Jeyne - 291 AC, Cregan age 9

The pack weighed heavy on Jeyne's shoulders, the thick leather straps biting into her tunic as she adjusted it once more. She was used to burdens, both on her back and in her heart, but this one felt different. The journey ahead was still long, and the Wolfswood was no kind place, not even to those who knew its secrets.

The tent was rolled tight, fastened to the bottom of her bundle with sturdy knots she had tied countless times before. Around them, the last whispers of their campfire smouldered into ash, thin tendrils of smoke curling into the cold morning air before vanishing into the grey sky.

They had been out here for days, longer than she'd planned. Deeper into the forest than Cregan had ever ventured.

She turned to her son.

Cregan worked at the straps of his own pack, pulling them tight across his chest. His bow was slung over his shoulder, his small fingers running over the polished wood—checking, always checking. It was a good bow, made by a skilled hand, fitted to him in weight and size.

He was only of nine.

But the way he moved now, the way his sharp grey eyes scanned the woods, the way his fingers hovered near his quiver even when there was no threat in sight—he did not act like a child.

Something had changed in him.

Since that night.

Jeyne could still see it—the flickering firelight, the bruises on her face, the look in his eyes when he saw her like that. He had stood in the doorway of their home, his young face twisted with an emotion.

Anger.

Since then, he had been quieter, colder, sharper. His steps had become measured, his words fewer. He trained harder, hunted longer, carried himself like a boy who had learned too soon what cruelty looked like.

She had seen that look before. In men. But not in boys.

A part of her swelled with pride.

A part of her ached with sorrow.

Mikken was gone, but that did not mean he would stay gone. Jeyne had been raised in the North. She knew what men were like when they lost something they thought they owned.

She had brought Cregan out here to escape. To breathe. To prepare. The fear of it gnawed at her, at what he might do if Mikken returned—or worse, at what Cregan might do if given the chance.

That was why they had come here, deep into the Wolfswood, far from Deepwood Motte and all the shadows it held. It was meant to be a lesson, a respite, a test. Her father had done the same for her once—taking her far from the comforts of home, teaching her how to live off the land, how to survive the true North.

Jeyne lifted her worn waterskin to her lips, tilting her head back as the cool water ran down her throat, washing away the lingering taste of woodsmoke. It was crisp and clean, a fleeting comfort against the dryness in her mouth.

She let out a quiet sigh, wiping the back of her hand across her lips before extending the waterskin toward Cregan. "Here," she murmured.

Her son took it without hesitation, his hands sure and steady, fingers curling around the rough leather. He lifted it to his lips and drank deeply, swallowing with quick, eager gulps.

"Thank you, Mother," he said, his voice a little hoarse from the morning's chill.

"It is alright, Cregan. We still have a long journey ahead—drink your fill."

She watched as he did exactly that, draining the last of it before handing it back with a small nod.

He was growing.

Jeyne studied him for a moment—truly studied him. His shoulders had begun to broaden, the roundness of his boyhood softening into the early makings of a young man's frame. His tunic hung looser than it had a year ago, but he moved differently now. He had always been quick-footed, but there was something deliberate about his movements these days, a quiet strength settling in his limbs.

He was still only of nine.

But she had the feeling he would not stay a child for much longer.

She had brought him into the Wolfswood for more than just escape. There were lessons to be learned here, lessons that a village or smithing couldn't teach. He already understood the basics—how to track a prey, how to aim a bow with steady hands, how to clean a kill without wasting its hide or its meat. But there was more to survival than that.

As they made their way through the dense thicket, she spoke in a low, steady voice, passing down knowledge the way her father had once passed it to her.

"Look at the moss," she said, brushing her fingers along the rough bark of a towering oak. "It grows thicker on the north side of trees. If ever you are lost without a sun to guide you, the moss will show you your way."

Cregan studied the tree, nodding thoughtfully.

She pointed to the twisting undergrowth, where small green buds poked up from the frost-hardened dirt. "This here—blue wort. Crush its leaves and rub them on insect bites or rashes. It will keep them from festering." She plucked a few leaves and pressed them into his palm. "Remember their scent."

He lifted the leaves to his nose, inhaling the faintly bitter aroma.

