Cregan – Age 9, 291 AC
Cregan moved carefully through the woods, each step deliberate to conserve his energy. His breath hung in the cold air, a fleeting cloud that vanished as quickly as it appeared. The trees around him whispered in the breeze, their bare branches reaching like skeletal fingers toward the overcast sky. He paused, eyes narrowing as he examined the disturbed branches of a tree just ahead—recently brushed against, no doubt. His prey was close.
Unslinging his bow with practiced ease, Cregan crouched low, his ears straining for the faintest sound. Somewhere in the distance, the hoarse cawing of ravens broke the stillness, a reminder that he was not alone in the hunt. He crept forward, boots crunching softly against the frost-covered undergrowth, until movement to his side caught his attention. There, among the shadows of the trees, stood a small pack of deer, their heads low as they grazed on what little forage the winter had left behind.
Cregan froze, his heart quickening. He had been trained for this moment—his mother's lessons guiding his every motion. Slowly, silently, he reached for an arrow, nocking it to the string as he took aim. His target was clear: a smaller doe lingering at the edge of the pack. It would be the easiest to take down, and it would provide enough meat for them to last through the week.
He drew the bowstring back, steadying his breath as he focused. The world seemed to still for a moment, the faint rustle of the woods fading to silence. Then, with a practiced exhale, he released the arrow.
The doe let out a sharp cry as the arrow struck its rear leg, stumbling back in panic. The pack scattered, their hooves thundering against the frozen earth as they fled deeper into the trees. Cregan moved swiftly, loading another arrow as he broke from the cover of the bushes. His prey limped after its kin, but it was slow now, its movements clumsy and pained.
He took aim again, his hands steady despite the cold. The second arrow struck true, burying itself in the doe's other rear leg. It crumpled to the ground, its sides heaving as it struggled against the inevitable.
Cregan approached cautiously, slinging his bow over his shoulder and drawing his hunting knife. He knelt beside the fallen creature, his breath hitching as he placed a gentle hand on its quivering flank. "Shhh," he whispered, stroking the doe's fur with quiet reverence. "Thank you."
With practiced precision, he placed the blade at the base of its head, just as his mother had taught him. One quick thrust ended the doe's suffering. Its body stilled, the life fading from its wide, dark eyes. For a moment, Cregan simply sat there, offering a small preyer to the old gods.
Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a length of rope, the memory of his mother's instructions guiding his hands. He had just begun to loop it around the doe's legs when the sound of footsteps reached his ears. He glanced up to see his mother emerge from the woods, a proud smile lighting her face.
"Well done" his mother said, her sharp eyes scanning the kill. She crouched beside him, brushing a hand over the doe's side in silent acknowledgment of his work. "Do you remember the knots I taught you to tie up a deer for the drag home?"
Cregan nodded, his chest swelling with pride at her approval. "I remember," he replied, his fingers already working the rope into the familiar patterns she had shown him so many times before.
With the deer secure, Cregan allowed himself a brief moment of pride. He had done it. Even with his mother watching, he knew this was his accomplishment—his skill, his effort, his success. The rope felt heavy in his hands as he began to drag the doe, its weight testing his strength. His muscles burned, and his boots dug into the frosted earth as he struggled to pull the load.
"Here, let me help," his mother said, stepping forward to grab the rope alongside him. Cregan hesitated, a flash of embarrassment warming his face. This was his kill; he wanted to bring it home on his own. Still, when his mother began to pull, he felt the weight lessen considerably. The difference was undeniable.
"You don't have to do everything yourself, you know," she said, her voice light but carrying a familiar firmness. "It's okay to take help when it's offered."
Cregan nodded reluctantly, the sting of his pride softening as they made faster progress together. The deer bumped along behind them as they left the woods and began the familiar walk back home. The sounds of the streets soon reached their ears—the clatter of carts, the calls of merchants, and the murmur of townsfolk going about their day. The distant smell of cooking fires and baking bread wafted through the air, and Cregan's stomach gave a loud, unbidden growl.
