Kapitel 9: Winter Rose and Gift
Cregan stood outside the entrance to the crypts, the cold northern wind tugging at his cloak. The others had already gathered—Benjen, Lady Catelyn, Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik, Vayon Poole—but Ned was yet to arrive.
As Cregan stood there, he saw Bael, the sculptor, emerging from the crypt. His hands were covered in stone dust, and his helpers followed him, carrying their tools and wiping sweat from their brows. The installation was complete.
Bael caught sight of Cregan and gave a small nod, respectful and weary. Cregan returned it in kind, knowing the man had done well. The memory of Lyanna was now carved in stone, set among her ancestors where she belonged.
The group remained outside the crypts, standing in the cold, waiting for Ned.
Finally, Ned arrived, his face shadowed with the weight of what was to come. With a solemn nod, he led the group down into the crypts. The ironwood door creaked open, its heavy, ancient frame groaning in protest. It stood in the oldest part of Winterfell, near the First Keep, the lichyard close by. Beyond that door lay the heart of Stark history, the place where the dead of their line rested, keeping silent watch over the living.
The narrow stone steps wound downward, steep and worn with age. The deeper they went, the colder and darker the air became, as if the very walls remembered the long winters and countless years that had passed. The crypts were vast, larger even than Winterfell above, and the vaulted ceiling gave the place an eerie, timeless quality.
Granite pillars stood in long, solemn rows, two by two, framing the resting places of long-dead Starks. Each tomb bore a statue carved in the likeness of the Kings in the North and the Lords of Winterfell. Some were shaggy-bearded and wild, others clean-shaven and severe, but all were unmistakably Stark. At their feet, stone direwolves curled, a symbol of their house and their fierce protection, even in death.
Tradition held that only the lords of Winterfell and the kings before them received statues, with iron longswords laid across their laps to keep their restless spirits at bay. The further one ventured into the crypts, the older and darker the tombs became. Some levels were said to have partly collapsed, the forgotten dead buried in shadows.
As they descended, they passed the most recent tombs—Lord Rickard Stark and his sons, Brandon and Lyanna. It was here that Cregan and the others paused. The tombs further back, still empty and unsealed, waited for future generations of Starks.
Breaking from the tradition of only honoring lords with statues, Ned had ensured his siblings would be remembered in stone. The likenesses of Brandon and Lyanna stood side by side now, eternal figures guarding their family's legacy. Today, they came to see Lady Lyanna's final resting place, her statue newly completed and standing among the ancient line of their kin.
Cregan's eyes lingered on the statue of Lyanna, her face now immortalized in stone, capturing the fierce yet graceful expression she had worn in life. The stone seemed to breathe with life, as if at any moment she might step down from her pedestal. The sculptor, Bael, had done more than simply carve a figure—he had captured her essence.
Beside him, his brothers—Ned and Benjen—stood quietly, their eyes fixed on Lyanna's likeness. Both men wore expressions of deep sadness. Cregan could see the grief in their faces, the sorrow that came from having known her in life, and now seeing her memorialized in such stunning detail. Neither had expected the sculptor to match her likeness so closely, yet here she stood, almost as if she had never left.
Ned's gaze was long and thoughtful. Cregan could tell his brother was pleased with the work, despite the ache it stirred. Ned had already made up his mind to reward Bael for his craft. It was rare for such skill to be found in a simple stonemason, and Cregan knew that this statue would be remembered for as long as the crypts stood.
Together, the three brothers stood before their sister's statue, the cold air of the crypts wrapping around them. The flicker of torchlight cast long, wavering shadows on the stone walls, but none of them spoke, lost in their own thoughts of the past.
After a moment, Catelyn moved forward. She approached with quiet dignity, her eyes full of understanding though she had never known Lyanna. In her hand, she held a single winter rose, pale blue, its petals trembling slightly in the chill air. She knelt and placed it gently at the base of the statue, a simple, thoughtful offering.
Ned, as Lord of Winterfell, stepped closer to the stone likeness of his sister. For a moment, the sternness of his face softened, and a flicker of the grief he kept buried deep showed in his grey eyes. He took a breath, steady and slow, before speaking, his voice low and filled with the weight of years gone by.
"Lyanna Stark," he began, his tone grave and quiet, "you were taken from us too soon. The years have passed, but we have not forgotten. You were a wolf, fierce and free, and your memory will live on in this place, as it does in our hearts."
He paused, glancing at his brothers, then back at the statue. "Here you will remain, with our ancestors, where you belong."
