# Winterfell, The Lord's Solar
*Continued*
"The first assault—Great Wyk—will be our demonstration of force," Cregan continued, his finger circling the largest of the northern islands. Even seated, there was something about the way he held himself—shoulders back, chin level, the unconscious confidence of someone born to command. His mother's Dornish beauty tempered by Northern steel, creating something that made seasoned warriors pause. "Full fleet, complete ground forces, overwhelming bombardment. We want every Ironborn from Pyke to the Lonely Light to hear about it, to understand exactly what's coming for them."
"Fear as a weapon," Ned observed, his Northern accent thick with disapproval. "That's a dangerous game, lad."
"So is letting your enemies think you're weak," Cregan replied, those violet eyes meeting grey ones without flinching. "Fear isn't cruelty, Uncle. It's efficiency. A terrified enemy surrenders faster, which means fewer men die on both sides. I'd rather be thought ruthless than bury Northern boys because I was too gentle to frighten the opposition."
"The boy has a point," Jaime interjected from his position by the window, all golden elegance and deadly grace. He examined his fingernails with studied casualness. "I've fought in enough wars to know the ones that drag on are the ones where nobody's properly terrified. Quick, brutal, overwhelming—that's how you end conflicts before they devour everything in sight."
"Thank you for that contribution, Kingslayer," Ned said dryly. "I'll be sure to file your expertise on brutality right next to 'things that keep me awake at night.'"
"You're welcome," Jaime replied with that infuriating smirk. "I live to serve. Also to provide uncomfortable truths that Starks prefer not to examine too closely."
"Right, because Lannisters are famous for their moral clarity," Gunnar rumbled from where he leaned against the wall like a particularly large and dangerous piece of furniture. The man was built like a siege tower wrapped in muscle, with the kind of face that suggested he'd been carved from granite by someone who'd gotten bored halfway through. "Nothing says 'ethical behavior' like golden lions and that whole 'Rains of Castamere' situation."
"That was my father's doing," Jaime protested mildly. "I just kill kings and look decorative. Completely different skill set."
"Can we focus?" Rhaenys interjected with the kind of exasperation that suggested she'd been managing this exact dynamic for years. At twelve, she'd grown into something striking—her mother's Dornish features refined by her father's Valyrian blood into a beauty that would have inspired songs if she weren't equally famous for her temper. "We're planning a military campaign, not hosting a feast where everyone competes to see who can be most insufferable."
"I'm not competing," Jaime said. "I'm clearly winning."
"You're clearly about to be stabbed if you don't shut up," Rhaenys replied sweetly. "Now, Cregan was explaining fleet composition before everyone decided to demonstrate their wit. Please continue."
Cregan's lips twitched—amusement rather than irritation. He'd learned early that commanding this particular group meant accepting a certain amount of chaos as the price of competence.
"After Great Wyk falls—and it will fall—the fleet splits into four groups for simultaneous operations." He moved markers across the parchment with practiced ease. "Speed matters. We hit them before they can reorganize, before word spreads enough for defensive coordination."
"Four separate operations," Ned repeated, his practical mind already working through complications. "That's asking for trouble."
"It's asking for coordination," Cregan corrected. "Which is why command assignments matter. Group One targets Old Wyk—three steam ships, five conventional vessels, two thousand troops. Princess Rhaenys will command this operation, with Ser Jaime as military advisor and Gunnar Ravenswood as ground force commander."
The silence that followed was the kind that preceded either violence or laughter.
"You're putting a twelve-year-old girl in command of a military operation," Ned said slowly, as if testing whether the words sounded less insane spoken aloud. They didn't.
"I'm putting the person who designed half our weapons systems and understands their capabilities better than anyone in command of using those weapons," Cregan replied with that maddening calm. "Rhaenys isn't going to personally board ships and swing swords—that's what Gunnar and the ground forces are for. She's going to coordinate bombardment, manage positioning, ensure our technological advantages are properly exploited."
"She's *twelve*," Ned emphasized.
"And I'm ten," Cregan replied. "We've established that unconventional command structure makes southern lords uncomfortable. But the question isn't whether it's traditional—it's whether it's *effective*. And Rhaenys commanding naval bombardment is more effective than any alternative we have."
"He's right, you know," Rhaenys said with the kind of confidence that would have been insufferable if it weren't backed by demonstrated competence. "I know cannon ranges down to the yard. Ship capabilities, crew training, ammunition types and effects. I know *exactly* how to position vessels for maximum effectiveness while minimizing friendly fire risk. Can any of your experienced naval commanders say the same?"
"No," Ned admitted reluctantly. "Because none of them have fought with these weapons before."
