Wolf King of Oblivion

Chapter One: The Wolf Returns

The ship creaked as it sailed through the cold, choppy waters of the Shivering Sea. The biting wind cut through the air, carrying the scent of salt and brine. Jon Whitewolf stood at the prow, his cloak billowing behind him, the white wolf sigil of his house embroidered on its dark blue fabric. His grey eyes stared out at the horizon, where the faint, jagged outline of the North loomed against the morning sky.

Winterfell.

The name lingered in his mind, stirring a mix of emotions he hadn't felt in years. He was no longer the bastard of Winterfell, no longer Jon Snow. He was Jon Whitewolf, Emperor of Tamriel, a name whispered with respect and reverence across kingdoms. Yet, as the familiar chill of the North settled into his bones, he couldn't help but feel like the boy he had been—a shadow, an outsider.

Behind him, the sound of boots on the deck broke his thoughts. Selina Ashenvale approached, her sharp features softened by the faint glow of dawn. She carried a flask in one hand, offering it to him without a word. Jon took it, drinking deeply of the spiced wine that warmed his throat.

"You're brooding," Selina said, her tone light but her gaze piercing.

Jon managed a faint smile. "I was thinking."

"Of Winterfell?"

He nodded, his gaze returning to the horizon. "It's been years. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago. I was just a boy then, trying to prove I belonged."

Selina leaned against the railing, studying him. "And now you're an Emperor. A ruler beloved by his people. No one questions your place anymore."

Jon's smile faded. "Except me."

The ship rocked gently as Jon gripped the railing, his knuckles white against the cold steel. "When I was a boy, all I wanted was to be recognized. To be more than just the bastard of Winterfell. I thought if I fought hard enough, if I proved myself, I'd finally belong."

"And now?" Selina asked softly.

Jon's voice was quiet, almost lost in the wind. "Now I wonder if it's all been worth it. The sacrifices. The lives lost. Martin… I never asked for any of this. But it seems like my life has been one battle after another, and I can't stop. Not now."

Selina's hand rested lightly on his arm. "You've done more for Tamriel than anyone could have imagined, Jon. You've rebuilt an Empire, united nations, and brought peace to lands that haven't known it for centuries. And yet, you still question yourself. Why?"

Jon turned to her, his eyes searching hers. "Because I know what I've lost to get here. Every time I think of Martin, of Duris and Alenya, I wonder if they'd be proud of what I've become."

"They would," Selina said firmly. "Without a doubt."

The conversation lulled as Jon turned back to the sea. His thoughts drifted to Winterfell, to the faces he hadn't seen in years. He wondered if his siblings were still there—Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. He wondered about his uncle Benjen and even Catelyn Stark, though her disdain for him had been an indelible scar on his childhood.

"Do you think they'll even recognize me?" Jon asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

Selina arched a brow. "You're not exactly forgettable, Your Majesty."

Jon huffed a quiet laugh. "I'm not their Jon anymore. The boy they knew is gone."

Selina tilted her head thoughtfully. "Perhaps. But maybe that's for the best. You're not here to prove yourself to them, Jon. You're here to secure peace. To show them the man you've become."

Jon nodded slowly. "You're right. But it doesn't make it any easier."

Further down the deck, Jon's bodyguards were sparring, their movements precise and fluid even on the swaying ship. Lyara Emberforge hurled small bursts of flame at Drogan Darkstream, who parried them with a barrier of shadowy magic. Isolde Swiftwing danced around Brunar Hollowfist, her twin blades flashing as she dodged his heavy swings.

Jon watched them for a moment, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He had trained each of them himself, honing their skills until they were the most formidable warriors in Tamriel. They were his family now, a bond forged in battle and trust.

"Your guard looks ready to take on the Seven Kingdoms by themselves," Selina remarked, following his gaze.

"They'd probably try if I let them," Jon said with a smirk. "But we're not here to fight. Not unless we have to."

Selina's expression grew serious. "Jauffre's agents are already in place. If there's even a hint of danger, we'll know."

Jon's jaw tightened. "Good. I won't take chances. Not with them."

As the ship drew closer to the Northern coastline, the air grew colder, the wind sharper. The crew prepared for docking, their movements brisk and efficient. Jon adjusted his cloak, his breath misting in the icy air.

