So. A Game of Thrones fanfiction. Never thought I would be doing something like this, but I guess the urge just sprung up on me and wouldn't leave me until I acted on it. To be honest, it wasn't that hard not to get into something like Game of Thrones. It is pretty bloody awesome with the books, tv show, fanfiction, and even a game that it produced back in 2012! Which is why I'm going to be using all three, discounting fanfiction for the obvious reasons, for my story. That means there will be a rather massive hodgepodge of lore from all sources crammed into one fanfiction, so be prepared for it. Sorry to an elitists who wish my to stay directly true to the books or the tv show, or even the bloody 2012 video game! I just want to make an interesting fanfiction with many sources of lore and story to make it seem interesting. Which I hope it will as there is a good chance this will end up as a dumpster fire, or turn into an amazing fanfiction that will rival Robb Returns. I highly doubt on the latter but it is always good to strive to some kind of goal! Anyways, I'll stop talking and let you all read the first chapter of my fanfiction. I hope you all enjoy!

Chapter One: A Butcher's Ward

The year is 298 AC in the ancient continent of Westeros, a land of seven kingdoms ruled by a house of a crowned stag for seventeen years. It was once originally ruled by a house of a three-headed dragon, a dynasty that had ruled Westeros for nearly three hundred years before being overthrow by the stag after a dragon had kidnapped and raped a direwolf promised to the stag's heart. The land is one where all is born and molded by callous bloodshed, where most men and women die for reasons they don't even know and for golden causes full of venom and vice. And yet the blood shed has given a land of beauty and prosperity; where a stag can drink, gamble, and whore its way into an early grave while a father of a robin keeps the land together. That is not even mentioning a wall made of ice and old magic, standing stalwart in the far north with men covered in black to protect it from beings not of the living world nor the seven kingdoms.

Of stags, dragons, direwolves, and robins; one wonders what of the little people that populate Westeros? What of the farmers, lumberjacks, merchants, tailors, soldiers, and the many others that make up the many kingdoms of this ancient land? Could they be stags, dragons, and direwolves as well? Could they rule a land of seven kingdoms, born and molded out of blood and vice? Only the butcher knows, for the butcher cares not for who he carves and cuts. He may take many forms but he will always desire blood. Blood is the butcher's trade, and blood rules Westeros. Does this make the butcher the crowned stag, the three-headed dragon, the cold direwolf, or even the sweet robin?! Or… Is the butcher above all as his belief on who has the crown determines who rules the land of seven kingdoms…?

It matters not for one small "family" for the Butcher has put his sword aside to raise a ward born of blood. A ward born of blood, fire, and death.

Deep within a forest in the Riverlands, hidden from the Kingsroad and from meddling eyes that faintly poke at the land's fertile fields, was a cottage weathered by time and worn by use. It was a rather impressive cottage, speaking of its design coming from wealthy roots; most likely from one of the noble houses of Westeros. The cottage had a small garden sown into the soil next to it with a tiny enclosure that kept a family of rabbits bred for meat and furs. A little bit off of the cottage was a river with a dock and a small boat full of fishing supplies. Not far off from the dock were two graves, adorn with worn wooden markers. Each of the graves had a tiny bundle of flowers on them, gestures of remembrance and love to the departed.

The light shined through the cottage's windows and onto the face of a young man, who groaned as the light began to woke him up. The boy was certainly young, ten and five moons old, and he still had faint traces of childhood fat in the more sharper parts of his features. He was black of hair with soft grey eyes that harshly squinted against the shining light of the sun, letting out another groan as his body slowly woke itself up. He sat himself up on his bed, yawning as swung his legs onto the hard wooden floor below. The young man began to dress himself, putting on homemade clothing made out of roughly spun cloth mixed with furs. Once dressed, the boy walked to the door of his room and opened it.

He entered a large room that contained many different items, but three drew the young man's attention the most. Sitting next to the cooking cauldron was two beings, both elders of the world. Sitting on a wooden chair, stirring a rather wonderfully smelling stew, was an old man. His entire face was made of scar tissue, old cuts and rips made by weapons of war were etched deep in his ancient skin. He had only one eye, the other gouged out by what would be guessed as a burning blade of some kind; which left a disturbing black gap of an eye socket. The man wore no clothes, instead what appeared to be a kind of leather armor mixed with a gambeson. Tied to his belt was a longsword, obviously well-used and well-maintained. The air around the man told of an untold danger, of that innate instinct that warned all to stay away should they die by the being's hands. Sitting by his side was an old hound of some unknown breed, most likely mixed with dozens of other dogs to create what it currently is. It too was scarred and its eyes were beginning to silver while its fur turned white. When it flashed its teeth, they were worn yet sharp; like a freshly sharpened blade eager to drink blood. It too had they same air of danger as the old man did, and yet it seemed comfortable and relaxed in the man's presence; like they trusted each other. The two seemed to be one of the same in a way, beings greying and yet dangerous to all who dare to approach them.

"About time you got up, Duncan. Stew's been ready for a good while now." The old man's words were harsh, akin to stone scraping on a man's flesh during a harsh landing. "Get the bowls and spoons. We need to talk."

