Blood in the Snow

Winterfell, 277 AC

(Wulfric, Age 5)

The snow never truly melted in Winterfell. It retreated briefly, only to fall again, as if the gods themselves kept refilling the sky. This winter, the snow seemed heavier, grayer, an omen in the minds of the old women who muttered their prayers to the weirwood and counted the days until spring.

Wulfric didn't mind the cold though. He never had. He liked the way the air stung his lungs and made the world quiet like ice waiting to shatter. But on this day, he had never walked alone this far into Wintertown before, and something in his chest coiled tight like rope around a stone.

He was there on his own errand, Maester Walys had asked him to return a borrowed satchel to a herbalist at the edge of town. It was a simple task, but Wulfric had insisted on doing it alone. Benjen had said nothing, though his glance lingered longer than usual. Rodrik Cassel had warned, "Don't talk to fools, and don't pick fights with dogs."

It was in a narrow alley between two smoke-stained buildings that he heard the first shout.

"No! That's mine! Please!"

A girl's voice. Young, no older than Wulfric himself.

He turned the corner and saw them: four boys, older, larger. One had thick hands like stone mallets. Another carried a long stick, sharpened crudely at one end. They had cornered a girl with straw-colored hair, brown eyes ringed with green and a torn cloak that looked almost like fluttering leaves in the snow cold air. A unique and puzzling appearance to be sure. At her feet was a cracked wooden doll wrapped in roots of some kind.

Wulfric didn't pause.

"Leave her alone," he said, stepping forward.

The boys turned, some smirking, some confused, and some.. just too stupid.

"What's this?" the biggest one laughed. "Some stray think he's a knight?"

"He's not from here," another said, hey voice cracking while his beady eyes were squinting. "Never seen him. Probably a castle brat or new comer sneaking around."

Wulfric met their gaze with silver, unblinking.

"Leave her."

The biggest boy shoved the girl aside. She fell into the snow, clutching her doll. Then the boy picked up the stick and stalked toward Wulfric.

"You first, hero."

The fight began not with words, but with the sharp crack of frozen boots striking slush. Wulfric surged forward, driven by something instinctive, something colder than fear. His first blow landed, his small fist burying itself into the bigger boy's thigh stopping a kick with enough force to buckle the older child for a heartbeat and hop step back.

The others swarmed him, and time stretched thin.

Every breath was ice. Every second seemed to unfurl like a banner in a storm. He dodged the first swing, ducking low under the sharpened stick and ramming his shoulder into a second boy's gut. A gasp, a stumble, then pain. A fist caught him across the temple followed by a swirl of his vision.

His ears rang. Another hit to his side made him gasp. A boot to his ribs drove the wind from him. Still, he rose, determined with clenched teeth and bubbling rage.

The biggest boy swung the stick hard. Wulfric turned just in time to take the blow on his arm. The crack of bone echoed like a branch snapping in deep woods.

He cried out, but not in fear, in fury.

He fought back with everything he had, his fists, his knees, even his teeth when one tried to grab him from behind. The third boy screamed as Wulfric sank his teeth into his forearm like a wolf clamping down on prey.

Blood. Snow. Screams. That's all there was for what felt like an enternity.

Then came the glint of rusted iron. The sharpened shard of a spade, picked up from the side of the alley by a scrawny boy, nervous but erratic. It whipped forward and carved through Wulfric's face, from brow to cheek, down to the edge eternity. Barely leaving his eye in tact but sadly, his face was a different story.

The world tilted. He fell, mouth full of blood and snow, eyes wide with the sting of it. The pain was blinding, but the anger stayed. Even on the ground, his hand reached for a stone so close yet so far. The boys on the teetering edge of indecision of if the action was one step too far over the line hovered for but a moment.

But then the boys scattered.

"What in the name of the Old Gods!!"

Ser Rodrik Cassel's voice thundered through the alley. The bootsteps vanished. Rodrik dropped beside Wulfric, snow crunching beneath his knees. His bore knitted in worry and eyes a blaze full of fury and trembling emotion.

"Gods be good, lad… what did you do?"

Wulfric tried to speak, but all that came was a wet gasp.

"Stopped them." he whispered.

Then darkness fell.

He awoke in the maester's tower. The world was pain. Fire ran along his ribs. His arm was bound tightly to his side, and his face felt like it had been cut with hot melting glass. When he tried to sit, the pain shoved him back down with what felt like a thundering recoil.

