(Jon Snow leaves Winterfell for the Wall, believing himself a bastard, unaware of his destiny.)
Farewell to the Pack
Jon Snow says his goodbyes to the Starks, feeling out of place, particularly after receiving a cold farewell from Catelyn Stark. He rides for the Wall with Benjen Stark and Tyrion Lannister.
---
Snow crunched beneath Jon's boots as he led his horse to the courtyard. Winterfell loomed tall behind him, its ancient grey stones half-buried in frost, the towers sharp against the pale morning sky. The castle had always been his home, yet it had never truly belonged to him. That truth settled deep in his chest, heavier than the sword on his hip.
Ghost trotted beside him, white fur blending with the snow, silent as the grave. The direwolf's red eyes flickered to Jon, sensing his unease.
"I know," Jon muttered. "I feel it too."
Robb stood by the stables, his breath misting in the cold air. He looked solemn but not sorrowful—Robb had always belonged here. He was the heir, the Young Wolf. Jon was only the stray.
"I wish you weren't going," Robb said at last.
Jon forced a smirk. "I'll write. Not that there's much to say from the Wall. Just ice, snow, and a thousand old men grumbling about their knees."
"You'll be one of those old men soon," Robb quipped. "Might even grow a proper beard."
Jon chuckled, but the warmth didn't last. The words were meant to be light, but they held weight. The Wall was forever.
Bran and Rickon approached next. Bran's lip trembled, but he set his shoulders like a knight. "Will you be Lord Commander one day?"
Jon ruffled his little brother's hair. "Maybe. If I don't freeze first."
Rickon clung to his leg. "You don't have to go."
Jon knelt, gripping Rickon's small shoulders. "I do."
Arya ran to him last, eyes wet but defiant. "I wanted to come with you."
Jon smiled. "The Wall's no place for a lady."
"I'm not a lady," Arya snapped.
Jon grinned and pulled her into a hug. "I know. Keep Needle close."
Then came Sansa, a step behind. She hesitated before murmuring, "Goodbye, Jon."
That left only Lady Stark. Catelyn stood by the steps, arms folded. She had not approached. She would not. The message was clear.
He turned to her regardless. "Lady Stark."
Her gaze was winter itself. "Goodbye, Jon Snow."
No warmth, no farewell, just a reminder. He was not her son. He never had been.
Benjen rode up, dark and quiet as always. "It's time."
Jon mounted his horse, gripping the reins tightly. He took one last look at Winterfell, at his family, then turned away.
Ghost padded alongside as the gates opened.
The Wall was waiting.
On the journey, Jon observes the desolation of the North, speaking to Tyrion about being a bastard. Benjen warns Jon of the dangers beyond the Wall.
---
The wind howled across the Kingsroad, cutting through wool and leather like a blade of ice. Snow clung to the trees, bending their branches low, and the world around them stretched wide and empty.
Jon rode beside his uncle in silence, his cloak pulled tight, Ghost padding alongside. Benjen Stark had been a quiet companion for most of the journey, speaking only when necessary. Jon had always admired that about him—his presence carried weight without wasted words.
Tyrion Lannister, however, had no such restraint.
"Gods, what a miserable land," the dwarf muttered, shifting in his saddle. His breath fogged in the air. "I swear, the cold is seeping into my very bones. Do men actually choose to live here?"
Benjen didn't turn. "The North breeds hard men, my lord. You get used to it."
Tyrion snorted. "That sounds like a terrible fate." He glanced at Jon. "Tell me, boy, does the Wall offer blankets thick enough to keep one from freezing to death?"
Jon wasn't in the mood for jest. "You could always turn back, my lord."
Tyrion grinned. "And miss the opportunity to see the Wall in all its freezing, desolate glory? Never. I intend to stand atop it, gaze into the abyss beyond, and shiver like a fool."
Jon gave him a look. "You sound like you've never seen snow before."
"Oh, I have, but the South knows nothing of true winters. We hear tales of white skies and frozen seas, but we sit snug in our halls and drink spiced wine. The cold is just a story."
