# Winterfell, The North
*Three weeks later, early morning*
The ancient seat of House Stark rose from the moorland like something carved from the bones of the earth itself, its grey walls massive and eternal against a sky the color of old iron. Winterfell. Eight thousand years it had stood here, raised by Brandon the Builder in the Age of Heroes, its hot springs still flowing beneath the castle in geothermal currents that kept the worst of winter's bite at bay even when the snows piled higher than a man's head.
From half a mile distant, the Northern host could see smoke rising from a hundred chimneys, the great grey walls crowned with sentries whose spear points caught the weak morning sun like scattered stars. The direwolf banners snapped and cracked in the constant wind that swept down from the north, grey on white, the ancient sigil that had flown over these battlements since before the Andals crossed the narrow sea with their seven-pointed stars and foreign gods.
The column slowed as they approached, the rhythm of hooves and boots falling into a more measured cadence—not quite ceremonial, but acknowledging the significance of the moment. For many of the men, this was the first time they had seen their home in over a year. For young Lord Cregan Stark, it was the first time he had ever laid eyes on the castle that was his birthright and his burden.
Inside the carriage, the atmosphere had grown thick with anticipation and something approaching nervousness. Even Princess Rhaenys, who rarely seemed daunted by anything, had fallen uncharacteristically quiet, her violet eyes fixed on the approaching castle with an intensity that suggested she was committing every detail to memory.
"It's bigger than I expected," she said at last, her voice carrying none of its usual playful teasing. "And older. You can feel it somehow, can't you? All those years pressing down on the stones, all those lives lived within those walls. It's like... like the castle itself has a presence."
Ashara Dayne nodded slowly, her own gaze fixed on Winterfell with the sharp attention of someone evaluating both sanctuary and potential prison. "Eight thousand years of history," she murmured. "More lords and ladies than anyone could count, all of them looking down through time at whoever comes next. It would be a daunting legacy for anyone, let alone—"
She stopped abruptly, her hand finding Cregan's shoulder. The boy hadn't moved, hadn't made a sound, but something in his utter stillness spoke of inner turmoil more clearly than any words could have.
Catelyn leaned forward, her copper hair falling across her shoulder as she studied the young heir with maternal concern. "Are you well, Cregan? You've gone very pale."
For a long moment, the boy didn't respond. His violet eyes remained fixed on the castle, unblinking, as if he were seeing not just stone and timber but the weight of expectation made manifest. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"It's real," he said simply. "I knew it would be, of course I knew, but seeing it... knowing that all of this"—his small hand gestured toward the window, encompassing the castle, the town that had grown up in its shadow, the endless miles of forest and moor beyond—"knowing that all of it is supposed to be my responsibility someday... it's overwhelming."
Elia Martell, who had been quiet throughout the morning, shifted baby Aegon in her arms and spoke with the gentle wisdom of someone who understood the burden of inheritance too well. "Every lord who has ever ruled from those walls must have felt the same way at some point," she said softly. "The weight of it, the knowledge that thousands of lives depend on your choices. But you don't carry it alone, Cregan. That's what bannermen are for, what councils and advisors are for. What family is for."
"And what stubborn Targaryen princesses are for," Rhaenys added, some of her usual spirit returning as she reached across the carriage to take Cregan's hand. "You're not facing this alone, little wolf. We're all going to be right there beside you—annoying you, questioning your judgment, making sure you don't take yourself too seriously."
Despite the gravity of the moment, Cregan's mouth twitched slightly at that. "Somehow that's both comforting and terrifying."
"As it should be," Rhaenys replied with a grin. "Now straighten your shoulders and lift your chin. You're about to meet your people for the first time as their acknowledged lord. Best not to look like you're heading to your own execution."
---
Outside, the column had drawn to a halt in the open ground before Winterfell's southern gates. Ned Stark dismounted with the easy grace of a man born to the saddle, his grey eyes sweeping over the assembled crowd that had gathered to witness the arrival of the Northern host.
