Chapter Text
The wind howled like a wounded beast, its icy breath seeping through the cracks of Winterfell. Inside, the Great Hall offered a semblance of warmth, a roaring fire casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. Jon pulled his cloak tighter, the rough wool offering scant respite from the cold that seemed to seep into his bones. He was a Stark in everything but blood, a bastard son in a world that valued lineage above all else.
Catelyn Stark, Lady of Winterfell, sat at the high table, her gaze fixed on a point beyond the hearth. Her beauty was as sharp as the winter’s edge, but her eyes held a coldness that matched the icy winds outside. Jon had learned early on to avoid her gaze. Her disapproval was a constant presence, a weight that hung heavy upon him.
Ned Stark, his lord father, sat beside her, his face etched with lines of care. He was a just man, a good man, but even his love could not shield Jon from the icy contempt in Catelyn’s eyes.
The rest of the family was there: Robb, the heir, his eyes filled with the promise of a warrior; Sansa, a delicate flower with dreams of a prince; Arya, a tomboy with a spirit as wild as the northern moors; Bran, a dreamer with eyes that held the ancient wisdom of the old gods; and Rickon, the youngest, a bundle of boundless energy. They were his siblings, his family, yet he felt a constant outsider.
Jon found a place at the end of the table, his eyes drawn to the empty seat beside him. It was there that Ghost, his direwolf, would sit if he were here. The creature, a shadow of grey fur and ice, was as much a part of him as his own hand.
A feast was spread before them, the air thick with the scent of roasted meat and ale. But Jon's appetite was gone. He was too caught up in the news that had reached Winterfell that morning. The King was coming. Robert Baratheon, the great warrior-king, was on his way to Winterfell. With him came his queen, Cersei Lannister, and their brood of golden-haired children.
The thought filled Jon with a sense of dread. The Starks were known for their hospitality, but even so, the prospect of sharing their home with the royal court was daunting. He imagined the sneers and insults he would endure from the Lannisters. Bastards were a low caste in their world.
A sudden movement caught his eye. Arya was staring at him, her face a mask of mischief. She winked, then slid from her chair and slipped beneath the table. A moment later, she emerged with a piece of bread, which she tossed to Ghost. The direwolf caught it deftly, his red eyes fixed on Arya with a silent gratitude. Jon smiled. Only Arya would dare to defy the unspoken rules of the hall.
"You're feeding my wolf, are you?" Jon whispered.
Arya grinned. "He's my friend too," she replied.
Jon ruffled her hair. "You're a wild one, little sister."
Arya stuck out her tongue. "You're just a bastard," she retorted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Jon laughed softly. Despite her teasing, he knew she cared. She was the only one who truly accepted him without question.
A shadow fell over him. Robb was standing beside him, his face etched with a mixture of concern and admiration. "You're quiet today, Jon," Robb said.
"Just thinking," Jon replied.
"About the King's visit?" Robb asked.
Jon nodded. "It's going to be a long winter."
Robb placed a hand on his shoulder. "We'll get through it together," he said.
Jon appreciated the gesture. Robb was a good brother, a true friend. But the weight of his decision loomed over him. The Wall called to him, a siren song of duty and honor. Yet, the thought of leaving his family filled him with a sense of loss he had never known.
Theon Greyjoy, the ward of Winterfell, approached the table. His gaze flickered over Jon, a mixture of arrogance and contempt in his eyes. "The King is coming," Theon said, his voice dripping with condescension. "I wonder if he'll bring any gold."
Jon ignored him, turning his attention to his food. He had no desire to engage with Theon. The boy was a spoiled brat, more interested in his own amusement than the welfare of the realm.
After the meal, Jon sought solitude in the Godswood. The old gods' heart tree stood at the center of the grove, its gnarled branches reaching towards the sky like skeletal hands. He sat at the base of the tree, his gaze fixed on the endless expanse of snow-covered forest. The silence was broken only by the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots and the distant howl of a wolf.
He thought about his life, his choices. The Wall was a daunting prospect, a life of hardship and sacrifice. But it was also a path to honor, a chance to protect the realm. And yet, a part of him longed to stay at Winterfell, to be with his family.
He pulled his cloak tighter around him, the cold seeping into his bones. A decision had to be made, and soon.
As dusk fell, Jon returned to the castle. He found Ned Stark in the solar, poring over a stack of parchment.
"Lord Stark," Jon said, his voice low.
Ned looked up, a hint of weariness in his eyes. "Jon," he said, "come in."
Jon hesitated, then entered the room.
"You seem troubled," Ned said.
Jon nodded. "The King's visit," he began, his voice barely a whisper.
Ned sighed. "It will be a test," he said. "For all of us."
Jon met his father's gaze. "I know," he replied.
A long silence fell between them. Then, Ned spoke. "You are growing into a strong young man, Jon," he said. "I am proud of you."
Jon felt a warmth spread through him. It was rare for his father to offer such praise. "Thank you, Lord Stark," he said.
Ned nodded. "You have a difficult path ahead of you," he said. "Whatever you choose, I will support you."
Jon felt a lump form in his throat. His father's words were a comfort, a source of strength. He nodded, unable to speak.
As he left the solar, Jon felt a sense of peace, a quiet resolve. The road ahead was uncertain, but he would face it with courage and determination.