I Do Not Own ASoIaF/House of the Dragon

...The Night is Dark, and Full of Terrors…

Year 302 AC

Sansa ran, lifting her skirts, pushing through fires, and stumbling over stones. There was a blast; she winced as a thousand needles seemed to bombard her. The roars of dragons rattled her skull. A distant fire's heat tore apart the stones of her home. Skidding, she ran down the stairs towards the ringing of steel and iron. Her heart slammed against her ribs while an all-consuming pull guided her to the godswood. A blade whistled by her cheek, slicing her ear; she hissed at the pain while a furious roar had a man slamming behind her. She gasped when something tugged her hair, but she kept running.

The screams drowned out all else. Scents of burning flesh, shit, and blood intermingled with the cold, which burnt Sansa's lungs and lips. She ran between bodies, they desperately grabbed at her, only to tear her dress. A snarl escaped her. She wasn't brave like Jon, strong like Robb, or wild like Rickon. She wasn't Arya, and yet, she kept going. The Night King gazed upon her, and terror flooded Sansa under it, but she rushed on.

She was a wolf.

Sansa screamed when a friend was shoved aside. She skidded under their flying body, falling over the snow now slicked and stained with blood. Scrambling back, she caught her brother's chair, pushing it away as she twisted, her legs tangled in cloak and skirts.

A flash of movement. Pain ripped through her, robbing Sansa of breath. Only to happen again while a blade was pulled from her. Surrounded by motion and pain, she staggered back, tripping and collapsing.

Hands grabbed her temples, tangling in her loose hair. Then, glancing up, the lips of someone above her moved, and white eyes.

Everything turning faint and distant, and the brutal winter seeped into her bones as warmth within her died. The fresh blood was warm, thick, and sticky… her fingers trembled as she closed her eyes, pain silently screaming from the ragged wound with every breath.

Conciousness slipping beneath the endless darkness of winter's encroaching night, Sansa remembered the blue of death and the red of the weirwood above. As her breathing shuddered, everything slowly drifted while hands reached for her but faded away.

This was good, this was… good, no more pain…

1st Day of the 1st Lunar Cycle, Year 126 AC

"What are the reports?" Cregan asked tiredly as he walked the halls of Winterfell. He'd been in the center of a bloody civil war for the last two years, and now he had successfully breached his own keep's gates, the first successful breach of Winterfell in four hundred years.

"We've detained your uncle and cousins, they await sentencing, and the east wall will need restructuring. Your uncle's banners are gathered. We will prepare them for trial," Lord Lucen Norrey informed him. Cregan nodded to his mentor as they walked on. "Cregan, it will be important to establish your position swiftly and firmly. Leave no doubts you are the Lord of Winterfell."

"He is my uncle."

"He is a disgrace," Lucan countered. "Your decision is important, Cregan. It will establish your rule."

"I am aware," Cregan sighed. "But I must think on the matter, my uncle is a Stark, and that is not to be taken lightly, and my cousins… they are young, not children, but my age and I do not feel comfortable squandering it. I must think before I decide what to do."

"Very well," Lucan said quietly.

Cregan paused as they walked out on the wall. Beyond, Arra rode away with a hunting party. Her straw-colored hair shone in the weak sun of the North, and she rode like a woman born on a horse; he always enjoyed watching her ride. No one was more natural on a horse than Arra Norrey.

"I have much to think on and reports to review. The maesters have left the records unsure, and the two years of war… we should attend to the records first," Cregan murmured.

"Of course, my lord," Lucan smirked. "I've spoken to Lord Dustin and Lord Mormont, and we've agreed some of our banners should remain behind with you for the time while you settle into the Lord of Winterfell. And we've sent word to the Citadel that we need new maesters for Winterfell. It appears all fell in the siege by your uncle's hand, as did many staff. In the meantime, I will send our maester to help you with your records, though it might take him a few moons to get here."

He looked over at Lucan then. "You're not staying?"

"No, I'll be back when Arra drags you before the weirwood, but no, me and mine will be returning the Wolfswood for the time being before the mountains are impassible."

"Arra is not dragging me before the weirwood. She's my best friend!"

