In Winterfell's training yard, wooden swords clacked and scraped with boyish fury. Robb Stark fought with fire and pride, charging at every opponent like a prince born for war. Theon Greyjoy moved with flair, eager to impress. But Cregon… Cregon moved with something else—silence, patience, a deadly rhythm.
Their blades met, Robb grinning as he struck. Cregon absorbed the blow and countered—not with brute force, but with precision. He turned, pivoted, swept Robb's legs. The sword flew from the young lord's hand.
Gasps echoed. Ser Rodrik Cassel cleared his throat. "Again."
Robb scrambled up, panting. "Where did you learn that?"
Cregon shrugged. "I didn't. It just… felt right."
Later, in the solitude of the godswood, he retraced the fight, drawing lines in snow with a stick, mimicking the footwork. His body moved as if following steps long etched into muscle memory. Was it instinct? A gift?
Ned Stark approached, silent as ever.
"Jon," he said—though the name grated—"who taught you to fight like that?"
"No one," Cregon answered. "I didn't learn. I remembered."
Lord Stark's face tightened. "There are truths buried in blood and bone. Memory isn't always from the mind."
Cregon turned away. "Then whose memories are they?"
That night, the wind moaned in the halls. Cregon lay awake, wondering if the answers were buried in the frost under his skin.