The universe of A Song of Ice and Fire and its characters belong exclusively to George R.R. Martin. This is a work of fiction created by a fan for fans, made solely for entertainment and the development of creative writing.
Only the characters created by me, such as the protagonist and some other original characters, as well as the changes to the canonical plot resulting from their actions, are of my own intellectual authorship.
I wish everyone a good read!!
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Chapter 2
Months later…
Time passed, and my sight and hearing were much better now, and I began to draw some conclusions.
Through the association of sounds and gestures, I started learning the local language. At first, it was incredibly difficult; it didn't resemble any language I knew—nothing like Portuguese or English—and by its pronunciation it didn't sound like Chinese or Japanese either. By the sounds and the intensity of the words, it reminded me somewhat of Russian, a language I understood nothing of; maybe the word askov, whisky, and my vocabulary was already exhausted.
The house we lived in reinforced the suspicion that it was a Northern house. It was well built, made of stone and wood. Most of the utensils, weapons, leather armor with some bronze adornments were things the people of the Seven Kingdoms used—or at least I assumed they used better weapons and wooden tools. The only true metal weapon seemed to belong to the figure I presumed to be my father. Everyone treated him with respect, admiration, and… a bit of fear. At first, I suspected I was in House Royce because of the bronze, but after thinking it through and analyzing accessories and even the way everyone behaved, it became clear: they were Thenns—or at least that was what I presumed.
In the series, the Thenns had a reputation as cannibals. Here, that didn't seem true; apparently, the universe I was living in was closer to the books than to the show—and I was thankful for that. The books had more things I liked and felt more magical. The downside was the lack of verified information, since the content there was made of tales or others' records; that made me imagine the best possible scenario. After all, I had to be optimistic. Only time would tell the true reality.
Living as a baby, however, was my greatest current torture. Not having control of my own body, needing to be cleaned by someone else, being unable to walk or speak freely… all of that deeply irritated me. The forced ignorance of not understanding the world around me was just as bad.
During those months, I learned some simple words—what I believed were "father," "mother," basic greetings—but something caught my attention: no one called me by a specific name.
That further confirmed my suspicions. Among the Free Folk, it was common to name a child only when they reached two years of age. Many didn't survive until then, and it was said that naming them earlier brought bad luck.
I liked fantasy, after all. I knew these things. I always used ancient cultures and fictional peoples as inspiration to forge weapons, and ended up researching more deeply than intended. In the end, I knew many useless—but very cool—things.
Once again, my thoughts were interrupted by an irresistible drowsiness. Lately, my life was reduced to sleeping, eating, soiling diapers… and repeating the cycle.
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Two years later…
POV: Third person
In a house with a wooden plank floor, several people were gathered. Among them stood out a man about 1.90 meters tall, with black hair and a thick beard, a well-built body. If he ever went south of the Wall, he could easily be mistaken for a Baratheon—if not for his honey-colored eyes.
The man stood at the front of several others, and closest to him were two men with harsh features typical of the Free Folk. Behind them were other people, who were more discreet compared to the two men who radiated ferocity.
To his right, a little less than two meters away, stood three children and a beautiful blonde woman who was indisputably the most beautiful among all present.
The man turned toward the smallest child and spoke in a tone that mixed joy and pride.
"Today we are gathered here to celebrate my son's second year of life, as well as his naming!" He paused and began walking toward the child who was leaning against the beautiful woman's legs.
"Come here, child." The man extended his hand, and the child stepped away from his mother and calmly walked toward him.
The man picked him up and said, turning to face the group gathered before him:
"From this day forward, my son shall be known as Denovan—a strong name for a child who survived and honored my blood through these two years!" As he spoke, he adjusted the child in his arms and lifted him up toward the small audience.
And he shouted forcefully at the crowd, "To my son, Denovannn!"
The hall exploded in shouts of approval.
"Denovan, son of the Magnar!" shouted one of the leaders.
"To the son of Magnar Sigorn!" continued the other.
This was followed by a cacophony of voices, howls, and pounding fists. The Free Folk were simple, intense, and direct in their celebrations.
At the end, Sigorn placed the newly named Denovan on the ground and, crouching so his eyes were almost level with his, said:
"Let's greet the men. They want to meet you."
With impossibly good diction for a child that age, he replied, "Yes, father."
Sigorn stood and looked at the beautiful blonde woman, signaling for her to come closer. Along with her, the other two children followed.