"Welcome home," Selina said quietly, standing beside him.

Jon's eyes narrowed as he took in the sight of the rugged, snow-covered land. It was the same as he remembered, yet different—both familiar and foreign. His heart ached with a mix of anticipation and trepidation.

"Home," Jon echoed, the word heavy on his tongue. "We'll see."

The ship's horn sounded, and the port of White Harbor came into view. Jon straightened, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his sword. Whatever awaited him in Westeros, he would face it as he always had: with strength, honor, and the unshakable will of a wolf.

Chapter One (Continued): The Wolf in the North

The ship glided into the harbor of White Harbor, its sails snapping in the brisk Northern wind. The banners of House Manderly—featuring the green merman of their house sigil—fluttered above the docks, flanked by rows of armored soldiers standing in precise formation. Despite the cold, a crowd of onlookers had gathered, their curiosity piqued by the arrival of the grand Imperial vessel.

Jon Whitewolf stood at the bow, flanked by Selina Ashenvale and his elite bodyguards. His white cloak, emblazoned with the wolf sigil of his new house, billowed behind him as he surveyed the reception. Despite the calm expression on his face, his chest tightened. He had been gone from the North for years, but this land still carried a weight, a pull he could not ignore.

As the ship docked, a group of dignitaries made their way down the pier. At their head was Lord Wyman Manderly, the rotund but imposing head of the house. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, and his green-and-white robes rippled as he walked with purpose.

When the gangplank was lowered, Jon descended first, his boots hitting the wooden planks with a deliberate step. The crowd hushed, their eyes fixed on him. His height, the commanding presence of his bodyguards, and the unmistakable glow of the Amulet of Kings drew whispers from the gathered onlookers.

A Surprising Introduction

Lord Wyman stepped forward, his expression one of polite curiosity. "You must be the envoy of the Empire," he said, his voice warm and rich. "A rare honor for White Harbor to host such a distinguished guest."

Selina stepped to Jon's side, her diplomatic instincts kicking in. "Lord Manderly, allow me to introduce you to His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Jon Whitewolf of Tamriel."

The silence that followed was deafening. Lord Wyman's eyes widened, his mouth opening slightly in shock. He blinked, glancing between Selina and Jon as if waiting for confirmation.

"Jon Snow?" Wyman finally managed, his voice incredulous. "The bastard of Winterfell… is the Emperor of Tamriel?"

Jon inclined his head, his expression steady. "I was once Jon Snow. Now I am Jon Whitewolf. Much has changed since I left the North."

Wyman stared at him for a moment longer before a broad smile broke across his face. "Seven Hells, boy—pardon me—Your Majesty, this is a surprise indeed. We'd heard tales of a great Emperor uniting Tamriel, but we never imagined it would be one of our own."

"Much has happened since I left Winterfell," Jon said, his tone measured. "I hope to strengthen ties between my Empire and the North."

Lord Wyman's smile remained, though his sharp eyes gleamed with curiosity. "You'll find the North as proud and stubborn as ever, but I doubt any would turn their backs on a man of such accomplishments. Come, let us offer you the hospitality of House Manderly."

The Merman's Hall

Jon and his retinue were escorted to the Merman's Hall, the grand seat of House Manderly. The hall was warm, its stone walls adorned with tapestries depicting naval battles and scenes of feasting. A massive hearth roared at one end, its flames casting flickering shadows over the long table laden with food and drink.

Jon took his place of honor at the head of the table, flanked by Selina and his bodyguards. Lord Wyman sat beside him, his demeanor amiable but watchful.

As the meal began, Wyman leaned toward Jon, lowering his voice. "I must confess, Your Majesty, I never expected to see you return to the North, let alone as an Emperor."

Jon met his gaze evenly. "I had no intention of returning at first. But alliances are necessary to secure peace. The Empire and Westeros have much to gain from working together."

"And your family?" Wyman asked carefully. "What do they think of your return?"

Jon's jaw tightened, though he kept his tone neutral. "I haven't seen them yet. Winterfell will be our next destination."

Wyman nodded thoughtfully. "You may find things… changed. The years have been hard on us all. But if I may say so, the Starks will be proud to see what you've become."

