Cregan – 289 AC, Age 7

The streets of Deepwood Motte buzzed with an urgency Cregan had never seen before. He crept along the edges of the commotion, his small boots crunching in the frost-covered mud. The heavy clouds above threatened more snow, but the townsfolk seemed unfazed, their focus solely on preparing for something far greater.

From his hiding spot behind a stack of crates, Cregan watched the yard near the keep come alive. The broad yard beyond bustled with activity as men readied themselves to march south. They moved in organized lines, captains barking orders while their squads assembled. Horses snorted and pawed at the ground as stablehands hurried to fit them with sturdy tack. Teams of blacksmiths worked their forges in the open air, their hammers ringing out a steady, determined rhythm. Nearby, farmers carted sacks of grain and root vegetables toward waiting wagons, and coopers brought fresh barrels of salted fish and ale to bolster the army's stores.

He pressed himself closer to the crates as a group of riders passed, their voices low but serious. From the whispers of the townsfolk, Cregan had pieced together a name for this chaos: war. Somewhere in the south, a new battle had ignited, and the lords of the North were gathering their banners to march once more. He'd heard talk of "squids" and raids—ironborn, someone had explained in hushed tones. Whatever it was, it had reached even Deepwood Motte, far from the southern shores.

A hand-cart rolled by, wheels squeaking under the weight of salted meat and hard bread, and the scent of fresh-smoked ham and hot loaves made his stomach clench. He caught sight of Mikken—broad-shouldered and red-faced—working alongside other carpenters, fashioning more wagons for the long journey south. A group of laborers loaded bundles of furs and spare tools; others stacked barrels of ale and wine. Every soul in Deepwood Motte had a purpose today, no matter how humble.

Cregan watched it all with wide, hungry eyes. He imagined his father in years past, leaving this very land to fight for the honour and safety of those he loved. This must have been how it felt—to stand at the edge of war, knowing that men marched forth to protect home and kin. He clenched his small fists at his sides, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest.

He was only seven, too young to wield a sword in earnest, too small to don armor or ride to battle. Yet in his heart he longed for it all: the steel in hand, the thrill of defending the North, the chance to protect Mother like Father had before. He wished he could fight—truly fight—and not just train in secret or hunt foxes in the wood. He wanted to earn a place among these warriors, to show the world he was more than a little boy with a wooden sword. He wanted to be a hero, as his father once was.

Cregan lingered for some time behind the crates, watching the surge of new arrivals come and go. From every corner of the North, it seemed, folk had come—some with wagons and draft horses, others carrying heavy bundles on their backs. They brought whatever they could spare: salted fish, woolen cloaks, fresh water barrels, and sharpened tools. The swelling crowd filled the yard with a low hum of voices and the shuffle of weary feet.

He noticed an older woman trudging up the muddy path, bent slightly under the weight of a woven basket heaped with furs. Her face was creased with effort, and each step seemed a trial. Without a thought, Cregan slipped from his hiding place and approached her.

"Excuse me, miss," he said, pitching his voice as politely as he could. "Would you like some help?"

She paused, turning her kindly gaze down toward him. A warm smile softened her features. "Aye, I'd be grateful, little one. Here." She lowered the basket carefully into his arms.

Cregan braced himself for the heft of it, but to his relief, it wasn't as heavy as the logs he sometimes hauled back home. "Where should I take it?" he asked, his eyes flicking over the bustle ahead.

The woman raised a gnarled finger, pointing to a cart being loaded in the middle of the yard. "That one there, lad."

Nodding, he set off beside her, weaving between clumps of soldiers and townsfolk. The air smelled of damp wool and cooking fires, with the distant ring of hammer on anvil adding its own music to the scene. As they passed deeper into the heart of the preparations, Cregan caught more glimpses of what this gathering would become: a long caravan of provisions, weapons, and warm clothing bound for the south.

Reaching the wagon, Cregan hefted the bundle of furs up to the cart master, a wiry man who looked him over with an appraising eye.

"Good work, boy," the man grunted, settling the furs atop a stack of pelts. He glanced around, assessing the near-finished load. "If you're up for more, I need a message delivered. See that cart over yonder, toward the front?" He jerked his thumb to the east, where another wagon stood surrounded by barrels of ale and grain sacks. "Tell them the rear is almost full and ready to roll out. We need them to hold off loading any more until we get word."

Cregan's heart fluttered. A task—an errand that mattered! He all but sprang to attention, nodding eagerly. "Yes, sir!" he said, hardly containing a grin. It wasn't a soldier's duty, but it was something. He would serve, he would help, and in some small way, he would be part of this effort. As he darted away, weaving through the crowd, he felt lighter than he had in days.

