The Wolf’s Child

Kael sat at the edge of his bed as the first light of dawn spilled across the stone walls of the tower. A cold breeze slipped through the narrow window, brushing his cheeks. He didn't shiver. His mind was too full.

He had a system. A real one.

Not just dreams or vague plans. This was something solid—a framework he could build on. A way to survive, yes, but maybe... more.

He stared out into the misty grey sky. Beyond Winterfell's walls, the world waited—dangerous, shifting, cruel. But now, he wasn't defenseless anymore.

"If I'm smart," he whispered, "I can change things."

He stopped himself before saying more. The words felt too big for the stillness of the morning.

Lyra stirred beside him, her silver eyes cracking open. The tiny direwolf pup yawned, her breath forming a small cloud in the cold air before she nestled back into the blanket.

Kael smiled.

"You don't think I'm crazy, do you?"

She huffed softly and stretched, then hopped off the bed to follow him.

At the mirror, Kael paused. A small boy stared back—five years old, dark-haired, pale, and thin. But in those eyes, there was something else. Fire. Focus.

He dressed quickly, securing each button, each strap with care. He had to move carefully. Had to play the part. A smart child, yes—but not too smart. Not enough to raise eyebrows.

Yet.

He stepped into the corridor with Lyra padding at his heels. Together, they descended the spiral stairs, the cold stone rough beneath their feet.

In the hallway below, torches burned low. He passed the kitchens first, where Mistress Lysa emerged with a basket of apples.

"Good morning, Mistress Lysa!" Kael called.

She turned, startled, then smiled. "Well, good morning to you, young man! And a happy Name Day!"

"Thank you!" he beamed.

She laughed. "I'll set aside something sweet for you."

He nodded and continued on.

Near the stables, old Hullen was scolding a stableboy.

"Morning, Ser Hullen!" Kael said brightly.

The man glanced up. "Four today, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Best make the year count."

"I will."

Outside the armory, two guards stood chatting. Kael waved. "Good morning!"

"Happy Name Day, lad," one called. The other nodded at Lyra. "That pup still chasing chickens?"

"She's in training," Kael replied with a grin.

Finally, he passed Old Nan, hunched and slow with her cane.

"Good morning, Old Nan!"

She blinked at him. "Mm. Growing like a weed, that one. Happy birthday."

"Thank you!"

DING!

A soft chime rang in his mind, and a glowing interface blinked into view:

---

MISSION COMPLETE: Manners Matter

Objective: Greet 5 people politely in one morning.

Reward: +0.1 Charisma

+10 XP

---

A moment later, a second panel appeared, sleek and transparent, floating just behind his vision:

---

SYSTEM INTERFACE – ACTIVE

Kael Everwind – Level 1

XP: 10 / 100

Next Level: 100 XP

---

Kael grinned.

So it was real. This wasn't just some fever dream. The interface responded to his actions—and rewarded them. Even small choices moved the needle forward.

Inside the great hall, the smell of breakfast welcomed him—bacon, warm oats, and honey. Firelight flickered across the walls. Jon and Robb sat already at the table, stuffing their mouths between laughing jabs.

"Kael!" Robb called. "Happy Name Day!"

Jon nodded. "Happy birthday."

Kael smiled as he joined them.

Robb stood and handed him a small bundle wrapped in rough cloth. "I made this. Sort of."

Kael opened it slowly, revealing a hand-carved wooden direwolf. The ears were uneven and the legs too short—but it had character.

"It's Lyra," Robb said proudly.

Kael held it in both hands. "It's perfect."

Jon pushed a folded cloth toward him. "These were mine. You'll grow into them."

Kael unfolded the worn gloves—leather, soft from use but still sturdy.

"They're amazing," he said, his voice quieter.

Jon shrugged. "You'll need them. You start training with us today."

"Really?" Kael looked up, surprised.

Robb nodded, mouth full. "Footwork drills, balance, stretching. Ser Rodrik says if we learn that early, swords come easier later."

Kael nodded slowly. That made sense. It wasn't combat. Not yet. But it was something. A beginning.

"You'll be good at it," Jon added, as if it were fact.

Kael sat between them, feeling the heat of the fire, the weight of the gloves, the roughness of carved wood in his hands.

He felt something else too—something he hadn't felt in a long time.

He belonged.

Lyra curled under the table, her head resting on her paws.

They didn't know who he really was. Not yet. They didn't know what he could do. But they accepted him. And that gave him time.

Time to learn.

Time to grow.

Time to plan.

The system had given him a gift.

Now it was his move.