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Chapter 7 (The Road to White Harbor), Chapter 8 (The Call of the Water), Chapter 9 (Kuruk Hates Being Second), Chapter 10 (A Drop of Water), Chapter 11 (What is An Avatar), Chapter 12 (Jon Snow or Jon Sand), and Chapter 13 (The Voice That Calls From Deep) are already available for Patrons.
Yangchen kicked off her boots—figuratively, since spirits didn't wear shoes—and paced barefoot through the mists, her robes snapping like a storm banner. "Alright, Kyoshi, spill it," she barked, jabbing a finger at the towering warrior. "You had him right there—spinning air like a clumsy toddler—and you didn't drop the big 'Hey, kid, you're the Avatar' bomb? What's the holdup? He's bending—sort of!!"
Kyoshi, arms crossed tighter than a warship's rigging. "Oh, brilliant plan, Yangchen—let's drown the boy in cosmic nonsense and watch him flail! He's ten, not some grizzled bender ready to punch volcanoes. You want me to waltz in and say, 'Congrats, Jon Snow, you're the reincarnation of us lot, doomed to juggle four elements and save a world that doesn't even know what airbending is'? He'd bolt—or think he's gone mad!"
Aang, perched on a floating ball of air like a kid on a bouncy toy, grinned wide enough to light the void. "Aw, come on, Kyoshi—he'd be fine! I was twelve when I got the Avatar news, and sure, I freaked out a little—okay, a lot—but I turned out great!" He spun his airball, nearly toppling off. "He's got that serious face—perfect for big revelations!"
Kyoshi's glare could've melted steel. "You ran away, Aang—froze yourself in an iceberg for a century! Real inspiring. Jon's got no iceberg to hide in—just a castle full of swords and a stepmother who'd sooner skin him than hug him. Overwhelm him now, and he'll shut down faster than a turtle-duck in a thunderstorm."
Roku stroked his beard with all the calm of a sage watching a bar fight. "Kyoshi's got a point," he said. "He's young—too young to carry it all. This isn't our world—no temples, no sages, no flying bison to whisk him off for training. Dump the Avatar scroll on him, and he might reject it outright. Wisdom lies in pacing—let him taste the elements first, sip by sip."
"Pacing? Sip by sip? Roku, he's not sampling tea—he's the damn Avatar! He's got air tickling his fingers—barely—and we're sitting here like nannies debating bedtime stories! What's next—wait till he's got a beard to match yours before we tell him he's got a world to balance?" Yangchen said, looking slightly annoyed.
Kuruk, sprawled on a spectral rock like a bear napping after a hunt, yawned loudly. "Eh, beard or no beard, kid's got guts—I'll give him that. Took to that air stance like a drunk seal, but he didn't quit. Tell him what you want—I'm just here to see if he can punch a spirit in the face someday." He smirked, cracking his knuckles. "Bet he'd be fun at a tavern brawl."
Kyoshi rolled her eyes. "He's not punching anything if we break him, Kuruk. Imagine it—'Hey, Jon, you're a legend reborn, master of stuff no one here's heard of, in a land where magic's a campfire tale.' He's a boy—lives in a drafty castle with a fake dad and a real witch for a stepmom. Hit him with everything, and he'll either hide under his bed or decide he's cursed. I say we drip it out—air now, fire later, the big Avatar speech when he's, what, twelve? Thirteen? Old enough to not cry himself to sleep over it."
Aang tilted his head, bouncing his airball. "Cry? Nah, he's tougher than that! But... maybe you're right. I mean, I had Gyatso to soften the blow—Jon's got, uh, very old Maester, a little sister, and his brother. Little steps might work."
Yangchen sighed, rubbing her temples. "Fine—little steps. But he's got to move, Kyoshi. He's bending in a void—no masters, no nothing. We can't coddle him forever."
Roku nodded, his staff tapping the mist. "Nor will we. Air's his spark—let it grow. When he's ready, the truth will find him."
Kyoshi snapped her fan shut, smirking faintly. "Good. 'Cause if you lot bury him in destiny too soon, I'm not fishing him out of the snow when he bolts."
.
.
The spirit world rippled and reformed, this time taking the shape of a Fire Nation garden with volcanic mountains visible in the distance. Steam rose from hot springs dotting the landscape, and spectral fire lilies bloomed wherever the Avatars' feet touched the ground.
Roku stood at the center of their gathering, his hands clasped behind his back in a formal stance that betrayed his noble upbringing. "I've completed Jon's first firebending lesson," he announced.
