On the moonlit expanse of the wolfswood, a pair of pups were hunting a boar. They were clothed in dark leather raiment's, with hoods over their head and grey cloth covering their mouths, and they were scented with horse piss to keep their prey unalerted. Rays of pale light rained down on them, the full moon high on overhead, and a picture of eerie peace settled over the roots of the oak and evergreen trees they walked past.
The pair of pups were not as silent as they hoped they were, their leather boots cracking on hardened leaves and smooshing against the wet grass.
"We shouldn't be here." Robb whispered, his blue eyes darting around the thick trees. He was a handsome boy, with red-brown hair and a fair complexion. "Mother told us we were only to hunt with the kennel master and his dogs, and always with a pair of guards on hand."
"Your mother told you that, not mine." Jon retorted, firm and kind even in the face of Robb's quickly growing shame. He did not share his looks with Robb, who took after his lady mother, and instead was black of hair with grey eyes and pale skin. Their father said he took after their uncle Benjen. "Just give me the blame, should we be questioned. She would not believe you were the one to suggest this in any case."
"I didn't! It was you!"
"All the better then."
This was their first true hunt without a guide. The pair were ten years of age, and Jon had been growing restless. He knew all the sword and bow lessons that had been taught to him by Ser Rodrik Cassel and knew plenty more, and needed to test his mettle on something that didn't stand still or somebody that didn't wear training pads. He needed to fight something that was live. Jon had mentioned the idea of going on a hunt with Robb, calling it a perfect way to determine if the lessons were working.
They stopped as bats flew overhead, their squeaks echoing through the knobby branches of the ancient forest. The wolfswood was a special place to Jon, its various trees reminded him of the Gildergreen, only these were larger and far more numerous. Jon held up a hand and placed it on Robbs chest; his brother came to a halt. Though his eyes were not what they once were, Jon's sight was still better than most in the dead of night.
The boar was stood some three hundred feet away in the meadow beyond the thicket, drinking from a puddle of melted snow. It was a magnificent looking beast that looked nearly as thick as a pony. Jon grabbed his bow and tip-toed towards the pig as silently as he could, Robb following his example from behind.
Jon held is bow aloft and nocked an arrow from his quiver into the string, aiming as he crept closer and closer. He was less than a hundred feet away at this point, though more than fifty. The boar paused, its grand head jerking around in all manner of direction, wary.
"On my loose," Jon whispered to Robb. The larger boy also had his bow nocked, silently waiting.
Jon took a deep breath, the air fresh and clear, and he centered his body. He exhaled slow and deep, and as his arrow flew, Robbs following just a moment later. The boar jerked its head towards them one last time as the arrows descended. Jon missed its flank by just a hair and Robb hit it in the front left leg, but the creature was most certainly not dead, else it would not be squealing and thrashing so wildly. It stamped the ground once, twice, and a third time for good measure, and charged at the pair; tusks sharp and poised to run them through.
Its rampage cut through the side of a brittle fir tree. The boar was not stopping, the only reason it was not faster was due to the arrow lodge in its leg.
"We have to move!" Robb sounded with alarm, already racing back towards his pony saddled half a mile back.
Jon did not move. He dug his boots into the dirt and grabbed the small dirk at his side; a castle-forged steel blade only four inches long. It wasn't much, but anything was useful in combat.
When the boar was just fifteen feet away, the scent of mud and shit and sweat reaching Jon's nose, he acted. He inhaled deeply and whispered a word that rumbled like the tremor of the earth, louder than any normal man or boy could dare imitate. His Thu'um echoed through the forest, an almighty sound that drowned out all other noises.
"Drem!"
The bats in the forest stilled, the squirrels on the tree bark chattered happily, the bugs that were on his person went away, and the boar stopped. It looked about curiously and walked towards Jon. Butting its snout against his though, Jon patted its flank, the boar rumbling its pleasure.
Tamrielic magic was a difficult thing to accomplish in this world. This nameless world of the daedra was not formed in the Aethirius, so there was no access to Magicka. Instead, in order to use spells from the schools of Restoration, Destruction, Alteration and all the others, the price was cut from his lifespan. Jon remembered clearly when he attempted to use Flames to light a brazier a few years back. He was put on a sickbed for a fortnight, none were sure if he would survive. Magic could not be taken lightly in this land, and so Jon was careful.
The Thu'um did not fall into this category, however. For a Dovah, Shouting was a power of the soul. And it was Jon's soul that was brought to Westeros. Sadly, his lungs were not as strong as an adults. Jon could not complete fully worded Shouts, not yet. When he was older he would reach that stage. For now, Jon was content to calm rampaging animals and meditate on the meaning of his Words of Power.
Jon tickled at the boar's nose, the great beast snorting and squealing in delight. This was the power of Drem; Dovahzul for Peace. It calmed animals in an instant, halting their desire to fight or flee.
Jon caressed the boars hide, giving it attention. The beast was content in his arms, it felt safe. Such was the power of the Thu'um.