Jon frowned. "Winter isn't a story."
Tyrion studied him for a moment. "No, I suppose it isn't. Not for you."
Silence stretched between them after that. Tyrion wasn't wrong. The South had no idea what waited beyond the Wall. Hell, Jon barely knew himself.
Benjen finally spoke. "The Wall is more than cold winds and old stones, Jon. There are things beyond it—things older than the First Men, older than the Wall itself."
Jon sat straighter. "You mean the Wildlings?"
Benjen shook his head. "Worse."
Jon had grown up on Old Nan's tales—of giants, of the Others, of dead things that walked. He had long since dismissed them as stories. But something in his uncle's voice sent a chill through him deeper than the wind.
Benjen nudged his horse forward, ending the conversation.
Tyrion, rubbing his hands together, chuckled to himself. "Oh, I do hope the dead don't mind a Lannister visiting their doorstep."
Jon wasn't sure why, but for the first time since leaving Winterfell, he felt uneasy.
Jon arrives at Castle Black and quickly realizes that the Night's Watch is not the noble order he imagined. He clashes with Ser Alliser Thorne and the recruits.
---
Castle Black was smaller than Jon had imagined.
The Wall itself was a monstrous thing of ice and shadow, stretching impossibly high into the grey sky, but the castle at its base was little more than a scattering of blackened stone keeps, wooden barracks, and a yard of frozen mud. Smoke curled weakly from chimneys, struggling against the cold wind.
Jon dismounted, boots sinking into the frost-bitten earth. He had dreamed of this place, of a brotherhood clad in black, noble and strong, standing guard against the evils of the world. The reality was far different.
Men slouched against the barracks, their cloaks tattered, their faces lined with weariness and something darker—defeat. Some looked barely older than him. Others looked as if they had crawled out of the grave.
"Welcome to your new home," Benjen said.
Jon swallowed the lump in his throat.
Ghost padded beside him as he followed his uncle through the yard. The direwolf's red eyes flickered across the men around them. A few of the recruits eyed Ghost warily, shifting away as he passed. One of them—a broad-shouldered brute with yellow teeth—spat into the snow.
Benjen led Jon into the armory, where a dozen recruits were already gathered. Some had the hardened look of criminals, others the soft, uncertain faces of boys taken from their homes too soon.
Ser Alliser Thorne stood before them, his black cloak heavy on his shoulders, his face carved from stone. "Listen well, you little shits," he growled, pacing before them. "I don't care where you came from. Here, you are all the same—worthless. Your past means nothing. Your titles, your fathers, your crimes—none of it matters."
Jon bristled at the words.
Thorne's sharp eyes found him. "And you," he sneered. "You're the Stark bastard, aren't you? Thought you'd come here and be a hero? Learn to swing a sword and save the realm?"
Jon squared his shoulders. "I know how to swing a sword."
Thorne smirked. "Do you now? Let's see it, then."
He gestured to the practice swords. Jon stepped forward, picking one up. It was heavier than his own, but he adjusted quickly.
"Rast, step up," Thorne called.
A sallow-faced recruit sneered as he grabbed a wooden blade. He moved with confidence, arrogance.
Jon did not wait for the signal.
He moved fast, slamming the flat of his sword against Rast's side. The recruit barely raised his guard before Jon knocked his weapon away, spinning behind him and sweeping his legs out from under him. Rast hit the ground hard, cursing.
The yard fell silent.
Jon stepped back, chest heaving, waiting for Thorne's response.
The master-at-arms only sneered. "Oh, look at the mighty Stark bastard. Thinks he's better than the rest of you."
Jon opened his mouth to argue, but Thorne cut him off. "You have a quick hand, boy, but you're no knight. You're no lord. You're nothing. And if you think your precious father's name will save you here, you're a bigger fool than I thought."
Jon gritted his teeth, fingers tightening around the hilt.
Thorne smiled coldly. "Back in line, bastard."
Jon's blood burned, but he said nothing. He stepped back, gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white.
The Night's Watch was not what he had imagined.