Chapter 2: The Howl and the Whisperwood
The days that followed Cregan Stark's miraculous recovery were a blur of assimilation and assessment for the soul inhabiting his body. Ciel Phantomhive, for he still thought of himself as such in the quiet solitude of his mind, found himself navigating a world simultaneously cruder and more viscerally real than any he had known. Winterfell was a behemoth of cold stone and pragmatic strength, a far cry from the gaslit elegance of London or the manicured lawns of Phantomhive Manor. Yet, there was a brutal honesty to it, a lack of artifice that Ciel, in a strange way, found almost refreshing after the endless deceptions of the English aristocracy.
His uncle, Bennard Stark, proved to be a man as unyielding as the Northern mountains. He was gruff, often bordering on insubordinate in his tone, yet Ciel sensed an underlying, grudging loyalty to House Stark, if not necessarily to its current, unexpectedly changed, young lord. Bennard had clearly been accustomed to a more malleable Cregan, or perhaps one more easily cowed by his elder's experience. He found, instead, a boy with eyes too old, a mind too sharp, and a will of iron that belied his youthful frame.
"You're spending too much time with that… Southerner," Bennard had grumbled one morning, referring to Sebastian. They were in the Great Hall, a vast, smoky chamber where trestle tables were being laid for the midday meal. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat, ale, and damp wool. Sebastian, who had seamlessly integrated himself as Cregan's ever-present shadow – a 'sworn sword from the Riverlands with a peculiar fastidiousness,' as he'd dryly introduced himself to the more inquisitive members of the household – stood a respectful pace behind Ciel, his expression serene.
Ciel, who was examining a crudely drawn map of the Northern domains spread across a heavy oak table, didn't look up. "Sebastian is loyal and efficient. Qualities I value. He also doesn't question my orders, Uncle. A lesson some others might do well to learn." His voice, Cregan's voice, was cool and steady, carrying easily in the cavernous hall.
Bennard's jaw tightened. He was a man built for war, his face a roadmap of old battles and harsh winters. "He's not Northern. He doesn't understand our ways."
"He understands my ways," Ciel countered, finally lifting his gaze, his one visible blue eye pinning Bennard. "And those are the ways that now govern Winterfell. You mentioned the Umbers are late with their grain tribute this season?"
The abrupt change of topic was deliberate, a reminder of who was Lord. Bennard, after a moment of stony silence, grunted an affirmative. "Aye. Lord Umber sends word of early snows in the Last Hearth, hindering their harvest transport."
"Early snows or an early test of my authority?" Ciel mused, tapping a finger on the map where the Umber lands were marked. "Sebastian, ensure a raven is sent to Lord Umber. He is to present himself and his tribute within the fortnight, or I shall come to collect it myself. And I will bring Sarx. I'm sure my direwolf would appreciate a run in 'early snows'."
A subtle ripple of unease went through the nearby servants. Sarx, Cregan's direwolf, was a creature of immense size and feral intelligence. The bond between the young Stark and his wolf was legendary, and since Cregan's 'recovery,' the wolf had become even more inseparable from him, its golden eyes often mirroring the unnerving intensity of its master's.
Bennard merely grunted again, a sound Ciel was beginning to interpret as reluctant acquiescence. "As you command, my Lord." The title was emphasized, perhaps a touch mockingly, but he didn't argue further.
Later, Ciel sought out Maester Lorcan in the castle library, a surprisingly well-stocked chamber, though many of the tomes were ancient, their pages brittle. Sebastian, naturally, accompanied him, moving with his usual spectral silence.
"Maester," Ciel began, foregoing pleasantries, "I wish to understand more about the… unique afflictions or gifts that are sometimes spoken of in the North. Greensight. Warging."
Maester Lorcan, a man more comfortable with histories and healing herbs than with the wilder aspects of Northern lore, looked flustered. "My Lord! These are… old tales, mostly. Matters of folklore, not scholarly pursuit for the Citadel."
