Jeyne Snow – 284 AC

The Wolfswood was still, the kind of stillness that sets a hunter's instincts on edge. The air carried a biting chill, sharp and dry, as it whistled softly through the ancient pines. Jeyne Snow moved through the trees like a shadow, her steps silent on the forest floor. The ground was blanketed in fallen needles and the occasional patch of snow, her keen eyes scanning for movement or a sign of her quarry.

She crouched beside a faint trail, her gloved fingers brushing lightly over a set of tracks pressed into the soft earth. They were fresh—hoof marks, small and delicate. A deer, perhaps no more than an hour ahead. Her lips curved into a faint smile. She straightened slowly, her breath visible in the frosty air, and continued deeper into the woods.

The trees loomed tall around her, their branches forming a canopy that turned the winter sun into a pale, ghostly light. The air was heavy with the scent of pine and the damp musk of earth, and every sound seemed magnified—the crunch of her boots, the creak of a branch, the distant call of a raven. Jeyne moved with practiced ease, her body low, her senses sharp.

She paused again after a short distance, spotting a cluster of droppings nestled beneath a frost-covered fern. Bending down, she removed her glove and pressed a finger into them, noting the warmth still clinging to the pile. The deer was close. She felt the faint flutter of excitement that always came with the hunt.

Jeyne place her glove back on and unstrung her bow from her shoulder, her fingers deft as she tested the tension of the string. The weapon was well-worn but reliable, like an old friend. She had made it herself under the guidance of her father when she was barely more than a girl, and it had never failed her since. She nocked an arrow and moved forward with renewed focus.

A faint sound to her right—a snap, the unmistakable break of a twig. Jeyne froze, every muscle in her body taut. Slowly, she turned her head, her sharp eyes scanning the underbrush. There—a brittleberry bush, its white fruit hanging like tiny pearls. Beneath it, a doe nibbled at the leaves, its delicate head dipping and rising with each bite.

Jeyne stilled her breath, letting the woods envelop her in silence. She slid the arrow into place, her muscles drawing taut as she pulled the bowstring back. Her heart beat steadily, her focus narrowing to the deer's flank. Time seemed to stretch as she aimed. Then, with a soft twang, she released the arrow.

The shot was true. The arrow struck just behind the shoulder, sinking deep. The deer bolted, its hooves scattering leaves and dirt, but Jeyne was already moving. She followed its trail through the underbrush, her eyes fixed on the splashes of blood that marked the path. The forest closed around her like an embrace, the hunt consuming her entirely.

The chase was brief. She found the deer collapsed in a hollow, its life ebbing away. The doe's breaths came shallow and slow, its wide eyes glistening with pain and fear. Jeyne knelt beside it, placing a hand gently on its side.

"That will do," she murmured softly. Her voice was steady, as she finished it off with her knife.

With practiced efficiency, Jeyne retrieved the rope from her pack, tying it securely around the deer's legs. The forest had provided, and she would waste nothing. The venison would feed her son, perhaps even fetch a good price at market. The pelt could be cured, the bones carved into tools. She dragged the deer back the way she had come

The trees began to thin, the forest giving way to the edges of Deepwood Motte. The wooden palisades of the settlement rose in the distance, their timbers darkened by years of rain and frost. Smoke curled from chimneys, the air carrying the mingled scents of woodfires and cooking meat. Jeyne's small shack came into view, nestled among the modest homes of other hunters and trappers on the outskirts.

The sounds of the settlement greeted her: the steady clink of a blacksmith's hammer, the low murmur of voices, the distant laughter of children playing in the fields. These were the sounds of home in the North.

Reaching her home, Jeyne hoisted the deer onto a sturdy hook outside. The effort left her arms aching, but she ignored the pain. There was work to be done. She stepped back, her eyes lingering on her kill with a mix of pride and exhaustion. The forest had given her what she needed, and now it was her turn to make good on that gift.

She stood there a moment longer, catching her breath as the faint warmth of the settlement wrapped around her. Her thoughts strayed to Cregan again, her lips twitching into a small, fond smile. Whatever mischief he was up to, she would soon find out.

Jeyne ducked into the small shack like home. The warmth of the fire hit her like a comforting embrace, chasing away the chill that clung to her. The familiar scent of woodsmoke mingled with the faint aroma of old leather and pine resin. The sight of her son playing on the floor brought a rare, genuine smile to her face.

"Mother!" Cregan exclaimed, his small voice bright with excitement. He clutched a wooden knife, brandishing it as if it were a greatsword.

Jeyne set her bow on its designated hook by the door, her quiver beside it, before scooping her son up into her arms with practiced ease. "And where is Mikken?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Wasn't he supposed to be watching you?"

Cregan, only two of age, merely stared back at her with wide, guileless eyes. His cheeks were flushed pink from the heat of the fire, and his brown curls framed a face brimming with curiosity. He offered no answer, just a giggle.

