Chapter 1: The Wolf's Waking
The cold was the first thing that truly registered. Not the biting chill of a London winter, sharp and crystalline, but a deeper, more ancient cold that seemed to seep from the very stones around him, a damp, pervasive iciness that clung to his skin and bit at his bones. Ciel Phantomhive, or whatever remained of him, blinked.
The world swam into focus, not with the familiar damask curtains of his townhouse or the polished mahogany of his four-poster bed, but with rough-hewn stone walls, heavy, fur-lined tapestries depicting snarling wolves, and the scent of woodsmoke, pine, and something else… something wild and distinctly animal.
He was lying on a bed, yes, but it was a vast, sturdy thing, piled high with furs that smelled faintly of dog and snow. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, a remnant of a blinding pain that had preceded this strange awakening. He tried to sit up, his limbs feeling heavy and unfamiliar, like borrowed clothes that didn't quite fit.
A gasp escaped him – not his own voice, or rather, not the voice he remembered. This was deeper, younger, yet somehow resonant with an innate authority he hadn't consciously possessed before. He looked down at his hands. They were larger than he recalled, calloused, the nails trimmed short and practical. These were not the delicate, ring-adorned hands of the Queen's Watchdog.
Panic, cold and sharp, threatened to overwhelm him. Where was he? What had happened? The last thing he remembered was… a blur. A contract fulfilled? No, that wasn't right. It was something else, a desperate gamble, a final, terrible price paid.
"Young Lord? Are you awake?"
The voice, when it came, was blessedly, terrifyingly familiar. Impeccably polite, smooth as silk, with that undercurrent of dark amusement he knew so well.
Ciel's head snapped towards the sound. Standing by the stone hearth, where a low fire crackled, was Sebastian Michaelis. He was dressed not in his usual immaculate tailcoat, but in something more practical, though still exquisitely tailored: dark, boiled leather, a simple black tunic, and trousers tucked into sturdy boots. His crimson eyes, however, were unchanged, glinting with that same knowing intelligence.
"Sebastian?" Ciel's new voice rasped. Relief warred with a thousand questions. "What is this? Where are we? The manor…?"
Sebastian glided closer, his movements as fluid and silent as ever. He inclined his head. "A pertinent question, my Lord. It appears we find ourselves… translocated. And you, my young master, are currently inhabiting the form of one Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell."
Ciel stared. "Stark? Winterfell? What nonsense are you spouting? This isn't some elaborate charade, is it? Did Undertaker put you up to this?" He tried to summon his usual imperious tone, but it was laced with an undeniable tremor of confusion.
"Alas, no charade," Sebastian confirmed, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles. "Though the circumstances are, shall we say, highly irregular. My contract, however, remains. I am bound to serve Ciel Phantomhive. And since your soul, your essence, now resides within this vessel, my obligations transfer accordingly." He gestured around the room. "Welcome to the North, my Lord."
The North. The name resonated with a foreign, barbaric clang. Ciel pushed himself fully upright, ignoring the lingering dizziness. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the icy stone floor. He shivered, not just from the cold, but from the sheer impossibility of it all.
"Explain," he commanded, his gaze fixing Sebastian with the steely intensity that had made hardened criminals quail. "Everything."
Sebastian, ever the consummate butler, began to speak. He recounted a disorienting blur for himself as well – a sensation of immense pressure, a tearing, and then a re-formation in this new, starker world, drawn inexorably to Ciel's spiritual signature. He explained that the boy known as Cregan Stark, a youth of perhaps thirteen or fourteen name days – a term Sebastian had already picked up – had apparently suffered a severe riding accident a few days prior, sustaining a grievous head injury. He had been unresponsive since, until Ciel's consciousness had, for lack of a better term, asserted itself.
"The previous occupant of this form… his soul has departed," Sebastian stated, his tone neutral but his eyes holding a flicker of something Ciel couldn't quite decipher – perhaps clinical interest. "You, my Lord, are now Cregan Stark in all but spirit."
Ciel absorbed this, his mind racing. Reborn? Transmigrated? It sounded like something out of a penny dreadful. Yet, the evidence was undeniable. His body, this room, Sebastian's presence – it was all too real, too visceral.
"And the people here?" Ciel asked, his voice hardening. "They expect Cregan Stark. What do I know of him?"
"Very little, I'm afraid, beyond the basics gleaned from overheard conversations amongst the household staff in the brief period before your awakening," Sebastian admitted. "He is the young Lord of Winterfell, his father Lord Rickon Stark having passed some years ago. He has been ruling under a regency of sorts, advised by his uncle Bennard Stark and the castle's Maester. He is known to be… somewhat wild. Headstrong. Fond of hunting and martial pursuits. Not unlike yourself in certain regards, my Lord, though perhaps with less… finesse."
Ciel scoffed, a faint echo of his old self. "Finesse is wasted on fools. So, I am a boy lord in a primitive land. And you are still my butler."
