CREGAN I

As yet another bleak white sun rose above the horizon, surrounded by dark clouds, rain poured over the lands.

It was a six day ride from the marshes near Greywater Watch to Moat Cailin. Of course, Cregan didn't stop at the ancestral seat of House Reed; there was no guarantee that the real lizard-lions wouldn't get him first.

There was no water around. The water from the rain was not sufficient, and it tasted of ash, remnants of the billows of black smoke resulting from a ferocious group of bandits torching a nearby settlement. With Lord Rickard burnt to the death by the Mad King, his son Lord Brandon strangled trying to save his father, and Lord Eddard off to march to war, there was nobody left at Winterfell to ensure proper law enforcement; even the mountain clans grew bolder, cutting it close to hunting in the lords' territories. The King's Road were ripe for the taking to rapers and bandits.

Any water that existed in the marshes existed as mud. Perhaps he would be lucky to find a new, clean puddle of water that didn't choke a man on its black, aqueous fumes, but he had no such luck.

Jeyne, his wetnurse, had succumbed to the elements on their journey. And now, he thought miserably, yet at the same time solemnly, I must give her a proper burial. It's the least I could do for her, for what she's done for my sons.

Artos, a babe of not even a moon's age, was sleeping deeply on his back, wrapped with a cloth hastily put together by an inexperienced father. Even though he desired nothing else but a cup of water, or even, Gods forbid, a tankard of ale, he continued to dig. And so he dug, dug he did, until midday arrived. He finally dug a sizeable enough hole for Jeyne. Lugging the body into the grave, he marked the grave with a piece of waterlogged, rotted bark from one of the few trees at the neck.

Times were so desperate, he even considered the cold, soggy flesh on Jeyne's skinny body, but he could not. If he was anything aside from a reserved, and some may say craven man, he was a Stark. He would not resort to cannibalism, even to survive the destitute land.

He would grieve if he had any tears left to spare. His sweet wife, Jorelle, dead at the hands of bandits; if only he had learnt to fight, just like his father, the adventurous and brave Torrhen, who exiled himself to Essos in search for adventure… but no, he was too craven. And so the Gods punished him.

What kind of husband was he, when he couldn't even protect his wife?

Artos had a twin, a twin boy, but he was born right as the bandit invaded their home; a modest settlement by a lord's standards, but still, a massive abode for second, even third sons who made it on their own. The boy had died along with his mother, but while they could not bring along Jorelle's dead corpse, Jeyne insisted on giving the young could-have-been lordling a proper burial.

It was fate that he would be returning the favour now.

When he finished shoveling the soggy dirt on Jeyne's long since cool body, he decided to recite a prayer for her; one for the old gods, one for the new, and two more for his deceased wife.

Finally, he ended his prayers with sincere words.

"You did more for my sons and their mother, more than I ever could," he said, shaking. He did not know if it was from the cold, or something else. "May the Gods guide you in the afterlife. Old Gods, New Gods, the Red God, the Drowned God, it doesn't matter. I hope you find peace, Jeyne."

When he finished, he stood up slowly. He was weak; starving, and dying of thirst. His child was skinnier than most, on his way, most likely.

You are a lion and a wolf, he thought fiercely. Please stay alive… You must stay alive.

Jorelle was a Lannister, the descendant of one of Lord Damon Lannister's nephews. Of course, the relation was so distant, the only thing Jorelle shared with the main branch of lions was a name and shining emerald eyes. Her hair wasn't remotely yellow, being the prettiest light brown he'd seen.

She ran off with him, after the mention of a betrothal to some old lowly cunt off in the Westerlands. The two married in the sight of the Old Gods and the new, with septons from the Crownlands to witness their union. It was a small ceremony, but Cregan was happy. His father died disappointed in his only son's lack of a sense of adventure, and his mother had died birthing him. He'd been happy for the first time since his father had died.

Alas, Valar Morghulis. It was a motto he'd heard from a Braavosi traveler, and the words always chilled him to the bone; yet, it seemed remarkably similar to the words of House Stark; Winter is Coming. Foreboding radiated off the words.

All men must die.

Cregan trudged through the marshlands, all the while searching for anything, anything at all that he could give to his son and keep him alive. He had no hope for himself, but surely, someone must take pity on his babe.

A mob of men appeared on the horizon, and he paled; they flew no banners, so they were no proper lords who might offer him food and shelter. No. They were bandits.

Hatred gripped his heart and he felt fire run through his veins, but he had near no strength left; all that was left was a heavy stone that ripped through his heart and dropped to the bottom of his stomach. Fear.

"Hand o'er yer coin, and we might not tear ya to pieces, boy." The leader was a somewhat tanned man with a shaved head. He had a few gaping holes in between his yellow, snarling teeth, and Cregan could not help but notice his horrendous bad breath.

I have no worldly possessions, he thought resentfully. If I had any, I would've bought a horse and I wouldn't even be here in this shithole.

He had some coin, but with the war, that coin was nowhere near enough to buy a horse with the super-inflated prices.

Aside from the few gold dragons he had managed to scavenge from the burnt ruins of his house, he only had Artos, and his Valyrian steel sword, a sword his father Torrhen had taken from one of the abandoned, yet not smoking ruins of Valyria. Although his swordsmanship was somewhat lacking, his father, God bless his soul, never gave up on teaching him. He still had some remnants of a rusty style he was taught an age ago.

He unsheathed his sword, refusing to grace the bandit with an answer. His actions spoke volumes already.

The bandit leader laughed. "Are ye sure? Yer outnumbered ten to one, boy."

"This boy has nothing left to lose, you piece of shit!" Cregan charged. The existence of his son, the feeling of his weight on Cregan's back had changed the man drastically; if he were alone, he knew he would surrender the sword and all his coin without protest, but those were key to not only his own survival, but his son's. So, he charged.

Unable to block a few slashes headed his way, he managed to shield his son from a fatal blow. However, when he fell on his arse, waiting for them to kill him and loot his bleeding corpse, a roar sounded behind him, not unlike that of thirty charging knights.

"RAAAAAARRRRGGH!" Under other circumstances, Cregan would've made a face and laughed at the ridiculous war cry, but he didn't complain. He was already dizzy from blood loss, and he knew, somehow, that he may not be here for much longer.

The army crushed the bandits easily and soundly. When he glimpsed a glimpse of the banners of House Stark, he was relieved. He unwrapped Artos from his back as a face similar to his own approached.

Grey eyes of a Stark. His son was safe.

"Please," he rasped, voice hoarse, not only from his screaming, but from days of living with no water. "My lord, have mercy. My name… Cregan Stark, son of Torrhen, grandson of Artos the Implacable…"

The young lord's eyes widened. "Father lost contact with you immediately before the war. What happened?"

"Married… Jorelle Lannister. My sons, Artos and his twin. Twin died… bandits…" his vision pulsed, and was slowly losing colour. "Artos alive… My sword, Valyrian steel, give… when he's of age…"

Lord Eddard Stark was stunned. He had a child already in his entourage, despite the fact that this 'entourage' consisted of only himself and seven other fiercely loyal crannogmen left after the battle; another one wouldn't be an issue, as Wylla could handle two babes, but the sword was something he didn't expect.

"My sword… Father found Wintersbane in Valyria… Promise me! Promise me it'll be Artos' one day…"

Eddard had made enough promises for a lifetime, but he promised. No maester could save Cregan from his wounds, but he died happily in his cousin's care, leaving an infant Artos with the new wolf lord.

It sparked an idea in Eddard's head that would affect the fate of Westeros.