"And I'm a giant," Lucan snorted. "Oh, to be young. We will be back in time, Cregan. For now, Dustin has agreed to leave your friend Rody behind. I just think he wants his youngest off his hands for the time being. Lords Stane and Cerwyn have agreed to also remain behind. They're young in the Lordships as well and will be better equipped to aid you."

He nodded.

Lucan clasped his shoulder with a grim smile. "The North is yours, Lord Stark. We will swear fealty, and you are our Lord."

"Thank you, Lord Norrey, for everything," Cregan nodded.

"Of course, and Cregan…" Lucan sighed.

"Hm?"

"Make an honest woman of my daughter," Lucan ordered.

"I... I did nothing!" he strangled out the lie as his ears burned.

"I'm aware it's her idea, but stop thinking I don't know," Lucan warned. "Be upfront, direct from now on. It will prevent her from blindsiding you. Also, because she will drag you before the weirwood, you have my blessing, don't even think of eloping."

Cregan watched the older man leave and grimaced as he looked out at the horses as they disappeared in the tree line before walking back through the forest. He had never thought about his life after he'd reclaimed his ancestral birthright, despite being raised to be Lord of Winterfell since he could walk.

When his father's health started to go, Cregan had been sent to squire for Lucan Norrey, and he had later been hared off out of his uncle's reach to Lord Mormont, where Cregan had gotten the basics for being a Lord drilled into his head. From the age of twelve to now, he'd fought wars and battles, earning his position. However, to finally have it daunted him.

Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North…

He was going to be sick.

For the next fortnight, after securing Winterfell, most of Cregan's banners rode back to their homes and keeps to attend to their people's welfare while he learned to be the Lord of Winterfell. Unlike most nobles, Cregan was the authority of the North, and what ordinary duties lords had were minimal compared to the entire upkeep of the North.

Sara was returned four days after he had secured his hold, which had him hugging his little sister tightly to him as relief washed over him. Sara was the daughter of his late father's betrothed; their marriage was contested by Cregan's uncle, and given Rickon's death, Sara Stark was born Sara Snow, and her mother had died in labor. Cregan had fought tooth and nail to get his little sister safe, and he rarely let her out of sight when he wasn't at war.

The arrival of Lord Domeron Cerwyn and Lord Bryan Stane helped Cregan's burden of organizing his keep's atrocious records. Between illegible script and overall lousy administration, it was unclear what was what, including misinformation, missing information, wrongly recorded names, and dates. Not to mention the funds were an utter mess. Cregan wondered how much of the records were even accurate. And he dreaded having to seek aid from the Citadel for copies of the records from at least the past twenty years.

On a morning when Cregan finally escaped his duties for a few hours of peace in the Godswood, he fully realized the monumental crushing weight of being Lord of Winterfell. While the records were a massive issue, Cregan could not figure out what to do with his uncle and cousins. Their banners had all bent the knee to Cregan, but Cregan was uneasy about it all. Unwilling to become a kinslayer, but also intolerant of traitors, Cregan needed time to think over what he would do.

Though his uncle's regency had damn near ruined the North, Cregan feared for the coming tax collection, uncertain if the North would even be able to afford the taxes of the Crown. His uncle had betrayed the North and betrothed his sons to Southron brides for a hefty price. The bride prices had all but ruined Cregan's house finances, and he did not know where his uncle was getting this money; he did not think his uncle had even entered the Stark vaults, so it was simply his house funds which were depleted drastically. Dipping into the Stark vaults, though an option, was one Cregan's ancestors advised against, the vaults of House Stark were ancient, and the treasures held within priceless, but the wealth within would offset his current predicament of coming tax collectors. The maesters were not helping in this matter because maesters were in charge of collecting the Crown's tax and did not care about the state of the North, which was a problem. Cregan cursed his uncle's Southron ambitions for these matches and that the brides' prices were already paid. The Freys would never return the money, even when Cregan sent notice of dissolving the contract because he was Lord of Winterfell and never approved such a match. Then there were the other two houses; which Cregan did not even know; House Cox of Saltpans, and House Keath… He didn't know where they were from, just that they were in the Riverlands. There was no way Cregan would get that money back. He'd have to tell the houses it was compensation for the broken contracts, which his uncle did not have the authority to make as Regent of Winterfell.