His mother chuckled, casting a knowing look his way. "We've still got eggs at home," she said, her tone teasing. "Once we hang this, I'll make something for you. Don't want my little boy getting tired at his forge today."
Cregan's cheeks flushed at her words, and he let out an awkward laugh, scratching the back of his neck. "I'm fine, Mother," he muttered, though his stomach let out another low rumble that betrayed him.
When they reached the house, mother headed inside while Cregan stayed in the yard to handle the deer. He hefted the carcass onto the hook wires near the side of their home, the effort leaving his arms trembling slightly. His mother had insisted he learn to handle every part of the process, from the kill to the final preparation, and he took the responsibility seriously.
Grabbing a sharp knife from the table, and a stool to stand on as he murmured another quiet thanks before starting his work. He removed the head first, letting the blood drain into a bucket. The crimson pool steamed faintly in the morning chill, and Cregan focused on the task with quiet determination. Next, he made a careful incision along the animal's skin, his movements slow and deliberate as he began to peel it back. He worked with intense concentration, mindful of his mother's lessons about preserving the pelt.
He was halfway through when Mother stepped back outside, a warm smile on her face as she observed him. "Hmm," she murmured, crossing her arms. "Good work, son. But you're still a bit slow."
Cregan's shoulders slumped slightly. He handed her the knife with a sigh, feeling a pang of disappointment. His mother took it without hesitation, standing beside the deer. With practiced ease, her hands moved in smooth, efficient strokes, the blade gliding through the hide as if it were second nature. Cregan couldn't help but watch in admiration.
"It's fine," she said, glancing up at him. Her voice was gentle, reassuring. "It'll come naturally with time. You've got the knack for it, Cregan—just need more practice."
Her words lightened his mood, and he smiled despite himself. "Thanks, Mother."
She straightened, handing him the skinning knife and gesturing toward the house. "I've prepared food for you inside. Eat up—you've got work this morning, and you don't want to keep Noland waiting."
Cregan nodded, his grin widening. "Okay," he said, heading inside.
The warmth of the house wrapped around him like a comforting blanket. Stripping off his hunting furs, he grabbed a ladleful of water from the bucket on the table and took a long drink. His meal—a simple dish of eggs and roasted root vegetables—sat waiting for him, and he ate quickly but carefully, savoring every bite. Through the open window, he could hear his mother humming softly as she worked on the deer outside. The familiar melody brought a sense of peace, grounding him after the morning's efforts.
Once he finished, Cregan donned his simpler work clothes—sturdy trousers and a roughspun shirt better suited for the heat of the forge. He stepped outside to find mother still at work, her hands deftly cleaning the carcass with skill honed over years of practice.
"I'm off, Mother! Thanks for the food!" he called out as he slung his satchel of tools over his shoulder.
Jeyne turned, a smile lighting her face as she wiped her hands on a rag. "Come here."
Cregan blinked, confused, but approached her nonetheless. She bent down slightly, wetting her thumb with her tongue before reaching for his cheek.
"M-Mother!" he protested, pulling back slightly as she rubbed at a smudge of dirt on his face.
"Hold still," she said, her grip firm but gentle. "There. All better."
She straightened and patted his shoulder, her smile warm and teasing. "Off you go, my sweet boy. I'll see you soon."
Cregan flushed, his embarrassment fading into a sheepish grin as he stepped back. "Okay, Mother. See you soon!"
With that, he turned and headed toward the forge, his heart lighter and his steps quicker. As the cool morning air nipped at his face, he felt a renewed sense of purpose. Today had started well—and he was determined to make it a day worth remembering.
The familiar clang of hammers on anvils rang through the air as Cregan approached the forge, its smoky plume rising against the crisp morning sky. The heat hit him even before he stepped inside, a wave of dry, suffocating warmth that was worlds away from the biting chill outside. To some, it might have been unbearable, but to Cregan, it was the start of another day of learning—a chance to prove himself in the heat of the flames.
