Cregan Stark had watched it all. The fall of his house, the unraveling of the North, and the slow decay of the Stark name across generations. He had seen Rickard's proud ambitions falter under the weight of southern crowns and southern cunning. He had seen Brandon, impetuous and furious, strangle himself beneath a rope meant for kings. He had seen Ned, his own descendant, wearing honor as armor yet fracturing the faith of the North with every measured step and pander to his southern wife. And Robb… the young wolf, sharp of mind and fleet of heart, had been gifted with the instincts of battle yet blind to betrayal, carried away by notions of justice and honor while knives gathered at his back.
Cregan's eyes, pale and cold from the long centuries of memory, swept over it all. The wolf-pack had splintered. The North had bled in silence. The songs of Starks sung in Winterfell's halls now echoed empty, haunted by ghosts. He could smell the blood in his mind—the blood of ancestors, the blood of sons, of nephews, of brothers, of children who had never had the chance to see the North rise again.
He sighed, a sound swallowed by the cold. Beyond the veil of memory, he saw the North fractured once more, as though history had chosen to repeat its cruelties. Winter lay heavy across the hills, snow pressing down upon roofs and bones alike. The Stark name was dead.
And then the forest moved. Not with wind, nor with leaf, nor with the rustle of creatures, but with the presence of something far older. The Weirwoods leaned toward him, their branches bony as spears, their eyes blood-red and unblinking. The Old Gods stirred. They whispered in the language of heartbeats and shadows, in memory and ice.
"You have lingered long, Cregan Stark," they said, though no lips moved. Their voice was the cracking of branches, the groan of snow-laden timber, the pull at the roots of the world. "You have seen the wolf fall. You have seen the North crumble. And yet, you have not yet acted."
"I am dead," Cregan said aloud, and the words were his own, echoing hollow in the void of the gods' presence. "I am old, and my blood has long run cold. What action can I take now?"
"Choice is always yours," the Old Gods answered. "You may linger here, a shade among the dead, and let the wolf be hunted to extinction. You may watch as the North fractures, as your line dies in shame and blood. Or… you may return."
The air thickened. Cregan felt centuries press down on him, the weight of bloodlines and winter and death. Return. He knew what they offered: life, but not his own. To walk again among the living, he would take the body of Robb Stark, the boy wolf who had yet to learn the cunning the North demanded.
"You speak of taking the boy," he said. "And what of him? What becomes of Robb Stark?"
The Old Gods did not flinch. "He will die. His life will feed yours, as the saying goes, "only death may pay for life" You will walk in his body, you will feel as he feels, and yet you will remain yourself. But know this: the cost is high. You will be a kinslayer. You will bear the sin of kin in your bones. And when you die, you will not see your family in the afterlife, for the debt is too great to forgive."
Cregan felt the chill of it as if a dagger had pierced his heart. To save the North, he would commit a sin beyond measure, taking the life of a boy he had once watched grow as the North's hope. And yet… the North was a weight greater than any conscience. Ice and steel, wolf and hall, blood and snow—they demanded sacrifice.
"You will have tools," the Old Gods continued. "Ice lies at Winterfell, left by Ned as he never learned to use it in combat. Grey Wind grows faster and stronger than you knew, he will be your protector. Knowledge will be yours. You will see the treacheries and betrayals before they strike. But what you do with these gifts, what alliances you bend or break, what war you wage… that is for you alone."
Cregan closed his eyes. He saw the Red Wedding, the knives at his kin's throats, the Freys counting coin as blood fell. He saw the Lannisters smiling behind high walls, and the Others, white and terrible, marching ever south. He saw the North broken, the wolf hunted to extinction, the lands turning black beneath winter that would not end.
"And if I refuse?" he asked, voice rough as gravel. "If I remain dead, will nothing stop it?"
"Then the North dies," the Old Gods said simply. "Your line dies. Winter will consume all. The wolf is hunted, the banners torn, and the Night King's shadow will fall over all."
Cregan thought of the boy, of Robb Stark, young and stubborn, brilliant and naive. He had seen the boy's mind at work on the battlefield, had glimpsed the courage that could move mountains, yet he had also seen the boy fail where cunning and patience were demanded. Could he bear to kill him? Could he take the boy's life, claim it as his own, and walk in his shoes, knowing that every soul in the North would call him a monster if they knew the truth?
He thought of his own life, lived long and harsh, the North his charge and the wolves his kin. He had seen generations fall like snowflakes on a frozen wind. And yet, he had also seen the North endure, time and again, when men thought it broken. Duty outweighed conscience. Duty outweighed life itself.
"I will go," he whispered. "I will take him. I will save the North."
The air shifted. The Weirwoods leaned closer, their branches creaking, their eyes blazing. The forest itself seemed to nod in acknowledgement. Cregan felt the bones of his ancestors, of the wolf who had ruled centuries ago, stir in him. The weight of history pressed upon his shoulders, yet in his chest he felt the strange, sharp thrill of purpose.
"You know the cost," said the Old Gods, or rather the world did, pressing truth into him like winter itself. "You will kill a Stark to save the Starks. You will bear the sin of kin. You will never rest among your own when death comes again. And still, you must act."
"I know," Cregan said. "And still… the North comes first."
Then came the darkness, like falling snow smothering the sun. He felt the pull, dragging him from the shadowed realm of the dead, down through centuries, down through memory, down into flesh once more. The body of Robb Stark welcomed him, young and strong, yet wholly unaware of the weight it now bore. Ice gleamed at his side, steel kissed by frost. Grey Wind sniffed the air, tail high, muscles coiled and ready.
Cregan opened Robb's eyes and saw the world anew: Winterfell, the banners of the North snapping in the cold wind, the snow heavy upon the battlements. He felt the pulse of life, the sharpness of youth, and beneath it, the mind of the old wolf—himself, sharpened by centuries of memory, strategy, and sorrow.
The North was waiting. The North was bleeding. The wolf had returned, and with him came knowledge, cunning, and a sin no man could forgive.
And Cregan Stark, the old man of the North, now walking in the body of Robb Stark, took his first breath as the wolf reborn.