The king's men reached Winterfell eight days after the Manderly raven.
They came in bad weather.
Cregan liked that well enough. Not because cold and mud solved anything, but because they took the polish off men. A man who entered Winterfell dry, warm, and proud might believe the royal seal on his letter could heat the North for him. A man who entered with wet boots, chapped hands, and mud on his cloak had already learned one useful thing before reaching the hall.
The North did not care what seal he carried.
Cregan watched them from the covered walk above the gate. The escort had twenty-two men that he could see, not counting servants and horse handlers. Two sworn knights rode at the front. A covered wagon came behind them, with three pack horses, two men in maester's grey, and a thin royal clerk whose face had the pinched look of someone who had been unhappy since White Harbor and meant to make that everyone else's burden.
Alysanne stood beside Cregan beneath her hood.
"Do you mean to greet them in the yard?" she asked.
"No."
"They will notice."
"Yes."
Below, the clerk dismounted badly and nearly slipped in the slush. One of the knights caught his elbow. The clerk pulled away as if help insulted him.
Cregan turned from the yard. "Have them fed."
"With the good wine?"
"No."
Alysanne looked at him.
"They came southron," Cregan said. "Give them wine. That is punishment enough."
This time she almost smiled.
Then they went inside.
The men from King's Landing were brought to the solar after they had been warmed, fed, and given enough time to remember they were supposed to be important. Cregan stood when they entered, but did not come around the table. Alysanne sat to his right. Maester Kennet stood near the hearth, chain bright and face carefully still. Lord Reed stood by the window, where he always seemed to find shadow even in daylight.
The royal clerk bowed first.
"Lord Cregan Stark," he said. "I am Edwyn Borrell, clerk to the regency council, sent under the authority of King Aegon, Third of His Name."
Cregan looked at him. "Borrell?"
The clerk stiffened. "No relation to the Sistermen house, my lord."
"I did not ask."
A bit of red entered the man's face.
One of the knights stepped forward. He was older than the other, square-shouldered, with greying hair and a scar along his jaw. He looked tired, but not foolish. That already put him above the clerk.
"Ser Harys Broom, my lord. Charged with the escort."
Cregan nodded once. "You had a hard road."
"Yes, my lord."
"White Harbor gave you horses?"
"Eventually," Borrell said.
Alysanne lowered her eyes.
Cregan turned his gaze to the clerk. "Eventually?"
"The Manderlys were very careful, my lord. Careful with stables. Careful with road advice. Careful with weather. Careful with everything except speed."
"They are northmen," Cregan said. "Care keeps men alive here."
Borrell pressed his mouth shut.
Good.
Cregan sat. "You came for the mountain man."
That took some of the prepared speech from the clerk's face.
Ser Harys answered instead. "We came to carry out the king's instruction, my lord. The council requested the healer be sent south."
"Commanded," Borrell corrected.
Cregan looked at him.
The clerk swallowed, but did not retreat. "The wording was instructed, my lord."
"I read it."
Kennet shifted slightly by the hearth.
Cregan saw it. So did Reed.
Borrell opened a leather case and withdrew a sealed copy. "Then you know why we are here. The realm still suffers fever. The council requires the man, his method, and any account of the draught's materials and preparation."
"The man is gone," Cregan said.
The room went still.
Kennet's face changed first. Not much, but enough.
Borrell stared at him. "Gone?"
"Yes."
"Gone where?"
"I do not know."
The clerk looked as if Cregan had answered in Old Tongue.
Ser Harys was quieter. "When did he leave?"
"Before you arrived."
"That is not an answer," Borrell snapped.
Cregan turned his eyes on him.
The clerk remembered where he stood, but too late to unsay it.
Cregan waited.
Borrell bowed his head slightly. "My lord, the council ordered that the mountain healer be sent to King's Landing."
"The letter said an escort may be sent north and the matter arranged upon arrival."
"The meaning was plain."
"The words matter," Cregan said.
