Chapter 2: The Chosen Road
The godswood at Winterfell stood hushed and solemn in the pale morning light, as though it had gathered its red leaves and ancient silence to bear witness. Jon Snow made his way through the thin layer of frost that covered the mossy ground, his breath pluming before him in the chill. Several years had passed since the day a mysterious Force Projection—Anakin Skywalker—had revealed himself amid these very trees. Jon had been little more than a boy then, his heart weighed by the burdens of bastardy, longing, and questions of where he truly belonged. Now he had grown taller and leaner, the outlines of young manhood shaping his shoulders, his jaw, and the determined set of his dark eyes. His training in the ways of the Jedi had advanced far beyond those first, uncertain steps.
In that time, he had developed a fighting style that merged his natural skill with the fluid aggression of Vaapad, a lightsaber form Anakin had described in stories of star systems and distant wars. But lightsabers belonged to another world. Here in Westeros, steel was what men carried, and so Jon wielded a sword. He had commissioned it himself from Winterfell's blacksmith, after countless hours spent earning coin through odd jobs and small tasks, from helping stablehands to chopping wood, from assisting Master Luwin in cleaning the library to discreetly working for local tradesmen whenever they needed an extra pair of hands. It was no Valyrian blade, no fabled steel of legend. But it was well-crafted, strong and balanced, designed precisely to Jon's specifications. The hilt wrapped snugly in dark leather, the crossguard shaped to echo the wings of a falcon—a small flight of fancy that had made the blacksmith chuckle. Jon had christened the blade "Northwatch," for in his heart he had ever vowed to protect the realm from threats unseen and unknown, especially the darkness he sensed beyond the Wall.
He stepped carefully over tree roots, listening to the soft crunch of frozen leaves underfoot. Sometimes he glanced up at the massive heart tree with its carved face and wept-red foliage, remembering the many times he had sat beneath those branches to practice, or to think, or to speak with Anakin. This morning, however, was different from all others. Today was his final test. Today he would prove himself worthy of the Jedi name and stand on his own, no longer just a student but a knight in truth.
He paused at the edge of the small clearing where the heart tree bent over the reflection pool. There, shimmering in a soft, translucent light that glowed even in the rising sun, stood Anakin Skywalker. If not for the faint wisps of his incorporeal form, one might have mistaken him for a living man. Yet Jon knew all too well that Anakin did not dwell in mortal flesh anymore. He was a Force Projection, an echo of spirit and will, free from mortal aging or the typical constraints of the body, able to interact with the world through the Force.
On some days, Anakin's form looked nearly solid. On others, it seemed only half-present, vulnerable to the shifting currents of the Force. Today, his presence was strong. He wore what appeared to be traditional Jedi robes, though they were tinted an otherworldly hue. His eyes gleamed with quiet pride as Jon approached.
"Jon," he said, his voice resonating with an odd echo. "You've come far."
Jon bowed his head in respect. "I owe that to your guidance."
Anakin let a faint smile touch his lips. "I may have guided you, but you walked the path. This day isn't about my teaching. It's about your worthiness. Are you ready?"
Jon rolled his shoulders back, trying to ease the tension that gathered there. "I am. Whatever test you have for me, I'll face it."
A chill wind stirred the leaves, sending them spiraling around Jon's boots. Anakin nodded, and for a moment, the old godswood seemed to hold its breath. Then, as if conjured from the air, Anakin closed his eyes and extended one ghostly hand. The Force shimmered around him. He drew a spear of pale light into the shape of a blade—more suggestion than steel, a flickering manifestation powered by his will. Jon knew that the conjured weapon could clash against real steel, for Anakin had demonstrated such feats before. The Force could give mass to what was otherwise intangible, forging ephemeral energy into something that could deflect or strike, at least for as long as Anakin's concentration held.
Jon's heart thumped in his chest. Though he had sparred with Anakin countless times, it always felt surreal to match steel against a being of shimmering light. Gently, he reached over his shoulder and grasped Northwatch's hilt. The scabbard was plain, but the sword came free with a graceful rasp of metal. He settled into the stance that had become second nature. Feet grounded, blade angled forward, elbows relaxed.
Vaapad was a lightsaber form that demanded a precarious balance between harnessing emotion and controlling it. It required the fighter to flow like liquid from one move to the next, building speed and momentum in tandem with passion, but without succumbing to anger or hatred. It was a tightrope walk that had, in legends, even undone some Jedi Masters. Jon had no illusions about his mastery. Yet it came more naturally to him than any other style. His life in Winterfell had taught him to channel the frustration of being an unwanted bastard, the bitterness and sadness, and transmute it into purpose rather than letting it fester.
"All right," Jon murmured, letting his breath slip out slowly.
Anakin advanced first, the luminous blade humming without sound. Jon sidestepped the initial slash, raising Northwatch to parry. Steel met Force-formed energy with a sharp crackle of impact. Anakin did not lose ground, pressing forward with the relentless discipline of one who had fought a thousand battles. Jon pivoted, slid back a step on the moss, and whipped his sword upward in a tight arc aimed at Anakin's side.