Noland stood at the center of the chaos, his broad shoulders glistening with sweat as he bent over the forge. The man moved like a beast, his arms swinging a heavy hammer with practiced precision as he shaped a glowing blade on the anvil. Sparks scattered with every strike, dancing through the air like fireflies. Around him, a handful of workers tended to various tasks—sharpening tools, preparing raw iron, and quenching newly forged weapons in barrels of water.
"You're late," Noland growled without looking up, his voice rough but not unkind. He plunged the blade he'd been working on into the water with a loud hiss, steam billowing around him as he set the blade aside.
Cregan stepped forward, adjusting the strap of his satchel. "Sorry, Noland. Had to skin a deer we hunted this morning."
The blacksmith snorted, finally turning to face him. His dark eyes flicked over Cregan, assessing him like a piece of raw steel. "You eat?"
"Yes, Noland."
"Good. Can't have you fainting on me. Now get your gloves on and grab those tongs. There's iron in the fire waiting for you."
Cregan didn't hesitate. He tossed his satchel aside and pulled on his thick leather gloves, the weight and stiffness of them familiar now. The forge roared like a living beast, its embers glowing fiercely as he grabbed the long-handled tongs from the workbench. Reaching into the flames, he carefully retrieved a chunk of iron that glowed a deep orange, its edges shimmering with heat.
"Onto the anvil," Noland instructed, gesturing with his hammer. "And watch your grip. Let it slip, and you'll burn yourself—or worse, ruin the piece."
Cregan placed the iron on the anvil, his movements deliberate but steady. Noland nodded in approval, stepping back slightly. "Alright, boy. Give it three solid strikes. Use your shoulders, not just your arms. You're shaping it, not patting it."
The hammer felt heavy in Cregan's hands as he raised it, the weight unfamiliar but not unwelcome. He brought it down with a loud clang, the sound echoing through the forge. Sparks flew, and the iron flattened slightly under the blow. He struck it again, and then once more, each time trying to mimic the rhythm he'd seen Noland use.
"Not bad," Noland muttered, taking the hammer from him. "But you're still too gentle. You're not shaping a pastry, lad. Put some force into it." To demonstrate, he raised the hammer high and brought it down with a resounding crash, the iron yielding immediately to his power.
Cregan nodded, his determination growing. "I'll do better," he said, his voice steady.
"I know you will," Noland replied, handing the hammer back to him. "Now, let's try again. And this time, don't stop until I say."
The next hour passed in a blur of heat and effort. Under Noland's watchful eye, Cregan worked the iron, learning to angle his strikes to shape the metal rather than simply flattening it. He rotated the piece with the tongs, reheated it in the forge, and quenched it in the water barrel when instructed. Each task was grueling, but there was a rhythm to it that Cregan found strangely satisfying—a sense of purpose in every motion.
When the iron was finally set aside to cool, Noland nodded towards him "Good work," he said, his gruff tone carrying a rare note of approval. "You're getting the hang of it. Keep this up, and you might make a real smith one day."
Cregan grinned, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Thank you, Noland."
"Don't thank me yet," the blacksmith replied, already moving to the next task. "You're far from done. Now, see those spearheads over there? Start grinding the edges. They need to be sharp enough to pierce armor."
Cregan nodded, setting to work without complaint. He grabbed one of the spearheads from the pile and sat at the grinding wheel, turning the crank with one hand while pressing the edge of the blade against the spinning stone. Sparks flew again, and the harsh screech of metal on stone filled the air. It was slower work than hammering, but no less important. Every weapon that left the forge had to be perfect—sharp, strong, and ready for the battlefield.
As the day wore on, Cregan found himself growing more comfortable with the tasks. He knew he was still far from mastering the craft, but he took pride in every step he completed, knowing that each one brought him closer to becoming a true smith. And as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the forge, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of pride in his heart.
