The Chosen Few
Snow crunched underfoot as Cregan Stark crossed the yard toward Winterfell's wood mill, breath misting in the sharp morning air. His black cloak snapped behind him. He moved with purpose, boots already dusted with frost.
The sounds of work greeted him: saws biting through pine, men shouting orders, the thump of logs stacked in rhythm.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wood oil, sap, and sweat. Sunlight poured through narrow slats in the roof, catching flakes of sawdust as they drifted like golden snow.
Eddric, the head millwright, looked up and wiped his hands.
"Back again, my lord? You planning to live in the sawdust?"
Cregan offered a faint smile. "Maybe. But not today. I need men. Loyal ones."
That got Eddric's attention. "For what?"
Cregan's tone shifted — quiet, serious.
"Work. Important work. But quiet. Something that doesn't go beyond these walls."
Eddric raised an eyebrow, then waved him toward the back. "Let's talk."
---
A few minutes later – In the back shed
They stood in the warm, fire-lit shed where Cregan had done his early experiments. Piles of bark and drying paper still sat stacked near the wall.
"I need builders," Cregan said. "One carpenter. One smith. A woodsman who knows the rivers. Two boys with sharp hands, who can learn quickly. Loyal to the North. Loyal to Stark."
Eddric scratched his beard. "That's half my best crew."
"They'll be compensated. Quietly. With food. With security. With the name Stark behind them."
Eddric grunted. "And they'll ask why."
"They won't get answers. Only trust."
A pause. Then Eddric nodded. "I might know the men."
---
The next day – Quiet Conversations
1. Rannyl the Carpenter
The same man who helped Cregan build the first frames. Tall, older, with hands like cracked leather and a quiet sense of humor.
"You know I'm not one for secrets," Rannyl muttered, as he inspected the new drawings. "But if it's for the good of the North... and the boy's clever... I'll work."
"You'll be building something no one else can," Cregan said. "It has to last. Even in snow."
"It'll last," Rannyl grunted. "Longer than your southern scribes, I'd wager."
2. Tormund the Smith's Apprentice
Young, thick-armed, red hair singed at the ends. Loyal to House Stark, eager to prove himself.
"What am I making?" he asked.
Cregan smiled slightly. "Press frames. Bars. Smoothers. You'll know when the tools arrive. Until then, keep your forge hot and your mouth shut."
Tormund nodded, jaw firm. "Aye, m'lord. For the North."
3. Baric, the River-Walker
A solitary woodsman, known to map terrain by memory. Grey-bearded, scar over one eye. Had once saved a Glover scout party from drowning.
"I'll find your site," Baric said, after Cregan showed him the marked river bend on the map. "But I'll want no songs about it."
"You'll have none," Cregan said. "Just work. Just loyalty."
Baric snorted. "Sounds like the old ways. I like it."
4 & 5. The Steward Boys – Jonrik and Mella
One was a steward's son, quiet but sharp-eyed. The other, Mella, was the daughter of a stablemaster — small, clever, and unusually fast with her hands.
"You'll learn inkwork," Cregan told them. "Folding, stamping, counting sheets. You'll be the first to see what others won't for years."
"Will it be dangerous?" Mella asked.
Cregan answered without pause. "Yes. But not if you're careful. Not if you remember who you serve."
"House Stark," Jonrik said quietly.
Cregan nodded.
"Then come when I call."
---
That night – In Rickon Stark's solar
Rickon looked up from a raven scroll.
"You've chosen them?"
Cregan nodded. "Five for now. The sixth will come later. Someone who understands how to move things without being seen."
"Smugglers?"
"Maybe. Or someone better."
Rickon leaned back. "And you trust them?"
"No," Cregan said. "I trust their loyalty to the North. That's stronger than trust."
Rickon studied him.
"You speak like a man twice your age."
Cregan replied, without flinching: "That's because the world we're building… is ten years ahead of its time."
Timber and Eyes
The Mill Begins
The air was sharp enough to sting the lungs.
Cregan Stark pulled his fur collar tighter as he and his five chosen workers followed Baric down the slope toward the frozen river bend. Above them, the pines loomed like sentinels—silent, frost-covered, and tall enough to block snowlight from the south.
The sleds behind them groaned under the weight of iron and timber, their wheels wrapped in rawhide to silence their turning.
