Welcome to Game of Thrones: Reign of Wolves!

So yeah, as I'm sure many of you have guessed, this is a bit of a rewrite for the few chapters I wrote in my previous story. I left this fanfiction for a while and when I came back, I completely lost my train of thought. Hopefully, this time I'll stick to it until it is completed. No promises though.

I've changed the ages of the characters a bit so here they are so people do not get confused:

Robb - 17

Jon - 17

Cregan - 15

Sansa - 13

Arya - 11

Bran - 10

Rickon - 6

Few things first, don't comment for me to update or even allude to it at all. It doesn't encourage me. It actually pisses me off. Just don't do it, and we'll get along swimmingly. So without further ado, let our Watch begin!

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Game of Thrones characters in the story or from the novel, A Song of Ice and Fire. Only the OCs included are mine and any original plots.

Chapter 1: Winter is Coming

298 AC

Cregan leaned against the wooden post in the vast courtyard of Winterfell, his wintry grey eyes staring with amusement at the sight of his younger brother trying to shoot an arrow straight at the target laid out in front of him. He observed as Bran gulped nervously, positioning an arrow on the sturdy bowstring and slowly taking aim. The boy's chest rose and fell with every breath he took before his eyes narrowed and he let loose-

Clunk!

A hearty chuckle left the cracked lips of the dark brown-haired youth as Bran's arrow sailed smoothly past its target and struck the barrel behind it. Next to him, little Rickon erupted into giggles, unable to keep his little snorts and snickers contained. That is until a stern look from Robb silenced the boy almost instantly. Noticing the downtrodden look that formed on the youngest Stark's face, Cregan reached a hand out and patted him on the head with a wide grin. Just as quickly as it had gone, the beaming smile on Rickon's face returned.

Jon walked forwards, placing his hands on Bran's shoulders encouragingly, and leaning down to his height. "Go on. Father's watching."

Cregan's eyes drifted upwards to the balcony at the same time as his brothers' where their father stood, keeping a vigil eye on his sons. His Tully-born wife was positioned at his side, smiling down at all of them, though it vanished when her brilliant blue eyes passed over her husband's bastard.

"And your mother." Jon added with a solemn look on his face.

"No pressure though." Cregan joked quietly under his breath. This time, his eldest brother's scolding glare was directed at him, silently telling him that his input wasn't as helpful as he believed it was. The dark brown-haired youth merely looked away with a small pout on his face before smirking.

Bran inhaled a deep breath before he pulled back another arrow and took aim at the target once more. However, as was the case with the ten previous attempts he had made, the arrow evaded the target completely. Robb, Cregan and Jon burst into laughter at the boy's expense while Bran looked as if he was trying his best not to cry.

"And which one of you was a marksman at ten?" Eddard Stark called from above, his grey eyes – the ones he shared with Cregan, Jon, and their youngest sister, Arya – narrowed sternly. Cregan felt his fingers twitch as he prepared to raise his arm but Robb quickly stopped him from doing so by giving him a good smack on the arm. "Keep practicing, Bran. Go on."

Bran nodded at his father's command before turning back around. Notching yet another arrow on his bow, he pulled the sturdy string back with two fingers, his brows furrowing in concentration.

"Don't think too much, Bran." Jon spoke with gentleness present in his voice.

"Relax your bow arm." Robb added his own input as well.

The young boy heeded the advice of his eldest brothers and exhaled slowly, trying to rid his body of all the tension and stiffness present within it. Cregan craned his head forward slightly, keeping an observant eye on Bran's positioning. There was no doubt in his mind that if he had fire the arrow, it would have at least struck the target. Unfortunately for the young boy, before he could release the bowstring, another arrow whistled by his head and stuck itself dead in the center.

Cregan pushed himself off the wooden post and turned his head only to see Arya standing there with her own bow in hand and a teasing yet proud smile on her face. Though the weapon was easily the size of her, she still managed to bow into a joking curtsey with it in hand. In an instant, both bows were dropped as Bran took off after the girl, who laughed with delight and broke away into a sprint.

Once again, Cregan joined in with his brothers as the three of them let out their own bouts of laughter as they watched their younger siblings chase each other all around the courtyard and beyond.

"Run!" Robb exclaimed, placing his hands on the same wooden post Rickon was seated on and Cregan had been leaning against. "Faster, little sister! He'll catch if you don't!"