"And yet," Ciel pressed, "the weirwoods have faces, and my own direwolf seems to understand my unspoken thoughts more readily than some men understand plain speech. Indulge me, Maester. What do your 'old tales' say?"
Reluctantly, Lorcan spoke of the First Men, of the Children of the Forest, of the pacts made in an age long past. He described greensight as rare visions, often fragmented and symbolic, believed to be messages from the Old Gods, seen through the weirwoods. Warging, or skinchanging, was even rarer, an ability for a human mind to slip into an animal's, to share its senses, even control it. It was strong in families with ancient ties to the First Men, the Starks chief among them.
"It is said that those who spend too much time in the skin of their beasts can lose themselves," Lorcan cautioned, his voice low. "The animal mind can overwhelm the human. It is a wild magic, Lord Cregan, not to be trifled with."
"All magic has its price, Maester," Ciel replied, his tone unreadable. "The question is whether the rewards outweigh the risks."
He dismissed the Maester and turned to Sebastian, who was idly examining a faded tapestry depicting a Stark king wrestling a griffin. "Warging," Ciel stated. "The connection I felt with Sarx. It was more than intuition."
"Indeed, my Lord," Sebastian said, his crimson eyes glinting. "A fascinating development. An extension of your senses, perhaps even your will. Untamed, as yet, but ripe with potential."
"Untamed is problematic," Ciel said. "I need control. Complete control."
His first deliberate attempt came that evening. He sat before the hearth in his chambers, Sarx lying at his feet, the great wolf's head resting on its paws, golden eyes fixed on him. Ciel focused, recalling the fleeting sensations he'd experienced before – the wind, the scent of pine, the raw power. He reached out with his mind, not with a command, but with an invitation, a merging.
For a moment, nothing. Then, a subtle shift. The fire in the hearth seemed to dim, the sounds of the castle faded, replaced by the rhythmic beat of a powerful heart – Sarx's heart – and the acute awareness of every scent in the room: the woodsmoke, the old stone, Sebastian's faint, almost sterile aroma, and Ciel's own unfamiliar, Stark scent. He felt the thick fur on his own skin, the powerful muscles coiled beneath him. He could taste the lingering essence of roasted boar from Sarx's last meal.
Master? The thought wasn't in words, but in a wave of pure, uncomplicated loyalty and understanding that flowed from the wolf's consciousness into his.
Ciel pushed further, carefully. Show me the courtyard.
The wolf rose, stretched, and padded silently to the door. Ciel felt the movement as if it were his own. He was both in his chair, watching the wolf, and inside the wolf, seeing through its eyes. Sebastian, sensing the shift, unlatched the door.
Through Sarx's eyes, the world was a symphony of smells and sounds, sharper, more vibrant. The torchlight in the corridor cast long, dancing shadows. The chill of the stone floor was felt through thick paw pads. He saw guardsmen nodding respectfully to the Lord's wolf, their scents a mixture of sweat, leather, and ale. He reached the main courtyard, the night air cold and crisp. He could smell a fox miles away in the wolfswood, hear the rustle of a mouse in the stables. It was overwhelming, intoxicating.
With a surge of will, Ciel pulled back, gasping as his senses snapped back fully into his human form. Sarx whined softly at the door, then returned to his side, nudging his hand.
"Remarkable, my Lord," Sebastian observed, his voice a silken murmur. "You adapt quickly. Though I would advise caution. As the good Maester noted, losing oneself in the beast… it would be an unfortunate end to our contract."
Ciel scowled, though a thrill still coursed through him. "I am not some feral creature, Sebastian. I am its master. And this ability… it will be another weapon in my arsenal."
His exploration of greensight was less direct. He found himself drawn to the ancient Godswood of Winterfell, a dark, primeval place within the castle walls. At its heart stood the weirwood, immense and ancient, its white bark like bone, its carved face weeping crimson sap, its red leaves like a thousand bloody hands. It was a place of profound silence, the sounds of the bustling castle muted to a distant hum.