Cregan dismounted.
"This is where we build," he said.
Baric sniffed the air. "Wind's always east here. That'll help smoke drift low. And no game trails—no wandering hunters."
Rannyl stomped the ground with his boot.
"Hard clay under snow. We'll need to dig deep."
Tormund, the smith's apprentice, grinned. "Then it won't flood. That's good."
Cregan knelt, pulling off one glove to press his fingers into the dirt. Cold, yes—but dry. Perfect for laying foundation beams.
"We'll start with the press shed. Two dry rooms. One covered trough space. Then the kiln wall on the north end."
Rannyl raised an eyebrow. "Where'd you learn to build mills, my lord?"
Cregan stood and dusted off his palm. "Books. And watching men who build."
Mella laughed from behind. "Books don't swing hammers."
Cregan gave a quiet smile. "But they tell you where to swing."
The crew went to work.
Axes thudded into ice-covered roots. Planks were measured with cord and notched. Tormund unloaded iron rods and press weights, muttering under his breath about how cold ruined metal's patience.
Cregan moved among them — not ordering, but directing. Adjusting placements. Showing angles. His breath fogged the air, but his voice stayed steady.
"We build for silence," he reminded them. "No shouting. No fires outside. Smoke stays low. Footprints are scattered on exit."
Baric added, "And anyone who sees this mill… doesn't see Winterfell."
They nodded.
The mill was not yet a structure — but in Cregan's eyes, it was already a weapon.
– Suspicion at Winterfell
Back at Winterfell, Brandon Stark stood in the lower courtyard, arms crossed, watching two oxen carts loaded with chopped wood and sealed crates of oil-dried timber.
"Where's this all headed?" he asked the steward.
The steward hesitated. "South trail, m'lord."
"South trail? There's no construction ordered on that path."
"Lord Rickon approved the movement. Said no questions."
Brandon's face hardened.
Later that afternoon, inside the main hall, he spotted Lyanna, tugging on her gloves.
"Going somewhere?"
She didn't stop moving. "I'm riding out. Just a short loop."
Brandon stepped forward. "Following him?"
She paused.
"He vanishes every third day. No one's seen him in the armory. He skips training. And his boots are mud-stained — not Winterfell's mud. River mud."
Brandon's brow furrowed. "He's ten. Too serious for ten."
Lyanna slung her satchel over her shoulder.
"Then maybe he's hiding something serious."
He looked at her. "And if he is?"
She mounted her horse in one clean motion.
"Then I'll find out. I am his sister."
Then she rode, cloak trailing like a grey whisper behind her.
– Firelight and Doubts
The sun was dying behind the hills when the crew lit the first indoor fire inside the unfinished shed.
Thick beams now stood like ribs. One wall was half-built. The press frame was laid out on logs, unassembled. A pulley frame had been carved and placed beside it.
Inside, the team huddled close to the flames, eating dried trout and hard bread. Mella chewed slowly, rubbing her sore hands.
"I never thought I'd work with wood and secrets," she muttered.
Jonrik, beside her, was quiet. He was always quiet.
Tormund scraped metal shavings from his glove. "Southrons don't think we can build. Just fight."
"We'll show them," Rannyl said.
Cregan said nothing. He sat at the edge of the fire circle, half-lit in orange glow, staring at the first complete drying rack.
One rack. One tool.
But it was real.
Not a dream. Not a drawing.
It was the future — piece by piece, nail by nail.
Baric sat across from him. "You think too much."
Cregan blinked. "You don't think enough."
That got a chuckle.
Baric leaned forward. "You're making something bigger than just paper, aren't you?"
Cregan didn't answer.
His eyes drifted toward the dark trees beyond the ridge — where, even now, a rider watched from the shadows.
...
Blood and Ice
The godswood was silent, snow blanketing the ground, turning every tree into a white shadow.
Cregan stood beneath the weirwood, his breath slow and steady as he wiped soot from his gloves. The day's work had followed him home again — splinters in his cuffs, ink smudged on one thumb.
Then he heard boots crunch behind him.
He didn't turn.
"You've been following me," he said.
Lyanna's voice cut through the cold. "Because you're hiding something."
Now he turned.
She stood there in her riding leathers, hair braided tight, her grey eyes narrowed. Angry. But beneath the anger — hurt.
