Shadow Wolf of Winterfell (GOT x Solo Leveling)

Words: 3159

280 AC

"The baby is coming too early," Brandon Stark said to his father, Rickard, his voice quivering with a mixture of fear and urgency. His normally composed demeanor had crumbled, leaving only the raw emotion of a man confronting the terrifying unknown. His eyes were wide with dread, the kind of fear only a husband and soon-to-be father could know. The cold walls of Winterfell, which had always been a fortress of strength and stability, now seemed to close in around him, amplifying his anxiety.

"She will pull through," Rickard reassured him, though his own eyes betrayed his worry. The elder Stark's face was etched with deep lines of concern, each one telling the story of a man who had borne the weight of leadership and the burdens of his house for many years. The legacy of House Stark, with its ancient roots and unyielding traditions, pressed heavily upon him. Yet, as a father, his concerns were more immediate and personal. He had seen his share of hardships, but the fear of losing his son's wife and the future heir of Winterfell was a torment unlike any other.

They both stood anxiously outside the door to Barbrey Stark's chamber, hearts pounding with anticipation and dread. The thick, oaken door that separated them from the turmoil within might as well have been a wall of ice, cutting them off from the most important battle of their lives. The sounds of labor—Barbrey's cries of pain, the urgent whispers of the midwives, and the calm, measured commands of the Maester—seeped through the door, each one a painful reminder of the fragility of life.

"The Maester and the midwives are skilled. They will bring the child safely into the world," Rickard said, trying to soothe his son, though the tremor in his voice was unmistakable. The labor had stretched agonizingly from the dark, frigid hours of night into the pale, wintry light of midday. The castle, usually bustling with the daily rhythms of life, seemed to hold its breath, each moment laden with tension. Servants moved silently through the halls, their faces drawn with worry, their tasks performed with the solemnity of a funeral procession.

Suddenly, the cries ceased, plunging the corridor into an eerie silence. Brandon's tension mounted, his breath quickening as if he had been running through the deep snows of the Wolfswood. The silence was almost worse than the screams. At least the screams were a sign of life, of struggle, of the fight to bring new life into the world. But silence—silence was the sound of death.

Moments later, the door creaked open, its sound echoing ominously in the stillness of the corridor. The Maester emerged from the room, his expression solemn, cradling a small, swaddled bundle in his arms. The child had the characteristic grey eyes of the Starks, eyes that seemed too large for such a tiny face, and a head of dark, unruly hair, the very image of his father. But the infant lay unnervingly still, almost as if in a deep slumber from which it might never awaken.

"The birth went well, and Lady Stark is healthy, but the child is frail," the Maester announced, his voice heavy with the weight of his words. Relief flickered briefly in his eyes, but it was overshadowed by the concern that lingered in every line of his face. The air in the corridor seemed to thicken, making it difficult to breathe, as if the very stones of Winterfell were mourning with them.

Brandon's resolve hardened as he looked at his son. In that tiny, fragile being, he could see the Stark lineage, stretching back through the ages to the First Men and the Kings of Winter. A fierce determination surged within him, a fire that would not be quenched by fear. "This is my son, and he will survive. He is a Stark of Winterfell, and his name will be Cregan Stark," he declared with unwavering conviction. His voice, though soft, carried the weight of a command, as if by naming his son, he was claiming him from the clutches of death itself.

With great care, Brandon took his son into his arms, feeling the delicate weight of the newborn's fragility, yet also the immense potential of his lineage. The warmth of the child seeped through the blankets, a faint but undeniable sign of life. Brandon could feel the tiny heart beating against his chest, a fragile rhythm that he swore he would protect with every ounce of his strength.

As Brandon entered the dimly lit chamber, he saw Barbrey lying in the bed, her face pale but her eyes bright with hope and exhaustion. The room was filled with the lingering scent of sweat and blood, the aftermath of the arduous labor. The stone walls, usually cold and unyielding, seemed to pulse with the echoes of the struggle that had just taken place. She looked up as he approached, cradling their newborn son in his arms, her gaze filled with the unspoken question that had been haunting her through the long hours of her labor.

"Brandon," Barbrey whispered, her voice weak but filled with emotion. "Is he... is he alright?"

Brandon approached the bed and gently placed Cregan in her arms. "He is small and frail, but he will become strong," Brandon said, his voice softening with tenderness. "He will grow stronger every day. His name is Cregan Stark. He is a Stark of Winterfell." As he spoke, he could see the spark of life in his son, faint but undeniable, and he clung to it as if it were a lifeline.

Barbrey gazed down at their son, tears welling in her eyes. "Our little Cregan," she murmured, a faint smile touching her lips. Her fingers traced the delicate features of the infant's face, committing every detail to memory. "He has your eyes, Brandon. The eyes of a Stark." There was a quiet pride in her voice, a mother's fierce love that had already taken root.

Brandon leaned down and kissed her forehead, his lips brushing against her cool skin. "Everything will be alright, and our son will make it," he said softly, the words more a prayer than a promise.

