Cregan Stark – Age 7, 289 AC

The woods seemed alive with whispers and creaks, every sound magnified in Cregan's young ears as he crept forward, his small bow clutched tightly in his hands. The air smelled of damp earth and pine, and the faint rustle of leaves underfoot kept him on edge. He was determined to be quiet—quieter than the squirrels darting along the branches above or the gentle wind weaving through the trees. His mother was out there somewhere, he knew, watching him like the silent predator she often became during their hunts. She didn't always reveal herself, but he could feel her presence in the woods, as if the forest itself conspired to test him.

Cregan's heart raced in his chest, a mix of excitement and nerves. He'd been training relentlessly over the past year, honing his aim and learning the rhythms of the wild. His mother often said the woods were like a second home, and he wanted to prove that he could belong there, too.

The weight of the small bow felt familiar in his hands now, though his arms still trembled slightly when he pulled the string. He glanced around, scanning the trees for movement. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the morning light casting long, shifting shadows on the ground. He had learned to read those shadows, to spot the telltale flicker of an animal passing through.

Cregan moved carefully, his steps deliberate, though his excitement made it hard to remain still for long. He approached a small clearing where he'd seen rabbits before, his young mind racing with anticipation. His boots crunched faintly on the forest floor, and he froze, wincing at the noise. He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting his mother to step out from behind a tree and shake her head in silent reproach. But she didn't appear, and the woods seemed to hold him in a quiet, watchful embrace.

Then, he saw it—a small rabbit, its ears twitching as it hopped cautiously through the clearing. Cregan's breath caught in his throat. He crouched low, trying to become one with the shadows. His excitement threatened to betray him, and he willed himself to calm down. "Relax," he thought, mimicking the steady tone his mother always used.

He slowly nocked an arrow, his fingers fumbling for a moment before finding their grip. He drew back on the string, the bow creaking softly under the strain. His aim wavered slightly, and he fought to still his shaking hands. The rabbit paused, its nose twitching as it sensed something amiss.

"Steady," he whispered to himself, barely audible.

He released the arrow, his heart leaping with hope. But the arrow sailed just wide, thudding into the dirt beside the rabbit. The small creature bolted, disappearing into the underbrush.

"No!" Cregan hissed under his breath, his frustration bubbling to the surface. He stood there for a moment, staring at the spot where the rabbit had been. His chest tightened with disappointment.

But then he noticed the direction the rabbit had run, its small pawprints faintly visible in the soft earth. His determination flared again, and he began to follow the trail, moving slowly and carefully. The anger at himself simmered in his mind. How could he have missed? Would his mother have seen?

Ahead, he spotted a small rabbit hole nestled beneath the gnarled roots of a tree. He stopped, his shoulders sagging slightly. If the rabbit had reached the safety of its burrow, the hunt was over. He couldn't dig it out—not with his hands and not with his mother's watchful eye on him.

A pang of sadness filled his chest as he realized he had failed. The thought of his mother's disappointed gaze stung more than the chill of the morning air. He let out a small sigh, crouching beside the burrow as he tried to quiet the ache of self-doubt growing inside him.

Sadness weighed heavy in Cregan's chest as he stared at the rabbit hole, its quiet emptiness mocking him. His failure felt like a cold stone settling deep in his stomach. But as the sadness lingered, it transformed into something sharper—anger. He clenched his small fists, frustrated with himself for letting his excitement ruin his shot. His mother wouldn't have missed. She was still out there, watching, judging him in silence. The test wasn't over.

Determined to make up for his failure, Cregan reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the small berries he had picked earlier. His mother had called them forstnip Berries, and though they weren't fit for people, they could lure small animals. Pulling them out, he crouched low near the rabbit hole and carefully placed the berries just outside the entrance. His movements were deliberate, his mind sharper now. He stepped back into the shadows of the woods, retreating far enough to remain unseen but close enough to keep watch.

Settling into a crouch behind a thicket, Cregan felt the cold snow against his knees. It was uncomfortable, but he ignored it, forcing his breathing to steady. His small bow rested across his knees, ready. He focused on the hole, willing himself to be patient, to stay still and quiet like his mother had taught him.

