Cregan Stark

Chapter 4 -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."

---

End of Scene 12 – Kings on a Board

---

🔹 What This Scene Adds:

Introduces Cyvasse, the Game of Thrones strategy game

Uses it to show Cregan's mind, teaching style, and quiet mentorship

Strengthens sibling bonds with tension, play, and thoughtful lessons

Foreshadows how Cregan will treat politics and war: not brute strength, but calculated layers.

The First Sheet

The low wind whispered through the pine-covered hills, brushing along the stone watchpoint overlooking the hidden river glade.

Cregan Stark stood in a grey cloak, arms folded, watching the thin chimney trail smoke from the first paper mill.

The structure was simple — pinewood walls, thatched with bark and wool to trap heat. Just large enough to house two paper presses, a drying floor, and a team of workers.

Behind him, the narrow forest trail was camouflaged with pine boughs. No banners. No roads.

Everything was built in silence.

🔧 Inside the Mill

Cregan stepped into the dry, steam-scented interior. Warm and humid, it smelled of wet wood, lye, and smoke.

Ten men stood inside. Two boys stirred pulp in large wooden vats. Three others pressed sheets between flat stones wrapped in linen. One older carpenter adjusted a crude drying rack by the chimney.

"Fifty sheets, my lord," one of them said, wiping his brow.

Cregan nodded and stepped forward. He picked up a freshly dried parchment sheet — fibrous but flexible, warm from drying.

"Still rough," he murmured. "But it'll write."

He turned to the men, lowering his voice.

"Keep practicing. Cut the pulp finer. Flatten better. In three weeks, I want you making twice as much — and twice as smooth."

The older man hesitated. "We're trying, but the pulp's hard to match day to day."

"You'll learn," Cregan said, calm but firm. "And you'll teach others… when the time comes."

🐺 Later – Rickon's Solar, Winterfell

A low fire glowed behind the Lord of Winterfell as he listened in silence.

Cregan had just laid three folded sheets before him — smooth, pale, light enough to roll.

Rickon picked one up with both hands, testing its weight between thumb and forefinger.

"It's soft," he said. "And stronger than it looks."

"One team. One machine," Cregan said. "Fifty a day. Maybe a hundred once they get skilled."

Rickon set the parchment down.

"You said this could change the North."

"It can. But not if anyone knows it came from us."

He stepped back from the table.

"Father… paper this cheap will change everything. Trade, writing, learning — even the citadel might come hunting for it if they realize what it is. And Essos… they'll want it by the barrel."

Rickon folded his arms.

"Then we bury the truth."

He stood and rang a small bronze bell. Moments later, two men entered — Ser Byrden and Ser Aemon, both grizzled, long-serving loyalists of House Stark.

"You'll select twenty men. No outsiders. No bastards. No southern blood," Rickon said.

Ser Byrden nodded, already understanding the weight in his lord's tone.

"These men will guard the site and keep it from curious eyes," Rickon continued. "Tell them it's a weapon test if they ask too much."

Cregan hesitated, then added:

"Make them rotate. No one stays more than ten days. That keeps rumors low. And the guards must not speak to the workers."

Rickon looked to Cregan. "The mills?"

"We can build two more. Deeper north, where no one wanders. One in the weirwood valley west of Barrowton. Another near the lakes by Last River."

He unfolded a hand-drawn map, pointing softly.

"Both locations have water, trees, and natural concealment."

Rickon studied the map for a long moment, then gave a short nod.

"Approved. But no more until I say so. I don't want to start a war of trade secrets before we're ready."

📦 The Trade Network Plan

Rickon poured two cups of warm mead, passing one to his son.

"And the sale?"

Cregan accepted the cup but didn't drink.

"Manderly is already preparing. He's selected discreet men.

The paper crates will be hidden in fruit shipments. Dried pears. Turnips. Apples. Packed in straw."

Rickon raised an eyebrow. "Smart."

"They'll go to White Harbor once a week. The crates will be loaded quietly at night. No sigils. No talk."

"And then?"

"From White Harbor, we'll use two disguised routes — one to Essos through Braavos and Pentos. The other by land caravans disguised as parchment collectors to Gulltown and Lannisport."

Rickon exhaled, then smiled faintly.

"All this for a handful of sheets."

Cregan looked him in the eye.

"Not for the sheets. For what comes after.

We sell little at first. Raise the price. Feed the hunger. Then we flood the market."

"And they become dependent on it," Rickon muttered. "Like grain. Like salt."

Cregan nodded.

"We feed their scribes. Their banks. Their lords' letters. Their contracts.

We make the South — and Essos — write their stories on Northern skin."

