"Boltons- northmen who follow the teachings of the Hollene...emerged some time after the second Andal Migrations. These Boltons are a mixed breed; of firstmen blood and an Andal race calling themselves 'Chariente'. These are...a martial people, warlike raiders, with a crueler disposition than the Andal pilgrims that preceded them. Their faith, that of the Hollene, is derived from teachings of the Seven. However, they believe the Father to be the one true God, and view worship of any other aspect of the Faith as heresy."- Elhaine Stark's Reflections upon Religion, pg. 115

JON II

It was night.

Three days had passed since Gared's last words. Three days since he and Robb found the pups.

Jon remembered his Lord Father's words yesterday, the warning he asked for them to keep within young minds.

Jon felt foolish- initially, he had thought Father meant to reprimand him for not bringing his pup to Farland as he commanded.

However, in the Godswood... Father seemed deeply disturbed by something. He left them, Robb included, in a hurry-

stating that he had other duties to attend to. Arya told Jon later that Sansa said Father hadn't spoken to her, and when Jon delicately roused the question to Bran, Bran confirmed the same.

Something did feel wrong- though Jon didn't understand what it was. The Lannisters had fought for the previous King against Father and Robert Baratheon, but they had more than proven their allegiance after reducing swathes of King's Landing to crumbling ash. Further, Father was practically raised by The Hand... it would be out of character for Father to be overly happy, of course-

But there was a darkness to his eyes. A fear that only he knew- or perhaps it was something that adults were aware of, keen to keep away from children.

Jon shivered, looking up to the stars that loomed above him. The rumbling of Winterfell hummed between cold ears as he counted the hundreds of blinking constellations swarming within a sea of black.

Jon glanced over to the moon that always greeted them. In the north, the side of Essos that once held Valyria often faced the skies- even from here, one could see the smoldering darkness that crawled across the atmosphere of the ruined world, see the scattering chunks of rock now forever held by the horrors rent to the world eons ago.

Gray eyes shut, before opening again and focusing on the path ahead.

Winterfell slowly crawled by in the dark. A few lights sprinkled here and there, while partols of two-men guards gave Jon curious glances, but left him be. The ground was of frozen mud, with metallic paneling interspersed within it at points-

Often around buildings containing technology more sensitive to the northern elements.

As the young boy made way, a darker thought bit at him.

I have no place here.

A larger group of heavily armed Winterfell men busily moved about him, none of them giving him the littlest bit of attention. The scene was strange- but soon Jon returned to bleak ideations.

Father-

Not just him. Bran, Arya...

No matter how much they loved him, how much they cherished him..

There was always going to be something separating him from the people he called family.

The thought- it curled within Jon's chest, stabbing at his happiness and laughing at the rivets of blood that followed.

Lady Stark was kind enough- though Jon was not naive. He saw how she looked at him, and as he grew older, he understood the implications of his existence. He was a lasting reminder to her of the weakness held by her Lord, and..

A threat to Robb.

Jon made his way to the training yard. Learning how to hold a sword... It was one of the earliest memories Jon had of his father. How the man patiently taught him how to maintain a proper stance, how to never lean forward within striking distance- how to place your feet so you aren't thrown from balance.

"The training grounds will always be available to you." Father had told Jon long ago.

Jon seemed to unintentionally replay that day every time he drew near the area, remembering with fondness. The mud underneath Jon's boots suddenly gave way to cold but warming steel, Jon instantly noticing that his steps no longer sank into ice painted brown by upturned earth.

The training square was a plain sector within Winterfell's walls. On steel ground, it was thermally heated so that ice did not develop on the metallic surface.

Aside from the main square, there was not much else to the grounds. A small mess hall was opposite to it, where exhausted men could refresh themselves as the next group of trainees moved in. Outside, on the mess hall's walls, weapons waited.

