Cregan remained unconscious for nearly a sennight. When he finally stirred, it was deep in the night. His hand twitched, and his eyes fluttered open, the dim light casting long shadows over the room. A rustling sound caught his attention—Hodor, seated in the corner, had been roused by the movement.
"Hodor... Ho-do-dor," the big lad mumbled softly, his dark, sleepless eyes betraying how long he'd stayed awake, watching over Cregan.
Cregan, his throat dry and voice raspy, turned his head slowly toward him. "I'm alright, Walder," he croaked, his words heavy with weariness. "Water... bring me some water."
Hodor nodded eagerly, rising from his seat. He moved with surprising quickness for his size, fetching a cup from the nearby table and filling it from a pitcher. He handed it over with a careful hand, his face full of concern.
Cregan took a slow sip, feeling the cool water soothe his parched throat. "Thank you," he said, his voice a whisper of gratitude, though his mind was still heavy with the memory's he had seen during his unconsciousness.
Hodor remained by his side, hovering protectively.
But seeing the big lad standing there, worn and weary, tugged at Cregan's heart. He shifted over on the wide bed, making space. The bed could easily fit two, and Cregan wasn't about to let Hodor suffer more than he already had.
"Hodor," he rasped, patting the space beside him. "Come. Sleep here, with me."
Hodor blinked, surprised, but after a moment, he gave a hesitant nod. "Hodor..." he murmured, as if unsure, but then he climbed onto the bed with his usual gentleness, settling down beside Cregan.
The bed creaked under Hodor's weight as he settled down, his wide, childlike eyes staring at the ceiling. It wasn't long before sleep claimed him, leaving the room silent once again. Fortunately, he didn't snore, or Cregan might have regretted his kindness.
Cregan lay back, his body still aching from the ordeal that had left him unconscious. He couldn't be sure how many days had passed—three, maybe more. Instead of giving in to sleep once again, his mind drifted to the strange dreams that had haunted him while he lay unconscious.
Dreams of the crypts beneath Winterfell.
In his visions, Cregan wandered through the dark, cold halls of the Stark crypts. The faces of his ancestors, carved in stone, gazed down at him, stern and silent as ever. Deeper into the crypts he ventured until his steps brought him to one particular statue—Lord Cregan Stark, the Wolf of the North, who had lived during the time of the Targaryen kings.
From that moment, the dream shifted. Cregan was no longer a mere observer—he became Lord Cregan Stark, reliving his life through a veil of ancient memories. The events felt real, vivid, as though he were truly walking in the boots of his namesake, experiencing the long-forgotten past.
Lord Cregan Stark had ruled Winterfell during the turbulent years of the Dance of the Dragons, born in 108 AC as the eldest son of Rickon Stark and Lady Gilliane Glover. He had inherited Winterfell and the title of Warden of the North at just thirteen, though his uncle, Bennard Stark, had acted as regent. When Cregan came of age at sixteen, Bennard had been reluctant to relinquish power. It wasn't until Cregan imprisoned his uncle and cousins that he finally took control of the North.
Cregan's mind swirled with memories—he married Lady Arra Norrey, his childhood friend, though their happiness was short-lived. She died giving birth to their son, Rickon, leaving Cregan to raise the child alone. But even in his grief, Cregan's focus had been on the North and its independence.
Then came the larger conflicts—the death of King Viserys I Targaryen in 129 AC, the start of the war between the blacks and greens. Rhaenyra Targaryen, Viserys's daughter, had laid claim to the Iron Throne, while her half-brother Aegon II opposed her.
Cregan had initially kept the North distant from southern politics, until Prince Jacaerys Velaryon arrived at Winterfell. Riding his dragon Vermax, Jacaerys sought to gain Cregan's support for his mother's cause. They formed a bond—Cregan remembered feeling like the prince was the younger brother he had lost. The two hunted, drank, and sparred together, eventually swearing a blood oath of brotherhood. Their pact, known as the Pact of Ice and Fire, promised that Cregan's son, Rickon, would marry Jacaerys's future daughter.
The histories had told different versions of that time—some claimed Jacaerys tried to convert Cregan to the Faith of the Seven, while others, like Mushroom, spoke of secret affairs with Cregan's half-sister, Sara Snow.
But Cregan knew the truth. In the vision, he saw it all. Mushroom's ribald tales had been true—Jacaerys had indeed lain with Sara Snow, and they had wed in the Godswood. It was this marriage that solidified the Pact of Ice and Fire, binding the Stark and Targaryen families together. As a token of trust, Jacaerys had left behind three dragon eggs, birthed by Vermax, to be kept safe in the crypts of Winterfell.
Cregan, the lord, had hidden those dragon eggs in the deepest part of the crypts after Jacaery's death. He had never spoken of them to anyone, not even his descendants, fearing the trouble they might bring if they were ever found. He hadn't even trusted the Targaryens to honor the pact, knowing the fickle nature of kings.
And now, as the younger Cregan lay in his bed, his mind reeling from the visions, he realised the weight of what he had seen. The crypts of Winterfell held more than just the bones of long-dead Starks.
The dragon eggs were still there. Hidden. Waiting.
Cregan's first instinct was to consider the potential—the power that dragons could bring to him and the North. But almost immediately, he pushed the thought aside. He wanted them to hatch, yes, but he had no idea how to make that happen. Fire and Blood, maybe. And even if he succeeded, could he tame such creatures? The blood of the dragon didn't run through his veins, and dragons weren't beasts to be easily controlled. The thought of unleashing a force he couldn't master chilled him more than it excited him.
No, the eggs would remain hidden for now. Better not to awaken a sleeping giant without knowing how to handle it.
Instead, Cregan's focus shifted to something more within his reach—the experience of the Old Man of the North. The life of Lord Cregan Stark had been full of lessons, trials, and strength. There was far more to learn from his namesake than just the forgotten dragon eggs hidden in Winterfell's crypts.
The wisdom of an elder Stark who had navigated one of the most tumultuous periods in Westeros' history intrigued Cregan more deeply. The strategies, the choices made, and the balance of loyalty and power in such turbulent times—these were lessons Cregan felt he could use. Lord Cregan Stark's life was a well of knowledge, one that could guide him in the days to come.
But then, his thoughts went in another direction. If the visions of Lord Cregan could come to him, what about the memories of other Starks enshrined in the crypts? Could he reach back further still?
It was Bran the Builder who intrigued him most. The legendary founder of House Stark, who raised Winterfell and, according to the old tales, the Wall itself. Bran had been the last to wield the magic of the First Men alongside the Children of the Forest. If Cregan could access those memories—if he could learn the magic of the First Men's runes—then he would be closer to unlocking the true power that ran through the veins of his ancestors.
The thought set his heart racing. The crypts of Winterfell held many secrets, and now, more than ever, Cregan longed to uncover them. Bran the Builder's legacy might be the key to mastering the ancient magic he sought.
But how could he reach those memories? The weirwoods seemed to be the answer. They connected the past, present, and future in ways that defied understanding. If he could deepen his connection to the weirwoods, perhaps he could dive further into the past, beyond just the Old Man of the North, and find Bran the Builder's forgotten wisdom.
OOO
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