It was like trying to strike the wind. Anakin twisted gracefully, shimmering for an instant so that Jon's blade skimmed only the outer edge of the projection. Yet it felt solid enough to meet. Jon could sense the Force swirling around them, intensifying each blow. He forced himself to stay calm, to call upon the discipline he had honed over years. Even as he channeled that inner spark of energy that fueled Vaapad, he reminded himself not to let the thrill of the fight carry him away.
Blow after blow, they exchanged a flurry of strikes that would have overwhelmed most swordsmen. Jon stepped through each form with fluidity, seamlessly turning a block into a riposte, parrying, sidestepping, spinning into a backslash. Vaapad demanded swift transitions, a lethal dance meant to seize the initiative. The clangor of sword-on-energy filled the godswood with echoes. Red leaves fell from the heart tree, swirling like embers around them.
Jon lunged, channeling every ounce of strength he had into a two-handed downward strike. For a moment, he sensed Anakin's surprise in the Force. Northwatch's blade descended, cutting through the swirling leaves—and struck nothing as Anakin's form flickered out of solidity. Jon's momentum carried him forward; he almost stumbled, but he caught himself by planting a foot on an exposed tree root. He gasped for breath, gaze darting around to find his teacher's projection.
The shimmering form reappeared behind Jon, blade ready. Jon only narrowly had time to bring Northwatch around in a desperate parry. Anakin's sword of light slammed into steel, sparks dancing off the contact point. The force of that blow reverberated down Jon's arms, but he did not yield. He pivoted, letting his blade slide along the ethereal weapon, trying to angle for a riposte. Anakin absorbed the attempt with a deft deflection. Then came a Force push—a wave of invisible power that crashed into Jon's torso and sent him staggering backward. His boots skidded on damp grass.
Stubbornness flared inside him. He refused to fall. Gritting his teeth, he fought the wave of energy, bracing Northwatch in front of him. Steady, he told himself. Control. Don't let your anger become your master. The swirl of Vaapad demanded he accept the darkness of frustration and sharpen it into a single unwavering focus. He exhaled, forcibly calming his pounding heart, and sprang forward again.
The next exchange came in a blink. Jon slashed high, then spun, reversing his grip for a lower strike. Anakin blocked them all. Yet Jon sensed something shift. The Force was with him, its currents guiding each step, letting him anticipate Anakin's movements the fraction of an instant he needed to match the ghost's supernatural speed. He battered Anakin's guard, forging each strike in the heat of that internal fire, but refusing to let it burn out of control.
Across the pool's still surface, the reflection of their battle looked like two dancing shadows, one clearly human, the other a flicker of shimmering blue. Then, Jon feinted to the left, forced Anakin to commit to a block, and pivoted with lightning speed to the right. His blade came in dangerously close to Anakin's midsection. The Force Projection twisted aside, but not fast enough to avoid a shallow cut. For the briefest moment, it felt as though Jon's blade met real substance. A faint hiss erupted, as if steel had passed through steam. Anakin gave a soft grunt, eyes narrowing, and the blue glow rippled around him like the surface of a disturbed pond.
Jon saw his opening. He pressed forward, unwavering, sword raised to finish the attack. But Anakin's gaze sharpened. In a burst of inhuman swiftness, he shifted inside Jon's guard. Jon felt the flicker of dread as he realized he had no time to fully react. A bright flash of luminous energy connected with the flat of Northwatch, twisting the sword from Jon's hands. The steel rang as it flew from his grip and clattered onto the ground. Jon had only an instant to brace as Anakin slammed the hilt of his own ghostly blade into Jon's chest, toppling him onto his back.
He landed hard, gasping as the air whooshed from his lungs. The cold moss pressed against him, and the world tilted for a moment. He looked up. Anakin stood over him, sword of blue light poised as though to deliver a finishing thrust.
Defeat crashed through Jon. A strangled noise escaped his throat, half frustration, half acknowledgement. He had truly thought—for one instant—that he might best Anakin this time. But the margin separating them was wider than he had hoped.
Then Anakin pulled back, letting the glowing sword dissolve from his hand into thin air. He reached out, and his fingertips shimmered into solidity just enough for Jon to grasp them.
Jon sat up, then slowly rose to his feet, chest heaving. The sense of disappointment tried to take hold of him, but he steadied himself with a meditative breath. You lost, that's all. Accept it. It's the Jedi way to accept what is. It was the discipline of Vaapad that told him to remain calm, even in the sting of defeat.
Anakin allowed a small, proud smile to crease his features. "Don't look so down, Jon. You fought better today than I've ever seen you fight. Your skill now surpasses that of many adult knights who trained all their lives in standard sword forms. You're far beyond anything I knew at your age. Even so, I'm still more experienced than you, and…well, as you can see, the Force grants me certain advantages."
Jon swallowed, feeling the ache in his shoulders, the bruise forming at his lower back from the fall. "I truly thought I might beat you this time."
"Maybe one day." Anakin's tone was gentle. "But whether you beat me in a spar or not isn't what matters. Skill with a blade is only part of what makes a Jedi. You've shown courage, discipline, compassion, and willingness to learn. You've proven your connection to the Force. That is enough."
