Cregon's first memory was not a face, nor a voice—it was cold. Not the biting chill of snowflakes on skin, but the deep, humming cold of Winterfell's stone bones. He was not born to warmth. There was no soft cradle, no mother's embrace. Only cold stones, the echo of distant footsteps, and the great grey sky above a keep that never thawed.
"Jon Snow," they named him, though it never rang true in his ears. It was a name gifted by Lord Eddard Stark, along with a solemn silence that hovered between them. The people of Winterfell whispered. They wondered at the boy's origin, spinning tales of serving girls and fishwives, of dishonor and duty. Cregon did not speak to defend or deny—he simply listened. Always listening.
He walked the paths of Winterfell like a shadow. Where Robb ran and laughed, Theon boasted, and Bran asked endless questions, Cregon observed. He watched Maester Luwin's practiced hands mix herbs and powders. He stared at the forges, hypnotized by the dance of fire. He wandered the godswood as if it whispered just beyond his hearing. He never played, never shouted. The cold was his companion, and in its silence, he found something like comfort.
Lady Catelyn's glance passed over him like wind over a grave. But Ned… Ned Stark looked at him with quiet sorrow. There was weight in the lord's gaze, a burden only he seemed to bear. Cregon felt it but didn't understand.
On the eve of his seventh nameday, a peculiar compulsion led him to the old library. The fire was low, the scent of vellum and dust hung thick. His fingers brushed a book unlike the others—bound in worn black leather, etched with curling silver script. He opened it. The letters shimmered. A name whispered in the back of his mind: Mihawk.
Suddenly, images burst behind his eyes—waves crashing against jagged cliffs, a towering man with yellow hawk-eyes wielding a black sword, a silhouette that moved like a whisper on stone. He gasped, stumbled back. The book fell from his hands.
That night, Cregon dreamed. Of steel flashing under starlight, of direwolves howling in moonlit forests, and of dragons—terrible and beautiful—screaming behind veils of smoke. When he awoke, the chill inside him wasn't discomfort. It was armor.