Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 5 (Patreon)

The wind howled through the trees, shaking the snow from their branches as Jon Snow and Voran made their way deeper into the forest. The cold bit at their faces, but neither seemed to notice. Voran, a seasoned hunter who had seen more winters than Jon could count, walked ahead with a determined stride. His grizzled beard was coated with frost, and his keen eyes scanned the landscape as if searching for something hidden beneath the snow.

Jon followed closely, his breath visible in the icy air. His thoughts were on the snow bear he had trapped the day before, pinned beneath a giant rockfall. The creature had been powerful, its white fur blending into the landscape so well that Jon had almost missed it entirely. But he had caught it, and now it was time to finish what he started.

"Should have done it yesterday, lad,"

Voran's voice cut through the silence, gruff but not unkind.

"We don't prolong suffering. Not even for beasts."

Jon nodded, though he felt a gnawing discomfort in his stomach. Voran had been right to scold him. In the North, life was brutal and unforgiving, and there was no place for hesitation. He knew that. But it was easier to think of taking a life than to actually do it, especially when the creature in question was so magnificent, even in its death throes.

The snow crunched beneath their boots as they continued, the trees closing in around them like sentinels of the wild. Jon tightened his grip on the spear in his hand, the weight of it reassuring. He had done this before—killed animals on hunts with Voran and by himself—but this felt different. The bear had been a formidable opponent, a creature of the North, just like him. And yet, here he was, about to end its life.

Voran glanced back at him, sensing the turmoil in the boy.

"It's not about cruelty, Jon,"

he said, his voice softer now.

"It's about respect. We don't let them suffer because we know what it's like to suffer. We kill because we must, but we do it clean."

Jon didn't respond. He didn't have to. He understood Voran's words, even if the thought of ending the bear's life still weighed on him.

Finally, they arrived at the site of the trap. The massive snow bear lay beneath the rocks, its breathing shallow, eyes half-closed in pain. It was a pitiful sight, this once-mighty creature brought low by Jon's cunning and the unyielding forces of nature.

Voran approached first, kneeling by the bear's head. He looked into its eyes, murmuring something in the Old Tongue that Jon couldn't quite make out. It sounded like a prayer, a final blessing for a warrior fallen in battle.

Then Voran stood and gestured for Jon to come closer.

"Do it, lad. End its pain."

Jon stepped forward, his heart pounding in his chest. He could see the bear's chest rising and falling slowly, the life fading from it with each breath. It looked at him with an almost human understanding, as if it knew what was coming and had accepted it.

Without a word, Jon raised his spear, aiming for the heart. He hesitated for only a moment before driving the weapon down, the point piercing through fur and flesh with a sickening crunch. The bear shuddered once, then went still.

Jon stood over the dead beast, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He wiped his forehead, despite the cold, feeling a strange mix of relief and sorrow.

"You did well,"

Voran said, placing a hand on Jon's shoulder.

"It's never easy, but it's necessary. Remember that."

Jon nodded, his gaze still fixed on the snow bear.

"I know."

For a moment, they stood in silence, the wind howling around them. Then Voran turned and began to prepare the bear for butchering. It was too large to carry back to Wintertown in one piece, so they'd have to take what they could and leave the rest for scavengers.

Voran's movements were efficient and practiced, his hands moving swiftly as he started to carve into the bear. The hide was the most valuable part—the thick white fur would make a fine cloak, warm enough to ward off the coldest of Northern winds. Jon watched closely, learning from the older man's expertise. As Voran skinned the bear, he spoke.

"This hide will fetch a good price in Wintertown,"

he said.

"But it's the meat and fat that will keep people alive through the winter. Every part of this bear is valuable, Jon. Nothing goes to waste."

Jon nodded, stepping in to help as Voran handed him pieces of the bear's flesh. The meat was dense and rich, packed with the nutrients that the North's harsh climate demanded. They worked together in silence, both understanding the importance of the task. The bear fat, too, was carefully collected—it could be rendered down into oil for lamps or used in cooking to keep the cold at bay.

