Late 280 AC, a couple of months before the tourney of Harrenhal.
Winterfell
The boy came riding a shaggy brown pony that looked more suited to carrying firewood than a child. Snow clung to its belly and tail, and by the time they reached the Winterfell courtyard, both pony and rider were half-frozen and soaked through.
Cregan Norrey didn't seem to mind.
He wore no sigil. Just a patched fur cloak and a pair of mismatched gloves, one too large and one too tight. The rider beside him, a gaunt man with windburned cheeks and a cracked lip, introduced himself as Harlen Norrey, the boy's uncle.
"Third son," Harlen muttered to the guards at the gate. "Spare branch of a spare tree. Just as Chief Stark wants, here's the boy. Lord Norrey says to knock the mountain air out of him. Make him useful."
He gave Cregan a swat on the back, not unkindly, and turned his horse around without even dismounting.
Cregan Norrey was left standing in the cold, holding his pony's reins and looking around the great stone walls with wide grey eyes. He wasn't afraid. Just… curious. Like a squirrel wondering if the hawk overhead had eaten already.
He was eight name days old, and he looked forward to eight more in such a big castle.
He made himself known within the day.
The first time Wulfric noticed him, he was in the yard, scrambling up the low wall near the kennels, not for mischief, but to get a better look at the weapon racks. Later, he weaseled his way into the practice yard during the younger boys' training and mimicked their movements without ever being told to.
He trained harder than most. Not better, just longer. Swinging a little wooden hatchet over and over until his arms gave out and he collapsed, panting, into the snow. The stableboys laughed the first time he did it. They didn't laugh again when he came back the next morning and did it twice as long.
He slept in a small shared barrack on the western side of the keep, crowded in with young lords' sons. He didn't seem to mind. He ate fast, trained fast, and spoke to no one, until he saw Wulfric.
Wulfric stood alone in the early dark, swinging his axe through slow, deliberate drills after the yard had cleared.
Cregan approached quietly, dragging a wooden practice hatchet behind him.
"You always train like this?" he asked, half out of breath.
Wulfric didn't answer. He just kept swinging.
"I'm not trying to bother you," Cregan added, stepping closer. "Just… I've never seen anyone not stop when the horn sounds."
Still nothing.
Cregan stood beside him for a moment, watching the rhythm of Wulfric's movements. Then he raised his own practice axe and tried to match it. He was clumsy, but determined.
After a few minutes, Wulfric finally spoke. Not a greeting and not an invitation.
"Your shoulders are too tight."
Cregan blinked. "What?"
"You're swinging from the arms. Not the back. You'll tire fast. Twist your hips and you'll carry more momentum and use more of your body weight into each swing."
"Oh." Cregan adjusted. Then he grinned. "Thanks."
Wulfric nodded once.
That was the beginning.
The next morning, Cregan was there before Wulfric.
The morning after that, he brought two hatchets, one balanced, one dull, to ask which was better.
A week later, he was copying Wulfric's drills nearly perfectly.
He still laughed too loud. Still got knocked down too often.
But he always got back up, grinning with a bloodied lip and snow in his hair.
And when the noble boys sneered, or the watching guards rolled their eyes, he never fired back.
He just glanced toward Wulfric and kept training.
Not because Wulfric told him to.
But because it felt right and he liked standing next to wulf.
"You're quiet," Cregan said one evening after sparring.
"But it's a good kind of quiet. Like you still listen when I talk."
Wulfric looked at him.
"mhm, because everyone deserves to be listened to till proven otherwise."
He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world.
And at that moment, it was.
A day later…
The Lockes rode in three days before the Northern banners were to assemble.
6 horses carrying Locke colors came through falling snow, four guards bearing Oldcastle's sigil, and two boys; one already grown and a warrior, the other something else entirely.
Ser Rickard Locke, heir to Oldcastle, dismounted with warmth and confidence. Polished steel, trimmed beard, charming smile, he had already earned favor among the Stark household men and would ride south with the host to Harrenhal.
The other boy dismounted in silence.
Torrhen Locke, Second son, Twelve years old.
He moved like a hot sharp blade sheathed in flesh, smooth, and quiet. His blue eyes watched everything but reacted to nothing. When he handed off his reins, he didn't speak a word. His posture, his bearing, his stillness,they all spoke louder than his tongue ever did.
He wasn't sent to Winterfell by chance.
Lord Rickard Stark stood waiting at the top of the stone steps as the Locke party approached. He greeted Ser Rickard with courtesy, but his eyes lingered on the younger brother.