Maester Walys stood above him, dabbing something pungent onto his wounds.

"You're lucky," the old man murmured. "Lucky, or cursed. That cut may scar, badly. And your ribs… cracked like dry twigs."

Wulfric didn't speak.

"Do you remember what happened?"

He nodded, slowly.

Walys sighed. "You were brave. Foolish, but brave. Rodrick said you shouldn't fight with dogs because dogs often bite." The words passed over Wulfrics head as his glare only cemented walys growing tiredness.

Brandon came that evening. He stood in the doorway for a long time before stepping forward.

"Benjen said you went to town alone," he said. "You thought you were strong enough."

"I was," Wulfric rasped.

Brandon's mouth tightened. "You weren't. Not yet." He stepped closer. "But you will be. And that scar… well, let it remind you when to use your fists, and when to use your words." Wulfric thought that was stupid advice in that moment but when the burn of this newest injury across his face came, he couldn't complain.

Rickard came only once, days later. He stood beside the bed and looked down at his grandson.

"You chose to act. That will be your burden and your strength… Stark blood runs through you strong young pup…" Then he left. No heartening warm moment, nor a forming bond, just a few words and hardened look.

On the fifth night, when the moon was thin and pale, the door creaked open.

It was the girl, short and fidgeting.

She entered without a word, holding something wrapped in cloth. Her face was shadowed by her hood, but her hands were steady.

"shhhh, this will help savior." she said, placing the bundle beside him. "But you must use it before the night's end. Tree's told me this is meant for you.."

She unwrapped it and inside was a small clay jar, sealed with wax. When she opened it, the scent hit Wulfric like memory, pine, copper, and something older. Like the godswood after rain. Like blood spilled on snow.

She turned to go.

"Wait." Wulfric said, his voice hoarse.

The girl paused at the door, eyes wide and expressive.

"What's your name?"

She shook her head. "Doesn't matter. You already gave me my life back."

Then she was gone.

Wulfric stared at the jar for a long time. Then he dipped two fingers into the paste and began to smear it gently over the scar on his face, his ribs, his arm. The last remnants he stared at for minutes before putting into his mouth and swallowing with disgust.

It burned. Then cooled. Then it did both at once.

That night, he dreamed of white trees and wolves with red eyes. Of snow that did not melt and a howl that echoed through the halls of the dead.

He healed faster than Walys expected. The bones knit tightly and strong. The cuts scabbed and then faded. But the scar across his face remained, a line of rough and raw flesh from his forehead, down across his eye, to the corner of his lip.

He didn't mind, it was a fair trade he thought for saving someone.

More than once though changes began, Wulfric caught sounds before others. The flap of a raven's wings. The whisper of snow falling. He could smell bread baking from the far kitchens. He could see farther in dusk than he should.

His balance improved subtly, as if the ground spoke more clearly beneath his feet. His hand reflexes sharpened, he caught a falling quill without looking, turned at the lightest creak of a door. In the training yard, even with one arm still healing, he moved differently, cleaner, and intentionally.

Benjen noticed first. "You're different."

"No," Wulfric replied with a rare smirk. "Just better."

He returned to the godswood weeks later, his body still sore. He knelt beneath the weirwood and stared into its carved red eyes.

"You saw," he whispered.

The wind moved through the leaves like breath. The tree said nothing. But in its silence, Wulfric heard agreement.

When he asked about the girl, no one had seen her. Not in Wintertown, not among the smallfolk. He went to Walys and Rodrik for help.

Ser Rodrik asked the town elders. Maester Walys sent a raven to a nearby orphanage. No one knew her name, no one even knew who she was.

"She vanished like morning mist," Rodrik muttered. "Perhaps it is a sign…"

Wulfric said nothing. He didn't need to.

Because he had changed. His blood had changed. The sap had sunk into his bones and into his very being.

He was still a boy. But something older stirred behind his silver eyes.

The North had taken his blood and returned it colder, stronger.

Wulfric Snow would never be the same.

Just a few quick questions, who should be the love interest. I could make almost anyone work except a few who I just don't think he'd be able to be with due to political, age, goals, ect.

Should eddard become Warden of the north or should the bastard Inherit?

Favorite main weapon? I have a pretty solid idea but I'd love to hear your input.