Robert Baratheon rode at the head of his royal column, the great warhammer strapped across his back like an old friend, though these days it felt heavier than it should. The kingsroad north of the Neck was a muddy slog—endless grey skies, biting wind off the Bite, and the constant stink of swamp rot that clung to everything. His wheelhouse had bogged down twice already, Cersei screeching from inside like a cat in a sack. The children whined. The Kingsguard grumbled. Even the bloody Lannister knights in their crimson cloaks looked miserable.
Robert hated it. Hated the cold creeping into his bones, hated the silence of the North compared to the roar of King's Landing. But Ned was up here, good old Ned, and the boy—gods, the boy—had sent a raven saying he'd meet them at the rebuilt Moat Cailin. Cregan Stark. Robert had laughed when the letter came. A whelp of thirteen, lord of a swamp fortress, paying back half the crown's gold like some Braavosi banker. And betrothed to Myrcella. His golden girl, matched to a black wolf pup. It amused him. It also made him curious.
The column crested a low rise, and there it was.
Moat Cailin.
Robert reined in his destrier so hard the beast snorted. The old tales spoke of ruins—three crumbling towers, moss-eaten basalt blocks half-sunk in the mire, a death trap for any fool who tried to force the causeway. What rose before him now was no ruin.
Twenty towers stood proud again, black basalt gleaming wet in the mist, walls rising as high as Winterfell's own—higher in places, with sharp-angled bastions that funneled attackers into kill zones. The curtain wall was unbroken, gates of iron-banded oak reinforced with steel bands. Ballistae peered from embrasures like watchful eyes. The causeway itself had been widened, paved with fresh stone, flanked by drainage ditches that carried the swamp water away instead of letting it pool and breed fever. No more wading chest-deep through lizard-lion infested muck; this was a road fit for an army.
And the men.
Black-armored soldiers lined the walls—hundreds of them, silent and still. Shields overlapped in tight ranks, spears leveled, wolf-pelt capes stirring in the wind. Not the ragged Northern levies Robert remembered from the Rebellion. These moved like soldiers who knew their craft: disciplined, precise. Some carried long pikes that could skewer a horse from twenty paces; others hefted short swords and big rectangular shields. Archers—lean, hawk-eyed—stood atop the towers with curved bows and small round shields at their hips.
Robert felt a grin split his beard. "Seven hells. Ned's boy turned the Moat into a proper castle again."
Beside him, Jaime Lannister tilted his head, golden hair whipping in the wind. "Impressive. For a boy lord. Though those black cloaks make them look like Night's Watch rejects."
"Shut your mouth, Kingslayer," Robert growled, but there was no heat in it. He was impressed. The gold he'd sent—Lannister gold, mostly—hadn't been pissed away on tourneys or whores. It had bought stone, steel, and men who looked ready to fight.
A horn sounded from the main gate. It opened with a groan of iron. Out rode a single figure on a black stallion barded in dark mail.
Cregan Stark.
The boy—no, young man now—wore full black armor: segmented plates over mail, polished to a dull midnight sheen, wolf-pelt cloak flowing from his shoulders. A great helm under one arm revealed dark auburn hair cropped short, Stark grey eyes sharp as Valyrian steel. At his side hung a short sword—gladius, Robert thought Ned had called it—and a spear rested across his saddle. Behind him trotted a black direwolf the size of a pony, red eyes glowing like embers. Shadow, the beast was named. It padded silently, never straying far.
Cregan reined up a respectful distance, dismounted, and knelt. "Your Grace. Welcome to Moat Cailin. The North is honored."
Robert swung down from his horse with a grunt—gods, his knees ached these days—and clapped the boy on the shoulder hard enough to stagger most men. Cregan didn't budge. "Get up, lad. No need for kneeling in the mud. You've done good work here. Better than good. This place used to be a graveyard; now it's a bloody fortress."
Cregan rose, meeting Robert's gaze level. "The gold was well spent, Your Grace. Moat Cailin stands as it should—guardian of the North."
Robert laughed, a great booming sound that rolled across the causeway. "And half my debt repaid already! You're the only lord in the Seven Kingdoms who pays his king instead of begging more coin. Ned raised you right." He glanced at the black-armored ranks. "Your men?"
"House Lupus troops," Cregan said simply. "My standing garrison. The elites—Wolf Hoplites and Wolf Centurions—will ride with us to Winterfell. Three hundred each, as honor guard. The rest stay to hold the Moat and the port."
Robert's eyes narrowed with interest. "Elites, eh? Let's see them."
Cregan signaled. From the gates marched six hundred in perfect step: three hundred in heavy hoplite gear—large round shields, long spears, black plate—and three hundred centurions with gladius, scutum, and wolf-pelt capes. Their armor drank the light; no gleam, no flash, just matte black menace. They halted in formation, shields thumping once in unison.
Robert walked the line, inspecting. "Gods be good. They look like they could chew through a Dothraki khalasar and spit out the bones." He turned back to Cregan. "You'll ride with us the rest of the way. More security for the royal party—and I want to hear how a boy of nine turned swamp ruins into this."
Cregan inclined his head. "As you command, Your Grace."
They mounted up. Robert insisted Cregan ride at his right hand—place of honor. The column reformed: royal banner of the crowned stag snapping overhead, Lannister crimson behind, Stark grey mixing in. But now black wolves rode among them too—three hundred Wolf Hoplites ahead in wedge, three hundred Centurions bringing up the rear. Shadow loped alongside Cregan's horse, red eyes scanning the mist.
As they passed through the gates, Robert glanced south toward the new port visible in the distance—Lupus Port, walls rising sharp against the river, docks bustling with Essosi sails. Smoke rose from forges; ships unloaded iron and silk. Trade. Coin. Strength.
"By the gods," Robert muttered to himself. "The boy's built a bloody kingdom in the swamp."
The causeway stretched north. Mist clung to the reeds, but the road was dry and firm. Cregan rode in silence at first, answering Robert's questions plainly: how the sewers kept the fever down, how potato fields fed thousands, how vodka barrels bought Essosi steel for the forges. Robert listened, chuckling now and then.
"You're wasted on the Neck, lad," Robert said at one point. "Should be in King's Landing, running the bloody treasury."
Cregan smiled faintly. "The North needs me here, Your Grace. Winter is coming."
Robert snorted. "Always with the bloody words. Ned says the same. But you've got teeth behind yours."
The journey to Winterfell took days—through bogs that no longer swallowed men, past crannogmen villages flying black wolf banners alongside direwolf grey. Cregan spoke little of war, more of trade and training. Robert liked that. No posturing. Just results.
When Winterfell's grey walls finally rose on the horizon, Robert felt a strange pang. Home for Ned. A new power for the North. And his own daughter promised to this black-armored wolf pup.
He clapped Cregan on the back again as they approached the gates. "You've made your father proud, boy. And me richer. Now let's see if Ned still remembers how to drink like we used to."
Cregan nodded, eyes on the approaching castle. Shadow growled low, sensing the shift in the air.
The king had come north. And the Black Wolf rode at his side.