Late 132 AC
The snow fell softly beyond the window, blanketing Winterfell in a familiar white shroud. Cregan watched it gather on the courtyard stones, accumulating in the corners where the wind couldn't reach. His eyes returned to his son below, studying the boy's movements with quiet pride. The winter sun cast long shadows across the training yard, where his son continued his drills with unwavering focus under the attention of Master Hallis.
Though the boy was only four namedays, he had been given permission to start learning the sword.
"Lord Stark," Maester Kennet said, breaking the silence. "There is more news from King's Landing that requires your attention."
Cregan nodded, reluctantly turning away from the window. The fire in the hearth crackled as he settled into the chair behind his desk, his shadow stretching long across the floor.
"What else does Lord Manderly report?" he asked, reaching for the scroll.
"The king's regents quarrel amongst themselves like crows over carrion," Kennet replied, his chain links clinking softly as he shifted. "With Lord Velaryon having passed, there is talk that Lord Unwin Peake seeks to position his daughter as a potential bride for the king. The king himself has stated that Gaemon Palehair is to be his heir."
Cregan's mouth tightened. "Peake has always reached beyond his grasp. The realm still bleeds from the Dance, and already the vultures circle."
"And what of this Palehair boy? What do we know of him?" Cregan asked, running a weathered thumb along the edge of the parchment.
Kennet's spectacles caught the firelight as he tilted his head. "Very little, my lord. He is said to be of Lysene descent, his mother a cousin to the late Queen Larra Rogare. The boy is but seven namedays old, scarcely older than your own son."
Cregan considered this. Children on thrones rarely boded well for the realm. He had seen enough bloodshed in the name of succession to last several lifetimes.
"Aegon the Third," Cregan murmured, more to himself than to his maester. The name itself carried weight, a reminder of how close the Targaryen dynasty had come to extinction. The boy who watched dragons die. The broken child who had seen his mother devoured before his eyes.
Cregan had met him briefly during his time in King's Landing, a hollow-eyed child with none of the fire that had made his ancestors formidable. The boy barely spoke, flinched at sudden movements, and seemed to shrink within himself when addressed directly. A king in name only, surrounded by ambitious men who saw only opportunity in his trauma.
"They say he still refuses to sit the Iron Throne," Cregan said, the memory of the twisted metal monstrosity rising unbidden in his mind. "Prefers a wooden chair beside it instead."
"A prudent choice, perhaps," Kennet offered. "The throne has drawn enough blood."
Cregan grunted in agreement. He had never coveted that seat of swords, not even when he'd held the power to claim it for himself. For six days, he had been Hand of the King, long enough to dispense the justice that honor demanded, then return to the North where he belonged. Others might have lingered, might have used that power to reshape the realm according to their ambitions. But the South was a viper's nest that had nearly consumed itself. The Targaryen dynasty hung by a thread as thin as the boy king's wrist.
"We northerners remember what the rest of the realm seems eager to forget," Cregan said, rising to pace before the hearth. The heat of the flames did little to warm the chill that settled in his bones whenever he thought of the Dance. "Winter came for House Targaryen, and nearly took them all. Brothers killing brothers. Sisters killing sisters. Dragons falling from the sky like burning stars."
He paused, watching the flames dance. Fire and blood—the Targaryen words. They had brought both to Westeros in abundance.
"And now they place their hopes on a frightened child who cannot bear to hear a dragon mentioned in his presence." Cregan shook his head. "The realm will bleed again before that boy comes of age."
Through the window, he caught sight of his son again. Rickon had taken a tumble in the snow but was already rising, brushing himself off with determined little hands before retrieving his wooden practice sword. The sight stirred something in Cregan's chest, pride, yes, but also apprehension. What world would his son inherit? What wars would he be forced to fight because of southern follies?
The boy was quick to learn though, Cregan noted with satisfaction. Not just with a sword, but in matters of the mind as well. Rickon's tutoring had begun earlier than most, at Maester Kennet's insistence.
"What of my son's other studies?" Cregan asked, turning from the window. "How does he fare with his letters and numbers?"
The change in subject seemed to transform Kennet, his scholarly demeanor brightening like a candle given fresh air. The maester straightened, chain links jingling with the sudden movement.
"Young Rickon is..." Kennet paused, searching for the proper words. "In all my years at the Citadel and serving House Stark, I have never encountered a mind quite like his, my lord."
Cregan raised an eyebrow. Kennet was not given to exaggeration.
"At four namedays, he reads as well as boys thrice his age," the maester continued, his thin hands animated now. "He devours texts meant for much older students. Last week, I found him with a volume of Valyrian histories, sounding out the words to himself."
"And his figures?" Cregan asked, a flicker of pride warming his chest despite his attempt at stoicism.
"Remarkable," Kennet breathed. "We've moved well beyond simple counting and basic sums. The boy grasps concepts I wouldn't normally introduce until a child's tenth nameday. I've begun teaching him principles of geometry that are typically reserved for acolytes at the Citadel."
Cregan's brow furrowed. "You don't find this... unnatural?"
The maester hesitated, adjusting his spectacles. "Different, certainly. Exceptional, without doubt. But children of unusual gifts appear throughout history, my lord."
Cregan turned back to the window, watching his son parry a slow, deliberate strike from Master Hallis.
"And what does he say of these lessons?" Cregan asked, his voice softer now.
