The wind howled across Frosthall like a loyal beast calling for its master.
Jon Snow stood in the old hall, the great blacksteel brazier crackling with a steady fla. Kael lay curled near the hearth, his scarred body coiled with dignity, one ear flicking at every noise. The air in Frosthall slled of iron and pine, snow and stone, a scent Jon had grown used to—the scent of duty.
A raven sat on the perch beside him, tapping the edge of its cage. Jon dipped his quill once more and continued writing, the parchnt already half-filled with firm Northern script.
> Cregan,
Your hundred bloody n arrived with more bark than bite, but they follow orders and wear their colors well. The forge sings, the town thrives, and the blacksteel is coming along faster than expected. Though you forgot to ntion I'd be saddled with three new trade envoys, two sheep disputes, and an old man claiming to be your uncle's ghost. Thanks for that.
Torrhen sends a painting. He titled it, and I quote, " and Uncle Bite the Lions." He claims it's prophetic. It's mostly red scribbles and a few stick figures bleeding. I'm hanging it over the ad barrels as a warning to all southerners.
I hope Shadow hasn't eaten any lords yet. Write soon.
Your brother in blood and curses,
Jon.
He sealed it with wax and handed it to the raven keeper.
Kael rose from his position and followed Jon outside as he oversaw preparations for the next trade shipnt. The wolf didn't look back.
---
In King's Landing, Cregan Stark stood at the gates of his newly assigned estate—a modest but fortified hold near the Dragon Gate, gifted temporarily by King Robert. The sun beat down on stone, and the black cloaks of approaching riders shimred in its light.
The Northern contingent had arrived.
All one hundred n wore blacksteel-and-leather armor, polished to a dull shine to avoid giving away reflections in battle. Upon their cloaks, the sigil of a black wolf, baring its fangs beneath a crescent moon—Frosthall's banner.
At their lead rode Ser Garrison Blackhand and old Harl Winterhand, both veterans of the Essosi campaigns. Loyal, lethal, and fiercely Northern.
Cregan watched them approach. Shadow stood beside him, tail low, hackles relaxed but alert.
Harl dismounted first, offered a nod. "Frosthall still stands. The lads are well-fed and an. Jon's got the forge singing like a bard on fire."
"And the ghost?" Cregan asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Still drunk," Harl said without blinking.
Ser Garrison handed over a small bundle. It was Torrhen's painting.
Cregan unfolded the parchnt and stared at it. There were two very angry stick figures with sharp teeth, biting what looked to be lions. Bright red paint was everywhere.
Underneath it, in large, clumsy letters: "UNCLE AND BITE LIONS. WE WIN."
Cregan grinned. "Remind to get this frad. Put it in the main hall. Right over the wine barrels."
"Jon said the sa thing."
He took Jon's letter next and read it silently, lips twitching at the familiar mix of sarcasm, pride, and irritation.
"That boy swears more in ink than he does in speech," Cregan muttered, folding the letter and sliding it into his cloak.
---
Later that afternoon, he stood in the barracks yard of the City Watch, flanked by two of his own n.
The Gold Cloaks lined up in ssy formation. They weren't the worst Cregan had seen, but there was no discipline, no fire. A few leaned on spears. One yawned.
Cregan walked down the line in silence, Shadow pacing beside him.
One watchman chuckled. "That a pet or your second-in-command?"
Cregan stopped. Turned.
"Both. And he bites slower than I do."
Laughter died.
He spoke clearly. "You're not knights. You're not lords. You're protectors of this city. That ans you don't sleep on duty, you don't take bribes, and you don't piss in alleys while children scream nearby."
He stepped closer to the tallest watchman. "What's your na?"
"M-Morren."
"Morren. Your armor slls like vinegar. Fix that. If I sll it again, you'll be cleaning latrines at Blackwater Bay. Understood?"
"Yes, m'lord!"
Cregan turned to address them all. "You've had a fat drunk for a commander. That ends today. We hunt criminals now. Not coin."
He stepped aside as Ser Garrison unrolled a list.
"First task—review every patrol route in Flea Bottom. If it doesn't end with a local confirming safety, it gets scrapped. Second, you'll rotate. No favorites. No bought shifts. And third—"
Cregan drew his sword, pointing the dark grey blade to the ground. "—you disrespect the black, and I'll have you flogged before the sun sets."
There was silence.
Then a few n stiffened. One saluted.
Cregan sheathed his blade. "You've been lions, rats, and dogs. It's ti to be wolves."
And with that, the watch began to shift.With fear, rage and so with sothing closer to hope. A new kind of commander had arrived.
One who bit back.
---
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