Jon looked up, eyes widening. "You mean—"
"You are ready," Anakin said, letting the finality of his words hang in the cold air. "By every measure, you have earned the title of Jedi Knight."
For several heartbeats, Jon stood in stunned silence. Then relief, pride, and a tremor of joy coursed through him all at once. It felt like the last piece of a puzzle snapping into place. Everything he had worked for since that day Anakin first appeared in the godswood now found its culmination. Jon slowly inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Thank you," he whispered. "I won't disappoint you."
Anakin's gaze held warmth. "You never have. Still, tell me: now that you've reached this point, what do you intend to do?"
Jon sheathed Northwatch and looked around at the trees. Beyond these walls lay the lands of the North, and beyond them, the rest of Westeros. He felt an inner pull, a calling that resonated like the beat of a distant drum. "I'm leaving," he said quietly. "I've been thinking about it for a while. I can't stay here anymore."
Anakin nodded, seeming unsurprised. "Why now?"
Jon hesitated, sorting through the swirl of reasons that had haunted him for months. "I care for Arya," he began, "but other than her, nothing really binds me here. Eddard…my father, he's always so distant. Maybe he thinks it's for the best. Catelyn hates me, and she doesn't even try to pretend otherwise. My half-siblings—Robb, Sansa, even Bran and Rickon—treat me like a stranger. The people of the North see me as an outsider. No one sees me as their own." He exhaled a frosty breath. "I've learned what I can here. Now, I need real-world experience. There's a shadow in the far North, beyond the Wall. I feel it in the Force. The Long Night, or something like it, is looming. We need allies."
He paused, glancing at the heart tree's carved face. "We also know there are aspects of the Force beyond what you've shown me—R'hllor, and the Faceless God in Braavos. They're not gods, not exactly. But they are powerful manifestations of the same thing. If the old tales are to be believed, they helped drive off the Night Queen ages past. Maybe they can help again. And then…"
He hesitated, uncertain if he should reveal the last part. But Anakin merely watched him, patient and luminous. Jon swallowed. "I also want to find my Targaryen kin, Viserys and Daenerys. They're somewhere across the Narrow Sea, hiding from Robert Baratheon's assassins. I—some say I'm not Eddard Stark's son at all. Or maybe I am, but perhaps I'm tied to the Targaryens. I don't know the truth. But I do know they're in danger. They have no one. If I can help them… I should."
Anakin lifted his chin thoughtfully. "You sense a connection."
"Yes," Jon admitted, "like I'm meant to find them, to protect them. And I can't do that from Winterfell."
"So how do you plan to leave?"
Jon lifted a faint smile. "There's a crew gathering in White Harbor. They're madmen, by most accounts—planning an expedition into Valyria. The cursed ruins. They want to search for lost relics or treasure. They're short on swords and they pay good coin. It's dangerous, but it might be the perfect chance to head east once we're done. Or if we even survive. I can't say no, though. It calls to me. If I want to see the world, if I want to gather allies and learn more about the Force in its many guises, this is my path."
Anakin listened, a quiet acceptance in his luminous features. "I've watched you wrestle with your place here. I'm glad you've reached this conclusion on your own. I don't know where your road will lead, Jon, but you have my blessing. You will always have my guidance for as long as I can appear, though my ability to remain here forever is…limited. The Force has its own mysteries. But I believe in you. And, as a Jedi Knight, your destiny is your own to forge."
Jon felt a swell of gratitude, though he hid it behind a solemn nod. "Thank you. Truly."
They exchanged a few more words—small reflections on the years they had shared, promises of caution for the journey ahead. Then, as the sun rose higher, Anakin's form began to flicker. His presence thinned, like a candle flame guttering in the wind. Jon felt a gentle current of warmth flow through him, as if a farewell blessing.
"You have all you need," Anakin said, voice echoing. "Go, and may the Force be with you."
Jon bowed his head, pressing a hand over his heart. By the time he lifted his gaze, Anakin had faded entirely. Only the quiet hush of the godswood remained, the heart tree an impassive sentinel over the events that had transpired. For several long moments, Jon stood there, letting the gravity of what had just happened soak in. He was a Jedi Knight now, by Anakin's own decree. And he would soon leave Winterfell.
He exhaled, watching his breath curl in the cold air, then turned and walked back the way he had come. His footsteps felt light, though his mind churned with thoughts of the final tasks he must accomplish before departing.
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Morning lessons with Maester Luwin had been a daily ritual for the sons of Eddard Stark—as well as for Theon Greyjoy, the ward who lived under House Stark's roof. Jon remembered a time when Robb, Theon, and even little Bran would gather around the table in the maester's turret to study. But in recent months, the older boys had grown restless, skipping lessons more often than not. Robb, nearly of age to be called a man grown, sometimes found excuses to practice swordwork or do something more exciting than read about trade agreements or genealogies. Theon, with his swagger and easy smiles, rarely bothered to show up at all unless forced by Eddard. And if Jon was honest, neither brother nor ward would put in extra effort to be around him.