It seemed half of Winterfell had turned out—household staff and garrison soldiers, craftsmen from Winter Town, farmers from the surrounding holdfasts who had heard the news and traveled to witness this historic moment. They lined the approach to the gates, a sea of weathered faces and winter-worn clothes, their expressions carrying that particular Northern reserve that could mean anything from deep suspicion to cautious welcome.
And at the center of it all, standing before the great gates with a small honor guard of household knights, stood Benjen Stark.
At fifteen, the younger Stark brother was caught in that awkward transition between boyhood and manhood. He had his brother's height and the Stark features—long face, grey eyes, dark hair—but hadn't yet grown into his frame. His shoulders were still narrow, his face still carried the softness of youth, and the mail he wore seemed slightly too large for him, as if borrowed from an older brother who would never need it again.
He had been holding Winterfell in trust since Ned departed for Robert's Rebellion, bearing responsibilities that would have crushed many men twice his age. Now he stood straight-backed and solemn, hands clasped behind him, watching as his older brother approached with an army at his back and gods knew what news from the south.
Ned crossed the distance between them with long strides, aware of thousands of eyes watching, weighing, judging. When he reached Benjen, he paused, studying his youngest brother's face with a mixture of pride and sorrow.
"Brother," Ned said simply, his voice carrying clearly in the morning air. "You've held our father's seat with honor. The North stands strong because you remained steadfast."
Benjen's composure cracked slightly at that, relief and emotion warring in his young face. "I only did what was needed," he replied, his voice rougher than usual. "Nothing more than Brandon would have done, or Father, or—"
He stopped abruptly as the carriage door opened and Ashara Dayne descended with fluid grace, her Valyrian beauty drawing immediate murmurs from the crowd. But it was the small figure she helped down after her that caused the whispers to surge like wind through wheat.
Cregan Stark stood in the shadow of the carriage, his dark cloak pooling around his small frame, violet eyes wide as he took in the assembled crowd and the castle rising behind them. He looked impossibly young and impossibly solemn all at once, a boy playing at being a lord except there was nothing playful in his bearing.
Benjen stared, confusion written plainly across his features. "Ned? Who—"
"This," Ned said, his voice carrying that particular weight that meant important revelations were about to reshape everyone's understanding of the world, "is your nephew. Cregan Stark, son of Brandon and Lady Ashara Dayne. Trueborn heir to Winterfell and rightful Lord of the North."
The silence that followed was absolute and terrible. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Benjen's face went through several expressions in rapid succession—confusion, disbelief, dawning comprehension, and finally something that might have been grief or relief or both tangled together so completely there was no separating them.
"Brandon's son?" he whispered, the words barely audible. "But... but how? When? Why didn't anyone...?"
He trailed off as Cregan stepped forward, moving with careful dignity despite the obvious weight of attention pressing down on him from all sides. The boy stopped an appropriate distance away and executed a bow that was both respectful and somehow managed to convey equality rather than submission.
"Uncle Benjen," Cregan said, his young voice steady despite the tremor that threatened beneath it. "I am pleased to finally meet you. My father spoke often of his brothers in the letters he sent my mother. He said you were fierce and loyal and kind, even when kindness wasn't the easiest choice."
Benjen dropped to one knee before the boy, heedless of the mud and watching eyes, his young face working as he tried to process this impossible revelation. "Brandon had a son," he said wonderingly. "All this time, while I sat in his seat and tried to rule as he would have... his son lived."
"A son who needs his uncle's guidance," Ned interjected gently. "A boy who cannot rule alone, who requires the wisdom and support of those who knew his father and understand what it means to be a Stark of Winterfell."
Understanding dawned in Benjen's grey eyes. This wasn't displacement—it was partnership. Relief washed over his features like sunrise breaking through storm clouds.