He would sit before it for hours, Sarx at his side, Sebastian a discreet distance away, appearing as if simply standing guard. Ciel didn't try to force a vision. He simply… listened. He let the ancient stillness of the place seep into him.
One afternoon, as the sun began to set, casting long shadows through the gnarled branches, it happened. He wasn't looking at the weirwood's face, but at the black pool of water at its base. The surface rippled, not from wind, but from within. An image formed, hazy at first, then sharpening with painful clarity.
He saw dragons. Not the fanciful creatures of storybooks, but immense, scaled beasts, terrible and magnificent, their roars shaking the very heavens. They danced a deadly ballet in a smoke-filled sky, spitting fire that consumed castles and men alike. He saw a woman with silver-gold hair, her face a mask of grief and fury, astride a golden dragon. He saw another with similar Targaryen features, a young man with a cruel twist to his lips, riding a pale green behemoth. He saw fire, blood, and a throne made of twisted swords. Then, a wolf, huge and grey, battling a golden lion under a sky stained red. The vision fragmented, dissolved, leaving Ciel gasping, the cold sweat beading on his brow.
"My Lord?" Sebastian was instantly there.
Ciel waved him away, his breathing ragged. "Dragons fighting dragons. A woman… a man… war, Sebastian. A terrible war is coming to this land." The images were more vivid, more terrifying than any secondhand report from his uncle or the Maester. This was a glimpse of the cataclysm itself.
"The Dance of the Dragons, as they call it," Sebastian said, his crimson eyes reflecting the fading light. "It seems your newfound sight confirms the direst predictions. Information, even of this nature, is power, my Lord. Forewarned is forearmed."
"Forearmed for what?" Ciel muttered. "To be a pawn in their fiery game?" He pushed himself to his feet, his new Stark blood, or perhaps just his own indomitable will, refusing to be cowed. "The North will not be fodder for Southern ambitions. Not while I draw breath."
His resolve hardened. Winterfell was his domain now. The North, his responsibility. He would not see it ravaged by the squabbles of dragonlords, if he could help it. This meant consolidating his power, understanding his resources, and ensuring the absolute loyalty of his bannermen.
The next few weeks were a whirlwind of activity. Ciel, with Sebastian as his ever-efficient aide, delved into the stewardship of Winterfell. He reviewed ledgers, assessed grain stores, inspected the armory, and observed the training of the household guard. His sharp questions and uncompromising standards quickly disabused anyone of the notion that the young Lord Stark was still a boy to be managed.
He held court daily, listening to petitioners, settling disputes between minor landholders, and dispensing justice with a swiftness and pragmatism that was, at times, unnervingly cold. A merchant caught cheating on grain measures found his entire stock confiscated and distributed to the poor, with the merchant himself flogged and banished from Winterfell's lands. A border dispute between two petty lords was settled not by ancient claims, but by Ciel's assessment of which lord could better secure the land against wildling raids. His justice was harsh, but it was undeniably effective, and a grudging respect began to grow.
Bennard Stark watched these proceedings with a mixture of consternation and reluctant admiration. "You rule with a harder hand than your father, Cregan," he remarked one evening, as they shared a cup of mulled wine by the fire in Ciel's solar. The 'Cregan' still felt odd on his tongue when addressing this changed youth.
"My father is dead," Ciel replied, swirling the wine in his goblet. "And the times are growing harder. Soft hands do not hold power in a storm, Uncle. They are swept away." He looked at Bennard directly. "I require your counsel, as a man who knew my father and knows the North. But I do not require your permission to rule."
Bennard met his gaze, and for the first time, Ciel saw not just grudging acceptance, but a flicker of genuine Stark pride. "Aye," Bennard said, a slow smile spreading across his weathered face. "Aye, that you do, lad. Your father would… He would be surprised. But I think he would understand."