"You vanish for hours. Sometimes days," she said. "You skip training. You miss meals. You don't talk to us anymore. You act like you're forty, not ten."
Cregan raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. "Would you prefer I ran around with a wooden sword and played knight?"
"I'd prefer you were honest."
He stepped past her toward the water basin, dipped his hands, scrubbed.
"Lyanna," he said calmly, "I'm not doing anything that hurts anyone. I just need space."
"You need space? From your own family?"
He didn't answer.
So she stepped forward.
"Don't pretend this is nothing. I saw the smoke by the river. I saw the men. You think you're the only one in this castle with eyes?"
Cregan looked up now.
Slowly. Eyes cold.
"You saw smoke."
"Yes."
"You followed me?"
"Yes."
He nodded once.
Then straightened.
"You really want to know what I'm doing?"
"Yes."
He walked forward — slow, steady — until they stood face to face.
Then he said, low and sharp:
"Have you ever used your brain?"
She blinked. "What—?"
"I mean truly thought before you acted? Before you followed? Before you opened your mouth?"
Her eyes flared. "Don't talk to me like that—"
"You want answers?" he interrupted. "Fine. What if I told you I was building something important. Something secret. Something that could change the North?"
She stared, lips parted.
"What if I told you that if you even whispered about it in front of the wrong person, people could die? That our name could be dragged into something far bigger than you've ever imagined?"
"I would never betray our family," she snapped.
"No," Cregan said, "but you'd talk. You'd get angry. You'd storm out of a room. You'd act like a girl with fire in her chest and nothing in her head."
She looked wounded now. He saw it — and regretted it. But he didn't stop.
"You're a Stark, Lyanna. Not a farmer girl chasing songs and shadows. When you speak, you carry our father's weight. When you act, the North sees it."
She looked down now.
Her hands had curled into fists.
"I just…" she said quietly, "I just wanted to know why you changed."
Cregan's voice softened, just slightly.
"I haven't changed. I've grown. Because someone in this house has to think like it's not just swords and banners anymore."
A long silence fell between them.
Then Lyanna lifted her chin. "I won't talk. I swear it."
Cregan nodded. "Good."
"But I'm not leaving this alone."
He raised an eyebrow.
Lyanna lifted her chin. Her voice was still tense, but steady.
"I want to see it," she said. "Not the whole truth — just enough to trust you."
Cregan looked at her — long and cold. His jaw clenched slightly.
Then he said, sharp but controlled:
> "When I see the daughter of Lord Rickon Stark, I'll show you.
Not a frustrated girl chasing shadows.
Not someone who wants everything but adapts to nothing.
When you carry yourself like someone who knows the weight of her name—
then, Lyanna… I'll let you see."
She froze.
The words cut deep — not cruelly, but with truth. The kind of truth that felt heavier in the snow-chilled air.
Her voice, when it came, was quieter.
"…Is that how you see me?"
Cregan didn't answer at first.
Then, softly:
> "No.
That's how the world sees you.
I'm trying to make sure it doesn't destroy you for it."
Lyanna turned away, fists clenched, lips tight.
She didn't speak again.
And Cregan didn't call her back.
---
Smoke and Shield
It was past midnight when Cregan Stark stood atop the watch slope above the hidden river bend.
The forest was quiet—almost too quiet.
Below, the half-finished mill sat in moonlight. Its outline faint beneath scattered snow tarps, the press frames covered, the kiln wall incomplete.
A single thought pulsed in his mind:
> If Lyanna could find it… so could someone else.
He folded his arms. The cold bit deep into his fingers, but his focus was elsewhere.
She wasn't trained. She wasn't a spy. And yet she'd tracked the changes in the wood flow, noticed the smoke, followed it.
> If she could... what about a Bolton hunter?
A southern merchant?
A maester with questions?
He cursed softly under his breath.
The Next Morning – Inside the Shed
Rannyl was measuring the new support beams when Cregan entered, gloves tucked in his belt.
"We have a problem," Cregan said without greeting.
Rannyl looked up. "Let me guess. Smoke?"
"No. Eyes."
He motioned the team to gather—Tormund, Mella, Jonrik, and Baric stepped in close.
"I've changed the plan," Cregan said. "If anyone stumbles across this place, or hears rumors… they must not know what we're really making."
