When Hadvar looks at the small, frail child in front of him, soft skin rubbed raw by coarse rope and face red from crying, he takes her aside and silently promises to find whoever made such a mistake, putting a child next to Ulfric Stormcloak and men with hateful eyes and sharp chins. The girl looks at her wrists and plays with a small dagger she'd been given by her parents, just to be safe, while she went to visit her uncle for a few months- her first steps to independence, they'd told her. Just go over the border and you'll be there. But he'd secretly been a Stormcloak and there was an ambush. Children hid secrets in their minds and in their pockets, so she was taken too. She watched as her uncle died a rebellious man, brave and spiteful. No one thought to cover her eyes, to whisper lies of long vacations and illogical games that weren't. So she stared with blue Nord eyes as her uncle, the subject of her father's bedtime stories about his childhood and their homeland, became an object, to be viewed with disgust and buried with thousands of others.

A dragon arrived with black scales and fire. She ran to be with the other children, and then ran to hide behind the tall man who had freed her of her bindings. He handed her the sword that had once belonged to his comrade, showed her how to swing it, and charged. The Stormcloaks did not discriminate in the battle, and the child learned to dodge, to swing her sword only when the opportune moment struck, and to be small and unnoticeable. She survived with shallow scratches and blood on her sword from her first kill. The girl went through the rest of the journey with a hazy mind, staying behind the brave soldiers in armor and shivering. Hadvar gently led her to Riverwood to stay with his uncle before he left for Solitude.

She abandoned the tiny town as the sun began to rise, for no other reason than that Whiterun was only a few days away and she needed a big place to get lost in. She had no purpose now, an accessory picked up and put down at another's whims. Her uncle was dead, she was a killer, and her parents were simple farmers. What else was she to do? The guards let in a small child with leather armor that dragged her down far more quickly than they would an adult. The girl wandered into markets with squabbling merchants and watched blacksmiths make weapons that would kill. She took all her savings out of her pack and held them out to a woman whose name she didn't know.

"I want armor that fits, ma'am. Please?" The youth turned warrior requested quietly, embarrassed and awkward. Skyrim was a place where uncles died and people murdered. The blacksmith listened to gold more than her morals, and so a girl in armor that fit took what little coin she had left to the inn. Another girl in armor sat at the bar, her feet dangling carelessly as her fingers fidgeted with her brown hair, twisting it into a braid.

"What's your name?" She asked the brunette, curious and terrified that everyone here had dead relatives and bloodstained swords.

"I'm Lucia." She answered, voice soft and scared.

"I'm…" the other girl began, but paused. Her father would be ashamed, of course. Her parents believed in peace and normalcy and she'd killed someone and they would put her in prison, and she would be whispered about for years, the crazy child who'd stuck a sword in someone's chest, until she died or ran away. They could never, never know, not ever. "I'm Bell," she stated, because deathbell was poisonous and now she was too. Lucia hummed and nodded.

"Can I come with you?" Lucia said, and Bell nodded. Maybe she would be safe with other killers like herself, or maybe Lucia was just another kid looking for adventure (like herself, before everything). So they went to the Jarl together, to tell him about the dragon, and soon enough they were holding hands and praying to Talos once everyone there had ignored their soft faces and asked them to go to a tomb of draugr. They tuned out the fervent prayers of the man with hands held high and voice raised, and whispered for protection, luck, and safety. Then they whispered to each other too, about how adults only saw the armor and ignored the few years of their bodies, the way their muscles were forced to become like the soldiers' because children were meant for fighting if they had been forced into it once and survived. The duo were survivors of neglect and sisters with bonds forged in the unspoken nights with clogged noses and wet cheeks. Lucia mumbled about her 'freakishness' after accidently killing a would-be robber trying to steal from kind old Fralia, and Bell whispered her fears and her shames.

They went through the barrow and gained armor soaked with their blood and at least three scars each. At least the Jarl had given them healing potions before sending them off to do his work. They returned with a heavy tablet that weighed their tiny arms down, and received an angry dragon for their efforts. Their hair burnt and their skin was seared as they fought yet another battle children should be shielded from, but by now it was habit for Bell to fight for causes not her own, and it was habit for Lucia to defend people. She hadn't been able to save her mother from a knife in her throat while she slept, and she'd been punished. She'd killed to save Fralia, and she'd been cast out. So the children fought the dragon, and when it died Bell absorbed its soul, hateful and fiery.

She put her hand over her heart and shivered as the guards hailed her as the Dragonborn, their hero, and even Lucia knew the stories, looked at her in a new light. The Greybeards Shouted for her, and her comrade had to guide her back to Whiterun, where no one looked them in the eye, and were instructed to go to High Hrothgar. A child with a child companion were destined to be heroes spoken of in legend, immortalized in song and poetry. They giggled nervously and left Whiterun, 'happy' to have a purpose. And the rest is history.

-Break-

Well, I was thinking about child follower mods and child races and thought of the implications of the Dragonborn being a child. This is probably not very accurate or well characterized, and also probably illogical, but let's just assume Nords have a 'anyone who kills in battle is a warrior' policy as well as a 'children shouldn't battle' policy that results in children who kill for self defense being shunned due to two conflicting traditions.