"Then I am your man, nephew," Benjen said formally, his voice carrying clearly across the assembled crowd. "As I was your father's man before you, as I will be until my last breath or yours. Winterfell stands ready to receive its rightful lord."
Cregan reached down, offering his small hand to help his uncle rise. "Then rise, Uncle, and help me learn how to be worthy of this place. Help me understand what my father would have wanted, what the North needs, what it means to hold this trust properly."
As Benjen stood, the crowd erupted—not in cheers precisely, but in that deep-throated roar of approval that marked Northern acceptance. These people had waited months for this moment without knowing it was coming, and now their patience was rewarded with the continuation of a bloodline eight thousand years old.
But above the noise, one voice cut through with the clarity of a bell.
"And what," called a grizzled guard from somewhere in the crowd, his voice carrying that particular Northern bluntness that acknowledged no rank, "about the lass with him? The one with Targaryen eyes?"
Rhaenys, who had been hanging back near the carriage with her mother, stepped forward with the regal bearing that was her birthright. Her violet eyes flashed with challenge as she surveyed the crowd.
"I am Rhaenys Targaryen," she announced, her voice carrying that natural authority that made people listen whether they wanted to or not. "Daughter of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia, betrothed to your Lord Cregan by decree of King Robert Baratheon himself. And before anyone asks—yes, I am a Targaryen. Yes, my father fought on the opposite side of your rebellion. And yes, I am still going to be your lady one day, so you might as well get used to it now."
The sheer audacity of that declaration drew startled laughter from several quarters, though whether it was approval or mockery was difficult to tell. Benjen, still processing revelations that kept coming like waves against a shore, could only stare.
"A Targaryen princess," he said faintly. "Betrothed to Brandon's son. Gods, Ned, what happened while you were gone?"
"A great deal," Ned replied with the ghost of a smile. "Come, brother. Let us get everyone inside and settled, and then I will explain everything. Though I warn you—the explanations may take some time."
As the great gates of Winterfell swung open to receive them, Cregan took one last look at the castle that would shape the rest of his life. The hot springs sent steam curling up from hidden vents in the stone, making the ancient walls seem to breathe like some slumbering giant. The sept bells were ringing—whether in welcome or warning, he couldn't tell.
Beside him, Rhaenys squeezed his hand. "Ready, little wolf?"
Cregan straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. "No," he admitted honestly. "But I don't suppose that matters much, does it?"
"Not even a little bit," Rhaenys agreed cheerfully. "Come on, then. Let's go claim your inheritance and scandalize the entire North while we're at it."
Together, the children walked through the gates of Winterfell, surrounded by family and guards and the weight of eight thousand years of history pressing down on their shoulders. Behind them, the Northern host followed, while ahead lay futures none of them could fully foresee.
But whatever came next, they would face it as the Starks always had—together, unbowed, prepared to weather whatever storms might come.
Winter was here, after all.
And the wolves were home.
—
# Winterfell, The Lord's Solar
*That evening*
The Lord's Solar of Winterfell was a chamber that spoke of eight thousand years of accumulated authority. Dark timber beams crossed overhead, blackened by centuries of smoke from the great hearth that dominated one wall. Maps of the North covered every available surface—some ancient and cracking, others newly drawn, all marking the vast territory that stretched from the Neck to the Wall. The windows were narrow slits designed more for defense than light, but the hot springs running beneath the castle kept the room warm despite the autumn chill settling over the land.
Ned Stark stood before the hearth, hands clasped behind his back, grey eyes reflecting the dancing flames. The weight of what he was about to reveal sat heavy on his shoulders—heavier even than the crown he'd never wanted, heavier than the lies he'd carried south and back again.
Benjen sat in their father's chair—*Cregan's chair now,* Ned reminded himself—looking younger than his fifteen years despite the responsibilities he'd shouldered. His grey eyes held equal parts exhaustion and wariness, the look of someone who had learned that revelations always came with complications attached.