Minutes turned into what felt like hours. The chill crept into his fingers, and the silence of the woods pressed heavily on his ears. Nothing stirred. The excitement and frustration that had driven him began to wane, replaced by the creeping doubt of a boy who didn't yet trust his skills.

Just as he was about to give up, the stillness was broken by a rustling sound. His heart leapt, and he tightened his grip on his bow, his eyes darting to the rabbit hole. But it wasn't a rabbit.

A small fox emerged from the underbrush, its white fur catching the pale light. It moved cautiously, its nose twitching as it sniffed the air. Cregan's breath hitched as he watched the fox approach the berries. It wasn't his original target, but it would do. A fox was a better prize, anyway—his mother would be proud if he succeeded.

Cregan tightened his grip on the bowstring, drawing it back slowly. His arms, once weak and prone to shaking, held steady after a year of practice. He felt the tension in the string, the familiar pull as he steadied his breathing. Be calm. Be sure. His mother's lessons echoed in his mind.

The fox sniffed at the berries, lowering its head. Cregan released the arrow.

It struck the fox in the leg, and the animal let out a sharp yelp before darting away. Without thinking, Cregan leapt to his feet, his boots crunching in the snow as he gave chase. His breath came in short bursts, the cold air biting at his lungs. The fox's trail was easy to follow, its uneven tracks marked with droplets of blood.

After a short but exhausting pursuit, he saw the fox collapse in the snow, its small body heaving as it struggled to move. Cregan slowed his pace, his steps hesitant as he approached the wounded creature.

The fox let out a faint, pitiful whine, its wide eyes filled with fear. Cregan froze. He had seen his mother finish hunts like this countless times—quickly, cleanly, without hesitation. But now, standing over the trembling animal, his hands began to shake.

His small fingers wrapped around the hilt of his knife, but his grip was weak. The fox's pained cries cut through him, making his stomach churn. Tears welled in his eyes as he knelt beside it, the weight of what he had to do pressing heavily on him.

"I can't," he whispered, the words trembling on his lips. He felt like a failure again, the shame of it burning in his chest.

A warm, firm hand settled over his, startling him. He turned his tear-streaked face to see his mother kneeling beside him, her expression calm but serious. She had appeared without a sound, her presence grounding him.

"You can," she said softly, her voice steady and sure. "You must, Cregan. It's part of the hunt. You can't leave it to suffer."

Cregan sniffled, his lower lip trembling, but he nodded. His mother's hand guided his, steadying his grip on the knife. Together, they moved with deliberate care, ending the fox's suffering with a single, precise motion.

The animal stilled, its body going limp. Cregan sat back on his heels, the knife slipping from his hand as fresh tears rolled down his cheeks. His mother sat beside him, silent for a moment, letting him process the weight of the moment.

"It's hard," she said finally, her voice gentle, her hand resting on Cregan's shoulder as she knelt beside him. "It never gets easier, Cregan. Taking life is not something you grow to love, not if you have a true heart. But this is part of life in the North. We live alongside the woods, not apart from them, and part of that respect is knowing when to take life and when to let it be. This fox would have hunted to survive, feeding on small mice, birds, and other creatures. Now, in turn, it will feed us and keep us warm. Everything here has a purpose, even in death."

Cregan nodded slowly, her words settling into his young mind like seeds. He wiped at his face with his sleeve, his breathing uneven but steadying.

Her hand moved to gently wipe the tears from his cheek, her expression softening. "And you've done well today. More than well. You faced something hard, and you didn't turn away. That matters, Cregan."

Cregan listened as his mother spoke, her voice warm yet firm as they sat in silence for some time. "I told Mikken we were going out for the day to hunt, but I think that's enough for you today. You know where we are, don't you?"

He looked around, his young eyes tracing the familiar trees and the paths winding through the outskirts of the woods. He nodded, recognizing the place from their many walks and lessons. It felt comforting, like the woods were part of him now.

"Good," she said with a small smile. She reached down and grabbed the fox. "Let me walk with you a little."

As they walked toward the edge of the woods, Cregan thought deeply about his mother's earlier words. Her explanation about taking a life weighed on his young mind, yet it made sense in a way that he was still piecing together. He glanced up at her occasionally, seeing the strength in her stride and the care in her movements.

