The fire burned low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the library walls. Cregon sat cross-legged on the floor, Ghost curled beside him like a pale sentinel. The black book lay unopened on the table. He hadn't dared touch it since the visions. But tonight, something stirred—a pull, not of fear, but of necessity.
The wind moaned against the stones outside. Somewhere deep in the castle, a door creaked. Winterfell felt... watchful.
He reached for the book.
The leather was cold, the silver script glinting faintly in the firelight. As his fingers brushed the cover, a whisper threaded through the silence—not from the book, but from within.
"Name yourself."
The room darkened, the fire guttering low. The warmth fled, but Cregon remained still. He closed his eyes. Images flared behind his lids: the sword again, the man with yellow eyes, and a sigil unfamiliar—two dragons intertwined, one black as coal, the other shimmering silver.
He saw himself, older. Standing atop a mountain peak, cloak snapping in the wind. Sword in hand. Eyes like stormlight.
"Cregon…" the voice whispered again, no longer asking but affirming.
He gasped and opened his eyes. The fire roared suddenly, rising high with unnatural heat. The silver script on the book flared, then faded.
"Cregon," he said aloud, testing the name as his own for the first time. Not Jon Snow. Not the ghost of shame in Catelyn Stark's eyes.
Just… Cregon.
The name settled in his chest like a coal in a forge—waiting.
The next morning, he spoke it aloud to Maester Luwin when called "Jon" at breakfast.
"Jon?" Luwin asked, startled.
Cregon met his eyes. "My name is Cregon."
There was no anger in his tone, no rebellion. Just certainty.
Luwin said nothing. But his gaze lingered, full of questions.
That evening, in the godswood, Ghost nudged a stone at the base of the heart tree. Beneath the moss was a carving—worn, ancient. Not in the language of the North, but older. Cregon traced it with his fingers. The mark pulsed faintly.
Another piece of him, uncovered.
Later, Ned Stark stood in the shadows of the crypts, staring at Lyanna's tomb. When the chill touched his spine, he did not shiver.
"Rhaegar named him something else," he whispered. "But Cregon... Cregon chose his own name."
And above them, the wind blew through Winterfell, whispering of fire, ice, and the boy who belonged to neither.