"Indeed, my Lord. Though my official capacity here appears to be that of a 'personal guard' or 'man-at-arms' assigned to your service. I took the liberty of establishing a plausible cover upon my arrival. They find my… efficiency… noteworthy." A ghost of a smirk played on Sebastian's lips. "They are easily impressed."
"Naturally," Ciel muttered, rubbing his temples. A wave of images, unbidden and confusing, flashed through his mind: towering trees with carved, weeping faces; the howl of a wolf, impossibly close; a sense of soaring, of wind beneath him… He gasped, clutching his head.
"My Lord?" Sebastian was instantly at his side, a hand hovering near his shoulder but not touching.
"Nothing," Ciel bit out, pushing the strange sensations away. "Just… a headache." He looked around the chamber again, taking in the details. The direwolf banner of House Stark. The heavy, unadorned furniture. The distinct lack of any comfort or aesthetic he was accustomed to. "This place is… rustic."
"An understatement, my Lord," Sebastian agreed smoothly. "The amenities are somewhat lacking compared to Phantomhive Manor. However, Winterfell is a formidable fortress, the ancient seat of the Kings in the North. Power has its own appeal, does it not?"
Ciel's eye – for he still possessed only one, the other hidden beneath an eyepatch that felt strangely natural on this new face, almost as if Cregan had also worn one – narrowed. Power. Yes, that was a language he understood. He had wielded it in the London underworld, in the gilded cages of high society. This… this was different. Rawer. More primal.
"Tell me of the world outside these walls," Ciel demanded. "What is this 'North'? Who are its enemies? Its allies?"
For the next hour, as the weak morning light filtered through the narrow, arrow-slit window, Sebastian provided a remarkably comprehensive overview. He spoke of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, a sprawling continent ruled by a Targaryen king – Viserys the First – who sat the Iron Throne in a distant southern city called King's Landing. He described the complex web of noble houses, their rivalries and alliances. He spoke of the North, vast and sparsely populated, fiercely independent in spirit, bound by ancient traditions and a different set of gods – the Old Gods of the Forest.
"The Starks are Wardens of the North," Sebastian explained. "A position of immense responsibility and respect. They are known for their honor, their resilience, and their adherence to the old ways."
"Honor," Ciel repeated, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "A quaint notion. Often a liability."
"Perhaps," Sebastian conceded. "But a powerful tool for inspiring loyalty in these lands, it would seem."
As Sebastian spoke, Ciel felt a strange duality. Part of him, the Ciel Phantomhive who had made a pact with a demon for revenge, was assessing this new chessboard, calculating angles, identifying threats and opportunities. But another part, something deeper, something tied to the flesh he now inhabited, resonated with the tales of snow-covered forests, of ancient honor, of a fierce, protective love for this harsh, unforgiving land. It was unsettling.
Suddenly, a sharp, piercing howl cut through the morning air. It wasn't distant; it sounded as if it were just outside his chamber. Before Ciel could react, a scratching sound came from the heavy oak door.
Sebastian moved to the door, unlatching it. A creature bounded in, large and grey, with intelligent golden eyes. It was a wolf, but larger than any Ciel had ever seen, almost the size of a small pony. It padded directly towards the bed, towards him, and nudged its massive head against his hand.
Ciel flinched instinctively, but the wolf merely whined softly, its gaze fixed on him with an unnerving intensity.
"This, my Lord," Sebastian said, his voice calm, "would be Cregan Stark's direwolf. His name, I believe, is Sarx."
A direwolf. The sigil of House Stark, made flesh. As Ciel looked into the creature's golden eyes, another dizzying flash assailed him. This time, it was a sensation of running, the wind in his fur, the scent of pine and snow, the thrill of the hunt… He saw through the wolf's eyes, felt the powerful muscles of its body moving beneath him. It was exhilarating and terrifying.
He blinked, and he was himself again, sitting on the bed, the direwolf Sarx nudging his hand, its warm breath puffing against his skin.
"What was that?" he whispered, more to himself than to Sebastian.
"An interesting question," Sebastian mused, observing the interaction with keen interest. "The Starks are said to have an ancient connection to these beasts. Some legends speak of 'wargs' or 'skinchangers' – those who can enter the minds of animals."
Ciel frowned. Magic. He had a demon butler; magic was hardly a foreign concept. But this felt different, more intrinsic, less… contractual.
"And the trees with faces?" Ciel asked, recalling the other fleeting image. "The weeping ones?"
Sebastian's eyebrow arched. "Ah. You may have seen a weirwood. They are sacred to the followers of the Old Gods. Some are said to have faces carved into their trunks by the Children of the Forest, the original inhabitants of Westeros. It is believed that the Old Gods watch through the eyes of the weirwoods. And some particularly blessed individuals are said to receive visions through them – greensight, they call it."
Warging. Greensight. Ciel felt a knot tighten in his stomach. This new life wasn't just a change of scenery; it came with its own arcane baggage. More tools, perhaps, but also more complications.
A knock on the door, firm and authoritative this time, interrupted his thoughts. "My Lord Cregan? Are you awake? Maester Lorcan is here to see you." The voice was male, gruff.