The feast carried on, with laughter and song filling the Merman's Hall. Jon Whitewolf sat at the head of the table, speaking sparingly but listening to the conversations around him. Despite the warmth of the fire and the rich food before him, his mind lingered on Winterfell, and the family he hadn't seen in years.

Lord Wyman Manderly, seated beside him, leaned in after finishing a hearty bite of roast mutton. His demeanor was jovial, but his eyes betrayed a careful, calculating glint. "So, Your Majesty, I imagine you'll be eager to see your family again."

Jon nodded, his expression guarded. "It's been a long time. I'd like to know what to expect."

Wyman hesitated, glancing around to ensure their conversation wouldn't be overheard. Satisfied, he lowered his voice. "A great deal has happened in Winterfell since you've been gone, Jon. Some of it you may not be pleased to hear."

Jon's hand tightened around his goblet, his grey eyes locking onto Wyman. "What's happened?"

Wyman sighed, his jovial façade slipping. "Your father, Eddard Stark, was… enraged when he returned home and learned what Lady Catelyn had done—giving you to Euron Greyjoy to prevent an attack on Winterfell. The fury of the Warden of the North was not something easily forgotten."

Jon stiffened, his memories flashing back to the day he was handed over to the Silence, to Euron's cruel smile. "I imagine he didn't take it lightly."

"Lightly?" Wyman let out a short laugh. "He nearly tore the castle apart. Their marriage, from what I've heard, has been one of duty rather than love ever since. Catelyn Stark has been stripped of much of her power. No one in the North looks to her for guidance anymore. Many whisper that her actions dishonored the Stark name."

Jon's jaw tightened, a mix of anger and sadness washing over him. Despite her cold treatment of him, Catelyn had been a constant figure in his life. To hear of her fall from grace felt… strange. "And what of her Sept and Septa?"

"Gone," Wyman said bluntly. "Eddard had them removed from Winterfell. Their faith found no place in the North after what happened. The old gods have reclaimed their hold on your father's halls."

Jon's gaze fell to the table, his thoughts churning. "And my siblings? How did they take it?"

Wyman's expression softened. "They took your absence hard, Jon. Robb, especially. He was furious when he learned the truth. They all were. Sansa and Arya grieved for you, though they did so in their own ways. Arya, I hear, grew fiercer—more rebellious. Bran and Rickon… they were too young to fully understand, but even they felt your absence."

Jon took a deep breath, steadying himself. He had always felt like an outsider at Winterfell, but knowing his siblings had cared for him—that they had suffered because of what happened—brought a sharp ache to his chest. "And my father? How did he deal with it?"

Wyman stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Eddard Stark is a proud man, but this broke something in him, Jon. He blamed himself for not being there to protect you. That guilt drove him to change. He's been stricter, more guarded… but also more focused on ensuring his family's safety. He even had two more children with Catelyn—Eddara and Aemon."

Jon blinked at that, surprised. "More children?"

Wyman nodded. "A daughter and a son. Both are young—Eddara is six, and Aemon barely three. They say Eddard dotes on them, though it's clear his relationship with Catelyn remains strained."

Jon fell silent, absorbing everything. The family he had left behind had changed in ways he couldn't have imagined. The idea of returning to Winterfell now felt even more daunting.

"They've missed you," Wyman said after a moment, his voice softer. "Whatever's happened, whatever wounds were left behind, you're still a Stark to them. Blood or not."

Jon's gaze lifted, and he met Wyman's eyes. "I'm not sure they'll see me the same way now. I've changed."

Wyman smiled faintly. "Perhaps. But they've changed too. I think you'll find that, in the end, family is stronger than anything. Even the walls we build around ourselves."

Jon nodded slowly, though his heart remained heavy. The North had always been a land of resilience, but the scars left behind by his departure would not fade easily. And neither, he suspected, would his own.

The feast continued late into the night, but Jon's mind remained elsewhere. Winterfell awaited, along with the family he had left behind. For better or worse, the wolf was returning, and the past would finally have its reckoning.

