The Young Wolf
Title: The Young Wolf
Author: Dothrakiqueen
Disclaimer: I did not create any of the characters. Copyright belongs to George R. R. Martin.
Summary: A small fic set 1000 years after the War of the Five Kings. Contain's spoilers of the first half of A Storm of Swords. A young child is told a legend of the Young Wolf by an old woman by his bed.
A young prince lay in his bed, his feet tapping restlessly. The air was cool and crisp, yet the sunset was melting in a furnace of red sky.
"Tell me a story," he huffed, turning to his side to face the old woman in the rocking chair. She had grey matted hair which fell to her hips and bits stuck out here and there. She was sewing a wolf to a piece of cloth; the wolf looked fierce and mighty, ready to attack. Then, the young boy noticed something. It wasn't just a wolf. It was a wolf 's head with a man's body.
"Bertha, why does that man have a head of a lion?" the boy questioned, digging himself deeper into the covers with a shiver. It was a cold night, even colder since his father had left to deal with 'matters'.
The old woman rose, leaving the cloth and needle on a small table next to her. She then lit a candle, turned to the boy and smiled.
"You've never heard of The Young Wolf?" she enquired, her voice eager.
"No, should I?"
"Yes, sweet summer child." she replied, resuming her work with her needle and cloth.
"Please tell me Bertha, I'll go straight to sleep," the boy pondered.
"Very well. If you promise to listen and stop the shuffling of your feet."
"I will," he replied, his feet still.
"The Young Wolf was a Stark that lived over a thousand years ago, back in the day the Bastard King Joffrey was on the Throne,"
"The evil one? Who got murdered on his wedding day?"
"Precisely. We're not sure which Stark this man was. Although, 'man' is a term used gently. He was a boy, in truth. Yet, he marched on to war and claimed the title of King in the North, after Joffrey took his father's head."
"Why did he do that?!"
"Treason, they say."
"The Starks have always been kind, gentle souls though," the boy said, sorrowful.
"Aye. Anyway, child, we digress. The Young Wolf was a warg you see; a skinchanger. Not many people have that ability you know. He had a direwolf, as did his other siblings."
"I want one!" the boy blurted, whilst imagining a great and loyal wolf at his side. He imagined being a hero; one that all of Westeros would revere. He imagined that he was at war with his wolf; creating chaos in his wake.
"You will go to war one day, just without a wolf," she pointed out; her head bowing down to her work. Her eyebrows were furrowed and she tutted.
"I'm sorry Bertha. Please carry on."
"Very well. They say that the wolf and boy were one; not merely two halves of a whole, but one. Their souls were intertwined, their lives tangled together, as if the same blood coursed through their veins. The Gods cut the same thread of fate to end their lives."
This time, the boy sat still; he was sitting with his knees to his chest, hugging them and resting his tiny chin between them. Bertha smiled at the rare occurrence of the boy being speechless and continued with her story.
"A relative of the Stark boy's mother was to be wed at the Twins; which was occupied by the Frays. The Stark boy, accompanied by his bannermen and family to celebrate their two houses joining."
"What's this got to do with anything?"
"Listen boy!" Bertha shouted abruptly. "This particular wedding was dubbed the Red Wedding." The boy then gasped.
"I see you've heard of it. It was a brutal and unnecessary massacre. Both Stark boy and his wolf were murdered in a bloodbath."
The boy pulled his blankets close to him and listened intently.
"Legend says that as they died, theytruly became one, in both physical and mental capacities. The Frays created an abomination. After the brutal murder of the boy's mother, they decapitated the heads of both wolf and man, and attached the wolf's head to the boy's body. They say that after the bloodbath had ended, the being animated. He left the Twins without being noticed, and lived as a feral creature in the woods nearby. He befriended a female direwolf; although to you, this may seem impossible. You wonder why a beast that is half-human would merely interact and befriend such a feral creature. But I'l have you know child, she accepted him as if they were siblings.
The boy wolf soon found that his family - who was originally scattered throughout Westeros - was not irrevocably broken. He saw them in his dreams, he played and hunted and interacted with his brothers and sisters. He was happy to see them and they returned the emotion. The Stark boy never died; he merely shifted into another plane of existence: one of both bestial and human nature, where he could see them again."