She led him further along, stopping near a fallen tree where clusters of thick, white mushrooms sprouted along the rotting bark. She bent down, tracing their shape with her fingertip. "Ghost caps. Eat the wrong ones, and you'll be sick for days. But boil them into a paste and rub it on an open wound, and it will stave off rot."

Cregan listened in silence, absorbing every word. She could see it in the way his eyes flicked from plant to plant, his mind working to commit them to memory.

As they walked, she spoke of the patterns in the trees, of the way the branches bent toward the prevailing winds, of how the sun's position could tell the time of day. She showed him where the ground had been disturbed, how to tell fresh tracks from old, how the marks in the soil revealed whether a beast was fleeing or hunting. He soaked in the knowledge like dry soil drinking rain.

For a time, it was just the two of them, moving through the stillness of the woods, mother and son.

For the first time in what felt like years, Jeyne felt at peace.

Here, in the deep of the Wolfswood, away from the wooden walls of Deepwood Motte, away from the whispers of the town, away from him—the world was simpler. There were no judging eyes, no lingering stares, no cautious glances from women who knew but dared not speak aloud.

She had needed this.

She had not realized how badly she had needed this.

But peace was never meant to last.

Memories had a way of digging their teeth in, no matter how far she walked, no matter how deep she ventured into the wild.

She had been a fool.

For years, she had been with Mikken, and all had seemed perfect. At least, that was what she had told herself.

She had believed in the steadiness of him, the quiet comfort of a man who did not speak in grand words but showed his care in the small, practical ways—bringing in fresh firewood before the first snowfall, repairing the thatch when the winds howled, pressing a mug of warm drink into her hands on bitter winter nights.

She had mistaken habit for love.

Or had it been love, once?

Jeyne could still recall the way he used to be—the warmth of his arms after a long day, the way he would whisper reassurances when doubt took hold of her. How she had thought herself safe with him, thought that if nothing else, she could trust him.

But something had changed.

Slowly. Subtly.

Like the creeping frost of an early winter, settling in places unnoticed until one day, everything was frozen over.

She did not know when it had started. Or why.

Had it been her? Had she done something?

Had she become too much?

Had her life, her love, simply become not enough for him anymore?

Or had it always been this way, and she had been too blind to see it?

The truth had come in whispers at first, hushed voices over mugs of ale, murmured words in the market square.

"I saw Mikken down by the tavern last night…"
"He left just before dawn, looked mighty comfortable…"
"You don't think he's been—?"

She had dismissed them all.

Gossip, she had told herself. Nothing more.

Until she saw it with her own eyes.

The way he looked at her.

The way he leaned in just a little too close, his fingers brushing against her arm, his voice dipping to something soft, intimate.

The way Gillis laughed.

Gillis.

Jeyne clenched her jaw, the bitter taste of the name settling like bile in her throat.

She had known Gillis most her life. They had grown up together, shared meals, shared laughter, shared the hardships of the North. Gillis had been one of the few people Jeyne could speak to without guarded words.

And yet—she had taken him from her.

Had she meant to?

Had it been some accident of lust, or had Gillis known, even as she smiled so sweetly at Jeyne, that she had been lying through her teeth?

The thought twisted like a blade in Jeyne's gut.

And when she had pressed Mikken on it, when she had demanded to know the truth, when she had dared to confront him—

He had struck her.

That was the moment the illusion shattered.

The moment she saw him for what he truly was.

Not a man she had loved.

Not the man she had trusted.

She clenched her jaw. Shook her head.

She should not be thinking about this.

Not here. Not now.

But how could she not?

All those years. All that time.

"Mother."

Jeyne blinked, the voice pulling her sharply from the dark corridors of her thoughts. Memories of Mikken dissolved like mist.

Cregan was crouched low, one hand raised in a silent signal, his posture tense but controlled. His grey eyes, sharp as a blade's edge, flicked toward the tree line ahead.

Jeyne's heart stilled.

What had he seen?

She followed his gaze, her breath slowing, her every sense suddenly attuned to the world around them. The clearing beyond the thicket stretched out before them, bathed in the pale light of the sun creeping higher in the sky. The undergrowth swayed ever so slightly, though there was no wind. A disturbance. A presence.

Then, she saw it.

A young elk, lean but strong, its antlers barely more than stubs, foraging near the base of a gnarled old pine. Its dark eyes flicked warily through the trees, nostrils flaring with each cautious breath. It searched for scraps of green, stripping away the brittle remains of grass.