Then Jon brought his knife down onto the beast's skull, and the rumbling snorting and squealing stopped. The boars head slumped in his arms, its body falling to the ground in a heap. Jon pulled out his blade with force, and blood slowed onto the grass like spilled summerwine.
"Robb! Robb, come back! I killed it!"
Jon wasted no time. He knelt down, pushing the corpse onto its back, and plunging his dirk into its stomach, removing the innards as best he could. Jon did not stop, even as he heard the trot of a horse coming upon him. The sound was like rolling thunder traveling on the floors of the wolfswood. There were more than one horse coming his way.
He turned his head and saw the Robb had returned, though not by choice. He was being held by the scruff of his collar by Hullen, the sour looking master of horse, with Jory Cassel mounted on a destrier by his side, both Robb's and Jon's ponies fastened to his saddle. There was a pair of grey furred hunting hounds by Hullens side. One of them made way to Jon, and began consuming the innards strewn on the floor, a bloody mess on its muzzle.
"You are out far too late, lads." Jory said. He was a rough looking man, with cropped black hair and stern brown eye, standing only slightly shorter than their lord father. "Lord Stark will want words. He's awake now, and he's sitting his anger."
"We weren't hurt." Robb scowled, his arms crossed.
"Aye, might not have been. You still caused a worry." Jory rolled his shoulders. "Jon, get on your horse, we're to return to Winterfell."
Frowning, Jon stood. He tried to drag the boar towards his pony, but was met with little success. It was more than twice his weight, and his arms were not muscled yet. He could not move the body.
Jory let out a sigh, "Hullen, help the lad out. These two should at least have a trophy for all the trouble they've caused."
The master of horse hopped down from his destrier, a great black beast, and lifted the boar on his shoulders with nary a grunt. Jon watched as the large man moved his kill onto the back of his horse, tying it down with a thick cord of rope and sullenly trudged along. He mounted his pony, still noosed to Jory's own beast of burden, and was pulled towards Winterfell.
Jon could see the castle even from this distance, leagues away. Winterfell's bell tower stood high in the distance, nearly touching the clouds overhead. The castle walls were seven feet thick and over one hundred feet tall, made from a deep granite stone with a wide, frenzy filled moat at its front.
They rode for over an hour, past the silent trees and the chatty animals and insects that were active in the night, all the way to the Battlements Gate. Jon and Robb took the Hunter's Gate when they left, it being next to the kennels and kitchens and stables made it ideal. They intended to find a kill and drop it off at the kitchens for the cooks to prepare, hoping to feast on it for a week. The boar was large enough to do that and more.
"Open the gates!" Jory shouted. "I've got them!"
The thirty foot tall gate made of dark ironwood opened with a great heave, and a wave of warmth seeped into Jon. The hot springs that Winterfell was built upon warmed the castle grounds at all times, especially in the early summer.
At the gate was a group of men, their night clothes covered by heavy fur coats. Some had blades, some had axes, one even held the leashes of five different hunting dogs. At their center was a man with a long face, dark hair and grey eyes. His closely cropped bear had soft lines of grey in them, and he stood with a firm scowl on his face.
Their father, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.
Jon and Robb were brought before the man, and dropped like potato sacks onto the warm stone pavement. Robb could not meet his father's eye, but Jon could. He had seen far worse than an angry father. Grey met grey, and for a time there was a silence.
"What do you have to say for yourselves?" Their father asked.
"We wanted to bring back a kill, wanted to make you proud. We're ten now, old enough to hunt on our own. We even brought back a boar." Robb said, and Jon turned to his brother. Though he shook and his words rang uncertainly, that he spoke at all made Jon feel proud that this was his brother.
"Aye, you did kill something." Their father acknowledged, waking way towards the boar. "You did this all on your own?"
"Robb shot it in the leg," Jon shrugged. "I stabbed it with my knife when it came too close."
"What were you planning on doing with this kill?" Their father asked, inspecting the beast with a hand on its flank.
"Eat it, skin it, turn its hide into something we would use." Jon said, Robb nodding at his side.
Their lord father hummed, "You two will do that and more. You will take that beast to the skinner, and without aid you will rend its hide. You will take that to the leatherworker, to boil and prepare properly. You will take the meat to the kitchens and cook it. And, you will not eat of the meat of your boar; only broth made from its bones will be permitted. Broth that you too will make."
"But father!" Robb sounded, only to stop as their father glared down at him.
"No." His voice was as hard as steel. "It's soon to be sunrise, already I can see the night lightening overhead. Your mother was sick with worry. I had the guardsmen scouring the whole of the castle, along with the rest of the wolfswood as well. Those men will likely be gone for weeks, searching for you without end, not knowing that you are safe behind warm walls while they keep to the mud and cold. They deserve a good, warm meal upon their return, and since you are the reason they are gone, your boar will be what feeds them. All actions have consequences, Robb."
He stopped then, his glare receding. He looked old in that moment, far older than his twenty-eight years.