Bows, axes, swords, even greatswords hung, the blades of the axes and swords waiting in hilts, while the electric cords of the bows buzzed at both tips of the weapon, unconnected. Rifles were found as well, shining and brilliant. Andal weapons they were, but they had their uses, and it was easier to train a man to be skilled with a rifle than it was to be skilled with a sword.

When it came to war, men quickly forgot tradition and stigma if it meant preserving their way of life. Even men of the North.

Jon inhaled deeply, making way to the messhall.

"Lord Snow," a voice greeted from behind.

Annoyance overrode even Jon's sadness then.

Theon.

Jon turned slightly, irritated he hadn't noticed Theon earlier.

Theon wore a hood, but his body moved with an unmistakable swagger, a cocksureness to it that only he possessed.

Jon kept walking towards the hall.

He could feel the soles of his feet begin to warm as Theon gained on him.

"Lord Snow," He said again-

Jon saw Theon reach for him- movement shining off of the reflection of a nearby hilt.

Jon swiveled away, frowning at Theon's grin as the ironborn removed his hood.

He was a handsome youth, much more so than Jon, with dark brown hair and hawk's eyes. He bore a sculpted face: an aquiline nose, sharp features, high cheekbones.

"I thought you would be here."

Before Jon could respond, Theon gave him a quizzical look.

"You were crying- the day we came back. I wonder why that is." He inquired.

Jon frowned darkly.

"Did you follow me here in the night to ask that?" Jon felt his throat tightening.

"No... it's just, seeing you again reminded me."

Jon sighed loudly, going back to reach for the sword he had chosen. The coldness of the hilt caused a small smile to curl at the corner of Jon's lips, improving his mood slightly as Theon continued prattling beside him.

"Robb was very angry that you managed to acquire a Direwolf." Theon said casually, and Jon was not surprised.

"He is always angry when it comes to me." Jon said. Theon smiled softly at that, turning away from Jon and pulling his hood tighter to his face.

"I came here with a warning." Theon suddenly began. There was a seriousness to his voice that caused Jon to pause.

The wind passed between them, almost silent.

"Well?" Theon said.

"You're the one who hasn't finished." Jon replied.

His heartbeat quickened.

Something is wrong, after all. I can... feel it, almost.

"I overheard discussions regarding you." Theon informed softly. Snow began to fall then, light flakes that had lessened since their ride outside Winterfell.

"Your jests grow more bored by the day." Jon grimaced, and Theon bore the opposite look on his face. However, his eyes were still and serious.

It was that emotion in Theon's eyes that made Jon stay.

"Think about it. Most of the elite here.. They tolerate you. The fact of the matter is...you look more like a Stark than any of your siblings. Well, save for Arya." Theon grinned.

"I don't see what this has to do with-" Jon began, before stopping himself.

It seemed as if he couldn't lie- not even to someone like Theon.

Theon's smile grew wider.

"You know already, don't you? You're a threat. Even in the best circumstances, you could turn at any time. Rival factions could use you to usurp Winterfell. That.. is the nature of your existence. You are a bastard, an agent of disorder. It would be easy for you, when you turn into true adulthood, to gather support after Eddard dies. You're his spitting image, Jon. Robb isn't."

Theon stepped closer, leaning down to Jon's ear.

"I'm only telling you this because I don't mind you, Lord Snow. However.. If you heard what I did.." Theon whistled, rising to his full height.

"I've seen it happen many times before. As bastards; your ilk, grow into reflections of their fathers..." Theon trailed off, looking away from Jon, and to Essos above them.

"The days you spend growing older here will become your last, Lord Snow." Theon said finally.

Jon ran from the training square, leaving his sword with Theon. Jon could feel Theon's eyes watching him- but he did not stop until he was back within simple bed quarters. Jon's breathing quickened into a heaving rasp, panic assailing him as tears streamed down his face. He heard a voice- a voice within him, a voice different from echoes of Theon's warning.

The days you spend growing older...will become your last, Lord Snow.

Jon fell to a dreamless sleep, Ghost curled beside him.