A healthy kill. Enough meat for days.

Cregan was already reaching for his bow.

Jeyne said nothing, only nodded. Show me what you have learned, my boy.

Moving with practiced ease, Cregan slid his bow from his shoulder, his fingers already plucking an arrow from his quiver. His steps were near soundless, his body lowering into position with the grace of a seasoned hunter. He had always been a quick learner, but this—this was something else. The way he held himself, the way his breath steadied, the way his fingers curled around the bowstring—he was no longer a child learning at the hunt.

He was a predator.

The elk raised its head, ears twitching at some distant sound, but Cregan remained still, his arrow nocked and ready. He did not rush. He did not falter. Jeyne watched as he exhaled slow and steady, his aim unwavering.

Then—

The twang of the bowstring.

The arrow flew, slicing through the cold air. It struck clean, embedding itself deep behind the elk's shoulder. The beast staggered, letting out a strangled cry before breaking into a desperate sprint.

Cregan was already moving.

"Come!" he called, springing into motion, weaving through the trees with a speed she had never seen in him before.

Jeyne followed, her heart hammering—not from fear, but something else.

Pride.

There had been no hesitation in him. No wasted movement.

They weaved through the trees, the damp dirt kicking up beneath their boots. The elk's steps grew clumsier with every bound, blood trailing in stark contrast to the pale frost. It would not last long.

Then—it fell.

The creature collapsed near the edge of a stream, its legs kicking weakly before going still. By the time Jeyne reached Cregan, he was already kneeling beside it, blade in hand.

He looked up at her, his breath heavy but his eyes alight with something fierce and proud.

"Good shot," she murmured, crouching beside him.

Cregan didn't reply, only nodded, turning his focus back to the kill. He reached forward, placing a hand against the elk's side, feeling the last remnants of life leaving it. There was no fear in him, no hesitation—only quiet respect.

Jeyne watched as he angled his knife at the beast's throat, his grip firm, his hand steady. He hesitated for only a breath before pressing the blade forward, granting the creature a swift, merciful end.

She had never been more proud.

Rising, Jeyne surveyed their surroundings, her keen eyes sweeping the clearing as she listened. The gentle babble of the nearby stream filled the stillness, a soft, unbroken murmur weaving through the cold air. The sound of water had always comforted her, ever since she was a girl—it was constant, unchanging, like the wind through the trees or the crackle of a warm hearth in winter.

The hunt was over. Now came the work.

"We'll clean it here," she said, glancing at the water's edge.

Cregan, still flushed from the chase, wiped his knife clean against his sleeve and nodded. He did not need to be told twice.

Together, they dragged the elk closer to the stream, their boots sinking slightly into the soft, damp dirt. It was heavier than Jeyne expected, though she knew she should have expected it. The beast was lean but strong, and the cold had stiffened its joints already. Cregan bore his share of the weight without complaint, his hands gripping the hide tightly, his breath visible in the cool air.

When they reached the water, Jeyne knelt first, pulling a smaller blade from her belt. She adjusted her grip, pressing her palm against the elk's flank as she spoke.

"Watch carefully," she murmured, her tone even, instructive. "A sloppy hand will ruin the meat. A careless cut will taint it. Do it right, and you waste nothing."

Cregan nodded, his grey eyes sharp and focused, and she could tell he was memorizing each motion before she even made them.

Slowly, she made the first incision, drawing the blade in a clean line down the elk's belly. The warmth of its insides met the cold of the morning air, sending a thin mist rising from the open cavity. She worked quickly, methodically, showing him where to cut, where to press, how to peel the hide without tearing the precious pelt.

Cregan knelt beside her, watching closely at first—then, after a few moments, he reached for his own knife.

She let him take over.

His hands were steady, his blade sure. He had done this before, but never on something this large. Yet, he moved with patience, careful not to slice too deep, not to let the entrails spill messily. The smell was sharp, metallic, but he did not flinch.

Jeyne sat back on her haunches, wiping the blood from her fingers onto a patch of dry grass. The boy was learning.

The cold stream murmured beside them, its waters rushing over smooth stones, clear and crisp in the fading light. Blood ran in rivulets down the bank, swirling into the current before vanishing downstream.

The elk lay cleaned and gutted, its hide set aside, its meat wrapped carefully in cloth. The hardest work was done.

