The fire crackled like a dying heartbeat. Around it, the men of the Company of the Rose laughed and argued over wine, tossing knives into stumps and jests as sharp as their blades. Canis Stark leaned back against the rough timber of the inn's outer wall, head tipped to the sky. A moon hung thin and pale above the Red Waste, and for a moment, it seemed to him as though the world might forget the burdens of blood and old houses.
He laughed then, a rich, rolling sound that made even the grizzled sellswords glance his way with grudging amusement. A tossed insult, a clever barb at a drunkard, and the company erupted anew, cheering him as though he were the heart of their camp.
Canis let it feed him, let the mask settle where it belonged: jovial, carefree, impossibly confident.
But even as he smiled, the mask trembled. He had learned long ago that a smile could hide any number of truths. Behind the laughter, his hands curled, resting on the hilts of his swords, flexing slowly. Every joke, every halfhearted insult was a calculation, a subtle lesson to the men:ĺ watch me, but do not mistake amusement for weakness.
His raven corvus tapped at the window, its claws scratching the frame with impatient insistence. Canis's grey eyes caught it immediately, and the room fell silent. The men followed his gaze, muttering among themselves, but none dared approach. Corvus bore news — and Canis had learned long ago that dark wings brought dark words.
He rose, moving to the bird with the easy grace of someone who had led men into fire enough times to know their fear. Canis shadow grew long in the firelight, as took the parchment with a single hand the other running over the birds head.
The words struck him before he had even read them. Rickard Stark. Brandon. Murdered in King's Landing. Lyanna. Taken. The ink blurred as the world seemed to tilt beneath him. For a moment, the 19-year-old sellsword laughed — a sharp, bitter bark — and then the laughter died in his throat.
He felt the air change around him, the malignant whisper of the Black magic stirring beneath his skin. It was subtle, cunning; it curled like smoke in the marrow of his bones. Not threatening, not yet. But present. Hungry. Waiting.
The Company watched him. The firelight caught his face and flung shadows across the scarred planes of his features. He said nothing. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, knuckles white. The mask had dropped, revealing the wolf beneath.
"Pack," he said at last, low, dangerous. "We move at dawn. Any of you who wish to have a home,— take your swords, your armor. Tonight we feast and drink. Tomorrow, we sail for the north.
One of the men, a broad-shouldered Northman with a scar running from eye to jaw, dared a question. "And the company?"
Canis turned, eyes glinting, the fire reflecting off them like molten steel. The smile returned, but it was quick, sharp, and dangerous. "The North remembers, and it seems the south has forgotten that. We ride north, any who wish to stay may stay, any who wish to return home. Pack.
He crouched by the fire again, picking up a stick and carving into the timber a crude wolf's head, its eyes like pits. "Tell the men ," he said, not looking up. "We leave at dawn"
The men murmured their assent, unease tempered by awe. Canis's charisma was a weapon, and they knew better than to underestimate it.
Night fell fully, and with it came silence — the kind that presses against the ribs and waits. Canis rose again, stepping outside the inn. The wind bit at his skin, cold and sharp, but he welcomed it. He closed his eyes, feeling the pulse of magic thrumming under his skin. It was subtle — a whispering, malignant echo of the Black blood he carried. It curled around his shadow, playful yet cruel, like a knife beneath silk.
The shift came unbidden. Bones lengthened, sinew reknitted itself, muscles thickened, and fur darkened to the sheen of polished obsidian. Canis let the magic take him fully, the Animagus instinct mingling with the ancient Stark blood. He padded forward into the moonlight as a direwolf, massive and silent, eyes sharp and aware. The scent of the world filled his nose; the whisper of his old life, the rage at his father and brother, the defiance at what had been taken, burned through him.
He moved through the camp, unnoticed, a shadow within shadows He only remembered. Remembered the family he had left, his wild brother. joyful sister and his father, the father he had left the North because of, who he now could never fix his relationship with.