"You're going to tell me something that changes everything," Benjen said quietly. It wasn't a question. "Again. Because apparently today's revelations about my secret nephew and his Targaryen betrothed weren't complicated enough."
Ned allowed himself a small, bitter smile. "I'm afraid so, brother. And this one..." He paused, choosing his words with the care of a man walking on ice that might crack at any moment. "This concerns Lyanna."
Benjen went very still, the way their father used to when faced with news of import. "What about Lyanna? Her bones arrived weeks ago, Ned. I oversaw the preparation of her tomb myself, placed her beside Father and Brandon in the crypts as is proper. She's at rest with her ancestors, her suffering finally over."
"No," Ned said simply, the word falling like a stone into still water. "She's not."
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant sound of the castle settling into night routines.
"Explain," Benjen said at last, his voice carefully controlled. "Very carefully, brother, because right now you're suggesting either that I'm mad, or you are, or something has happened that shouldn't be possible."
Ned moved away from the hearth, pulling another chair close so he could sit facing his brother directly. "Lyanna lives," he said, meeting Benjen's eyes steadily. "She didn't die in that tower, didn't succumb to fever or grief or whatever story we've been telling. She gave birth to Rhaegar's son, survived the delivery, and is currently somewhere between the Tower of Joy and Greywater Watch under Howland Reed's protection."
Benjen stared at him for a long moment, his young face cycling through several expressions—disbelief, hope, confusion, and finally settling on something approaching anger.
"You let me bury empty bones," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You let me stand over what I thought was our sister's tomb and grieve for her, let me say farewell to the last piece of our childhood, and all the while she was alive?"
"It had to appear real," Ned replied, though the words tasted like ash. "Robert wants every Targaryen dead or disappeared. If he knew Lyanna lived, if he knew she bore Rhaegar's child willingly..." He shook his head. "Her life wouldn't be worth a copper if word reached the wrong ears."
"Willingly," Benjen repeated, seizing on the word. "You said she bore his child willingly. Not as a prisoner, not as—"
"Not as anything Robert believes," Ned interrupted. "Lyanna wasn't kidnapped, Benjen. She eloped. She married Rhaegar Targaryen of her own free will, in a ceremony conducted before the Old Gods with proper witnesses. And before you ask—yes, the marriage was legitimate. Polygamous, in the old Targaryen fashion, because Rhaegar was already wed to Elia Martell. But legitimate nonetheless."
Benjen leaned back in his chair, running both hands through his dark hair. "Gods. A three-way marriage. Lyanna, Rhaegar, and Princess Elia all bound together. That's..." He laughed, but it was a hollow sound. "That's either the most romantic thing I've ever heard or the most politically catastrophic. Possibly both."
"Both," Ned confirmed with grim certainty. "And it gets more complicated."
"Of course it does," Benjen muttered. "Why wouldn't it?"
"The marriage wasn't just Rhaegar taking two wives," Ned continued, watching his brother's face carefully. "It was a true triangle—Lyanna and Elia loved each other as much as either loved Rhaegar. They were all three bound together by affection and choice, not just by ceremony and law."
Benjen absorbed this with the expression of someone who had moved beyond surprise into a sort of numb acceptance. "So Lyanna married both a prince and a princess, the three of them formed some kind of unprecedented romantic alliance, and now she's hiding in the Neck with a Targaryen baby while Robert sits the throne believing she was kidnapped and died tragically. Wonderful. Anything else I should know?"
The sarcasm was so thick it could have been cut with a knife.
"The baby's name is Aemon," Ned said quietly. "Named for Maester Aemon of the Night's Watch, though I doubt he knows about his namesake yet. He's about three months old now, healthy and safe with his mother. Howland has them well-hidden in Greywater Watch, where the paths change with the tides and only the crannogmen can navigate reliably."
Benjen was quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire as if seeking answers in its flames. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its edge of anger, replaced by something more contemplative.
"I knew," he said simply.
Ned blinked. "You knew what?"
