Winter came early that year, harsher than ever. The walls groaned. Fires burned high, but still the cold crept through every crack. Ravens brought tales of shadows beyond the Wall. A wildling village gone silent. Rangers vanished.
In the great hall, a feast celebrated the harvest. Robb and Theon laughed over meat and ale. Cregon sat in silence. A serving girl spilled wine on his tunic—he didn't even flinch. The cold didn't touch him anymore. He didn't feel it. Not like the others.
Then came the howl.
The direwolves arrived as twilight fell, pups nestled in a snowdrift near the gates. Lord Stark found them—six in total, one for each Stark child. Then came the seventh, small and silent, white as snow with eyes like embers.
"An albino," Theon sneered. "Leave it."
But the pup padded straight to Cregon and sat at his feet.
They looked at each other. Something passed between them—recognition.
He knelt. "Ghost," he said.
That night, in the godswood, Cregon sat before the heart tree. Ghost curled beside him.
"Who am I?" he whispered.
The wind stirred the red leaves. The heart tree creaked, and for a moment, the forest listened.
The blood of kings. The frost of old. The fire forgotten. The whisper of dragons.
Cregon Snow no longer felt alone.
He was waiting.
For what, he did not yet know