Rickon was quiet for a long time. Then he turned to Ser Byrden.

"Begin recruitment for the two new mills. Trust no man without asking yourself: would he die for the Starks?"

Ser Byrden nodded once and exited with Ser Aemon.

Rickon turned to Cregan.

"You'll oversee training. I'll fund it. But from now on, this operation has no name.

No ledgers. No records. Only paper leaves the mill."

"Understood."

"Good," Rickon said.

He took a long sip of mead.

"Then, my son… let us make the North rich without the South even realizing we've done it."

---

Snow whispered against the old stone as dusk settled over Winterfell. A quiet wind tugged at the corners of the windows in the Lord's solar. Rickon Stark stood near the hearth, a goblet of warm mead untouched in his hand, his eyes drawn not to the fire, but to the window, where the yard below glowed faintly with torchlight.

The fortress bustled as it always did—boys training with wooden swords, stablehands leading horses, cooks preparing evening bread—but Rickon barely registered it. His thoughts had wandered to his second youngest. His mind always returned to Cregan.

Ten years old now. Born in 269 AC.

Rickon could still remember how fiercely Lyarr had wept when she held the child for the first time. A small thing, red-faced and quiet, with the black hair of a true Stark and broad shoulders even then. The boy had always been quiet, thoughtful—but wild, too, in the way boys sometimes are. He and Benjen had been thick as thieves, always climbing, always daring one another.

And then came the fall.

A slip while scaling the outer rookery wall. Rickon had scolded them both at first—foolishness, reckless folly—but the scolding had died on his lips when Cregan didn't wake for nearly half a day. The maester had said it wasn't serious. No cracked bones. Just a bad knock to the head.

But when Cregan opened his eyes again…

Something had shifted.

He asked questions that made grown men pause. Not childish questions, but sharp ones. Heavy ones. When Rickon first heard his son ask, "Why does the North read books written by men who've never set foot beyond the Neck?" he had thought it a jest. But the boy had meant it.

And the questions hadn't stopped.

Why is there only one citadel, and why not in the North?

Why don't we teach our lords' sons our own history, from our own books?

Why does the South decide what's innovation and what's savagery?

Rickon had always known the boy was clever—but this was different. His tone, the stillness behind his eyes, even the way he carried himself—it had all changed. Not in the way children grow, but as if something else had stepped in. Not darker… just deeper.

He didn't know whether to be comforted or afraid.

Behind him, the door creaked open, and Lady Lyarr entered with a small tray of honeyed tea. Her presence was soft as snow. She said nothing as she set the tray down near the fire and sat beside him on the stone bench.

"You've been watching the yard for over an hour," she said, breaking the silence gently.

Rickon didn't look at her. "He was down there earlier," he murmured.

"Cregan?"

He nodded.

She folded her hands in her lap. "Still training the boys? And running the yard like a commander twice his age?"

"And designing mills. And redrawing trade routes. And teaching Brandon chess strategies that make grown knights pause."

She smiled faintly. "He's gifted."

"He's changed," Rickon said, his voice low.

He looked down into the cup in his hands, as if the swirling surface might answer what he could not. "Since the fall… he speaks like no ten-year-old should. Asks me questions that even I hesitate to answer. Advises me on matters I've ruled over since before he was born."

Lyarr tilted her head. "And does he speak with arrogance?"

Rickon paused.

"No," he admitted. "That's the strange part. He's not proud. He doesn't gloat. He questions, he listens. And when he speaks, it's as if he's already thought through every answer that might follow. He's… patient. Wise beyond his years. It unsettles me."

"And yet you listen."

"I do."

He turned to face her. "What father listens to his ten-year-old son discuss trade protection, secrecy, and supply chain structures? He speaks of Essos politics as though he's dealt with them. And he suggests war plans—not fanciful ones, but ones that make sense."

She took his hand gently. "And you trust him?"

Rickon's gaze returned to the fire.

"I do," he said after a long moment. "That's the truth of it. I trust him. I don't know what he is, or what changed in him that day, but I know this much—he hasn't lied. He's still our boy. But something in him… it burns. Fierce. Focused. As if he remembers something none of us can."

He stood, walking back toward the window, where the wind pressed softly against the frosted glass.

"He doesn't seek praise, or power, or titles. He seeks strength. For the North. For us. For the future."

Lyarr rose beside him, placing her head against his shoulder.

"Then let him seek it," she whispered. "Let him become what he's meant to be."

He said nothing. Just stared at the night outside.

At the shadows of his children moving below. Brandon walking alongside the training field. Lyanna laughing with her horse. And in the center of it all—Cregan. Silent, thoughtful, eyes scanning everything as if he were always watching the game unfold from above.