"Precisely," Rhaenys said with satisfaction. "Experience with conventional naval tactics is actually a liability here—it encourages applying outdated thinking to revolutionary technology. Better someone who understands the weapons commanding someone who understands violence."
"Which is where I come in," Jaime added cheerfully. "The princess handles strategy and naval coordination. I handle everything involving actual murder. Clear division of responsibilities based on capability rather than age-based assumptions that get people killed."
"And I hit things until they stop moving," Gunnar contributed. "It's not a complicated role, but I'm very good at it."
"Gunnar's being modest," Cregan said. "He's one of the finest ground commanders in the North. Leads from the front, inspires loyalty, understands when to push hard and when to pull back. That's the combination we need—Rhaenys providing strategic coordination, Jaime offering tactical advice, Gunnar leading the actual fighting."
"It's beautifully organized," Ashara observed from her position near the hearth. She'd been quiet through most of the discussion, but her violet eyes—so like her son's—missed nothing. "Brilliant, even. And it terrifies me because my son is proposing to send my niece into combat supported by a man famous for killing his king and another who solves problems by hitting them."
"Hey," Gunnar protested mildly. "I also solve problems by throwing things. I'm versatile."
"Very comforting," Ashara replied dryly. "Perhaps you could throw Ser Jaime at the Ironborn. That might actually be effective."
"I'm wounded," Jaime said, pressing a hand to his chest. "Truly. Here I am, volunteering to protect your niece during military operations, and you question my methods."
"I question everything about you," Ashara replied. "It's a hobby I've cultivated since you arrived at Winterfell with that insufferable smirk and proceeded to demonstrate you're actually competent beneath the arrogance."
"Competent *and* handsome," Jaime corrected. "Let's not undersell the complete package."
"Can we *please* focus?" Rhaenys interjected again, though her lips twitched with amusement. "Group Two, Cregan. Before everyone gets distracted debating Ser Jaime's many faults."
"Many is harsh," Jaime murmured. "I have a perfectly reasonable number of faults. Quality over quantity."
Cregan continued before the digression could extend further.
"Group Two attacks Orkmont—three steam ships, four conventional vessels, fifteen hundred troops. Uncle Benjen commands, with Dacey Mormont as second and Ser Wylis Manderly handling ground forces. Benjen knows the steam fleet better than anyone, having overseen construction. Dacey brings conventional military experience and tactical flexibility."
"Benjen's solid," Ned agreed, visibly relieved by at least one command assignment that made sense. "Good head for logistics, calm under pressure. Dacey's as competent as any knight despite what southern fools think about women warriors."
"Group Three targets Blacktyde," Cregan continued. "Three steam ships, four conventional vessels, fifteen hundred troops. You'll command this operation, Uncle Ned, with Greatjon Umber as ground commander. Straightforward assault, minimal complications. Blacktyde's the smallest northern island, weakest defenses."
Ned nodded slowly, recognizing what his nephew was doing—giving him an important but relatively safe assignment, acknowledging he needed to participate while minimizing risk. Protecting his regent while respecting his need to lead.
"And Group Four?" he asked, though he suspected.
"Harlaw," Cregan said, meeting his uncle's eyes. "Three steam ships, five conventional vessels, two thousand troops. I'll command, with Uncle Arthur as military advisor and Ser Jory Cassel handling ground forces."
Arthur Dayne had been silent through most of this exchange, his weathered face showing nothing of his thoughts. Now he looked up from the maps, pale eyes thoughtful.
"You're assigning yourself the second-most dangerous target," he observed in that soft Dornish accent that eight years in the North hadn't quite frozen.
"I'm assigning myself the target that requires coordination between naval bombardment and ground assault," Cregan corrected. "Harlaw has Ten Towers—an actual castle, not just a fortified hall. Taking it requires more than simple bombardment. It requires tactical thinking, adaptation, possibly negotiations if Lord Rodrik the Reader proves sensible."
"Negotiations," Ned repeated. "During a military invasion."
"If possible," Cregan said. "Lord Rodrik opposed this war. Argued against attacking Lannisport, warned Balon it would end badly. He's scholarly, values learning over reaving. If we can convince him to surrender rather than defend to the last, we save lives on both sides."
"And if he won't surrender?"
"Then we demonstrate why that was a poor decision," Cregan replied with quiet certainty that made him seem decades older. "But we make the offer first. Some Ironborn deserve the chance to choose survival over pointless martyrdom."
"Look at you," Jaime said admiringly. "Ten years old and already mastering the art of 'polite threat followed by overwhelming violence if they refuse.' I'm genuinely impressed."
"I learned from the best," Cregan replied with a slight smile. "Uncle Arthur's been very educational about efficient warfare."
"Don't blame me for this," Arthur protested mildly, though his eyes held amusement. "I taught you sword forms and tactical thinking. The strategic ruthlessness is all you."
