Jeyne – 290 AC, Cregan Age 8

Jeyne stepped through the door, shaking the snow from her boots and shrugging off her heavy cloak. The morning hunt had been productive—a pair of rabbits and a handful of winter onions—but now all she wanted was the warmth of the hearth. She set her catch aside near the door, rubbing her hands together to chase away the lingering chill.

No sooner had she set down her bow and quiver than she noticed the mess in the kitchen: chopped onions and vegetable scraps littered the table, and a few had rolled onto the floor, leaving a telling trail of where Cregan had hastily prepared his breakfast. She let out a small sigh, though a fond smile tugged at her lips. It was hard to be angry—her boy had grown so much in the past few years, and she couldn't help feeling pride swell in her chest whenever she thought of him.

As she worked, her thoughts turned to where he might be now. Most likely at the forge with Noland. Ever since the soldiers had returned from the Iron Islands, Cregan had been enamored with the blacksmith's work, pestering him daily until the man relented and took him on as an apprentice. It was good for him, Jeyne thought. A trade would keep his hands busy and teach him discipline—things a growing boy needed.

She remembered meeting Noland herself not long after the war. The man had been blunt and demanding with Cregan, barking orders like a seasoned captain. Yet when he spoke to her, his tone softened, and there was a hint of charm beneath his rough exterior. Though he looked younger than she by a year or so, and was certainly not hard on the eyes, he had the solid build of someone who spent his life by the forge. His sweat-slicked muscles didn't escape her notice, and she'd caught him stealing glances at her chest more than once.

Jeyne couldn't deny how refreshing it felt to be noticed again. It had been a while since anyone had looked at her the way Noland did, and though she'd never voice it openly, the attention was a small comfort. She sank down near the hearth, stirring the glowing embers until the fire flared, its warmth driving away some of the morning's chill—but not the lingering worries in her mind.

Her thoughts turned to Mikken. For years, he had been a steady presence in her life—reliable, patient, always ready to help. When Cregan was younger, he had been like a second father, hunting alongside her and tending to the boy's needs without complaint. His quiet support had gotten her through some of the darkest times she could remember.

But lately over the years, something had shifted. He worked longer hours, yet the coins he brought home—copper pennies and the occasional silver stag—didn't seem to match his extended absences. There was a distance in his eyes when he spoke to her, and the gentle warmth of his words had cooled into something distant. Jeyne worried about what had driven this wedge between them.

She wanted things to be as they once were—simple, supportive, and safe. Part of her still hoped they might find their way back to each other, rediscovering whatever had bound them through all the hardships they'd faced. For now, though, she had only questions, and the unanswered weight of them pressed heavily on her heart.

Jeyne rose from the hearth, dusting her hands on her skirts. The warmth still clung to her fingers, yet a sudden chill prickled at the back of her neck. Glancing around, she caught sight of a small wooden sword abandoned by the doorway—Cregan's practice blade. With a shake of her head, she walked over to pick it up, her thoughts drifting to when she'd first learned of her son's fascination with swordsmanship.

She could still recall the pang in her chest when she discovered he'd been sneaking off to practice. Part of her was proud of his determination, yet another part feared what it meant for him to crave the life of a warrior. She'd never truly wanted him to wield a weapon—never wanted him to walk the same perilous path so many in the North were forced to tread. In those early days, whenever she pressed him about where he had been, he would mutter something about tending fields or running errands in town. The lies were clumsy, and she knew better, but each untruth stung all the same.

Setting the wooden sword gently against the wall, Jeyne exhaled a soft sigh. She tried to be firm with him, to speak to him with the same steady authority her own father had once shown her. Though her father wasn't kin by blood, he had raised her—taught her to handle a bow before she could even hold it properly, taught her to trust her instincts in a land that rarely showed mercy. She had named her son in his honor.

Crossing the room, Jeyne settled into a sturdy chair by the fire, letting its warmth spread through her tired limbs. The glow of the flames played on her face as memories drifted in—scattered images of her early childhood, before the winter fever had taken the only father she'd ever known. She couldn't remember her birth mother or her true father. All she had were the lessons passed down from the man who had adopted her as his own. He had shown her the value of self-reliance, taught her to find pride in providing for herself and others, and instilled in her the will to survive even when the odds were stacked against her.

There were moments, late at night, when she found herself longing for his calm guidance. If only he could see the boy who bore his name—reckless at times, but with a heart so full. She wondered if he would approve of how she was raising Cregan. Would he have given his blessing to the boy's budding ambition, or scolded him for chasing a warrior's dream?

A sigh left her lips, heavy with regret and hope mingled together. She prayed silently to the old gods for strength: the strength to guide Cregan the way her father had once guided her. Perhaps, in time, her boy would grow to embody all the best qualities she cherished. After all, if he had inherited that same steadfast spirit, he might just claim whatever this harsh world had to offer—and forge a future worthy of his name.