"About the romance. About the three of them." Benjen turned to meet his brother's startled gaze. "I was at Harrenhal for the tourney, Ned. I saw them together—really saw them, when they thought no one was watching. The way Lyanna looked at Rhaegar, the way Elia smiled at both of them, the way the three of them found excuses to be near each other even when propriety said they shouldn't."
He stood, moving to the window to stare out at the night. "And I knew about the elopement. I helped arrange it, actually."
"You what?"
"I helped her escape," Benjen said calmly, as if discussing the weather rather than confessing to involvement in what Robert would certainly consider treason. "Lyanna came to me after the tournament, told me everything—how she'd fallen in love with both of them, how they'd fallen in love with her, how they'd found a way to make it work that honored everyone involved. She asked for my help getting away from Riverrun when the time came."
His hands clenched on the windowsill. "I agreed because she was happy, Ned. Genuinely happy in a way I'd never seen her before. She wasn't being forced or coerced or swept up in some romantic fantasy. She knew exactly what she was doing, what she was choosing, what it might cost. And she chose it anyway because she loved them and they loved her."
"Seven hells," Ned breathed. "You knew this entire time and never said anything?"
"What was I supposed to say?" Benjen turned, his grey eyes reflecting the firelight. "I thought the letters would explain everything, thought Brandon and Father would understand when they read what she'd written. I helped her place them on her bed at Riverrun before she left—detailed explanations of her choices, reassurances that she went willingly, pleas for understanding and blessing."
His voice grew harder. "I saw her write those letters, Ned. Watched her seal them with her own hand, watched her place them where they couldn't be missed. Brandon was supposed to find them the morning after she left. Father was supposed to read them and understand that this wasn't kidnapping or coercion, just... love. Complicated, unprecedented, politically inconvenient love, but love nonetheless."
"But the letters never reached them," Ned said slowly, understanding beginning to dawn. "Brandon arrived at Riverrun expecting to announce his own marriage to Ashara, found Catelyn waiting for a betrothal he couldn't honor, and then word came that Lyanna had been taken. No mention of letters, no explanation, just—"
"Just what looked like kidnapping," Benjen finished bitterly. "And Brandon went mad with rage and grief, rode to King's Landing demanding Rhaegar's head, and we all know how that ended."
The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of roads not taken, of misunderstandings that had cost thousands their lives.
"Someone took those letters," Ned said at last. "Someone found them before Brandon could, before Father could be informed. Someone who wanted the Starks to believe Lyanna had been kidnapped rather than eloped."
"I've had a year to think about this," Benjen said quietly. "A year of wondering who would benefit from such deception, who would have the opportunity and the motive. And I keep coming back to one name—Petyr Baelish."
Ned's head snapped up. "Littlefinger? But he was barely more than a boy himself, and recovering from injuries Brandon gave him when he challenged for Catelyn's hand. How could he possibly—"
"He grew up at Riverrun," Benjen interrupted. "Ward of Lord Hoster from childhood, familiar with every servant, every corridor, every secret passage. He would have known Lyanna's chambers, would have had access before the household fully woke. And he had motive—Brandon had humiliated him in that duel, cut him badly enough that he nearly died. What better revenge than to ensure Brandon rode to his death believing his sister had been kidnapped?"
"But he was still healing," Ned protested, though his voice lacked conviction. "The maesters said he was bedridden for weeks."
"The maesters said he *should* have been bedridden," Benjen corrected. "But Petyr Baelish has always been cleverer than anyone gave him credit for. He wouldn't have taken the letters himself—too obvious, too risky. But he could have paid a servant, could have convinced someone else to do it, could have arranged for them to disappear through any number of means. He's always been good at making other people do his dirty work."
Ned thought back to his brief encounters with Littlefinger in King's Landing—the knowing smiles, the casual manipulation, the way information seemed to flow to him like water seeking its level. Could that clever, ambitious man have been capable of such calculated cruelty even as a wounded boy?