And he knew the Company of the Rose would not follow him north. He had burned that bridge. His men would join though. He had bled with them.
By dawn, the camp would stir. The men would rise, looking for their captain, and find only a scorched banner, a cold fire, and a shadow that melted into the trees. Canis Stark would be gone, and the whisper of the Black magic would linger, sly and patient, waiting for the first step into the North.
He shook out his wolf's fur, feeling it pulse with power, and allowed a final, low growl to roll from his throat — not for the men, not for the camp, but for the North.
The wolf listened to the wind. It carried the faint scent of snow, stone, and blood. It carried the promise of vengeance. And for the first time in this life, Sirius Black was going to war.
Dawn crept over the Red Waste, pale and thin, brushing the camp in gray light. The men of the Company of the Rose stirred, rubbing sleep from their eyes, sharpening blades, and cursing quietly as they stretched stiff limbs. Canis Stark moved among them like a shadow, checking saddles, adjusting armor, teasing recruits with barbed humor. His trademark grin was absen.
"Watch your stirrups, Oren," he said, slapping a young Northman on the shoulder. "I would hate for you to fall before the first mile. And I do so enjoy seeing men eat dirt." The boy grinned nervously, and the older men laughed, though not without respect. Canis's eyes flicked toward the horizon; the laughter faded there as if it were never meant to stay.
The Company mounted, horses shifting beneath them, leather creaking in the morning chill. Canis led them out of the camp with ease, the rhythm of his boots and the hooves of his men striking the ground like drumbeats of war. Dust rose in clouds behind them, carrying the scent of sweat, metal, and horseflesh. Somewhere along the way, the malignant whisper of the Black magic stirred beneath his skin, subtle as the heat of a distant fire. It was patient, waiting, and he welcomed it, a sixth sense threading the edges of the world.
The ride to Braavos was long, the land stretching flat and sun-baked beneath a sky that seemed indifferent. Canis spoke little, allowing the men their chatter,engaging when called upon.
And yet, every glance, every motion carried weight; the men knew instinctively when the mask slipped. A hand that lingered on a sword hilt, a flash of teeth at an insult, a shadow in the corner of his eye — these were lessons in obedience and survival.
By the time the skyline of Braavos rose, spires and domes gleaming white and gold, the Company fell into order. Canis rode at the head, tall and easy in the saddle, but always aware. He moved like a man who saw what others could not, his mind sorting danger and opportunity alike. The Iron Bank awaited, and he intended to be meticulous. Gold was power, and he would not squander it.
Inside the Bank, the air was cool and smelled of polished stone and iron. The tellers acknowledged him with cautious bows, and Canis's smile was quick and charming, disarming yet deliberate. He counted his earnings with precision, depositing them into accounts that would serve him in the North. Every coin had a purpose; every transaction was a quiet declaration. Though no one in the hall suspected it, the Black magic hummed faintly in the corners, invisible but hungry, a sly presence whispering confidence.
"Done," he said, handing over the final note. His voice was light, and yet the iron beneath it shone unmistakably. "Let the gold rest where it is safe. I have work to do elsewhere."
The journey back to White Harbor was slower, aboard a small fleet that carried horses, men, and supplies. Canis stood at the prow of the lead ship, the wind ripping at his hair and coat, eyes narrowed at the waves. He smelled salt and iron, heard the creak of timber, and felt the faint tug of the North in his bones. It was familiar, though distant — like a song remembered imperfectly. Around him, the men worked in silence, sensing the weight of their captain's thoughts. Canis allowed the wolf beneath the laughter to surface in little ways — the tilt of his head, the flash of teeth in a smile, the predatory focus in his grey eyes.
By the time White Harbor rose on the horizon, mist curling around its stone walls, the city was quiet, as if holding its breath. The docks were nearly empty save for a few dockhands and guards. One man, taller and broader than the rest, stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as the ships drew closer. Lord Wyman Manderly.