"Shut up!" The little girl yelled from across the square, and the laughter of the three elder boys increased by tenfold.

Cregan sighed as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. His curly dark brown hair was pulled back from his long face, and he was wearing a dark wolf pelt cloak over his grey doublet. His nose scrunched as he tugged at his collar, feeling uncomfortable in this stuffy clothing his mother had insisted he wear.

Just under a month ago, news had arrived from the capital down South announcing that the King along with the rest of the Royal Family were going to journey to the North, to Winterfell. Cregan hadn't been told why, but if he had to guess, it had to most likely be part of some royal tour across the continent. Cregan didn't really care if he were to be honest, something which when he had voiced to his siblings, Sansa had stared at him as if he were mad.

Cregan's mother, the Lady Catelyn Stark – formerly Tully – had been adamant about making everything in the castle look as pretty as possible for the Royal Family's arrival. Ever since the announcement, she had been busying herself with arrangements for the rooms, the feasts, and the food. Her desire for perfection had also stemmed down to her children, and she made sure that each and every one of them would be cleanly presented in front of the King and his family.

The second son of House Stark found himself pulled away from his musings by something wet pushing against the fabric of his trousers. He blinked and looked down, finding himself staring into the amber eyes of his furry, four-legged companion, Sif.

Though his mother took to referring to the new pets of the Stark children as simple creatures, Cregan knew that the animal would soon become far stronger, faster, larger and deadlier than any known one in Westeros. They were direwolves, creatures from the far North, beyond the Wall. They weren't meant to be found south and yet, by happenstance, they were. It was a sign of fate, a person devoted to religion would say. Those who preferred more logical thinking would call it an accident. It mattered little to the children of House Stark. One by one, the wolves were chosen amongst them, or rather, the wolves themselves chose their new masters.

Sif was not the oldest of the litter of seven, but he was by far the largest of them all. He was a passive animal all things considered, the dark brown-haired youth noticed, a stern contrast to himself, a young man wild of nature. His father had often reminisced how similar he was to his uncle Brandon, the Wild Wolf himself. He was never his own person; everything he did was always compared to Brandon Stark. How he looked, how he fought, how he acted, even his manner of speaking.

It made him feel dirty and inferior as if the entire reason for him living was to simply serve as a replacement for his dead uncle.

Cregan bent down and scratched his Direwolf behind the ears, something he noticed the intelligent beast enjoyed. Sure enough, Sif tilted his head and let out of whines of delight. The second son of House Stark would have been content to remain seated by the foot of his bed and cuddle with his wolf for the rest of the day, but then the door opened and with the appearance of his mother, his hopes for some playtime with Sif were dashed.

Grey eyes stared ahead at the entrance of the courtyard. Cregan shifted from foot to foot as he stood in attendance with the rest of his family at his side and the entire court of Winterfell at his back. His father was positioned at the head with Catelyn right beside him. He had been placed in the middle of Robb and Sansa, being the secondborn, with Arya and Bran standing next to Sansa and little Rickon with his mother.

As they waited for the King to arrive, Cregan couldn't help but steal a glance down to where Jon Snow waited and watched, far from the family. A bitter sensation filled his chest as his eyes drifted over to where his mother stood, poised and regal as always. He wanted more than anything for his half-brother to stand with them, but the matriarch of House Stark would never allow it. She hated him; that was clear for anyone with eyes to see. All bastards were akin to Bittersteel for her. Cregan knew better though. Jon would never hurt any of them. He was no Blackfyre rebel. No, he was more like Addam Velaryon, loyal to the end.

The thunderous clamor of the Royal Party pulled his attention back to the front, just as the gates creaked open and in rode the Southerners, all packed tight as if Winter had already come.

A retinue of guardsmen strode in on horseback, their intricate suits of white enameled scales unlike anything he had ever seen. Like their plates, both their horses and capes were white as well. It was apparent to everyone who these men were: the Order of the White Swords, the honorable Kingsguard, the greatest warriors in all the realm. From the likes of Corlys Velaryon, Duncan the Tall and the Dragonknight, to even the infamous Kingslayer, there were a scarce few in Westeros who did not know about the White Swords and their famous warriors.

After them, rode in the royal bearers who carried the banners of both House Baratheon and House Lannister. These were not Kingsguard, yet that did not make their armor any less unique. Northern armor, much like their clothing, was simple, strong and sturdy. Iron plate over boiled leather that kept both the cold out and any weapons from gutting a man – well, mostly. Southern armor was far more ornate and fancy.