"He asks questions I sometimes struggle to answer," Kennet admitted. "Yesterday, he inquired about the principles behind the changing of seasons. Not merely the fact that summer follows spring, but why such changes occur. He speaks of the heavens and stars as if they follow patterns we might decode, given time and proper observation."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the hearth.
"Keep these observations between us," Cregan decided finally. "The boy will have enough burdens without rumors of unnatural talents."
"Of course, my lord," Kennet nodded solemnly.
"And his dreams?" Cregan asked suddenly. "Has he spoken more of them?"
The maester's expression grew troubled. "Less frequently than before. Though three nights past, he woke screaming about wolves with burning eyes."
Cregan's jaw tightened. The old gods spoke through dreams sometimes, especially to those of Stark blood. What they might be telling his son, he could not guess.
Before Cregan could respond, a raven fluttered through the open window, wings beating frantically against the cold air. It landed on the desk with a soft thud, snow melting on its black feathers. The bird fixed them with a beady eye, extending its leg to reveal a small scroll tied with gray ribbon.
Maester Kennet moved quickly to untie it, his fingers working the knot with practiced ease. The raven, freed of its burden, hopped to the window ledge and settled there, as if awaiting a response.
Cregan watched as the maester's eyes scanned the parchment. The old man's face, already pale from years spent indoors poring over tomes and scrolls, drained of what little color it possessed. The maester's hands trembled slightly, causing the parchment to rustle in the silence.
"What is the matter?" Cregan asked, straightening in his chair, a familiar weight of dread settling in his stomach.
Kennet swallowed hard before meeting his lord's gaze. "Grim tidings from Lord Manderly, my lord. There are rumors of winter fever spreading through White Harbor."
Cregan's jaw clenched. Winter fever. The words alone were enough to chill the blood of any northman. The disease moved swiftly through crowded quarters, striking down the young and old alike with merciless efficiency. The last outbreak, during his grandfather's time, had claimed nearly a third of Winterfell's household.
"How widespread?" he demanded, rising from his seat.
"The letter is dated two days past," Kennet replied, still studying the parchment. "Lord Manderly reports three dozen confirmed cases in the harbor district, with new cases appearing daily. He has ordered the affected areas quarantined, but fears the contagion may have already spread beyond containment."
"White Harbor is the North's gateway to the world," he said, his breath fogging the glass. "Ships from Braavos, Pentos, even as far as Yi Ti dock at her wharves. If the fever takes hold there..."
"It could spread throughout the North with the spring trade," Kennet finished grimly. "Lord Manderly requests guidance on whether to close the port entirely."
Cregan rubbed his beard, mind racing through calculations of food stores and winter reserves. Closing White Harbor would strangle the North's already tenuous trade, but allowing ships to continue their routes risked carrying the fever to every corner of his domain.
"What remedies do we have?" he asked.
Kennet hesitated. "Few that are proven effective, my lord. Willow bark tea offers some relief from the fever. Mustard poultices for the chest congestion. But once the bloody cough begins..." The maester trailed off, the unspoken truth hanging between them.
"Send ravens to every holdfast and keep," Cregan commanded. "Any sign of fever is to be reported immediately. Instruct the maesters to prepare what remedies they can."
He turned from the window, decision made. "Tell Lord Manderly to close the harbor to all incoming vessels. Those already docked must remain quarantined for a fortnight before any crew may disembark. Any ship seeking to leave must submit its crew to examination by the maesters."
"And what of Winterfell, my lord?" Kennet asked. "Shall we close the gates?"
Cregan's eyes drifted back to his son in the courtyard below. "Not yet. But double the guards at the Hunter's Gate and the East Gate. No travelers from the east are to enter without close scrutiny."
He moved to the hearth, staring into the flames as if they might offer counsel. The North had endured long winters, wars, and worse. It would survive this too, though not without cost. The question that gnawed at him was how high that cost would be.
"Have Maester Walton prepare the winter stores inventory," he added. "If we must isolate Winterfell, I would know exactly how long we can sustain ourselves."
The raven on the windowsill cawed softly, reminding them of its presence. Cregan nodded to Kennet. "Send our reply to Lord Manderly. Tell him the Starks stand with White Harbor, as always."
As Kennet prepared parchment and ink, Cregan's thoughts turned to the crypts beneath Winterfell, where generations of Starks watched with stone eyes. How many had faced similar trials? How many had made decisions that determined who would live and who would die?
Outside, the snow continued to fall, indifferent to the troubles of men.
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Records of Archmaester Myles - 170 AC
Of the various calamities to befall the Seven Kingdoms during the reign of Aegon III, none matched the lethality of the Winter Fever. This contagion, the most devastating since the era of the Shivers, first manifested in late 132 AC upon the Three Sisters, where it extinguished half the lives in Sisterton. In a fit of misplaced vengeance, the survivors blamed Ibbenese whaling crews for the blight, leading to a localized massacre of all Ibbenese found on the islands.
The sickness soon spanned the waters of the Bite to White Harbor, claiming the lives of both Lord Desmond Manderly and his heir, Medrick. This loss compelled Ser Torrhen Manderly to resign his position on the council of regents in the capital to secure his family's seat in the North. From these northern hubs, the fever drifted south like a cold mist, choking the major ports of the eastern seaboard, Gulltown, Maidenpool, and Duskendale, in rapid succession, even as concurrent reports confirmed the plague had reached the Free City of Braavos.
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