As they packed the bear's meat and fur into their bags, Jon couldn't help but reflect on the harshness of life in the North. It was a land that demanded respect, where every decision was a matter of survival. He knew that the people of Wintertown would be grateful for this hunt. They worked hard to earn their keep, struggling to survive one winter after another. But they couldn't always hunt or fish for themselves, and that's where hunters like Jon and Voran came in.

"Ready?"

Voran asked, hefting one of the heavy sacks onto his nodded, doing the same. The weight of the meat and fur was substantial, but he bore it without complaint. The journey back to Wintertown would be long and arduous, but it was nothing compared to the satisfaction of knowing they had provided for the people.

As they started the trek back to Wintertown, Jon found himself lost in thought. He wondered what his father would think of the hunt, of his decision to spare the bear a slow death. Would Eddard Stark approve of his actions, or would he see it as weakness?

And what of the others in Winterfell? Robb would surely boast of such a kill, and Jon wondered if his half-brother would be proud of him or envious. It was a strange relationship they had, one built on both camaraderie and rivalry.

Voran broke the silence with a question that caught Jon off guard.

"What do you want, Jon?"

The boy looked up, puzzled.

"What do you mean?"

"What do you want out of life? You've got a sharp mind, a strong arm. But where do you see yourself in ten years?"

Jon hesitated. He had never really thought about it. His future always seemed uncertain, defined by what he wasn't rather than what he was. He wasn't a Stark, not truly. He wasn't a lord or a knight. He was just…Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell.

"I don't know," he admitted finally.

"I guess…I just want to be someone. Someone who matters."

Voran nodded thoughtfully.

"That's a good answer. But remember, lad, you don't have to be a lord or a king to matter. You can be a hunter, a warrior, a leader in your own right. The North needs all kinds of people to survive, not just those with crowns."

Jon pondered Voran's words as they continued their journey. The old man's wisdom often surprised him, cutting through the uncertainty in Jon's mind like a knife through the thickest of Wintertown's stew.

By the time they reached the outskirts of Wintertown, the sun had begun to set, casting long shadows over the snow-covered rooftops. The town was quiet, the day's work done, and the fires in the hearths beginning to burn they neared the center of town, the familiar faces of Wintertown's inhabitants began to appear. The people were hardy, their lives dictated by the seasons and the ever-present threat of starvation during the long winters. Yet despite their hardships, they were a close-knit community, bound by a shared struggle for survival.

When Jon and Voran entered the town, a small group of villagers gathered around them, curious about their haul. Word traveled fast in Wintertown, and it wasn't long before people realized that the two hunters had brought back something significant.

"Jon Snow, back from the hunt!"

one of the villagers called out, a smile on his weathered face.

"What have you brought us this time?"

Jon smiled faintly and opened one of the sacks, revealing the bear meat. The villagers' eyes widened with appreciation, and there were murmurs of approval. Meat like this would go a long way in feeding the town, and the bear's fat and hide were just as valuable.

"Good work, lad,"

another villager said, clapping Jon on the back.

"You've got a good heart, sharing your kill with us. We'll make sure it's put to good use."

Jon felt a sense of pride, but it was tempered by the knowledge that he had a much easier life than these people. He had grown up in Winterfell, a castle with warm fires and plentiful food, even during the harshest of it weren't for his father, Eddard Stark, Jon knew he might have been just another Wintertown boy, struggling to survive one harsh winter after another.

As they handed out the meat and prepared to leave, Jon caught the grateful smiles of the villagers. They might have little, but they valued community, and they appreciated what Jon did for them. For a moment, he felt a sense of belonging—a rare feeling for a bastard of Winterfell.

Voran nodded approvingly as they finished distributing the meat.

"You've done good today, Jon. Never forget that."

Jon felt a sense of pride, but it was tempered by the knowledge that he had a much easier life than these people. He had grown up in Winterfell, a castle with warm fires and plentiful food, even during the harshest of it weren't for his father, Eddard Stark, Jon knew he might have been just another Wintertown boy, struggling to survive one harsh winter after another.

As they handed out the meat and prepared to leave, Jon caught the grateful smiles of the villagers. They might have little, but they valued community, and they appreciated what Jon did for them. For a moment, he felt a sense of belonging—a rare feeling for a bastard of Winterfell.