Manderly's steps faltered as Canis Stark's ship cut through the waters, black sails snapping like the teeth of a wolf. He straightened, face composed but tension coiled in his shoulders. He remebered the boy who had left the North,now he returned as a man who had led men into battle without a glance backward
His fingers itched at the hilt of his sword, though he knew it would be useless, he was his lord and they needed to stark in wintefell now more than ever.
Canis leapt from the prow, landing lightly on the dock. His boots echoed against the stone. The wind lifted his hair and coat, and he laughed, a low, teasing sound, eyes scanning the harbor, the city, the faces of men who had never seen him before. It was a wolf's laugh, carrying the memory of everything he had been and everything he had survived.
Manderly bowed stiffly, hiding his unease behind a mask of courtesy. "Welcome back, my lord," he said, voice careful. He studied Canis, trying to read the man beneath the mask, the laughter, the eyes that had seen more than a lifetime ought to allow.
Canis's grin was quick, sharp, and unreadable. "White Harbor," he said, letting the syllables roll off his tongue like a promise and a threat in equal measure. "The only place in the North the Seven touch"
Manderly's heart thudded, memories and rumors rising unbidden. He said nothing, merely gestured for the men to help the captain's ship. Canis allowed the wind to sweep over him, letting the city, the cold stone, and the faint salt of the sea imprint themselves in memory.
For now, the North waited, unaware of the storm that had returned with the young Stark who carried the blood of wolves and the shadow of something darker still. Canis Stark moved through the docks with easy grace, mask in place, laughter at the ready — and a mind already turning toward the northward path of vengeance, strategy, and the reclamation of a home long lost.
Snow clawed across the frozen hills north of White Harbor, sharp and biting. Canis Stark rode at the head of his small company, boots firm in the stirrups, cloak snapping behind him like a dark banner. Five years had passed since he had left Winterfell — five years of exile, of blood and death,
Now he returned, not a boy, not a ghost, but a wolf of old, tempered in the heat of essos and shaped by anger.
Winterfell rose ahead, gray and cold beneath a low-hanging sky. The wind carried the scent of stone, snow, and smoke. Canis's eyes softened for a heartbeat at the sight of his home, though warmth was fleeting; the North had bled, his family had been struck, and the wolf's fury would not be denied.
At the gates, a figure waited. Small, younger, yet upright and wary. Benjen Stark. Only nine when Canis had vanished, now a young man of 15 bearing the weight of Winterfell on shoulders still too small, eyes wide with disbelief. The boy he had left behind had grown, and Canis felt a sharp pang of both pride and sorrow.
He dismounted with the ease of someone who had learned to move through danger without fear. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he approached, eyes locking with Benjen's.
"Brother," Canis said, voice low, carrying the weight of five lost years.
"Canis…" Benjen's voice trembled. "I—I thought… I thought you were gone forever."
A slow, wolfish grin flickered across Canis's face, softened by the love he had carried through exile. "I have returned,i wished to earlier yet i was at war when my exile ended." he said, bending to clasp Benjen's shoulders
"I returned because the North bleeds. I returned because we still remember."
Benjen's lips parted, unsure whether to laugh or cry. "You… you're home."
"Yes," Canis said. "And the North will rise. The banners must be called."
Inside the hall, Canis spread a thick, rough parchment across the table. Maester Walys, pale and stiff with nerves, lingered behind the boy-lord Benjen, eyes darting as he considered the wolf who had returned. The maester had whispered to Rickard that Canis must be punished for his crime, the Citadel had plotted for decades to remove the Starks from the north with Jon Arryn, Hoster Tully, Tywin Lannister, and even Robert Baratheon they had all but made it happen by pushing Rickard Starks southern ambitions, He had helped shape the fall of the Starks in subtle ways, and now the predator he had tried to send to die in the east was loose.
Canis dipped his quill in ink, the Black magic thrumming faintly beneath his skin, whispering through the letters like smoke in bone. He began to write, dictating each word to the scribes, each phrase carrying the fury of a wolf whose pack had been shattered.