"I prefer to think of it as pragmatic efficiency," Cregan said. "Ruthlessness implies cruelty for its own sake. I'm simply achieving objectives with minimum wasted effort."
"That's what they all say," Gunnar rumbled. "Right up until they're feeding people to wolves and calling it 'strategic resource management.'"
"We're not feeding anyone to wolves," Cregan said firmly. "We're conducting disciplined military operations with clear rules of engagement and strict penalties for violations."
"Speaking of which," Ned interjected, returning to a point that clearly troubled him. "These rules of engagement. You mentioned executing our own soldiers for violations."
"I did," Cregan confirmed. "And I meant it. Any man who harms civilians, participates in rape, or commits unnecessary violence will be executed. Publicly. With Ice. By me personally."
The silence that followed was heavy with implications.
"You're talking about executing Northern soldiers," Ashara said quietly, maternal concern warring with pride in her voice. "Your own men. Possibly men from prominent families."
"I'm talking about executing rapists and murderers who happen to wear Northern colors," Cregan corrected gently. "Their crimes don't become acceptable because they're committed during war or against enemies we dislike. If anything, that makes them worse—because it reflects on the North, on House Stark, on every man who follows our banner."
"The boy's right," Arthur said with reluctant approval. "Discipline must be absolute or it's meaningless. But public execution of your own troops? That's leadership that either earns fanatical loyalty or provokes mutiny. Sometimes both."
"I'd rather risk mutiny than command an army of rapists," Cregan replied flatly. "We're wolves, not monsters. I know the difference even if some of our men don't."
"Very inspirational," Jaime observed. "You should have that embroidered on banners. 'House Stark: We're Wolves, Not Monsters, But We'll Execute You Either Way If You Misbehave.'"
"It's not as catchy as 'Winter Is Coming,'" Gunnar agreed thoughtfully. "But it has a certain directness that's appealing."
"Can we discuss the actual military operations instead of debating heraldic slogans?" Rhaenys interjected with exasperation. "We have five days to finalize this plan and brief commanders. That's not a lot of time for operations this complex."
"Five days," Ned repeated, feeling time compress around him. "Gods help us all."
"The gods help those who help themselves," Cregan said with that slight smile. "We're helping ourselves to victory. They can approve or not—we're doing this regardless."
"Very Stark of you," Arthur observed.
"I try," Cregan replied. Then, more seriously: "The timing matters here. Each group launches at dawn from staging positions. Signal flags coordinate initial assault to ensure simultaneous attacks—psychological impact matters. The Ironborn need to believe the North is everywhere at once."
He traced routes across the map with practiced precision.
"Old Wyk is closest—Rhaenys attacks first because she has shortest distance. Orkmont and Blacktyde launch shortly after, timed to arrive within an hour of each other. Harlaw attacks last because it requires more preparation and because I want the Ironborn to have heard about the other three before we arrive."
"Fear again," Arthur observed.
"Efficiency," Cregan corrected. "If Lord Rodrik knows three islands have already fallen, if he understands resistance is futile, he's more likely to surrender. That's not weakness—that's competence. Ending war quickly serves everyone except people who profit from prolonged conflict."
"And the supply lines?" Ned asked, his practical mind working through logistics. "Four operations across dozens of miles, limited communication, everything dependent on coordination that could fall apart if any group encounters delays?"
"Each group operates independently with full authority to adapt," Cregan replied. "They're not waiting for permission—they have clear objectives, clear rules, trusted commanders who understand the strategy. If something goes wrong, they adjust and continue. That's why command assignments matter. We need people who can think, not just follow orders."
"That's a lot of faith to place in independent decision-making," Ned said carefully. "Wars have been lost because subordinates made poor choices without proper oversight."
"And wars have been lost because subordinates waited for permission while opportunities vanished," Cregan countered. "This strategy requires trust. Either we trust our commanders to execute competently, or we don't go at all."
"I trust Benjen," Ned said slowly. "And Dacey. And the Greatjon, gods help us, despite his tendency to solve problems by yelling and hitting things harder."
"So like Gunnar but louder," Jaime observed.
"I resent that," Gunnar said. "I'm very quiet when I hit things. It's called 'tactical stealth violence.'"
"Is that what we're calling it now?" Jaime asked innocently.
"Can we *please*—" Rhaenys began.
"Focus, yes, we know," Jaime finished. "But you have to admit, tactical stealth violence is an excellent phrase. I'm using that."
"You're all impossible," Rhaenys muttered, though affection colored her exasperation. "Cregan, perhaps you should continue before everyone gets distracted debating violence terminology."