That was how Jon found himself alone in the small, circular turret with Maester Luwin that morning. A brazier crackled softly, giving off meager warmth. The narrow windows let in slivers of winter sunlight, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Jon took his usual seat at the thick wooden table and watched as Luwin puttered about, selecting scrolls. The old maester wore his chain of many metals, each link signifying a different branch of knowledge. Jon had always respected him; he was a kind teacher, patient and wise in practical matters, though he approached the world through logic and reason, leaving little room for mysticism or talk of the Force. Still, Luwin had never shown Jon the sharp disdain that Catelyn Stark did. And for that, Jon was grateful.
Once Jon confirmed he was ready to begin, the maester opened a lengthy parchment. "We'll start with the lineages of the major houses," he said, in the slightly weary tone of a man who suspected his pupil might already know all this by heart. And he was right. Jon had studied it all before, but he went along with the lesson anyway, politely answering each question: the heraldry of House Bolton (a flayed man, which Jon despised), the seat of House Manderly (White Harbor), the connections between Houses Arryn and Tully through marriage, and so on.
All the while, Jon remained preoccupied with his decision to leave. He tried not to let it show, but at one point, Luwin paused, watching him over the rim of his maester's lenses. "Your mind is elsewhere, Jon. Something troubles you."
Jon considered how much to reveal. He managed a small, noncommittal shrug. "I've been thinking about my future."
"Ah," Luwin said, setting the scroll down. "I see. You're nearly a man grown. It's only natural. And your…circumstances are unique."
Jon gave a short laugh with no real mirth. "I doubt I'm the only bastard in the realm who's had to think about where he belongs."
"True enough," the old maester said, adjusting his chain. "But you've had opportunities here that other bastards haven't. Lord Stark's protection, a decent education, training in arms. You shouldn't throw it away lightly." His eyes softened. "I don't mean you should remain in Winterfell your entire life—only that you should consider the consequences. No matter where you go, the world won't always welcome a wandering sword."
Jon dipped his head. "I appreciate the advice, Maester. But sometimes, a man's place isn't in the home he grew up in."
Luwin studied him for a moment longer, then nodded to himself. "Robb and Theon, as you've noted, have decided to skip my lessons again. It seems they have other matters they find pressing—" He allowed himself a soft sigh, shaking his head. "Between you and me, I suspect Robb's mind is already set on proving himself in the training yard. As for Theon, well…he's never much liked book learning."
Jon said nothing, only let a faint, wry smile tug at his lips. Robb was not a bad sort, but the older they grew, the more the gulf between them expanded. Robb would inherit Winterfell, rule as his father had ruled, commanding the loyalty of bannermen across the North. Meanwhile, Jon had no such inheritance, only his skill and the knowledge gleaned from these lessons.
"We can dismiss early," Luwin went on, "given that you are the only one here. You've already proven adept at these genealogies and such. Let me not bore you further. Go on, get some fresh air."
Jon rose and bowed politely. "Thank you."
He left the turret, the sense of finality pressing on his chest. This might be one of the last times he left that small chamber as a student. The thought was liberating—and a little frightening. A short walk through Winterfell's corridors brought him into the open yard, where the sounds of men training with wooden swords could usually be heard. This morning, though, it was emptier than usual, the clank of steel distant. As Jon made his way toward the keep, he thought of heading to his room to begin packing. He would soon have to speak to Eddard about his intentions, but perhaps that conversation could wait—
"Jon Snow."
The voice, sharp and icy as a blade, sliced through his train of thought. He looked up to see Lady Catelyn Stark standing a short distance away, arms crossed. Her auburn hair gleamed in the pale sun. Despite the years, her beauty was undeniable, but so was the disapproval etched on her face. Whenever she looked at Jon, it was as though she gazed upon something vile that she had to tolerate.
Jon bowed, forcing the courtesy he knew was expected. "My lady."
She studied him for a long moment. "Where is Robb?"
Jon lifted a shoulder. "I'm not certain. He and Theon didn't come to today's lessons."
Catelyn's lips thinned. "That's precisely the problem. Robb should be with Maester Luwin at this hour, and Theon…he's running wild as usual. I hear you were in lessons by yourself." Her voice edged on accusation, as though Jon's mere diligence had somehow pulled Robb away. "Did you encourage him to abandon his studies? He's not been as attentive lately, and I can't help but notice it happens whenever he spends time with you."
Jon's temper flared, but he beat it down, responding calmly, "I haven't spoken with Robb since yesterday, my lady. He's free to make his own decisions. If he skipped Maester Luwin's lesson, that's on him, not me."
She took a step closer, the hem of her skirts brushing the ground. "You speak to me with a tone that borders on insolence."
He fought the urge to clench his fists. "I am only speaking the truth. I have never told Robb to skip his duties. If he's neglected them, then that's between him and Lord Stark."
Catelyn's eyes flashed. "Lord Stark will hear of this. Do not think to worm your way out of it. My son's future is important, and I will not have you meddling with it."