"And?" Aang leaned forward eagerly. "How did he do?"
A small smile crept across Roku's dignified features. "The boy is smarter than he looks. His control is impressive for a novice—he created and maintained a flame in just one session."
"Really?" Aang's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "It took me multiple attempts, and even then..."
"Yes, well," Roku's smile turned slightly mischievous, "unlike some, he didn't immediately set everything around him ablaze. You remember how you burned Katara because you got too excited when you first firebended."
Aang looked down, his normally cheerful expression clouding with shame. "I never forgave myself for that."
"It's fine, Aang," Yangchen said gently, placing a spectral hand on his shoulder. "You learned from it. As will Jon."
"Jon was cautious," Roku continued. "Respectful of fire's power. He asked intelligent questions about control rather than offensive applications."
"That speaks well of his character," Yangchen observed. "Many novices are seduced by fire's destructive potential."
Kuruk flicked his wrist, creating a small wave of spirit water that playfully doused a nearby fire lily. "So the boy has talent. Not surprising considering who his grandfather was."
"Which grandfather?" Kyoshi asked dryly. "The one who was burned alive or the one who did the burning?"
"Kyoshi!" Aang looked scandalized.
"What? It's historical fact. This boy's lineage flows from both victim and aggressor."
Roku cleared his throat. "If we could return to the matter at hand. Jon's aptitude for firebending, while impressive, remains rudimentary. I've taught him breathing techniques and basic control exercises. He can create flame but not yet direct it with precision."
"Still, it's remarkable progress for someone with no proper instruction," Kyoshi noted. "Especially considering he lives in a world without benders."
The other Avatars exchanged surprised glances. Kyoshi rarely defended anyone, preferring harsh truth to gentle encouragement.
"Why, Kyoshi," Kuruk said with a crooked smile, "if I didn't know better, I'd think you were growing fond of the boy."
Kyoshi's painted face remained impassive. "I simply recognize potential when I see it. Jon Snow faces challenges none of us experienced—no scrolls to study, no masters to guide him, no precedent for what he is becoming. Yet he embraces these strange abilities rather than fearing them."
"I agree," Aang said, his natural optimism reasserting itself. "And he has us. We can guide him through the spiritual aspects, even if he lacks physical teachers."
"You always were an idealist, Aang," Kuruk chuckled. "But in this case, you might be right. Speaking of guidance, I believe my turn is approaching."
"What do you mean?" Yangchen asked.
Kuruk materialized a spectral fish, allowing it to swim through the air around them. "I observed the feast before the Manderlys departed. The fat lord—what was his name? Wyman?—served dishes I recognized. Sea bass with ginger. Crab stew. Oysters on the half-shell. These are coastal foods, preparations unique to seafaring peoples."
"So?" Aang prompted.
"So," Kuruk continued with an air of exaggerated patience, "this White Harbor must be a port city. Lord Stark is taking his family there for some celebration. Once they arrive, it would be the perfect opportunity for me to introduce Jon to waterbending. The proximity to the ocean will make the element more accessible to him."
"If he can connect with water at all," Kyoshi pointed out. "Fire has manifested first for him, not air as I expected. We cannot assume he will follow any pattern we recognize."
"True enough," Kuruk acknowledged with a shrug. "But I sense he has an affinity for water as well. There's something in his spirit—a duality. Fire and ice."
"You may be right," Yangchen said thoughtfully. "I've sensed it too—a connection to both elements that seems almost... inherited."
An uncomfortable silence fell at her words. They all knew the truth of Jon's parentage—fire from his Targaryen father, ice from his Stark mother.
"And what about the truth of who he is?" Aang asked. "Not just as the Avatar, but as Rhaegar and Lyanna's son? When does he learn that?"
"That's not our secret to tell," Roku said firmly. "Lord Stark made his choice for valid reasons. The boy would be in danger if his true parentage were known."
"So more secrets, more lies," Aang sighed. "It doesn't sit right with me."
"Not all truths are ours to reveal," Yangchen reminded him gently. "Some burdens must be carried by others. Our responsibility is to prepare Jon for his role as the Avatar. The rest will unfold as it must."
"I suppose you're right," Aang conceded. "Still, I hope he learns the truth someday. About everything."
"He will," Kyoshi said with unusual certainty. "I've seen it in his eyes. Jon Snow is a seeker of truth, even when that truth is painful. It's one of his strengths."