"The fleet composition matters," Cregan said, pulling their attention back to the maps. "Each group has three steam ships—enough for effective bombardment but not so many that losing one cripples the operation. The conventional vessels carry ground forces and provide backup. If the steam ships have mechanical failures—which they will, because machines are contrary—the conventional fleet can still complete the mission."
"Pessimism again," Arthur noted.
"Realism," Cregan corrected. "Northern realism. We assume everything will go wrong and plan accordingly. That way when only half our plans fail, we're pleasantly surprised instead of catastrophically underprepared."
"House Stark's official motto should really be 'We Expect Everything To Go Wrong,'" Jaime suggested. "It's more honest than 'Winter Is Coming.'"
"Winter *is* coming," Ned said firmly. "And when it does, you southern knights will understand why we're pessimistic about everything."
"I'm Dornish," Arthur protested mildly. "We're not southern, we're... geographically challenged when it comes to temperature preferences."
"You're all southerners to us," Gunnar rumbled. "Anyone who complains about cold when it's barely below freezing is southern. That's the rule."
"It was negative twenty last week," Jaime pointed out. "I think my complaints were justified."
"That's spring weather," Gunnar replied seriously. "Wait until deep winter. Then you'll understand what cold actually means."
"I'm terrified already," Jaime said. "Truly. My southern blood may not survive."
"If we could return to the actual military planning," Rhaenys interjected with forced patience, "before I stab everyone in this room just to restore focus."
"You say the sweetest things," Jaime told her.
"I will actually stab you," Rhaenys warned. "Don't test me."
"She will," Cregan confirmed. "I've seen her stab people for less. She stabbed a merchant who tried to overcharge her for books. Twice."
"He was very rude about it," Rhaenys said defensively. "And I only stabbed him a little. He lived."
"The bar for acceptable behavior keeps getting lower," Ned muttered.
"Welcome to modern Northern diplomacy," Gunnar said cheerfully. "We stab first and ask questions later. It's very efficient."
"That's not—" Ned began, then stopped. "Actually, that's depressingly accurate."
"The North remembers," Arthur quoted with amusement. "Usually because someone got stabbed and people want to remember why."
"Can we discuss the actual military operations?" Rhaenys asked with exaggerated patience. "Please? Before I demonstrate Northern diplomacy on everyone in this room?"
"Right," Cregan said, fighting amusement. "The bombardment patterns. Each group has detailed charts showing approach vectors, firing positions, and targeting priorities. Defensive structures first—walls, towers, anything that could threaten our ships or ground forces. Then strategic locations—harbors, storehouses, anything that supports continued resistance."
He pulled out more detailed maps, spreading them across the table.
"Old Wyk's main settlement is here, clustered around the harbor. Rhaenys, you'll approach from the northwest, use the morning sun to blind any defenders on the walls. Three ships in line formation, offset firing to avoid friendly fire risk. Maximum range first—test their response, see what defenses they have. Then close to effective range and systematically destroy anything that looks like military infrastructure."
"Systematically destroy," Rhaenys repeated, studying the map with those unsettling purple eyes. "You make it sound so simple."
"The mechanics are simple," Cregan replied. "The execution will be complicated because nothing ever goes according to plan. But that's why you're commanding—you understand the weapons well enough to adapt when complications arise."
"And if their defenses are better than we expect?"
"Then you pull back, reassess, adjust firing positions and try again," Cregan said calmly. "No heroics, no pressing attacks that cost ships or lives unnecessarily. The objective is victory, not glory. If Old Wyk takes longer than planned, so be it. Better slow success than quick disaster."
"Very unmartial of you," Jaime observed. "Most commanders would demand glorious charges and damn the casualties."
"Most commanders are idiots who get their men killed for no good reason," Cregan replied flatly. "I prefer competence over glory."
"He really is Ned's nephew," Jaime told Arthur. "Same cheerful pessimism, same conviction that everyone else is doing it wrong, same certainty that pragmatism beats inspiration."
"Pragmatism *does* beat inspiration," Ned said firmly. "Inspiration gets you killed. Pragmatism gets you home."
"Unless you're Jon Arryn," Gunnar observed. "He was pragmatic and still ended up dead."
The silence that followed was profoundly uncomfortable.
"Thank you for that contribution," Ned said eventually. "Very helpful. Really lightened the mood."
"I try," Gunnar replied, unrepentant.
"Perhaps we should discuss the ground assault portion," Ashara suggested, clearly trying to redirect before the conversation devolved further. "Cregan mentioned clear rules of engagement. What exactly do those entail?"
Cregan's expression grew serious, all traces of earlier amusement vanishing.
"Simple rules," he said. "Attack military targets only. Spare women, children, elderly, anyone who surrenders. No rape, no unnecessary violence, no atrocities. Anyone who violates these rules will be executed—publicly, immediately, without exception."