"We'll never prove it," he said at last. "Not now, not after all this time. The servants who were there are scattered across the Riverlands, the evidence is long gone, and even if we could prove anything, what would we charge him with? Being clever and cruel isn't a crime, and technically he didn't kill anyone himself."
"No," Benjen agreed with bitter satisfaction. "He just ensured that Brandon would charge into King's Landing like a mad bull, that Father would follow to try and save him, that both would die horrible deaths that could have been prevented with a few pieces of parchment. All because he couldn't stand being humiliated by a man who had every right to defend his betrothed's honor."
"If it was him," Ned cautioned, though he was beginning to believe it might have been. "We're speculating, constructing a theory that fits the facts but might not reflect the truth."
"Then let's speculate further," Benjen said, returning to his seat with renewed energy. "Because if Baelish did take those letters, if he is responsible for this entire catastrophe, then he's been walking free and prospering while good men died for his petty revenge. And if he's capable of that level of manipulation as a wounded boy, what is he capable of now that he has Hand of the king's ear?"
The question hung in the air like smoke, poisonous and persistent.
"We protect what we can," Ned said finally. "We keep Lyanna and her son safe, we raise Cregan to understand both the burdens and the blessings of his position, we try to build something better than what came before. And we watch Petyr Baelish very, very carefully, because men who destroy kingdoms for personal revenge rarely stop at one atrocity."
Benjen nodded slowly. "And Lyanna? When can she come home?"
"Not yet," Ned replied with regret that went bone-deep. "Not while Robert lives and remembers his obsession with her. Perhaps in time, when memories have faded and new concerns occupy the throne's attention. But for now, she's safer in the Neck than she would ever be here."
"She'll hate that," Benjen said with certainty. "Being trapped, hidden away, unable to see her family or her nephew. Lyanna was never good at being still."
"No," Ned agreed. "But she'll endure it because she understands what's at stake. Just as we all must endure our own forms of exile and compromise." He managed a small smile. "At least she's with people who love her, raising a child she chose to bear. That's more than many can say."
The fire crackled, sending shadows dancing across the ancient stones of Winterfell. Outside, the first snow of autumn was beginning to fall, soft and silent, covering the world in white. Winter was coming, as it always did in the North.
But this time, the wolves were prepared—armed with truth, however incomplete, and determined to protect their own from whatever storms might come.
Even if those storms wore friendly faces and spoke with silver tongues.
—
# Winterfell, A Hidden Passage
*That same evening*
In the narrow space between walls that had been old when the Andals first crossed the narrow sea, two children sat in darkness broken only by the faint glow of a conjured light—so subtle it might have been mistaken for foxfire or the gleam of a cat's eyes catching moonlight. The passage was one of dozens that honeycombed Winterfell's ancient stones, built for purposes long forgotten but maintained by the castle's mysterious architecture and the hot springs' constant warmth.
Cregan Stark and Rhaenys Targaryen pressed close to a cunningly hidden gap in the stonework, their breathing carefully controlled, their young faces illuminated by the spectral glow that hovered between them like a captive star. The spell was Harry Potter's work—wandless magic drawn from memories of another life, refined through months of careful practice in moments of privacy. A simple Eavesdropping Charm, barely more than a whisper of intent and will, but sufficient to carry voices through stone and timber.
Hermione—no, Rhaenys now, though the older name still echoed in the deepest chambers of her mind—had insisted on coming. When Cregan mentioned overhearing Ned and Benjen discussing something about Lyanna in hushed, serious tones, she'd fixed him with that look that meant argument was futile.
"If this concerns your family," she'd said with the absolute certainty that had once driven her to brew Polyjuice Potion in a second-year bathroom, "then it concerns both of us. We're betrothed, which means your problems become my problems. Besides—" her violet eyes had flashed with determination "—two sets of ears are better than one, and I have a better memory for details."
Which was, infuriatingly, completely true.