This was hard work—sweaty, dirty, and exhausting. But it was also a way to grow stronger, to prove to himself and everyone else that he could carve out his place in the world. He was no longer just a boy with dreams of being a hero. Here, in the forge, he was forging himself into something more.
Cregan finished grinding the last spearhead and placed it carefully with the others, aligning them into a neat row. With that done, he grabbed the broom propped against the wall and began to sweep the smithy floor, pushing aside ash and stray metal shavings. It was tedious work, but Noland had explained its importance early on: keeping the forge organized not only made the work easier but also helped Cregan learn where every tool and material belonged.
"You're done for the day, lad. I'll see you tomorrow," Noland called out, his hammer still ringing against the anvil. The man didn't even glance up from the glowing piece of metal he was shaping.
Cregan hesitated by the doorway, watching the blacksmith work with relentless precision. Did Noland ever stop? The man seemed as tireless as the forge itself, the sweat pouring off his brow.
"Farewell, Noland," Cregan said at last, slinging his satchel over his shoulder as he stepped out into the brisk air.
The sun hung low in the sky, its light casting long shadows across the road. It would be evening soon, and Cregan knew he needed to get home, eat, and prepare for training with Walton. His thoughts wandered as he walked, imagining what grueling drills the old man had in store for him today. Walton's training was harsh, but it was also rewarding. Cregan had grown quicker, his dodges becoming more precise, though he still couldn't land a single hit on the grizzled warrior. At least the bruises were less frequent now—though when they came, they still ached, and he dreaded the thought of his mother noticing them. What would she say if she found out about the training? The thought sent a shiver of unease down his spine.
As he passed the other small hunting cottages lining the road, his gaze drifted toward the figure of a man approaching from the opposite direction. Cregan recognized him immediately—Mikken. It had been days since he'd seen him, and the sight brought a small flicker of relief.
"Hey, Mikken!" Cregan called out, quickening his pace. "How are you? I haven't seen you si—"
"Fuck off, boy."
The words hit him like a slap. Cregan stopped in his tracks, stunned, as Mikken shot him a glare before continuing past without so much as a glance back.
Cregan stood for a moment, the warmth of his earlier pride replaced by a cold knot in his chest. What was wrong with him? Mikken had always been kind, hadn't he? Why would he speak to him like that?
Shaking his head, Cregan turned and resumed his walk home. He tried to push the encounter from his mind, but the unease lingered, gnawing at him. Something wasn't right.
When he reached the house, he noticed the door was slightly ajar, moving gently with the breeze. Odd. His mother was careful about such things, always mindful of protection or the cold seeping in.
Cregan stepped closer, the creak of the door loud in the quiet evening. As he entered, a faint sound reached his ears—soft, muffled sobs. His heart tightened.
"M-mother?" he whispered, his voice tentative as he crossed the threshold.
The sight stopped him cold. His mother sat on the floor by the hearth, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, her head buried against them. Her shoulders shook with quiet sobs, the firelight casting flickering shadows across her hunched form.
Cregan stepped closer, his stomach churning. "Mother?" he said again, this time louder.
His mother gasped softly, hastily wiping her face with trembling hands. She didn't look at him, her voice shaky as she spoke. "Cregan, I'm fine. I'm just… resting. That's all."
But as he approached, the truth became painfully clear. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, but it was her right eye that truly froze him in place. The skin around it was dark and puffy, the beginnings of a bruise spreading angrily across her face.
Cregan's voice faltered. "What… what happened? Who did this?" His mind raced, the pieces falling into place all at once. Mikken. He'd seen him leaving—seen the anger in his eyes, the bitterness in his voice.
"I'll kill him," Cregan growled, his fists clenching as he spun toward the door.
"NO!" his mother's voice rang out, sharp and desperate. She reached for him, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist and pulling him back. "Don't, Cregan. Please, don't."