Cregan picked his way carefully through the mingled crowd, making for the cart he'd been told to find. This one stood out from the others—not just a rough-hewn wagon of lumber and hay, but a gathering of mounted men wearing polished steel and fine leather. One bore a tall banner of crimson cloth emblazoned with a silver gauntlet—the sigil of House Glover. Under its fluttering edge, the men sat their horses like knights in stories.

As Cregan approached, his heart thumped louder than before. He felt the weight of their gaze settle on him, a lad with wind-tangled hair and simple clothes. Still, he had a message to deliver. Squaring his shoulders, he took a breath and stepped forward.

"U-um… excuse me!" he stammered, craning his neck to meet their eyes. "I was sent to tell you that the rear carts are almost full and ready to, uh… roll out, and that you should hold off loading until you get the word."

For a tense moment, the men said nothing. Some exchanged amused glances, as if surprised that a boy had come with orders. Cregan swallowed hard, wishing he sounded braver. Then one rider—an older man with a thick grey beard and a face etched by countless winters—nodded down at him.

"Aye!" the grizzled rider said, his voice solid as oak. "Good work, little man."

Relief washed over Cregan like warm broth on a cold day. He managed a nod and turned to go, but the rider's booming voice halted him again.

"Wait, boy!"

Cregan looked back, chest tightening slightly. "Y-yes, sir—?"

"My lord. It's M'lord, boy." One of the men interrupted Cregan with a sharp correction.

Cregan froze, his face flushing as the weight of his mistake sank in. Terror gripped him—had he done something terribly wrong? "Sorry… M'lord... Yes, M'lord?" he stammered, his voice shaking as he glanced nervously at the mounted figures towering above him.

"What's your name?" the man asked, leaning forward in his saddle. The question carried weight, as if the name mattered.

"Cregan, M'lord," he answered softly, his voice steadier this time.

At that, the older man's eyes narrowed with interest, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "Cregan, is it? Do you want another task then, Cregan?"

"Yes, M'lord!" Cregan shouted, his excitement bubbling over his fear.

"Well then, see that tent there?" The man pointed toward the smithy. "That's Noland's forge. He's in there working like a madman, and I reckon he could use an extra pair of hands. Think you can handle that, boy?"

Cregan barely needed to think. He nodded eagerly, a hint of pride sparking inside him. The older man chuckled, pleased by the response.

"Good," he said, his voice carrying easily over the noise of the encampment. "We'll make a soldier of you yet, boy. Now get going!"

Cregan's heart skipped a beat at the man's words, his excitement boundless. With a quick bow, he replied, "Yes, M'lord!" before darting toward the smithy. This wasn't just a simple chore; it was a chance to be part of something larger, something meaningful. If these men saw potential in him worth encouraging, perhaps he was truly on the right path.

The moment Cregan ducked inside the smithy tent, he was struck by a heat unlike anything he'd ever felt before. The air shimmered above the blazing forge, and sweat prickled at his skin within seconds. Three men worked inside, each focused on a different task. One hammered fiercely at an anvil, shaping raw metal into more useful forms. Another sat amid a pile of spearheads, gently tapping each onto wooden shafts until they fit snugly. The third, a black-haired man tended the forge's fire. He hovered by the coals, adjusting the glowing blades resting in the white-hot embers.

Cregan swallowed, stepping forward. "Um, excuse me," he managed, his voice nearly drowned out by the rhythmic clang of metal on metal. "I was told to come here to help."

The black-haired man turned to face him, his features grim and unimpressed. "They send me a boy?" he spat, wiping sweat from his brow. "I asked for men, and they send a green whelp. Useless, I'm sure." Cregan flinched at the harsh words, but stood his ground. He had come too far to back down now.

The smith observed Cregan's reaction, then jerked a thumb at a thick cable running up the side of the forge. "See that line? Put on a pair of gloves—over there on the bench—and be ready to haul on it when I say. That's all you need to do. Understood?"

Cregan nodded, heart thrumming in his chest. He found the oversized gloves on a nearby table, tugging them on over his small hands. Then he stepped up to the forge's side and gripped the cable. The heat was tremendous; sweat dripped into his eyes, and he blinked to clear his vision.

"Pull, boy!" the smith hollered.

Cregan pulled with all his might. The bellows roared, feeding the fire, and the coals glowed brighter. The smith withdrew a blade from the forge, its metal white-hot and screaming for relief. With a swift motion, he quenched it in oil, handing it off to another worker without so much as a second glance.

They fell into a rhythm. Each time the smith yelled, Cregan pulled. In the quiet moments, he observed the forge's workings. He learned that the cable operated bellows that pushed air into the fire, making the flames roar and burn hotter. He watched which hammers shaped swords, which tongs were best for holding the heated metal, and how each man moved with a purpose.

Soon the sweat ran down his back and into his eyes. He stripped off his shirt as he'd noticed the smiths had done the same. The others wore scarcely more than breeches as they worked in the tent.