When they reached the edge of the trees, his mother stopped and crouched down, holding the fox out to him. "Here," she said gently. "Take it home and place it in the barrow. Cover it with snow to keep it fresh. You've done more than enough today, my son."

She placed the fox in his arms before reaching over and pulling him into a gentle embrance encircled him in a hug. As he leaned into her warmth, feeling the knot of emotions in his chest loosen just a little. He felt stronger now, more sure of himself. She pulled back, her hands resting on his shoulders. "You can handle that on your own, can't you?" she asked, her voice encouraging.

Cregan nodded, his grip tightening around the fox's soft fur. "Yes, Mum," he said, his voice steady despite the lingering mixture of pride and understanding.

"Good," she said, brushing her hand over his head. "Tell Mikken, if he's home, that I'll be back this evening."

He nodded again, as he turned to the path leading back to Deepwood Motte. His mother stayed where she was, watching him. He looked back once, catching her silhouette framed by the trees. She gave him a small nod before turning and heading back into the woods.

Cregan shifted the weight of the fox on his small shoulders, letting its head dangle over one side while his quiver and bow rested on the other. The sadness he had felt earlier was gone, replaced by a spark of pride. He imagined himself as a real hunter now, just like his mother, returning from the woods with a trophy in hand. The thought made him stand a little taller, his small chest puffing out as he walked the familiar road toward home.

He wondered what Mikken would think of his kill. Mikken always had something to say, whether it was teasing or encouraging, and Cregan couldn't wait to show him. As he approached the house, the sight of the barrow outside reminded him of his mother's instructions. First, he'd show Mikken, then he'd carefully place the fox in the barrow like she taught him.

But as he neared the door, he heard strange sounds coming from inside—grunting and voices. He stopped, confused.

"OH, GILLIS!" Mikken's voice roared from within.

Gillis? That name struck a chord of familiarity. Wasn't she the yellow hair lady who sometimes talked to his mum in the village? Cregan tilted his head, curious, and leaned closer to the door.

Then came a woman's voice, sharp and loud. "Fuck, Mikken?"

Cregan frowned, unsure of what that meant. He didn't understand why they were yelling or why they sounded so... strange.

"This is why you should be with me, not her" the woman shouted again.

Her words puzzled Cregan further. What does that mean? He stood there, trying to piece together the situation, but his young mind couldn't make sense of it. Finally, deciding it didn't matter, he pushed the door open, eager to share his news.

Inside, his eyes fell on Mikken and the yellow haired woman—Gillis—on the bed, tangled together in what looked like a wrestling match. Cregan blinked, bewildered, but his excitement pushed past his confusion.

"Hey, Mikken! Look what I killed!" he declared boldly, holding the fox higher as he stepped into the room. He expected a cheer or a laugh, but what he got instead froze him in place.

"CREGAN?" Mikken's face turned pale, his voice sharp with shock. He scrambled to cover himself, while Gillis sat up, her face twisting in anger.

"What the fuck is he doing here!?" she shrieked.

Cregan's excitement drained away, replaced by a sinking feeling he didn't understand. He barely registered Mikken's face flushing red before his voice boomed.

"GET OUTSIDE, NOW!" Mikken roared.

The force of the shout made Cregan's chest tighten. He stumbled back, his heart racing, and bolted from the room. Tears pricked at his eyes as he ran to the barrow and dropped the fox onto it, his small hands trembling. He stood there, staring at the lifeless animal, trying to push away the fear rising in his chest. Mikken had never screamed at him like that before.

He wiped at his eyes quickly, determined not to cry. But for the first time, he wasn't sure what he had done wrong—and that uncertainty scared him more than the shouting.

Cregan sat on the edge of the barrow, his small hands gripping the rough wood as his mind swirled with emotions. The sharp chill of the evening air nipped at his cheeks, but he barely noticed. When the door creaked open, he flinched, his heart pounding as Mikken stepped outside, now dressed.

Mikken paused, looking at the boy with an uneasy expression. "Cregan, are you alright? Can we talk?" he asked gently.

Cregan hesitated, unsure if he was in trouble, but eventually nodded, his small body tense as Mikken knelt beside him. "Where's your mother?" Mikken asked, his voice calm but measured.

"In the w-woods," Cregan stammered. "She said she'd be back this eve-evening."