Her grip was strong, trembling but unyielding. Cregan felt his chest tighten, his rage warring with the weight of her embrace. He hesitated, his body tense as he stood frozen in her arms.
"He's not coming back," she whispered, her voice breaking. "He's gone. I told him to leave, and he won't bother us anymore. S-so don't… don't go after him. Promise me, Cregan. Promise me."
Cregan's fists slowly unclenched, the fire in his chest dimming as he looked down at her. Her face was pressed against his side, her sobs quieter now but no less pained. He hesitated, then he shifted himself and raised his arms to wrap them around her, holding her close as she trembled against him.
"I promise," he murmured, though the words felt hollow in his throat. His heart still burned with anger, but for now, he would do as she asked.
For a moment, the world outside the warmth of her touch faded away, leaving only the two of them in the quiet glow of the hearth. His anger, sharp and burning just moments ago, dulled into something heavier—something more difficult to carry. Holding his mother close, he could feel the steady beat of her heart. She had always been there for him, his guide, and his protector, no matter how hard life had been for them. In that moment, as her fingers clutched his tunic like he was the only anchor keeping her from drifting away, Cregan realized that she must have felt the same way with himself.
His mother pulled back slightly, wiping her eyes and forcing a weak smile. "You're a good boy," she said softly, cupping his cheek with her hand. "Now go. Get some food, get ready for your sword training. Don't worry about me, alright?"
Cregan's heart raced as the weight of the realization settled over him. She knew. His mother had known about his training all along, and yet she had never said a word. Had she been silently watching, waiting for him to tell her himself? The thought made him feel strange and guilty.
"I… I don't think I'll go to training today," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He swallowed hard, trying to keep the emotion from spilling out. "Can… can I spend the day with you instead?"
Her arm tightened around him, and for a moment, she didn't speak. Her eyes glistened with tears, but her smile was soft and warm. "N-nothing would make me happier," she said, her voice barely steady.
"I'll make us dinner," he said quickly, eager to do something, anything, that might make her feel better. "We've still got venison from the doe… I can cook it for us."
His mother brushed his hair back gently, her touch steadying him in a way words couldn't. "That would be lovely, my sweet boy," she said, her voice stronger now, though a trace of sadness lingered in her eyes.
Cregan gave her a quick nod before letting her go and heading outside, the cold air biting at his skin as he stepped outside. The faint crunch of frost underfoot was the only sound as he approached the small meat locker they kept near the house. He opened the wooden door, the chill inside biting colder than the wind outside. He pulled out a chunk of venison wrapped in cloth and held it up to inspect it. The rich, red meat was still firm, fresh from the hunt earlier that morning.
Closing the locker, he paused for a moment, staring out at the distant treetops, the sun dipping lower into the horizon. He frowned slightly as his thoughts wandered to what he could prepare. His mother loved stews—he'd seen her eyes light up countless times when a pot of rich, hearty broth simmered on the hearth. That would do, he decided. Something warm and familiar, something comforting.
Turning back to the well behind the house, he grasped the bucket tied to the frayed rope. With careful hands, he lowered it into the dark water below, listening to the splash as it hit the surface. Hauling it back up, he poured the clear, cold water into another pail before returning indoors.
Inside he placed the venison on the cutting board and grabbed a small pan for browning the meat. As the pan heated over the fire, he began slicing the venison into even chunks, careful to keep the blade steady. The knife moved rhythmically, each cut clean and precise, just as his mother had taught him.
As the meat sizzled in the pan, the smell filled the room, rich and savory. Cregan glanced around, mentally taking stock of what they had. He rummaged through the cupboard, finding a handful of root vegetables—winter carrots, a single parsnip, and some onions left over from the morning. Perfect, he thought. His mother had always said a good stew needed layers of flavor.
While slicing the vegetables, he pondered the spices they kept. He found a small pouch of dried herbs, their faint scent still intact—and considered whether to add them. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he forgot to flip the venison. The smell of slightly charred meat snapped him back to the present.