Any feelings of awe and admiration that had been present in his eyes instantly died away and disappointment took their place as he watched the Crown Prince make his entrance.

Joffrey Baratheon was no warrior, nor would he ever be, Cregan was sure of that. A scrawny boy carrying himself as if here a god amongst men. His garbs were painted red and gold; the colors of House Lannister which made it clear to him that the boy was placing the Lions of Casterly Rock on equal footing with House Baratheon. He hadn't really expected much given the rumors he and his brothers had heard but he had expected more than this.

Yet the disappointment didn't end there for when the King rode in, Cregan trained accusatory eyes onto his father. It was his fault. Eddard was the one who had brought his and his siblings' expectations up so high. He remembered the dozen or so stories the Warden of the North would tell him during his younger years, stories of the great Stag King. A warrior with the strength of ten men combined, the man who slew Rhaegar Targaryen single-handedly with his mighty Warhammer. The soldier who was known throughout the realm as the Demon of the Trident. This was not that man, that much could be said for certain.

Despite his internal thoughts, however, Cregan – along with the rest of his family and Winterfell's household – knelt before King Robert Baratheon. The fat monarch walked up to his father without a word, coming to a stop in front of the Quiet Wolf before bidding them all to rise. Wolf and Stag stared at each other for a moment, and the entirety of Winterfell held its breath.

"You've grown fat." The King finally spoke, his voice as blunt as the hammer he wielded in battle. Cregan couldn't help but hold his breath as the Warden of the North quirked an eyebrow and glanced down at the Baratheon Monarch's gut which protruded from the thick furs he wore. Then the silence broke and laughter filled the courtyard as the two men rushed to embrace each other as if they were long lost brothers. In a way, Cregan supposed they were.

"Cat!" King Robert exclaimed, hugging Cregan's mother with all the jolliness of an old grandfather, nearly lifting Catelyn off her feet before turning back to Eddard. "Nine years, Ned! Where in the Seven Hells have you been?"

"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace." The Warden of the North replied swiftly. "Winterfell is yours."

It was then that the secondborn son of House Stark noticed the carriage was drawn in. Ornate and disgustingly decorated, it truly was a cart fit for royalty and the ones who descended from it certainly looked the part. Queen Cersei Lannister's beauty was a stark contrast from the red faced and bloated King. She stood as graceful and as elegant as anyone would expect, wearing golden garments made of the finest fabric. Cregan felt his loins tighten as he observed the Lannister beauty with hungry eyes before blinking and looking away. He would have to visit the brothel down in Wintertown after this to relieve himself.

"You must be Robb." Cregan's thoughts were interrupted by the King's words. The second son of House Stark watched as Robb adopted a stony visage, one befitting a Lord, and firmly shook the Baratheon Monarch's hand whilst nodding.

King Robert grinned at the Heir of Winterfell before the Great Stag's stormy blue eyes fell on him and widened by a small fraction. "Cregan Stark, I presume. By the Gods, you're the splitting image of your uncle Brandon!"

"So I've been told, Your Grace." A bitter feeling spread through Cregan's chest as he masked his emotions behind a confident grin. Here was yet another person to compare him to the late Wild Wolf. Thankfully, his façade worked and King Robert chortled at his words, shaking his hand firmly before continuing down the line to greet the rest of the Stark children.

"My Queen." Cregan glanced at his father who greeted the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms with a kiss to her hand, as was courtesy. Cersei Lannister smiled but the second son of House Stark could easily discern that it was faked. The smile was displayed once more when his mother formally curtsied in greeting.

"Ned, take me to your crypts. I wish to pay my respects." King Robert's voice boomed throughout the courtyard. The Warden of the North was about to heed his command when Queen Cersei interrupted them.

"We have been travelling for well over a month, my love." The Lannister Queen purred with false sweetness lacing her voice. "Surely the dead can wait?"

The Baratheon Monarch, however, paid his wife no heed, choosing not to even acknowledge her. Ned looked back for a second, as if asking for permission, before nodding his head to the Queen in apologies no doubt and following Robert Baratheon to the crypts. Cregan eyed the Lioness of Casterly Rock carefully as she shot a venomous glare at the retreating back of her husband before Arya's voice cut through the tension.

