Cregan's POV
You ever have one of those moments where you feel like you're in the opening scene of an epic fantasy movie? That's me, right now, standing in the courtyard of Winterfell while the sun decides to put on the most dramatic golden glow possible. It's like it's trying to impress someone. Maybe the Old Gods? Maybe me? I dunno, but I appreciate the effort.
Anyway, I've got a job to do. Because today, Domeric Bolton arrives at Winterfell. And I'm supposed to be all welcoming and lordly about it.
Now, let's talk about Domeric. You hear 'Bolton,' and you immediately think 'bad news.' Like, I dunno, flayed men, creepy vibes, a family tradition of being just a little too into skin care—other people's skin, that is. But Domeric? Kid's eleven, rides up looking like he's about to audition for 'Most Polite Noble in Westeros.' He's got sharp features, neat hair, and this 'I-have-perfect-handwriting' energy. Also, he looks nervous, which, fair. Winterfell is not exactly the easiest place to roll up to when you're a Bolton.
I step forward, flashing what I like to call the 'Cregan Stark Welcome Special'—a grin that says 'I totally have everything under control' (whether or not that's true is a different story). "Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Domeric! We're glad to have you here." Look at me, being all lordly and everything.
Domeric dismounts like he's been practicing for years (he probably has), and he pulls off a perfect noble bow. I swear, the kid could teach a class on etiquette. "Thank you, Lord Cregan. It's an honor to be welcomed so warmly."
He says it like he's reading off a script, but hey, I get it. New place, new people, gotta be on your best behavior. I'm not gonna judge him for it. Yet.
And then—cue the entrance of my uncle, Lord Eddard Stark. Ned Stark in all his glory. He looks like he was carved from the same stone as Winterfell itself, all serious and broody, like he's just waiting for someone to bring him bad news so he can frown about it.
"Winterfell is your home now, Lord Domeric," Uncle Ned says in that voice of his, like he's pronouncing some ancient truth. "We hope you'll feel at ease and learn much during your stay."
Which is Uncle Ned for 'We don't bite. Probably.'
Domeric nods quickly. "I'll do my best, my lord."
Before things can get too solemn, Rhaenys swoops in, because of course she does. She's all Dornish elegance wrapped in Targaryen mystery, violet eyes that could see straight into your soul, and the kind of presence that makes everyone pay attention the second she walks in. Fourteen years old and already has more queenly energy than half the rulers in Westeros.
She smiles at Domeric, and I swear, the temperature in the courtyard rises by at least ten degrees. "Welcome, Lord Domeric. Winterfell is a great place to learn and grow. And if you ever want to talk or need anything, feel free to find me."
That's it. Game over. Domeric is doomed. He does his best to keep his cool, but his ears are turning red. "Thank you, Princess Rhaenys. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Oh, buddy. You don't even know.
Rhaenys gives me a pointed look, like, 'Well? Do your job, Lord Stark.'
Fine, fine. I wave a hand. "Alright, let's head inside. You've gotta be exhausted from the trip, right? We've got a feast waiting for you. Winterfell hospitality and all that."
Domeric nods, and as we start walking toward the Great Hall, I can see him taking in everything. The massive stone walls, the towering keep, the way Winterfell just feels... solid. Like it's been here forever and will be here long after we're gone.
We step into the Great Hall, and it's a whole different world. Warmth, noise, the smell of roasted meat filling the air. Domeric's eyes go wide, because yeah, it's impressive. The hearth alone could probably fit half of the Dreadfort inside it.
I lean in and whisper, "First time in a castle that doesn't look like it eats people?"
Domeric huffs out a laugh before catching himself. I think he's realizing that maybe, just maybe, this whole 'being at Winterfell' thing might not be so bad.
Rhaenys, of course, is already settling in, chatting with Domeric about the North, the cold, how he's going to have to get used to wearing at least three layers at all times. Meanwhile, I'm just standing there like, 'Cool, I'll just be over here being the actual Lord of Winterfell.' No big deal. Just, you know, responsible for a whole castle, a bunch of people, and making sure nobody flays anyone.
