Wolf King of Oblivion

The sky above the small village of Vehlmor burned crimson, as it always did in Oblivion. The twin moons hung heavy in the heavens, their pale light casting long shadows over the craggy hills and jagged cliffs surrounding the settlement. Despite the harsh, alien beauty of the land, Vehlmor was a place of warmth, tucked within the pocket of a valley where the fires of Oblivion dared not reach. It was here that Jon Snow found something he had never truly known: peace.

For the first time in his life, he wasn't a bastard. He wasn't the stain on someone else's honor, the shadow that darkened Winterfell's halls. Here, in Vehlmor, he was just Jon—a boy who worked hard, learned fast, and earned the respect of everyone around him.

He hoisted a sack of grain over his shoulder, the weight nothing compared to the burdens he once carried. The elderly Argonian woman who ran the mill smiled at him, her scaled face wrinkling in delight.

"Thank you, young one," Maesa said, her voice a melodic rasp. "You've been a blessing to this village, truly. Duris and Alenya did well to find you."

Jon nodded politely, setting the sack down by her cart. "It's nothing, Maesa. If you need anything else, just let me know."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "You're too kind for your own good, boy. Not everyone deserves it."

Jon smiled faintly at that. It wasn't the first time he'd heard it. Alenya, his adoptive mother in all but name, often said the same thing. But Jon couldn't help himself. After years of living under the cold glares of Catelyn Stark and the whispered judgments of Winterfell's courtiers, he had discovered something incredible in Vehlmor: the joy of being useful, of being valued for who he was and not what he wasn't.

Duris and Alenya had found him not long after the storm that brought him to Oblivion. They had been gathering herbs near the village edge when they spotted him—soaked, half-starved, but very much alive. Where others might have seen a burden, they had seen potential.

Duris, a retired knight with a frame as solid as a castle wall, had taken to teaching Jon swordsmanship almost immediately. His lessons were demanding but fair, rooted in discipline and honor.

"A sword isn't just steel, Jon," he often said, watching Jon practice his strikes. "It's a part of you. A reflection of your will. If you wield it like a brute, it will break. But if you wield it with purpose, it will carry you through the worst of storms."

Alenya, once a mage of considerable renown, took a softer approach. She taught Jon the ways of magic, the history of Oblivion, and the strange truths of the world they lived in.

"Magic is a tool, Jon," she explained one evening, her hands glowing with conjured light. "It is neither good nor evil. It's the heart of the one who wields it that decides its nature."

Together, the two had given Jon everything he lacked in Winterfell. A sense of belonging, of purpose, and even love. They never looked at him with scorn or suspicion. They never saw him as a bastard, but as a boy with a future worth forging.

Jon arrived back at the cottage as the crimson sky began to deepen. Alenya was in the garden, her silver hair tied back as she tended to her alchemical herbs. She looked up as Jon approached, her sharp eyes softening into a warm smile.

"You're late," she teased, brushing dirt from her hands. "Maesa again?"

"She keeps finding ways to give me work," Jon said with a grin, setting his satchel down. "But I don't mind. It keeps me busy."

Alenya tilted her head, studying him with that thoughtful gaze of hers. "You work too hard. Vehlmor is safe, Jon. You don't have to prove yourself to anyone."

Jon shrugged, a small laugh escaping him. "Maybe not, but it feels good to be needed."

Alenya sighed but said nothing. She could see how much it meant to him—the freedom he had found here, the chance to be more than the shadow of another's honor.

Inside, Duris was at the hearth, sharpening a sword. The rhythmic scrape of steel on whetstone filled the air. He looked up as Jon entered, his beard splitting into a wide grin.

"Ah, there's my boy! Tell me, did Maesa finally get that millstone fixed, or is she still cursing at it?"

Jon chuckled, shaking his head. "Still cursing."

Duris let out a booming laugh, motioning for Jon to sit. "Good. She'll manage. Now, let me see that stance of yours tomorrow. I want to make sure you're ready for more advanced drills."

Jon nodded, his grin widening. Training with Duris wasn't just a lesson in combat—it was a test of character, and Jon relished the challenge.

That evening, the three of them shared a simple meal. Duris spoke of his days as a knight, of battles fought and honor earned. Alenya chimed in with tales of magical wonders and the strange creatures of Oblivion. Jon listened intently, soaking in every word.

He thought back to Winterfell—the cold walls, the biting words of Catelyn Stark, and the way his very presence seemed to unsettle those around him. That life felt distant now, a shadow of a memory he no longer had to carry. Here, he was free. Here, he was whole.

After the meal, Jon stood to clean the dishes, but Alenya stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Tomorrow, we'll work on your summoning spells," she said. "Something more challenging this time."

"And I'll test you with the longsword," Duris added, his tone firm but proud. "We'll see if you're ready to best me."

Jon grinned at them both, a warmth filling his chest. "I'll be ready."

As he lay in his bed that night, staring up at the wooden beams of the cottage, he felt a peace he had never known before. For all the strangeness of Oblivion, Vehlmor had given him a life worth living.

But in the quiet, as he drifted off to sleep, a shadow stirred within him. A voice—low, ancient, and knowing—whispered faintly.

"This is not your final path, Jon Snow. The gods are not done with you."