Before we begin, a quick A/N and explanation: Hello all, just a quick explanation as to what this whole story actually is as some might recognize the title. Demon of the North was my first ever story I had written for FF, and it was fairly succesful, something I was very happy about. However, as time went on and my writing evolved I found the whole story to be rather... inadequate so to speak. For a full 60 chapters, this story became soundly my most popular ever work, however it was far from reaching any sort of quality I found acceptable for story writing.
So, rather than rewrite and switch every single chapter out with a new one, I eventually deleted the story, hoping to one day come back to it with the vision I wanted. Well, now's the time it would seem. For the people who do perhaps recognize this story and are thinking it will be completely the same, then you don't have to worry, it is more or less a complete rewrite from scratch, with elements from the original story being taken and rearranged (I.E. the character of Cregan himself, as well as much of the direction the original story took with a bit of a twist).
And without further ado, sit back, read, enjoy, and of course leave your thoughts!
Prologue: Origins
The sound of wood smacking against flesh echoed across the courtyard as the small child was sent flying by Garlan's blow. The boy hit the ground with a loud thud, and for a moment, he had wondered if today was the day he had gone just a step too far with him.
"Come on lad, up on your feet. If this were a true battle you would have been gutted by now." He tried to be as encouraging as he could, but in the end he knew that in these types of situations, sternness was preferable to coddling. Were he someone like Randyll Tarly, it would be nothing, yet he was not that type of man, so what he lacked in firmness with words, he made up for it with his actions.
Almost like a wooden doll, the boy stood up on his feet and went to pick up the wooden practice sword that flew from his hands. He had his back turned to him during it all, yet when he finally retrieved his weapon and turned around to face the knight Garlan saw the boy's bloodied and bruised face and could not help but feel sorry for the lad. His nose had received a bad hit as well, and was slightly bent, though nothing too bad.
Cregan Stark, the little wolf that came down from the North. The boy was carted off here to ward for his father Mace Tyrell. To this day, he will not understand the logic behind it, though the machinations of court politics and diplomacy were relegated to his grandmother and older brother. Overall, though, he had been staying with them for some time now, about 4 years if he recalled correctly. Though his father was supposed to be his guardian, guide the child in both education and ways of life, Mace Tyrell failed exceptionally, which left both his mother and his children to pick up his scraps. This was not necessarily a bad thing however.
"Hold." He announced to the boy, lowering his sword and going over to the sides to pick up a clean rag before handing it to him. "Here, clean that off you. I won't have any of your blood touch this dirt till you're old enough to understand what it would mean."
Cregan looked at the rag for a moment, not moving a muscle from his initial place and still holding onto his sword with both hands while trying to imitate the stance Garlan had taught him when sword fighting. "You won't have time to wipe yourself off in a real battle." His northerner accent, while fairly hushed at this point, could still be recognized clearly.
With not even ten and two years of age, younger than all Garlan's blood siblings, the little wolf had more fire and determination in himself than half the Reach combined. Being stubborn and being strong-willed were two lines of a very thin rope however, and both could get you killed in an actual fight. He was a good student, at least when being taught something initially, yet the downside is that Cregan would cling to words with an iron grip in his head, once something was instructed to him, you must hope it is correct. He had long tried to break the boy's habit of digging his head in the dirt and becoming unadaptable, yet mules could be more easily convinced.
"You're right." Garlan chose to switch up his tactics. "Because if we used real swords just now, you would have lost that nose of yours, along with half of your face." He twitched the rag in his hand. "Now come on, wipe it off."
Cregan looked at the rag with a scowl, dropping his stance. The boy took a deep breath through his mouth and shut his eyes closed. Without thinking, he grabbed his nose with one hand and quickly snapped it back into place. Garlan nearly jumped at him to try and stop it, yet it happened so fast he could not even realize what the boy was trying to do. Cregan grit his teeth and cusped his face with both hands, most likely trying to hide the tears and anguished expression he was giving off right now, before curling up into a small ball of pain.
