As he lay on the ground, feeling the warm cobblestone of Winterfell's training yard on his back whilst he stared out at a cloudless sky, Jon remembered exactly why he did not like heavy armor.

In Skyrim, he would always wear lighter gear. Jerkins of elven and glass and even stalhrim leather make, with chitin and dragonscale helms, and boots as light as a feather. He would wear plated gloves on occasion, great daedric gauntlets that covered the whole of his arms, spanning from the nail of his fingers to the curve of his shoulder. Sometimes, should he have been going into battle, he would wear a chainmail hauberk just above his underclothes, right under his leather threads. It was heavier than he liked, but its protection was worth his discomfort.

And yet, what Jon wore now was nothing like what he would prefer, and twice as uncomfortable still. It was heavy and it was an armor of a sort, but would not protect him from anything truly dangerous. A dull kitchen knife could pierce what he wore, as could anything with a sharp edge and a strong enough swinging arm behind it.

Jon's disliked of heavy armor was multiplied by the hatred he held for training pads. They were twice as bulky as he was, and his balance was so poor and his movements so stunted in them that even the likes of Theon Greyjoy could send him flat on his ass.

"Enjoying the view, bastard?" The squid asked, a cocky smirk was plastered on his face, hidden just beneath a patchy beard. Theon was a handsome boy, dark and lean with shaggy brown hair and sea blue eyes. He did not wear training pads like Jon did, and was instead clothed in a fur-lined cloak with a black-leather doublet and a pair of lambs-wool breeches. "It's all you deserve."

He was the ward of House Stark. Born as the third son of Balon Greyjoy, Theon was brought to Winterfell in the aftermath of his father's rebellion, a folly crusade for independence against the Baratheon crown. That was six years ago, and the Greyjoy scion had never shied away from mocking Jon's status as a bastard.

"Hold your tongue, Theon. That talk is for battle, not a training yard." Ser Rodrik Cassel rumbled. He was a stout, broad man with large white whiskers on his face, his murky black eyes showed his fifty years of age. Robb stood by him, watching the fight without a sound. "Jon, stand and repeat the exercise. You must become used to the weight of armor."

Jon had been under the tutelage of Rodrik Cassel for the past five years. Robb and he began training in weaponry under him at the age of eight. Jon enjoyed the man, he was lively and gruff all the same. Often, when Jon overdid his training, Ser Rodrik would feel responsible. That responsibility led to Jon spending many nights over these past years in his home, eating meals with his family and sleeping on a soft-wood cot in the living space of his holdfast in turn.

Groaning, Jon rolled back and forth, forcing a momentum in his body so that he could take a knee. He righted himself then, standing up and gripping a wooden longsword with both hands. Though younger, Jon was larger than Theon; larger than Robb and near a big as Lord Eddard. It was a point that Theon often felt unfair, and Jon relished in the older boys annoyance.

"Again." Ser Rodrik said a minute later, and Theon charged. He held his wooden bastard sword aloft and Jon was barely able to meet it, arms constricted by training pads. Theon swept his feet then, a trick that was not what they had been practicing for the past hour. Jon was forced to jump, and Theon used that moment to strike once more with his wooden bastard sword. Jon blocked it poorly, his left wrist twisting unnaturally, and Jon winced as a pop thrummed through his body, a cold flush meeting where the flesh was struck. He fell onto his back once more.

"Greyjoy, that was not the exercise," Ser Rodrik chastised. "You were meant to aim your hilt for Jon's head, not sweep with your foot."

"What does it matter? The bastard will lose and lose and then lose some more. It's a dull affair when you repeat the same thing all day. I should be allowed to change how I show the bastard his inferiority."

When Robb said nothing still, Jon felt something in him snap. He had never been cruel to Theon, but the squid had shown him only contempt. He was three years Jon's elder and acted as childish as Bran half the time. Every time that they interacted, Theon would not let his status as a bastard go away. Jon did not mind being a bastard in truth; he knew the responsibilities that his family held and was glad to escape such a station. But when the word came from Theons mouth, Jon was done. There was no reason for the way he acted.

"Better a bastard than a prisoner," Jon sounded, standing once more. "Ward, my father calls you. A kind word for what you are, much like a washerwoman is a kind word for a whore. You must spread your legs well if you can get away with speaking like that."

Theon's smirk fell, and a hot flush came across his gaunt cheeks when Robb snickered from the side. He grit his teeth and bound forward, his training sword held with whitened knuckles. He would have struck if not for Ser Rodrik holding him back.

"Theon, Jon- mind your words. Banter is fine in training, but this is nothing of the sort."