Baric raised an eyebrow. "So what are we making now?"
Cregan stepped toward the wooden rack and placed his hand on the press frame.
"We tell them it's a charcoal drying shed. We're experimenting with compressed bark bricks for export. We say the kiln is for refining wood ash to help salt curing in the coast towns."
Tormund frowned. "That sounds…"
"Boring?" Cregan said. "Exactly. Boring enough that no lord would send a raven twice."
"But if they look too closely—"
"They won't," Cregan interrupted. "Because we'll make some charcoal. We'll stack it. We'll even send one cart of it to White Harbor."
Mella tilted her head. "So this place becomes two things."
"No," Cregan said, voice calm. "It becomes one thing—and a shield."
He turned to the stack of unfinished pulp.
"I want half of our tools moved into false crates. Press sheets wrapped in waxed leather. All workers use a different trail out, rotated weekly. Baric—you'll oversee travel routes. Change patterns."
Baric nodded slowly. "You're thinking like a war captain, boy."
Cregan met his eyes. "This is war. They just don't know it yet."
Later That Night – Rickon's Solar
Cregan stood before his father's great desk, maps and seal-scrolls laid across its surface.
Lord Rickon leaned back, hands clasped.
"You've come to speak of secrecy."
Cregan nodded. "And deception."
Rickon's face was unreadable. "Explain."
"If I want this… experiment… to live," Cregan said, choosing words with care, "I must let others believe it is something else."
Rickon said nothing.
"I don't trust the maesters," Cregan continued. "I don't trust ravens. And I don't trust that White Harbor's grain ships come north without eyes and ears aboard."
Rickon exhaled, deeply. "What are you building, Cregan?"
"Hope," he said. "But it needs a disguise."
Rickon looked at him, long and slow.
Then he stood and placed a hand on his son's shoulder.
"You're walking paths older than your years. But you are still a Stark. Just don't forget to be a boy sometimes, too."
Cregan offered a faint, tired smile.
"I will… when the North can afford it."
– Wolves in the Yard
Winterfell's eastern sky was barely touched with light when Cregan Stark burst through the main gates of the yard.
Snow crunched underfoot. The air stung. But he was already on his third lap.
> "Ten more rounds!" he called over his shoulder. "Then push-ups!"
Behind him, Benjen Stark groaned loudly, nearly slipping in the icy slush.
> "Seven hells, Cregan, it's not even light yet!"
Lyanna stumbled behind them, face flushed.
> "Are we training or punishing?"
Brandon, more composed but breathless, jogged alongside.
> "You're mad, little brother."
> "No," Cregan replied, his pace steady, "I'm prepared. There's a difference."
---
❄️ Half an Hour Later – Training Circle
The four Stark siblings dropped into the snow-packed training ring, steaming from sweat and breath.
> "Down. Push-ups!" Cregan shouted.
Benjen collapsed face-first.
> "I'll push up when I stop dying."
> "That's not how muscles grow," Cregan grinned.
He dropped to the ground himself and began counting:
> "One. Two. Three. Four…"
Brandon followed, a quiet rhythm beside him. Lyanna gave in after a minute, muttering curses the whole time.
---
After push-ups came:
Squats — "Back straight, knees open!"
Lunges — "You'll thank me when you're dodging spears."
Planks — "Stillness is strength."
Stretching — "No point training a sword arm if your shoulders tear."
Then, finally, Cregan called:
> "Now sit. Close your eyes. Breathe."
> "What now?" Lyanna asked, panting.
> "Yoga." Cregan said, folding his legs. "Mind training."
> "What mind? I left mine behind the stables," Benjen grumbled.
But they sat.
The four Stark children. In the frost. In silence.
For one full minute, only the sound of the wind, a horse whinny in the distance, and their breathing.
> "This... is peace," Cregan said softly.
"Before war. Learn it."
---
🐺 Later That Day – Behind the Kennels
Ten boys — squires, servant sons, and a few stablehands — stood uncertainly in a circle.
Cregan faced them, wooden stick in hand, smiling like a boy with a secret.
> "Who wants to play a Stark Game?"
Hands rose, nervously.
> "It's simple," Cregan said. "We run. We roll. We jump. We shout. And maybe... you don't fall in the snow."
