Omake 3/Challenge number 1.
I tried my best to convince the disclaimer to make an appearance but he was sadly stuck in Christmas traffic so take this attentive bunny as a consolation:
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Jon Sand the Sellsword
The North, 290 AC.
Jon Snow.
Jon shook as he drew the furs tighter around himself. For three weeks now he had been on his own out in the wilds. He may only be seven years old, but his father had taught him both how to swing a sword or use a knife, and more importantly how to ride, shoot a bow and to properly skin and prepare an animal for cooking, skills he had made good use of since he ran away from home.
Jon happened to be a bastard you see, and as such he was no more than a stain in the eyes of his father's wife. Lady Catelyn Stark, the mother of Jon's siblings who he loved more than anything in the world despised Jon, and made her damn best to make Jon feel despised too. Perhaps if his father had been willing to tell Jon anything about his mother he wouldn't feel so bad, but he didn't. He didn't know if his mother was a noble Lady from the south, or a whore, so Jon had done his absolute best to ferret out the secret on his own. So far the best way to get men to talk had been to ply his 'targets' with ale, and while the reports were conflicting the majority seemed to think that Ashara Dayne, a woman from Dorne had been his mother, the fact that Lady Catelyn had gone white and then slapped him when he meekly asked her had all but confirmed it in his eyes.
So he packed what he could. Extra cloaks and warm furs, the dagger he had received from his uncle Benjen on his sixth nameday. He had tormented himself with guilt by. . .borrowing a pouch of twenty golden dragons. He brought his best bow and a whole quiver of arrows. Flint and steel for making fire, some bread and cheese and a waterskin, all this he packed onto his favourite horse and rode off in the night, leaving a simple letter explaining that he was going to find his mother. He hadn't seen Winterfell since.
Perhaps if his father had still been home he wouldn't have gone, but father was gone. South to fight against the Ironborn who had risen in rebellion against the Crown. In his absence Lady Stark had controlled everything, and without his father there to temper her, she had been much harsher than usual towards Jon. He had been scolded severely any time he beat Robb in sword practice, he was not permitted to eat with the rest of them during meals, being forced to take his meals in his room or in the kitchen, he wasn't even permitted to hold his new baby sister Arya, the only one of his father's three trueborn children who shared his colouring. So with his father gone for gods know how long, he decided to go south and try and see if his mother was alive in Dorne, perhaps to ask her why she had let him go, or never written. Besides, people treated bastards better in Dorne he had heard, mayhap he could even learn to become a Knight and one day even become the new Sword of the Morning like his uncle Arthur Dayne had been.
He had fortunately been blessed with good weather, and he knew enough to hunt and keep himself alive when his bread and cheese ran out. He kept off the roads while travelling south, just in case Lady Catelyn would by some miracle send out riders after him. But after three weeks he was forced to find shelter amongst a copse of thick trees, trying in vain to light a fire amongst the pouring rain and howling wind. Eventually he just gave up, choosing instead to huddle himself as best he could in the thick furs he'd brought and try to sleep. Evening gloom soon crept into night and Jon started to doze off when he heard the noise.
The clang of steel against steel, and shouted curses. The best thing would be to ignore it, but curiosity is a strange thing, and Jon was no better than any other boy his age, so he checked to see if his garron Snowflake was still tied up. Confirming that Snowflake was indeed securely tied to the nearest tree he fastened the shortsword and dagger he had taken with him to his belt, put the quiver of arrows on his back and gripped his bow in sweaty hands, and arrow ready on the string to be drawn and loosened.
The source of the noise showed itself quicker than he anticipated and he barely avoided gasping in shock and somewhat awe.
A single man, with neck length brown hair, wearing what looked to be well worn, but still in good condition leather armor was holding a sword in one hand, his other hand was held to his side which appeared to be bleeding, his leg was also injured from the way he was favouring his right leg. Still wounded as he was he was holding off no less than five wildlings, another three lay dead on the ground already.
"Give it up kneeler," one of the wildlings, a tall man with a bald head and scars resembling tattoos all over his face and head said as he grinned nastily at the wounded man.