Totally fine.
As the doors close behind us, I can't shake the feeling that this is the start of something bigger. New alliances, new responsibilities. And, if I play my cards right, maybe even a new friend.
Hopefully, one who doesn't share his family's... hobbies.
Fingers crossed.
—
Winterfell was buzzing. Not in the usual way—like when the wolves are on the hunt or when a Stark is about to say something cryptic and ominous—but more like when you throw a party and no one really knows what they're doing, but everyone's pretending they do. New wards were arriving, and I could already feel the impending chaos like an itch in the back of my mind. This was going to be fun. Or a disaster. Either way, it was going to be interesting.
First off the carriage was Cley Cerwyn. Now, Cley looked like a guy who'd been dropped into the world of ice, snow, and savage wolves after spending the last five years hanging out with bunnies and knitting scarves. He had that sandy brown hair and a stiff posture that screamed, "Please, God, don't make me talk to anyone." Which, honestly, I respected. A guy could use some time to adjust before getting thrown into the deep end of the Stark family insanity.
I shoved my hands into my pockets and gave him my most winning grin—the kind I'd been practicing in front of the mirror for days (okay, maybe just once or twice, but still, it worked). "Cley, welcome to Winterfell. We're so glad to have you here," I said, trying to sound all charming and cool, like someone who doesn't secretly wish for a pet direwolf.
Cley smiled awkwardly. "Thank you, Lord Cregan. I'm honored to be here."
Okay, maybe I gave him too much credit. The kid looked like he was about to step on a wolf or trip over a direwolf's tail, but he got the words right. Close enough. He gave Eddard a respectful bow, but it wasn't one of those "I'm going to bow so deep that I get stuck in the floor" bows. It was more of a polite nod, the kind you'd give a stranger in a very big, very cold room.
Ned, being his usual stoic self (which, if I'm being honest, sometimes feels like he's carved out of stone and molded by the gods of serious, brooding fathers), nodded. "Winterfell is your home now. I hope your time here will be both educational and enjoyable."
Well, no pressure. Just live in a massive castle with half the North's bloodlines, a bunch of terrifying direwolves, and a serious shortage of hot chocolate. You'll do fine.
Rhaenys, always looking like she just stepped out of some magical fairy tale with that beauty that could stop a war, flashed a smile at Cley. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Cerwyn. Winterfell has much to offer, and we're all happy to have you here."
Her words were warm and welcoming, and you could practically see the kid's knees buckle from the force of her charm. She was good at this—way better than me. Honestly, at this point, I was just trying to avoid tripping on my own feet.
Cley nodded back, probably wondering if it was too early to ask where he could hide for the next month. "Thank you, Princess Rhaenys. It's an honor to meet you as well."
We were all starting to settle into the weirdness of the situation when—boom! Enter Alys Karstark. She was like a storm made flesh. Not the kind of storm that sweeps through and ruins your life, but the kind that leaves you impressed and possibly terrified. She was strong, quiet, and if she didn't want to talk, well, too bad. She wouldn't. The kind of kid who could probably bench-press a boulder if she felt like it. And yet, there she was, curtsying like a lady. Seriously, this girl's graceful move was a contradiction wrapped in ice and steel.
"Greetings, Lord Cregan," she said, her voice cool like the wind whipping through the halls of Winterfell. "I'm honored to be here."
I nodded back, though I had to admit, I was already getting the distinct feeling she was silently sizing me up to see if I was worth her time. Alys wasn't much for pleasantries, which I respected. Plus, the kid could probably break me in half if she wanted to. No pressure.
Ned gave his usual "I'm all business" look and replied, "Lady Alys, we are pleased to welcome you. Winterfell is a place of learning and camaraderie. I hope you find it to your liking."