Jeyne's thoughts circled back to the man who had taken on the task of training her son. She'd never met him face-to-face, only heard his name in passing—Walton. By all accounts, he was no ordinary instructor. How Cregan managed to sway such a figure to tutor him in swordplay remained a mystery. Yet, having grown up in a lowborn's world herself, she found it difficult to deny her son any opportunity to learn. So she feigned ignorance whenever he spun his little tales, letting him tread his own path in secret.

With a small sigh, Jeyne reached for a wooden bucket and stepped outside to draw water from the well behind the house. The winter chill lingered, and the rope creaked as she lowered the bucket. Once it was full, she returned indoors to lightly broom the floor, sweeping away the last remnants of onion skins and scraps from Cregan's hasty breakfast.

She remembered the questions she had asked of some older folks in town—those who had seen more winters than she could fathom. They all spoke of Walton with a curious mix of awe and nostalgia. Some of the old women even sighed wistfully at the mention of his name, recalling a younger, more carefree time when "Walton the Wall" had been a sight to behold.

The nickname, as Jeyne understood it, was tied to more than just his hulking frame. Once upon a time, Walton had carried a massive shield into battle—an imposing piece of steel that he led the vanguard with. But it was also a jest about his origins. He'd been born a wildling from far beyond the Wolfswood, who one day came south seeking shelter or as she was told.

When a band of Ironborn raiders terrorized local farmers, Walton had gone after them alone and slain a dozen men. Word of his deed reached the lord of Deepwood Motte, who tracked him down and, instead of slaying the wildling, offered him a place if he would but kneel. He accepted, and ever since, he'd served House Glover with unwavering loyalty—rising in renown until he became Master-at-Arms.

Jeyne could hardly fathom how Cregan, with his wooden sword and boyish grin, had managed to win the favor of such a warrior, let alone secure lessons from him. Between Noland's forge and Walton's training, it seemed her son had gathered two unlikely mentors—both fierce in their own right, yet patient enough to guide a young boy's ambitions.

Jeyne filled a simple iron pot with water drawn from the well behind the house, setting it to heat over the hearth's crackling flames. She diced a mix of root vegetables—winter carrots, earthy parsnips, and the leftover onions she'd gathered on her hunt—adding each handful with care. A small pouch of dried herbs came next, sprinkled in for flavor, followed by a pinch of salt. She stirred the mixture slowly, letting the scent of simmering broth drift through the room as she pondered her day. A few slices of rabbit meat, browned beforehand, were dropped into the stew last, lending a savory touch that made her stomach rumble. Satisfied, she covered the pot, letting the stew gently bubble while she finished tidying and waited for her son to return.

Jeyne thought of her son and couldn't help but smile at the memory of walking home from the forge with him just a few days earlier. His training with Walton—and long hours at Noland's forge—had done wonders for his stamina and build. He was growing stronger seemingly by the day, and it showed in the lean, confident way he carried himself. Even his hunting seemed improved; the precise grip he used on a hammer or practice sword translated neatly to the bow, making him surer of his aim.

She chuckled, recalling how two girls—one the miller's daughter—had trailed behind them, whispering and giggling. Cregan was dense as iron when it came to their fluttering glances, asking her afterward why they were following with such odd smiles. He was eight name days now, but already as tall as some boys of ten, and clearly not lacking in charm—if only he realized it. She hoped, for now, that such matters could wait until he was a bit older. Still, she remembered how strong and spirited his father had been, and part of her feared he had inherited that same boyish charm.

A familiar rustling outside pulled her from her thoughts. She rose from her seat just as the door swung open, letting in a burst of cold air. In strode Cregan, brown hair tousled and face lit with excitement, looking so much like his father… or maybe it was Eddard Stark's features she saw now, etched into his smaller frame. With each passing day, he resembled those distant memories—but one thing was certain: he was a Stark by blood.

"Hey, Mother!" he called out, dropping his things by the door. "By the gods, I'm tired. You got any food?"

Jeyne shook her head with a smile, reaching for a wooden bowl on the shelf. "Close the door properly, and don't leave it open. Just because you don't feel the cold doesn't mean the rest of us can ignore it."

He grinned sheepishly, pushing the door shut behind him. In a few bounding steps, he was at the table, tossing out details of his day in a breathless rush—new forging techniques Noland had shown him, and a bit of gossip he'd overheard in town. Jeyne listened with quiet delight, pouring a ladle of stew into the bowl and setting it in front of him.

As she watched him dig in, she felt her worries soften, at least for the moment. Even if times grew rocky with Mikken or if other storms loomed on the horizon, she had everything she truly needed here—a son who thrived, a home warmed by the simple joys of daily life, and the promise that better days might still lie ahead.


Hey guys, and Merry Christmas! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Sorry for the delay—work called me away last minute over the holiday period, and I'll be busy for the next month. Still, I really want to continue this story, so expect the occasional chapter here and there until I'm finally home again and can write more regularly. On the bright side, being away has given me time to map out the story's next steps, and I'm excited for where our little OC's journey is heading. Until then, have a wonderful day!