Now they sat in silence as the conversation in the Lord's Solar played out before them, carried through stone and spell with crystalline clarity. The revelation about Lyanna's survival, about the three-way marriage, about the letters that had disappeared—all of it washed over them like ice water, each new detail adding another weight to shoulders already burdened with the knowledge of two lifetimes.
But it was the name Petyr Baelish—spoken with such careful speculation, with such bitter certainty beneath the surface—that caused both children to go rigid.
Rhaenys's hand found Cregan's in the darkness, squeezing hard enough to hurt. Through the dim light of their conjured glow, he could see tears streaming down her face, though whether from rage or grief or both was impossible to tell.
"He did it," she breathed, barely above a whisper. "That little worm *took* the letters. He made sure your father never knew the truth, made sure your grandfather rode to King's Landing thinking his daughter had been kidnapped and raped. He started this entire war because Brandon humiliated him in a duel."
Cregan's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. The Harry Potter part of him—the boy who had faced Voldemort, who had watched friends die, who understood the weight of senseless death—wanted to storm into that solar and demand justice. But the Cregan part, the part that was learning what it meant to be a Northern lord, knew that justice built on speculation was no justice at all.
"We don't know for certain," he said quietly, though the words tasted like poison. "Uncle Ned is right—we can't prove it. Not after all this time, not with evidence scattered or destroyed."
"But we *know*," Rhaenys insisted, her voice sharp with fury barely contained. "Your father died because of this. My father died because of this. Thousands died because one petty, vindictive little boy couldn't accept being beaten by a better man. And now he whispers in Jon Arryn's ear, probably weaving more schemes and plots while good people pay the price for his ambition."
She turned to face Cregan fully, her violet eyes blazing in the spectral light. "We can't let him get away with this. We can't just... just sit here and do nothing while he prospers and our families pay for his revenge."
"We won't," Cregan replied, his voice carrying a cold certainty that had nothing to do with his young age and everything to do with the older soul residing behind his eyes. "But we have to be smart about this, Rhaenys. We have to think like him—long term, carefully, with patience."
His hand tightened on hers. "Right now, we're children. Clever children, yes, with knowledge and abilities no one suspects we possess. But still children, with no real power, no independent authority. If we act rashly, if we reveal what we know or how we know it, we risk everything—not just justice for our fathers, but the safety of everyone who depends on the secrets we're keeping."
Rhaenys wanted to argue—he could see it in her face, that Hermione Granger righteousness that demanded immediate action against injustice. But after a moment, she deflated slightly, recognizing the truth in his words even as she hated it.
"So what do we do?" she asked, her voice small and lost in a way that made his heart ache. "Just... pretend we don't know? Go on with lessons and play and learning to rule while that monster walks free?"
"No," Cregan said firmly. "We remember. We document everything we learn about him—every pattern, every tendency, every weakness. We prepare ourselves so that when the time comes, when we have the power and position to act, we can destroy him so completely there will be nothing left but dust and bitter memory."
He met her gaze steadily. "And in the meantime, we protect everyone we can from whatever schemes he's already set in motion. Because men like Petyr Baelish don't stop at one atrocity. If he's capable of destroying our families for personal revenge, he's capable of anything. We just have to be more clever than he is."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Rhaenys's tear-stained face. "More clever than a man who thinks he's the smartest person in every room," she murmured. "I think we can manage that. After all—" her smile turned sharp as a blade "—he has no idea what we really are. And that's an advantage worth more than all the gold in Casterly Rock."
In the darkness between ancient walls, two children who carried the memories of dead heroes began to plot their own long game. Not revenge, precisely—revenge was hot and immediate and satisfying but ultimately hollow. No, this would be something colder and more permanent.
Justice delayed but certain. A reckoning that would come when Petyr Baelish least expected it, delivered by the very children whose fathers' deaths he had orchestrated.
Winter, after all, was not just coming.
It was patient.
And it always, always remembered.
---
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