Okay, Ned, not exactly the warmest welcome, but I get it. Not everyone is about that "chit-chat" life. Alys wasn't the "let's talk about feelings" type, but at least she wasn't running for the hills. That's progress.
Then, just to really throw my expectations out the window, Smalljon Umber arrived. The kid wasn't so much arriving as he was exploding through the gates with the kind of enthusiasm that could probably power a small city. His cloak billowed behind him like a flag of chaos, and I swear, you could hear his battle cry in the distance. The sigil of House Umber was stamped across his chest—a roaring giant breaking its chains. Smalljon wasn't here for subtlety. He was here for destruction and good times.
"Cregan Stark!" Smalljon boomed, his grin stretching wide enough to rival a direwolf's. "It's good to see you again!"
I couldn't help but laugh. The kid was like a walking festival. "Smalljon, it's been too long, buddy. Welcome to Winterfell."
He looked so amped up that I wondered if he was about to leap into a fight or just casually knock over a table because he felt like it. "Aye, it has. I'm looking forward to our time here."
Uncle Ned gave him one of his classic, barely-there nods, the kind that was basically like, "Yeah, good luck with that." But I swear, even Ned looked a little amused by the storm that was Smalljon Umber.
And then Rhaenys—bless her—gave Smalljon a smile that could've melted the wall. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Umber. Your enthusiasm is... refreshing."
Smalljon puffed out his chest like she'd just handed him a crown. "It's all I got, Princess," he said, grinning like the sun itself. "But I'll try not to burn the place down on my first day."
I swear, with Smalljon, you didn't need to try to make things interesting. The kid was a walking wildfire.
As the wards shuffled into the Great Hall, I had to admit—I was starting to like this whole "new people arriving" thing. Yeah, there would be some awkward moments—like when Smalljon knocked over a bowl of soup and blamed it on the 'rushing wind' or when Alys shot Cley a look that probably froze the very air around them—but these kids were going to make Winterfell something different.
And yeah, it was a lot of responsibility. It felt like every time I turned around, someone was expecting me to actually be the Lord of Winterfell. Which, honestly, sounded way cooler than it felt. But hey, I was rolling with it. I had my hands full, but that didn't mean I couldn't have a little fun too.
I turned to the group, feeling the weight of Winterfell's ancient halls pressing in on us. "Alright, everyone. Come on in. Let's get some food into you and settle in. Winterfell's not exactly a warm place, but we've got enough food to feed a thousand warriors—and trust me, some of you will need it after that trip."
And hey, if anything went sideways? At least we had enough chaos in one room to make that interesting too.
—
Winterfell was always loud. Well, not loud, like a bunch of screaming kids or anything, but loud in the way old castles are—creaky floors, wolves howling, the occasional clink of swords as they're tested by young idiots like me. But today, Winterfell was buzzing in a way that made me think someone had accidentally set off a powder keg of awkwardness and petty rivalries. That's right: more wards were arriving. And if there's one thing I know for sure, it's that more wards mean more drama.
It was like the universe was pushing me toward the front lines of this disaster. I was standing in the courtyard, leaning against the wall like I was some sort of cool, aloof Stark heir (spoiler: I wasn't), while Uncle Ned—who looked like he'd just rolled out of bed but still managed to exude enough authority to make a dragon sit down—gave me the stink-eye like he was the one who was really awake. And Rhaenys? Well, she was already dazzling everyone with that effortlessly perfect look of "I just woke up looking like a goddess." She had that knack.
Then, the gates creaked open. Not like a cool dramatic creak, more like a creak that said, "You're about to get hit with something way more awkward than you signed up for." And sure enough, in rode the Forresters and the Whitehills. The Forresters were all swagger and bravado, and the Whitehills were... well, they were just as full of pride, but with more ice in their veins than actual warmth.