Jeyne sighed, shaking her head with a chuckle. "Well, I'll deal with him when he gets home," she said. "In the meantime, you're coming outside with me. Sit on the chair where I can keep an eye on you while I work." She carried him to the doorway, where his attention immediately shifted to the road. A horse pulling a cart caught his eye, and he pointed excitedly.

She set him down and turned to the task at hand. The deer hung motionless on the hook. Jeyne worked methodically, setting a bucket beneath the carcass to collect the draining blood as she began skinning it. The knife in her hand moved with precision, guided by years of experience. Her fingers were sure, each cut clean and deliberate.

Cregan's laughter drifted to her ears, softening the sharpness of her focus. He called out the names of animals he saw—sheep, dogs, and even the occasional crow—his small voice carrying over the steady rhythm of her work. She glanced over at him often, a habit born of a mother's endless vigilance.

A voice from behind startled her, breaking her concentration. "Get that all by yourself, aye?"

Jeyne spun, her reflexes honed by years in the wilderness. The blade in her hand was at the speaker's throat before she even registered his face. Mikken. The large strong auburn shaggy-haired fool was grinning sheepishly, his hands raised in mock surrender.

"Whoa, woman, what did I do?" he pleaded, his voice tinged with nervous humor.

"You left Cregan alone," Jeyne said flatly, pressing the blade a fraction closer. Her grey eyes flashed with irritation, though the corners of her mouth twitched in the faintest hint of a smirk.

Mikken chuckled nervously, backing away with his hands still raised. "Sorry, love. They needed me at the yard. Something about a lord stopping by and wanting the stables repaired. I was only gone for a moment" He rubbed the back of his neck, the scared grin never quite leaving his face.

Jeyne's frown deepened at the mention of a lord, but she said nothing, her mind briefly turning to what nobility might be doing in Deepwood Motte. She sheathed her blade and turned her attention back to her partner, who had scooped Cregan up and was tossing the boy into the air. Cregan's laughter rang out, bright and carefree.

"See? The little man's fine," Mikken said, catching the boy and holding him close. "Aren't you, lad?"

Jeyne crossed her arms, sneering faintly at Mikken, though her expression softened as she watched Cregan's joy. "Just don't leave him by himself too long," she said, stepping closer and brushing her son's curls from his face. She poked his belly, eliciting another round of giggles. "You know what he's like."

Mikken reached out, brushing her ebony-black hair behind her ear with a gentleness that belied his rough hands. "I won't again," he promised. "In fact, I'm done for the day. If you need help selling that or keeping the little lunatic entertained, I'm at your service."

Jeyne smiled, a genuine warmth lighting her features. "Let me finish this myself. I'll keep the best cuts, sell the remaining meat at the market and take what's left to the inn. There are a few things I need to tend to in town today."

Mikken nodded, carrying Cregan back inside as Jeyne returned to her work. She carved the deer with practiced precision, placing the cuts into a wheelbarrow lined with fresh snow. The North had its hardships, but at least the cold made preserving meat simpler.

When her task was done, she paused to savour the quiet of the woods around her. The faint rustle of branches and the distant chirp of birds filled the air, a fleeting moment of peace before the bustle of the market.

Inside the shack, Cregan's laughter mingled with Mikken's deep chuckles. It was a simple, ordinary scene, but it warmed Jeyne's heart. "I'm heading into town," she called as she stepped inside, ruffling Cregan's curls as she passed him. "Keep an eye on him, Mikken. And yourself."

Mikken smirked, his confidence never far from the surface. "Don't worry about us. Just get a good price for that deer. We could use the funds"

Jeyne kissed Cregan on the forehead, her lips brushing his soft curls. "Be good, little one," she said. His tiny hands reached for her face, his eyes wide with adoration. "Mama," he babbled, the word barely formed but filled with meaning.

Jeyne walked over to Mikken, and kissed him gently. His larger arms wrapped around her, pulling her close with an ease that spoke of their familiarity. Jeyne of age 22 was no delicate flower; she stood taller than most women, her frame sturdy from years of hunting and hard labor. Yet there was a quiet grace to her movements, an unassuming beauty that lay in the strong lines of her jaw, the sharpness of her grey eyes, and the faint scattering of freckles across her pale skin. Her ebony hair, often tied back in a practical braid, softened her features as it fell loose around her shoulders. Mikken still towered over her, his presence protective but never overbearing.

With a final nod, Jeyne stepped outside and began her journey to the market. The market was alive with noise and motion, a cacophony of haggling merchants and bustling customers. Jeyne set up her stall with practiced efficiency, laying out the cuts of meat with care. Her sharp eyes scanned the crowd, ever watchful, ever ready. But her thoughts were already on the day ahead—and the strange news of a visiting lord.