Winterfell's crypts were forbidden to children, but that had never stopped Cregon.
The descent was steep and cold, the stone steps slick with damp. He moved slowly, Ghost padding silently at his side, white fur stark in the gloom. A lantern swung from his hand, casting flickering light on the carved faces of Starks long dead. Iron swords rested in stone hands, their gaze solemn even in death.
But Cregon wasn't here to pay respects.
He was searching.
The dream had come again the night before. A great black wolf with glowing eyes, pacing between statues. A whisper, soft and persistent: "Below the blood, beneath the frost."
He had awoken sweating, his palm seared with the memory of a strange sigil—the two dragons, now clearer. His name had echoed in the dark.
He was Cregon. He knew that now. But he did not yet know what it meant.
He moved past the tombs of Bran the Builder, Rickard Stark, Lyanna... He paused there, staring at her face. The stone was too smooth, her features sculpted in mourning. A woman forever young, forever weeping.
Ghost growled softly.
Cregon turned, and his lantern caught a jagged crack in the wall just behind Lyanna's tomb—a seam barely visible unless the light struck it just so.
He hesitated, then pressed his palm to the crack.
The stone was cool… until it wasn't. A pulse rippled beneath his skin. The wall shivered. With a deep grinding sound, it slid open.
Behind it was a narrow passage.
He ducked into the space, the air thick and unmoving. Dust swirled around his feet, undisturbed for generations. The hallway sloped downward, far deeper than any part of the crypts he had ever explored. The further he went, the warmer it became—not the chill of buried stone, but a dry, ancient heat that smelled faintly of ash.
Then came the chamber.
It was circular, domed, the walls etched with sigils he did not recognize. At the center stood a stone pedestal. Upon it rested a sword.
Long. Lean. Black as shadow.
Cregon approached. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
The blade called to him—not with sound, but sensation. Memory. Recognition.
He reached out, fingers trembling, and grasped the hilt.
The instant his skin touched it, the world vanished.
He stood on a battlefield, skies choked with smoke. Dragons screamed overhead—one red, one golden. A man in armor stood beside him, his helm shaped like a hawk's head. His eyes were yellow.
"Cregon," the man said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You were born of both bloods. Fire and frost. Remember that."
Another flash—
A woman with silver hair cradled a child in a tower bathed in moonlight. Her eyes were wide with fear and love.
"Promise me," she whispered. "He is not just ice. There is fire, too."
A final vision—
A great hall, empty save for a throne of twisted black stone. Cregon approached it, his hand still clutching the black blade. As he climbed the steps, fire burst from the shadows—but did not touch him.
Instead, it bent.
The visions faded, and he staggered backward, breath ragged.
He was himself again.
But everything had changed.
He emerged from the crypts hours later. The sun had long set, and Winterfell slumbered under a blanket of stars. He moved through the halls with the blade wrapped tightly in old cloth, its presence humming faintly against his ribs.
When he reached his chamber, Ghost leapt up onto the bed and curled tightly, eyes watching the door.
Cregon sat with the sword beside him, staring into the hearth flames. He didn't sleep. He couldn't. Not yet.
At dawn, a knock rapped at the door.
"Jon?" It was Robb.
Cregon opened the door halfway.
"I'm going to spar," Robb said. "Want to join?"
Cregon nodded. "Soon."
Robb gave him a quizzical look, then turned. "You've changed lately," he said over his shoulder.
"I'm remembering," Cregon replied softly.
That morning, the maester's raven returned from the Wall.
Lord Stark read the letter in silence. His eyes narrowed.
"Benjen writes of strange things," he murmured to Maester Luwin. "Men vanishing. Tracks that end in the snow. Wildling whispers of the dead walking."
Luwin frowned. "Should we send riders?"
"No." Ned folded the letter. "Not yet. But something moves beyond the Wall. And something stirs within our walls, too."
He looked out the window, where Cregon stood in the training yard, wooden sword in hand. His movements were sharp, precise. Too precise for a boy untrained.
"Keep an eye on him," Ned said. "There's more to that boy than I can name."
That night, Cregon opened the book again.
The silver text shifted and moved, no longer foreign. He read aloud the names of ancient kings, forgotten bloodlines, and prophecies etched in the margins. One line stood out:
"When the frozen flame awakens, the dragons of the deep will stir."
He didn't know what it meant.
But he knew he was part of it.
Not a Stark. Not a bastard. Not a child of shame.
He was Cregon. The name chosen, not given.
And he was only beginning to understand what that truly meant.