"My thanks to your lord father," Rickard said. "It is no small thing to entrust a son as a ward."
"Not at all, my lord," Ser Rickard replied. "He believes Torrhen will gain more here than he would at Harrenhal. Winterfell has... a gravity to its large and historic halls."
The Lord of Winterfell nodded once.
"That's the idea," Rickard said with a gleam in his eye.
Torrhen said nothing, but he understood.
He was not here at the wishes of his father but by order of the Warden of the North and no one talked back to a Stark in the North let alone Winterfell.
He was given quarters near the training yards, not the guest hall. He requested no special treatment, and asked for no guide. He rose early, ate little, and trained hard.
He wasn't the loudest.
He wasn't the strongest.
But the boys began moving aside when he entered the yard. A cold icy chill in his eyes just unnerved people like that.
Torrhen Locke didn't spar to impress. He didn't strike with fury. He tested every movement as an equation, the balance, precision, endurance all recorded in his observant eyes.
He noticed Wulfric long before they spoke.
A bastard, yes, but one who trained like a man twice his age. Wulfric didn't try to lead, he didn't perform. He trained until his hands cracked and his shoulders trembled. That earned something from Torrhen, not admiration, but curiosity.
The courtyard was quiet save for the hush of breath and the crunch of boots on packed snow and mud. A ring of young wards, guards, and even a few household knights stood at a respectful distance, watching with muted curiosity. At the center stood Wulfric Snow, his black ironwood shield braced on his forearm, blunted axe in hand. Across from him, leaner and slightly taller, was Torrhen Locke, dull tipped short spear gripped in one hand and round small shield tight against his chest.
The two locked eyes.
Ser Rodrik called from the side, "Begin."
Torrhen moved first, measured, careful. He kept his spear tip low and tight, dancing around Wulfric's front. His footwork was crisp, well-practiced. Wulfric didn't chase though. He held his shield high, axe half-raised, letting Torrhen circle.
A testing jab came forward, light, just a sting to the edge of Wulfric's shield. Wulfric didn't flinch or react.
The second came faster, then a third, this one aiming low toward his leg.
Clack. Wulfric batted the spear aside with his axe head and charged.
Torrhen sprang back, quick as a deer, but Wulfric was relentless, shield up like a battering ram, axe raised high, driving forward with the kind of stubborn force that didn't care for elegance.
Their shields slammed. Wulfric's heavier frame buckled Torrhen slightly, but the boy twisted away, letting the force slide past him. His spear came whipping around.
Thwack!!
It struck Wulfric in the ribs. Not hard enough to bruise, but it counted.
A breath passed. Wulfric grunted and nodded, acknowledging the hit.
Then he came again.
This time, he feinted a shield bash and swung the axe low. Torrhen deflected with his spear shaft and backstepped, but Wulfric's axe kissed the edge of his shield and left a scrape.
They danced for nearly a minute. Torrhen struck with surgical intent, probing for joints, for openings, for overcommitted swings. Wulfric endured, taking the hits, absorbing them with his shield, waiting for a mistake.
Then it came.
Torrhen thrust high, toward Wulfric's shoulder. Wulfric turned into it, the spearpoint scraping his training gorget, and used the moment to slam forward. His shield cracked against Torrhen's, knocking the boy backward. Torrhen stumbled, losing his footing for half a heartbeat, long enough for Wulfric to press the axe forward and stop it just inches from his chest.
Both boys stood frozen. Then Wulfric lowered the axe. Torrhen, breathing hard, nodded.
"That was well done," Wulfric said, voice calm but hoarse from effort.
"You waited for me to grow impatient," Torrhen replied, tone respectful but not submissive. "That was smarter than you let on."
Wulfric gave a faint smirk. "You're too calculating to not mix things up."
Their shields lowered at the same time.
From the sidelines, Ser Rodrik watched quietly, then nodded once. "Good. Again, after water."
From that day forward, they trained near one another. Not together, but never far apart.
Winterfell's Training Yard, Morning
The cold bit sharp as a knife, but the yard buzzed with energy. Wulfric Snow stood alone in the sparring circle, axe in hand, shield tight to his forearm. Eight years old, broad-shouldered, steady, and still growing.
Across from him stood Torrhen Locke, older, more calculating, composed, spear and shield at the ready. To his right, Cregan Norrey, the smallest but far more wild than Wulfric, grinning with a chipped tooth and twirling his short axe and long dagger like he was born to do so.
Wagers whispered in the crowd, guards, nobles who had risen early enough, even Lyanna and Benjen watching from a snow-slicked ledge.