"And you truly believe Northern soldiers will follow these rules?" Ashara asked quietly. "Even when facing enemies they hate, in the chaos of battle, when officers can't watch everyone constantly?"
"Some won't," Cregan admitted with brutal honesty. "Some will test the boundaries, assuming they can get away with violations if they're discreet. That's why enforcement must be absolute and visible. The first man who violates the rules gets executed in front of the entire army. That establishes this isn't theoretical—we mean every word."
"Harsh," Arthur observed.
"Necessary," Cregan corrected. "Half measures teach men that rules are optional. Absolute enforcement teaches them we're serious. I'd rather execute one rapist publicly than let the entire army think atrocities are acceptable."
"And if the man who violates the rules is from a prominent family?" Ned asked. "If executing him creates political complications with your bannermen?"
"Then we have political complications," Cregan said flatly. "Because the alternative is commanding an army of monsters, and I won't do that. The North's reputation matters. House Stark's honor matters. If that costs me political support from lords who think rape is acceptable during wartime, so be it. I'll find better bannermen."
"You sound very certain," Ashara said, maternal concern evident. "But enforcing that certainty in the field, when you're tired and angry and men are dying around you—that's harder than it sounds in planning sessions."
"I know," Cregan replied quietly. "I know it'll be hard. I know I'll have to watch men I've trained with, men from families I know, get executed for crimes they committed in my name. But that's leadership, Mother. That's the burden commanders carry—doing the hard things, the brutal things, the things that let you sleep at night knowing you maintained standards even when it cost you."
The maturity in his voice, the weight of certainty behind the words, made him sound decades older than his ten years. For a moment, everyone in the room simply stared at him—this child who spoke like a lord grown, who planned wars with casual competence, who understood command in ways that took most men lifetimes to learn.
"Right," Ned said eventually, breaking the silence. "So we're agreed on strategy, fleet composition, command assignments, and rules of engagement. Five days to finalize details, brief commanders, and prepare for departure."
"Five days," Cregan confirmed. "Which means we need to start now. Uncle Ned, can you coordinate with the bannermen? Ensure they understand the plan and accept the command structure—specifically that some operations will be led by young commanders they might question."
"I can," Ned replied. "Though I expect resistance from some of the more traditional lords."
"Then replace them," Cregan said simply. "This strategy requires absolute trust between commanders and troops. Anyone who can't follow orders from women or children is a liability we can't afford. Find me commanders who care about competence more than tradition."
"That's a short list," Ned observed.
"Then we'll work with what we have," Cregan replied. "Uncle Arthur, can you handle final weapons inspections? Cannons, small arms, anything that could fail at inconvenient moments?"
"I can," Arthur confirmed. "Though I should note that everything will probably fail at inconvenient moments. That's what machines do."
"Then we plan for failures and continue anyway," Cregan said. "Rhaenys, you'll brief the steam ship crews on bombardment patterns and coordination signals?"
"Already planned," Rhaenys confirmed. "I'll start tomorrow morning. Three days of intensive drilling should be sufficient to ensure everyone understands their roles."
"And I'll coordinate ground force training," Gunnar volunteered. "Make sure everyone knows the rules, understands the consequences of violations, and is prepared for actual combat instead of training exercises."
"Excellent," Cregan said. "Ser Jaime, you'll... actually, what exactly will you be doing?"
"Looking decorative and providing tactical advice," Jaime replied promptly. "Also preventing Princess Rhaenys from getting herself killed doing something clever and stupid. It's a full-time job."
"I don't do stupid things," Rhaenys protested.
"You absolutely do," Jaime corrected. "Clever stupid things, but still stupid. Like that time you decided to test cannon recoil by standing directly behind it."
"I was wearing armor," Rhaenys said defensively.
"Armor doesn't prevent broken ribs," Jaime replied. "As you discovered. Painfully."
"It was educational," Rhaenys insisted.
"It was moronic," Jaime countered. "Which is why I'll be there to prevent future educational experiences that involve unnecessary injury."
"How touching," Rhaenys said dryly. "Your concern is noted."
"My concern is keeping Elia from killing me if her daughter dies under my watch," Jaime replied honestly. "Dornish revenge is creative and I'd like to avoid it."
"Very practical motivation," Arthur observed with amusement.
"I'm a practical person," Jaime said. "Contrary to popular belief."
"Right," Cregan said, fighting back amusement again. "So everyone has assignments. We reconvene tomorrow evening to review progress and address any complications. Questions?"
"Just one," Ned said quietly. "Are you truly ready for this, Cregan? For the weight of command, the responsibility of sending men to their deaths, the burden of decisions that can't be unmade?"
