Game of Thrones:Dawn of Ice and Fire.

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Chapter Six: Whispers

The godswood was quiet, wrapped in the serenity of late afternoon. The ancient trees stood tall, their branches swaying gently in the breeze, and the heart tree loomed above them all, its white bark etched with a solemn, knowing face.

Jon Snow stood alone in the clearing, his weirwood bow gripped tightly in his small hands. The pale wood gleamed faintly in the dappled light, strong and unyielding. The bow had been his nameday gift from his father—a gift Jon cherished more than anything.

He nocked an arrow, the fletching brushing his cheek as he drew the bowstring taut. His muscles strained, but he did not falter. The bow was made for a grown man, and even Maester Luwin had marveled that Jon could string it, let alone fully draw it.

Jon's breath was steady as he focused on his target—a single crimson leaf hanging from a low branch across the clearing. His grey eyes narrowed, sharp as a hawk's. He let the arrow fly.

The twang of the bowstring echoed through the godswood.

Jon walked toward where the arrow had struck, his heart pounding with satisfaction. The leaf was pinned perfectly through the center, impaled on the shaft of the arrow. He pulled it free, holding it between his fingers.

The weirwood bow felt warm in his hand, its weight familiar despite its size. Jon stared at it, his thoughts turning over in restless curiosity. According to the old books he had read in Winterfell's library, a weirwood bow was the strongest bow a marksman could wield, given only to the best hunters or archers as a reward. Even then, it took years of practice for an experienced bowman to draw it fully.

But Jon, barely five years old, could do it with ease.

He looked back at the leaf, pierced cleanly through the center, and a strange unease crept over him.

Why am I so different from everyone else?

His senses were sharper than any boy his age—or even most grown men. He could see that crimson leaf from across the clearing as clearly as if it were inches from his face. His hearing was acute, catching the faintest rustle of leaves or whisper of wind. And then there was his strength—monstrous for a child his size.

Jon had driven himself into the books, searching for answers in ancient tomes and dusty scrolls. The best explanation he had found was the wolfblood.

There were stories of Starks born with wild blood, who exhibited heightened senses or wielded the ancestral greatsword Ice single-handedly in battle when most men struggled to lift it with two hands. But even the wolfblood didn't explain everything.

There was something darker, more primal within Jon.

Whenever someone looked down on him for being a bastard, that fire inside him would rise. It burned hot and fierce, clawing at his restraint, and there were times he had to fight the urge to choke the life out of those who sneered at him.

That fire frightened him.

Jon didn't know where it came from, but it was as much a part of him as the cold clarity of the godswood. He clenched his fist around the arrow, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior.

Suddenly, a whisper broke through the silence of the godswood.

Jon froze, his breath hitching. The voice was faint, barely more than a breeze through the branches, but it carried a strange resonance that prickled his skin.

Come, the voice urged.

Jon's heart raced as he turned toward the heart tree. The ancient face carved into its white bark seemed to watch him, its red eyes deep and knowing.

Come, the voice beckoned again, softer but insistent.

Jon's legs moved on their own, carrying him toward the towering tree. The air grew thick with an unfamiliar energy, and Jon felt it hum through his skin, sharp and electric. He knew he should be afraid, but curiosity pulled him forward.

The heart tree loomed above him, its red leaves rustling gently in the breeze. Jon stood before it, his breath shallow, the weirwood bow still clutched in his hand.

Touch the tree, the voice whispered.

Jon hesitated, his heart thundering in his chest. The voice was neither threatening nor kind—it simply was, ancient and vast, like the godswood itself.

His hand trembled as he reached out, fingers brushing against the rough bark of the heart tree. The moment his skin made contact, a surge of energy shot through him.

Jon gasped, his vision blurring as the world tilted violently.

The godswood faded into darkness, and Jon's knees buckled. He fell forward, the weirwood bow slipping from his grasp as his mind spiraled into oblivion.

Silence engulfed him as he drifted into the unknown.