"And he'll need all his strengths in the days to come," Kuruk added, his normally carefree expression turning serious. "I've seen enough of this world to know its dangers aren't limited to what lies beyond their Wall."
The Avatars nodded in agreement.
"I wonder," Aang mused as they dispersed, "what kind of Avatar Jon Snow will become."
None had an answer, but all felt the weight of the question.
.
.
Two weeks after the Manderlys' departure, Jon knelt in his secret practice room within the First Keep, a single candle burning beside him. His eyes were closed, his breathing measured as Roku had taught him. In his outstretched palm, a small flame flickered—no larger than the candle's, but steady.
Control was the most difficult aspect. Creating fire had become easier with practice, but maintaining it at a consistent size required concentration Jon hadn't known he possessed. Too much energy and the flame would surge, threatening to grow beyond his command. Too little and it would sputter out.
"Breathe," he whispered to himself, recalling Roku's instruction. "Fire comes from the breath, not the muscles."
He inhaled deeply, feeling the flame strengthen with his breath. As he exhaled, he pictured the energy flowing out through his hand, feeding the flame but not overwhelming it.
For nearly a minute, the fire remained perfectly stable—an achievement that would have seemed impossible just days ago. Then, as his concentration briefly wavered, the flame surged upward, nearly reaching the ceiling before Jon clenched his fist, extinguishing it in panic.
"Seven hells," he muttered, heart pounding. That had been close—too close. If the flame had caught the wooden beams overhead...
Jon rose to his feet, wiping sweat from his brow. Progress was coming, but slower than he'd hoped. Roku had made it look so simple, creating and shaping fire as easily as breathing. For Jon, each small advancement required hours of practice and left him exhausted.
From his pocket, he withdrew the silver merman pendant Wylla had given him. The metal was warm from being close to his body, the trident design catching the candlelight.
Three months until White Harbor. Three months to gain enough control that he wouldn't accidentally set Lord Manderly's castle ablaze.
Jon tucked the pendant away and assumed the stance Kyoshi had shown him weeks ago—feet planted, arms extended in circular motions. Though fire came more naturally to him, he hadn't abandoned his attempts at airbending. Something told him he would need both elements eventually.
He moved through the forms, feeling slightly foolish as no air responded to his commands. The sharp contrast between his progress with fire and his failure with air was frustrating. What was he missing?
With a sigh, Jon extinguished the candle and prepared to return to his bed. Dawn would come early, and with it, training in the yard with Robb and Theon under Ser Rodrik's watchful eye. Whatever strange abilities he was developing, he couldn't neglect his martial training. In this world, a sword was still more practical than flame.
As he slipped through the shadowed corridors of Winterfell, Jon wondered what Wylla would say if she knew what he could do. Would she be frightened? Fascinated? The thought brought a small smile to his face. Somehow, he suspected she would take it in stride, perhaps even demand he teach her.
That night, Jon dreamed of White Harbor—a city he'd never seen, with tall white walls and ships with billowing sails. In the dream, he stood atop a tower, looking out over waters that stretched to the horizon. Beside him stood a tall, broad-shouldered man, his hands guiding Jon's as they pulled the tides toward them.
"Water is the element of change," the man said, his voice familiar though Jon had never heard it before. "It adapts, flows around obstacles rather than challenging them directly."
Jon woke with the taste of salt on his lips and the strange certainty that his journey was just beginning.
.
.
A month after the Manderlys' visit, the training yard echoed with the clash of wooden swords. Jon circled Robb cautiously, both boys breathing hard after nearly an hour of sparring under Ser Rodrik's supervision.
"Good footwork, Snow," the master-at-arms called out. "Keep your balance like that."
Jon didn't reply, focusing instead on reading Robb's next move. His brother favored his right side slightly, a tell Jon had learned to recognize. Sure enough, Robb lunged with an overhead strike that Jon sidestepped easily, using the momentum to tap Robb lightly on the ribs with his practice sword.
"Hit!" Ser Rodrik declared. "Well done, lad."
Robb grinned, not bothered by the defeat. "You're getting faster, Jon. I can barely touch you anymore."
Jon returned the smile, though inwardly he knew his improvement had little to do with conventional training. The awareness he'd developed through firebending practice had sharpened his reflexes, made him more conscious of his body's movement through space.
"One more bout," Ser Rodrik instructed. "Then archery practice for the both of you."
They resumed their positions, wooden swords at the ready. From the side of the yard, Jon noticed Theon watching with his usual smirk, though there was a calculatory gleam in the Ironborn's eyes that hadn't been there before.