Without a word, he reached out his hand towards Garlan and motioned his fingers for the rag, a sense of urgency emanating off of him as his whole body began to shake, most likely from trying to hold himself back from screaming. "Well, I suppose that is one way to do it." Garlan tried to crack a smile, yet it was a difficult thing to do with the sight in front of him.
Once the rag was in his grasp Cregan moved his hands and revealed a face doing its best to hold back every single urge to start crying. With one hand, he covered up his left nasal hole and violently blew his nose, a small clump of blood shooting from the right one and onto the ground. "There…" the boy murmured before resting the rag on his nose. The bleeding had stopped, but then again it was nothing too serious to begin with, however now Garlan had understood why the boy didn't want to stop. He was running on the rush from the pain, if he stopped, it would become too noticeable, and thus would expose this side of him to the rest of the courtyard.
He was not a prideful child, nothing of the sort really. Yet he was still a child, and children never wish to be told they are what they are, and will always try to imitate what the adults do. Through their many sessions, Cregan had seen the Men at Arms of their court take beating after beating and come back from it as if it was nothing, especially from the fights Garlan had participated in. Yet what the boy did not understand was that these men were soldiers with years of experience, who had dedicated their lives to warfare, and he was the son of Eddard Stark who was still learning how to read and write.
Garlan sighed. "Come on." He grabbed the boy by the arm gently and raised him off the ground. "You're in no condition to keep going like this, we shall continue this tomorrow."
"What?!" the boys eyes shot wide open. "No! It's fine, I can still fight!" he shook himself away from Garlan's grasp, all the pain seemingly fading away once he had uttered those words, that or he was just pretending again, the latter being much more of a possibility.
"Come now Cregan, don't argue, you are not out here to prove anything."
With grumbling contempt, the boy conceded, and followed away from the courtyard. "Drink up first," Garlan handed the boy a jug of cool water, "and then we'll have the Maester take a look at you."
2 years later...
Even through the thick walls of his room the Sun's light could still be felt on his skin. The Reach was known for its fair weather, far more suitable for farming than any other place in Westeros, yet this Summer had lasted nearly as long as Cregan could remember. He had gotten used to it somewhat, but even for the people of the Reach it sometimes became too much.
Slowly but surely he had wrapped up any remaining clothing left in his chambers, all packed as neatly as he could in chests and leather bags. Today would be his last day in Highgarden.
It would be 6 years now that he had spent his life within these walls. Learning, training, playing, eating alongside these people who he at first could not even comprehend on how to speak to. Yet he managed, as most wards often do. Cregan knew of his fortune however, there were not many who could serve as wards to the wardens of the Reach, much less someone from the North, yet even then they did not need to pay him as much need and care as they did.
As he stuffed his final coat into the chest, Cregan thought back on his time here, and on the people around him. Willas, who had taught him how to read and write, ever patient and frugal, he never once lost his temper with him, explaining anything and everything Cregan had asked him. Garlan, who taught him swordplay, brave and dauntless, he reminded him so much of Robb back in Winterfell, always the one headfirst into danger, never even flinching. Loras, ever bright and always pushing himself, the two of them would play together almost every day, recounting tales of knights and heroes from the past. And then there was Margaery, she was the first face Cregan saw when he entered Highgarden all those years ago, and ever since then the girl did not let him so much as breathe without her.
"You seem about ready." speaking of, said girl peaked her head from the open door to his chambers. "That was rather fast I must admit. Didn't know you were so eager to get rid of us."
"Ever the teaser you are."
"Come now, you didn't honestly think you could sneak away from us that easy?" compared to her lavish dresses and fine embroidery, Cregan had always looked more a pauper than a son of nobility. He liked his clothing simple and easy to put on, a far cry from the Tyrell girl who spent nearly as much time preparing to go out of her room as she did being actually outside.
"Yes well unfortunately I haven't learned how to turn into a mouse just yet, Maester Ebert has been rather slow with that lesson I must say."
"I would certainly hope he has, unless you're content on being a snack for Willas' hawk." Margaery walked over to the bed and sat down, lazily swinging her feet across the floor.