Through the door came Lyanna and Benjen, their young faces lit with curiosity and concern. The innocence of youth had not yet been stripped away by the harsh realities of the world, and in their eyes, this was a moment of pure wonder. "Is that my nephew? Isn't he small and sweet?" Lyanna exclaimed, her eyes wide with wonder as she peered at the baby, her breath catching at the sight of the tiny life before her.

Benjen, always the quieter of the two, looked at the baby with equal amazement. "He looks so tiny," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might somehow harm the fragile child. His gaze was filled with a reverence usually reserved for the old gods, a silent vow to protect the newest member of their family.

Then Rickard entered the room, his presence filling the space with a quiet authority. He gently urged his younger children to let the new parents rest, understanding the exhaustion that weighed heavily on both Brandon and Barbrey. "Come now, let them have their peace. Barbrey and Brandon need their strength," Rickard said, his voice gentle but firm, a father once more taking on the role of protector. Lyanna and Benjen nodded, giving one last, lingering look at the baby before quietly leaving the room, their excitement tempered by the gravity of the situation.

Over the next three years, many tragic events unfolded that would shape the course of Westeros history. The grand Tourney at Harrenhal, meant to be a celebration of chivalry and skill, became the epicenter of controversy and rumor. The tourney grounds, usually a place of merriment and competition, were overshadowed by the tense undercurrents that rippled through the noble houses. During the tournament, Rhaegar Targaryen, the crown prince, rode triumphantly to crown Lyanna Stark as the Queen of Love and Beauty, bypassing his own wife, Elia Martell. The act was a stunning breach of protocol, a public declaration that sent shockwaves through the gathered lords and ladies. This act sparked whispers and rumors throughout the realm, hinting at a deeper affection between the prince and the Stark maiden, a forbidden love that could only lead to tragedy.

This moment of apparent romance quickly turned dark. Shortly after the tourney, Lyanna was abducted while riding in the North. Many believed Rhaegar was behind her disappearance, an act so bold and reckless that it ignited the flames of war. The abduction enraged her eldest brother, Brandon Stark, who rode to King's Landing to demand her return. Brandon's defiance, born out of love and desperation, led to his arrest, and Rickard rode to King's Landing to demand a trial by combat against Aerys for his son. Aerys accepted, and on the day of the trial, Aerys chose fire as his champion. Rickard was burned alive in his armor while his son, trying to free him, strangled himself in the process, their deaths a horrifying testament to the Mad King's cruelty.

Aerys then demanded the heads of Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark, who were still fostered at Jon Arryn's Eyrie, as well as young Cregan Stark, who was merely a child. The demands were an outrage, a clear signal that Aerys would stop at nothing to crush any perceived threat to his rule. Jon Arryn's refusal to comply with the mad king's demands sparked the rebellion, a war that would come to be known as Robert's Rebellion. The North, led by Eddard Stark, and the Stormlands, rallied by Robert Baratheon, rose in open rebellion against Targaryen rule, their forces united by the bonds of friendship and shared purpose. They were soon joined by the Riverlands after Eddard married Catelyn Tully and Jon Arryn married her sister, Lysa Tully, solidifying alliances through marriage.

The rebels fought fiercely, enduring many battles and hardships. The Riverlands became a critical battleground, with bloody conflicts and strategic victories paving the way to King's Landing. The land itself seemed to bleed, the rivers running red with the blood of fallen warriors. The climactic Battle of the Trident saw Robert Baratheon, the fury of his grief and rage channeled into every swing of his Warhammer, slamming his weapon into Rhaegar Targaryen's chest, carving his armor, effectively turning the tide of the war. The battle was a turning point, a moment when the fate of the realm hung in the balance and was decided by the brute strength of a single man. Ultimately, the rebels emerged victorious, successfully overthrowing the Targaryen dynasty. However, the victory was bittersweet, marred by the losses they had suffered along the way.

Eddard Stark rode to Dorne to the Tower of Joy, his heart heavy with the knowledge that his sister awaited him there. He returned only with her remains, a sorrowful figure bearing the weight of yet another family tragedy. Eddard told his family that she died of a fever, his voice hollow with grief. The truth, whatever it may have been, was buried with her, a secret that would haunt him for the rest of his days. After that, Eddard returned to the North, to the cold and the snow, to the place where he had always belonged.

With the rebellion concluded, Eddard assumed the role of Warden of the North, ruling until his nephew Cregan reached his majority. However, Cregan's health, already fragile, deteriorated during the rebellion, leading many to doubt if he would even survive to adulthood. The child who had been born too early, who had fought so hard to live, now faced another battle—one against his own frail body. Eddard, ever the dutiful uncle, watched over him with a mixture of hope and despair, knowing that the future of House Stark rested on those small, delicate shoulders. Winter would come for the Starks, and they would need all their strength to survive it.

283 AC

The rebellion was won, and Eddard rode from King's Landing to the Riverlands, where his wife, Catelyn, awaited him with their newborn son, whom she had named Robb after Eddard's closest friend, Robert Baratheon. The journey was long and arduous, the echoes of recent battles still fresh in Eddard's mind, the weight of his duties and the burden of loss pressing heavily on his shoulders. As he traveled through the lands scarred by war, he reflected on the sacrifices made, the lives lost, and the friends and family who had perished in the conflict. Every mile of the journey brought memories of fallen comrades, moments of regret, and thoughts of what the future might hold for his family and the realm.