"To every lord of the North,
To the clans of Skagos, the mountain holds, and the Greybeards who thirst for battle,
The South has forgotten. They have feasted while the North bled,They struck at our hearts, took our blood, and left ashes where our families stood. Rickard, Brandon -Dead, Lyanna — gone. Yet the North endures. The North remembers.
I am returned. I am now the Lord of Winterfell, I am the direwolf to you answer to, I call you to bring your men, your sons, your fathers, your warriors, and your Greybeards who long to die for there leige.
The banners must rise, and you will answer.
Those who defy this call, who hide in their halls or turn from the pack, will be dragged from their homes and blood-eagled for their oath-breaking once i am done with the treachery of the south.
I will have no hesitation. Wolves do not forgive those who turn from the pack.
The South will learn what it means to strike the North. The North Remebers is a passage ive heard since i was born, now i ensure the south never forgets.
Canis Stark, Lord of Winterfell
Canis laid down the quill, eyes sweeping the courtyard, then locking on Benjen. "Send this," he said, voice low, feral. "Every house, every clan, every village along the way this will be read to all, Riders fast and ready. Those who obey will survive; those who do not…" His grin was sharp, predatory. "…will answer in blood."
Benjen swallowed, awe and fear mingling in his chest. "I will see it done, brother. The North will follow you."
"No," Canis said, low and rumbling, "The North will remember. And the wolf is home."
Outside, the wind carried the scent of snow, stone, and iron. Riders mounted, letters secured, eyes hard, hearts wild.
Across the North — from Skagos to the mountain clans, from the frozen forests to the Greybeards' hidden halls — the summons would spread, sharp as claws, dark as winter.
Canis Stark, wolf of Winterfell, was returned. And the North would rise, savage, united, and unrelenting.
Winterfell was alive with motion. It hsd been 2 moons since he had sent the summons and the noehtern lords had been arriving in there droves. Smoke spiraled from the hearths, banners snapped in the wind, and the sound of hooves, axes, and armored men filled the courtyard. The arrival of the Northern armies was a thunder across the snow. Forty, fifty thousand men — knights, foot soldiers, clansmen, Skagosi raiders, and Greybeards hardened by years of winters— had converged, drawn by the words of a wolf returned.
Canis Stark stood atop the steps of the Great Hall, cloak dark as storm clouds, eyes sweeping the gathered mass. The lords had gathered and each man, each banner, each banner-bearer's stance, spoke to him: loyalty tempered by fear, loyalty tested by absence. His voice carried across the roomlow and dangerous, yet commanding enough to still the murmurs and shifting boots.
"Lords, captains, warriors of the North," he began, voice clear as ice. "The South has forgotten. The Targaryen's we have been loyal to have spat on our oaths and taken our blood, they will answer for there crimes"
He paused, letting the words sink in, letting the sheer scale of men remind them that they were no longer scattered and feeble. They were a storm, a pack, a blade waiting to fall.
"First," Canis continued, "we secure our coastlines. The east and west harbors will be watched. Slavers from esos and Ironborn opportunists will find nothing. Forts and keeps will be manned, signals posted. The lords of the coasts have been isntructed to leave a their men to patrol the coast, they will Leave non who dare step foot on our land alive.
"Lord Reed and Lord Bolton you will lead the vanguard. Forty thousand men will march with me into the south. Your scouts will range ahead, and your men will obey my commands without hesitation. Those who hesitate die." His eyes cut across Boltons pale face, catching the spark of cruelty in his eyes. Lord Reeds face was impassive but the nod he received bared well.