"A proper wager," Cregan had declared over breakfast. "He thinks he's as strong as a bear, let's see if he can handle us proper."
Ser Rodrik had allowed it, to everyone's surprise.
"Battle isn't fair," he said flatly. "Neither is death. First to three clean touches. You all know the rules. Begin."
They moved fast.
Torrhen lunged low with a spear thrust, not a feint, real intent, real speed. Wulfric twisted his shield down, caught the shaft and let it slide off but the angle gave Cregan just enough room to strike.
The Norrey boy dashed in, axe swinging high. Wulfric tried to pivot… too slow.
Crack.
Axe to shoulder and Ser Rodrik barked, "Touch!"
Wulfric snarled under his breath, backing up fast. One point against him already.
They circled, pressing. Torrhen watching Wulfric's footwork, waiting for another slip. Cregan shifting constantly, blades dancing, trying to get behind.
They didn't come at him in tandem, they flowed like one even though they'd only been practicing together for a few days.
Wulfric blocked another spear jab, then ducked as the dagger scraped past his ear. He countered with a shield bash, catching Cregan and staggering him, but Torrhen swept in from the side.
Wulfric pivoted to block, too slow again.
The spear cracked his hip. "Second touch!" Rodrik called.
The crowd murmured.
Two points, one more, and it would be done.
Wulfric's chest rose and fell. His pride burned hotter than the cold ever could.
He gritted his teeth, regripped his axe, and dropped low, like he'd been taught by Rodrik weeks before, shorter stance, tighter core, move like a wolf through trees.
Cregan came again, cocky now, fast and full of wild swings.
Wulfric ducked the first one, twisted under the second, and slammed his shield flat into Cregan's chest, sending him sprawling in the snow.
But Torrhen was ready. He struck high, clean and hard… only to find Wulfric had dropped his shield and grabbed Cregan'sfallen axe, spun, and batted the spear aside mid-thrust.
Then came the reversal.
Wulfric lunged forward, one axe in each hand now, and swung the flat side of Cregan's weapon into Torrhen's jaw with a resounding thud of wood on flesh and bone
"Touch!" Rodrik snapped.
One point, and Wulfric's first.
Cregan was scrambling up again, furious, and this time he didn't grin. He grabbed his axe and reset just in time to charge at Wulfric like a storm. Axe and dagger flashing in tight arcs, eyes narrowed.
Wulfric parried one. Took glancing blow but not solid to his shoulder. Blocked the dagger with his bracer.
Then with a step back, kicked snow and mud straight into cregans face.
The Norrey boy roared, blinded. Wulfric surged upward, used his shield like a hammer, and slammed the side of Cregan's helm making the boy crumple to the ground.
"Touch!"
Two for Wulfric and a building momentum.
With a whirl, Wulfric blocked a barrage pf thrusts one after the pther as his shield arm numbed. Then he surged forward batting away the spear thrust sideways with his shield but he barely had time to breathe before Torrhen's shield slamming into his ribs hard enough to make wulfric hunch over coughing. Wulfric gasped and nearly dropped his shield just as he had with his axe.
"Touch and match!"
Rodrik's voice cut through the ringing in Wulfric's ears.
The yard was quiet.
Wulfric dropped, falling to one knee. His shield was cracked. His lip bled. Snow and sweat soaked through his tunic.
Cregan groaned on the ground. Torrhen leaned on his spear, face red with a bruised jaw, cheek and enough swelling to call him lopsided.
Rodrik stepped forward.
"You lost. But barely," the old knight said. "You adapted. Fought hard. Got two points against boys working as one. Not bad for your first real trial."
Wulfric nodded, breathing hard. "I can do better."
"Aye," Rodrik said, almost smiling. "And you will. As for you two, good teamwork but could be better. Should've been able to finish off young wulfric here after the first two points. Never get too confident." He said before walking away.
Cregan stood, shaking snow off. "Next time I get to throw dirt in your eyes."
"Next time I break your nose," Wulfric replied hoarsely.
Torrhen chuckled, wincing. "You already broke my jaw, so I'd call that even." His muffled and awkward way of speech ringing truth to his words.
From the wall, Lyanna cupped her hands and called out, "That was the ugliest fight I've ever seen!"
Benjen leaned forward, grinning. "But damned if it wasn't close."
Wulfric stood again, bruised, exhausted, but something inside him had shifted. He had just fought against two others. And almost won. He could almost reach it, taste it, that type of skill where he'd fight off against several opponents and still be considered a threat. For now though, he'd continue to hone his skill.