"Where's the Imp?" Cregan could feel Robb tense up from next to him, most likely in fear of the Queen's reaction. He himself had never been more frightened for his little sister than he was in that moment, when the Queen focused her murderous glare onto Arya before turning to Ser Jaime Lannister.

"Go and find that little beast." Cersei hissed before following a Stark guard who would escort her to her room, her children in tow. Others followed her example and soon, the only ones left in the courtyard were Robb, Cregan, and Jon.

"Seven Hells, that was tense." Cregan breathed out, finally breaking the silence which had befallen in the vast courtyard.

"Was the Queen to your liking, brother?" Robb questioned with a quirked eyebrow as the brothers began to make their way into the ancestral castle of House Stark and Cregan grinned wolfishly.

"I must say she was indeed. Perhaps she'll let me warm her bed sometime." The dark brown-haired youth joked, with Robb and Jon snorting and chortling with him.

"...The King wasn't exactly what I expected." Jon confessed, after making sure that no one was around to listen in.

"Aye," Robb agreed with the Bastard of Winterfell's words. "After all of Father's stories about him, I never thought he'd be so..."

"Fat?" Cregan offered and while his brothers didn't verbally say anything, their eyes revealed that they agreed with him.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. Its grey stone walls were draped with banners. The running Direwolf of House Stark, House Baratheon's crowned Stag and the roaring Lion of House Lannister. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall his voice could scarcely be heard above the roar of the fire, the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations.

The feast had already been planned and in preparation weeks before the King's arrival, and it showed. First was the food, a menagerie of different cods, fish, meats, beverages and sweets served throughout the night. Second, the music, his father had paid a troupe of performers to come and entertain them, and it seemed the King rather liked them, that is whenever he wasn't trying to grope one of the serving maids. Thirdly, the guests, usually at feasts it was the nobles at the front and the household at the back, yet as the night went on more and more lines began to blur until eventually Lannister, Stark and Baratheon men all ate and drank with one another.

Apart from the singing, eating, and drinking, there was also the dancing. Before they got too drunk to stand on their feet, the sons and daughters, alongside the fathers and mothers, all gathered around the fire and danced merrily. The King had at one point danced with Catelyn, perhaps the only time he had actually held back any foolishness, and Eddard did the same with the Queen, yet the only woman who the King did not dance with was his own wife. Soon after came the children. Sansa danced with Prince Joffrey, while both Robb and Cregan took turns with the Princess Myrcella.

The rest of the evening carried on as any feast would and Cregan was loving every single minute of it. The second son of House Stark sat at a table with Robb and Theon, both laughing at eccentricities. Cregan as well had a huge smile on his face as one hand was clasped around a tankard of Northern ale while the other was fondling the behind of one of the serving girls. He truly was the Wild Wolf reborn; Eddard Stark mused as his stern grey eyes warmed at the reminiscence of his late elder brother. The Wolfblood ran as strongly in Cregan as it had in Brandon.

"It seems Cregan is enjoying himself." Benjen Stark noted with an amused grin as he sat next to the Warden of the North, eating a piece of bread. "Though, I'm surprised you've let such wild behavior continue for so long."

"This is actually tame." The Quiet Wolf revealed as he turned to his youngest and only living brother. "You should have seen the boy three years ago. He was worse than Brandon had ever been at that age. Arrogant with a promiscuity that could rival even Robert's. On his thirteenth nameday, he lay with a serving girl and even deflowered the kennel master's daughter."

Benjen raised both eyebrows. "I knew he was a problem child but I never could have imagined that it had been that bad."

Eddard shook his head and chuckled quietly. "I knew I had to act quickly after that so I sent him to be fostered at Riverrun at Catelyn's behest. To my pleasure, Lord Hoster Tully, or rather the Blackfish, straightened the boy out as best he could and sent him back a better man, or at the very least, a somewhat tamer one. And he's not the only wild child of mine and Cat's. Arya is just as spirited as our sister was."

Benjen nodded and drained his tankard from the very last drop of ale. "It seems you've got your hands full."

The Warden of the North nodded with a small smile. "Aye, I do. Only now am I finally able to understand the frustration Father felt when he had to deal with Brandon and Lyanna."

The two brothers sat in silence for a couple of seconds, eating bread and drinking Northern ale before the First Ranger of the Night's Watch suddenly spoke up, his features turning serious. "I heard you executed another Night's Watch deserter around a month ago." Eddard nodded, slightly confused, as Benjen continued. "Did he say anything as to why he forswore his oath?"