Bitterness gnawed at Jon. He wanted to retort that her son, Robb, barely treated Jon as a brother. He wanted to say that her sour attitude was precisely why he felt no love for this place anymore. But he held his tongue, drawing on the calm he had honed in countless sparring sessions. Anger, if let loose, would only feed the darkness Vaapad warned him to control.
Catelyn took his silence for defiance, huffing out a tight exhale. "Don't you dare look at me like that, you—" She caught herself, lowering her voice. "I'll speak with Eddard. We'll see what he has to say. Now go, before I say something we'll both regret."
Jon inclined his head stiffly, turned, and walked away without another word. Her presence weighed on him like a storm cloud. Even in his earliest memories, he could recall the hostility in her gaze. It had only hardened over time. He did not hate her—he understood, to some degree, that his existence was an embarrassment to her, a reminder of Eddard's supposed indiscretion. But a part of Jon resented how she could never see him as anything but a threat or a stain on her family's honor.
He made his way through the corridors until he reached his simple room tucked away from the main family quarters. There, he locked the door behind him. The moment he was alone, he let out a slow breath, letting the tension ebb from his shoulders. Then he set about gathering his things: his sword belt, the few sets of clothes he owned, some provisions he had purchased secretly—salted meat, dried fruit, nuts, a small waterskin. He planned to buy more supplies in town before boarding any transport to White Harbor, but for now, he took what he could. He moved quietly, methodically, placing each item into a leather bag he had also paid for with coin he earned.
He was so immersed in the task that when a small voice piped up behind him, he nearly started. "Jon?"
He spun around to see Arya standing in the doorway, the door cracked just enough for her to poke her head through. Her grey eyes were wide, a slight frown tugging at her lips. "What are you doing?"
Jon softened at the sight of her. If there was one reason he had stayed in Winterfell as long as he had, it was her. Arya was the only one of Eddard Stark's trueborn children who treated Jon like a genuine brother. Bran had once been friendly enough, but as the years passed, even Bran grew a little distant, drawn into the circle of those who teased Jon for his bastardy. Arya, on the other hand, never hid her affection.
"Come in," he said gently.
She slipped inside, her dark hair messy around her face. She wore a plain grey tunic and leggings—less ladylike attire than her sister might favor, but that was Arya, never comfortable in dresses or formalities. She looked at the bag on Jon's bed, noticing the supplies and clothes. A shadow of concern crossed her features. "You're…packing? Are you going somewhere?"
Jon swallowed. There was no point hiding it from her; she was too perceptive, and he owed her honesty. "Yes," he said softly. "I'm leaving Winterfell."
Arya's mouth fell open. "Leaving?"
He set aside a folded shirt and turned to face her fully. "I have to. I've been planning it for a while. I need to see the world, to find my own place. There's…there's so much out there, Arya. And I don't belong here."
Her eyes went shiny, and for a moment, she looked more childlike than ever, despite being on the cusp of her teenage years. "But—what about me? I don't want you to go."
"I know." He stepped closer and rested a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry. But I have to. It's not just for me—it's for what's coming. I can't explain everything, but there's a threat out there, Arya. The Long Night might return. There are enemies beyond the Wall, and I need to gather help from other parts of the world. Maybe from Braavos, maybe from across the sea. I can't do that here."
Tears threatened in her eyes. She blinked them away angrily. "Then I'll come with you."
Jon shook his head, a gentle sadness rising within him. He wished he could say yes. Of all the people in Winterfell, Arya was the one he would want by his side. But she was still so young—only eleven—and nowhere near ready for the kind of hardships that awaited him. "You're not old enough. You're not strong enough yet. It's too dangerous."
Her lower lip trembled. "I'm not some helpless child, Jon."
"No, you're not. But it's still not time. Believe me," he said softly, "I wish I could take you with me. But you need a few more years. Keep practicing with your sewing needle—" He smirked at the private joke, as Arya referred to any blade in her hands as her "needle"— "and get stronger. One day, if you still want to roam and see the world, I promise I'll bring you on adventures. But for now, you must stay."
Arya looked away, tears slipping down her cheeks despite her best effort. She sniffed. "It's not fair. I'm going to be stuck here, with Sansa and Mother and all these stupid rules."
Jon carefully reached for something he had set aside on the table: two small daggers, plain but serviceable, their sheaths made of dark leather. He had had them crafted in secret, intending to take them as spares on his journey. But now, a different plan formed in his mind. "Here," he said, offering them to Arya. "They're yours."
She blinked, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. "Mine? Really?"
"Yes. But be cautious. Don't let Mother see them. Practice with them in secret if you must. One day, I'll teach you how to truly fight. A dagger can be just as deadly as a sword in the right hands." He paused, letting the seriousness of it settle. "I give them to you because I trust you. And because I know you'll need something that feels…yours, in a place where you don't always feel like you belong."
She took the daggers carefully, holding them as though they were precious. Her tear-stained face broke into a trembling smile. "Thank you."
He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Arya, promise me you'll keep practicing. That you won't let anyone force you to be someone you're not. You're strong. You're a Stark, no matter what anyone says. And I'll see you again. This isn't goodbye forever."
She clutched the daggers to her chest and swallowed hard. "I promise."