Voran nodded approvingly as they finished distributing the meat.

"You've done good today, Jon. Never forget that."

Jon nodded silently, the weight of Voran's words sinking in. He had learned much from the older hunter, not just about survival, but about life in the North. It was a hard life, but it was a life that mattered, and that was what Jon wanted—his life to mean something, even if he was just a hunter, just Jon Snow.

With the last of the meat distributed and the hide stored for later use, they made their way back to Winterfell. The journey was quiet, the only sound the crunch of snow beneath their boots. Jon's thoughts drifted to what lay ahead—more hunts, more challenges, and the ever-present question of where he truly belonged. But for now, he was content to let the silence of the North fill his mind and the satisfaction of the hunt warm his heart.

As he approached the towering walls of Winterfell, Jon glanced back at Wintertown one last time. He knew that, no matter where life took him, this place and these people would always hold a special place in his heart. Because, in a way, they were his people too.

Jon Snow approached the massive gates of Winterfell, the ancient walls towering above him. His breath formed small clouds in the crisp winter air as he trudged through the snow, his boots sinking into the powdery white with each step. The God's Wood seemed to whisper behind him as the gates creaked open, revealing the courtyard bustling with activity. In his hands, Jon held the massive white fur of the snow bear he had hunted and killed. It draped over his shoulder like a cloak, the sheer size of it making him appear smaller than he was.

Around him, the usual hustle and bustle of Winterfell slowly ground to a halt as people noticed the bundle he carried. Conversations tapered off, and eyes turned to him, curious and impressed. The winter sky above was dull, the sun struggling to break through the clouds, but there was a sense of warmth in the air as Jon returned from his successful hunt.

The fur was thick, the whitest of whites, marred only by the bear's blood that stained some parts of it. It was a trophy of the North, a symbol of survival and strength. The hunting weapons Jon still carried on his person only added to the image. The men and women of Winterfell, accustomed to the trials of the North, couldn't help but marvel at the sight.

A murmur ran through the gathered crowd as Jon continued forward, eyes following his every move. The people of Winterfell began to gather around him, eager to greet him, to congratulate him on his successful hunt. They had heard stories of the young boy who went out alone into the wilderness, but to see him return with such a prize was another matter entirely.

Jon noticed the familiar faces of the Wintertown folk—those who had received the bear meat he had brought back. Their smiles and nods of approval made him feel a little less like an outsider. Even though he was a Stark by blood, he had always been just Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. Yet in these moments, he felt like something more. Not quite a Stark, but not just a Snow either.

The clanging of the blacksmith's hammer against the anvil stopped as Mikken paused to watch Jon approach. Maester Luwin, standing near the entrance to the Great Hall, adjusted his glasses and peered curiously at the bundle Jon carried. Even some of the younger children, usually busy with their chores, paused to stare in awe.

As Jon reached the center of the courtyard, the crowd parted for a tall, broad-shouldered figure. Eddard Stark, his father, stepped forward with a look of quiet pride on his face. The Lord of Winterfell had seen many things in his life, had fought in countless battles, but seeing his son return from a successful hunt with such a prize filled him with a different kind of pride.

"Jon,"

Eddard said, his voice firm but warm.

"You've done well."

Jon nodded, his face serious as he stood before his father. Eddard's gaze fell on the fur, and for a moment, he allowed himself a small smile.

"The size of that fur,"

Eddard said, glancing at the other men who had gathered around.

"It's not often we see something like that. You've done the North proud."

With a swift motion, Eddard gestured for the servants to clear a space in the training yard. Jon unfurled the massive fur, letting it spread out on the ground. The crowd gasped as the full size of the bear's hide was revealed. It was enormous, large enough to cover a small cottage roof. The fur was so thick that it seemed impenetrable, a perfect shield against the biting cold of the North.

Eddard crouched down and ran his hand over the fur, feeling the texture beneath his fingers. He looked up at Jon with approval. "

This could make a fine cloak for the winter, Jon. Maybe even five with how much there is."

But Jon shook his head, his dark curls falling into his eyes.

"I don't want a cloak, Father. There's someone who needs it more than I do."

Eddard raised an eyebrow, curious.