First off, Asher Forrester. Oh boy. Ten years old, and already acting like he was going to storm Winterfell's walls with nothing but a sword and a grin. He jumped off his horse like he'd just swung down from a dragon's back—and I think he actually expected to land in some heroic pose, but he stumbled a little. Still, that didn't stop him from looking around at Winterfell like it was his new playground. "Big place you got here," he said, loud enough that I swear even the Old Gods heard it.
I crossed my arms, already guessing that this kid would be trouble. I mean, sure, the guy was probably fun trouble, but that didn't mean he wasn't a headache in the making. "Yep, we try to keep it impressive," I said with my most nonchalant heir voice, which I've spent the last twelve years perfecting. It wasn't good, but it was fine.
And then—enter Gwyn Whitehill. She stepped off her horse with the grace of someone who'd been practicing curtsies and complicated footwork since she was two. I swear, if I tried to make that much of an entrance, I'd probably trip over my own boots. She caught Asher's wide grin, narrowed her eyes, and I swear I saw her mentally file this as "One to avoid unless absolutely necessary." And let's be real, Gwyn Whitehill didn't do "necessary" unless it came with a dagger in the back.
"Thank you for hosting us, my lord," she said, with a curtsy that would've made any septa jealous. She said it just polite enough that I almost thought she was a friendly rival to Cersei. And I'm pretty sure she knew it.
Uncle Ned—God bless him—smiled that grim, noble smile of his. The one that says, "I'm definitely not showing excitement, but my bloodline is important." "Winterfell is a place of learning and camaraderie. You will both have the opportunity to grow, train, and—if you're lucky—avoid too many political disasters."
I raised my eyebrows. Yeah, Uncle Ned had the diplomacy thing down. Meanwhile, I was over here mentally preparing for the impending chaos.
Gwyn's eyes flicked to Asher, and I swear there was this unspoken look that passed between them. The kind of look that makes me wonder if I should get a front-row seat to their inevitable awkward rivalry. It was only a matter of time before one of them accidentally set fire to the wrong thing, or worse, made me responsible for cleaning up their mess. Again.
"Shall we get to the tour?" I asked, cutting through the awkwardness before it had a chance to settle in like frostbite.
We started walking through the castle. Uncle Ned explained everything with his usual calm and serious demeanor while I played tour guide for the two of them. Asher was busy trying to figure out where the good fights were. "So, what's your best sword move, Lord Stark?" he asked me in his loud, totally-not-sneaky way.
I shot him a look. "Probably the one where I win, but you're welcome to try me."
Asher grinned like that was a challenge he couldn't back down from. He was about to say something else when Gwyn—Gwyn—interrupted, her voice ice cold as she shot him a pointed glance. "The best sword moves don't come from boasting, Asher. They come from skill."
Ouch. That was a direct hit, and Asher knew it. But instead of backing off like a normal person, he smiled that cheeky grin of his. "Guess I'll just have to work on both, then."
Gwyn rolled her eyes. "Just make sure you don't trip on your own feet first."
I was about to throw in a joke when Rhaenys—bless her—stepped in. "Don't worry, Gwyn," she said with a smile that could melt ice and start fires. "Asher's got plenty of time to trip over his ego before he gets to his feet."
Bam.
I swear, I've never seen a 9-year-old roll her eyes that effectively. It was a true skill.
As we walked through the godswood, I could see these two were already—whether they realized it or not—starting to build some kind of... thing. I wasn't sure if it was a war of words or an actual connection, but they were definitely in each other's orbit. And that? Was definitely going to be a fun disaster to watch.
After a few more days of this back-and-forth banter, it was clear they were learning how to push each other's buttons. Like when Gwyn casually mentioned that her house didn't need to steal wood to build things, and Asher's face turned bright red. The rivalry was heating up faster than a hearth fire, but honestly? I was all for it. Because if they didn't kill each other in the next month, I'd have witnessed something legendary.
I, of course, was stuck in the middle, acting like some sort of referee, while secretly hoping they both made it out of this intact—and that they didn't drag me down into the mess.
And if they did? At least Winterfell's gonna be loud.