Sebastian glanced at Ciel, a silent question in his eyes.
Ciel took a breath, pushing down the disorientation. He was Lord Cregan Stark now. He had a role to play. And Ciel Phantomhive, for all his faults, was an exceptional actor when the situation demanded it.
"Let him in, Sebastian," Ciel said, his new voice already sounding more confident, more commanding. He settled back against the furs, composing his features into an expression of mild inquiry, perhaps a touch of lordly impatience. The eyepatch helped; it always had. It lent him an air of mystery, of hidden depths.
Sebastian opened the door to reveal a short, stout man with a kindly, wrinkled face, wearing the grey robes of a Maester, a heavy chain of many metals around his neck. Behind him stood a taller, stern-faced man with grey-streaked dark hair and the hard eyes of a warrior. This, Ciel surmised, was likely the uncle Sebastian had mentioned, Bennard Stark.
"Lord Cregan!" Maester Lorcan exclaimed, shuffling forward, his face alight with relief. "By the Old Gods and the New, it is good to see you awake, my lord! You gave us all a terrible fright."
Bennard Stark merely grunted, his eyes scrutinizing Ciel with an intensity that made the young lord inwardly bristle. "So, the boy finally decides to rejoin the world of the living. Took you long enough." His tone was rough, not entirely unkind, but lacking the deference Ciel might have expected. Or perhaps, Ciel considered, this was simply the Northern way. Blunt. Direct.
Ciel offered a cool nod. "Maester. Uncle." He kept his voice even, testing the sound of it, the weight of his new title. "I apologize for any… concern I may have caused."
The Maester fussed over him, checking his pulse, peering into his seeing eye, asking questions about his memory. Ciel answered vaguely, claiming fogginess from the accident, a plausible excuse. He needed time to gather more information before he could confidently navigate conversations.
Bennard watched him, arms crossed. "You remember who you are, boy? You remember your duties?"
"I am Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell," Ciel stated, his gaze unwavering as he met his uncle's. "My memory of the… incident… is unclear, but my identity and my responsibilities are not." He deliberately used the phrasing Sebastian had supplied.
A flicker of something – surprise? grudging respect? – passed through Bennard's eyes. "Good. The North needs its Lord. Especially with the whispers coming from the South."
Ciel's interest sharpened. "Whispers?"
Maester Lorcan wrung his hands. "Ah, yes, my lord. Concerning news. While you were… indisposed… ravens arrived from King's Landing. It seems the matter of the King's succession is causing… friction at court."
"Princess Rhaenyra, the King's named heir, faces challenges to her claim, primarily from those who would prefer her younger half-brother, Prince Aegon, to inherit," Bennard elaborated, his voice grim. "The Hand of the King, Ser Otto Hightower, champions his grandson Aegon's cause. It's a pot beginning to simmer, and some fear it will soon boil over."
The Dance of the Dragons. Sebastian had mentioned it briefly, a looming conflict that threatened to tear the Seven Kingdoms apart. And now, he, Ciel Phantomhive, newly minted as Cregan Stark, was apparently a player on this vast, dangerous board.
Ciel felt a cold smile touch his lips, a predatory gleam in his one visible eye. London's darkness had been a game of shadows and whispers, of hidden knives and political machinations. This… this was on an entirely different scale. Kingdoms, armies, dragons.
"Indeed," Ciel said softly, his gaze distant for a moment as he processed the enormity of his new situation. The direwolf, Sarx, let out a soft huff, resting its head on his lap as if sensing his master's turbulent thoughts. Ciel absently stroked the thick fur, a strange sense of familiarity, of belonging, emanating from the beast. "It seems my rest has concluded just as things are becoming… interesting."
His uncle grunted again. "Interesting is one word for it. War is another. The North remembers its oaths. And my brother, your father, Lord Rickon, swore fealty to King Viserys and to his named heir, Princess Rhaenyra. That is where our loyalty must lie."
Ciel nodded slowly. Loyalty. Oaths. Such fragile things. But perhaps useful, for now.
"Sebastian," Ciel said, turning to his ever-present butler, who stood observing silently by the door, blending into the shadows with an ease that was almost supernatural. "Ensure our guest, Maester Lorcan, has refreshment. And Uncle Bennard, perhaps you could brief me further on these 'whispers' from the South. I find my mind… clearer than it has been."
He needed information. He needed to understand the rules of this new game. His revenge against those who had wronged the Phantomhives was a fading dream, a life extinguished. But the need to survive, to dominate, to carve out a place of power and security – that instinct burned brighter than ever.
As Bennard Stark began to speak of factions at court, of alliances and potential betrayals, Ciel listened intently. Winter had come for Ciel Phantomhive, and he had been reborn in its very heart. The game was afoot, on a scale grander and more perilous than he could ever have imagined. And he, with his demon butler by his side and strange new powers stirring within him, would play to win. The soul of the Queen's Watchdog now wore the pelt of the Wolf of Winterfell.
And Winterfell, he decided, could use a touch more… finesse. And a great deal more control. His control.