But this left Cregan in a precarious position for himself and his House's future. Cregan had no money to offer for a bride's price, which would be an insult to any family Cregan approached. Granted, Arra was probably going to be his wife when this was over, but it would still be insulting if he had nothing to offer her. Not that she wanted anything, it was Arra, she was his best friend. But it wouldn't be viewed like that, and not having a bride's price was bad form; it offered only uncertainty for the future, and Cregan had to secure his future. To secure his future, he needed a wife and heirs. But to secure a wife, he needed a bride's price, which was… a mess. It was all a mess, and it was a mess beyond him as it just gave him a throbbing headache.

His uncle's damage to the North was truly criminal and tantamount to treason to the Crown even. It was a fucking mess!

And this led to Cregan's struggles on what to do about his uncle and cousins, because they had betrayed the Realm, the North, and their family, and Cregan didn't know what to do about that. Yet.

But escaping his mounting frustrations and duties, he had slipped to the Godswood within Winterfell; it was quiet. Sara was at her lessons with the septa, and Rody was training the newest young men, while Bryan and Domeron were managing a few other problems for their own keeps and lands.

Cregan, though, needed to think about what he would do about his uncle and think without interruption. It was a resounding problem with massive implications if he handled it wrong. He just needed… time, time to think in peace. He could pray for aid or guidance; he didn't believe anyone except another Stark would understand his burdens. The trees of the Godswood were wild and thick, and as he approached the pool of black water, the snow shrikes sang and fluttered as he prowled forward. At the weirwood, he rounded it, and his eyes widened in shock.

The red pooled around her; her hair and blood, the black of her robes were tattered, torn, with shredded cuts, and her skin pale as the snow beneath his feet.

Instinct had him rushing forward, skidding over her. He looked at the face, which was oddly serene. There was a soft breath from her lips, which had him grabbing her up. The blood was still fresh, her wound unknown, and he started running to the keep and shouting for aid. A flurry of people rushed him.

"I need Lord Cerwyn!" he shouted.

"My lord!"

"I need Domeron, NOW!" he barked loudly, running within Winterfell for the nearest hearth. Getting the girl, woman, into the room, he laid her out, examining the ragged wound. Domeron came running in with Rody and Bryan on his heels. Lord Domeron Cerwyn had studied the arts of healing and been in charge of many hospitals on the battlefields over the past two years. He was the most skilled healer Cregan had ever met; Cregan only had a rudimentary knowledge of battlefield medicine. All Cregan knew for certain was the bleeding needed to be stopped.

"I've got her, Cregan," Domeron huffed as he pushed Cregan aside to work. Cregan stood, noting Sara had come then. He walked to his sister, who eyed him warily. For a girl of nine, she had the solemn ancient gaze of a Stark, which was too haunting as she looked between him and the woman.

"Sister," he greeted Sara.

"What happened? Are you well?" Sara looked him over, and now he looked down. His pale tunic and furs were stained in blood.

"It's not mine," he murmured reassuringly. "Do you recognize her?" he asked softly as they looked back over to where Domeron was working. The girl had to be about ten and six or so, slightly younger than he was. Her woman's body was belied by the childish weight which clung to her face.

"I do not," Sara confessed.

"Stay with her," Cregan said softly. Perhaps she was a prisoner of his uncle's who had finally escaped and was succumbing to her injuries. It took a commitment to hide within Winterfell with a wound like that for a fortnight.

Sara nodded. The younger girl was good at remaining unnoticed when she wanted; Cregan supposed it was a gift of having been a bastard.

Hours later, after washing off the girl's blood and changing his tunic, he was confronted by the region's many farmers. This brought a new selection of problems Cregan had not even known about; the crops suffered from blight. The farmers were not looking at this year's harvest as even salvageable. They also informed Cregan that despite Cregan's records from his uncle, the North had suffered about three years of bad harvests. Which was not his uncle's fault, but the Summer Winters would be devastating; the lands had not recovered from the previous two bad harvests, and to further the problems, the farmers were concerned about blight on the crops now. Livestock would perish without the food, and if too many livestock died off, there would be nothing but bloated carcasses no one could consume. There were also concerns for the coming winter; even if it was a light summer's winter, it would be a struggle. Again, this was a problem Cregan had not anticipated. If the harvest was not good or the planting not good in the coming year, then the North would face a true famine crisis; given the state of the records, Cregan feared those ramifications.