Canis turned to Karstark, his gaze hard. "Rickard, we are kin and there in none i would trust more than to support my borther here in wintefellz i know you wish to ride south with me but i need you here
The North survives through order, strategy, and when necessary, cruelty. Follow, or be left behind. The South does not forgive half-measures, I need you to organise the supply lines and ensure the north remains strong for us to return to, your command will pass to your brother arnold and your son will ride with me"
Harrion Karstark inclined his head stiffly, wary but resolute. "As you command, Lord Stark"
House Glover, you will lead the readguard, House Ryswell and Dustin the cavalry, House Wull, Magnar and Umber, you will have your wish of blood.
Every detail, every man and woman accounted for, every oath sworn, was part of the machine he would mold. " Go return to your men and prepare we leave for Moat Cailin in two days, Lord Reed and Lord Bolton, please come to my solar in 2 hours time'
As the lords left the great hall a figure approached cautiously through the throng. Ned Stark, his younger brother had just returned from the vale, he stepped forward, expression anxious beneath the snow-dusted hood of his cloak. Canis's eyes softened briefly — he loved his family.
"Canis," Ned said, voice careful, almost pleading, "you must hear me, just after your were exiled father made a marriage pact with House Tully. Catelyn of House Tull and Brandon, the marriage… it must be honored. Jon Arryn advised me before I left that there is no other way for us to win this war, You cannot abandon the bonds of honor, we must stay honorable throughout this war brother"
Canis's smile was slow, wolfish, and sharp. "Ned," he said, voice low, dangerous. "Honor does not feed the pack. Honor does not save Winterfell. Honor does not avenge a slaughtered family. That pact… that promise… it belongs to the South now. I belong to the North."
Ned's eyes widened, caught between shock and despair. "But — but the North…"
"The North will remember," Canis interrupted, sweeping his hand toward the mass of warriors, banners snapping in the wind. "I am the North, they are the north. I will honor the North, not the South's schemes. You will learn, Ned — you will see that mercy and naivete do not win wars. Only the wolf's teeth and the loyalty of the pack do, go you will be under the command of Lady Mormont for the war, she will teach you what it means to be of the North again. You and Benjen will join me for supper tonight"
Ned lingered, uneasy, but he followed. Canis's eyes caught his brother's gaze once more, sharp but not unkind. "You will learn, little brother," he said softly. "We did not become kings of winter through honor"
And in that moment, atop Winterfell's steps, with fifty thousand men at his back, Canis Stark began to weave the North into a single, unstoppable force. The wolf had returned, and the storm of the North would follow him into history — savage, united, and unrelenting.
The door to Canis Stark's solar creaked open, the thick smell of ink, parchment, and smoked wood hanging in the air. Lord Reed entered first, silent as the grave, face unreadable beneath the hood of his fur-lined cloak. Behind him came Roose Bolton, pale and lean, eyes calculating, his presence already carrying a hint of menace.
Canis leaned against the edge of his desk, quill tucked behind one ear, a map of the North spread beneath his hand. "Sit," he said, voice low but commanding. "There is much to discuss. Much that will require cooperation, despite what your houses might think of one another or my own."
The two lords settled, Bolton with a slow, deliberate grace, Reed with a barely perceptible tilt of the head. Canis's grey eyes swept them both. "You will lead the vanguard together. Your strengths are… complementary. Bolton — the South already knows your reputation. Blood, cruelty, malice — all good for them to fear. Reed — your people are underestimated. They look down upon you, but that blindness is an advantage. Your knowledge of plants, poisons, stealth… invaluable."
He tapped the map with one long finger. "Our first move will be to travel to Moat Cailin and then into the Riverlands. The army follows, but the crossing of the southern rivers, the seat of House Frey — that will be your task. By the time our men reach that bridge, Lord Walder must suffer an accident. Small, precise, sufficient to send his house into infighting. Chaos among the Freys will clear the path for the North."
Bolton's thin lips curved in a shadow of a smile. "And my men?" he asked quietly. "Shall they… participate?"
"Not yet," Canis said sharply, eyes narrowing. "Keep a lid on them. Discipline is required. But soon you will need the craft your house is infamous for. Only then will the South understand why they should fear the Boltons. As long as the knives are used on who i command you to you will be allowed to have your fun" canis said without voicing his disgust at the act of flaming.
