The north wind whipped around the towers of Winterfell, lifting snowflakes that stuck to the young Stark's cheeks, red from the cold. Cregan sat on a wooden bench next to the courtyard wall, his wooden sword resting beside him. His small right hand was bandaged with thick cloth, trying to cover the calluses that burned after hours of training.

"Damn it..." He muttered, frowning as he pulled at the bandage awkwardly. "I don't know why this has to hurt so much."

His fingers trembled slightly, not only from the cold, but also from the frustration of not being able to hold the sword as he wanted to. Every stroke of the sword that morning had been precise, yes, but each one had also left its mark: blisters, calluses, and fatigue that no child should feel at that age.

He grew angry with himself again and tapped the floor gently with his bandaged palm, letting out a small grunt of frustration. But despite his anger, his determination did not waver. The frustration was just another test, another lesson from the North, and Cregan knew, even as his hands burned, that every callus, every ache, brought him closer to being a true Stark.

He stood up again, staggering slightly, and adjusted the bandage. With a deep sigh, he gripped the sword with his good hand and muttered:

"I'll try again tomorrow... and it will be better than today."

The icy wind continued to batter his face, but this time it did not intimidate him. The frustration was still there, yes, but so was the determination that would define him in the years to come.