"Careful there," came a familiar voice.. His mother stepped forward, taking the wooden spoon from his hand to stir the pan.
"I—uh—" Cregan stammered, cheeks reddening. "I was just… thinking about what else to add."
His mother chuckled lightly, her earlier sadness momentarily giving way to warmth. "Stew is simple, Cregan. You just need balance. Here—let me help."
Together, they worked side by side, the quiet intimacy of their shared task filling the room. His mother showed him how to properly scrape the browned bits from the pan, pouring the water he'd drawn from the well into the pot to start the broth. She stirred gently, letting the venison infuse the water with its savory richness.
"Now, the vegetables," she said, nodding toward the pile he'd prepared. "Add them in carefully—don't just toss them like you're throwing scraps to the farmers' pigs."
Cregan laughed, picking up the carrots and onions and sliding them into the pot with exaggerated precision. "Like this?" he asked, grinning.
"Much better," she said, with a genuine smile.
As the stew simmered, the room filled with the scent of roasted meat and herbs, the warmth from the hearth chasing away the day's chill. Cregan stirred the pot while his mother handed him a pinch of salt to season it.
At one point, he tried to mimic the stern, commanding tone of Noland at the forge. "Now, Mother, hand me the spices. Quickly! Or the stew will be ruined!" His exaggerated voice made her laugh, a genuine, hearty sound that made the room feel lighter.
"Sure Blacksmith?" she teased, handing him the pouch of herbs. "Let's see if your seasoning skills match your smithing skills."
Cregan sprinkled the dried herbs into the pot, inhaling the aroma with satisfaction. "I think it'll be good," he said confidently.
"I know it will be," Jeyne replied, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You've done well."
The simple task of preparing the meal calmed him, the steady rhythm of chopping, stirring, and seasoning grounding his scattered thoughts. As he stirred the pot, he glanced at his mother, who was cleaning up the mess they had made. She seemed… lighter somehow, as though the act of cooking together had eased some of her burden.
"Cregan," she said suddenly, her voice soft but clear.
He looked up from the pot, meeting her gaze. "Yes, Mother?"
For a moment, she hesitated, her eyes searching his face. Then, she reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. "No matter what happens," she said quietly, "we'll always have each other. That's enough for me."
Her words struck something deep inside him, and he set down the spoon, turning to face her fully. "We don't need anyone else. I promise I'll take care of you, no matter what changes." his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest
Her eyes filled with tears again, but this time they seemed different—softer, filled with something that felt like hope. She leaned down and pulled him into a tight embrace, her chin resting on his head as she whispered, "You're already taking care of me, my sweet boy. More than you know."
He held her close, the weight of his promise settling over him like a cloak. For a long moment, they stayed like that, wrapped in the warmth of the hearth and each other's presence.
As the fire crackled softly in the background, Cregan sat quietly, his spoon swirling idly in the bowl of stew. His mother's soft humming filled the space, warm and familiar, but his thoughts churned restlessly. He looked at her, at the bruise that still marked her eye, and felt the ember of anger reignite in his chest. One day, he thought, gripping his spoon tightly, he would be strong enough to protect her from anyone who dared harm her again. One day, he would make Mikken pay. He'd hit him twice as hard—no, harder. But for now, he would train, he would learn, and he would grow. Strength wasn't something he could wish for; it was something he had to earn. And he would earn it, no matter what it took.
Hey guys, I'm back home and writing again. This chapter does cover some sensitive subjects, so I want to give a heads-up that there will be darker themes going forward. This story is set in the world of ASOIAF, and, well, it's not exactly a pleasant world.
That said, I also went back and made some light edits to previous chapters to polish them up a bit more. The only major change was I expanded on the ending of Chapter 7 with Cregan and Walton, as I felt there was more to explore in that moment.
Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy the chapter and have a wonderful day! 😊