They embraced, a tight, fierce hug that carried the weight of all the unspoken love between them. Jon fought against his own tears, burying his face briefly in her hair, remembering all the times she'd come to him with her troubles, the times they'd snuck off to watch the knights train, the times they'd exchanged jokes about how Sansa fawned over pretty dresses. Arya was the sister he would claim without hesitation, the one who had truly embraced him as family.
After a few moments, she drew back, sniffling. "So…when are you leaving?"
"Soon," he said. "I still have to speak with Father. He doesn't know, not really."
Arya's expression soured at the mention of Catelyn, but she simply nodded. Before either of them could speak further, the door behind Arya creaked open wider, revealing Sansa's poised figure. Sansa was around thirteen now, newly blossomed into her beauty. She wore a rich blue gown trimmed with white, and her auburn hair was brushed until it shone. Her proud bearing made her look older than her years.
She regarded Arya's tear-streaked face and the daggers in her hands with immediate disapproval. "What are you two doing?" She seemed more upset by Arya's show of emotion than by the presence of weapons. Then, her gaze shifted to Jon's bag on the bed. "Father wants you in his solar, Jon. Mother says you've done something bad again."
Arya glared at her sister. "He hasn't done anything wrong."
Sansa lifted her chin, ignoring Arya's anger. "All I know is Father asked me to fetch him. So let's go, Snow, before you make things worse for yourself." Her tone dripped with the same mild contempt that Catelyn displayed.
Jon merely sighed, stepping around Arya. "I'm ready." Then he glanced back at Arya, giving her a small nod of reassurance. She returned it, clutching the daggers to her chest as if they were the only solid anchor she had.
He followed Sansa into the corridor. She walked quickly, her footsteps elegant on the stone floor. "I don't know what you've done this time," she said briskly. "Father didn't tell me. But Mother looked furious. So it must be something truly shameful."
Jon maintained a stony silence. He had long since learned that trying to defend himself to Sansa was pointless. She would believe whatever Catelyn told her. He kept his eyes forward, ignoring the barbs in her words. She threw him a frustrated glance, as if annoyed that he wouldn't rise to the bait.
They ascended a flight of stairs, passing guards who gave small bows or greetings to Sansa but scarcely acknowledged Jon. At the top of the stairs, they came to the door of Eddard Stark's solar. It stood slightly ajar, candlelight flickering within. Sansa paused, stepping aside. "He's waiting," she said.
Jon took a breath and stepped through the door. Sansa hovered behind for a moment, then she, too, entered, closing it. Within, Lord Eddard Stark stood behind a heavy wooden desk piled with ledgers and letters. Beside him stood Catelyn, her posture rigid and her face still set in that cool disapproval. The solar smelled faintly of old leather and the wax of half-burned candles. Outside the narrow windows, the sky was turning a deeper shade of morning blue.
Eddard looked up as Jon entered. He wore a weary expression, one that he seemed to wear more frequently these days. Perhaps the responsibilities of ruling the North, or the knowledge of Robert Baratheon's unpredictability, weighed on him. "Jon," he said, a note of exasperation in his voice. "Lady Stark has told me there was some…disrespect shown earlier?"
Jon met his father's grey eyes and inclined his head. "We had an exchange, yes. My lady Catelyn confronted me about Robb's absence from lessons. I merely told her that I had nothing to do with Robb's choice."
Catelyn's lips tightened, but she let Eddard speak. "My lady tells me you used a 'disrespectful tone' with her. Is that so?"
Jon refused to break eye contact. "No. I answered her questions truthfully. She didn't like the answers."
Catelyn inhaled, about to retort. Eddard raised a hand. "Enough. I realize tensions are often high between you. But you must still uphold courtesy, Jon."
His voice was not unkind, but it carried a firmness that Jon recognized as the paternal authority of the Lord of Winterfell. For so many years, Jon had craved even that modicum of attention, but it had always come with distance. Eddard had never addressed him as "my son" in front of others. He never openly embraced Jon. Perhaps it was to keep the peace with Catelyn, or perhaps for reasons deeper still. But it hurt Jon, all the same.
Catelyn broke in then. "He should be punished. He's grown far too bold, speaking back as if he's Robb's equal."
Eddard shifted his gaze back to Jon. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
Jon felt his heart hammering. He knew if he spoke harshly, it would only confirm their accusations. But he could not feign complete submission, not anymore. "I spoke the truth," he said, voice level. "If that is considered disrespect, then I cannot change it. And as for punishment… you needn't trouble yourself, my lord. I'm leaving Winterfell."
Silence dropped like a cloak over the solar. Eddard's eyes widened, and Catelyn's mouth parted in astonishment. "Leaving Winterfell?" Eddard repeated, a note of confusion coloring his tone.
Catelyn recovered first. Her voice carried a cutting edge of satisfaction. "So you've finally accepted that your place is elsewhere. Good. Perhaps you mean to take the black?"
Jon shook his head. "No. I'm not joining the Night's Watch."
Eddard frowned. "Where would you go, if not the Wall?"
