Invisible String - Cregan Stark

Twenty one~ The Mantle

Cregan

Winterfell showed itself the way it always had—without ceremony.

One moment there was only snow and sky and the white road running straight as a blade between them, and the next the walls stood before us—gray, broad, and patient as the land itself. No flourish.

Old stone, darkened by age and weather, set to last rather than please. Towers squat and thick, built for war and winter both. Smoke rose from the chimneys in thin, steady threads, as constant as breath drawn in the cold.

Unchanged.

That was the first truth it gave me. The same walls I had known as a boy. The same battlements where I learned how steel felt in my hands and silence in my mouth. The same keep that had seen Starks return broken, blooded, and still standing.

Something in my chest settled at the sight of it. A grounding, solid thing—like boots finding stone after too long in the snow. Winterfell stood. Therefore the world still made sense.

Then hollowness followed after.

It slipped in quick, like cold through a door you thought barred. The castle looked larger than I remembered—not taller, nor wider, but barer somehow. As if a warmth had been drawn out of it and carried south on black wings.

I told myself it was nonsense. Stone is stone. It does not keep warmth. It does not miss what leaves it.

Still, the absence pressed close.

I could see the yard ahead, broad and waiting. The godswood beyond, dark and old and watchful. Towers where ravens perched and judged the world in silence.

My gaze caught on the space beside me and stalled there, as if the world had miscounted.

My jaw tightened until it ached, and I set my heels to the horse. Winter does not soften because a man feels empty.

The walls drew nearer.

As we approached, sound rose to meet us—hammer on anvil from the forge, dogs barking, children shouting as they ran the yard, servants calling over the scrape of crates. Life. Warmth. Movement.

The gates opened at my coming, oak and iron groaning like old men dragged from sleep. Snow had caked thick along the hinges and was knocked free by gloved hands. Torches flared as I passed beneath the arch.

"Lord Stark!" a voice called, sharp against the stone.

Men straightened. Spears angled. Heads dipped—not low, but right. Northern.

"Lord of Winterfell," another answered. "The Wolf has returned."

The weight settled where it belonged.

Duty slid into place as clean as mail over a gambeson. The stillness in my spine. The measured distance in my gaze. The knowing of where I stood and what was required of me.

I had never truly set the armor aside—I see that now—but it locked firm as the gates closed behind me.

Relief followed, quiet and steady.

Here, there were rules. Here, there were expectations older than memory. Judgment. Command. Structure. Stone did not waver, and neither must I.

I swung down in the yard and passed the reins to a waiting hand. Snow lay packed hard beneath my boots, cut through with the tracks of horses and carts. The air smelled of smoke and iron and frost.

"Welcome home, my lord," said Wyllem, fist to his chest.

"Thank you," I nodded. The words came easy. They always did here.