When Eddard finally arrived at Riverrun, the ancient seat of House Tully, he was greeted by Catelyn, the wife he had scarcely had time to know before being thrust into the chaos of rebellion. She stood at the castle gates, cradling their newborn son, her face a mixture of relief, joy, and underlying sorrow. To Eddard, Catelyn was still a practical stranger, their marriage having been arranged more out of duty than love, but he saw in her eyes the same weariness that had settled in his own heart. She had named their son Robb, in honor of the man who had become a brother to Eddard during his fostering.

Eddard dismounted and embraced Catelyn, feeling a brief moment of peace as he held her and their son. However, that peace was quickly overshadowed by the heavy responsibility he bore. He introduced Catelyn to Jon Snow, his bastard son, a child of no more than a few weeks, who was swaddled tightly against him. Jon's presence was a painful reminder of the one secret Eddard had kept the one wound that would not heal. Catelyn, though ever the dutiful lady, could not hide the flicker of displeasure that crossed her face at the sight of Jon. He was a living symbol of what she believed to be Eddard's infidelity, and despite her attempts to be civil, the boy's presence stung her deeply. She asked about Jon's mother, a question that had plagued her since she first learned of the child, but Eddard, as he had done with everyone, remained silent on the matter, his resolve unyielding.

The tension between them was palpable, yet there was no time to dwell on it. They all rode north together, accompanied by the remaining lords who had fought in the rebellion. The group was a somber reflection of what had once been a larger, more hopeful force. Many of their comrades had fallen, and those who remained carried the scars of war, both visible and hidden. As they traveled through the war-torn lands, their thoughts turned to the future, their hearts set on restoring peace and stability to the North, a place that had been untouched by the worst of the war but was now a kingdom in need of healing.

Upon arriving at Winterfell, the ancient seat of House Stark, the Starks were welcomed by Benjen Stark, Eddard's younger brother, who had managed the castle in Eddard's absence with the help of Maester Luwin and Barbrey Stark. The castle, with its ancient grey stone walls and towering keeps, had remained a bastion of Stark strength throughout the rebellion, a symbol of the endurance of their house. Eddard immediately inquired about the health of his nephew, Cregan, the child who had been born too early and had been frail since birth. Benjen explained that Cregan mostly stayed in bed due to his persistent weakness, his frail body a constant source of worry. For the last three years, Cregan's condition had been a matter of grave concern for the family. The boy had fought for every breath, and no one was certain if he would survive to adulthood or if his body would fail him before then.

Winterfell, usually bustling with activity, had taken on a more somber tone in recent months. The uncertainty surrounding Cregan's health cast a shadow over the castle, with everyone from the servants to the lords whispering their concerns. Eddard could see the toll it had taken on his family, particularly Barbrey Stark, who had grown more withdrawn, her grief and worry etched into her face. Maester Luwin, too, had become a more somber figure, his usual confidence tempered by the reality of Cregan's condition.

But one day, everything changed. Cregan Stark awoke in his bed, but he was no longer the frail child who had struggled for every breath. During the night, something extraordinary had occurred—Cregan had died, and another soul had taken possession of his body. Sung Jinwoo, the Shadow Monarch, a being of immense power from another world, found himself in a new body, absorbing the memories and experiences of the three-year-old Cregan Stark. Despite the child's memories flooding his mind, Sung Jinwoo retained his formidable abilities and sharp intellect, his soul adapting quickly to this new reality.

A servant entered the room as she did every morning, but this time she was shocked to see Cregan standing beside his bed, his once frail form now strong and steady. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she realized what she was seeing. Without hesitation, she rushed to call for Lady Stark and the Maester, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and hope.

Lady Stark entered the room, her face a mix of astonishment and joy. She had feared the worst for her son, and to see him standing was nothing short of a miracle.

"Cregan, you're standing!" she exclaimed, rushing to his side, her hands trembling as she touched his face, as if to reassure herself that he was real.

The Maester followed closely, his face a mask of disbelief and wonder. "Lady Stark, we must examine him," he said, his voice steady but his eyes flickering with uncertainty and hope.

Cregan, now Sung Jinwoo, nodded. "I feel... different," he said, his voice surprisingly calm and assured for a child of his age. "Stronger."

The Maester conducted a thorough examination, his hands trembling slightly as he checked Cregan's pulse and temperature. "He seems perfectly healthy," the Maester finally said, his voice tinged with awe. "It's a miracle, but we should still be cautious to ensure Cregan doesn't overexert himself."

Lady Stark hugged her son tightly, tears streaming down her face. "Thank the old gods," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. The relief in her voice was palpable, a mother's gratitude for the life of her child, whom she had feared would be lost to her.

Sung Jinwoo, inhabiting the body of Cregan Stark, looked around the room, his mind racing with possibilities. He was in a new world, with new challenges and new allies. The Shadow Monarch had risen once more, in the body of a Stark of Winterfell.

――――

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