Chapter 16 – "The Pack Expands"
The snows had thinned as spring crept into the North, but Winterfell thrummed with the energy of wolves. The pack had grown—not just in numbers, but in heart.
Robb Stark, now a seasoned lord and warrior, stood in the Godswood, his daughter Lyanna clutching his cloak and tugging with impish insistence.
"Where's Uncle Cregan?" she asked, lips forming a familiar pout.
Robb sighed with mock exhaustion. "He's supposed to be at the training yard, but he's likely being dragged into another one of your tea parties."
"She said he's a wolf prince and must drink from the pinkest cup," Jon added from the side, arms crossed, barely hiding a smirk.
Cregan arrived moments later, clad in dark leather, Shadow—the massive black direwolf—padding beside him like a silent sentinel. In Cregan's arms, little Torrhen giggled, chewing on his uncle's hair like it was a prized trophy.
"She wins," Cregan said with a theatrical sigh, handing Torrhen to Robb and kneeling before Lyanna. "Princess of the North, your knight is at your service."
Lyanna clapped with delight and tugged him by the hand. "You ride Shadow now."
"I fear for his back," Jon murmured.
Robb groaned. "You're spoiling them."
"They're Stark pups," Cregan shrugged. "Let them howl while they're small."
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The direwolves had returned. Cregan had scoured the wildest parts of the Wolfswood with Kael at his side, discovering a den of newborns under the broken root of an old weirwood. One by one, he brought them back.
Bran received a sleek silver wolf he named Echo. Rickon bonded with a massive russet beast called Boulder. Arya claimed the white-furred Nymeria. Even Sansa, at first hesitant, grew to love her calm ash-grey wolf she named Moonlace.
Cregan, already bound to Kael, was gifted one more by fate—a black direwolf with red eyes. He named him Shadow.
"Kael leads. Shadow hunts," Cregan said proudly. "Just like us."
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But Cregan's ambitions didn't end there. With his father's approval and Robb's backing, he established a new ranger force: The Nightfangs.
Based at the fortified Moat Cailin, the Nightfangs patrolled the wilds and borderlands, keeping bandits, poachers, and threats from the Neck at bay. Each ranger was assigned a hound and a Northern-bred steed—both trained at Frosthall under Cregan's personal guidance.
"You'll trust your beast more than your blade," he often said. "Because they'll smell danger before you even draw it."
The Nightfangs moved like whispers, striking fast and fading into the woods. Many whispered they were more wolf than man.
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At Frosthall, the pack ran free. Dozens of hounds, hawks, and wolves roamed the kennels and open fields. Horses of dark stock grazed in carefully managed paddocks. Cregan trained with his men daily, sword in one hand, axe in the other, Shadow never far from his heel.
Jon, now steward of the keep and Cregan's right hand, had turned the land into a northern haven—rich in trade, strong in law, and feared in war.
Robb often visited with his children, knowing they'd vanish the moment they caught sight of their uncle.
"Lyanna's been asking for a bow," Robb said one evening at dinner. "A real one. Not the toy you gave her."
"She's nearly four," Cregan replied. "Perfect time to start."
"She tried to shoot Boulder."
"She missed, didn't she?"
Robb groaned into his cup.
Torrhen, not to be outdone, had begun demanding to ride wolves like his uncle. He once tried mounting Kael and ended up tumbling into a snowdrift.
Cregan picked him up, brushed him off, and said, "Good. The snow makes strong bones."
"Stop encouraging them," Robb pleaded.
But Cregan only smiled.
"I can't help it," he said, lifting Lyanna onto his shoulder. "They're part of the pack. And I protect my pack."
---
At night, under the weirwood tree, Cregan sat with his younger siblings, telling stories of direwolves and the First Men. Arya curled beside him, whispering plans to tame a falcon. Bran sketched out old keeps he wanted to explore. Rickon chased fireflies with Boulder thundering behind him.
Sansa, more poised than ever, still laughed when Lyanna crowned her with flower-chains and called her the Queen of Frosthall.
Jon stood by the fire with Robb, watching it all.
"Do you ever think we'll know peace?" Robb asked softly.
Jon glanced at Cregan—wild, brilliant, chaotic—and smiled.
"This is peace," he said. "Our kind of peace."
And under the moonlight, the wolves of Winterfell howled—not in mourning, but in joy.
The pack was large now.
And still growing.
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