Borrell's face tightened. "Then arrange it."
"I cannot arrange to give you what is not here."
Kennet spoke before he could stop himself. "My lord, perhaps if riders were sent—"
Cregan looked at him.
Kennet stopped.
"Do you know where he went, Maester Kennet?"
"No, my lord."
"Did I appoint you to guard him?"
"No, my lord."
"Then do not speak as if you misplaced a horse."
Kennet bowed his head. Color rose in his cheeks.
Borrell looked between them, trying to decide if this was insult, evasion, or both. He chose both.
"You permitted the man to leave after receiving the king's command."
"The mountain man was not my prisoner," Cregan said.
"He was under your roof."
"Yes."
"And under your protection."
"Yes."
"Then his disappearance is convenient."
Cregan leaned back slightly. "Careful."
Ser Harys moved before the clerk could answer. "My lord, no offense is intended."
"Some was managed."
The knight accepted that with a tired nod. "We have orders. We cannot return with nothing."
"You will return with numbers. Patients treated. Patients dead. Patients living. Maester Kennet may provide what he observed."
Borrell turned sharply to Kennet. "And what did you observe?"
Kennet's jaw tightened. "The draught was administered under restriction. The preparation was not shown to me."
"Still?"
"Yes."
"Even after the king's command?"
"There was no preparation after the healer left," Cregan said.
Borrell looked back at him. "Then let us examine the place where it was prepared."
"No."
The answer came quickly.
The clerk blinked. "My lord?"
"No."
"If the godswood was used—"
"No."
"This is in the king's name."
"I heard you the first time."
Borrell's voice sharpened. "The Grand Maester requires a full account. If the preparation took place in the godswood, then the godswood is relevant."
Cregan stood.
He did not move quickly. He did not need to.
The clerk's words died as Cregan came around the table and stopped a few paces from him.
"You may inspect the fever camp," Cregan said. "From where my men tell you to stand. You may speak to Maester Kennet. You may take the numbers he has written. You may question those who drank and lived, if they are strong enough and if their families permit it. You may see the dead counts. You may see that there is no mountain man hidden under a bed."
Borrell opened his mouth.
Cregan continued. "You will not enter my godswood."
No one spoke.
Alysanne's hands rested still in her lap.
Reed watched the clerk, not Cregan.
Ser Harys cleared his throat. "My lord, may we ask whether the healer left by your order?"
"No."
Borrell seized on that. "Then he fled?"
"He left."
"Alone?"
"I do not know."
"That strains belief."
"Then strain."
The clerk looked at Kennet, perhaps hoping for help.
Kennet did not give it. Whatever else he was, he was not foolish enough to challenge Cregan on the godswood in front of royal men.
Alysanne spoke then, calm but firm.
"The draught was never certain. It helped some. It failed others. Lord Stark has not withheld a cure that saves all men. No such cure was found here."
Borrell looked at her. "But it saved Lord Stark's son."
"Yes," Alysanne said. "And failed other sons."
That took some heat from the room, though not enough.
Ser Harys nodded slowly. He understood death better than clerks did, Cregan thought. Knights often did, if they lived past their first songs.
Borrell did not soften. "The council will not be pleased."
"No," Cregan said.
"You seem unconcerned."
"I am choosing not to say everything I think."
The clerk had no good answer to that.
Cregan returned to his chair. "You will be given rooms. Your horses will be seen to. You may visit the fever camp tomorrow with Maester Kennet and two of my guards. You will not enter the godswood. You will not question children without their parents. You will not remove records from Winterfell without copies left here."
Borrell stiffened. "The records concern a royal inquiry."
"The copies concern my dead."
Ser Harys bowed his head slightly. "Understood, my lord."
Borrell looked at him, annoyed.
The knight ignored it.
The meeting ended without satisfaction for anyone.
That was often how useful meetings ended.
...
The royal men did not settle well into Winterfell.