Lord Reed inclined his head, expression unreadable, though his hands flexed slightly, betraying anticipation. "Understood, Lord Stark. The North remembers, and the Freys will learn."
"Good," Canis said, letting his words hang in the cold air like a knife. He leaned closer to the map, tracing the route with a pale finger. "Work together. I chose you both because the South expects neither cooperation nor cunning. Surprise them. Outthink them. Strike where they least expect it. And when this is done, no one will question the wolf returned."
He straightened, dismissing them with a motion. "Prepare your men. Send Ned and Benjen to my solar tonight" Lord Reed, please return tomorrow evening i have need of your mens skills.
Both lords rose, Bolton's pale hand brushing the hilt of his sword, Reed's fingers resting lightly on the edge of the table. They bowed, cautious, aware that they were now instruments of a wolf whose teeth were sharp, cunning, and patient.
As the door closed behind them, Canis allowed himself a slow breath. The North was rising, and the first moves of his war would be soon.
The door closed behind Lord Bolton and Howland Reed. The room felt smaller for it, the air dense with smoke and quiet thought. Canis Stark stood before the fire, one hand braced against the mantel, the flames painting the scars on his forearm gold. The war had yet to even begin and already he was weary.
"Send them in," he told the guard.
Moments later, Benjen and Ned entered. Both paused — instinctively, almost deferentially — as though they'd stepped into the den of something older, something half-wild.
"Sit," Canis said.
Benjen obeyed at once, wide-eyed still. Ned hesitated, studying the brother he had not seen since he was 8 and sent to the Vale to foster he had not been here for his exile — nineteen now, but carrying himself with the weight of the lord of winterfell.
When they were settled, Canis looked between them.
"You've both know why we have gather and are preparing for war,The banners have gather. The lords have their orders and soon we march to avenge our family and rescue lyanna, vut before I trust either of you with mine, I need to know how you think."
He leaned forward slightly.
"What do you make of the Starks who came before us?"
Neither spoke at first. Then Benjen, ever bold, said, "They were strong. Theon the Hungry Wolf, Cregan the Old Man of the North — they made the South fear us."
"Fear," Canis murmured, "aye. But at a cost. What of Brandon the Burner?"
Ned answered, quiet, thoughtful. "He burned the fleet his father built. Said the North should not sail south for war."
Canis nodded slowly. "Aye that was folly and we still for that today, Cregan knew that a enemy who had turned against his king once would do so again and so his justice was swift and brutal"
Ned what do you think of Theon the Hungry wolfs actions during the invasion of the andals?"
Ned straightened a little, unsure if it was a test or simple curiosity. He answered carefully, his voice carrying the measured tone of someone schooled by maesters and knights rather than northern winds.
"Theon Stark was… fierce," he began. "He brought the North together and struck at the Andals before they could root themselves. But—" he hesitated, glancing toward the firelight — "he was also ruthless. The tales say he burned their ships and villages, slew men and children both. I was taught in the Vale that such acts breed only more hatred. That true strength lies in honor — in justice, not in slaughter. A lord's duty is to rule men, not destroy them."
The words were earnest, almost innocent, shaped by years among knights who wore their honor like armor — and by the distance of a boy who had never seen the price of mercy in snow and blood.
Canis regarded him in silence for a long moment, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm — too calm — the voice of a man who had seen the cost of both mercy and vengeance.
"You speak as one who has never had to bury a packmate," he said quietly. "Tell me, Ned — should a war be fought once, or fought again and again because you lacked the will to end it the first time?"
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on his brother's.
"Theon Stark's wars burned bright and brutal, yes. But how long did his peace last afterward? A hundred years? Two? The Andals learned that the North was no easy prey. The blood of a few thousand bought centuries of silence. Tell me, then — was that not mercy in its truest form?"