Finally, after a day of hearing the problems and promising to think over possible solutions, he needed time to think. He was well aware that he did not have time to squander.

Well into the night, Sara came to fetch him for an evening meal.

"Lord Cerwyn says if the girl survives the night, then she might recover," Sara said softly.

"I see," he replied stiffly.

"The wound is most… unusual. Lord Cerwyn is unsure what could have caused it. He has proposed sending a raven south to the Citadel. If the maester from Lord Norrey can't identify the wound either, perhaps there is something in the records," Sara explained softly.

Cregan nodded, and the rest of the meal was eaten in silence. Then, when Sara had retired, Cregan walked to where he was told Rody had put the girl. Walking into the room, he looked around; it was one of the smaller guest quarters. The walls were barren, the bed simple, the hearth was going strong, and the walls warm.

On the bed, the girl lied prone with her hair like a coppery halo upon the furs. Stepping towards her, he scrutinized her face to determine if she was recognizable. She was a soft, delicate young woman. Though nothing distinct beyond her red hair. Turning, he spotted her robes and items folded and placed on a stool.

Glancing at her, he turned and thumbed through her items for a hint of her identity. There was a leather jerkin, which was cut through. The necklace was an unusual weapon; he recognized the tip as a weapon, sharp enough to draw blood. But the material was strange; he didn't recognize it; the obsidian black was harsh, jagged. The cloak was fine, the pelt of a black fox on it, the fine black velvet, with the leather, fur-lined gloves. She was dressed for winter. He paused though at the sigil on the dress and turned back to look at the girl; her dress, the tatters which had survived, held fine embroidery of the Stark direwolf and the weirwood leaves. His thumb rubbed over the threads, the simple, muted colors concealed by her jerkin. The deep blue velvety material, it was unusual. He frowned as he looked back over at the girl.

"Bran? Jon?" the girl rasped. "Arya? Lady…?"

Cregan stepped towards her then. Her feverish brow was flushed pale pink. The weak whisperings of the woman were unsettling, the way she begged for this Jon, Bran, Arya…

"You are safe," he murmured gently to the mysterious woman. It was odd, the pull of kinship he felt for the girl; she reminded him of Sara, but also not. The direwolf sigil on her tattered gown had him assessing her carefully.

He would worry about the girl and her identity after she survived. However, if she perished before he was required to deal with her, it would lighten his ever-growing list of worries. Tomorrow he would speak with Roderik Dustin, and other houses concerning the survival of their coming northern summer winters.

And the next fortnight was spent checking in on the girl, ensuring Sara was attending her studies, and working on the problem of the harvest crisis. Cregan had scoured the old prints and Northern records from before the Maesters for prints and plans, the recipes for glass, and a vague idea for the glass gardens to become more common. He also managed to look at the old records of his House's finances and frowned. Starks were never Lannister wealthy, but they'd never been destitute. He found the old records to support this. Only in the last fifty years, things had started changing, money moving and disappearing, since the time of King Jaehaerys the Old King. Since Cregan's father had died, things had notably started deteriorating for House Stark in the last ten years. The records, though, were odd… he didn't know what to make of them. And a fortnight of studies only left him more dazed and confused.

In this time, though, he had arranged a union with Arra. Or rather, she had sent him word he would be marrying her, and Lord Lucan Norrey supported the match. Making Cregan laugh loudly because he hadn't actually thought Arra would marry him, but her directness was not unusual, and he should try to be more direct like she was. He had always admired that about her. She was his best friend, and a match between them made sense. Cregan had to send word to Lucan that he could not pay a bride price, and Lucan had countered he could not provide a dowry, but that this match would be prosperous in time, and they would reap the fruits of that labor. Also, Lucan stressed he had two other daughters to marry off, so Arra was marrying Cregan, whether he liked it or not, before someone else offer their hand for him. Which had Cregan laughing when he received the message. He could live with the match to his best friend. They'd agreed on a wedding in six moons' time, when the planting season would be new, and they could survive working before the next summer's winter.