Mikken nodded, exhaling slowly. "Alright. First off, I'm sorry for yelling at you. I didn't mean to scare you. But tell me, what do you think was happening back there?"

Cregan looked up at Mikken, his wide eyes filled with confusion and nervousness. His voice was barely a whisper. "Um... you were wrestling with Gillis?"

Mikken placed a firm yet gentle hand on Cregan's shoulder, which made the boy flinch at first, but he soon relaxed. "That's right, boy," Mikken said. "But there's a reason for it. You see, Gillis... she's sick. She has a type of cold that's very... dangerous."

Cregan's eyes widened in shock. "Really?" he asked, his young voice filled with disbelief.

"Yes, my boy," Mikken said, his tone serious. "It's a sickness that only affects women, like your mother or Gillis or any girl. And it's tricky. If people find out about it, it could spread. That's why I was wrestling with her—it's the only way to help cure her."

The explanation left Cregan stunned. A sickness that could spread just by knowing about it? He sat upright, his face a mix of fear and determination. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice trembling.

Mikken knelt down, his face grave as he looked Cregan in the eye. "Like I said, just knowing about it puts women like your mother in danger," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "This isn't something to play with, lad. It's not just Gillis we're protecting; it's your mother too. I need you to promise me, Cregan—swear to me you won't say a word about what you saw. Not to her, not to anyone. Can you do that?

Cregan's chest swelled with fear and resolve. "I won't tell her," he said firmly. "I promise."

Mikken smiled, ruffling the boy's hair. "Good lad. I knew I could count on you. Now, since your mother isn't here, how about I give you something special? That training sword she doesn't like you playing with—I'll let you take it to the fields and practice. What do you say?"

Cregan's eyes lit up, his earlier fears fading. "Really?"

"Really," Mikken said, disappearing inside briefly. He returned with a small, worn sword and handed it to Cregan. "Go on, show the world what kind of warrior you're growing into."

The door shut behind Mikken with a thud, muffling his muttered frustration. Cregan stood there for a moment, the ruff wood of the training sword pressing into his palms, filling him with an unexpected sense of pride and purpose. He looked down at the fox lying in the barrow, its fur still vivid despite the snow dusting its edges, and felt a flicker of responsibility stir within him. He scopped some snow as his mother instructed and place it on the fox. That fox was proof he was more than just a little boy. He was becoming something greater—a hunter, a provider, maybe even a protector.

His gaze shifted toward the open snow dusted fields. The tall grass swaying in the crisp Northern breeze, calling to him like a silent challenge. Cregan adjusted the sword in his grip, his fingers tightening around the hilt as determination flared in his chest. He had made a promise, one he didn't fully understand but knew was important. And if keeping that promise meant proving himself stronger, braver, and more capable, then he would do just that.

With renewed vigor, he took off toward the fields, his small boots crunching in the snow. As he reached the open space, he slowed, glancing around to ensure no one was watching. The thought of his mother catching him sent a nervous shiver down his spine, but he pushed it aside. This was his moment—his chance to train and become the warrior he dreamed of being.

Cregan raised the sword, awkward at first, mimicking the movements he had seen older men practice in the town square. His strikes were clumsy, the blade wobbling in his hands as he slashed at the air, but his enthusiasm was boundless. He imagined himself on the battlefield, facing down wildlings or southern knights. Each swing became more confident, the cold air stinging his cheeks as he moved with growing intensity.

The afternoon sun began to desend in the sky, casting a light golden hue over the snow-dappled fields. Cregan huffed, his breath forming puffs of mist as he swung the small training sword over and over again. His arms burned, his legs felt heavy, and yet, a stubborn resolve kept him going. Each swing of the worn blade brought with it a sense of purpose. He would be strong. He would be a warrior like his father.

As he paused to catch his breath, leaning on the hilt of his blade, he noticed a figure leaning casually against a tree in the distance. The man was dressed in thick black furs, his posture relaxed but his presence commanding. At his hip rested a sword that looked shiny and fancy. The man wore a faint smile as he watched Cregan with an expression that was both amused and thoughtful.

"You swing that sword with some anger, boy," the man called, his voice deep and steady. "Tell me, why do you swing a blade?"

Cregan, startled but intrigued, straightened himself and looked at the stranger. "To get stronger," he replied after a moment, his voice tinged with determination.