—
So, there I was, standing in Winterfell's courtyard, trying my best not to look like I had frostbite on my face when the Manderlys rolled in like some over-the-top royal parade. Seriously, their banners were flapping in the wind like they'd hired a personal gust of wind just for dramatic effect. Like, really? At this point, I was half-waiting for someone to shout, "And now, presenting the Manderly dynasty, everyone bow!" If only they'd brought a band of musicians to make their entrance even more ridiculous.
Lord Wylis Manderly was the first to dismount, all slow and deliberate like someone who had the whole "look at me, I'm important" thing down to an art. His belly jiggled a bit as he stepped off his horse, but hey, he carried it well. Behind him came his daughters: Wynafryd, all grace and poise, looking like she stepped straight out of a history book about noble ladies. Then there was Wylla. This girl? She looked like she was one missed step away from launching herself off the horse and running toward the nearest adventure. You could practically see the spark in her eyes saying, "Yeah, I'm definitely going to sneak into the kitchens later."
And then, of course, came their entourage: Tobho Mott—the famous smith who probably could've forged a better sword than anyone in the North if he felt like it—Ser Daemon Sand, who looked like he belonged in some steamy Dornish romance novel, and Gendry. Now, Gendry was a weird one. I couldn't stop staring at him because, well, the kid looked like Robert Baratheon's spitting image. Same build, same face—minus the whole "being a jerk" vibe. Yet. I mean, give the kid a few years. He was still looking like he'd never seen the inside of a noble house before.
Uncle Ned, of course, didn't waste time getting into the whole "official welcome" thing. He just walked forward, all serious and stoic, saying a grand total of three sentences while making it sound like the fate of the North hung in the balance. "Welcome to Winterfell, Ser Wylis. We are honored by your presence." Which, when you think about it, sounded like: "Glad you're here, now don't do anything stupid."
Ser Wylis gave a grand bow, all dignity and decorum. "The honor is ours, Lord Stark. My daughters are eager to learn, and I am glad for the opportunity." Yeah, no kidding. I could practically see Wynafryd trying to hold in a smile. Meanwhile, Wylla was practically bouncing in place like she was about to take off into the godswood.
Wynafryd, with her calm voice, said, "Thank you for the welcome, Lord Stark. We look forward to our time here." Straightforward. Dignified. You could tell she'd been trained to perfection.
Then there was Wylla, whose enthusiasm could've fueled a dragon. "This place is amazing! I can't wait to explore everything!"
Subtle, Wylla. Real subtle.
But it was when Uncle Ned's eyes flicked to Gendry that I caught the real interesting part. It was barely noticeable—just a flicker of recognition—but being around Uncle Ned long enough, I could tell it was something important. And when I used my Legilimency—because, hey, if you can read minds, you use it—yep. Confirmed. Gendry was Robert Baratheon's son. I couldn't help but let out a mental "Well, this is going to get awkward at family dinners."
But, obviously, I kept my mouth shut. No need to make it more awkward by dropping, "Hey, by the way, your son looks like your best friend, Ned," into casual conversation.
The introductions continued, with Lady Catelyn stepping in to personally welcome the Manderly sisters. Robb was next to her, his face set in that calm, noble way that all heirs have, even if deep down he was probably just wondering when he could eat. "Welcome to Winterfell," he said, flashing his usual polite smile. "We hope you'll enjoy your time here."
Wynafryd gave him that smile back, all noble-like. "Thank you, my lord. Winterfell is as grand as I imagined."
Wylla, on the other hand, almost shouted, "It's even better! Are there secret passages? My nurse said there were secret passages. Please tell me there are secret passages."
Robb blinked, taken aback by the sheer enthusiasm. "Uh... maybe?"
Meanwhile, Uncle Ned was being... well, Uncle Ned. He turned to Tobho Mott and gave him a respectful nod. "Your skill is well-known, Master Mott. We are honored to have you here."