"Something amusing, Greyjoy?" Jon called out, uncharacteristically bold.
Theon's eyebrows rose in surprise at being directly addressed. "Just wondering when the bastard learned to dance," he replied. "You're prancing around like a girl."
"Yet I'm winning," Jon countered, earning a surprised laugh from Robb.
"He's got you there, Theon," Robb said, twirling his practice sword. "Care to demonstrate your superior technique?"
Theon's smirk faltered. "Against the bastard? Hardly worth my time."
"Afraid he'll beat you too?" Robb pressed, his tone light but challenging.
A flush crept up Theon's neck. "Fine," he snapped, striding forward and snatching the practice sword from Robb's hand. "Let's see how good you really are, Snow."
Ser Rodrik frowned but nodded his permission. "Mind your tempers, both of you. This is practice, not a tavern brawl."
Jon inclined his head in acknowledgment, then settled into his stance. Theon was three years older, taller and stronger, but Jon had been watching him train for years. He knew Theon relied on aggressive, powerful strikes—a strategy that worked well against less experienced opponents but left openings for someone patient enough to wait for them.
Theon attacked immediately, as Jon had expected, swinging his wooden sword in a horizontal arc aimed at Jon's head. Jon ducked under the swing, stepping to the side rather than backward.
"Stand still, damn you," Theon muttered as Jon evaded another powerful strike.
Jon didn't respond, conserving his breath as he continued to circle and dodge. He could feel his awareness expanding, time seeming to slow as it did during his bending practice. Theon's movements became predictable.
When the opening came, Jon took it without hesitation. Theon overextended on a thrust, and Jon pivoted around the strike, tapping Theon's sword arm with enough force to sting but not bruise.
"Hit," Ser Rodrik called. "Match to Jon."
Theon's face darkened with humiliation. "Lucky strike," he muttered, tossing the practice sword aside.
"That wasn't luck," Robb said, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "That was skill. You've been practicing in secret, haven't you?"
"Just applying what Ser Rodrik teaches us."
The master-at-arms nodded approvingly. "Whatever you're doing, keep at it. I haven't seen footwork that clean from someone your age in years."
As they moved to the archery range, Robb fell in step beside Jon, lowering his voice so only Jon could hear. "Seriously, what's changed? You move differently lately."
Jon hesitated, tempted for a moment to confide in Robb. They had always been close, sharing secrets and adventures throughout their childhood. But how could he explain abilities he barely understood himself?
"I've been practicing some... breathing exercises," Jon said finally, which wasn't entirely untrue. "For focus and balance."
Robb seemed to accept this explanation. "Well, they're working. You should show me sometime."
"Maybe," Jon replied noncommittally. "Are you excited about White Harbor?"
The change of subject worked as Jon had hoped. Robb launched into enthusiastic speculation about the upcoming journey, particularly the tourney.
"Father says I can compete in the squires' melee if Ser Rodrik thinks I'm ready," Robb said. "You should enter too. After what I just saw, you'd have a good chance."
Jon smiled slightly at Robb's automatic inclusion of him. "I doubt Lady Stark would approve."
"Father makes those decisions, not Mother," Robb said firmly. "And anyway, Lord Manderly specifically invited you. I heard him at the feast."
Jon nodded, recalling the moment with a mix of pride and discomfort. It had been strange to sit at the high table, stranger still to be directly addressed by a lord of Lord Manderly's stature.
"We'll see," he said, a phrase he'd adopted whenever the subject of his participation in noble activities arose.
.
.
Two months after the Manderlys' departure, Jon sat cross-legged before the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood, his eyes closed in meditation. The ancient weirwood's carved face seemed to watch him with its knowing red eyes, silent witness to his solitary practice.
Jon had discovered that the godswood enhanced his connection to his abilities. Here, among the most ancient living things in Winterfell, the elements felt closer somehow.
He had been attempting to airbend again, following Kyoshi's instructions but incorporating some of Roku's breathing techniques. So far, the results had been minimal—the occasional rustling of leaves that might have been coincidence or the barest stirring of air around his hands.
Today, however, something felt different. The air seemed more responsive, almost alive against his skin as he moved through the circular motions Kyoshi had demonstrated.
"Feel the air as an extension of yourself," he murmured, recalling her words. "It is always there, always moving, even when we cannot see it."
Jon extended his hand, palm outward, and pushed—not physically, but with his energy, his will. To his astonishment, a gentle breeze stirred the fallen leaves before him, too directed to be natural.
