#dire wolf

If it wasn't clear from their scientific names, Grey Wolves and Dire Wolves aren't remotely related to one another aside from being Canids, despite what pop culture like Game of Thrones would have you believe. If they did look like each other, it would have had to be via convergent evolution, as they only shared a common ancestor over 5 million years ago.

This distinction, however, isn't found in the publicized articles about this so-called resurrected Dire Wolf and makes their claim that they brought the Dire Wolf back by simply editing *20* genes from the genome of a Grey Wolf laughable. A Dire Wolf would have shared more in common genetically with a Maned Wolf (*Chrysocyon brachyurus*) or Bush Dog (*Speothos venaticus*) than it would with a Grey Wolf.

Bottom line, don't fall for whatever this company is trying to tell you. If the Dire Wolf were to be brought back, it wouldn't be via something like this, and certainly wouldn't *look* like this. If you want an idea as to how a real Dire Wolf would look like in life, here is some fantastic paleoart by artist Mauricio Antón:

Cregan Stark x F!Arryn!Reader

Synopsis: After organizing a tea party for his lonely newly wed wife, Cregan must rush to comfort her in the wake of ghost stories gone wrong.

Warnings: pet names (little lady, sweet girl, darling), reader cries, ghost stories (though I hope they’re not truly scary!) awkward convos with newhusband!Cregan, maybe ooc Cregan, fluffy, cheek kissing, cuddling, husband/wife/my lord/my lady used in conversation. no smut, no use of y/n, not proofread.

dividers by @uzmacchiato

The first thing you had noticed about Winterfell was its unique silence. In the Vale, your true home, silence had never truly existed, not like it did in the North. The Eyrie bustled, even the quietest mornings were full of the distant sounds of the waterfalls freely falling in the mountains, the cries of flacons as they soared above pale stone towers, whispers of winds swirling through gardens filled with late summer blooms. Sunlight had always spilled upon polished floors, painting every room with a warm glow. Yet in the North, these simple pleasures were lost to you. Winterfell’s silence breathed, settling into ancient stones with eerie groans. Instead of the whispering winds you were accustomed to, the breeze seemed to screech, alive with some sort of archaic energy. Wolves in the woods howled late into the night, their voices carrying over the great expanse of the keep, rattling you to your core. You wondered if you would ever grow used to the sound. 

Standing before your bedchamber window, you wrapped your icy hands around a steaming cup of mulled cider and watched as fat flakes of snow drifted lazily through the gray afternoon. You had lived at Winterfell barely three weeks. Just three weeks, and you had begun to understand why the Northerners measured time by winters. The Great Keep itself was magnificent, older than any keep you had ever seen. Beyond it, the rest of the castle was vast enough to lose oneself in, its winding halls humming with history. Everywhere you looked there were reminders that generations of Starks had walked these halls before you. Sometimes, it only made you feel smaller. 

A soft knock sounded at the chamber door, breaking you from your thoughts. “My lady?” One of the maids, her name escaping you, entered carrying thick wool gowns draped carefully across her arms, “I’ve finished your new dresses, my lady.” You smiled politely, ‘thank you.” The girl returned your smile, but nothing more. No idle chatter, no gossip, no questions about your settling in. She set the dresses away and excused herself with a curtsy scarcely a minute later, leaving the room to fall silent once more. Maybe it was a tad overzealous to expect a maid to converse with you, as the new Lady of Winterfell, though the disappointment stung all the same. Sighing, you wandered toward the fire, setting aside the cider. The large hearth was enormous, no doubt large enough to roast several pheasants if one wished it, yet even its generous warmth never seemed to reach every corner of the room. Thick pelts lay across settees and benches, practical rather than decorative. Heavy tapestries depicting direwolves and ancient battles hung where embroidered falcons or flowery landscapes might’ve hung in the chambers of the Eyrie. Everything in Winterfell existed for a purpose. Beauty, if it even existed here, came second. You missed the gardens of your home, the sunlight, even the impossible climb up the towers where the air had been so crisp it almost sparkled. Most of all though, you missed knowing people.