Jon leaned back in his chair, the weight of Wyman's words pressing down on him. The fall of Catelyn, the anger of his father, the pain of his siblings—all of it painted a picture of a North that had endured as much turmoil as Jon himself had faced in his years away. Yet, Wyman's expression suggested there was more to the story, and Jon met his gaze, his voice steady.

"And the North itself?" Jon asked. "How has it fared through all of this?"

Wyman took a sip from his goblet, his jovial demeanor giving way to the measured tone of a seasoned lord. "The North endures, as it always does. But the years have not been easy."

He set his goblet down and continued, "The Ironborn grew bolder after the Greyjoy Rebellion. Eddard's fury over what happened to you—combined with the lack of trust in his wife's actions—drove him to fortify our coasts. Winterfell sent more men to Deepwood Motte and Torrhen's Square. The northern lords answered the call as well, but it came at a cost. Crops left untended. Forts left undermanned. It strained the North more than anyone cared to admit."

Jon frowned, his memories of the Ironborn's brutality still fresh in his mind. "Did Balon Greyjoy push further?"

"Thankfully, no," Wyman said, his voice tinged with relief. "Your father's swift actions made it clear that any attack would be met with overwhelming force. But that didn't stop smaller raiding parties. The lords along the coast have grown weary of fighting an enemy that strikes and vanishes before they can even organize a defense."

Jon's grip on his goblet tightened. The Ironborn's savagery was something he knew all too well, having lived through Euron Greyjoy's horrors. That their shadow still hung over the North made his jaw tighten with frustration.

"What of the other houses?" Jon asked. "Have they stood with Winterfell?"

Wyman nodded. "Most have. The Karstarks, the Umbers, the Mormonts—they've been stalwart allies, though their patience has worn thin at times. The Boltons, however…" He trailed off, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"What about the Boltons?" Jon pressed.

Wyman leaned in slightly, his tone cautious. "Roose Bolton has been a loyal bannerman, at least outwardly. But there are whispers. He's taken a keen interest in the rebuilding efforts, inserting himself into matters that don't concern the Dreadfort. He's cunning, and I'd wager he's waiting for a sign of weakness to press his advantage."

Jon's eyes narrowed. "And has my father acted on these whispers?"

Wyman hesitated. "Eddard Stark is a man of honor, and he values loyalty. He's kept Roose in check for now, but the Boltons are… complicated. Ruthless. If you ask me, they bear watching."

Jon filed that information away, his mind already spinning with strategies. The Boltons had always been a dangerous house, their history stained with betrayal and cruelty. If there was even a hint of treachery, he wouldn't hesitate to act.

"And the people of the North?" Jon asked after a moment. "How have they held up?"

Wyman's expression softened. "They've suffered, but they're resilient. The last few harvests have been strong, and your father has worked tirelessly to restore trust among the bannermen. The old wounds are healing, but slowly."

Jon nodded, his respect for Eddard growing. His father's actions, though burdened by grief and guilt, had clearly kept the North from fracturing under the weight of its troubles.

Wyman studied Jon for a moment before speaking again, his voice measured. "The North has endured because of your father's leadership, but also because of the memory of you, Jon."

Jon blinked, caught off guard. "Me?"

"Aye," Wyman said with a small smile. "You were a boy when you left, but you've become a symbol since. The bastard who was cast aside, who endured the unthinkable and rose to greatness. Your siblings never stopped talking about you, and even the smallfolk remember the stories of Jon Snow. Now they'll see Jon Whitewolf, an Emperor who hasn't forgotten his roots."

Jon's throat tightened, a mix of pride and uncertainty filling him. He had always felt like an outsider in Winterfell, but the idea that the North still remembered him, still held him in esteem, was humbling.

"Then I won't let them down," Jon said firmly. "The North deserves better. If there's anything I can do to help, I will."

Wyman raised his goblet in a small toast. "Spoken like a true Stark. The North will welcome you home, Your Majesty, of that I have no doubt."

As the feast carried on, Jon sat back in his chair, his mind racing with all he had learned. The North had suffered, but it had survived. His family had changed, but they had endured. And now, as he prepared to return to Winterfell, Jon couldn't help but feel the weight of his past and future colliding.

He was no longer Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. He was Jon Whitewolf, Emperor of Tamriel. And he was about to face the family—and the land—that had shaped him into the man he had become.