Ned opened his mouth to answer, but Canis raised a hand, stopping him.
"No, think before you speak. Tomorrow, you will return and tell me what you believe: whether Theon's slaughter was savagery or necessity, and what you think honor truly is. Is it a man's word? His image before others? Or is it what he owes to his blood, his home, his pack?"
He turned to Benjen. "And you? What lesson do you take from Theon Stark?"
Benjen frowned. "I don't know"
That earned a small smile. "Good. Think, always think, you too will tell me your answer tomorrow"
Canis straightened. "Every Stark left a mark. Theon ruled with fury and strength, Cregan with law but ruthlessnes.. But all shared one truth: they acted. They did not wait for permission. When the snows came, they led their people through it."
He paced before them. "You both know your roles now. Benjen — you are Winterfell. You will keep it breathing. Rickard Karstark will guide you, but make no mistake — you are the Stark the men will look to when I am gone to war. You'll hold the hearth. Feed it. Guard it. Never let the flames die."
Benjen nodded, swallowing pride and fear in equal measure.
"And you, Ned," Canis said, stopping before him, "will ride with Maege Mormont. She'll teach you how the north actually is — the values of the people, the fury of a she bear. You will learn the weight of command, and when you speak next, the men will hear both Stark and Bear."
Ned looked up. "And what of you?"
"I lead" Canis said simply. "The South believes us broken, they have forgotten what happened the last time the north marched on the south, forgotten the tales of Roddy the Ruin and the Winter Wolves."
He looked between them — not as a commander now, but as a brother.
"Our father listened to the whispers of southern lords and it cost him our family, he forgot that the north is differerent.. I will not make the same mistake. You are both of my pack. Remember that. The pack comes before all else"
Benjen's jaw set. "Always."
Ned bowed his head. "The North remembers."
Canis nodded once, eyes hard and proud. "Then we begin."
The snow was thick and sharp against the North wind as Canis Stark moved through Winterfell, his cloak heavy and dark, the pack of fifty thousand men already stirring like the first thrumming of a storm. Today, the halls would see plans set, spies dispatched, and warriors tasked — all under the keen, unforgiving eye of the wolf returned.
The day felt alive with the murmur of strategy, footsteps echoing on stone, and the faint, metallic tang of steel as men adjusted armor and prepared weapons.
Canis entered the solar with deliberate calm, the warmth of the fire washing across his face, throwing shadows over his sharp features. The room smelled of smoke and ink, of iron and pine from the torches lining the walls. There, waiting in quiet anticipation, were Theon Snow and Howland Reed, summoned to hear their orders. Canis' gaze rested on the two men, measuring, considering.
"Theon," Canis began, voice low and precise, "you will ride with fifty men. Fifty. No more, no less. Take only those who can move silently, strike without hesitation, and vanish like shadows. Your task is to ride south, seek the location of Lyanna. Gather what you can from rumors, from whispers, from those who believe themselves safe. When you find her, you will send word with Corvus. You wait only for my reply. Nothing else."
Theon inclined his head, the firelight catching the dark hair and steel in his eyes. "Fifty men, my lord. Silent as winter, quick as the wolves' breath. We will find her"
I" do not care how this is done, you will find her" Canis spoke, his tone sharp as a knife.
"Yes my Lord" Theon said without hesitation.
Canis allowed a brief nod, approving of the directness, the clarity. He knew that some called him cruel; some would see his orders as dishonorable. And he did not care.