Tobho Mott, the famous smith who probably spent his spare time creating magical swords and solving world problems, gave a little bow. "Thank you, Lord Stark. It is an honor to bring my craft to the North."
Then came Ser Daemon Sand, looking like he belonged on a tapestry in Dorne. Uncle Ned greeted him with the kind of warmth you'd expect from someone who wasn't a fan of Dornish sunburns. "Welcome, Ser Daemon. Your reputation precedes you."
Daemon, smooth as a Dornish rose, bowed with a grace that made me wonder if he'd spent hours practicing in front of a mirror. "Thank you, my lord. Winterfell is truly a marvel."
Finally, there was Gendry, who looked more awkward than a pig at a wedding. He mumbled something about being grateful and shuffled his feet like he was trying to avoid making eye contact with the ground.
Once all the formalities were over, the wards gathered to meet the new arrivals. Wynafryd was cool and collected, asking polite questions and engaging in polite conversation. Wylla, of course, was bouncing around like she'd drunk a few too many cups of strong tea, asking everyone if they knew where the secret tunnels were. Gendry stuck to the walls, eyes darting around like he was ready to bolt.
Asher Forrester and Gwyn Whitehill—two of the other wards—had already started sizing everyone up. I could see the rivalry was momentarily forgotten as they started talking to Wynafryd and Wylla, sizing them up like potential future friends or sparring partners. Meanwhile, I stood back and watched the chaos unfold.
Robb nudged me, grinning. "So, you think these new guys are going to be trouble?"
I gave him a wry smile. "Let's just say if Winterfell were a game of cyvasse, they'd all be moving into position, but we're still waiting for the big moves."
Robb nodded like he understood, though I swear I caught a glance at the pie on the table behind him.
But honestly? As fun as it was watching the new arrivals shuffle into Winterfell, I had this nagging feeling that things were about to get a whole lot more interesting. Gendry's hidden lineage was only the beginning. Secrets were swirling in the air like a storm on the horizon, and if there's one thing I knew, it was that Winterfell loved to stir the pot—often when you least expected it.
And I? Well, I just happened to be front and center for whatever chaos the Old Gods had in store. Great.
—
So, there I was, sitting in a stuffy Winterfell chamber with more legendary figures than a poorly-disguised council of dads at a PTA meeting. Uncle Ned, grim as always, was across the table, radiating his usual "I'm serious, so you should be too" vibes. If the man were any more serious, he'd turn into a stone statue in the godswood. Then, next to him, there was Uncle Arthur. The Sword of the Morning. The guy who made wielding a sword look like it belonged in a painting, not an actual fight. And across from us? The one and only Oberyn Martell—who was, of course, leaning back in his chair like it was a throne, smirking like he'd just found out a secret only the gods should know. Classic Oberyn.
But the real star of the show? Tobho Mott. Oh yeah, you've probably never heard of him unless you're a connoisseur of Valyrian steel and mythical weaponry. Let me paint you a picture: He was the mad genius blacksmith who could forge swords that could cut through time itself (okay, maybe not time, but it felt like it). I mean, if Valyrian steel had a Hall of Fame, his name would be engraved in gold on the front door.
Anyway, the meeting was about to start, and I could already feel my palms getting clammy. Asking someone to forge a sword is one thing. Asking them to re-forge Valyrian steel into two legendary blades? Yeah, that's a different ballgame entirely. But hey, it wasn't like I was doing this to not be dramatic, right?
"Master Mott," Uncle Ned started, giving his usual "I'm Lord Stark, listen to me" speech. Seriously, the guy could probably command a whole army with just a raised eyebrow. "Thank you for coming to Winterfell. Your skills are required for something... unique." You know, like turning my over-the-top idea into something that wouldn't get us all killed in the process.
Tobho just nodded. "It's an honor, Lord Stark." He had that smooth, calculating look that screamed, "I've seen and made things you can't even imagine, kid."
