still raw with the wounds of conflict. Ciel Phantomhive, Lord Cregan Stark, rode at the head of his small, battle-hardened escort, his gaze sweeping across fields once fallow, now showing tentative signs of replanting under the watchful eyes of Black-aligned lords. Burned-out septs and shattered holdfasts stood as grim monuments to the fury of the Dance. The common folk they encountered often looked at their Northern banners with a mixture of fear, awe, and a desperate hope – these were the men who had faced down Aemond Targaryen and shattered Criston Cole's host.
Ciel's mind, however, was not on past victories. It was on the future, on the North, on the new army he would raise. He had played his part in the South, had bled his forces for Queen Rhaenyra's cause, and had extracted a heavy toll from the Greens. Now, it was time to return to his own demesne, to lick his wounds, and to forge a new, even stronger weapon from the iron will of his people.
Sebastian Michaelis, riding beside him with his usual effortless grace, seemed to find the changing landscape a matter of mild academic interest. "The devastation is quite… comprehensive, my Lord," he observed as they passed a particularly ravaged village near the Trident. "Humans display such a remarkable talent for dismantling their own creations. One might almost call it an art form."
"It is the art of war, Sebastian," Ciel replied, his voice flat. "And its canvases are always painted in blood and ash." He felt the weariness of the campaign deep in his bones, not just a physical exhaustion, but a soul-deep fatigue. Yet, beneath it, a cold, hard resolve remained. He had a duty to the North, a pact with a demon, and a game to win.
As they crossed the Neck, the landscape began to transform. The lush, rolling hills of the Riverlands gave way to the starker, more rugged beauty of the North. The air grew colder, sharper, carrying the scent of pine and distant snows. Moat Cailin, the ancient, brooding fortress that guarded the causeway into the North, rose before them like a skeletal hand, its three remaining towers silhouetted against a grey, windswept sky.
The commander of Moat Cailin's garrison, a dour Flint lord, greeted Lord Stark with gruff respect. Ciel spent a day there, inspecting the defenses, reviewing the garrison's strength, and issuing orders for its reinforcement. Moat Cailin was the North's shield against the South; it had to be strong, impregnable. His decisive commands, his keen eye for defensive weaknesses, and the palpable aura of authority that clung to him left the Flint lord and his men suitably impressed, and perhaps a little intimidated. The young Wolf Lord who had left for the wars had returned a hardened, formidable commander.
The final leg of their journey, from Moat Cailin to Winterfell, was through lands that felt increasingly familiar to Ciel, not through memory, but through a strange, instinctual resonance that came with Cregan Stark's blood. The vast, empty plains, the dark, brooding forests, the chill wind that spoke of ancient winters – it all felt like a homecoming, of sorts.
And then, Winterfell.
The ancient castle of the Starks rose from the plains, its grey granite walls a familiar, reassuring sight. Smoke plumed from its chimneys, a sign of life, of warmth. As they approached, the great gates creaked open, and a small party emerged to greet them.
Maester Lorcan, his kindly face etched with worry, was at their head. Beside him stood Bennard Stark, Ciel's uncle, his arm still in a sling from the spear wound taken at Harrenhal, but his eyes clear and his demeanor surprisingly steady. He must have returned earlier, with a contingent of the more seriously wounded. And then, a grey blur, a joyous, unrestrained bark.
Sarx.
The direwolf, larger now than Ciel remembered, bounded towards them, his massive form a whirlwind of grey fur and unbridled excitement. He ignored everyone else, making a beeline for Ciel, nearly bowling him over as he leaped up, his great paws on Ciel's shoulders, his warm tongue licking at Ciel's face in a display of affection that was startlingly un-wolflike, yet deeply comforting.
Ciel, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, felt a genuine, unforced smile touch his lips. He buried his face in Sarx's thick ruff, the familiar scent of pine, snow, and loyal beast a balm to his weary soul. He reached out with his mind, and the warging bond, stretched thin by distance, snapped back into place with a force that was almost physical, a rush of warmth, loyalty, and shared understanding flooding his senses.