"I did it," he whispered, eyes widening in surprise and delight.
He tried again, focusing his intent more precisely. This time, the breeze was stronger, definitely created by his motion rather than random chance. It wasn't the powerful gust Kyoshi had produced, but it was undeniably airbending.
"What are you doing?"
Jon startled at the voice, whirling around to find Arya watching him curiously from behind a nearby tree. How long had she been there? Had she seen the air respond to his command?
"Just... meditating," Jon replied, trying to sound casual. "Before the heart tree."
Arya stepped into the clearing, her head tilted skeptically. "You weren't praying. You were moving your arms around and talking to yourself."
Jon forced a laugh. "Maybe I was practicing sword forms. Ser Rodrik says visualization is important."
"Without a sword?" Arya didn't sound convinced, but her attention shifted quickly, as it often did. "Never mind. I've been looking everywhere for you. Did you know we leave for White Harbor in less than a month?"
"I did know that, yes," Jon replied, relieved by the change of subject.
"Do you think Wylla will remember me?" Arya asked, sitting beside him on the moss-covered ground. "She said she'd teach me more archery tricks when we visit."
"I'm sure she will," Jon assured her, smiling at his sister's enthusiasm. "Wylla doesn't seem the type to forget a promise."
"I liked her," Arya declared. "She's not like other ladies. She doesn't care about stupid things like embroidery or dancing." She plucked at the moss thoughtfully. "Do you think I could dye my hair green too?"
The image of Arya with bright green hair was so absurd that Jon laughed out loud. "I think Lady Stark might actually lock you in a tower if you tried."
"Probably," Arya agreed with a sigh. "But it would be worth it to see her face." She nudged Jon with her elbow. "Will you watch me practice archery before we leave? I want to impress Wylla when we get there."
"Of course," Jon promised, ruffling her hair affectionately. "Though you're already good enough to impress anyone."
Arya beamed at the compliment, then grew more serious. "Jon? Are you going to compete in the tourney?"
The question caught him off guard. "I... don't know. It might not be appropriate for me to participate."
"That's stupid," Arya said bluntly. "You're better than Robb with a sword, and Father lets him compete."
"It's different for me," Jon tried to explain. "I'm not—"
"If you say you're not a Stark, I'll kick you," Arya threatened. "You're my brother. That's what matters."
Jon felt a lump form in his throat. Arya's unconditional acceptance had always been a balm to the wounds inflicted by his bastard status. "Thank you, little sister," he said softly.
Arya punched his arm lightly. "So you'll compete? Promise?"
"I'll try," Jon said, which was the most he could honestly offer. "If Lord Stark permits it."
"Good." Arya stood, apparently satisfied with this response. "I'm going to ask if Bran can come watch us practice archery too. He needs to learn properly before we leave."
.
.
Two and a half months after the Manderlys' visit, Jon found himself unexpectedly summoned to Lord Stark's solar. Such invitations were rare; though his father treated him with affection, formal meetings in the lord's private chambers were usually reserved for Robb, the heir to Winterfell.
Jon knocked tentatively on the heavy wooden door.
"Enter," came Lord Stark's deep voice from within.
Jon stepped inside, finding his father seated behind his desk, several scrolls and ledgers spread before him.
"You asked to see me, Father?" Jon said, standing straight as he'd been taught.
Lord Stark looked up, his grey eyes regarding him thoughtfully. "Sit, Jon," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "I wanted to speak with you about the journey to White Harbor."
Jon sat, wondering if this was the moment he would be told he couldn't attend after all. Lady Stark had been making her displeasure known about his inclusion, though quietly enough that Jon only heard rumors from the servants.
"The preparations are nearly complete," Lord Stark continued. "We leave in two weeks' time."
"Yes, my lord," Jon replied, still uncertain why this required a private conversation.
Lord Stark set aside the scroll he'd been reading, giving Jon his full attention. "I've noticed changes in you these past months, Jon. Ser Rodrik speaks highly of your progress in the training yard."
Jon tried not to show his surprise at this unexpected topic. "Thank you, Father. I've been practicing."
"So I've heard. Robb says you move like a shadowcat now—his words, not mine." There was a hint of a smile in Lord Stark's normally solemn expression. "And you seem... more confident, somehow."
Jon felt a flicker of alarm. Had his secret practice been noticed? "I'm trying to be worthy of the name you've given me," he said carefully.
Lord Stark's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "You always have been, Jon," he said quietly.
A moment of silence passed between them. Jon had long ago learned not to ask about his mother, but the question always came to him.