"You as well, my children. The blood of the Magnar runs in you. We must greet our men."
They all nodded and began walking toward the group.
"Magnar Sigorn, you've got three strong brats!" said a man with brown hair and a thin reddish beard, though he had a powerful build.
"Jorik, it's been some time."
"Yes, yes. I didn't ask before because you were busy, but where is Syrra?"
The atmosphere seemed to drop twenty degrees in that moment.
"You live far away, Jorik, and… perhaps that's why you don't know. My former wife died giving birth to my daughter Sigrid four years ago."
Jorik looked extremely uncomfortable and said, "I'm sorry, Magnar, I didn't mea—"
Sigorn cut him off sharply. "I know…" "…Children, greet Jorik. He is a minor leader of one of the northernmost settlements," he said, nudging the larger, older child forward.
The child looked about seven years old and, puffing out his chest, said, "My name is Ulfar. Good to meet you, Jorik," extending his hand.
Jorik firmly shook the boy's hand and said, "I was here on your naming day, boy—we already knew each other, hahaha… you're becoming the carved image of your father."
The mood shifted quickly, from tense to relaxed.
A strong female voice that was practically glued to the beautiful blonde spoke up quickly. "My name is Sigrid."
"You have your mother's eyes, girl! … You'll be beautiful and fierce just like her!"
A soft, childish voice came from Denovan, who was close to the Magnar's legs. "Nice to meet you. I'm Denovan."
Since he was well within reach, Jorik patted the boy's head and said, "Good to meet you, smart boy."
"And this is my wife, Valka," said Sigorn.
The woman was tall, about 1.75 meters, beautiful and stoic. "Valka, spear-wife of Sigorn," she said dryly, extending her hand.
Jorik froze for a full second, then shook her hand and quickly said, "Jorik!"
"Well… I'll call the others so we can eat. There's no need to introduce everyone now. You can go ahead; Jorik and I will bring the rest," Sigorn said.
Valka nodded and turned, picking Denovan up in her arms as the other two children followed.
The woman's cold, stoic posture broke when she looked at her son and said, "How do you feel? … Denovan…" She said it as if testing the pronunciation of the name. "Did you like your name, son?"
The child looked into his mother's eyes and smiled, replying—
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POV: Denovan
I looked at Valka and couldn't help but notice—my mother was truly beautiful. To me, she looked exactly like the image the books painted of Val, the wildling princess: tall, blonde, with light blue eyes. But it wasn't just beauty. She had firm posture, well-defined muscles, and the confidence of someone who knew how to fight. No wonder she was considered a spear-wife.
With a simple smile, I said, "Yes, mother. I liked it. It sounds strong, like the great warriors."
She looked at me with a tender smile and said, "Yes, my son… like the great warriors, you will be one someday, I'm sure."
After a few steps, we saw a large table. Normally it stayed pushed against a corner, but now it stood at the center.
My mother set me down and said to me and my siblings, "Help me set the table. We have guests."
My older brother immediately said, "A warrior doesn't set the table."
Valka looked at him with a warning gaze. "Then dinner will be the young warrior."
"It'll be quick—go outside, fetch a bucket of milk, and bring it to me!" she said in a tone that allowed no argument.
And before he could respond, she continued, "Ulfar… is that something a young warrior can do?"
"He can," he said proudly, as if he had won the battle of the century, seemingly oblivious to Valka's verbal warning.
"You two just help me put these things on the table," she said, handing horn cups to me and to Sigrid.
She asked us to do these things more so we wouldn't get in her way than to truly help.
I let out a quiet grin. It's very easy to be a child.
Thinking about it, I was lucky. Being the Magnar's son was, in a way, like being the son of a minor lord. The problem was being on the wrong side of the Wall. Rising in Westeros would not be easy.
As I turned the bronze cup that belonged to my father in my hands, I began to reflect. There were no mirrors here, or many reflective surfaces. One day, among my many questions, I asked my mother what I looked like—and if she was right in what she said, my appearance was truly unique.
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Flashback
"What do you look like?" Valka looked at me thoughtfully.
"Well… like your brother Ulfar, you have your father's black, wavy hair," she said, playing with my hair. "You have my nose…" she poked my nose. "And your eyes look very much like your father's—only much lighter. They're as golden as the color of my hair," she said with a wide smile, showing me the tips of her hair.
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"My father was a very lucky man," I murmured softly as my thoughts wandered.