"And who might that be?"

"Old Nan,"

Jon said, his voice steady.

"She doesn't have a good blanket for the cold nights. This fur—it's thick and warm. It'll keep her safe during the long winter."

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. Old Nan had been in Winterfell longer than anyone could remember, and though her stories were sometimes frightening, she was beloved by many. The thought of Jon giving her such a valuable gift warmed the hearts of those around him.

Eddard stood up, his eyes softening as he looked at his son.

"That's a generous gesture, Jon. Old Nan will be grateful."

Jon simply nodded. He didn't seek praise for his actions; he did what he believed was right. That was the Stark way—or at least, the way he had come to understand it from the stories of old.

With the matter of the fur settled, Jon turned his attention to something else he had brought back from the hunt—the bear's heart. It was large and heavy in his hands, still warm from the life it had once sustained. Jon had read in the old books about the customs of the First Men, and he knew what he had to do next.

Without a word, Jon began walking toward the Godswood, the heart of Winterfell's spiritual life. The crowd watched him go, curious but respectful of his intent. The Godswood was a place of reverence, and even the most curious among them knew better than to intrude.

The snow crunched beneath Jon's boots as he entered the sacred grove. The air was colder here, the towering weirwood tree casting a long shadow over the clearing. Its red leaves rustled in the wind, and the ancient face carved into the trunk seemed to watch Jon as he approached.

He knelt before the tree, the bear's heart resting in his hands. The weirwood's face was expressionless, yet Jon felt as though it were gazing into his very soul. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer, just as the First Men had done so many centuries before. The words were ancient, the language of the Old Tongue—a language he had learned with difficulty, yet it felt right in this moment.

When his prayer was complete, Jon placed the heart at the base of the tree, offering it to the Old Gods. It was a symbol of respect, of reverence for the life that had been taken and the life that remained. He remained kneeling for a moment, his head bowed in silence.

Just as he was about to rise, a sudden sound broke the stillness of the Godswood—a loud crack, followed by a thud. Jon's eyes snapped open, and he saw a large branch from the weirwood tree lying on the ground before him. It had fallen without warning, its weight too much for the ancient tree to bear.

Jon stared at the branch, his heart pounding in his chest. In the North, weirwoods were sacred. Their branches were never cut, never broken. Yet here was a branch, freshly fallen, lying at his feet. It was as though the tree had given him a gift.

He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and touched the branch. It was smooth and strong, its wood almost unyielding beneath his fingers. Jon knew that weirwood was special—it was said to be nearly indestructible, capable of withstanding even the sharpest blade.

A thought crossed Jon's mind as he stood there, holding the branch. Perhaps this was a sign from the Old Gods, a message that his offering had been accepted. Or perhaps it was simply chance, the way of the world. Either way, Jon felt that this branch was meant for him.

He picked it up, feeling its weight in his hands. It was strong, sturdy—perfect for crafting into something useful. A weapon, perhaps, or a tool. The possibilities were endless.

With the branch in hand, Jon rose from his knees and turned to leave the Godswood. The snow crunched beneath his boots once more as he made his way back to the courtyard, the weight of the branch a comforting presence in his grasp.

As he stepped back into the courtyard, the eyes of Winterfell's inhabitants followed him once more. They saw the branch in his hand and knew, without needing to ask, that it was something special. A gift from the Old Gods, perhaps, or simply a token of the North's harsh blessings.

Jon felt their gazes but paid them little mind. He was thinking about what he would do with the branch, how he would shape it into something that would serve him well. It would be a reminder of this day, of the hunt, of the respect he had shown to the Old Gods.

And as he walked through the courtyard, his mind already at work on the possibilities, Jon Snow felt a quiet sense of satisfaction. He had gone out into the wilderness, faced the dangers of the North, and returned stronger for it. And in his hands, he held the proof of that strength—a gift from the land he called home.

As Jon made his way back to the keep, the news of his latest accomplishment had already spread through Winterfell like wildfire. Servants whispered among themselves about the boy with the wolf's blood, who had returned from the wilds with a prize that would warm the old and weak through the harshest of winters. They spoke of the bear, a massive creature of legend, brought down by Jon's hand. And they marveled at the heart he had taken to the godswood, a sign of respect for the old ways that many in Winterfell still held dear.