Cregan met his uncle's grey eyes with those unsettling violet ones, and for a moment something ancient looked out from behind a child's face.
"No," he said with brutal honesty. "I'm not ready. I'm ten years old and terrified of failing, of getting people killed, of proving everyone who thinks I'm too young was right all along."
He paused.
"But ready or not, war is coming. The North needs leadership. And I'd rather attempt this and risk failure than hide behind others and guarantee I never earn the respect necessary to actually rule. So no, Uncle Ned—I'm not ready. But I'm going anyway. Because that's what Starks do."
The words hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre.
"Right," Ned said eventually, his voice rough with emotion he didn't quite suppress. "Then we'd best make sure you survive to regret this decision. Everyone—get to work. We have five days to prepare for war."
They filed out slowly—Gunnar and Jaime first, already bickering about training schedules. Arthur paused at the door, fixing Cregan with pale eyes that held something like approval.
"You'll do well," he said quietly. "Better than you think. Leadership isn't about being ready—it's about doing what's necessary despite not being ready."
He departed, leaving Cregan alone with his mother and uncle.
"That was well done," Ashara said softly, approaching to rest a hand on her son's shoulder. "Everything a lord should say to inspire confidence and demonstrate resolve."
"It was also true," Cregan replied. "I am terrified. I am too young. I am risking everything on strategy that could fail catastrophically."
"I know," Ashara said. "I'm your mother. I know when you're scared. I just also know you'll do it anyway because you're too stubborn to admit defeat."
"It's the Stark in him," Ned observed. "We're all too stubborn to know when to quit."
"Or the Dayne," Ashara countered. "We're equally famous for foolish courage and certainty we're right even when everyone else thinks we're mad."
"So he's doomed by both bloodlines," Ned concluded. "Excellent. Very comforting."
"I'm standing right here," Cregan pointed out. "And I can hear you discussing my inevitable doom."
"Good," Ned said. "Perhaps it'll make you reconsider this entire mad plan."
"It won't," Cregan replied. "But I appreciate the concern."
Ned sighed, the sound carrying years of weariness. "Five days. Gods help us all."
"The gods help those who help themselves," Cregan repeated with a slight smile. "So we'd best get started helping ourselves to victory."
Outside, Winterfell prepared for war. Inside, a ten-year-old lord planned how to wage it.
And in five days, the North would discover whether genius and terror were sufficient substitutes for age and experience.
The answer would be written in steel and blood and fire.
As it always was, in the end.
---
# Winterfell, Cregan's Private Solar
*That evening, after moonrise*
The room was dark save for a single candle, its flame steady as a heartbeat. Cregan sat in the overlarge chair—he'd grown in the past year but still looked like a child playing at lord when seated in furniture built for his father. Maps he'd memorized hours ago spread before him, but his eyes weren't seeing troop movements or naval approaches.
They were seeing two swords. Red Rain. Nightfall.
The knock came soft as snowfall. Expected.
"Enter," he said quietly.
Rhaenys slipped through the door wrapped in dark wool against the evening chill, moved through shadows with practiced ease, closed the door with a soft click. For a moment they simply looked at each other—not with the faces they showed the world, but with the understanding that came from being souls who'd lived before, died before, found each other again across impossible distances.
"Everyone thinks we're brilliant children," Rhaenys said at last, sinking into the chair across from him. "Prodigies. Explaining away our knowledge as genius combined with extensive reading."
"It's easier than the truth," Harry replied, using Cregan's voice but letting the soul beneath show through. "Easier than explaining we're reincarnated souls carrying memories of another life, another world, another war. Let them think we're clever. We can work with that."
"Can we?" Hermione leaned forward, those purple eyes intense in the candlelight. She looked so different from the girl he'd known—Dornish beauty instead of bushy hair, aristocratic features instead of determined plainness. But the soul behind those eyes was unmistakable. "This isn't training exercises, Harry. This is actual combat where actual people die if we make mistakes. Are we ready for that?"
"I don't know," he admitted with brutal honesty that only she ever heard. "I remember fighting Voldemort. Remember Hogwarts, the terror and desperation and watching friends die. But I was older then—seventeen, not ten. I had a wand, had magic that worked the way I expected. This is different. I'm in a body that's barely started puberty, in a world where magic barely functions, commanding men who've never heard of the magic I knew."
"And yet you proposed leading an assault group," Hermione observed.
"Because I have to," Harry replied quietly. "The North needs to see their Warden lead. And because I've been to war before. I know what it costs. I know what commanders need to be to lead men into combat. That knowledge matters even if the body carrying it is too young."
Hermione was silent for a moment, studying him with that penetrating gaze that had always seen too much.