After a few minutes, we ate venison. It was truly delicious—nothing like the beef I remembered from my past life.
There weren't many people at the table. Besides my parents and siblings, there were only five others: the other leader, Jorik, and probably some of the important men of the village.
After we finished eating, my father's voice boomed:
"Einar, these are my children…"
He paused and looked at my brother.
My brother seemed oblivious to my father's intention, so I decided not to let him embarrass himself and said:
"I am Denovan, as you already heard earlier," I said perfectly, without missing a single word. The man looked surprised and replied in a strong, impassive voice:
"Einar. I am the new leader of the neighboring village." He shifted his gaze to my father. "Your son is very intelligent, Magnar. I doubt I spoke that much when I was five years older than him."
My father displayed a small, proud smile and said, "He is…"
Einar nodded and turned his eyes to Ulfar, who was completely distracted, playing with his cup.
I gently nudged my sister beside me, and she startled and said, "Uh… my name is Sigrid," she said with more intensity, courage, and ferocity than when she had introduced herself before.
"You have a wild daughter, Magnar."
"She's very much like her mother."
Ulfar, apparently awakened by hearing about his mother, looked up just in time to be the last to introduce himself.
"I am Ulfar," he said fearlessly.
"Your son looks a lot like you, Magnar… in appearance," Einar said with complete honesty.
"Yes…" Wanting to change the subject quickly, my father continued, "This is Valka, my wife."
"…"
Valka nodded while looking at the man across the table.
Einar replied with a slight nod.
"The others are Frodo—he is the leader of the rangers who watch over our village and the surrounding areas." He pointed to a broad-shouldered, bearded man who was bald.
"This is Rolf, and he is the blacksmith." He pointed to a man with large, strong arms. The man was quite old, with gray hair and beard, but had a healthy build.
"And finally, Halgar. He is our best warrior." He pointed to a tall man, somewhat lean for a Northerner, but with a cold, fierce expression. He lowered his finger and looked at me and my siblings. "He will teach you how to fight. All children of the Magnar must be strong. I will not accept weakness here—and it is not enough to be intelligent. I want strength," he said, narrowing his eyes at me.
My siblings and I replied in sequence, from the youngest to the oldest:
"Yes, Magnar."
"Yes, papa."
"Yes, father."
The rest of the dinner passed peacefully, and afterward we went to "play."
Now I had more freedom. I ran through the house, exploring every corner. With two full years completed, I could already go outside; I had only been waiting to be named, which happened today. I wanted to feel the snow—something I only knew through the windows.
I also noticed that the Old Tongue was very similar to Old Norse. Not by pronunciation—I didn't remember that—but by the runes carved in various parts of the house. Runes that strongly resembled Norse ones. I was sure of it; I'd lost count of how many times I'd received requests to carve runic patterns into steel in my past life.
That made me think once more of the Royces of Runestone. They were famous for their bronze armor with runic carvings and probably had more descent from the First Men than some Northern houses.
"Maybe I should study these runes. Who knows—they might be useful," I noted mentally.
Our house was solid and well built—stone up to a certain height, then well-cut and fitted wood designed to retain heat. There was a large hearth, spacious rooms, animal skulls on the walls, and pelts spread across the floor. Simple, but far better than any common Free Folk dwelling. It was no wonder the Thenns were considered the most advanced people on this side of the Wall.
When I could go out, I wanted to try forming a bond. The safest options would perhaps be a hawk, an owl, or a raven. Some animals, however, I refused to consider—especially insects and rats. I had already seen some being captured, cooked, and eaten.
That bothered me and made my stomach churn. Luckily, I had been weaned late; it had only been a few months since it happened. The Free Folk had few foods as nutritious as breast milk, so things happened that way. And, one way or another, at least there were no garbage dumps or sewers on this side of the world—so, to my consolation, the rats were at least somewhat clean.
This side of the Wall was truly harsh…
One thing I found genuinely interesting—and hadn't expected—was the existence of horses. There were very few, but they existed. Bonding with a horse didn't seem so bad, but as a first bond, it felt somewhat risky.
I kept an eye out for any potential creature that crossed my path. I was only afraid that I'd have to prepare for a long time—first calming the creature, then approaching it, gaining its trust. If my power was so weak that it required all that, I would be very disappointed. Hopefully, ROB had been generous.
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Thank you for reading and for giving this fanfic a chance :)