"It's not training if I can't even stand." Jon growled, ripping a pad from his arm. It roughed his tender wrist, and Jon let out a hiss of displeasure. That didn't feel like a bruise. "Why am I still wearing these damned pads? It's only when I spar with Theon or Robb or Bran that I must put them on. With you and Jory, I can just wear anything. You know how good I am without them."

"Aye, you're a good sword. Better than most of the Winterfell guard, and your only thirteen." Ser Rodrik admitted with an easy shrug, his hand still firmly on Theon's shoulder. "Were it up to me you would be a squire in the south; you've the mind and fortitude for a knight. My opinion matters little, as it were. Lord Eddard is the one that ordered you to wear those pads. To train your discipline and to calm your wolfsblood, I believe he said. I am not privy to his thoughts and I will not question his order. Now put them back on, we'll do this routine until you have the exercise learned."

Calm my wolfsblood? Jon thought with a scowl. What a foolish notion. House Stark believed that some of its members were so hotblooded that they could not be reasoned with after a time, and claimed them as wolfsblooded. Uncle Brandon had the wolfsblood, as did his mother, Lyanna, according to uncle Benjen. Jon's father never spoke of his brother or sister, and so Benjen was the only source he could trust. Jon knew that his father thought him difficult after the hunt, three years prior; that he had the wolfsblood as well.

Jon just could not see how poorly fitted training pads would help anybody, however. All they did was rile him up.

"It matters not," Theon said, his flush receding quickly. That damned smirk was back on his face once more. "Even without the pads, the bastard stands little chance."

The arrogance in his voice, the surety that Jon was nothing… Jon should have expected it to come, should have reigned it in, but he did not. His Dovahsos began to thrum from inside his body, a rippling sensation that gave him strength as his temper was torn asunder. His vision was replaced with red, a hazy view that did nothing to reel his anger in. Jon kept removing pad after pad until only a thinly stitched hauberk of boiled hide was on his chest, just above his underclothes. He breathed deeply, and threw his longsword at a patch of dirt.

"Jon." Ser Rodrik called with a warning tone. "Pick the sword up and put the pads back on. I have not yet dismissed you. Jon!"

Jon stalked over towards the weapons rack, ignoring Ser Rodrik. In it, there were racked wooden training swords, blunt tourney blades and live steel. Even in his anger, Jon did not go for the weapons with an edge, nor did he reach for the blunt metal. He grabbed a pair of shortswords, one larger than the other, and gripped the smaller one in his left hand, his right taking the larger.

"Greyjoy, get back in your spot." Jon bit out, a translucent white smoke seeping out from his lips. Ser Rodrik continued to voice his disagreement, but Jon did not listen. He felt his Dovahsos churn inside him, and instinct overcame rationality. He breathed in deeply, and just as he began to charge, a Shout escaped his throat.

"Su Grah!"

Though loud and echoed, the Thu'um had no visible effect. To those that witnessed, it would only appear that Jon was shouting at random in his anger. But this was not the case. Su and Grah, Air and Battle. Jon's speed near tripled, his training swords lashing out like coiled snakes. Theon tried to guard his body, for he could do nothing else, and even that did not last. Jon smacked a quickened blade at the older boy's fingers, Theon dropping his sword in turn. Jon then ducked low as his momentum quickened still, sweeping his swords at Theon's legs, forcing the young kraken onto the floor in a heap.

Jon stopped his assault with his swords tipped at Theon. One was held at his throat, tickling his patchy beard, and the other was pointing towards his groin.

"I stand little chance, do I?" Jon asked. Theon said nothing, his eyes wide with a mix of fear, envy and hate. Below, Jon could see his lambs-wool breaches soaked in piss.

Ser Rodrik chose that moment to move. He barreled into Jon, forcing the younger boy to drop his swords. The large man had brought Jon to the dirt, and Jon felt his breath knocked away. He struggled to breath.

"What part of stop do you not understand, you daft boy?" Ser Rodrik rarely raised his voice in such a manner.

Jon took a moment to regain his wind. "I refuse to allow that damned squid the satisfaction to call me as he likes in a training yard, acting like my better."

"He is your better," Ser Rodrik warned, standing. He did not offer Jon a hand, so Jon stood on his own. "He is to be Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands upon the death of his father. Were you the bastard of Balon Greyjoy, you would not be able to get away with speaking to Robb like that. The same goes for Theon."

"He is not my better," Jon hissed.

Ser Rodrik sighed, rubbing a glove covered hand over his face. "Get out of her Jon, you're dismissed. If you can't be reasonable then you won't be here. Return to your duties."