"That's part of why we're here," she said at last. "Not to discuss logistics—we've planned those thoroughly. We're here to discuss what we can't talk about in front of everyone else. What we *actually* need from this campaign."
"Valyrian steel," Harry said simply.
The words hung between them like an incantation.
"We need magical foci," Hermione continued, taking up the thread they'd been developing for months. "Wandless magic works—we've proven that. But it's rudimentary, exhausting, unreliable for anything complex. Small things work. Warming charms, minor transfiguration. Nothing useful in combat or revolutionary development."
"Because we don't have proper channels," Harry agreed. "Wands focused intent, channeled power, made complex spellwork reliable. Here we're trying to force magic through pure willpower, and it's like digging a canal with our bare hands."
"Except we might have tools," Hermione said, intensity growing. "You discovered it with Ice—Valyrian steel channels magic. You felt that resonance."
Harry nodded slowly, remembering. Six months ago, alone in the armory with Ice across his knees. Four hundred years old, Valyrian steel forged in dragonfire and passed through generations. He'd traced the rippling patterns and thought *Lumos* on impulse.
The blade had *responded*. Not with light—wrong world, wrong magic—but with resonance he'd felt in his bones. The steel channeling his intent, shaping it, making it more than formless will alone could achieve.
"Ice proved the principle," Harry said, "but it's useless practically. It's a greatsword—four and a half feet of steel that weighs as much as a small child. I can barely lift it, certainly can't wield it or carry it for regular spellwork. We need something practical."
"Which brings us to the actual objective of this campaign," Hermione said with satisfaction, pulling a folded parchment from beneath her cloak. "Everyone thinks we're ending the Ironborn threat, demonstrating Northern power, saving lives through quick victory. And we are—those are real, legitimate objectives. But they're also convenient cover for what we really need."
She spread the parchment across the desk. Harry recognized it immediately—a list they'd compiled through months of careful research, documenting every known Valyrian steel blade in Westeros.
"Four hundred blades total," Hermione said, finger tracing down the list. "Most in the hands of great houses—Starks, Lannisters, Mormonts, dozens scattered across the Seven Kingdoms. But obtaining them is complicated. We can't just buy or borrow ancestral weapons without raising questions about why children need Valyrian steel."
"Except during war," Harry said, seeing where this was going.
"Except during war," Hermione confirmed with a smile that would have terrified anyone who remembered Hermione Granger in full planning mode. "When valuable items sometimes change hands, when ancestral weapons might be lost or captured, when chaos provides cover for acquisitions that would otherwise be impossible to explain."
Her finger stopped on two specific entries.
"Red Rain—ancestral sword of House Drumm of Old Wyk. Valyrian steel, stolen from some Reachman family generations ago during a raid. The Drumms consider it their greatest treasure."
"And they'll defend it," Harry observed.
"Which we're doing anyway," Hermione replied. "Old Wyk is one of our primary targets. Taking the island, securing it, neutralizing Drumm forces—all legitimate military objectives that happen to also put Red Rain within reach. If it disappears during the chaos of conquest, well, fortunes of war."
Her finger moved to the second entry.
"Nightfall—ancestral sword of House Harlaw of Harlaw. Also Valyrian steel, legitimately acquired centuries ago. Lord Rodrik the Reader is its current holder, and he's famously protective of his house's treasures."
"Harlaw is my target," Harry said quietly. "I assigned myself that operation specifically because I need access to Ten Towers, to Lord Rodrik's hall, to wherever he keeps his valuables."
"And if he surrenders, we can include weapons surrender as terms," Hermione added. "Completely reasonable—we're disarming a defeated enemy, ensuring they can't threaten the North again. Taking Nightfall isn't theft, it's pragmatic military policy."
"And if he doesn't surrender?"
"Then we take it," Hermione said with steel in Rhaenys's voice. "We're not abandoning this objective, Harry. You need a proper focus. We both do, eventually. Valyrian steel is our only option—Ice proved it works. We just need blades we can actually use."
Harry was quiet for a moment, staring at the names on the list. Red Rain. Nightfall. Ancestral weapons that families had treasured for generations, that held histories and meanings beyond utility.
"We're going to steal their heritage," he said quietly.
"We're going to acquire tools necessary for development that benefits the entire realm," Hermione corrected firmly. "The Ironborn stole Red Rain first—it's not even their heritage, just something they took from someone else. And Nightfall will be negotiated as war reparations if possible, taken by force only if necessary."
She leaned forward, intensity blazing in those purple eyes.
"Harry, we can do so much more with proper foci. Real healing magic, not just herb-based medicine. Transportation improvements—apparition is too difficult, but portkeys might work. Communication beyond ravens. Defensive enchantments protecting entire cities. All the things we wanted to do but couldn't because wandless magic is too limited."
