Jon Snow

The air in the solar of Winterfell was thick with tension as Jon Snow, the slight upon Lady Catelyn's honour, the half-brother of the Stark children, the base-born son, and the bastard of Winterfell, stood tall before his father, Ned Stark, the warden of the North, and the guardian of the secret of Jon's mother's identity.

"My answer is no," Ned said intensely, his grip tightening on the parchment that was held firmly in his hands. "Do not ask me again."

Jon's angry lilac eyes bore into his father's gaze. He shifted uneasily in his worn leather chair, which creaked with the weight of their conflict. "Why can't you tell me who she was?" he almost yelled, frustration seeping through his voice.

Ned dipped his black quill into the inkwell, his hands moving erratically as he scribbled his thoughts onto the parchment. He seemed consumed by the task, not once looking up at the young man seated across from him. "Go to your room, Jon. It is late," he ordered, his tone firm.

Jon baulked, clenching his jaws as anger surged within him. "I deserve to know!" he raised his voice, his yearning for the truth overpowering his patience. Throughout his life, he had wondered about the identity of his mother—what she was like, whether she was even alive. It felt wrong to have to dwell on such questions without answers. His deep lilac eyes, the only resemblance to his mysterious mother, were the sole response his father had ever given him. Ned had explained that he had slept with a woman from Lys, where it was common to find people with indigo eyes wandering the streets.

But Ned deemed it unfit to share more as if Jon's mother's identity was a secret too dangerous to disclose.

Jon narrowed his eyes, his bitterness at his bastard status and his father's silence replacing his initial sadness. "Why is it so terrible about my mother that you can't share her with me?" Jon finally shouted, unable to contain his frustration any longer. He sprang from his chair, the four-legged seat crashing against the wooden floor.

Ned frowned at the impact, the sound reverberating through the room. He finally looked up at Jon, a stern expression etched onto his face. "This will bring you nothing, Jon," he warned, motioning towards the fallen chair. "Pick it up and leave. You have training with Ser Rodrik tomorrow, and you need rest."

"Damn, the training!" Jon yelled, his anger spilling over.

"Watch your language," Ned reprimanded, his grey eyes clouded with a hardened resolve, a barrier erected whenever the subject of Jon's mother arose.

Jon paid no heed to the warning, his questioning continuing unabated. "I have lived here for years, waiting for the time when you would finally reveal the truth about her, but you never did!" he declared.

Ned sighed, weariness etching lines on his face as he rubbed his weary eyes. The weight of the day, the responsibilities of overseeing the castle, and the burden of his long-held secret all bore down on him.

He dropped his quill onto the desk, leaning back in his chair as he met Jon's gaze with a measured contemplation. "You wish to know about your mother?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of somberness.

Jon nodded eagerly, a glimmer of hope sparking within him as he leaned forward in anticipation, desperate to unravel the mystery that had haunted him for so long.

"As I said before, my answer is no," Ned replied, his voice firm and unwavering. He rolled the parchment, pressing the Stark sigil onto it to seal the document. "And give this to Maester Luwin in the rookery," he instructed, extending his arm to offer the parchment to Jon.

Jon recoiled as if the very touch of the paper would infect him. He stood up once again, pressing his hands against Ned's desk as he glared at his father. "Everybody deserves to know who their mother is!" Jon yelled, his voice resonating through the room. "No matter if I'm a bastard, I deserve to know who she is!"

Ned placed the parchment back on the desk, his steely gaze meeting Jon's fiery glare. "Sorry, son, but it is not meant to be," he said, his voice sufficed with regret.

"Not meant to be?!" Jon growled, swiping his hands across the desk, sending books, notes, and parchments tumbling to the floor. Pages fluttered in the air like wounded birds before softly descending, scattered across the room.

Ned bolted from his seat, his voice booming with authority. "Jon, that is enough!" His yell shocked Jon, silencing him instantly. The room fell into an eerie stillness.

Minutes stretched like an eternity as the two locked eyes, a chasm of unspoken words separating them. Finally, Jon grabbed the parchment his father had wanted him to deliver and stormed towards the door.

"Jon," Ned's low voice compelled him to turn around. Jon faced his father, meeting his gaze through tear-stained eyes. Ned stared back at him with a mix of weariness and love, his voice carrying the weight of his words. "Don't ever forget, you are a Stark."

Jon swallowed the lump in his throat, a whirlwind of emotions swirling within him. "No, I am not. I am a bastard," he said, his voice thick with sorrow. Without another word, he turned his back on Ned, slamming the door shut behind him.

...

Jon stormed through the corridors of Winterfell, his mind ablaze with anger and heartache. He couldn't shake the bitter resentment he felt towards his father, even as tears threatened to spill from his eyes. The soft, gentle snowflakes fell around him, settling on his dark hair. He caught one in his hand, gazing at it sadly, lost in his thoughts.

I do not belong here.

The fragile snowflake melted in his palm, disappearing into nothingness. Footsteps echoed in the distance, drawing Jon's attention. He quickly wiped his tears away, preparing himself to confront the intruder.

It was Theon Greyjoy, his face etched with curiosity, a cup of ale in hand. Theon's drunkenness irked Jon, his lips curling in disdain. He straightened his posture, ready to face the squid.

"What are you doing here, bastard?" Theon smirked, taking a swig of ale, droplets escaping from the rim and tracing a path down his chin.

"Nothing you should be worried about," Jon replied curtly, his voice laced with defiance.

Theon tilted his head, studying Jon intently. "You were crying, weren't you?" he taunted, laughter echoing through the snowy courtyard.

Jon's patience snapped, his frustration boiling over. He lunged forward, his fist connecting with Theon's face. Standing over him, Jon delivered a swift kick to Theon's stomach, leaving him gasping for air on the snowy ground, unconscious.

Jon scowled, tossing the parchment onto Theon's prone body. Determination surged within him as he rushed to his room, his mind set on a course of action.

He was leaving.

Little did he know that Ned had written a request to Rhaegar, seeking to legitimize Jon and grant him the Stark name.

Ned

Sunlight pierced through the room, lighting its warm rays upon the two sleeping forms in the bed. Ned Stark lay there, blissful in his slumber, his arm wrapped around his wife. He cracked open one eye, his lips curling into a gentle smile. Just as he was about to drift back into sleep, a loud fist pounded on the door, jolting him awake. Ned sighed and rose from the bed, gently disentangling himself from Catelyn's embrace. He glanced back at her sleepily before making his way to the door.

Jory Cassel froze, his fist still suspended in mid-air as Ned swung the door open. Ned's eyes met Jory's, concern etched on his face. He peered behind Jory to see Catelyn yawning and sitting up in bed. Turning his attention back to Jory, Ned asked with a hint of worry, "What is the matter?"

Jory took a deep breath, meeting Ned's searching gaze. "Jon is missing," he said, his voice tinged with urgency.

Jon

Jon stood on the ship's deck, his eyes fixed on the receding city of White Harbor. As the ship sailed farther away, the city grew smaller and smaller until it was just a faint speck on the horizon. He absentmindedly stroked the white fur of his direwolf, Ghost, who stood faithfully at his side, sensing his master's unease.

Jon turned away from the disappearing city, his gaze fixed on the vast expanse of the sea ahead. To his left, the sun was beginning its descent, casting a golden hue upon the water. To his right, the darkening sky promised a canvas of stars. Jon took a deep breath, the salty sea air filling his lungs. He felt a mix of anticipation and trepidation as if a great adventure lay before him.

Essos awaited him….

Though the bastard of Winterfell – not even once – suspected that his life would be a story of legends for thousands of generations….