Two servants soon came in; Willy and Tor were their names, tavern lads from Winter Town who were enlisted by Cregan's mother and father to serve as helpers. They were good men, a bit dim but otherwise had good hearts. "All done m'lord?" Willy asked, he was the more quick-witted of the two, and by far the better talker.
"Yes, but you two can go and get yourselves ready, I can carry these by myself." the two looked ready to object but Margaery cut in before they could.
"No, he can't. You two carry those to the wagon. Cregan, come and sit for a moment. I need to talk to you about something." There were times when Margaery seemed almost like a different person when speaking, one point she would be the young and innocent noble girl from Highgarden, the other she would channel the spirit of her grandmother with a tone sharper than any sword he's ever wielded.
Cregan sighed and complied, he learned long ago not to say no to the Tyrell women. It was bad luck to get pricked by a rose. Willy and Tor complied as well, quickly gathering the remaining luggage. Tor was by far the more physically built one of the two, so he managed to pick up the chest with ease, while Willy kept to the far less heavy leather bag. Just before they left however, Willy grabbed him by the shoulder. "Now's your chance lad, go get 'er." he whispered to him with a smile.
"Shut. Now go before I make you both walk all the way to Winterfell."
As the two left without another word they closed the doors behind them and Cregan sat beside the Tyrell girl. "So, are you finally ready to admit I beat you in that horse race all those years ago?"
"No, I'm afraid not." she let out a quiet laugh. "I wanted to give you something." from her palm emerged a small locket, encrusted in gold and with a small rose sigil on it, the chains holding the lock slowly clinked and shone from the sun's rays. "Loras, Garlan, Willas and I all wanted to give this to you, but I was the one who suggested it."
He took the locket from her hand, with a push of his finger on the sigil, the hinges on it opened up to reveal the inside, letters being carved into the metal. "Growing Strong." Cregan read out loud.
"A memento, something to remember us by. I know that life in the North is-... difficult, but remember what grandmother always said."
"A flower strong enough can grow even in the harshest of Winters."
"Rather quaint don't you think? Very optimistic for her as well." she ran a hand through her hazel hair, shining nearly as much as locket from the Sun's light.
"As well as objectively false."
"It's always the thought that counts."
"I suppose you are right there." he took another glance at the locket. The scribing inside it was engraved in a style that could only be described as ornate, as was the rest of the pendant. "Thank you Margaery. Once again it seems you enjoy leaving the best impressions."
"Naturally, now come on. Father wishes to give you his final goodbyes as well, he has an entire little speech written up for you and everything." she hopped up from the bed and clasped her hands from behind her back.
"And I'm sure it was Olenna who actually wrote up said speech." Cregan followed suit and got up from the bed, putting the locket in the back pocket of his pants.
"Give him some credit, when he wants to, he has some good ideas here and there."
"I will take your word for it. Now come, let's not keep them waiting." he had no ill will towards the Tyrell patriarch. He was a man of many virtues; some Cregan could even be bothered to point out. Yet in the end, he was glad for Mace Tyrell's hospitality, for all of their hospitality. They took him in, raised him, and taught him as their own, all while not even flinching at his differences to them. This was of course the duty of any guardian towards their wards, but there were many in Westeros who were far worse off than he was when it came to becoming wards of foreign families.
Just as he reached for the handle of his doors, a sensation of touch came over his shoulder. "One more thing." he heard Margaery murmur, and as Cregan turned around she wrapped her arms around him. The two had always been close, they were only two years apart in age with Margaery being the elder one of the two, yet it was in these times when Cregan could tell she was being the most honest. It was in these times when Cregan truly felt that the Tyrells were his second family.
"Stay safe, little brother. Remember to write whenever you can." she whispered softly, any notion of coy playfulness left disappearing like leaves in the wind. "And please, no matter what the future holds, don't forget about us."
Cregan for the first time in years felt unsure. It was as if he was the little child again, taking his first steps out of the carriage in Highgarden. Just like that little child all those year ago, Margaery was there. Slowly his arms wrapped around the green dress, and he buried himself in the girls embrace.