And with it came the quiet satisfaction of a hunt well-earned.

Jeyne stretched, rolling her shoulders before exhaling a long breath.

"Well," she sighed, pulling her gloves back over her raw hands, "you'll sleep well tonight, that's for certain."

Before Cregan could respond, his stomach betrayed him.

A low, insistent growl rumbled from his gut, loud enough to startle a nearby raven into flight.

Jeyne turned to him with a smirk.

"Hah! Thought as much." She nudged him with her elbow. "You might be a fine little hunter, but you're still a growing boy, and boys are always hungry."

Cregan huffed, lifting his chin as if offended. "I've seen you eat, Mother. You're not much better."

Jeyne arched a brow, feigning insult. "Is that so?"

Cregan only grinned, kneeling by the water's edge and scrubbing the last of the blood from his hands.

The boy had grown sharper with his tongue—and bolder.

She watched as he cupped his palms, splashing the icy water over his face before shaking the droplets from his hair. He had his father's spirit, she thought. Quick-witted, fearless, but always carrying that sharp edge of defiance.

"You know," Cregan mused, "if I had missed that shot, we'd be eating boiled roots and stale bread tonight."

Jeyne hummed, feigning deep thought. "Mmm..."

He wiped his face on his sleeve, eyeing her with playful suspicion. "Are you saying my elk is not the best kill you've ever seen?"

Jeyne tipped her head to the side, considering. "It's… not bad."

Cregan's brow furrowed. "Not bad?"

Jeyne pressed her lips together, suppressing a smirk. "Once, I saw a girl—about your age, mind you—take down a full-grown buck with a single arrow. Through the throat. In the middle of a snowstorm."

Cregan blinked. Then scoffed. "Now you're just making things up."

Jeyne shrugged, her expression calm. "Am I? You're looking at her, my sweet boy."

His eyes widened slightly before narrowing, his expression torn between doubt and amusement. "Liar."

Jeyne simply shrugged again, the corners of her lips twitching.

"Believe what you like."

Cregan stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head. "You tell stories like an old warrior in the tavern."

"Then perhaps you should listen better, child."

"I'm no child,"

Jeyne stared at him and laughed, a real laugh, warm and unguarded, her voice echoing softly through the trees.

How long had it been since she laughed like this?

She hadn't realized how much she needed this—not just the solitude, but the simplicity.

Here, in the Wolfswood, there was no Mikken, no whispered gossip, no watching eyes, no forced smiles.

Cregan shook his head, his smirk returning as he stretched his legs out, resting back on his palms. The boy was tired, but satisfied.

Jeyne reached over without thinking, ruffling his dark hair, earning a halfhearted attempt to bat her hand away. "You did well today."

They sat there for a while, the warmth of their laughter lingering in the cold air, light and easy, floating between them like the last leaves of autumn. For a moment, the world was small. Simple. No past. No future. Just the present—just them, a mother and her son, sharing in a rare, fleeting peace.

Then—

A twig snapped.

Jeyne froze.

The sound was sharp, unnatural. Not the groan of shifting trees or the distant rustle of a foraging creature, but something deliberate. A boot on frost-hardened dirt.

Her hand went to her bow without thought, fingers wrapping tight around the worn wood. Too close.

She did not move—not yet.

Her breath slowed.

Her ears strained, searching the silence, sifting through the distant song of the stream, the wind whispering through the trees.

A second snap.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and her stomach turned to ice. Surrounded.

Behind them.

She nocked her arrow in one smooth motion, and beside her, she heard the soft rustle of Cregan doing the same.

"Back to back," she breathed, pressing against him.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy as snowfall before a storm. Then, from the tree line, a voice rasped through the stillness—low, rough, and not quite right.

"We want deer, woman. You and boy can go."

Jeyne's grip tightened around her bow. The accent was thick, the words strangely shaped. Not their tongue, not fully.

Jeyne felt a cold, crawling dread seep into her bones—a fear unlike any she had ever known. Her worst fear, made flesh. They were surrounded. Wildlings.

She shifted her gaze, scanning the dark places between the trees, the gaps where shadow met frost. There. A shape, just beyond the bramble.

A man.

Broad-shouldered, wrapped in heavy furs, his beard thick and unkempt. His face was lined with hunger and cold, his eyes narrow slits of suspicion. He held a long hunting spear, its metal head dark with rust.

