Lone wolf of winterfell

The Spider and the Wolf

A/N: Be warned this chapter contains issues of mental health and suicidal thoughts

Y/N let out a low groan as he pressed the ice cold bottle of wine against his brow, occasionally moving between his head and jaw. He could feel the aches and pains of the clash that he hadn't felt at the time, he was so caught up in the rush that he didn't consider the gash right above his eyebrow, the busted lip, and bloody nose, he was honestly just a mess, and what he needed at that moment was a comfortable warm bed and his mother's gentle hands to tend to him... He had a pain in his chest.

Y/N let out a sigh.

He stood on the docks of Purple Harbour, his feet hanging just over the water's level, inhaling the salty sea breeze and listening to the water's soothing dance. He stood there watching as the sun began to set just above the horizon, the vivid warm colours blending together to make a stunning scene. Bright reds, greens, purples, and yellows blended together in a perfect combination, the shades becoming richer and lighter as the sun crept below the surface of the Narrow sea.

It reminded him of Westeros, where the sunsets were spectacular. It stretches for miles between the two mountains. He remembered those as a small child, riding along The Kings road with his father. In the north, where he lived, those colours were seldom seen, although if you travelled far enough south, you may be able to see one.

It was a habit he had with his younger brother Jon.
When the two boys were swept up in mischief, they would dash to the fallen tower just northeast of the great hall and sit up on top for hours, bonding and hoping for enough time to pass before going down and bracing themselves for whatever lay ahead. And if they were lucky, Robb would join them in their deception, and they'd all get it. Brotherhood was what bound them all together, including his younger sister Arya.

The thought of home just added to the lone wolf's isolation.

He missed the fresh snow he'd wake up to every morning, the scent of freshly baked bread, the hammer on steel in the blacksmith's anvil, and even his mother's scolding's. He skipped his father's lessons, which he dubbed "The Ways of Being a Lord." Ser Rodrick's lessons with Jon and Robb, his sister Sansa's warm smile whenever he made her laugh after a long day; when she grew older, she didn't smile as much, boys began to distract her, and boy was Y/N in for it. He missed his younger sister Arya's soft bear hugs and the quiet, sweet sound of Rickon's chuckle as he hugged the youngest of his siblings while they were alone.

Every memory he had of Winterfell was pleasant and warm, yet whenever he thought of his land, and the deed he had done: a cold bitter grip would wrap around his heart and tear it in two, breaking the poor man's souls into still smaller fragments, and all night he would pick each one up with each tear, and peace them all back together, one-by-one, and when he was done, all he had was a cold bitter grip around his heart and it was torn to pieces every time he thought of his ancestral home and family.

Regardless of how much he missed home, he never regretted defending the innocent people from King Robert Baratheon's injustice. The only thing he could think of was his mother's heartbroken face, the sudden sadness and crushing agony of losing her second born, and his father's ice cold disappointed, grief-stricken eyes, which haunted his dreams. That was something he'd never forget... 

Y/N took a big swing from the cold wine with another long, lonesome sigh. Maybe if he drank more tonight, he'd be able to sleep himself into a stupor and, just maybe... he'd never wake up...

"Oh, my... it seems even the most strongest and most stoic of northern wolves seem to have their... imperfections."