"White Harbor," Jon replied. "There's a crew there planning a voyage to Valyria. After that, I intend to travel to Essos. Learn what I can. See the world. Meet my Targaryen kin, if I can find them." He inhaled. "I have no reason to remain here. The North sees me as an outsider, and as Lady Stark said, I have no claim to equality with Robb or any of the trueborn. I don't wish to cause any more strain. So I'll leave."
Eddard's mouth set in a grim line. "Jon, don't be foolish. This is your home, no matter what anyone says. If you feel unwelcome—" He shot a quick glance at Catelyn. "—we can talk. But traveling to Valyria? That's utter madness. It's a cursed place. You'll likely never return."
Jon kept his chin high. "You don't know me, Father, not really. We hardly speak. And I have a purpose in going. I can't explain it fully, but I sense that I must go. I've trained for this, I've saved coin for this. I'm not asking your permission."
Catelyn's lips curled in scorn, but her eyes held a flicker of relief. "You dare speak to your father that way?"
Jon felt his frustration boil over. "My father has hardly acted like one. All my life, I've been reminded I'm a bastard, that I don't belong. My lady Catelyn never misses a chance to make me feel it. Robb and the others treat me politely at best, or with scorn at worst. I've had no future here except the Wall. But I'm not a criminal. I refuse to accept that my only path is a lifetime of celibate service in the frozen north."
Eddard's expression twisted in a mix of shock and regret. "I never wanted you to feel—"
"Yes, well, what you wanted and what you did aren't the same," Jon said, more sharply than he intended. "You left me in a place where your wife hates me, where your own children barely know me, and where the people look on me like a piece of dirt tracked in from the road. But I've found my own path now, and I'm leaving. That's the end of it."
Catelyn let out a disbelieving scoff. "Such arrogance. You think you can just walk away with the possessions given to you by House Stark?"
Jon's eyes snapped to hers, and he allowed a cold smile. "Everything I own, I paid for myself, with coin I earned through my work. You saw to that, Lady Stark, ensuring I was never given an allowance like Robb or Sansa or the others. Do you think I don't remember every mealtime when you'd watch me eat, as though the food was wasted on me? Or how you forbade the stewards from giving me any clothing except secondhand scraps from the guards? I learned quickly how to earn my own coin. The sword I bear, I paid the blacksmith for. The clothes I wear, I bought with that coin. I owe you and House Stark nothing."
Catelyn bristled, cheeks flushing. She turned to Eddard in a silent demand.
Eddard looked between them, struggling to maintain composure. "I could forbid you," he said quietly, though there was a resigned quality to his tone. "I am the lord of Winterfell, and you're still not of age—"
"Legally, yes," Jon interrupted, "but I've done no crime, so you can't lock me away. What would you tell the lords if you imprisoned a bastard who's broken no laws? It would be scandalous, especially for a lord as honorable as you claim to be."
Eddard's jaw tightened. "Don't speak to me of honor, boy. You are my blood, no matter how strained, and you are beneath my roof. I have a duty to protect you from foolish decisions."
Jon's frustration made his voice tremble. "This is not your decision. You never asked what I wanted. Not once. Now, it's too late."
A tense silence stretched. Sansa stood by the wall, eyes wide, unsure what to make of the confrontation. She seemed genuinely startled to see Jon speaking so directly. Catelyn folded her arms, her posture taut with anger, but also triumphant in its own way. Finally, Eddard rubbed a hand across his face, seeming older than his years. "If you leave, you leave with only what you've bought," he said at last, as though clinging to some form of paternal authority. "That includes your sword, your clothes. Nothing else."
Jon nodded stiffly. "That's all I need."
Catelyn shot him a glare, but there was a relief in her eyes that she failed to hide. Eddard looked torn between anger and sorrow, but he held himself to the stoic dignity of a Stark. "Very well," he said after a moment. "Go, if you must. But don't come back expecting welcomes if you find the world crueler than you think. Winterfell isn't some inn you can enter and leave at will. It's a seat of my house."
Jon's heart squeezed. The finality of that statement hurt more than he let on, but he refused to show weakness. "I understand. Thank you for allowing me to go freely."
With a nod, he turned on his heel and left the solar. Behind him, he heard Catelyn release a breath of relief, Sansa let out a soft exclamation, and Eddard remain silent. Jon clenched his fists, struggling to keep his emotions from overtaking him. He had said what needed saying. In a way, it felt liberating. But it also left an ache deep in his chest—a longing for a father's acceptance that he would likely never receive.
––––––
Jon returned to his room, grabbing the leather bag he had packed. The memory of Arya's stricken face gnawed at him, but he knew she would understand in time. Better a swift farewell than a dragged-out parting. He shouldered the bag, strapped Northwatch to his waist, and stepped out into the corridor. As he moved, each step seemed lighter somehow, unburdened from the future that had once felt so narrow.
He made his way to the courtyard. A few stablehands bustled about, preparing horses for the day's errands. Jon headed toward the main gate, intending to hire a carriage or wagon from town, something he had already arranged in part. He had enough coin to pay for a ride to White Harbor. From there, he would join the crew bound for Valyria—if they would still have him.