More figures loomed behind him, shifting through the brush like wolves circling their prey.

Jeyne sucked in a slow breath.

She counted at least four. Maybe five. Too many.

"You'll let us go," Jeyne called back, her voice steady. Or so she hoped.

The wildling tilted his head, the movement slow, assessing. "Aye," he said. "You go."

She did not believe him.

The way they moved in the shadows, the rustle of unseen figures shifting through the underbrush—

This was not mercy.

This was the hunt.

"Go down stream," the man said, stepping forward, boots crunching over brittle leaves. "Leave meat. We no harm you."

Lies.

Behind her, another voice murmured in another tongue. Low, guttural. She did not understand the words, but she did not need to.

She knew what they meant.

Jeyne inhaled slowly, controlled. She had to think.

No sudden movements. No panic.

Cregan's body was shaky now. She could feel it. The tremor in his small shoulders.

Jeyne inhaled slowly.

"Cregan," she whispered. "Do as they say. Slowly and do as I do"

She felt the slight tremor in his breath, the tension in his small shoulders. Was it his fear she felt? Or her own?

She hated herself for this. For putting him here.

Still, they began to move, step by careful step, bows still drawn. If there was a way out of this, she had not yet found it.

They moved slowly, step by careful step, down the stream.

Cregan mirrored her movements, his own bow still raised, his arrow nocked. A boy of nine, standing in the shadow of death.

Jeyne's breath came hard and fast, her heart a fire in her chest. Every muscle in her body was tense, coiled like a bowstring drawn too tight. Her fingers trembled against the wood of her bow. She willed them to be steady. Steady for Cregan.

She told herself they were getting away. That every step they took put more distance between them and the shadows in the trees. That the wildlings would let them go, as they had promised.

But she had lived long enough to know the promises of desperate men meant nothing.

The clearing narrowed. The stream curved, and the trees grew close once more, their gnarled roots clawing up from the dirt like the bones of the dead. The air felt wrong, heavy with an unspoken threat.

Then she saw it.

A glint in the underbrush.

An arrow. Nocked. Aimed.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"MOVE!"

She did not think—she acted.

Her arm shot out, shoving Cregan hard. He stumbled, nearly falling, just as the arrow whistled past. It struck a tree where he had been standing not a heartbeat before, the shaft quivering with the force of the shot.

The brush exploded.

A man charged from the trees—a big man, wrapped in heavy furs, his beard thick with ice, his breath steaming in the cold air. He had a sword, dull and rusted, but deadly all the same.

Jeyne pulled, loosed, hit.

Her arrow struck him clean in the face, splitting through his cheekbone with a sickening crunch. His eyes went wide as he fell, a gurgling choke escaping his throat before he hit the ground.

But there was another.

A second man burst through the foliage, an axe in both hands.

"Cregan!" she shouted, but her son had already moved.

His bowstring sang, and the arrow struck true, sinking deep into the man's shoulder. He staggered but did not fall, letting out a howl of rage as he came for her.

Footsteps.

Behind her.

Jeyne's stomach turned to ice. More of them.

She had no time, no time to think or count how many. The wildling with the axe was closing fast, and she had only one thought.

Cregan.

She threw herself in front of him.

"GO!" she screamed.

He hesitated. Gods, why did he hesitate?

She saw the fear in his eyes, saw his hands tremble as he tried to nock another arrow. Run, Cregan! Run!

But then—

The axe came at her.

Pain.

Blinding, searing pain.

The blade bit deep, slamming into her right side, just below the ribs. Her body jerked from the force of the blow, her breath leaving her in a ragged gasp.

For a moment, she did not even scream.

The agony swallowed everything.

She fell to her knees. The world tilted around her, her vision swimming. The taste of blood filled her mouth, thick and bitter.

Her fingers fumbled for the knife at her belt, and she tried to strike. Tried. But the wildling was strong—too strong.

He caught her wrist, wrenched the blade from her grip as if she were a child, and tossed it aside. Then his hand closed around her throat.

Jeyne clawed at him, kicked, fought, but she was weak now. The strength was leaving her fast.

Through the blur, she saw Cregan.

Her sweet boy.

His mouth was open in a scream.

"NOOO!"

His arrow flew.

Another wildling fell, a shaft buried deep in his gut.