Rickon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, did not often question his instincts. But tonight, he allowed himself one simple truth:

He didn't understand what his son had become.

But he was proud of him.

And for the first time in many years, that pride gave him something rare in a Stark's heart.

Hope.

---

The torchlight flickered against the old stone walls of the long hallway as Rickon Stark walked alone toward the Great Hall. His boots echoed faintly on the polished floor, the sound oddly sharp in the hush of early evening. The keep was quieter than usual. A storm had passed that morning, and the halls still carried a cold dampness.

His mind was not on the weather.

It was on his son.

It had become a pattern now—every few days, Cregan would ask him questions. Not disobediently. Not challengingly. Just... questions. And Rickon found himself unprepared more often than he liked to admit.

Earlier that morning, at the breakfast table, Cregan had stirred his porridge slowly, eyes distant, and asked, "Father, why do we burn pine sap in the lanterns, when whale oil burns longer and brighter?"

Rickon had blinked. "Because that's what we've always done."

Cregan had nodded. "But who first decided that? And why haven't we tested which lasts longer, or is cheaper, or safer in winter air?"

He'd asked it calmly, with no arrogance. As though it were the most natural question in the world.

Rickon hadn't had an answer.

---

Later, in the yard, Cregan had walked among the stable hands, watching as they fitted new iron shoes to the horses.

He knelt beside one of the colts, tracing a finger along the rim of a half-worn shoe.

"This is good iron," he'd said to the blacksmith. "But it's soft. Doesn't last the full season."

The man had grunted. "That's what's used everywhere, lad."

Cregan had straightened. "And has anyone ever asked why it's used everywhere? Or tried something better?"

Rickon, watching from above, saw the blacksmith scowl and walk away. But Cregan didn't seem disappointed. He simply turned and looked at the forge with new intensity, as if storing it away in some internal ledger.

---

By midday, Cregan had cornered his father again—this time in the corridor leading to the old family vaults.

He was holding a small scroll and a thin piece of wood carved like a stencil.

"Father," he said. "We use seals to close letters. Wax and ring. That's tradition, yes?"

Rickon nodded. "Aye."

"But the seals don't prove who wrote the letter. Only who closed it. What if we added marks inside? Codes? Or a unique phrase only the two people know?"

Rickon arched an eyebrow. "You wish to make riddles of letters now?"

Cregan smiled faintly. "I want to make sure only the right eyes ever read them."

Rickon paused, then chuckled softly. "You've made enemies we don't yet know exist, have you?"

"I'm planning for the enemies we hope never come."

---

Now, as he neared the Great Hall, Rickon felt the weight of those words pressing deeper.

This was not the child he had raised. This was something more. Something sharper.

Cregan questioned everything. Not rebelliously. He wasn't trying to reject tradition — he was trying to understand it. To peel it open and see what lay inside.

And the truth was... it left Rickon uneasy.

Because much of their way of life was built not on clear reason or deep logic, but on habit, and memory, and the way their fathers had done things before them. The North was ancient. The Starks were older than most kingdoms. And yet, his son treated none of it as sacred.

Not the use of oil, or shoes, or seals, or words. Not even titles or customs.

---

He entered the hall, where the fire had already been lit. The smell of roasted venison lingered faintly in the stone. Cregan was there, kneeling beside a wooden frame set atop the table. He was carving something — small, intricate — with a sharp tool and steady hands.

Rickon stepped closer.

"What is that?" he asked.

Cregan didn't look up. "A puzzle lock. Inspired by the Braavosi style. But simpler. Meant for books or cabinets. We could make a dozen, cheaply. Hide things in plain sight."

Rickon watched his son for a long moment. Then he sat beside him.

"You see the world like a smith sees ore," he said softly. "Not as what it is — but what it could become."

Cregan paused, resting the tool against the wood. "Why shouldn't we?"

"Because sometimes tradition is the mortar that holds the wall together. Pull one stone, the whole thing cracks."

Cregan looked up at last. "Then we should learn which stones are load-bearing… and which are just in the way."

Rickon let out a breath. It wasn't anger. It was something closer to awe.

"I don't know if your questions are the blessings of a wise spirit, or the beginnings of trouble we won't survive," he said.

"I don't either," Cregan replied. "But I do know this: if we don't change something — we'll always be waiting for others to decide what we are."

Rickon leaned back, watching the flames.

He still didn't understand what had changed in his son that day on the wall. But he no longer feared it.

And if the boy could keep this fire, this clarity, without losing the love of family or the honor of their house...

Then perhaps the North wouldn't just survive the coming storm.

Perhaps it would lead the way through it.

---

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