Silence fell once more, the only sound the soft rustle of the winter rose as it lay at Lyanna's feet.
. . .
The next day, Cregan woke later than usual, the sunlight already creeping into his chamber. Still, he followed his morning routine and made his way to the Godswood. It had become something of a ritual for him.
Since the moment he had first awakened in Cregan Stark's body, he had felt something in the air—a presence, cold and murky, like a veil of magic draped over the North. The feeling was strange, unsettling even, but it became clearer when he stood before the Weirwood tree in the Godswood.
The Hearttree was unlike anything else. Where the rest of the magic felt stale, the energy flowing from the Weirwood was warm and breezy, a living current pulsing through the ancient wood. It called to him, and when he touched it for the first time, he felt the bond. A slight connection, but a connection nonetheless.
Though he lacked the ability to see into the past like a greenseer or Bloodraven, Cregan found his own gift. He could sense everything across the North—extending from Castle Cerwyn in the south to Tumbledown Tower in the north.
He felt the presence of life itself, every human and every animal that roamed the lands in between. He could tell which parts of the land were rich and fertile, which were barren or troubled.
And Winterfell, his home, unfolded in his mind like a detailed map, each wall, each stone familiar. He could detect even the smallest flaw, a crack in the stone, if he focused enough.
At first, the sensation had overwhelmed him, but what truly left him awestruck was the small current of energy that surged from the tree into him, like a spark that lit something long dormant in his blood. He knew it was the magic of the Weirwood, a power ancient and pure, and it seemed to awaken something in him—a potential for magic that he hadn't known existed.
When that first trickle of magic had coursed through him, Cregan had felt his body grow stronger, just slightly. But that wasn't all. As his hand rested on the bark of the Hearttree, he could sense the entire tree, feel every inch of it as though he were part of it. He felt its roots stretching deep beneath Winterfell, far below even the crypts.
He had the strange sense that, with enough magic, he could command those roots and branches, move them as he willed. And it wasn't just the Weirwood—he could do this with any plant life, should his magic grow strong enough.
So for the next few days, Cregan came to the Godswood every morning. He would touch the Weirwood, drawing on its power, training his ability to control the plants around him. It was slow, but he found that each time he used his magic, it became easier.
The plants responded more readily, and though it exhausted him at first, he could feel his strength returning stronger after each session. His connection to the magic deepened, and his control over the life around him grew, bit by bit.
The day before, Benjen had witnessed one of Cregan's experiments—his attempt to reshape the face carved into the Heart Tree. Cregan had concentrated on altering the features, shifting the ancient, carved expression as a test of his newfound abilities.
But the Weirwood, with its own deep-rooted magic, resisted such changes. While Cregan could manipulate its form for a time, the magic of the tree itself eventually restored the face to its original state, erasing his work after only a few hours.
Cregan sat down at the base of the Weirwood, placing his hand gently on its bark. He let the steady pulse of the magic within the tree guide him, feeling its warm, breezy flow as it coursed through the ancient wood. It was almost like a form of meditation, a way to recover his strength and deepen his connection to the natural magic of the land.
Cregan closed his eyes, breathing in the cold northern air, and allowed himself to focus solely on the ebb and flow of the Weirwood's energy.
The magic wasn't his to command fully, not yet, but he could feel it, and with every session, it grew a little easier to tap into that ancient source.
Apart from that, a vivid picture also formed in his mind—he could see the life of the castle unfolding as if he were watching it from above.
In the kitchens, Gage was busy ordering the servants, barking instructions to cut turnips and prepare chickens for the evening meal. The clatter of knives and the bubbling of pots were as clear in Cregan's mind as if he stood beside them.
Elsewhere, Hullen, the master of horse, carried buckets of water to the thirsty steeds, while Farlen, the kennelmaster, tossed leftover bones to the eager dogs. Mikken, the blacksmith, had already lit the forge, the fire crackling to life as he prepared to work the steel.
Then his mind's eye wandered to Hodor—Walder as he had once been called. Cregan saw Old Nan, Hodor's great-grandmother, berating the boy for dozing off inside the stables again. Hodor, already a head taller than Cregan despite being a year younger, stood sheepishly as Old Nan scolded him.
Cregan frowned. A year ago, Hodor had changed—his speech had withered to a single word: "Hodor."
And though Cregan's presence in this world had altered many things, it seemed Bran's future influence over Hodor remained unchanged.
This troubled Cregan deeply. He had spent many nights thinking about it, wondering why his presence hadn't shifted Hodor's fate. If even Bran's future had been set in stone, what else might be unchangeable?
OOO
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