Then Cregan stood staring at her before turning and running, disappearing into the trees, vanishing like a shadow into the dark.

Jeyne's tears burned hot in her eyes.

Run, my love. Run.

She had failed him. She should have never brought him out here. She should have sent him with Lord Stark all those years ago.

She had been so stubborn.

So blind.

Her vision darkened.

The hand around her throat tightened.

Her furs were being ripped.

She gasped, but no sound came. She prayed—not for herself, but for Cregan.

Let him live. Let him escape. Let him—

A howl.

Low, deep, thundering through the woods like a war cry.

Jeyne's breath hitched.

A wolf's howl.

For the first time since the attack began, the grip on her throat loosened. The wildling hesitated.

And suddenly—

She was somewhere else.

The night had been endless. A sky of deepest black stretched above them, pricked by a thousand frozen stars, their cold light spilling across the vast, empty stretch of the Wolfswood. The fire burned low, its embers crackling softly in the hush of the wild, its warmth fending off the creeping chill that coiled through the trees.

Jeyne lay beneath thick furs, wrapped in warmth that was not just from the fire but from the man beside her. Brandon Stark.

He reclined against a fallen log, legs sprawled, broad shoulders half-draped in his cloak, his grey eyes alight with mischief and firelight. A bottle of wine dangled from his gloved fingers, half-empty, the dark red liquid sloshing lazily with his every careless movement. His hair was wind-tousled, unruly, the loose strands curling around the sharp lines of his face. He was handsome in the way only Starks could be—wolfish, wild, unkempt but noble all the same.

"I love this" he said, his voice thick with warmth, slow with drink.

"This is the life, isn't it?" He spoke as he took another swig of the wine bottle

"Out here, away from it all—no lords, no banners, no fools prattling about duty and lordships. Just the land, the hunt… and a beautiful, strong woman at my side." He smiled down at her

She giggled then, drunk on the wine, but drunker still on him.

The fire danced in his eyes as he smirked, taking another long swig, tipping his head back. She had always loved the way he laughed. It was deep, reckless, without fear or worry, the laugh of a man who thought himself unbreakable. It made her heart clench, even now.

"Then stay, Brandon," she had whispered, pressing closer beneath the furs. Her fingers found his, tracing idle circles against the rough skin of his palm.

For a moment, he just stared at her, that teasing grin of his faltering. The mischief dimmed, replaced by something else.

Then, his expression shifted, and he pulled her in tighter, his arms solid and warm, smelling of pine, leather, and steel.

"Would that I could, Jeyne," he murmured, his breath warm against her temple. "But the North needs me. And she must always come first."

The North. Always the North.

She had known that she would never truly be his. Not in the way she wanted. Not in the way he had been hers, in those stolen nights beneath the stars, in the whispered moments by firelight.

But gods, how she had wanted to believe.

Before she could speak, before doubt could take hold, he leaned down, pressing a kiss to her brow—soft, lingering, full of promises unspoken.

"I will return, though," he had said, his voice softer now. A vow. A certainty.

"If you'll have me."

She had believed him.

The wind howled through Deepwood Motte, sending spirals of dead leaves dancing across the stone courtyard. Jeyne sat on the worn wooden steps leading to the inn, her arms wrapped around herself as she tried to keep the chill from creeping into her bones. The air smelled of damp dirt and woodsmoke..

Mikken sat beside her, his back hunched against the cold, his thick hair damp from the morning mist. He had always been her shadow in those days—her closest friend, her protector in a world that had little room for girls like her.

"You know he might not come back, don't you?" he asked, his voice quiet, but not unkind.

Jeyne turned to him, frowning. "Don't say that."

"He's a lord, Jeyne. A Stark. When has a Stark ever run off and married some common girl?" He sighed, shaking his head. "Men like him, they make promises. They mean them, maybe, in the moment, but the world don't work like that."

Jeyne clenched her jaw. "You don't know him."

Mikken snorted. "I know men."

She hated him for saying it, for making her doubt. But the words burrowed into her mind like frost creeping beneath a door, impossible to ignore.

Would he come back?

"If you'll have me." She heard his voice

A raven came on an overcast morning, its wings wet with rain. The castle had been murmuring of war, but Jeyne had refused to listen.

When she heard the news, she did not cry at first.