> "That's not a game," said one boy.
> "It is if you're laughing while I'm training you."
He grinned wider, stepped forward, and shouted:
> "Line up! Knees bent. Arms out. Balance on one foot!"
The boys stumbled and laughed.
Then came jumping drills. Then crawling under ropes. Then climbing stacked barrels. Then "sneak through the shadows" — which was really stealth training.
And the whole time, Cregan clapped and shouted like a cheerful mischief-maker.
But his eyes were sharp. Watching. Measuring.
By the end of the hour, they were muddy, exhausted, and smiling.
> "Same time tomorrow," Cregan said. "Tell no one. Or I'll throw you in the kennel with the direwolves."
---
🌒 That Night – Brandon's Quiet Words
At supper, Brandon leaned toward him, quiet.
> "That was clever."
Cregan raised an eyebrow.
> "You didn't train those boys. You recruited them."
Cregan sipped his broth, then smiled.
> "You think so?"
Brandon nodded slowly. "They'll follow you. They already are."
> "Then I'll teach them to stand for something worth following."
Kings on a Board
---
The fire crackled in the great room of Winterfell's library tower, casting flickering shadows on the old stone.
Cregan Stark sat cross-legged before a low table, one hand steady as he arranged a row of wooden figurines on a carved board — hills, catapults, archers, elephants, spearmen, and one lone king.
Opposite him sat Brandon Stark, arms folded, watching carefully.
To the side, Lyanna paced impatiently near the hearth.
> "It's just a game," she muttered.
"Why are we wasting time on toys?"
Cregan didn't look up.
> "It's not a toy. It's Cyvasse."
> "Cy-what?"
> "Cyvasse," Brandon echoed, eyes narrowed. "I've heard of it. A game from the Free Cities. Lords in Lys and Myr play it in their war colleges."
Cregan nodded.
> "It's more than a game. It teaches you to think like a general… and like a spy."
---
♟️ The Setup
The Cyvasse board was twice the size of a chessboard.
Each player arranged their units behind a wooden screen, unseen by the other.
There were mountains and hills, small terrain blocks that created natural obstacles and blind zones.
Each figure moved differently:
Spearmen advanced one square at a time
Cavalry moved swiftly but were vulnerable
Trebuchets could destroy from afar but were weak in close combat
Dragons could fly over terrain but were rare and fragile
And the King — the soul of the game. If lost, the war was over.
---
Cregan handed pieces to his siblings.
> "You can't win with only strength," he said.
"You need foresight. Patience. And the ability to guess what your enemy fears most."
Lyanna rolled her eyes. "Or I could just charge and kill your king."
> "You could," Cregan smiled. "But what if I predicted that? What if you walk right into my trap?"
She paused. Then picked up her cavalry piece with more care.
---
🧠 The Match Begins
The three of them played in turns — Cregan guiding each move, watching their decisions, letting them learn through mistakes.
Brandon kept his trebuchets hidden, using hills for cover, advancing his spearmen slowly and with purpose.
Lyanna rushed early, sending her cavalry into open ground — and lost them to a trap set behind mountain tiles.
> "See?" Cregan murmured. "Sometimes the enemy waits for your blood to spill."
She scowled. "You planned that?"
> "I hoped for it. Your impulsiveness helped."
Brandon's king was eventually pinned between a dragon and a spearman — a quiet victory for Cregan.
---
💬 The Lesson
Lyanna leaned back, arms crossed. "I don't like this game."
Cregan leaned forward, voice quiet.
> "It's not about liking it. It's about learning from it.
Every mistake here saves blood later.
Every sacrifice teaches you the price of victory."
He looked at Brandon.
> "In Cyvasse, the king dies because of small decisions — a delay here, an overreach there."
Brandon nodded. "Like ruling."
> "Exactly," Cregan said.
"This board? It's the North. And every piece is one of us.
Some pieces protect. Some charge. Some deceive.
You win by knowing which is which — and when to let one fall to save the rest."
Lyanna tapped a fallen cavalry piece. "So what am I?"
Cregan looked at her — and smiled.
> "You're a dragon. Beautiful, fierce… but fragile if you dive too early."
She blinked. Said nothing.
Brandon spoke after a long silence. "And you?"
Cregan placed the king back in its place.
> "I'm just the boy who sets the board."