Arra was entirely in charge of the wedding, and threatened Cregan he would be there, or she'd hunt him down and drag him back to the wedding. He could see her female excitement that she'd be planning this affair and felt it best he left it between her and Sara and the other Northern ladies. Still, the enthusiasm was startling.

"We will have the lords gather their stores, construct glass houses in the viable keeps, and stave off immediate panics," Cregan said softly to Bryan. "If we must encourage hunting and foraging, it should be instructed what is safe for consumption."

"Cregan!" Sara burst into the hall, rousing him from his discussions with Rody and Bryan.

"Sara?" Cregan rose slowly.

"She's awake!" Sara said. "And lucid," she added as an afterthought.

"I will return to this discussion," Cregan assured as he grabbed up Ice and swept out of the hall. Sara scurried beside him, which had him taking the steps two at a time.

Whilst Domeron informed Cregan that he was optimistic the girl would recover, a fortnight of the girl's fevered pleadings and nightmares had furthered Cregan's curiosities of the girl. She was an oddity, one he could not figure out. The fevered cries of the woman were desperate, pleading for something he didn't understand.

Cregan had visited the girl for a fortnight, and the girl rambled. Her ramblings were something of a concern to Cregan; for how she spoke. But, fever or not, her ramblings were too… vivid to be mere fevered ramblings. Cregan had heard delusions and truths enough to know how to pick apart the differences and how she cried out with terror and fear about the Night King. Cregan knew the Night King as myth; but in myth there was truth, and Cregan knew that well with tales of the former Kings of Winter.

The detail of the girl's ramblings sounded too true not to be founded in truth; she did not ramble like the mad or rabid.

"She is lucid?" Cregan asked when they reached the doors as Domeron emerged.

"Yes, but… I believe she's suffering from some ailments lingering in her mind. She's been wrought with fever for so long…" Domeron said softly.

"I understand," Cregan nodded. "I will speak with her now," he said softly.

He saw Sara and Domeron nod as they both watched him. He waited for them to understand he'd be talking to the girl alone, and when Sara understood, her eyes went wide.

"Perhaps we shall have some tea. I have been struggling with my letters," Sara offered as she smiled brightly at Domeron, who softened a little.

"I do not want Sara falling behind on her studies," Cregan encouraged.

"If you need me, I will be teaching Sara her letters," Domeron shook his head in amusement.

When the pair were walking down the halls, Cregan took a deep breath to calm his temper as he leaned against the wall. Then, opening the door, he stepped into the chambers, the hearth was weak, which had him glancing at the girl, who was curled up under the furs, shivering, flushed, but still pale; her coppery hair looked like a fire on the furs. Her eyes were blue, a bright, icy blue, which was startling in the darkness of her room. He walked towards the hearth, tossing a couple of logs upon it, stoking it, which had the hearth burning brighter. Her eyes stayed on him.

"Where's Jon?" she rasped, her voice hoarse, a mere whisper.

"Perhaps I can find Jon when I am aware of your identity," he drawled out. "As well as how you have come to be injured. In the godswood."

He saw her tensing as she watched him. He could almost see the thoughts in her mind swirling up like a storm. She looked distant for a moment before her eyes were upon him again, and he could see her tensing as he pulled up a stool to sit upon. The way she watched him was that of a wild animal examining its options and routes to escape. Then, pouring the water in the pitcher, he held out a cup to her. The mistrust was apparent, so he sipped the water, swallowing and smiling as he held out the cup again. Now she took it in her trembling hands.

"I am Alayne Stone… I am from the Vale. I am betrothed to the Lord of Winterfell," she started shakily.

"Oh, that is a pretty tale, my lady," he chuckled. "But my betrothed would be greatly offended at this statement. We are to be wed soon. Lady Norrey is rather pleased with her skills at planning this affair. I would not dare her wrath by finding a second betrothed. So, pray tell, who are you, truth, this time."

He watched the blood drain from her pale face, what little flush was upon her cheeks vanishing so she was as pale as snow. And the grim look on her face startled him; he'd seen that face before.