Cregan heard of it before supper. The clerk complained about his chamber being cold. A servant told him all chambers were cold in winter and then spent the next hour terrified she would be punished for honesty. Ser Harys apologized on the clerk's behalf, which made Cregan dislike him less. One of the maester's attendants asked too many questions near the rookery and was sent away by Kennet himself, who seemed torn between pride at being needed and irritation at being watched by men from his own world.
Sara Snow found the whole matter exactly as funny as Cregan had expected.
"He asked if the hot springs were safe," she said at supper.
"Who?" Alysanne asked.
"The clerk."
Cregan tore bread. "What did you say?"
"That we lose only two southrons a year to boiling."
Alysanne closed her eyes briefly.
Reed looked down at his bowl.
Cregan said, "Do not speak to him again."
"I did not start it."
"End it sooner next time."
Sara looked pleased with herself. "Yes, brother."
Cregan did not ask whether she had seen Torren leave. He knew she had known enough. Sara collected secrets the way children collected bright stones. Most of the time she only looked at them.
After supper, Maester Kennet requested a private word.
Cregan gave him one in the lower solar, with the door closed but not barred.
Kennet looked older than he had when the first letter was sent.
That did not move Cregan much.
"My lord," Kennet said, "the men from King's Landing will write their own account."
"Yes."
"They will say the healer vanished under your protection."
"Yes."
"They may say I failed to secure him."
"You did fail to secure him."
Kennet's face tightened.
Cregan continued before he could answer. "Because I never ordered you to secure him."
The maester breathed out through his nose. "That distinction may not help me in Oldtown."
"It may help you here."
"My lord, I wrote because I believed the treatment might save lives."
"I know."
"I did not know what would follow."
"You should have."
The words were not loud. Kennet looked as if they had been.
Cregan let them sit.
Then he said, "You will give them accurate numbers. Nothing more than you know. If you guess, mark it as guess. If you did not see, say you did not see. If they press you for the godswood, you send them to me."
Kennet bowed his head. "Yes, my lord."
"And Kennet."
The maester looked up.
"If you write south again, remember that ravens can carry knives."
Kennet's face went pale.
Cregan did not explain.
There was no need.
...
The warning came after midnight.
Cregan had not been sleeping well since the royal escort arrived, so when the knock sounded, he was awake before the second strike.
A guard entered after permission, wet hair plastered to his brow, breath still rough from hurry.
"My lord."
"What?"
The guard swallowed.
"Godswood."
Cregan rose.
He took no time dressing beyond boots, belt, cloak, and sword. Alysanne sat up in the dark as he fastened the clasp at his throat.
"What happened?"
"Southrons," Cregan said.
Her face changed. "In the godswood?"
"Trying."
He left before anger could become words.
The castle at night had its own sound: banked fires, distant steps, wind against shutters, the breathing of walls. Cregan moved through it fast enough that men flattened themselves aside before fully waking. By the time he reached the passage leading to the godswood, four guards had joined him and none had asked whether they should.
Good men learned.
The godswood gate stood open.
That alone nearly made him draw steel.
Inside, torchlight shook against black trunks and white snow. Two Winterfell guards held a man in a southern cloak by the arms. Another guard stood with a spear leveled at a maester's attendant, who had both hands raised and a face gone the color of milk. A third intruder knelt in the snow with one hand pressed to a bleeding lip.
Edwyn Borrell stood near the open gate, held not by hands but by the points of two spears.
He was trying to look outraged.
He looked cold.
Cregan stopped just inside the gate.
No one spoke.
The heart tree stood far beyond them, pale in the dark. They had not reached it. They had not even reached the first pool.
That was the only reason no blood lay on the snow.
Cregan looked at the captain of the night watch. "Report."
"We found them behind the glass garden, my lord," the man said. "Not by the main gate. They had a small ladder and a shuttered lamp. This one"—he jerked his chin toward the man with the split lip—"ran when challenged. Fell before he made ten steps."
"He slipped," Borrell said.