"I know," Harry said. "I've made the same calculations. With proper foci, we could revolutionize more than military technology. We could improve lives on a scale that makes crop rotation and maple syrup look like children's toys."
"Then we take the swords," Hermione said with finality. "We prosecute this campaign professionally, achieve legitimate military objectives, minimize casualties. And in the process, we acquire the tools we need to do what we were apparently reborn to do—make this world better."
Harry studied the map one more time, not seeing troop positions but the path to capabilities they desperately needed.
"Red Rain and Nightfall," he said at last. "Primary objectives disguised as incidental acquisitions during legitimate military operations."
"Exactly," Hermione confirmed. "Everyone gets what they want—Robert gets his war won quickly, the North demonstrates power, the Ironborn are neutralized, and we acquire tools that let us continue development. It's elegant, really."
"And if questioned about why we wanted these specific swords?"
"We're children fascinated by legendary weapons," Hermione said with a shrug. "We wanted trophies. We wanted to study Valyrian steel craftsmanship. We wanted to ensure powerful weapons didn't remain in enemy hands. Pick whichever explanation sounds most plausible. The important part is we'll have them."
She stood, preparing to depart before her absence was noticed.
"Five days until we sail," she said quietly, the confidence fading slightly to show the twelve-year-old girl beneath the brilliant strategist. "Five days to finalize logistics and prepare ourselves for our first real test as leaders. Not brilliant children playing at war—actual commanders responsible for lives."
"We'll be ready," Harry replied, forcing confidence he didn't quite feel. "We've fought before, died before, been reborn for purposes we still don't fully understand. This is just the next step. We adapt, we overcome, we acquire what we need to continue the work."
"Very Gryffindor of you," Hermione observed with a slight smile.
"Better than being too Slytherin about it," Harry replied. "Though stealing ancestral weapons under cover of military operations has certain Snake-like qualities."
"We contain multitudes," Hermione said, using Rhaenys's voice but speaking with Hermione's soul. "Now get some sleep. Commanders who stay up worrying make poor tactical decisions."
She moved toward the door, then paused, looking back at him with an expression that was pure Hermione—worry mixed with determination mixed with that fierce protectiveness that had defined her since their first year at Hogwarts.
"Harry? Promise me you'll be careful. I know you—you'll try to be noble and self-sacrificing and protect everyone else at your own expense. But this isn't Hogwarts. You don't have prophecy protecting you. You can actually die here, permanently, and I can't... I can't lose you again. Once was enough."
The vulnerability in her voice, the raw fear beneath the strategic planning, reminded him forcefully that they were both just children wearing the memories of adults. Playing at command, at war, at reshaping the world—but underneath, still two friends who'd died together and somehow found each other again.
"I promise," he said quietly. "No unnecessary heroics. No martyrdom. We both come back alive. That's the primary objective—everything else is secondary."
"Good," she said, relief evident. "Because if you get yourself killed doing something noble and stupid, I'll find a way to resurrect you just so I can kill you again myself. Properly this time."
"That's very Hermione of you," Harry observed with a slight smile.
"I try," she replied. Then, more seriously: "Five days, Harry. Then we find out if we're actually as clever as everyone thinks, or just children playing with forces we don't understand."
"We're clever enough," Harry said with more confidence than he felt. "We've survived worse than Ironborn raiders."
"Have we though?" Hermione asked quietly. "Voldemort was terrifying, but at least we understood the rules. We knew how magic worked, knew what we were facing, knew who our allies were. Here? We're making it up as we go, hoping our memories from another life are sufficient preparation for medieval warfare in a world where magic barely functions."
"When you put it that way, it sounds insane," Harry admitted.
"It *is* insane," Hermione replied. "But we're doing it anyway because the alternative is sitting safely in Winterfell while the world burns around us. And neither of us has ever been good at sitting safely while people suffer."
"Save-people-thing," Harry quoted with a slight smile.
"Insufferable know-it-all thing," Hermione countered. "We're both disasters waiting to happen. Always have been."
"But we're disasters together," Harry said. "That has to count for something."
"It does," Hermione agreed softly. "It always has."
She departed then, slipping through the door as silently as she'd arrived, leaving Harry alone with candle and maps and thoughts that refused to settle.
Outside, Winterfell slept. Inside, a boy who'd been a wizard planned a war that would reshape the North.
And at the center of those plans, hidden where no one else could see them, sat two Valyrian steel blades.
Red Rain. Nightfall.
Tools that would unlock magic. Keys to power that could change everything.
Five days until the campaign began.
Five days to prepare for war.
And hidden beneath all the legitimate strategic planning, one simple objective that superseded everything else:
Get the swords.
Whatever it took.
---
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