Cregan – Age 9, 291 AC

Pain.

It gnawed at him. Slow. Unrelenting.

Not the sharp sting of a fresh wound, but the deep, throbbing ache that settles into broken things. His ribs ached with every shallow breath, his lips cracked, thick with dried blood. Something had split open above his brow—he could feel the sting, the way it pulsed, warm and wet, against his temple.

He was sitting—slumped, more like—against a tree. The bark dug into his back, each breath pressing him deeper into its unyielding surface. The air smelled of dirt, damp and rotting. Somewhere distant, a raven called, its voice harsh against the silence

The rough scrape of rope bit into his wrists, pulled tight around his waist. The coarse fibers burned against his skin, slick with blood. His fingers twitched, useless and trembling.

He was bound. He tasted iron.

Cregan struggled to open his eyes.

A dim, colorless world swam before him, shapes blurring and shifting like the remnants of some half-forgotten nightmare. His head lolled to the side, too heavy for his neck, too heavy for his battered body to hold.

He tried to move.

His arms refused him.

His legs—numb, useless beneath him.

Panic clawed at his throat, tightening, suffocating.

Where was he?

His mind was slow, thick with fog, as though trapped between sleep and waking. He reached for the last thing he remembered, stretching through the haze.

Hunting.

Yes. He had been hunting.

The bow in his hands. The taut pull of the string. The thrill of the arrow flying true.

The elk had fallen.

His mother was beside him.

His mother.

The thought came like a blade, cutting clean through the fog.

Cregan's breath hitched.

The weight of memory crashed down upon him all at once—sudden, sharp, unbearable.

A twig snapping. A voice, guttural and wrong. The brush exploding with movement.

His mother's voice, fierce and urgent— "GO!"

A man behind her.

The glint of steel.

The axe, rising—falling—

His mother's scream.

His arrow, loosed in blind terror. A man clutching his stomach, howling.

The hands on her throat.

Her voice, choked, fading.

Fingers tearing at cloth.

He had run.

His stomach lurched. He twisted against the ropes, a raw, animal sound tearing from his throat.

No, no, no—

This wasn't real.

This was some cruel jest of the gods.

A bad dream.

He would wake, any moment now. He would open his eyes and see her sitting by the fire, rolling her eyes at him, calling him lazy for sleeping so long.

He would wake.

He had to wake.

His chest heaved, breath shuddering as the world spun around him, collapsing inward.

But he did not wake.

The cold still clung to his skin. The pain still pulsed beneath his flesh. The ropes still bound his wrists, his waist, his legs.

And his mother was still gone.

A hollow sound rasped from his lips. A sob. A laugh.

What was he now?

His hands, useless. His legs, weak. His body, beaten.

He had run like a coward, like a sniveling child, like something weak and pathetic.

He had left her to die.

No. Worse.

He had left her to them.

His body trembled, not from the cold, but from something deeper.

The weight of it pressed into his ribs, coiled around his throat, filled his lungs with ice. He wanted to scream, to claw his way free, to bite, to tear, to kill—

But he was tied. Helpless.

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

All those lessons with Benjen. All that training with Walton.

For what?

He remembered dreaming of the day he would be a warrior like his father. A true warrior.

Now, Cregan could see him. A man, broad and powerful, standing in the dark of his mind. Watching. Judging. His father.

Looking down on him in disgust.

A sniveling, whimpering boy tied to a tree. Weak. Useless.

He couldn't protect her.

"I'll protect you, so don't worry." His own words mocked him, echoing in his mind, twisting like a knife.

His chest tightened. His breath came too fast, too shallow. The ropes burned against his wrists as his fingers twitched violently. His body seized, trembling, his ribs pulling tight.

The pain dulled, but the numbness spread.

He felt like he was falling.

Like he wasn't in his body anymore.

Like he was still running.

Abandoning his mother.

After what felt like an eternity, lost in grief, drowning in the weight of it, Cregan heard voices—low and rough, words foreign to his ears.

Men.

Not like the ones from the village. Not like anyone he knew. The language was guttural, thick, spoken in sharp, clipped tones. He could barely make sense of the sounds.

The scent of burning wood reached him next. A fire? His vision swam as his eyes adjusted to the dark. It was night. When had that happened? The last thing he remembered was—

Footsteps. Crunching over snow. Coming closer.

Then, a shadow loomed over him.

"Ha! I know you wake, boy."

A boot pressed into his chest, hard and unforgiving. Cregan gasped, a strangled, wheezing groan forced from his lungs. His body, too weak to resist, spasmed against the pressure.

Fingers twisted into his hair, yanking his head up. His scalp burned as his gaze was forced upward—forced to meet the eyes of the man before him.

A wildling.

Shaggy brown hair, tied back in a rough knot. His face was a map of old scars, deep and jagged, running across his weathered skin. A short brown beard clung to his jaw, dusted with frost.

As Cregan looked up at the wildling, something in his mind cracked open. A flood of memories, raw and unbidden, surged through him. He knew this one.

This was the man who had chased him.

Through the trees. Through the cold.

His breath hitched, his chest rising too fast, the weight of panic pressing against his ribs. He remembered running—his legs burning, lungs screaming for air, the frozen branches whipping against his skin. The sound of heavy boots crashing through the snow behind him, closing in, relentless.

Then—the trees thickened. A small gap between the trunks, narrow enough for him to squeeze through. He had scrambled, slipping on the frost, his breath ragged, heart hammering against his ribs like a caged beast.

For a moment, he thought he was safe.

Then the wildling had come tearing through the trees to his side, shoving through the thicket like a bear crashing through a den.

Cregan barely had time to turn before he saw the club swing.

He had tried to draw his knife—the one Benjen gave him, the one meant to protect him. His fingers fumbled at the hilt, slick with sweat despite the cold.

Too slow.

The club slammed into his ribs.

A sharp, searing pain exploded in his side, knocking the breath from his lungs. It was like fire licked through his skin, like something deep inside had cracked. He collapsed, the world spinning, his hands gripping at nothing but empty air.

The second hit came before he could think.

Wood met bone. A dull, sickening thud.

His body jerked with the force of it, a strangled gasp torn from his throat. He tasted blood, hot and metallic, pooling at the back of his tongue. His vision blurred, darkened at the edges.

Another hit.

Then another.

A ragged, breathless sob clawed its way out of his chest, but the wildling didn't stop.

Again.

And again.

His body convulsed. His nerves screamed. His breath came in frantic bursts.

The club came down one last time.

The world went black as the memory faded.

Somewhere, deep in his mind, something cracked.

Fear.

Cregan's lips parted, but no words came.

The man smirked, lifting a waterskin. Without warning, he tilted it forward, pouring the liquid into Cregan's mouth. He choked, swallowing what he could as the rest spilled over his chin, soaking into his already freezing clothes.

"Rest, boy." The wildling let go. His fingers uncurled from Cregan's hair, letting his head drop like a stone.

"I need you strong."

Then he was gone, his shadow fading towards the crackle of the distant fire.

Cregan lay still.

The cold crept deeper into him, gnawing at his skin, seeping into his bones.

And the fear—gods, the fear—clawed at his chest, wrapping tight around his ribs like a vise.

He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

What if he comes back with the club?

What if this was his life now?

A prisoner.

Alone.

I should have…

Mother…

I… failed…

His vision blurred. The world tilted. The cold reached into him, swallowing him whole.