She went to the woods instead, to the place where he had first kissed her, the place where they had laid together beneath the trees, where he had whispered his foolish dreams of a life without duty, without war.

"But the North needs me. And she must always come first." She heard his voice

And it had.

It had swallowed him whole.

She sank to her knees in the damp dirt, pressed her hands to her belly, and wept.

She was carrying his child.

And he was never coming back.

The room was thick with heat, the air damp and stifling from the hearth fire roaring in the corner. Old women bustled about, their voices low but firm, their hands working quickly with linen and steaming cloths.

Jeyne's breath came ragged, sharp cries of pain wracking her body as she clung to the sheets beneath her. She had never known agony like this—like something was being torn from her, piece by piece.

"You must push, girl," said Old Alys, the village midwife, her face lined with years of experience, her voice as rough as bark. "Push, or the babe will never see the world."

Jeyne gritted her teeth, her nails digging into the mattress. She thought of Brandon. Would he have held her hand if he had been here? Would he have whispered words of comfort in her ear, kissed her brow as she brought their child into the world?

The pain came again, a great wave of it, and she screamed through clenched teeth.

Then—suddenly, the weight of it all was gone.

A cry pierced the air.

A babe's cry. Loud, strong, fierce.

Jeyne gasped, her body trembling, sweat clinging to her skin. One of the women moved beside her, cradling a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Tiny fingers peeked from the folds, reaching, grasping, his cries tapering into soft, snuffling sounds.

Her son.

Alys placed him in her arms, and Jeyne's breath caught.

His face was red and wrinkled, his tiny hands curled into fists, but it was the eyes that struck her most of all—grey, clear, Stark grey.

She choked on a sob.

It was as if Brandon had come back.

"I will return, though" she heard his voice

The sound of laughter rang through the fields as Cregan tore through the tall grass, his small feet kicking up dirt as he ran.

Jeyne stood by the fence, arms crossed, watching him with a bemused smirk.

"Go on, little one!" called one of the farmers, a stout man with a thick grey beard. "We need another pair of hands, don't we?"

Cregan beamed, his dark hair sticking to his forehead, his tunic already dusted with dirt as he struggled to lift a small bucket of grain.

"I can do it!" he declared.

The farmer chuckled. "Aye, I don't doubt it, lad."

Jeyne shook her head. Always eager, always running headfirst into things. Just like his father.

"This is the life, isn't it?" she heard his voice

The sun dipped low, casting Deepwood Motte in hues of gold and amber. Jeyne stood in the doorway, watching as Cregan slung his satchel over his shoulder, adjusting the strap with practiced ease.

"Off to the forge?" she asked.

Cregan nodded, flashing a grin. "Noland says I'll be working the grindstone today. He thinks I'm ready to sharpen swords."

"A big step," she mused.

"Maybe," he said, turning to leave.

Jeyne watched him go, pride swelling in her chest—but worry lingered too. It was just them now. Who he—

Cregan stopped. As if he had heard her thoughts, he turned back and wrapped his arms around her in a firm embrace. She stiffened, startled, before returning it.

"I meant what I said, Mother. I'll protect you, so don't worry."

She held him tighter for a moment before letting go, watching as he stepped out into the fading light. He looked so much like his father.

"I love this" she heard his voice

Before she could react, the light around the door shifted as Cregan ran—into the trees, into the dark.

Not the forge. Not the village.

The Wolfswood swallowed him whole.

Jeyne gasped, her body growing numb, the cold creeping into her bones. She tried to move, but there was no strength left in her limbs. The pain had dulled, fading into something distant, something far away.

She was dying.

The truth settled over her like snowfall, slow and heavy.

Her vision blurred, but she saw him still—her son, running, surviving. She saw him older, stronger, a man the realm would one day know.

A shuddering breath left her lips... Brandon.

Protect our son.

And there we go, everyone. This story is primarily about Cregan himself, so unfortunately, I always intended for Jeyne to die—but damn, writing that was something.

I felt it was very GRRM-esque to have her die in the same woods from the same wound that Brandon once claimed he had. I find that character deaths are what make George's stories so compelling—the uncertainty, the tension, the feeling that no one is truly safe.

But now, we can finally start moving forward with the story. Everything so far has felt like Act 1—Cregan growing as a child, learning the skills he needs to survive.

Now Act 2 … now it's time for him to use those skills.

Until next time, everyone.