"Yes, Uncle Mors." The young man, Duncan was his name, said with a nod; walking across the room to grab two sets of wooden bowls and their accompanying spoons of metal surprisingly. The young man set gave one set to the old man, Mors was his name, before scooping his share of the stew into his own bowl. He swiftly took a seat near the old man, waiting for Mors to take the first bite before he did. Mors retrieved his share of the stew, making sure to drop several meat chunks beside the hound by his side for it to eat; which it did with gusto!

Mors took the first bite, staying silent as he ate his meal. Duncan followed, wolfing down his stew in silence as he waited for his "Uncle" to speak. The young man was done first, setting his bowl aside to grab one of the hard breads that laid in a nearby bowl to settle his stomach with. As he gingerly chewed the item, Mors finished his own stew. He set the bowl aside and clasped his hands together, looking at Duncan.

"You're almost a man now, Duncan. Your sixteenth nameday is fast approaching, which makes you a man by all accounts of Westeros' laws and cultures. But we both know that you are already ready to leave the cottage." Mors said, his voice solemn as he watched Duncan choke a bit of the hard bread.

Duncan smacked his chest to force down the bread before looking at the old man with narrowed eyes, saying "I know Uncle. I can take care of myself when the Black Men come. I've been taking care of myself for five moons now." The young man could easily remember the "Black Men" that attacked the cottage at least once every year. They would come for Mors, eager for his death for some unknown reason to Duncan. They would always be dressed in some kind of black; whether it be a cape, clothing, or even heraldry adorn on their armor! Why would nobles try to kill his Uncle? But, Mors would always slay them all to their screams of "Butcher" and "Traitor". To Duncan, his Uncle was no traitor or butcher, though the latter could be debated…

"No pup… I meant, permanently." With this admission, Duncan was surprised. He was going to leave and never come back?! He liked living here, and he loved living with his Uncle! Why on earth would he ever leave?

"Why...? Can't I live here for the rest of my life with you?" By now, Duncan had set aside the bread he was eating on the wooden table. He was upset that such an idea even entered the old man's head. Why did Mors want him to go?

"I wish pup… I wish you could, but you must go." Mors himself seemed a bit sad, almost regretful that he was saying such a thing. But under that regret was a sense of purpose, and tiredness. "A pup will always leave the pack one day to find his own destiny, and it is time for you to do so. A little bird told me a type of destiny was soon to approach you, and you deserve better than what will come."

"Little bird"? What on earth was his Uncle talking about? Duncan only frowned as Mors went on, standing up to look outside of the window as he spoke. "Not only that, but they are coming as well."

"The Black Men?! But they already came just a few days ago. They shouldn't bother us until the next moon!" Duncan said in worried amazement, leaning forward on the table with a hand steadying him. The young man remembered the day well as he had woken up by the Black Men's screaming his Uncle's name. "Mors Westford! Come out and face us, you traitor!" they called out, to which the old man answered by slaughtering them all with his sword. Duncan hid under the bed at his Uncle's demands, even though the young man offered his own services to help Mors fight off the Black Men. Mors had trained Duncan in the art of combat, and Duncan wanted to help his Uncle and show that his training was for naught! Yet, Mors kept Duncan away from the battlefield. The old man let the aging dog join him battle, but not the young man full of vigor?! That made no common sense in Duncan's eyes!

"They did, and they are coming in a few short hours soon. The Dog saw them, like it always does. This wave is bigger than any of the others, and there will be no way I can survive." Mors admitted, placing a hand on his sword's pommel as he glared through the glass. Mors always had a strange connection with his hound, almost as if he could jump into the beast's skin for a short time to see and do what it can see and do. It amazed Duncan most times, while it also scared him other times. This was one of those fear-inducing times…

"Then let me fight this time! You don't have to-"

"No! You will leave on the hour, and that is it!" Mors' voice echoed throughout the cottage, stopping any chance of an argument that Duncan may of had with the surge of danger that the old man's aura gave. Even the dog had raised its head to look at its master, only for a few moments before going back to resting on the floor.

"I know you wish to fight with me, but this wave will swallow both you and I. Even if we try to run, they will find us and we will die. There will be no victory, only death, and I will be damned to the Seven Hells before I dishonor myself with your death! Our motto is 'Death over dishonor', and I will not dishonor both you and I with your death at the hands of murderers, thieves, and rapists. So you will go to your room, pack things you will need on your journey to find your destiny while I pack your rations for you, and leave before they arrive. Do you understand me Duncan Westford?"

"Yes sir…" Duncan growled out, obviously unhappy at the choice made for him by his Uncle. He wanted to fight! He wanted his Uncle to live and be by his side, and yet if Mors was right then there was no hope for such a dream to exist. Why did such evil men take away Duncan's dream of peace by being with his Uncle and his pet dog in this little cottage in the middle of the Riverlands? Duncan would never get an answer, would he? No… He won't get an answer.

