Chapter 19 – "Lyanna wants to became a queen"
The morning broke cold and sharp over Winterfell, the kind of Northern dawn that bit at the fingers and numbed the bones. A light frost dusted the courtyards and rooftops, glistening silver in the pale light. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. Snow flurried softly against the grey stone walls.
Above the First Keep, a raven circled once, then descended swiftly to the rookery. It landed with precision, talons clacking against the ledge as it extended one leg bearing a tightly sealed parchment.
Maester Luwin took the raven, brow furrowed the moment he saw the seal. Gold wax pressed with a stag's crowned head.
Within an hour, the letter was delivered to Lord Eddard Stark, who sat before the fire in his solar, Kael curled by the hearth.
Ned read the letter once. Then again. His jaw tightened.
A royal invitation. A nameday tourney for Prince Joffrey Baratheon. Attendance requested: Lord Eddard Stark and Lord Cregan Stark.
Ned handed the letter to Catelyn. She read it silently, her expression guarded.
"So they call us south again," she said.
"Not us. Me and Cregan."
"You think it's merely celebration they want?"
"I think Jon Arryn wants to keep the realm from crumbling," Ned said. "And Robert... he likely wants ale and pageantry. But the summons is no simple gesture. They want to see Cregan. Measure him."
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At Frosthall, Cregan Stark stared at the same letter with narrowed eyes. His black cloak draped over one shoulder, and the firelight caught the glint of the blacksteel pin at his chest. Jon Snow stood nearby, arms folded.
"South," Cregan muttered. "Feasts, lords who lie with every word, false smiles, and men too powdered to sweat."
"Sounds delightful," Jon said.
Cregan groaned. "I'll gut someone within an hour."
Jon gave a dry laugh. "You say that like it would be a problem."
Shadow, the black direwolf, lifted his head from the rug and gave a low, amused huff, sensing the agitation of his master.
"I don't belong there, Jon," Cregan continued. "I speak plain. I drink too much. My clothes are stained from the forge and the kennels. Half the Southern lords will think I'm some barbarian wildling."
"You are a barbarian. A rich one with good hair."
Cregan flicked a piece of bread at him.
Before Jon could retaliate, the great doors to the hall banged open.
Lyanna, Robb's daughter of nearly four years, came striding in with purpose far too large for her small size. Her brown curls were tied in a rough braid, her cheeks red from the cold. And trailing behind her, half-running to keep up, was Torrhen—a chubby two-year-old bundle of fur and stubbornness, his nose runny and boots mismatched.
"Uncle Cregan!" Lyanna declared with authority. "You're going to the tourney. And you're going to win. And you're going to make me Queen of Love and Beauty."
Cregan stared. "Says who?"
"Me! I'm the eldest!"
Torrhen toddled forward and looked up at him. "Guh-go!"
"What?"
"Guh-go, Unka Cregan! I ride!"
Lyanna turned and spoke to her brother in a slow, deliberate tone. "No, you don't ride. You wave. You're my knightling. You wave the flag."
Torrhen frowned. "Want sword!"
"You'll poke your eye out."
"Sword!"
"No."
"Yes!"
Cregan put his hands up. "Enough! Gods. You sound like your father and me at twelve."
Lyanna folded her arms. "You have to go. If you don't, how will anyone know the North has the best warriors and the prettiest queens?"
"Pwetty queen!" Torrhen echoed, grabbing Lyanna's hair and pulling it. She shrieked and kicked him in the shin.
Jon reached over, scooped Torrhen into his arms, and sighed. "Pack diplomacy at its finest."
Cregan watched the children and rubbed the back of his neck. "You do know if I go, I'll have to kiss your hand in front of a thousand people and crown you with flowers, right?"
"I'll allow it," Lyanna said with grave importance.
Shadow sat up, tongue lolling out in what almost looked like a smirk.
Jon chuckled. "You realize you just got outmaneuvered by a four-year-old."
"Aye," Cregan muttered. "And her snot-covered general."
Robb entered behind them, looking every bit the Lord of Winterfell. He folded his arms and leaned against the wall, smiling faintly.
"Don't look to me for rescue," he said. "You created this monster."
"I trained a warrior. Not a southern schemer."
"Northern schemer, then. She has your blood."
Sansa appeared moments later, followed by Arya, Bran, and Rickon. The fire roared as the Stark family gathered, drawn by the storm of children and Cregan's rising grumbles.
"You should go," Sansa said calmly. "The South should see the strength of the North. It's all silks and smiles down there. You may be rough, but you're real."
"That sounds like a compliment wrapped in a warning."
"It is."
Arya flopped into a chair. "Think of the chaos. You could frighten half the court just by showing up with Shadow and your axe."
"You could fight in the melee!" Bran said. "Win glory for Winterfell!"
"Eat cakes!" Rickon chimed in, clearly unsure of the purpose of tourneys but excited regardless.
Catelyn entered at last, her gaze sweeping the gathered family. Her eyes settled on Cregan.
"I suppose you've been cornered?"
"Outnumbered. Outshouted. Outpouted."
She raised an eyebrow. "And what does your heart say?"
Cregan looked around. The laughter. The teasing. The children clinging to him. Jon's quiet loyalty. Robb's calm strength. Sansa's perceptive grace. Arya's wild smile. And his niece's sharp eyes burning with pride.
He exhaled slowly.
"Fine. I'll go. Gods help me, I'll go. But only because Lyanna asked."
Lyanna beamed. Torrhen cheered, despite not knowing why.
"You should start preparing," Robb said. "Winterfell and Frosthall must look united."
"We are," Cregan said. "We always are."
That night, fires blazed in both keeps. Letters were penned. Armor polished. Shadow howled once at the moon, a sound that echoed through the courtyard like a herald of change.
The wolves of the North were heading south.
And the realm would never forget their howls.
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