Eddard gave his brother a nod in confirmation, "Aye, he kept going on and on about the White Walkers. Why do you ask? Did you know him?"

"Aye, his name was Will. He was a good lad, one of the better ones in the Watch." Benjen mumbled as he bowed his head, his grey eyes turning dark. "Winter is coming, Ned," he said vaguely and Eddard's eyes narrowed as he continued, "and I fear that this one will be the harshest yet."

The next day, the King rounded up the Warden of the North and many of the other men for a hunt, Robb and Jon included. Cregan had also been invited to go but the dark brown-haired youth chose to decline as he was still reeling from the effects of the hangover he had been struck down with because of his heavy drinking the night prior.

Earlier this morning, Eddard informed his family that he had accepted the Baratheon Monarch's proposal for being the Hand of the King and that Sansa would be betrothed to Prince Joffrey. And after said announcement, came another; the question as to who would accompany him.

Sansa was already a given due to the fact that she was to marry the Crown Prince, which just left Cregan and his other siblings. Robb would have to stay, seeing as how he was the Heir to Winterfell and was set to become the castle's next Lord. Jon wouldn't be able to go, considering he was a bastard and desired to join the Night's Watch. Rickon was far too young, being a little more than six. Finally, that left Cregan. While he had been invited to tag along with his Lord Father, he declined. He did not care for the South beyond the Riverlands, as his duty was to the North. In two years' time, he was due to ride for Moat Cailin. The ancient stronghold which had stood for so long as a ruin had been rebuilt to its former glory – or at least a shadow of its former glory – by the Warden of the North so it could serve as Cregan's seat of power. From there he would rule as Lord of the Causeway and serve as Robb's bannerman.

In the end, it was decided that Sansa, Bran and Arya would be travelling with their father to King's Landing.

At the moment, the second son of House Stark was sat in the Godswood with Sif lounging at his feet. Cregan's back rubbed against the smooth bark of the Weirwood tree as he cleaned his sword with the water of the lake in a manner similar to how Eddard would clean Ice. The weapon was a longsword made of a strong variety of castor-forged steel. The dark grey steel of the sword gleamed in the sunlight as Cregan put aside the rag in his hands and rubbed his fingers over the pommel.

It was an absolutely breathtaking masterpiece. The cross-guard looked like two black and silver wolves snarling at either side and at the pommel of the sword lay the head of a wolf, with red eyes made from shards of ruby. The sword had a firm leather grip and was rather light. It felt almost perfect in Cregan's hands. The sword had been a gift from his grandfather, Lord Hoster Tully, the day he had arrived at Winterfell from the castle of Riverrun. High Justice, he had named it, a worthy title for a sword as magnificent as this one.

His train of thought was suddenly broken when Sif suddenly perked his head before jumping to his feet and bounding off while barking wildly, which was very unlike him. Cursing, Cregan rose to his feet, slid High Justice into its black sheath and then broke into a sprint after his black Direwolf out of the Godswood.

Sif ran behind the outer walls of Winterfell's holdfast and in the direction of what everyone dubbed the Broken Tower with the second son of House Stark at his heels. It was a separate piece of the castle that rose high into the air, having been abandoned long ago. No one really ventured toward it, except for Cregan and his siblings when they were younger. Bran still took to the place though, enjoying a good climb to the top, even though their mother hated the activity.

Cregan watched as Sif raced for the tower, stopping short of the grey brick structure where Bran's still unnamed Direwolf pup was howling, his green eyes fixed on the tower. Cregan's brows furrowed in confusion until he spotted the crumpled body of his little brother lying in the wet grass.

"BRAN!" The dark brown-haired youth screamed out as he dropped his longsword and rushed over to the boy. Bran lay on the ground, still and unmoving. His eyes were closed and his face paler than the summer snow. Cregan dropped to his side, his heart beating harshly in his chest as he reached out and placed a hand flat on Bran's own. He felt a slow thumping but nothing more.

Cregan's breath sped up and escaped his mouth in ragged pants. Realising that he was beginning to hyperventilate, the dark brown-haired youth raised his hand to his mouth and bit down hard. It was a meditative technique he had been taught by his grandfather and had always worked wonders. Once his heart beat slowed down and his breathing went back to normal, he carefully scooped Bran into his arms and then rose to his feet before sprinting off to the main keep, Sif and Bran's Direwolf at his heels.