Before he reached the gate, two figures appeared. Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy walked side by side, a pair of sworn brothers by circumstance if not blood. Theon wore a cocky grin that suggested he had been drinking. The flush on his cheeks and the slight sway in his steps confirmed it. Robb looked more collected, though his eyes were slightly unfocused. Maybe he, too, had indulged.
"There he is," Theon crowed, pointing at Jon. "The Bastard of Winterfell, carrying a bag like he's running off somewhere. Off to the Wall like a good little crow?"
Jon bit back a sigh. He had half-hoped to slip away without a confrontation. Nevertheless, he halted and faced them. Robb's expression was uneasy as he glanced at Jon's bag. "You're leaving?"
Theon snorted. "Of course he is. Bastards don't stay where they're not wanted." He waggled a finger at Jon. "You know, I heard your mother was a—"
Jon clenched his jaw, refusing to rise to the bait.
Theon's smirk grew uglier. "Oh, that gets to you, does it? That you don't even know who she was? Maybe she was some tavern wench your precious lord father tumbled for a night." His words slurred slightly. "You have no family, no real name, no—"
"Shut up," Robb snapped, shooting Theon a glare. "You're drunk." Then he looked at Jon, brows knitted. "Is it true? You're leaving, truly?"
Jon let out a slow exhale. "Yes, Robb. I'm leaving. I came to say farewell, but… well, I see you're busy."
Theon let out a harsh laugh. "Farewell? Who's going to miss you?" He stepped closer, reeking of ale. "Don't you see, Snow? You're nobody. At least I'm a ward of the Starks. You? You're just here by the grace of Ned Stark's pity."
Jon turned to Robb. "You're my brother," he said quietly. "Or so I thought. But I see how things are now. If you're with Theon, let him speak for you."
Robb's cheeks reddened. "Jon, that's not fair. You know I—"
Jon shook his head. "I waited for you in lessons this morning. I thought maybe we'd have a last day together. But you never came. And now I'm going. This is goodbye, Robb."
A look of alarm crossed Robb's face. "Goodbye? You can't just—Jon, come on, you know I've always seen you as a brother—"
"Then act like it," Jon said, voice raw. "When was the last time we spoke? Really spoke? When was the last time you stood up for me in front of your mother? You didn't, even today, when she accused me of turning you from your lessons. You just let it happen."
Robb opened his mouth, but no immediate answer came. He glanced aside, guilt flickering in his gaze. "I…didn't know—"
"Doesn't matter," Jon murmured. "I'm tired of it all. Of being scorned, or pitied, or ignored. I have my own path now."
He took a step back, meaning to pass them. Theon, drunk and offended by Jon's dismissal, lunged forward, grabbing at Jon's arm. "Don't you ignore me," he snarled, breath hot with ale. "You owe me an apology."
Jon twisted free, ignoring the sudden rush of anger he felt at Theon's insults. Theon moved as if to swing at him, but Jon simply sidestepped the blow, letting Theon stumble and nearly fall. Robb caught Theon's arm, pulling him upright.
Robb's voice cracked with urgency. "Enough, Theon. Stop."
Theon spat at the ground, face twisting in rage and humiliation. "Go on, then, bastard," he said to Jon. "Run away to your mother's grave, or wherever you think you'll find a family. You won't find it."
Jon stared at him a moment, letting the words roll off. He knew Theon was lashing out from his own insecurities—he was a hostage of Winterfell, after all, a Greyjoy forced to live under a Stark roof. Even so, it hurt. Jon turned his gaze to Robb. "Goodbye," he said simply.
Robb opened his mouth, but no words emerged. With a sigh, Jon walked on, leaving them both behind. He strode past the gate, into the crisp air beyond the castle walls. A carriage driver waited a short distance away. Jon had quietly arranged this departure, spending much of his meager savings to ensure he could make it to White Harbor. He nodded to the driver, who helped him toss his bag onto the small carriage.
Before he climbed in, Jon turned around for one last look at Winterfell. The grey walls and towers stood as they had for centuries, the old keep and the Great Hall rising against the North's sky. Smoke curled from the chimneys. The seat of House Stark, where he had grown up feeling half a ghost, half a shadow. Where the father he loved remained a distant figure, and the mother he could not claim hated him. Where siblings had become near-strangers. Where only Arya saw him as a true brother.
He felt a pang of sorrow. Then he recalled Anakin's parting words, how the Force whispered that his destiny lay elsewhere. Squaring his shoulders, he stepped into the carriage and closed the door behind him. The driver gave a light crack of the whip, and the horses set off down the road. The wheels rattled over the uneven ground, carrying Jon Snow away from Winterfell, toward White Harbor, Valyria, and whatever lay beyond.
He did not look back again. But in his mind's eye, he saw the towers of the ancient castle receding, and with it, the life he had known. He was a Jedi Knight now, a wanderer, a bastard, a son of the Force and perhaps of House Targaryen's hidden lineage. He would find the truths he sought, or he would die in the attempt.
The carriage rolled on, leaving the North behind, as Jon Snow embraced a new horizon.