"Ye'll be goin'n the pot later," another laughed as he swung a big axe against the wounded man who barely evaded it due to his lamed leg.
"All you fockers wanna do is put me in the cold ground with no woman to keep me warm," he jested, in spite of being outnumbered five to one. "Take a special kind of man to be so cruel," he finished as he suddenly grabbed the nearest wildling, and with one deft move he opened the throat of his victim who fell shaking to the ground as he tried in vain to keep the blood from gushing out of his throat.
"FUCKER," the biggest of the wildlings yelled as he jumped the killer of his friend, and to Jon's dismay he managed to disarm his foe, sending the sword flying one way while he and the wounded man both fell another way and the wildling immediately started to beat the wounded man in the face with his fists.
"RALF," one of them yelled, and to Jon's horror he was looking right at him while pointing. "THERE'S ANOVVER ONE."
Jon almost panicked, in fact he probably did somewhat panic as he was just as surprised as the wildling when his arrow was suddenly sticking out of the wildlings eye. Like his father had taught him, Jon drew a second arrow and let it fly, distressing somewhat as he acted too fast, the arrow lodging itself into the knee of the closest man rather than in his chest, though at least the wildling would be out of the fight for some time as he writhed on the ground, screaming and cursing in pain.
There was never time for a third shot as the last two wildlings were upon him. Fear and excitement in equal measure pounded in his veins as he dropped the bow and stepped to the right, narrowly avoiding the swinging sword o one of the wildlings. As he did so he used his left hand to draw his knife behind his back and made a swift slash as he spun away.
He didn't even need to see if he had been successful, the spray of warm blood hitting his back was proof enough, the added sound of a panicked gurgle and a body hitting the ground told Jon that he had sliced the wildling's throat like he'd hoped for.
"I'm gonna fook ye bloody little boy," the other wildling snarled as he swung a crude iron sword at Jon.
Jon who had at this point drawn his own sword knew that he could never beat the wildling when it came to strength, but he could outmanoeuvre him. If there was one thing Jon was good at according to Ser Rodrik it was his ability to think on his feet, to use his speed and lithe build to his advantage, and regardless of how strong his foe was, the wildling's swings were so wild and unchoreographed that Jon could see them coming from a mile.
The wildling did have the advantage of reach on his side, so Jon had to play the patient game, ducking, backtracking or sidestepping, he used his sword whenever he spotted the chance to turn the blade aside and dart in for a quick slice of his knife, slices that were not just painful but also enraged the wildling further, and then he tripped.
Jon had backtracked too far and tripped over a branch and fallen onto his back, his sword and knife were both out of his reach and he cried out in pain as the wildling stomped his foot onto Jon's chest to hold him in place.
"I'm gunna enjoy fookin' yer little arse boy," the wildling sneered as he gave Jon a disgusting creepy smile, and then his head flew off his neck in a spray of blood.
"You alright lad?"
It was the man Jon had spotted fighting the wildlings. He was drenched in blood and as Jon looked to the left he realized why. When the last wildling had tackled him to the ground the man must have drawn a knife from his back as the wildling was carved open from crotch to neck, his insides were all lying innocently outside of the body.
"I-I think so," Jon stammered. "Thank you Ser."
The man grinned slightly as he sat down beside Jon with a wince. "I'm no Knight," he said with a laugh. "I'm just an upjumped sellsword."
Jon widened his eyes, sellswords were far from common in the North, and most of them had pretty bad reputations, but the man had saved his life, and he seemed kind.
"What are you doing up here in the North?" Jon asked curiously.
"Little job brought me up here," the sellsword said. "A man fled beyond the Wall, and I hunted him down and killed him."
"Why?" Jon asked, it seemed a bit extreme to go all that way just to kill someone.
The sellsword shrugged. "When someone offers a price of a hundred gold dragons for one head you tend to try and take it."
Jon nodded hesitantly. He had never wanted for anything, sake perhaps for the love of a mother and a proper name, but he knew enough from Maester Luwin's lessons that a hundred gold dragons was more than most men earned in an entire lifetime, hells, five dragons was enough for a whole set of plate armour.