"Boy," the black-haired smith barked after a time. "Your name?"

"C-Cregan, sir," he managed, flexing his cramped hands.

"Cregan," the man repeated. "Good. There's a waterskin on that table. Drink. The heat will have you swooning if you're not careful."

Cregan complied, relief flowing down his throat. The smith never paused to drink himself, and after a few moments, Cregan's curiosity got the better of him.

"Um, sir?" he ventured, mustering courage. "Why—"

"Noland," the smith corrected, cutting him off. "Pull!" Cregan obeyed, and once the bellows had done their work, he tried again. "Noland, why don't you drink too?"

Noland's eyes flicked briefly to Cregan, then back to the metal he tended. "I'll drink when I'm done. Not that muck you're sipping. No, something with a bit of froth will do me." His tone held no room for argument.

They continued like that for some time until, at last, Noland raised a hand. "Enough, lad. That'll do. You from around here?"

Cregan nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Yeah."

"You've pulled your weight—and that's more than I expected." Noland studied Cregan with a critical eye. "But you're not used to this heat. Stay too long and you'll cook yourself. I've work yet to finish, but you're done for now. Go on."

Cregan's heart sank slightly—he feared he hadn't proved himself. "But you're not finished, sir—Noland," he said, voice subdued.

Noland snorted. "I don't need your mother tracking me down when her boy falls ill from the forge's heat. You've done more than enough. If you've a mind for this kind of work, I'll be heading south soon with the men. Once I'm back, my own smithy's by the inn. Come see me then, and I'll teach you more than pulling cords and holding hammers."

Cregan's spirits lifted. He nodded vigorously. "Yes! I will! Thank you, Noland!"

"Off with you, then," the smith grunted, turning back to the flames. "I've no time to coddle pups."

Cregan darted out into the cool air, gasping as the chill hit his damp skin. The snow underfoot felt comforting after the furnace he'd just escaped. He smiled to himself, proud he had contributed something—however small. A thump to the back of his head made him whirl around, spotting his shirt crumpled in the snow behind him. He caught a glimpse of Noland retreating into the tent.

Grinning, Cregan snatched up his shirt and slipped it on. He'd survived the forge's trial, learned a bit, and earned a promise of more lessons. The North's chill had never felt so welcoming, and as he moved away from the smithy, he realized he'd begun to see the world through new eyes—those of a boy who could be useful, and maybe one day, even needed.

When Cregan finally stepped away from the bustling camp, he found a quiet spot along a gentle slope where the grass still poked through thin patches of snow. Stretching out on his back, he let the overcast sky fill his vision. The wind carried a faint smell of pine and distant cooking fires. Lying there, he savored the calm, his muscles still warm and tired from the forge's heat and the labors of the day. He'd have to return home soon—Mother would wonder where he'd gone—but for now, he enjoyed the simple pleasure of rest.

After a while, he rose and made his way back home. The small house sat quiet and empty, and he noticed right away that his mother's bow was gone. No surprise there—if she had business in the woods, she might be out until dusk. He tended the hearth, nudging the coals until they glowed steadily. His stomach grumbled, and he decided to cook himself something—a skill his mother had drilled into him with as much care as she had his aim with a bow.

Taking out the knife Benjen had given him, he chopped roughly at potatoes and carrots, the blade's edge making a soft thunk against the wooden board. He cracked a few eggs into a pan, stirring them clumsily with the tip of his knife over the low fire in the hearth. The house's warmth was gentle and familiar, nothing like the scorching heat of the forge he'd endured earlier. Soon enough, he had a warm, if simple, meal. He ate slowly at the small table, careful not to burn his tongue, then took the pan outside to scrub it clean in the snow.

By the time he had finished eating and cleaning up, the sun had crept lower in the sky. It would be afternoon soon, and he had another task ahead: training with Walton. He strapped on his practice sword—a rough wooden blade that felt almost childish compared to the weapons he'd seen in the smithy—and headed out.

His thoughts turned to Benjen as he walked. Cregan missed the strange man's teasing grin and the quiet wisdom he carried. Benjen had taught him much in their short time together—about stances, balance, and even about himself. His absence left a hollow feeling that Cregan hadn't quite been able to shake.

Walton's training was a different beast entirely. The old man barked orders like a grizzled captain, his methods more grueling than graceful. Cregan's days with him had been filled with endless drills—striking his sword against a tree until his arms felt like lead, scrambling up steep slopes with an axe to fell small trees, hauling logs to Walton's home. Yet the man's stories made the work tolerable.

Cregan still remembered the shock of learning Walton had once been a wildling. The revelation had unsettled him. Weren't wildlings the enemy? Savage, dangerous, and not to be trusted? But the guards in Deepwood Motte treated Walton with respect, nodding at him as they passed. Slowly, Cregan began to question his own assumptions.