"I am…"

"Tell me about the Night's King and the dead that rise again," he ordered to prevent her from telling another lie.

"Winter is here," she shivered. "Winterfell fell. We are doomed," she murmured as she fell back in the furs.

"You are at Winterfell. It has not fallen," Cregan stated, which had her blue eyes flicking up to him then. A shuddering breath seemed to leave her. He could hear her fear and uncertainty as she lay there. Her trembling had the water in her cup sloshing about, which had him reaching over to take it.

"Where is Jon? Where is my brother? Ayra? Bran!?" she pleaded desperately.

"Perhaps now is the time to speak of how you came to be in the Godswood, the truth, this time, my lady," Cregan stated firmly as he set aside the cup of water. "Because Lady Arra will not be sharing me as a husband; Norrey's do not permit multiple wives for husbands."

Her eyes were wide as she stared at him. "Lady Arra Norrey?" she whispered.

"The one and only," he mused ruefully.

"It's not possible," she whispered. Her eyes stared at him with something akin to disbelief and shock. "That means… you are, Lord Cregan Stark…"

"I am," he nodded. Now her eyes glazed a bit in awe and greater disbelief as they stared at one another. "What do you know about the Night's King?"

Sansa stared in disbelief at the sight of Cregan Stark, his black curls, dark grey eyes, and sharp, long features; somewhat reminiscent of her father, but not, it had her trembling. The Wolf of the North, the Old Man, she had heard the legends. The Hour of the Wolf, which had ended the Targaryen Civil War. The most commanding force before her father's death. A man truly worthy of being King of the North, and yet, he'd never dared claim a title like that. Oh, but he could've. He'd embodied every important aspect of the North, the honor, the justice, the brutality, the wildness, and the composure. He was who she aspired to be if she lived to be Queen of the North. The disbelief of just seeing him, here, before her, no older than she…

"What year is it?" she rasped. Her throat throbbed in agony; as though someone had dared to feed her glass. Her heart roared in her ears, and she inhaled a sharp, uncertain breath as she stared at him. His eyes were level, calm, rather rueful, but she didn't feel threatened by his gaze.

"Tell me about the Night's King," he countered.

"I…I must be mad," she whispered in disbelief. It was not possible, it was not possible. Perhaps she was dreaming; like those dreams she had on occasion when she fancied herself Lady. Perhaps this was madness or Bran's work. She knew her brother was not normal anymore.

"No madder than I, so speak your tale, and let me judge your madness," Cregan ordered.

"It is not possible, the tale I have," she rasped in disbelief. "What year is it?"

"The year matters?" he questioned.

"It is year 302 AC, Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen and her dragons, with the army of the Unsullied and Dothraki hordes have arrived; I don't know how I'm going to feed them, I'm not great at numbers, but I cannot stretch them. Even the survivors, if the stores are not raided, I do not know how we will survive this winter, and I fear this is to be the long winter…" she murmured. Her fears she'd been keeping to herself for the aftermath of the war, if they survived, it was daunting. Part of her wanted to laugh madly at this illusion. The greatest Stark in the last three centuries listening to her worries as if her world had not gone completely mad as it were! The living dead, the wrights, dragons, Dothraki, Lannisters being allies! Oh, she had finally gone mad, lost her bloody mind! She had lost it…

"It is not 302," Cregan growled.

"Obviously, I'm speaking to a figment of my imagination taking the shape of my ancestor, sent to me upon my greatest failure for judgement; I must be dead or dying; that is the only way we could meet. You're here to cast me down for failing," she shook her head, falling back in the furs. Grimacing as her side throbbed, the pain was unexpected in her delusions. Perhaps she was dying or about to. Maybe her ancestors were to judge her? Had they judged her father? Preposterous thoughts, she sighed. If she was to be judged by Cregan Stark, he would find her lacking, and she deserved her failures then.

"Ancestor!?" he sputtered.