And that was my cue. Time to do my dramatic unveiling. I stood up—because what's a meeting without a dramatic standing up moment?—and slapped Red Rain and Nightfall down on the table with all the finesse of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. The blades gleamed in the firelight like they knew they were important.
"These are Valyrian steel swords," I said. My voice was probably shaking, but I was doing my best to sound all confident and cool, like a Stark should. "I want them reforged into something new. Two swords: Winterlight and Dawnshade."
The room went silent. And by silent, I mean it felt like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for Tobho's reaction. There was no way I could've been that crazy, right?
Tobho raised an eyebrow, his fingers brushing over the hilt of Red Rain. "Reforging Valyrian steel... that's not something you do on a whim, my young Lord." He tapped the blade like it was a piece of fine china. "What do you have in mind?"
Glad you asked, Tobho. I pulled out my sketches—because, yes, I'm a planner—and spread them across the table like I was about to reveal the blueprints to a new castle. "Winterlight," I said, tapping the first one. "A bastard sword. The blade should be black with ripples of icy blue, like frost spreading across a frozen lake."
Tobho squinted at the design like it was a math problem he didn't want to solve. "I see…" He muttered, "Black and icy blue... it will require obsidian powder and sapphire infusion. Hard, but possible."
Uncle Ned gave his serious nod. "Winterfell will provide whatever you need." Because, sure, we had all the obsidian lying around. (Spoiler: We don't.)
And then came the fun one: Dawnshade. I rolled out the second sketch. The moment it hit the table, Tobho's entire posture changed. The man straight-up froze, staring at the design like it was a foreign language.
"A jian..." he whispered, almost reverently. He leaned closer, tracing the elegant curve of the blade. "This is a sword of Yi Ti. A weapon spoken of only in the quietest of whispers."
I shrugged, trying to act like it was no big deal. "Came to me in a dream," I said casually, trying to look nonchalant (even though that was 100% a lie, but let's not talk about that). "I want the blade to be crimson, with golden ripples—like the first light of dawn breaking through the horizon."
Tobho looked at me like I had two heads. But I didn't flinch. "A crimson blade with golden ripples... that's not just forging steel, it's creating a work of art," he muttered. "Bloodstone powders, red quartz, golden alloys... it'll take time."
Arthur Dayne, who had been silently watching the whole time, leaned forward with a grin like he knew exactly what was coming next. "A jian is a weapon of grace and precision. You've asked for something not only beautiful, but balanced. A masterwork, Master Mott. If anyone can create this, it is you."
Oberyn Martell, of course, was leaning back in his chair, throwing in his usual flair for the dramatic. "A weapon of such beauty, Master Mott... You'll be remembered as the one who crafted these swords, not the boy who wielded them."
I shot Oberyn a look. "No pressure there, Oberyn. Just... don't jinx it, alright?"
Tobho stroked his chin. "You've asked for greatness, Lord Stark. And greatness will come at a cost."
I nodded, feeling a sense of determination settle in my chest. "It's worth it."
And of course, Uncle Ned had to play the reliable, "I'm always the responsible one" card. "Whatever you need, Master Mott. Winterfell will provide."
Tobho let out a sigh, probably contemplating whether this was worth the trouble. "Very well. I will begin preparations immediately."
As the meeting ended, Arthur placed a firm hand on my shoulder. "Your vision is bold, Cregan. When these blades are forged, they will stand as symbols of what's to come. Just remember: You'll carry them, not just with your strength, but with honor."
I nodded solemnly, though inwardly I was already thinking, How awesome will it be to hold two legendary blades? Pretty darn awesome.
Oberyn's voice floated over, "Let's hope the swords are worthy of you, Stark. Or rather, let's hope you're worthy of them."
I shot him a grin. "I guess we'll see, won't we?"
As the others filed out, I stayed behind for a moment, staring down at the sketches—Winterlight and Dawnshade. Two blades, forged to protect everything I held dear. Two symbols of what was coming. And if I had to face the fire to get them, well, at least I'd have something pretty awesome to swing around.
---
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