"Don't worry, I won't. You have my word."
The journey was long and more than arduous. For some four months Cregan and his band of 20 men journeyed from the lush green lands of the Reach towards the cold and snowy fields of the North. 10 guards watched over their caravan, two at the front, two at the rear, and the rest defending the wagon with all of their luggage and supplies as well as him alongside all of the other servants who came with him to Highgarden. Though they all rarely spoke directly to him, Cregan could feel that many of them began to see Highgarden as a new home as well. Some of the younger guards and servants even started families there, and chose to stay in the Reach with Cregan's blessing, which was why they were reduced by a good 20 men or so.
Throughout their travels they stopped every now and again to resupply and spend the night at certain holdings with lords that would take them in. The further up north they would go, the more hospitable the lords became, Cregan noticed. It made sense, past the Neck and Moat Cailin, you would scarce find any lord or lady unwilling to host the second son of Eddard Stark in their halls. Yet perhaps the most lavish welcome was from his uncle Edmund and grandfather Hoster in Riverrun.
However, the flames of that feast paled in comparison to the warmth Cregan felt when he first saw Winterfell off in the horizon. Through his window he felt that cold northern wind hitting his skin. No matter how many years he spent in the warm summers of the Reach, a northerner will forever have his heart here in the North, with the cold wind blowing at this back.
A surge of emotions. Happiness, nostalgia, anxiety, all of them rushed through Cregan's senses in but a few seconds, though he fought to not show any of them on his face.
Once they were in the boundaries of Winter Town, Cregan could hear Willy and Tor greeting relatives with shouts of reunion, alongside many of the other members of their party. No doubt many relatives of the retainers and servants who went with Cregan to the Reach were wondering if they would ever see their family members again. Cregan once asked himself that very same question. He remembered the night before he left Winterfell, crying, kicking and screaming until he fell unconscious from exhaustion, waking the next day in his mother's arms.
It was not as if he did not come back to visit Winterfell at all, he had done so on six occasions during his time as ward of the Tyrells, but the journey was simply too long and costly to be done on a regular basis. His last visit had been 3 years ago, right after the birth of his little brother Rickon. Cregan wondered often if his siblings still remembered him. Every time he would come back, he would look more different than we he left, now would be yet another time he would come to Winterfell looking like a completely different person.
As the carriage drew further past the gates and into the main courtyard of Winterfell, Cregan saw his mother and father waiting there, not a day older than how he remembered them. His mother Catelyn with her auburn red hair, the same color as him and his siblings, save for Arya. His father, ever stoic and silent, stood as a statue, Cregan could scarce even see his breath, yet through his cold exterior, those same warm and loving eyes shone through.
Beside them was Maester Luwin, no matter how many times Cregan had come to visit and no matter how many times both he and his family changed, he was always the same. With grey eyes, a grey coat and his balding grey hair, the man blended with Winterfell's stone walls and towers so much it was a miracle Cregan could even spot him from afar. Alongside the Maester, there was also the ever-stout Ser Rodrik Cassel, standing guard for House Stark even after all these years.
He got out of the carriage with reserved steps. Every time he would come back home, it was with the knowledge that it would not be forever, yet this time there would be no tearful goodbyes or inevitable leaves. This time, he truly was home.
"Mother, Father." he came up to them both, nodding. Catelyn and Eddard looked at him with glances he had never seen before. Thoughts came rushing through his head. Has it truly been so long? Have they forgotten him? What he looks like?
Those thoughts almost became words through his lips had he not been stopped by his mother's embrace. "Welcome home, my boy." she practically jumped at him, holding the boy so tightly Cregan could scarcely breathe.
He locked eyes with his father, those same kind and tender eyes that saw him off so long ago, and through his mother's auburn hair Cregan could see hints of a smile on his father's face.
"We've been waiting for you son. Welcome back."
"Thank you father." Cregan said, hugging his mother tightly. Truly, the warmth of one's home can beat even the coldest of Winters.