As the field came into view, Cregan spotted Walton standing at the edge, his rugged cloak draped heavily over his broad shoulders. A goat horn mug was in one hand, likely filled with whatever brew the old man favored. He seemed lost in thought, his gaze fixed on the bustling town below, where preparations for war continued. The sight of him, so still and unyielding, gave Cregan a moment of pause.

Then, with a deep breath, he ran toward Walton, his wooden sword bouncing against his hip.

Walton didn't turn as Cregan approached, his voice breaking the silence before the boy could speak. "What do you think of all this, boy?" he asked, his tone steady and contemplative.

"Um… you mean the war?" Cregan ventured, trying to match the man's seriousness.

Walton didn't move but replied, "Aye, lad. What does a young mind like yours think of war?"

Cregan hesitated, the question weighing heavier than he expected. War? What did he think of it? He thought back to Benjen, to the lessons about strength and purpose. He thought of his father, the tales of bravery, and the honour he believed lay in protecting others. Finally, he spoke, his voice unsure but earnest. "We… we go to war to protect each other… and to find glory on the battlefield?"

Walton took a slow sip from his mug, his gaze unwavering from the town below. "You're half right about the first part. We go to war to protect. But tell me, boy—what's so fucking glorious about killing folk?"

The question caught Cregan off guard, leaving him quiet for a moment. Killing? He'd never thought of it that way. War was about bravery, about standing tall, wasn't it? "You… you get remembered as a hero for protecting people," he finally stammered, his voice dropping to a whisper, "like my father."

Walton still didn't move, his voice carrying a sharper edge now. "Stupid boy. I'm pretty sure your father would rather be here looking after you than some stupid fantasy in your head."

The words hit Cregan like a slap. His chest tightened, and his cheeks flushed with anger. How dare Walton speak of his father like that? He balled his fists, his voice trembling as he shouted, "M-my father was a hero! Take it back!"

At last, Walton turned to face him. His expression was grim, his weathered face etched with something between pity and resolve. "Your father was just another man who died going south. Some of those boys down there will fight, aye, and it might seem 'glorious' as they are remembered as 'heroes.' But tell me this, boy—how is taking another's life glorious to you? How would you feel if your mother was an Ironborn about to get invaded by half the fucking realm?"

The question stopped Cregan cold. His anger faltered as he tried to make sense of Walton's words. His mind raced, imagining the fear and helplessness of being on the other side of a war. He thought of his mother, of how he'd feel if she were in such a position.

Walton's voice softened but lost none of its weight. "Aye, lad. There's nothing glorious about war. Some dumb fucks in the south call it honour and ride around on horses, praying to their 'warrior' Seven-cunt god." He leaned forward, his tone growing harsher. "We go to war when we must. And if we're lucky enough to make it out alive, we do. Then we go on about our lives."

Cregan swallowed hard, his hands still clenched as Walton finally pulled a large wooden sword from beneath his cloak. It was heavy, rough, and clearly made for a single purpose: training. Walton's serious gaze bored into him as he pointed the wooden blade at Cregan.

"This world is harsh, boy," he said, his voice a low growl. "And to survive in it, we must become harsh things ourselves. That's why I'll show you how to kill folk like them down there—because if you don't learn, they'll be the ones killing you."

Cregan stared at Walton, still processing the man's words. He was angry. The words about his father, about war—they hurt. But Walton's gaze was unyielding, his hand raised, pointing the wooden sword directly at Cregan.

"Come," Walton commanded.

Cregan didn't need another invitation. His frustration boiled over, and before Walton could say anything else, Cregan charged. His wooden sword was gripped tightly in his hands, his muscles burning with energy. Walton had said things that made Cregan feel uncertain, but in that moment, all he wanted was to prove himself, to show that he could be strong, just like his father.

Walton, however, didn't flinch. He stood his ground, waiting. As Cregan swung, Walton effortlessly blocked his strike, his movements slow and deliberate.

"Too slow," Walton's voice rumbled.

Cregan growled in frustration and swung again, this time with more force. But again, Walton blocked him, his stance unshakable. Each time Cregan's wooden sword came near, Walton was there to block it, his gaze never leaving Cregan's face.

"You're not fighting with your head," Walton grunted, voice steady. "You can't fight like this, boy. What's the point in swinging a sword if you don't know when to use it?"

Cregan stepped back, panting, his arms burning from the effort. His eyes locked onto Walton's. He was right—he wasn't thinking.

"Try again," Walton said. "But this time, think."

Cregan nodded, his frustration turning into focus. He wasn't just swinging for the sake of it. He had to find the right moment. He had to be smarter. And as he gripped his wooden blade, he realized that maybe Walton's harsh words held a truth he needed to understand. This wasn't about glory; it was about survival.