In the Vale, every servant had known you since childhood. Every Lady had watched you grow, every Lord smiled when you had passed by. Here, everyone bowed their heads, ever so respectful as they addressed you, “Lady Stark.” Yet you remained an outsider all the same. The Northerners were not unkind, which almost made it worse. If they had been openly hostile, you could have understood it, but they were courteous, reserved. The ladies smiled when they crossed your path, complimented your embroidery, and inquired whether your new wardrobe was to your liking. Then, inevitably, they would drift back toward one another, laughing over memories that stretched back decades. Childhood winters, harvests, marriages, and babes born, you had no place in these stories.

A log shifting in the hearth diverted your attention as you stared into the fire, the ache behind your ribs easing into something more manageable. Homesickness was unbecoming of a newly wed lady, your mother had told you as much when explaining the alliance between you and Lord Cregan Stark. A wife does her duties without complaint, mother had said. You intended to, you truly did. The heavy wooden door of your chambers opened once more, this time without ceremony. Heavy boots crossed the threshold, scattering specks of snow and dirt onto the stone floor. You turned just in time to see your husband stood framed by the doorframe, broad shoulders stretched beneath a fur cloak. Chilled air followed him inside before you hurried to close the door again. Facing him once again, Lord Cregan Stark looked as if he was made of winter itself. Tall, solid, his dark hair damp where snow had melted into it, chilled cheeks flushed red. He paused upon meeting your eyes with his own gray ones. “Wife,” He said, voice low and roughened by the cold, “you’re awake.” You blinked, awkward still during conversation with him, “I should hope so, my Lord.” A flicker so brief you almost missed it, passed across his face. Amusement. “I only meant you’ve not been out. I thought you to be sleeping still,” he replied. “Oh,” you said, glancing toward the window, “I must’ve lost track of the hour.” Cregan grunted softly in reply, setting aside his gloves. It had taken you several days to realize that your Lord husband possessed an astonishing number of meanings behind these gruff noises. There was agreement, disapproval, indifference, the occasional ones of approval. You had already begun to distinguish the different meanings among them.

Cregan crossed the room towards the fire, holding out his chilled hands toward the warmth. For several moments, neither of you spoke. The marriage had begun much as you had expected, respectful and careful. He had never been cruel, never dismissive. Yet conversation between the pair of you had often felt like crossing a frozen river. Each sentence testing uncertain footing before daring another step. After a length of time, Cregan asked, “did you see? The snow has eased today.” You nodded, arms crossed against your chest, “I noticed.” He spoke again, observing, “you like the view from the window here.” Nodding again, you looked to him in response, “I do.” Another thoughtful grunt left him before silence settled again. You wondered if all Northern marriages were like this, if affection simply grew so slowly one scarecly noticed it, or whether this stiffness would endure forever. You shuddered at the thought. At last, Cregan reached for the iron poker at the side of the hearth and adjusted one of its burning logs. Without looking at you, he said, “the maids tell me you’ve spent most afternoons here.” Heat rose to your face at the observation. Did he disapprove? “I hope that isn’t improper. It’s simply that I finish my duties so early in the morn, I know of little else I may occupy my time with, my Lord,” you answered. “It’s acceptable,” he replied, setting the poker aside. “Though,” he continued, “Winterfell is large.” You smiled faintly, “I have seen.” Cregan turned to you, still bent before the fire, “You should see more of it, wife.” You swallowed, throat thick with worry that you had disappointed him. Men disappointed in their brides ought to be rid of them, your father had told you. Quick to remedy whatever dissatisfied thoughts that may run through his head, you replied, “I intend to, once I know it better.” Standing, Cregan glanced at you once more. Not mocking, merely considering. “You could ask the other ladies to walk with you,” he said. You hesitated, unsure of whether or not to tell him how much of an outsider you truly were. “I could,” you considered, bringing your arms down from your chest to fold your hands in front of you. “Though,” you continued, “I do not want to get in the way of anyone. I have never been fond of feeling like a nuisance.” Cregan spoke suddenly, almost cutting off your sentence, “you would not be a nuisance." He had spoken simply then, as though stating a fact. Matter-of-fact and entirely sincere. Something in your chest loosened, “I will do good to remember that, husband.” He nodded once in reply. 