Cregan looked at him.
The clerk shut his mouth.
The maester's attendant found his voice. "My lord, we did not mean harm."
"No," Cregan said. "You meant not to be caught."
The attendant lowered his eyes.
Borrell stepped forward and immediately stopped when spearpoints moved with him. "This is a royal investigation."
"No," Cregan said. "This is trespass."
"The king's authority—"
"Was told no at my table."
"The council requires evidence."
"The council may learn to live without stealing it in the dark."
Borrell's face twisted. "You cannot bar the king's men from truth."
Cregan walked toward him.
The guards did not lower the spears.
"Truth?" Cregan said. "You climbed a wall after midnight."
"We were denied lawful access."
"You were denied access."
"In the king's name—"
"In my godswood."
That ended the sentence.
The snow fell lightly between them. It hissed where a torch spat resin.
Cregan turned to the guard. "Wake Ser Harys."
"My lord."
"And Maester Kennet."
Borrell stiffened. "Maester Kennet had no part in this."
"I know."
That answer seemed to unsettle him more than accusation would have.
They waited in the cold.
Cregan did not let the prisoners be moved. Let them feel the snow through their boots. Let them stand where they had chosen to creep. The heart tree watched from the dark, red eyes hidden beyond the torchlight, and Cregan felt his anger settle into something cleaner.
Ser Harys came first, cloak half-fastened, sword belted but not drawn. He took in the open gate, the spears, the clerk, the attendant, the man with the bleeding lip.
His face hardened.
"You fools," he said.
Borrell snapped, "Ser Harys—"
"No." The knight turned to Cregan and bowed his head. "My lord, this was not done by my order."
"Was the soldier yours?"
Ser Harys looked at the kneeling man. "Yes."
"Then part of it was."
The knight accepted the blow. "Yes, my lord."
Maester Kennet arrived moments later, breathing hard, robe thrown over his nightclothes. He saw the attendant and stopped.
"Karl," he said.
The young attendant could not meet his eyes.
Kennet looked at Cregan. "My lord, I did not—"
"I know."
Kennet swallowed.
Cregan turned back to Borrell. "You were told my godswood was closed to you."
"And I objected."
"You were told."
"The crown—"
"You were told."
Borrell's hands curled at his sides. "You will answer for this."
"No," Cregan said. "You will leave for this."
The clerk stared. "Leave?"
"At dawn."
"You cannot expel representatives of the crown."
Cregan looked at him for a moment.
Then he said, "Watch."
The word landed quietly.
It did not need help.
Ser Harys stepped in, careful now. "My lord, if I may. The clerk exceeded sense. I will place him under my watch. We can still complete the review of the camp records and leave with proper report."
"The review is finished."
"It is not, my lord."
"It is now."
Ser Harys's jaw tightened.
Cregan respected him a little more for not protesting too quickly.
Borrell did protest. "This is obstruction."
"This is consequence."
"You would cast out the king's men in winter?"
"I will give you food. Fresh horses where I can spare them. An escort to the White Knife road. You came as guests. You entered forbidden ground. You leave as strangers."
Borrell looked to Ser Harys. "Say something."
The knight did not look at him. "My lord, I ask one thing. Let the men rest until proper light. The road in full dark will kill horses."
"Dawn," Cregan said. "Not before."
Ser Harys bowed his head. "Thank you."
Borrell looked betrayed.
Good.
Cregan turned to Kennet. "Your attendant leaves with them."
Kennet flinched. "My lord—"
"He climbed toward my heart tree in the dark."
"Yes, my lord."
"You may write to Oldtown that he was careless. You may write that he was ambitious. You may write nothing. He leaves."
Kennet looked at the young man, then back at Cregan.
"Yes, my lord."
The attendant began to speak. "Maester—"
Kennet cut him off. "Be silent."
That was the first wise thing any of the southron-learned men had said all night.
