Days passed, and life at Winterfell moved on as it always did. Cregan threw himself into learning what little Old Tongue Maester Luwin could teach and spent hours scouring the library for any scrap of knowledge it had to offer. He knew well that knowledge begets power.
But Cregan did not abandon his martial training, either. Ser Rodrik Cassel continued to oversee his daily practice, with Ned sometimes joining, though it was often Benjen, especially after he returned from dealing with the stewards who had stolen from House Stark. Those men now sat in the dungeons, waiting for the Night's Watch to take them.
Though a mercenary in his past life, Cregan was not as familiar with swords as one might expect. In hand-to-hand combat, he excelled; none of his peers could best him. With knives and staves, he was an expert, though he rarely displayed his full abilities. But swordsmanship was a different matter. However, his sharp instincts and combat experience carried him forward, allowing him to learn swordplay with impressive speed.
Three moons passed in this manner.
Jon and Robb were growing, both now crawling on all fours. But it wasn't the sept that troubled Lady Catelyn anymore—it was Cregan's growing bond with Jon. Her frustration simmered, and when Cregan sensed it, he spoke plainly.
"I don't care about Jon's status," Cregan had said, his tone firm. "He is Stark by blood, and that's all that matters. If you need to blame someone, blame your husband who could not keep it in his pants—not a child who had no say in who his parents were.
Children are shaped by their surroundings and their future depends on what they experience. Don't give Jon reasons to make your fears come true. Then the fault will lie with you alone."
His words had stung, but he knew they were necessary.
Ned didn't know which side to take at first, caught between his wife's concerns and his brother's bluntness. But when Cregan spoke, his words rang true, even if they stung.
Ned wanted to protest, perhaps with a half-hearted "Why me?" but he quickly realized the answer. Cregan's pointed remark had struck the core of the issue, though the directness of it left Ned feeling a little exposed. "Oh, I get why me..." he thought wryly, "but seriously, don't be so direct."
Three moons remained before the Harvest feast—the first after the long winter that had ended during Robert's Rebellion.
The moldboard plough and the seed drill had already begun to show their worth. These tools helped the farmers till the land and plant barley and oats in a more organized, efficient manner, reducing the time needed to work the fields.
As a result, more land was farmed than ever before, particularly around Winterfell and its nearby villages. If the harvest was as good as expected, Ned would see to it that these tools were spread throughout the North.
The invention could no longer remain secret, but if used wisely, House Stark would gain a reputation for innovation and prosperity.
To Cregan's surprise—and amusement—the farmers had taken to calling these new tools "Cregan's plough" and "Cregan's drill." When Benjen first relayed the news, Cregan had nearly choked on his water, accidentally spraying it over his brother's face.
The loom's prototype had been built, though it still needed some finishing touches after its first trial. The loom had been set up in a large warehouse within Winterfell, near the East Gate, First Keep, and the Guards Hall.
Winterfell's vast size easily accommodated the new building, and its location ensured better security. The smallfolk who would operate the loom were to live in Wintertown, with thorough background checks and their families placed under protection.
The wool drum and mechanical shears had already been tested, producing much cleaner wool than before. Now, only the carding machine and spinning wheel remained, essential for making threads and weaving the wool into fabrics.
More good news came from the villages by the lake and along the White Knife. They had completed their task of collecting ice and storing it underground, covered with straw and hay for insulation.
Ned had already sent word to Lord Wyman Manderly to prepare ships to transport the ice to King's Landing, where it would be auctioned.
Letting the nobles and merchants of the capital decide its worth seemed the best way to maximize profits. If the venture proved successful, even more ice would be stored during short winters, a natural advantage in the North's harsh climate.
If the venture truly became profitable, Ned was already considering expanding the operation. He would bring in the Night's Watch and the Skagosi houses to help with harvesting ice, especially in the far northern regions where the cold never relented.
Both groups needed the business far more than House Stark, and the profits would be shared among them.
Involving the Night's Watch could provide them with much-needed resources, and it would give the Skagosi, often viewed with suspicion by mainlanders, a chance to prove their worth. It was a strategy that not only promised wealth but also strengthened alliances across the North.
. ..
Another month passed in the blink of an eye. The farmers had begun harvesting their grains, and all were singing the praises of Cregan's curved sickle and scythe.
The tools were not only more efficient in cutting but also less taxing on the workers. By all accounts, the amount of grains harvested this season had increased by sixty to seventy percent, and vegetables like cabbage and turnips had more than doubled, a remarkable improvement that no one had expected.
Cregan, however, wasn't entirely pleased with the praise. What do you mean by Cregan's curved sickle? My sickle isn't curved! I refuse this naming, he thought, annoyed. But there were more pressing matters at hand.
At the moment, Cregan was deep in his own work—an experiment he had delayed for many moons. He was carefully extracting the red sap of the weirwood tree. Just last week, he had finally attempted something he had long pondered, combining the sap with weirwood seeds to create a paste.
From the old translated books in the library, Cregan had learned that both the sap and seeds of the weirwood were believed to hold magical properties. His hope was that this mixture would unlock some hidden potential within his mind, much like it had for Bran in the future.
Reluctant to proceed without more knowledge, Cregan had eventually grown restless and decided to take the risk. He heard rumors that the Skagosi tribes drinks the weirwood sap, and he had never heard of anyone dying from it.
But Cregan wasn't foolish enough to test it on himself—he needed a helper. And who better than Walder, now known as Hodor?
OOO
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