Master. Home. Safe. Sarx's thoughts were simple, direct, a pure, uncomplicated joy that Ciel found himself mirroring, if only for a moment.
Sebastian watched this reunion with a faint, almost imperceptible smile, his crimson eyes holding a flicker of something that might have been amusement, or perhaps a demon's detached curiosity at such an open display of… affection.
Winterfell itself was much as he had left it, yet subtly changed. There was an air of grim anticipation, of a household gearing itself for its lord's return and the demands that would inevitably follow. The castle was well-maintained, Maester Lorcan and Bennard having clearly managed its affairs competently in his absence. The granaries were reasonably stocked, though the previous year's early snows had taken their toll. The armories were being refurbished, and a small, steady stream of new recruits – young men from Winterfell's own lands and nearby holdfasts – were already drilling in the courtyard under the stern gaze of a newly appointed Master-at-Arms, a grizzled veteran named Torrhen Karstark (a cousin of the main Karstark line, chosen for his loyalty and experience).
In the days that followed, Ciel reassumed direct lordship of Winterfell. He held court daily, listening to petitioners, settling local disputes – a land squabble between two minor lairds, a merchant accused of short-weighting grain, a dispute over logging rights in the Wolfswood. His judgments were swift, pragmatic, and often chillingly impartial, delivered with a cold authority that brooked no argument. He was no longer just the boy lord who had ridden south to war; he was a seasoned commander, a proven leader, and his word was law.
Sebastian, meanwhile, seamlessly transitioned back into his role as chief attendant, overseeing Ciel's household, managing his correspondence, and ensuring that Winterfell ran with an efficiency that bordered on the supernatural. He made subtle improvements everywhere – the rationing of winter stores became more precise, the castle's watch rotations more effective, even the quality of the ale in the Great Hall seemed to improve under his discreet influence. He moved through Winterfell like a silent, black-clad ghost, his presence both a comfort and a source of profound unease for the household staff, who whispered tales of his exploits in the South.
With the immediate pressures of battle lessened, Ciel found himself drawn once more to Winterfell's ancient godswood. The silence here, broken only by the rustle of weirwood leaves and the sigh of the wind, was a stark contrast to the clamor of war and the oppressive atmosphere of Dragonstone. He would spend hours before the heart tree, its carved face weeping crimson sap, Sarx a silent companion at his side.
Here, in the North's embrace, his greensight, which had been so erratic in the South, began to clarify. The visions were still fragmented, often symbolic, but they came with a new intensity, a deeper resonance. He saw snow, vast and endless, covering the land. He saw wolves hunting in the twilight, their eyes burning like embers. He saw a great, winged shadow falling over King's Landing, and a crown of fused swords, dripping with blood. He saw ravens flying, carrying messages of despair and desperate hope.
The visions offered no easy answers, but they painted a grim picture of the escalating conflict, of the long, hard winter that was descending upon the realm, both literally and metaphorically.
His warging abilities also deepened. His bond with Sarx was now so profound that he could share the direwolf's senses almost constantly, using him to patrol the castle grounds, to hunt in the Wolfswood, to even "listen" to the conversations of guardsmen and servants, a silent, unseen extension of his own awareness. He began to experiment, cautiously, with other Northern creatures – a snow owl soaring high above Winterfell, giving him a breathtaking panoramic view of his domain; a hardy mountain cat stalking prey in the nearby hills, its senses sharp and predatory. He was learning to filter their alien perceptions, to control the flow of information, to use their instincts to augment his own.
The primary task, however, was the raising of a new Northern army. Ciel sent ravens to all his principal bannermen, summoning them or their designated stewards to a great council in Winterfell. He outlined his demands: fresh levies of men, young and strong, but also older veterans who had not marched south before. He required horses, arms, armor, and, most importantly, grain and supplies to sustain a long campaign.
