The horns of Winterfell thundered across the valley, deep and long, rattling the stone walls. The sound of gates opening rolled through the keep, followed by the pounding of hooves as the King of the Seven Kingdoms rode into the North.
Ned—Marcus within—stood at the front of his household, cloak heavy across his shoulders, his family arrayed at his side. The banners of House Stark snapped in the wind above them, direwolves howling on grey fields.
Jon shifted behind Robb, trying to blend into the shadow of his siblings. Arya fidgeted, eager for motion. Sansa's eyes gleamed with practiced calm, already rehearsing her courtesies. Catelyn's fingers rested lightly on Rickon's shoulder, steadying the youngest.
And then Robert Baratheon entered.
The king had grown fat, his belly straining against the leather of his tunic, his black hair gone to grey. Yet the strength of his presence still carried. He was not the man Marcus remembered from the soldier's perspective of reading books or watching adaptations, nor the one Eddard Stark's memories had cherished as a brother-in-arms. He was both—friend and stranger.
"Stark!" Robert boomed, swinging from his horse. His voice shook the air. "You old dog."
Ned stepped forward, the mask of Lord Stark settling over his features. He clasped Robert's hand in a soldier's grip, though his own strength threatened to crush bone. He remembered, then tempered himself. "Your Grace," he said gravely.
Robert laughed and pulled him into a crushing embrace, smelling of sweat and wine. "Your Grace?" the king mocked. "Seven hells, Ned, that's what they call me in court. You're my brother."
The man's laughter filled the courtyard, and the Northmen cheered. Ned let himself smile faintly—Eddard's smile—but Marcus's eyes studied Robert like an enemy commander. The king was vulnerable, aging, blind to his own weakness. Yet dangerous still.
The introductions came swift. Robert greeted Catelyn politely, barely concealing his disinterest. He ruffled Arya's hair when she darted forward, ignored Jon entirely, and lingered on Sansa with a look of approval that made Marcus's wolf bristle beneath his skin.
Later, after the courtesies, after the king had settled in Winterfell's halls, Robert demanded to see the crypts.
Marcus had expected it. He walked beside the king through the winding tunnels, torches hissing as they descended into the dark. The statues of long-dead Starks loomed on either side, stone direwolves at their feet. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of earth.
At Lyanna's tomb, Robert halted. His hand brushed the stone, his eyes clouded with grief. "She should have been mine," he muttered, voice thick. "She should have borne me sons."
Ned—Marcus—watched silently. Eddard's memories pulled at him, sorrow deep as winter. But Marcus's soldier's mind cut through the haze. Lyanna was a wound Robert would never allow to heal. It blinded him, drove his hatred, shaped his reign.
"She is gone," Ned said quietly. "Let her rest."
Robert's jaw clenched. "Never."
The torchlight flickered. For a moment, Marcus imagined tearing the man apart, ending his drunken reign before it reached Winterfell's gates. His wolf howled for blood, his instincts screamed remove the threat. But not yet. Timing was everything.
That night, the feast roared. Venison and boar roasted on spits, barrels of mead and ale emptied into mugs, music echoed off the stone walls. Robert drank deep and laughed louder. The Lannisters gleamed in gold and crimson, eyes sharp as blades. Cersei's smile was thin, Jaime's arrogance thicker than the wine, and Tyrion… Tyrion watched everything with quiet amusement.
Marcus sat at the high table, the mask of Ned Stark upon him, but his senses stretched far beyond the hall. He could smell lies on breaths, hear whispers behind goblets, feel the tension coiling like a drawn bow.
Cersei leaned toward Robert, her words smooth as silk, but her eyes slid often to Ned. Jaime's gaze lingered too, challenging, waiting for weakness.
Marcus's wolf snarled silently. They smelled of ambition, of rot. His soldier's instincts measured them as threats. Not immediate, but eventual.
Across the hall, Jon sat apart, excluded from the Stark children's places of honor. His jaw was tight, his eyes shadowed. Marcus felt the boy's loneliness, his hunger for belonging. It burned in him like a beacon.
Soon, Marcus thought. You will never be alone again.
Later, when the music died and the fires dimmed, Robert called Ned into his chambers. He dismissed his attendants, poured two cups of strong wine, and gestured for Ned to sit.
"I didn't come north for feasts and memories," Robert said, his voice low. "I came because I need you."
Ned sat, his face calm, though inside Marcus weighed every word, every gesture.
"Jon Arryn is dead," Robert continued. "Murdered, I swear it. The Lannisters plot, they poison everything. I can't trust Varys, can't trust Littlefinger, not even Stannis. But you, Ned. You're the only man I can trust. I want you as my Hand."
There it was. The first chain of fate.
Eddard Stark's memories ached to refuse. Duty to the North, love of family, distrust of the South. But Marcus Kane's soldier's mind knew better. Accept. Learn. Position. Strike when ready.
Ned's eyes met Robert's. "If it is your command, I will serve."
Robert grinned, clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to rattle bone. "By the gods, it will be like old times. You and me, side by side again."
Marcus forced the ghost of a smile. Old times, he thought grimly. But I am not the man you once knew.
That night, in the solitude of his chambers, Marcus stared into the flames of the hearth. His mind turned not to Robert, nor to Cersei, nor even to the throne.
It turned to the Pack.
The first transformation would come soon. Jon Snow would be the beginning—loyal, hungry, eager for belonging. Then Robb, Arya, perhaps Catelyn. Slowly, quietly, until Winterfell was bound not only by blood, but by the unbreakable bond of wolves.
They would go to King's Landing, as fate demanded. But they would not go alone.
Leave no witness. That law echoed in his chest, as sure as a heartbeat.
He closed his eyes, and for the briefest moment, the great black Lycan stirred within him, its growl blending with the crackle of fire.
This time, the South would not devour him.
This time, the wolf was ready.