Inside the Great Hall, preparations were already underway for the evening meal. Long tables were being set with hearty food and drink, and the fires crackled in the hearths, casting a warm glow over the stone walls. The air was filled with the smell of roasting meat, fresh bread, and spiced wine, a feast worthy of Jon's return.

As Jon entered the hall, freshly bathed and dressed in clean clothes, he was greeted with nods and smiles from the servants and the men of Winterfell. Many of them were Northerners, born and raised in the cold, hard land of the North, and they respected strength and skill above all else. Jon had both in abundance, and they admired him for it.

He made his way to the head of the table, where his family was already seated. Robb, Sansa, and Arya all looked up as he approached, their eyes bright with curiosity. Even little Arya, barely more than a baby, watched him with wide, serious eyes, her small hands clutching a piece of bread.

Robb, ever the older brother, was the first to speak. "Jon! You must tell us all about the hunt," he demanded, his voice eager.

"How did you do it? How did you bring down such a beast?"

Sansa, sitting next to Eddard, turned to Jon with wide eyes.

"Jon, that fur is incredible. I've never seen anything like it. How did you manage to bring down such a beast?"

Jon, still catching his breath from the day's exertions, replied with a modest shrug."It wasn't easy. The bear was strong, but we managed to trap it under some rocks before finishing it off. It took a lot of effort, but it's worth it if it helps the people."

Robb, seated across from Jon, looked on with a mixture of admiration and frustration. He had been eager to join Jon on his hunts but was often kept back by his mother's insistence that he stay safe.

"I wish I could have gone with you,"

Robb said, his voice tinged with longing.

"You make it sound so exciting."

Catelyn, who had been quietly observing, seized the opportunity to chime in.

"Robb is not yet ready for such dangerous excursions,"

she said sharply.

"He has responsibilities here at Winterfell. It's not as if Jon's achievements are going to make up for his lack of formal training."

Jon's gaze flickered to Catelyn, and he could see the underlying bitterness in her words.

"I assure you, Lady Stark, I'm very aware of the risks involved. I take every precaution. But sometimes, proving oneself means facing those risks head-on."

Catelyn's eyes narrowed, her discontent barely concealed.

"It's all well and good to be brave, but it's not just about hunting. It's about knowing your place and respecting the responsibilities you have."

Jon met her gaze steadily, feeling the sting of her words.

"I understand my place, Lady Stark. But every Stark should be able to hold their own in the wilds. It's part of who we are."

The conversation shifted as the meal was served, but the tension lingered. Jon could feel Catelyn's disapproval like a cold shadow over him. Sansa and Robb continued to ask him questions about the hunt, clearly eager to hear more. Jon described the encounter with the bear in detail, recounting the challenges he faced and the techniques he used.

Meanwhile, the younger Stark children, particularly Arya, were kept occupied by the servants. Arya, still a baby, was babbling and cooing in her crib, her tiny hands reaching out as if trying to grasp the excitement in the air. She was too young to understand the significance of Jon's hunt but was nonetheless part of the lively atmosphere.

After the meal, Jon excused himself to prepare for the night. He was eager to clean up and rest, but the conversation and reactions from the dinner had left a lingering sense of unease. He knew that Catelyn's jealousy and the expectations placed upon him would continue to be challenges he'd have to face.

As he made his way to his chambers, he reflected on the day's events. The hunt had been a significant achievement, but it had also highlighted the divisions and tensions within his family. Despite the challenges, Jon remained committed to his path, knowing that his efforts were making a difference for those who relied his room, Jon cleaned up and prepared for bed, feeling the exhaustion of the day weighing on him. The warmth of the bath and the comfort of clean clothes were a welcome respite. As he lay down, he thought about the future and the path he was forging for himself. He knew that his journey was far from over, and that there would be many more challenges to come.

But for now, as he drifted off to sleep, he felt a sense of accomplishment and purpose. The hunt had been successful, and he had proven himself once again. The respect of his family and the gratitude of the servants were rewards in themselves, and Jon was determined to continue striving for excellence in all he did.