This, Ciel knew, was a victory. Securing Bennard's genuine, if still wary, support was crucial. The man commanded respect among many of the older, more traditional Northern houses.
Sebastian, meanwhile, proved invaluable. He was more than a bodyguard or an attendant; he was an extension of Ciel's will, anticipating his needs, gathering information with uncanny speed and discretion. He learned the layout of Winterfell and its surrounding lands in days. He knew the name, rank, and potential loyalties of every significant member of the household. He could produce a perfectly brewed cup of Earl Grey tea even in this forsaken wilderness – a small comfort that Ciel deeply appreciated, a tether to his past self.
"The cook, a woman named Martha, is fiercely loyal to House Stark and makes a surprisingly decent shepherd's pie, given the local ingredients," Sebastian reported one evening, while Ciel was poring over reports from his Northern bannermen. "The Master-at-Arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel, is an honorable man, though perhaps a touch too sentimental for his own good. He is, however, devoted to training the men well. Young Robett Glover, a ward from Deepwood Motte, shows promise with a blade but lacks discipline. He also has a tendency to stare at you, my Lord, with an expression of baffled awe."
Ciel grunted. "Let him be awed. As long as he learns to obey." He paused, a new thought occurring. "Sebastian, this body… Cregan's body. It is young, but strong. Stronger than my previous one."
"Indeed, my Lord. The Starks are of hardy stock. With proper training, it could become quite formidable."
"Then see to it," Ciel ordered. "Subtly, of course. I cannot appear to be suddenly tutored by my own manservant. But ensure my… physical conditioning… is brought up to a standard befitting my station. And my intentions."
Sebastian's smile was a flash of white teeth in the dim light. "It would be my distinct pleasure, my Lord. A healthy body sustains a sharp mind. And a soul ripe for the taking, eventually."
Ciel ignored the customary barb. His soul was his own, for now. And it had work to do.
A raven arrived from White Harbor, bearing the seal of House Manderly. Lord Wyman Manderly, one of the most powerful and wealthy of Stark's bannermen, extended his felicitations on Lord Cregan's recovery and requested an audience at his earliest convenience to discuss matters of trade and mutual defense in light of the 'troubling news from the capital.'
"Manderly," Ciel mused, reading the missive. "A powerful player. Wealthy from sea trade. Their loyalty is essential." He looked up at Sebastian. "It seems our period of quiet consolidation is drawing to a close. Prepare for a journey to White Harbor. It is time Lord Stark showed his face – and his teeth – to his principal vassals."
He also had a growing suspicion, a prickling at the edge of his awareness, that the greensight was not just for grand, apocalyptic visions. There were whispers in the rustling leaves of the Godswood, fleeting images in the ripples of the black pool, that hinted at more immediate concerns: a disgruntled vassal, a hidden cache of weapons, the true nature of a smile from a visiting merchant. It was like learning a new language, fragmented and frustrating, but undeniably potent.
The North was stirring. And Ciel Phantomhive, wearing the skin of Cregan Stark, was ready to meet its challenges. He had his wits, his indomitable will, a demon bound to his service, and the nascent stirrings of ancient magic. The game in Westeros was far more complex than he had anticipated, but the stakes – survival, power, and the protection of his new domain – were crystal clear.
He stood by the window of his solar, looking out over the moonlit courtyard of Winterfell. Sarx rose and came to stand beside him, leaning his heavy frame against Ciel's leg. Ciel rested a hand on the direwolf's head, feeling the steady thrum of its life force, the fierce loyalty that needed no words.
"Winter is coming," he murmured, the ancient Stark words tasting foreign yet strangely appropriate on his tongue. For the South, it was a warning. For him, it was a simple statement of fact. And he, the new Wolf of Winterfell, would be ready for it. He would be more than ready. He would be its master.