Jon scowled then, baring his teeth like a dog. He tossed his wooden swords to the training rack and stalked away. Theon hollered from behind him, calling him a bastard and a cunt and a eunuch. Jon was not even listening, he was more focused on calming himself. There was only one place in the whole of Winterfell that Jon could truly be calm, and so he went there.

The smithy was a sweltering room, heavy with the scent of sweat and smoke. Sounds echoed from the forge, the beating of metal on the butt of an anvil. Heavy blows were met onto a blade, unshaped and untested. Mikken Snow was the master of smith in Winterfell, and he was hard at work, Jon saw. He was an old, burly man with pale, wrinkled skin and a drooped face. His eyes were a slate blue, slightly milky from old age, and his beard was a mane of grey. He had no hair on his scalp, nor eyebrows on his face. Though he was over sixty years of age, Mikken still held corded muscles that twisted as the metal he beat sang.

"Thought you were training?" Mikken asked, not looking up. He was a simple man, his questions direct and his work was fair. He had been at the forge for over forty years.

"I was," Jon said simply, putting an apron on.

"Why aren't you there then, boy? When I was your age and in your position, I would do almost anything to train with the lord's children."

Jon knew that Mikken had been in his position; they shared blood, diluted though it may be. Mikken was the bastard brother of Eddard Starks mother, Lyarra. He had never been allowed to pick up a sword, and when he asked, he had to swear an oath before the old gods to never attempt beyond his station. The sword he was given came with a pair of blacksmith gloves, and he called the forge his home ever since.

"I just felt the need to work," Jon said, evading his question. Mikken was a man he knew and respected, and Jon did not wish to worry him with the tale of his temper.

"Fine, I care not," Mikken shoved the sword he had been beating on into Jon's hand. It was a bastard sword, heavy and long. "Take that to the grindstone and give it an edge. It's meant to be your brothers nameday gift."

Jon grunted and did just that. The grindstone stood in the corner of the room, a machine that built muscle and gave blades an edge. Jon sat and placed his feet on the pedals and began to ride. The stone wheel in front of him spun in turn, and Jon brought the blunted bastard sword to the stone. Orange sparks flew, and Jon found a calm come upon him.

He had always loved the forge. When he was Istind, it had been his family trade. The smithy was all he knew, prior to becoming known as the Dragonborn. His journeys as the Dragonborn allowed him to learn how to forge great works from a number of different resources, and he gained knowledge of techniques from foreign lands.

Upon his rebirth, Jon found himself once more brought to the forge. In this case, it was because Eddard Stark declared that Mikken would be Jon's minder, after the boar hunting incident three years prior. Mikken had had many students over the years, and quickly found himself surprised at how quickly Jon picked up the craft. Jon had decades of experience and knowledge to his name.

He was awaiting his fifteenth nameday with a bated breath. That was when Jon would become a man of Westeros, and when he would be permitted to use whatever he could find to forge a blade all his own. Already, Jon had used the coin he'd made in the forge to buy rare materials from traders that passed through winter town, preparing for that day.

Jon found himself lost in his work. The bastard sword in his hand was slowly turning an edge. When it was finished all the way through, he could see that the sun had set over head and bright stars were illuminating the dark. Mikken was no longer in the forge, likely he had left to sup with his daughter and grandchildren.

Looking towards the hall of Winterfell, Jon knew that he did not have that same option. Schedules were strict and Jon had been working too long. The door would not open and Catelyn Tully would not allow him to eat with his family.

Grunting, Jon packed his work up. The sword was racked, his aprons hung and the forge fires quenched. He made his way to the kitchens, and would have been content to eat his dinner with the staff.

A relatively small chapter. This was just supposed to show the way Jon reacts to Theon(who I happen to hate with a passion), and his relationships with the staff of Winterfell. Him being a blacksmith does not mean he'll mysteriously discover the secret to Valyrian steel, it just means he has options and insights that might not be obvious to other smiths.

He used a two-worded shout this time; words from the Elemental Fury Thu'um. Guess what that means? He's closer to full shouts, which means he's closer to badassery. It'll happen soon enough. I don't really care about most Thu'ums, but there is one shout in particular I can't wait for him to say. As a hint, I will mention that this is a Thu'um you can't learn from Skyrim, but it is one that exists and has been used in front of the Dragonborn.

These are just early life stories. That does not mean adventure-filled writing nor does it mean character development. It just means that I am showing you how his early life is going on. Sorry if you expected more.

There's going to be one more of these early life bits, then the main story will occur. It's going to be unique and quite a bit different from how I normally do things. Hopefully, that will be a good thing.

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