"I would think it would be my father here to judge me. My father was always so fair in his judgements, he would be more sympathetic to my failings, but he'd still be fair. Or Robb, Robb would be kind to see, but I can understand why the Gods would never permit my brother to judge me. Gods knows Jon and Robb share the annoying trait of forgiving or ignoring my faults. Since Arya is not here, I will presume she lives. She's probably spitting on my grave. I deserve that; she is not very forgiving. Jon would understand, but he would not be here. He insists death is nothing. It is an end and nothing more. I doubt he could be bothered to judge me, though, he is so enamoured with the Targaryen… Rickon would laugh if he were here. I wonder if he grew up to have his humour intact… he had wolf's blood, you know. He was always so wild! And Bran… if he died after I saved him, I might stab him with a needle, lots of needles, cryptic, Three-Eyed Raven oddities be damned, if he died after I died saving him, I will get even, mark my words, which means he's hiding in the afterlife from me! And my mother would not be here, the Seven would claim her soul… So, of course, of course, I am to be judged by the Greatest Stark to have lived, and you will find me lacking, forgive me, but I hope you'll see I attempted to live up to our ancestral legacy. I am sorry, I failed our house. And the North. And the world. I let the Night King rise. I'm sorry."

"Ancestor!?" he sputtered again. "Are you mad, woman!?"

"Mmm, and you dare to say I'm not mad, I'm quite mad, not as mad as that Targaryen Jon brought back, the fool, but mad all the same. For I have clearly died," Sansa sighed tiredly. "Where is Bran? The Night King sought him out, the Three Eyed Raven, I… I was there…" she grimaced. "Arya… she was…"

"I am no one's ancestor! I'm not even married! And I've certainly never sired a child. We're the same fucking age!" Cregan bellowed, jolting Sansa out of her misery of accepting death.

"Mmm, so what is your verdict, Lord Stark, do you find your legacy lacking, I apologize to my ancestor for this failure. I tried…" she started.

"Who are you, girl, do not lie to me!?"

Now she blinked as he grabbed her wrist, startled at the contact feeling so real. His eyes bore into her. The reality was startling, which had her trembling. It felt too real to be an illusion or madness or death.

She wasn't dead!

She wasn't dead?

She wasn't dead...

How? He felt too real. The heat, the strength, the way he was glaring at her, she could feel him. Her heart was painfully beating in her ribs, almost breaking her chest. She trembled as she looked at where his large hand gripped her slender wrist and then at him.

"Who Are You?" he growled.

"S-Sansa…" she stammered. "Lady Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell…" She was too stunned at how real he felt to lie to. "This… is impossible," she rasped as they stared at one another. "How are you real? How am I not dead!?"

"Stark?" he rasped in equal disbelief as they stared at one another. She trembled violently in his grip.

Cregan stared at her, feeling the steady pulse beneath her delicate skin fluttering under his fingers. He trembled. She was perhaps his age, maybe younger, but young, and the way she stared levelly back at him, it was the gaze of the wolf.

"This is not possible," she breathed.

"302 AC," he murmured in disbelief, releasing her he stood as he examined her. He did not think the girl mad. No, she had spoken rather levelly, and her worries were real enough to her,. The stresses were the same as he faced. Feeding their people, surviving, the wolf which guarded the North, he could see the Stark in her face.

The more he studied her face, the more he could see she was a Stark; the nose, the shape of her eyes and brow, even the gentle jawline she possessed; she was more delicate, not as harsh, rather softer, a little rounder in appearance, but all the hallmarks for a Stark were there, especially around the mouth, she had the same mouth as him. She was more beautiful than Starks were traditionally, but she was a Stark. He could even pick out the traces of grey in her icy eyes. The prettiness had to come from her mother's family, Cregan concluded, Starks were notoriously ugly until their formidable years; Arra had equated Cregan to a drowned rat until his seventeenth summer; of course, by then he had a few more scars after fighting to reclaim his home.

"Tell me everything," he ordered sharply.

He was no longer sure if he believed her or not, but he saw no madness in those icy eyes. Cregan had gazed upon madness and saw none, merely exhaustion and disbelief. Sansa gaze reflected his own. She had Stark eyes, which he'd only seen in himself, his father, and Sara; not even his uncle and cousins had the Stark eyes.

"How is this possible?" she rasped in disbelief.

"I do not know, but the Old Gods are funny in this matter and have sent you here," he admitted. "Tell me all you know."