"And you lad," the sellsword asked. "What are you doing out in the woods all alone hmm? Shouldn't you be home with your parents`"
"I. . .my Lord father threw me out," Jon lied, not really needing to fake any sadness. He was more than sad and shocked enough already.
"Ahh," the sellword said knowingly, "Bastard eh? So what were you thinking going into the woods then?"
"My-my mother," Jon stammered. "My mother lives in Dorne."
The sellsword laughed. "And you thought you could go all the way to Dorne alone did ya?"
Jon pouted, surely it wasn't that ludicrous. "I can fight, and hunt" he said stubbornly.
The sellsword looked at the two people Jon had killed, as well as the wildling he had shot in the knee. "Aye that ye can," he agreed. "Few more years with the right teacher and you could get rich."
"I'm gonna be a Knight," Jon said proudly as he raised his chin defiantly. "My uncle was the Sword of the Morning."
The sellsword whistled. "That'd make yer mum one of them Daynes in Starfall then."
Jon nodded, before he had an epiphany. "Can you take me there? I can pay." He added quickly as the sellsword looked sceptical when he asked.
"You can pay?" he asked sceptically.
"I have ten gold dragons," Jon said proudly, and I can hunt and cook along the way.
The sellsword looked appraisingly at Jon for a moment, as if weighing him up. "I suppose I could take ye, I'm goin to Blackmont anyhow to deliver this head, Starfall is just a few days walk from there."
Jon almost whooped. "I have a horse too, he is big enough for both of us," he said eagerly.
The sellsword laughed again. "Yer an eager little fooker aren't ya?"
Jon grinned at the sellsword. "Do you think you can teach me how to fight better?" he asked as he stuck out his lip in a way that he had been told was quite adorable on his normally solemn face.
The sellsword looked astonished for a moment before laughing again. "I think I'm gonna have ta keep ya, that look right there, the ladies are gonna fookin love it," seeing Jon was still looking hopeful he reached out and ruffled Jon's hair, "Alright kid, alright, I'll teach ya how to fight properly."
"THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU," Jon shouted as he threw his arms around the sellsword who 'oofed' at being bombarded by one seven year old northern bastard.
"Easy Lad, easy," he laughed as he stood up, and Jon sheepishly let go.
"I'm gonna have to sew this up," he explained to Jon as he pointed out his wounds. "While I do this you go grab yer horse and come back here."
Eagerly Jon sprinted back to Snowflake and untied him before riding back to the sellsword who seemed to have finished sewing up his wounds. "Good horse," he remarked as he threw himself behind Jon and taking over the reins. "I think that for the sake of safety we'll pretend that I'm yer father and you are my little boy."
"Really?" Jon asked, "I already have a father."
"Your father threw you out lad," the sellsword said soothingly. "Until we can find yer mother I'm the only person you have in this world, what's your name by the way."
"My name's Jon. . .Sand," Jon answered, pausing just a slight moment before saying Sand, probably better to name himself as a Dornish bastard than to use Jon Snow, he had no desire to be dragged back to Lady Catelyn where no doubt hours of screaming and a good round of the switch to his backside awaited him. Besides he had been born in Dorne, so by custom he should have been named Jon Sand anyhow.
"Name's Bronn," the sellsword said. "But you can call me father, and trust me lad, we're gonna have a grand old time."
Jon smiled. While Jon would always think of Eddard Stark as his father, he liked Bronn, and though he may not yet know it when they started to ride south, this was just the first of a long life of adventures, gold and women waiting for him. . .
AN/:
So, I am hereby challenging anyone to write a fic where Jon is essentially raised by Bronn, and as a product of the upringing his new 'father' gives him he'll have a grand old time. Plus points for anyone who can make as many scenes as possible with men like Tyrion, or Tywin or others probably guessing who Jon is, maybe eventually ending with Jon getting Winterfell and being named as a Stark in reward for some service done for Jaime, Cersei or Tywin.
Naturally this Jon would be quite different, with Bronn raising him he would be a lot more ruthless, probably fond of women and with a mercenary streak a mile wide.
If anyone accepts this challenge, feel free to use this part as a starter. Give me a PM and I can mail/share the document