The boy simply stared at Bertha, speechless.
"Some say that he met up with his mother again."
"You said she died at the Red Wedding."
"Aye, she did. But she too, entered a different plane of existence. Her throat was torn and slashed, yet her lungs rose and collapsed just the same as any other human. Her hair grew from auburn to white, yet she was still only a middle-aged woman. Her heart still pumped blood, but the organ was made of stone. She saw her son die in front of her eyes and saw the firsthand the effects of war. She did not forget."
"How did they see each other again?" the boy asked, his eyes filled with tears. He could not imagine seeing a member of his family die before him; the last spray of blood will be the last spot of life that their heart would be ever pump. No more smiles, no more warmth. Just coldness and emptiness.
"One day, the boy wolf was following the scent of dead human flesh. He was hungry, even scavenged meat would suffice. He pounded through the woods, zig-zagging between the weirwood, until he came across a woman who was sitting on a log in a patch of grass. He looked at her face and immediately stopped in his tracks. He approached her stood up on his feet; as did she. Wolf eyes and human eyes met in a trance. The woman did not need to speak, she knew her son. She had spent blood and tears birthing him, she could never not know who her son was. It did not matter that his life had ended, she knew. She wrapped her arms around the wolf boy, embracing him. She sobbed in exuberance into his tufts of fur as the boy's arms closed around her. Beasts do not let tears escape from their ducts; yet tears fell gently from the wolf's once feral eyes. Mother and son were reunited, no words need be said."
Bertha wiped a tear with the finished embroidered cloth and carried on.
"They plotted for revenge. The woman was the brains; the wolf the brawn. They fought and fought, yet no amount of enemy blood spilled would be revenge enough for the afflictions the Starks suffered."
"The wolf boy became the legend that he is today, due to his immense skills as a warrior. Half human and half beast; he was able to become completely feral and rip out the throats of his rivals. He bounded across the field, slashing, ripping and maiming. The lady watched on, smiling with the thought of revenge. It could not be enough, never enough, as her sweet Ned would never be by her side again."
Bertha placed the tear-spattered cloth into the boy's palm, closed his fingers around it and whispered "be proud to be a Stark."
Author: Dothrakiqueen
Disclaimer: I did not create any of the characters. Copyright belongs to George R. R. Martin.
Summary: A small fic set 1000 years after the War of the Five Kings. Contain's spoilers of the first half of A Storm of Swords. A young child is told a legend of the Young Wolf by an old woman by his bed.
A young prince lay in his bed, his feet tapping restlessly. The air was cool and crisp, yet the sunset was melting in a furnace of red sky.
"Tell me a story," he huffed, turning to his side to face the old woman in the rocking chair. She had grey matted hair which fell to her hips and bits stuck out here and there. She was sewing a wolf to a piece of cloth; the wolf looked fierce and mighty, ready to attack. Then, the young boy noticed something. It wasn't just a wolf. It was a wolf 's head with a man's body.
"Bertha, why does that man have a head of a lion?" the boy questioned, digging himself deeper into the covers with a shiver. It was a cold night, even colder since his father had left to deal with 'matters'.
The old woman rose, leaving the cloth and needle on a small table next to her. She then lit a candle, turned to the boy and smiled.
"You've never heard of The Young Wolf?" she enquired, her voice eager.
"No, should I?"
"Yes, sweet summer child." she replied, resuming her work with her needle and cloth.
"Please tell me Bertha, I'll go straight to sleep," the boy pondered.
"Very well. If you promise to listen and stop the shuffling of your feet."
"I will," he replied, his feet still.
"The Young Wolf was a Stark that lived over a thousand years ago, back in the day the Bastard King Joffrey was on the Throne,"
"The evil one? Who got murdered on his wedding day?"
"Precisely. We're not sure which Stark this man was. Although, 'man' is a term used gently. He was a boy, in truth. Yet, he marched on to war and claimed the title of King in the North, after Joffrey took his father's head."
"Why did he do that?!"
"Treason, they say."
"The Starks have always been kind, gentle souls though," the boy said, sorrowful.
"Aye. Anyway, child, we digress. The Young Wolf was a warg you see; a skinchanger. Not many people have that ability you know. He had a direwolf, as did his other siblings."