The conversation might have ended there. Instead, after another long pause, Cregan asked, “and the ladies, have they been keeping you company?” You searched for the politest answer, loathe to let him down. “They have all been so perfectly gracious,” came the reply you settled on. It wasn’t untrue, though he studied you for a heartbeat longer than usual. You smiled again, nervous and careful, “really, my Lord, they have.” There was another pause before he inclined his head, apparently satisfied. “Well then. I’ve some matters to attend to before supper,” he stated, “Of course,” you had replied. He collected his gloves once more, crossing the room, before stopping in the doorway. “Shall there be anything you desire, wife,” he said, back still turned to you, “tell me.” Then he was gone. 

The chamber seemed to quake in the wake of his absence. You stared after the closed door for several moments before returning in front of the hearth. Unbeknownst to you, before the evening was over, Cregan would seek out half a dozen noblewomen throughout Winterfell with a request. “My lady wife has had little company,” he had said, “see to it that’s she’s welcomed.” Certain that the matter was now settled, he would think no more of it. You would, entirely unaware of his quiet interference, go to tea the following afternoon believing you had finally been invited into the company of the castle’s ladies of your own accord. 

At first, the tea before supper had been wonderful. The ladies entertained you with talks of embroidery, flowers that grew through snow, and other such things. Lady Umber had even delighted you with a quick instruction on how to preserve herbs in the harsh winter. As you had slowly begun to relax into the conversation, Lady Manderly spoke up, “speaking of winter…” Another Lady’s voice rose to answer her, “Lady Stark, have you heard of the woman who walks beyond the Wolfswood?” The mood shifted then, something darker settling amongst the table. One by one, the women begin to trade stories, stories of things that chilled you to the bone. You are unsure if they meant to terrify you, or if they were simply entertaining themselves. 

With nervous giggles and hushed voices they tell you of the witch beyond the woods, the Moss Mother they call her. “Her dwelling stands atop twisted tree roots, and runs like a horse!” One of the younger women had said, spinning a tale of a haggish woman who stole hunters and wandering maidens alike. “Oh but the Moss Mother is far less fearsome than the White Widow!” Lady Manderly replied. “They say she lost her husband to a brutal winter, and now she appears among blizzards to exact her revenge. If you follow her ghostly call out into the snow, well…you’re found frozen when the storm clears, heart torn from your chest by a great claw,” she said, voice deepened. You bring your handkerchief up to your mouth in shock, sickened bile threatening to spill over in the face of such gruesome details. Before you could collect yourself, another Lady spoke up, “Such poppycock! We all know the Hidden Walker is the most menacing. A creature that remains hidden behind the trees, never seen directly. Whenever you turn, my Lady, it's behind another trunk! All of us here know, it follows lonely travelers for miles. Though, once you hear its breathing over your shoulder, you never turn back.” Your heartbeat quickened, daring to break through the bodice of your dress. As you attempt to find a steady breath, the stories only drew on. “Truly you must know that the Hidden Walker is just another name for what roams beyond the Wall. You know, my grandsire encountered it years before the tale was told,” Lady Umber said. At this, the ladies fell silent, even the women whose giggles had, just a moment before, filled the chamber. You noticed immediately, left to wonder if all the tales had been true. The younger lady from before spoke after a moment, “we exaggerate, Lady Stark…mostly.” She had tried to ease the worry etched on your face, she had failed. “Don’t fret, my Lady, it’s just- well, it's best not to walk the grounds at night,” she added. Your stomach dropped, throat tightening. Every creak of old stone suddenly deafens you, the whine of old stone mingling with the calls of the creatures beyond the walls. Wind whistles, and branches scrape the windows. You panic, trying to remain calm, but faltering. “I must excuse myself, Ladies. Suppertime draws nearer and Lord Stark will want me to freshen up,” you squeak, rushing to stand and scurry out the door in a flurry of skirts and furs. “Was the poor dear crying? I do believe we terrified her with our old wive’s tales” Lady Manderly inquired. “Lady Stark is from the Vale, after all.” Lady Umber replied. 