The man chuckled, stepping away from the tree and strolling closer. His movements were deliberate, his presence unmistakable. "Aye, I suppose that makes sense," he said, his tone carrying the weight of approval.

Cregan studied the man as he approached, his curious mind racing. The man had the look of someone who belonged to the wilds, with a sword that seemed forged for battle and eyes that carried stories untold. This man must have been a warrior, perhaps even one who fought in the South alongside his father. "Did you fight in the war in the South?" Cregan blurted out, his voice eager with the excitement of meeting a potential hero.

The man stopped in his tracks, his expression turning serious, though his smile remained faint. "No," he said simply. "I stayed in the North, where I was needed."

Cregan blinked, his youthful mind struggling to reconcile this answer. Every warrior he admired—his father, the stories of some Stark guy, the lords of the North going South to defeat a Dragon King. "So, you're not strong, then?" Cregan asked, his tone bold but uncertain.

The man raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the boy's bluntness. "And what makes you say that?" he asked, his voice calm but curious.

Cregan squared his shoulders, as if preparing to defend his point. "Only the best of the North marched South and beat the Dragon King," he said firmly. To him, strength was proven on the battlefield, and the South had been the ultimate test.

The man smiled wider at that, shaking his head slightly as if amused by the naivety of youth. "Ah, lad," he said, his voice dropping into something more thoughtful. "Strength isn't just found on the battlefield. The North needs strength too—strength to guard its borders, to watch over its people, to hold fast when others march away. It takes true strength, lad, to watch the ones you love march off to fight in a war while you're left behind to hold the line. Strength to keep everyone calm, focused, and hopeful when uncertainty gnaws at your bones. That's a different kind of battle."

Cregan stood silent, his young mind grappling with the weight of the man's words. For a moment, he wanted to argue, to defend his understanding of strength, but something in the way the man spoke stopped him. He nodded slightly, not fully understanding but feeling the truth in the words.

The man's smirk widened, and he crouched to meet Cregan's eye level. "Tell you what, boy," he said, his voice lightening. "If you can hit me with that wooden sword of yours, I'll let you keep mine." He tapped the hilt of the fine blade hanging at his side. "But if I win, you have to admit that I'm right."

Cregan's eyes lit up with excitement, his earlier frustrations forgotten. "Deal!" he shouted, gripping his wooden practice blade tightly.

The boy charged forward, swinging with all the determination of a wolf on the hunt. But every time his blade neared, the man stepped aside with effortless grace, his black cloak swirling around him like a shadow.

"Too slow," the man teased, stepping back again. "Try harder."

Cregan growled in frustration, his movements growing wilder with every miss. He swung again and again, his strikes becoming less precise and more desperate as the man dodged each one with ease. The man's calm composure only stoked Cregan's frustration.

"Stand still!" Cregan yelled, his breath coming in short bursts.

Cregan let out a cry of determination and raised his blade for one final, overhead swing, putting all his strength into the strike. But his footing faltered on the uneven ground, and he tripped, landing face-first in the snow.

The man stood over him, his arms crossed, waiting. "Give up yet?" he asked, his smirk softening into something almost encouraging.

Cregan gritted his teeth, gripping his wooden sword tightly. He dug the tip into the ground and pushed himself up, snow clinging to his face and hair. "No!" he shouted, his voice filled with defiance.

The man chuckled, his expression one of approval. "You've got wolves' blood, alright." He turned and began walking away, his cloak billowing behind him in the cold breeze.

Cregan, still shaky, tried to chase after him but his legs wouldn't carry him far. He stumbled to a halt, watching as the man moved farther into the distance.

The man stopped and glanced over his shoulder. "If you want to understand true strength, boy, think about that blade you swing. Think about the people you want to protect. If that makes sense to you and you're up for the challenge, I'll be here tomorrow."

The man continued on, leaving Cregan alone with his thoughts. The boy's breathing steadied as he clutched his wooden sword, staring after the man. His mind churned with questions. People I want to protect? Like Mother? Mikken?

"Hey!" Cregan called out, his voice breaking the stillness. "Um… who are you?"

The man stopped again, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "My name is Benjen," he said before walking in the direction back to town, leaving Cregan standing in the snowy field with more questions than answers.