So, he listened, and his gut twisted violently at the world she wove for him. Not a trace of deception was in her gaze or voice, and he clenched his fists to keep from throwing up at the world she painted. The hopelessness, the prospect of the Long Winter plunging them into the depths of nothingness. Millenniums of their work scattered to the wastes of nothing as winter swept down upon the world to plunge it into death. He felt sick. The Night King was always a responsibility of the Starks, a tale as old as Bran the Builder, if not older, and it was their charge to protect the North from the death he would bring upon the world. Hearing they had failed and that Sansa thought it a mere myth terrified Cregan.

And worse, the more she spoke, the more she sounded like a Stark, and even he could not deny her truth. There was the resignation, duty, and foreboding in her tone which made her tales, as dark and horrific as they were, even more solemn.

The how's of her situation were well beyond him. But he'd heard of skinchangers, wargs, and giants; his own family was notorious for marrying the daughters of those magic bloodlines after conquering them. And Beyond the Wall, there was magic, and then there was the Old Gods, the weirwood, he was not against believing her tales. He was just in disbelief about how this was possible. The Old Gods must be tampering with forces beyond his comprehension. He could accept her as a Stark, though.

When she finished her tale, exhaustion showing on her every feature, he leaned back in disbelief as he stared back at her. Dragging his hands through his hair, he let his head fall back. He was ten and eight, he did not know if he could manage this.

"Winter is Coming," he concluded with a heavy sigh as he lifted his head to look back at her.

The Old Gods had a horridly bad-humored way of fulfilling his prayers, he thought bitterly. The Old Gods had reached into the line of the Starks and torn a girl from her era, and her family and thrown her indifferently in his path in a manner which would not permit him to deny the truth. Sansa Stark, daughter of his line, had been sent to his aid, and she spoke of a world of bitter diminishment and failure because the Starks lost their ways.

Cregan felt this was a sick jest from the Old Gods', a forewarning of him to be wary of what he prayed for.

When he'd prayed for guidance and help from another Stark, this was not what he meant!

Of course, he wasn't upset at Sansa; looking upon her, he could only feel the powerful pull of kinship, which aided in him being unable to deny her truth. She had accepted her death, and it sounded as if the Night King had pierced her with his blade before the Old Gods tore her from her death and sent her to him. Perhaps there was more to her than he was seeing, but at this moment, the disbelief she was here was too great. She looked like him, and Sara; she looked like a Stark. A pretty Stark, but a Stark, and he needed another Stark's aid.

"It is," she whispered with a tremble.

"The Old Gods have bad humor," he muttered sourly.

Now she smiled a bit, weak and shy as she seemed to be hiding her humour. "Oh, you have no idea, my lord…"

"We will discuss this more later. For now, rest, I will return," he said softly. Impulse had him reaching out as he pushed her hair back and smiled a bit; he traced her hairline like he would with Sara on a whim. She was real, it was odd… she was from his line, proof of a future, odd given he had no children or wife yet. She seemed to take comfort in the touch, and he dropped his hand as he moved to leave.

"My lord…" she rasped.

"Are we not kin?" he asked her bluntly.

"We… are?" she stammered.

"Then you will address me as Cregan. Give me time. I will return, and I will attend to my duties, but we will be speaking again. In the meantime, I will have Sara attend to you, be kind; she is also kin," he stated firmly.

Sansa blinked a few times but didn't argue, so he took this as her acceptance and his escape. He would have to figure out what to do with Sansa later. For now, he needed to digest what she said. He also had the problems of today. If he was not careful, his people would starve. Leaving Sansa alone, he made it outside her room, shutting the door behind him, his head coming to rest against the wood.

He was barely eight and ten and not prepared to have the Gods answering his prayers, but everything that had just been laid at his feet had him severely questioning if he was truly ready or sane enough to manage the coming winters.

One thing was clear, though: he would have to check in on the Night's Watch and the Wall.

It was not his immediate problem, though. His immediate problem was the blight on the crops, the food shortages, and how to manage the coming hardships. Pushing himself upright, he went to find Sara to attend to Sansa, and then he would meet with the lords again and continue discussing their options. They needed the stores to be secure before deciding where to go from there. He would also have to figure out what to do with his uncle and cousins; they were a problem he did not think he could banish to the Wall.