Supper time had come and gone, with no sight of you. You had not turned up in Cregan’s solar, nor accompanied him on his evening walk, as was customary. Odd, he had thought, though maybe you were worn from your evening of socializing. After a few more circles walked around the Godswood, Cregan decided to return to your shared chambers. He smiled to himself as he recalled how the ladies doted after their time with you over supper. Lady Umber had even told him of how radiant your smile had been. It had been worth arranging in secret, he thought. The North could be an isolating place, Cregan knew that all too well. It must’ve been especially lonely for a lady such as yourself, born under gentler skies. He knew how you missed the familiarity of the Vale, even if you never complained. So where had you gone? As he walked down the hall, he caught one of your maids, who, after being questioned, told him that you’d retired early after your time with the other ladies. Frowning, Cregan made his way to your shared quarters. Pushing open the door, he noted the room was dim, lit only by the fire and a handful of scattered candles. The heavy velvet drapes were drawn over the window, and at first glance it seemed as if you had abandoned the room entirely. Then he heard it, a sniffle, then another. With knitted brows, he called out into the room, “wife?” He was met with silence, then the unmistakable sound of someone trying to suppress another sob. His heart lurched as he slammed the door and crossed the room in three quick strides. Upon reaching the bed, he noted a small, shivering form encased in a mountain of furs and blankets. “Wife?” The trembling froze as he lifted back the edge of one of the pelts. Two enormous, watery eyes stared back at him. Your cheeks were stained with tears, hair hopelessly tangled, lower lip wobbling so pitifully that Cregan swore his heart ceased to lurch and instead shattered. You looked utterly miserable.

“Gods,” he whispered, moving to sit beside you, “what has happened?” You only made another tiny broken sound before burying your face back into your mattress. “Were you harmed? Insulted? Are you unwell?” He asked, voice wrought with concern. You shook your head vigorously, refusing to answer. “Then please, tell me, what is the matter?” He asked. Silence stretched through the room as he waited for your reply. Eventually, with a quivering tone you answered, “you will think me foolish, my Lord.” Cregan did not know how, but his shattered heart seemed to only break further. “Never foolish, never. Tell me, girl,” he whispered, gray, helpless eyes boring into your own. You slowly emerged from your cloth sanctuary, until your eyes and nose peaked over the furs. “The ladies, they…told stories,” you replied gravely. He only blinked, “stories?” You nodded dismally, “terrible stories. Of things that wander beyond the walls. Ghosts who freeze and tear out hearts in blizzards, witches who snatch up maidens, and Hidden Walkers who follow in the woods! And-and Lady Umber said it all to be true!” Your words rushed out in one breath, hiccuping, you continued, “they even told me not to wander after the sun goes down!” By the end of your explanation, you were practically wailing. Cregan stared down at you for a heartbeat before he realized. They terrified you, a sweet girl from the East who knew nothing of monsters or gremlins. A lonely girl who had only wanted to befriend others and instead found herself horrified by Northern superstition. If Cregan’s heart was somehow still beating within his chest, surely it had been crushed away now. He settled himself among the various pillows stuffed against the headboard, stretching out over the comforter. “Come, sweet girl, come here,” he whispered, careful of his volume. Slowly, you moved up the large bed, setting yourself next to him. He turned to look at you, still so pouty, and slid his hands under your arms. Tugging, he settled you and your tangle of blankets and furs into the cradle of his arms, tucking your head under his chin.