"About the tourney at White Harbor," Lord Stark said finally. "Lord Manderly has specifically included you in his invitation. It would be discourteous to refuse."
Jon nodded, waiting for the inevitable qualification, the reminder of his place.
"You've earned the right to participate, should you wish to," Lord Stark continued, surprising Jon. "In the squires' melee or the archery contest. Not the joust—you're not trained for that."
Jon stared at his father, momentarily speechless. "You... you would allow me to compete? As a Stark?"
"As yourself," Lord Stark corrected gently. "Jon Snow, my son. Lord Manderly seemed quite impressed with you. As was his granddaughter, I understand."
Jon felt his cheeks warm slightly. "Lady Wylla was kind to me."
"She reminds me of someone I knew long ago," Lord Stark said, he looked deep in thoughts for a moment. "Strong-willed, unafraid to speak her mind." He refocused on Jon. "It's good that you've made a friend in House Manderly. They are loyal bannermen, and Lord Wyman is sharper than his jovial appearance suggests."
"I'll remember that, Father," Jon said, still processing the unexpected permission to compete.
"Good, you can leave now, Jon." His father told him with a rare smile as Jon stood up and left the solar.
.
.
The final days before their departure flew by in a flurry of preparations. Trunks were packed, horses were shod, and the household was organized for Lord Stark's absence. Winterfell would remain under the stewardship of Vayon Poole, Maester Luwin and Uncle Benjen who would arrive tomorrow and stay until House Stark returned and then some.
On the eve of their journey, Jon returned to his room after a final training session with Robb and Ser Rodrik to find a package wrapped in plain brown cloth laid upon his bed. There was no note, no indication of who had left it.
Cautiously, Jon unwrapped the parcel to reveal a finely crafted leather doublet in dark grey, almost black, with subtle detailing that caught the light when he turned it. It wasn't ostentatious or richly decorated like the clothing lords wore, but it was far finer than anything Jon owned—appropriate for a lord's son attending a tourney, without drawing undue attention.
Jon ran his fingers over the material, wondering who had left such a gift. Not Lady Stark, certainly. Lord Stark, perhaps? Or Robb? The mystery benefactor remained unnamed, but Jon was grateful nonetheless. He would not shame his family by appearing poorly dressed in White Harbor.
As he carefully folded the doublet to pack with his other belongings, Jon caught sight of the silver merman pendant on his bedside table. He picked it up, the metal cool against his palm, and decided to wear it.
Jon slipped the chain over his head, tucking the pendant beneath his shirt. As the metal warmed against his skin, he felt a strange certainty that his life was about to change in ways he couldn't yet imagine.
The morning of their departure dawned clear and cold, a light frost coating the stones of Winterfell despite the advancing spring. The courtyard bustled with activity as the Stark household prepared to ride south.
Jon secured his meager belongings to his horse, a young grey gelding he'd helped train himself. Around him, the rest of the family made their final preparations—Robb checking his sword belt for the dozenth time, Sansa fussing over which cloak to wear for the journey, Arya darting about with excitement, Bran trying to convince Lord Stark to let him ride his own pony instead of sharing with Jory, and little Rickon looked confused, not understanding what was happening.
Lady Stark supervised it all, looking more like a battlefield commander than a Lady, issuing last-minute instructions to the servants remaining behind. Her gaze passed over Jon without stopping, a familiar coldness that he had long since learned to accept.
Lord Stark emerged from the Great Keep, his riding leathers worn beneath a heavy cloak pinned with the direwolf brooch of his house. He spoke briefly with Maester Luwin, then moved among his children, checking that each was properly prepared for the journey.
When he reached Jon, he paused, his gaze taking in the new doublet Jon wore beneath his cloak. A flicker of something—approval, perhaps, or recognition—crossed his features.
"Are you ready, Jon?" he asked simply.
Jon nodded. "Yes, Father."
Lord Stark seemed about to say more when Jory Cassel approached, informing him that the baggage train was assembled and the escort ready to depart. With a final nod to Jon, Lord Stark moved to mount his horse.
The gates of Winterfell opened, revealing the King's Road stretching south toward White Harbor. As the Stark party rode out, Jon couldn't help glancing back at the castle that had been his home for all his short life. Winterfell's grey walls and towers stood solid against the morning sky, eternal and unchanging.
Jon touched the hidden pendant beneath his doublet and turned to face the road ahead. For the first time in his life, he was leaving the North's great stronghold, venturing into a wider world.
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