Duncan silently stood up and walked back to his room, shutting the door behind him, and let out a sigh. He wanted to cry, he truly did. But he would know that Mors would be disgusted with the young man if he did that. He was suppose to be strong! He was suppose to be tough and mature, not able to cry by any means whatsoever. So he didn't cry, just rubbed his eyes until the tears went away. Once they went away, Duncan went to work with what he needed to do. He grabbed a small travel sack and placed it on his bed. He opened it up, peering inside to see what he already had inside it. He had a travel blanket, a thick cloak used for either the winter or rain, and rock. The young man took the rock out of the bag and began to put stuff into the empty space. He stored clothes, both summer and winter variations, into the bag. He stopped at the final object he was about to place in the sack. It was a bolt of blue cloth, almost a small scarf, with a black hound on the center of the blue field the color made. Duncan let out a sigh as he looked at his Uncle's family crest, which was his own crest as well.

Duncan set the scarf aside before closing the travel sack, tying the tie tight so nothing could spill out of it. The young man then turned his head to a worn chest resting in the corner of his room, to which he gently walked over and opened. Inside the chest was Duncan's armor, painstakingly made by his Uncle. It was a simple set of common infantry armor, secretly holding several improvements made by Mors himself. The gambeson had chainmail woven into it, the vambraces wrapped all around Duncan's forearms, the leggings were baggy for easy movement, and several other tiny improvements that aided the young man in combat; with the biggest being it easy enough to be put on by Duncan himself.

Duncan put on the armor, letting the leather and metal rest on his skin and clothing as he got ready to leave his home. It didn't take long for the young man to dress himself, finishing it off by wrapping the blue scarf around his neck. Once finished, he grabbed his travel sack and opened his door once more. He entered the main room, and looked for his Uncle. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the old man laying out three items on the table. One item was a shield with a broken sword resting in a red field painted on its front, a strange heraldry that Duncan had rarely seen in his Uncle's hands. The other item was a sword with a blade as clean as silver, and yet seemingly as strong as steel. Duncan had only ever seen that sword once in his life, and that was back when he was only six moons of age. The other item was a sack, which Duncan could guess was full of food and drink that he would be needing for his travels. But with those two earlier items out, the young man wondered if Mors was truly willing to pass them onto the boy as Duncan walked over to the old man.

"My old comrade, one who is now one with fire, had this shield in his family for many years; only passing it to me on his death. It is a good shield, sturdy and strong. It will protect you." Mors said as he grabbed the item and placed it in Duncan's hands. Duncan shouldered the shield with a strap that it had, throwing it over his right shoulder without much trouble. "And this blade… I won this blade off of a true knight after defeating him in a duel, at the behest of a spider. It is Valyrian Steel, pup. Be wise and honorable when you wield it, for it will cut through all regardless of who they may be; even if they be a shadow of demonic evil. I know of that all too well…"

"I will, Uncle… I'm going to miss you, you know?" Duncan whispered as he took the sword's black handle, attaching its scabbard to his belt so he may carry the wondrous blade. He truly was going to miss Mors, whether or not the old man wanted him to. He was the only family he knew, and he was saying goodbye to the Uncle that raised and loved him.

"I know, pup. I know… Let us just hope we meet again in the next life. Even if you are not of my blood, you will always be considered a Westford." The old man's frown softened as he grabbed the young man by the shoulders and pulled him into a hug. A hug that had the old man feel his shirt grow wet with tears of silent sobs. "Stay clear of Tywin Lannister and his ilk, especially the 'Mountain' that is his terror. If you do encounter them, or become an item of attention; do everything you can to escape their rotting claws. Be wary of any of the Night's Watch that speak of my name, especially if they call me 'The Butcher'. Most of all, do not go to the Wall nor Kings' Landing; especially near the Red Keep. A spider waits for a pup such as you to be ensnared by its web."

"I-I will… I love you, Uncle!"

"I do to… Now go, Duncan Westford! Make your own destiny in this the game of thrones that Westeros is plunged into." With that, the young man swiftly left the cottage and began to head down a beaten dirt path into the forest. Duncan Westford was now free from Mors' hands, hands that promised to protect him. Hands that promised and failed to protect his mother…

It didn't take long for the Night's Watch to arrive after Duncan had left, yelling out the usual "Mors Westford! Come out and face us, you traitor!" The old man answered them as always, a sword in his hands and his forever loyal hound by his side. Mors stood near the doorway to the cottage as he examined the group that had come to kill him. Over fifty men, of all kinds of backgrounds. There were agents of the Night's Watch, sellswords, and even Lannister soldiers. It seems like Tywin has found him at last, the ruthless tyrant that he is…

"Mors Westford! Lay down your sword and submit to your crimes of desertion and murdering your fellow brothers! We will give you a proper and respectful death if you do! Resist and be put to the sword!"

This time around, his hands would fulfill their promise. It will truly be Death Over Dishonor…

So. I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter of the fanfiction! I normally don't do third person all that much, rather doing first person, but I think this fanfiction would be better if done in third person. What do you guys think? Be sure to leave reviews so I know that I'm the right track with this fanfiction and all that. I really do appreciate them, especially if it helps me write a better fanfiction as a result! I also won't do author notes like this every chapter like I usually do in my other fanfictions as well. I figured that no one would really want to read what I got to say EVERY chapter. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed and I'll see you when the next chapter comes out! See you next time!