He turned smoothly to Howland Reed, whose expression shifted between awe and unease. "The Neck has held back the andals since the first arrived, they have done so with stealth, poison and magic. I need you to use that magic to now protect the north once more, the wargs in the neck and any others you know of i want you to Place them everywhere Monitor the southern lords who march against, the ones we march with, and any who remain in there keeps. Identify those among us would betray the North whether they be northmen or southern. We will need spies embedded in their camps and in the Red Keep"
"I understand, my lord," Reed said cautiously, leaning forward slightly. "Im suprised to hear you speak of magic, and the like, as though it were ordinary conversation, if i may be so bold do you possess the gift of the old gods"
Canis' eyes flicked to him, sharp, assessing. "Aye, corvus is one of my partners and i have others that will march with us" he said, voice low, almost playful in its edge. "The north has start to drift away from the gifts we have been given, I will not hide what I'm capable of and soon the rest of the north will not either"
Reed nodded slowly, the weight of both the task and Canis' confidence settling across his shoulders. "A Stark of old then, it will be done my lord"
From the outer hall, a rider entered, cloaked in frost, boots wet and bloodied from the snow. In his hands, cradled with reverence, was Ice, the ancestral sword of House Stark. Canis' lips tightened as he ran his hand along the hilt.
"You rode with my father?" Canis asked.
"I did, my lord. Took the sword back before the Targaryens could claim it. Many died to ensure this returned home."
Canis' jaw set. "Good, see to it that the families of the men who fell are rewarded, That steel will be the North's teeth, I thankyou for your efforts on reuniting us"
By mid-afternoon, the solar saw Canis, Ned, and Benjen together. There was no need to repeat roles; each knew what was required. Canis' gaze softened only briefly, the shadow of his smile fleeting. "Tell me what you think," he said, pacing slowly before them. "Brandon the Burner — do you understand i dislike him so? Why the North suffered after his grief guided him rather than reason?"
Ned's jaw tightened. "He acted in anger and mourning. He allowed his grief to dictate strategy. He did not pause, and the North suffered for it. The ships he burned, could have been used for trade and to protect our coast instead it left Winterfell exposed. He was… reckless."
"Reckless," Canis repeated, almost savoring the word. "Good"
Canis allowed a small, fleeting smile. "Now, what of Theon the Hungry Wolf? He brought the North together, yes. He slaughtered to secure the North against the Andals. Was he merciful? Or savage? Think beyond stories and songs. Think as the North must think."
Ned hesitated, then spoke carefully, "He acted to prevent further war, to unite our people before they could be torn apart. But the cost… the villages, the innocents… I was taught it is dishonorable to kill those who cannot fight back. I struggle with it."
Canis' eyes gleamed, fierce and unyielding. "Good, anyone who does not is a monster Ned. But war is not about comfort or conscience. One war fought with precision and cruelty can prevent a hundred drawn-out skirmishes. Sometimes, the slaughter of many allows for fewer wars in the long run. Theon understood that, his ledger in the library speaks of the nightmare he woke from, the nights he sat in this solar looking at the fire as he heard the screams of innocent he helped kill, but he knew it was necessary to protect the pack"
He stepped closer, voice dropping, almost intimate in its ferocity. "Every Northemn left a mark, for better or worse.Theon allowed for his name to be reviled by the south to ensure the security of the north, Cregan tempered law with ruthlessness and ensured none would rise against his king in the future, Brandon the burner left us weeker and acted in grief, Roddy the Ruin Dustin and the winter wolves reminded the South what it meant to cross the North and why the greybeards will march with us again. And we — we remember them, study them, and learn from their failures and victories. That is how the North survives."
"We ride to war tomorrow, it is no song or glorious thing, it is death. I will win this war no matter what, I will ensure our family is a avenged and I will bring lyanna home"
Canis' gaze softened briefly, almost human in its weight, before hardening again. "The world may call me a monster. Let them. But let no man mistake the wolf's mercy for weakness, or the shadow of the North for fear. Our family lives. Our pack survives. That is all that matters, I would rather be seen as a monster to ensure the pack survives, than be an honorable fool who risks all"
Benjen and Ned exchanged a look, both understanding, both carrying the weight of the lesson. Outside, the wind howled through the battlements, cold and unrelenting, carrying the scent of snow, steel, and blood. The North had gathered. The pack was united.
And Canis Stark, wolf of Winterfell, was ready.