The response from the Northern lords was, for the most part, swift and positive. The news of Cregan Stark's victories in the South, of his capture of Aemond Targaryen and the defeat of Criston Cole, had solidified his authority. They had grumbled at the cost of the previous campaign, at the loss of so many of their sons, but they also recognized that their young lord had proven himself a formidable leader, one who fought for Northern interests even as he served the Queen. Houses like Karstark, Umber, Glover, and Mormont pledged their full support. Even the more cautious houses, like Dustin of Barrowton or Ryswell of the Rills, sent word of their commitment.
The logistical challenges were immense. The North was vast, its population scattered. Gathering and equipping a new army, especially after the losses already sustained, would take time and resources. Ciel, with Sebastian's almost inhuman efficiency, oversaw every detail. He established training camps, organized supply depots, and set the castle's smithies to work day and night, forging new weapons and armor.
Ravens from the South arrived sporadically, their journeys long and perilous. Prince Daemon wrote from Riverrun, his dispatches filled with grim accounts of ongoing skirmishes with Green remnants, the challenges of pacifying the Riverlands, and his growing impatience with Queen Rhaenyra's cautious strategy. He urged Ciel to hasten his return, claiming the North's fury was needed to break the stalemate.
Prince Jacaerys also sent word, his letters more formal, less personal than before. He reported on Vermax's slow recovery, his efforts to rally Black support in the Reach, and the continued threat posed by Green forces there. He also inquired, with a carefully veiled anxiety, about Vhagar's whereabouts and Aemond's continued confinement on Dragonstone. The memory of Sebastian's actions at Antlers, Ciel sensed, still weighed heavily on the young prince.
Of Vhagar, there was little concrete news. Some reports placed her still haunting the region around the Gods Eye, a wounded, solitary terror. Others claimed she had flown further south, perhaps towards the Stormlands, or even King's Landing. Her fate, and Aemond's, remained critical, unresolved elements in the wider war.
As the first new levies began to arrive at Winterfell – raw, eager youths from the surrounding farms and holdfasts, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement at the prospect of serving their renowned Wolf Lord – Ciel felt a grim sense of purpose solidify within him. He was forging a new weapon, a Northern host tempered by his will, ready to be unleashed upon the South when the time was right.
One evening, as he stood in the godswood before the heart tree, the last rays of the setting sun casting long, bloody shadows through the weirwood leaves, a particularly vivid greensight vision seized him. It was not of battles or dragons, but of Winterfell itself. He saw the castle under a blanket of impossibly deep snow, its towers dark against a starless sky. He saw wolves howling on the battlements, not Sarx, but many, their eyes burning with a cold, ancient light. And he heard a voice, a whisper on the wind, ancient and powerful, speaking a single word in the Old Tongue, a word he did not understand, yet which resonated deep within his Stark blood, filling him with a sense of profound, almost terrifying, destiny.
He stumbled back, gasping, the vision leaving him shaken. Sarx whined, nudging his hand, sensing his master's distress.
"What was that?" Ciel murmured, his hand on the rough bark of the weirwood. The North was stirring, not just with the preparations for war, but with something older, deeper, a power that was awakening within him, within the land itself.
Sebastian, who had approached soundlessly, observed him with those knowing, crimson eyes. "The call of your blood, perhaps, my Lord? Or merely the indigestion from Maester Lorcan's rather… robust… mutton stew?"
Ciel ignored the jibe. "The North is preparing, Sebastian. And so am I." He looked towards the south, where the war still raged, where Queen Rhaenyra waited, where Prince Daemon plotted. His respite was nearing its end. Soon, the Wolf of Winterfell would once again be called upon to unleash his fury. And this time, he would march with an army forged in his own image, an army that knew the cost of war, and the unyielding will of its young, terrible lord. The snows were gathering, and the wolves were sharpening their claws.