Cregan looked at the guard captain. "Hold them in the lower guardroom. Not the cells. They leave at dawn. Keep their things outside their rooms. No one wanders."
"Yes, my lord."
Borrell drew himself up. "This will be reported."
"Yes," Cregan said. "Try to spell Winterfell correctly."
Sara Snow would have liked that.
He regretted it as soon as he thought it.
Not the words. Only that she had taught him to enjoy them.
The prisoners were taken away. Ser Harys stayed behind.
When the others were out of earshot, he said, "My lord, I am sorry."
"You were in command."
"Yes."
"Then be sorry faster next time."
The knight nodded. "There will not be a next time under my command."
"No," Cregan said. "There will not."
Ser Harys looked toward the dark trees. "Did they come close?"
"No."
"Good."
Cregan studied him. "You believe that?"
"I believe some places should not be searched by men who do not know how to stand in them."
That was almost enough to make Cregan regret sending him away with the rest.
Almost.
"Dawn," Cregan said.
Ser Harys bowed and left.
Kennet remained near the gate, pale and silent.
Cregan looked at him. "Go sleep."
"I will not sleep."
"That was not the order."
Kennet bowed and went.
Cregan stood alone at the open gate for a while after they were gone.
The snow had covered most of the footprints already, but not all. Southern boots had pressed into the path. Not far. Far enough.
He walked into the godswood and shut the gate behind him.
The heart tree waited.
Cregan crossed the snow slowly. He did not know whether anger counted as prayer. The old gods had likely heard worse from better men.
He stopped before the tree and removed his glove.
The cuts Torren had made were still dressed. Cregan did not touch them. He laid his hand on clean bark, cold and pale beneath his palm.
"They came," he said.
The red eyes watched him.
"They did not reach you."
Wind moved through the leaves.
Cregan stood there until the anger stopped wanting a sword.
Then he said, "I kept what I swore."
The godswood gave no answer.
Cregan did not need one.
...
At dawn, Winterfell's gates opened for the king's men.
No horn sounded.
No farewell was given.
Their horses were saddled. Their packs were returned. Bread, salt meat, oats, and two skins of watered ale had been provided. Cregan was not cruel enough to send men into winter empty. He was angry enough to make certain they knew provision was not welcome.
Borrell looked grey from lack of sleep and fury.
The maester's attendant kept his hood low.
The soldier with the split lip sat stiffly in the saddle, eyes fixed ahead.
Ser Harys rode at the front. He bowed from horseback when Cregan came to the gate.
"My lord."
"Ser Harys."
"I will report what was done."
"I expect so."
"I will report all of it."
"That would be new in King's Landing."
The knight's mouth tightened, perhaps to stop a smile, perhaps to stop a curse.
Borrell spoke from behind him. "The council will hear how Winterfell treats royal envoys."
Cregan looked at him. "Tell them this: I fed you, housed you, answered you, gave you records, and forbade you one place. You crept toward it in the dark."
Borrell's face reddened.
Cregan continued. "If they send better men next time, I will treat them better."
Ser Harys bowed again, deeper this time.
Then the escort rode out.
The gates closed after them.
Alysanne stood beside Cregan as the sound of hooves faded.
"That will travel badly," she said.
"Yes."
"Do you regret it?"
"No."
"Good."
Cregan looked toward the godswood, though the walls hid it from sight.
"Where is Reed now?" Alysanne asked.
"Far enough."
"And Torren?"
"Farther, I hope."
Alysanne nodded.
Behind them, Winterfell woke into another cold morning. The fever camp still smoked beyond the town. Rickon would need broth. Sarra would refuse something. Baby Alys would cry. Kennet would write carefully or not at all. King's Landing would receive a report full of anger and missing answers.
Cregan turned from the gate.
"Send word to the fever camp," he said. "No royal visitors today."
Alysanne looked at him. "There are no royal visitors left."
"Good," Cregan said. "Then the order will be easy to obey."
And above the closed gates, the direwolf banner snapped once in the winter wind.