"And that is only the punishment for hunting on your own." He said, his hands gripping both Robb and Jon by the shoulders, forcefully bringing them towards the lodgings of the castle. The rest of the men dispersed, either returning to their posts or returning to their beds. "There is still the matter of your being out so late."
"It was fine, father." Jon insisted.
"Fine? Fine, was it? Much as I wish it were, the wolfswood is not only inhabited by boars. There are wolves and bears, and there are also wildlings. Whenever I try to remove them, try to root them out, they always come back, different faces and different clans, but wildlings all the same. Should you have been unlucky… I do not wish to think on what would happen. Men go hunting, not boys, because men are old enough and trained enough to take care of themselves. You are not men, nor are you trained. You two are barely boys; closer in age to younglings than you are to grown men."
Robb wilted as he was shuffled into the living quarters. The granite stone gave way to a furnished room, where silk drapes and fur linings decorated the walls. There were carved statues, memorials of the old kings and friends and family of House Stark. A fire pit was lit inside, the lady Catelyn poking the flames with a hot iron, her cheeks red and tear-streaked. The shadows illuminated the slight swell of her stomach. She held the fifth trueborn child of Ned Stark within her womb.
"Cat, I've brought our son."
She turned to Robb, her morose expression replaced with a relieved smile. She rushed him, bringing Robb to her chest and embracing him as if he had been gone for months.
"You stupid boy." She said, sniffling into Robb's sweaty auburn curls. "What were you thinking? Do you know what could have happened? What would I do should you die? What of Sansa and Arya and Bran? Never leave me like that again."
"He very well might not." Jon's father said wryly. He turned his attention onto his trueborn son. "Robb, you have proven that you can sneak out of Winterfell. Whether by luck or skill, you escaped the eyes of the guard, which tells me that there aren't enough eyes on you. Until I deem you able, your mother will be my eyes, and you will not leave her sight. You will take your studies to her quarters, you will train in the view of her room and you will eat your meals in her company."
It did not sound like a punishment, but Jon knew differently. To spend your every waking hour with somebody that would not allow you your privacy… This was a harsh punishment, one that would become progressively harder over time.
Lady Catelyn nodded into Robbs hair, and then opened her eyes. She glared a blue fury at Jon, and her tongue was wet with venom. "And what of him? What is the bastard's punishment? He nearly had Robb killed."
"Mind your words." Their father's voice was tired, but an edge was there all the same. "He is my blood."
But not your son, Jon thought. Jon knew his true origin, knew that his mother was Lyanna Stark, the sister of Eddard Stark. This man was not his true father, but instead his uncle. His true father was long dead, his chest caved in by Robert Baratheon's Warhammer. Just as well, Jon did not have a care on that matter. Rhaegar Targaryen brought war upon Westeros, and he deserved his punishment. The prince may have been his father by blood, but Ned Stark was his father by deed. The man took him into his home and raised him amongst his own children.
Catelyn Tully, however, was most assuredly not a mother to Jon. She treated him as vermin ever since he was brought to Winterfell. Once, when he fell to sickness from using Tamrielic magic, she had sat by his sickbed and prayed to her Seven that he died in his fever. That more than anything kept his opinion firm.
His father continued to speak, "Their crime was the same, so their punishment will be the same." He held up a hand, Catelyn's mouth already opened to decry such an act. "Robb and Jon will not be under your watch, Cat. Only Robb. I do not yet know who will watch over Jon, but that person will be named in the morning."
With that, Robb and Jon were ushered away, sent scrambling to their quarters. They were on opposite sides of the castle. Lady Catelyn had been the one to decree that, and Jon's father did not deny her. Jon did not mind, he had a warm bed behind strong walls; what did it matter that he slept farther away from his cousins?
The room was the smallest of his siblings, even smaller than little Bran's room. Smaller even than the nursery that would soon be used. Jon did not decorate the room, a small closet made of blackbriar wood was nestled in the corner and a feather bed with bear pelt covers was sat in the middle of the granite stone space. Jon removed his leathers and equipment quickly and fell upon the bed in just his under garments.
Sleep took him quickly, and Jon dreamt of seeing Skyrim high in the clouds on the back of Odahviing.
Aaaand, done! This is actually more akin to the way I write on my personal novel. It might be a little off when compared to what you've seen on my profile, but I intend to give quality. I only took base descriptions of the wolfswood and Winterfell from the GoT wiki page, and made up the rest.
For your understanding, this is ten years after Istind became Jon Snow. You might think he was tame, and the simple fact of the matter is that he can't do anything too out there. He understands that he has it good, being the Dragonborn and a commoner before that, how could he not? Jon Snow is going to enjoy his second childhood, and when he becomes an adult, well… Well, I actually don't know. But, he's going to take things slow, and only show his cards when he has no choice.
There will be a set of childhood stories, like the one from this chapter, up until we get to where the story starts from the show. I'm thinking two or three more, though there could be up to six if my muse has good thoughts or if people give me good suggestions. There will be a distinctive change in Jon Snow's role amongst the household of Winterfell, and I hope you'll enjoy my plan for him.
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