"I want one!" the boy blurted, whilst imagining a great and loyal wolf at his side. He imagined being a hero; one that all of Westeros would revere. He imagined that he was at war with his wolf; creating chaos in his wake.
"You will go to war one day, just without a wolf," she pointed out; her head bowing down to her work. Her eyebrows were furrowed and she tutted.
"I'm sorry Bertha. Please carry on."
"Very well. They say that the wolf and boy were one; not merely two halves of a whole, but one. Their souls were intertwined, their lives tangled together, as if the same blood coursed through their veins. The Gods cut the same thread of fate to end their lives."
This time, the boy sat still; he was sitting with his knees to his chest, hugging them and resting his tiny chin between them. Bertha smiled at the rare occurrence of the boy being speechless and continued with her story.
"A relative of the Stark boy's mother was to be wed at the Twins; which was occupied by the Frays. The Stark boy, accompanied by his bannermen and family to celebrate their two houses joining."
"What's this got to do with anything?"
"Listen boy!" Bertha shouted abruptly. "This particular wedding was dubbed the Red Wedding." The boy then gasped.
"I see you've heard of it. It was a brutal and unnecessary massacre. Both Stark boy and his wolf were murdered in a bloodbath."
The boy pulled his blankets close to him and listened intently.
"Legend says that as they died, theytruly became one, in both physical and mental capacities. The Frays created an abomination. After the brutal murder of the boy's mother, they decapitated the heads of both wolf and man, and attached the wolf's head to the boy's body. They say that after the bloodbath had ended, the being animated. He left the Twins without being noticed, and lived as a feral creature in the woods nearby. He befriended a female direwolf; although to you, this may seem impossible. You wonder why a beast that is half-human would merely interact and befriend such a feral creature. But I'l have you know child, she accepted him as if they were siblings.
The boy wolf soon found that his family - who was originally scattered throughout Westeros - was not irrevocably broken. He saw them in his dreams, he played and hunted and interacted with his brothers and sisters. He was happy to see them and they returned the emotion. The Stark boy never died; he merely shifted into another plane of existence: one of both bestial and human nature, where he could see them again."
The boy simply stared at Bertha, speechless.
"Some say that he met up with his mother again."
"You said she died at the Red Wedding."
"Aye, she did. But she too, entered a different plane of existence. Her throat was torn and slashed, yet her lungs rose and collapsed just the same as any other human. Her hair grew from auburn to white, yet she was still only a middle-aged woman. Her heart still pumped blood, but the organ was made of stone. She saw her son die in front of her eyes and saw the firsthand the effects of war. She did not forget."
"How did they see each other again?" the boy asked, his eyes filled with tears. He could not imagine seeing a member of his family die before him; the last spray of blood will be the last spot of life that their heart would be ever pump. No more smiles, no more warmth. Just coldness and emptiness.
"One day, the boy wolf was following the scent of dead human flesh. He was hungry, even scavenged meat would suffice. He pounded through the woods, zig-zagging between the weirwood, until he came across a woman who was sitting on a log in a patch of grass. He looked at her face and immediately stopped in his tracks. He approached her stood up on his feet; as did she. Wolf eyes and human eyes met in a trance. The woman did not need to speak, she knew her son. She had spent blood and tears birthing him, she could never not know who her son was. It did not matter that his life had ended, she knew. She wrapped her arms around the wolf boy, embracing him. She sobbed in exuberance into his tufts of fur as the boy's arms closed around her. Beasts do not let tears escape from their ducts; yet tears fell gently from the wolf's once feral eyes. Mother and son were reunited, no words need be said."
Bertha wiped a tear with the finished embroidered cloth and carried on.
"They plotted for revenge. The woman was the brains; the wolf the brawn. They fought and fought, yet no amount of enemy blood spilled would be revenge enough for the afflictions the Starks suffered."
"The wolf boy became the legend that he is today, due to his immense skills as a warrior. Half human and half beast; he was able to become completely feral and rip out the throats of his rivals. He bounded across the field, slashing, ripping and maiming. The lady watched on, smiling with the thought of revenge. It could not be enough, never enough, as her sweet Ned would never be by her side again."
Bertha placed the tear-spattered cloth into the boy's palm, closed his fingers around it and whispered "be proud to be a Stark."