The wind howled through the ancient halls of Winterfell, carrying with it the chill of the North and the whispers of a thousand winters past. Snowflakes, like delicate shards of glass, danced in the twilight air, settling gently on the thick walls of the Stark stronghold. In the courtyard below, a small figure moved with purpose, a shadow amidst the snow.

Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, was just five years old but already knew the cold better than most men twice his age. He stood alone in the snow, his breath visible in the icy air, his small hand gripping a wooden practice sword. He was slight for his age, with a mop of dark hair that fell into his grey eyes—Stark eyes, some said, but there was no mistaking the uncertainty in his gaze. He swung the sword awkwardly, frustration evident on his face as he struggled to mimic the movements of the older boys who trained in the yard.

From the shadows of the castle ramparts, Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, watched his son—his ward, his duty—with a solemn expression. There was no joy in the boy's training, only a fierce determination that reminded him far too much of the winter wolves that prowled the forests beyond Winterfell. Jon had that same silent intensity, a drive that set him apart from the other children. Eddard saw it, and it troubled him.

"He's too young for this," Maester Luwin said quietly, appearing at Eddard's side, his breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. "The boy should be inside, by the fire, with a book in his hand, not a sword."

Eddard shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving Jon. "Winter is coming, Maester. He must learn to endure the cold, to understand the North in ways a book could never teach him."

"But he is still just a child," Luwin pressed, his voice gentle yet firm. "Should he not be allowed a childhood, at least for a few more years?"

Eddard sighed, a deep, weary sound. "His childhood was taken from him the moment he was born. He must be prepared for the life that awaits him."

"And what life is that, my lord?" Luwin asked, a note of curiosity in his voice.Eddard's gaze hardened, and he finally tore his eyes away from Jon to look at the maester. "The life of a leader, of a man who will one day command respect, despite his birth. He may not wear my name, but he carries my blood. He will be a Stark in all but name."

Luwin hesitated, sensing there was more behind Eddard's words than the lord was willing to reveal. "You mean to raise him as you would Robb."

"Aye," Eddard nodded, his voice resolute. "But with more than just the ways of the North. The world beyond our walls is vast, and Jon must be prepared for it. He will learn the old ways, our ways, but he must also understand the South, the Free Cities, and the lands across the narrow sea. He will learn the language of the Valyrians, of the lords and ladies who command more than just swords and steel."

Luwin looked at Eddard in surprise. "You would teach him Valyrian? That is not the language of the North."

"No, it is not," Eddard agreed. "But it is the language of kings.

"The maester's brows furrowed in thought. "Robb does not learn it."

"Robb is the heir to Winterfell," Eddard replied, his tone final. "But Jon… Jon must be ready for more."

As the two men spoke, Jon continued his solitary training in the snow, unaware of the future being shaped for him in the shadows of the ancient keep. His small body ached with each swing of the wooden sword, but he pushed through the pain, driven by a desire he couldn't fully understand—a need to prove himself, to be worthy of the Stark name he could never claim.

When he finally lowered the sword, exhaustion clear on his young face, he turned to see his father watching him. Eddard stepped forward, his heavy boots crunching in the snow as he approached. Jon stood straighter, clutching the sword with both hands, trying to hide the tremor in his arms.

"Well done, Jon," Eddard said, his voice a low rumble. "But remember, it is not just strength that wins battles, but knowledge as well."

Jon looked up at his father, confusion flickering in his grey eyes. "What do you mean, Father?"

Eddard crouched down so that he was eye level with his son. "You must learn more than just how to swing a sword. You must learn to lead, to think, and to understand the world beyond our walls. That is why, starting tomorrow, you will begin your lessons with Maester Luwin in the old tongue—Valyrian."

Jon blinked, surprised. He had heard the name before, in stories of dragons and ancient kings, but it was not something he had ever thought he would need to know."

Why?" Jon asked, his voice small.

"Because you are more than just a boy of the North," Eddard said, placing a hand on Jon's shoulder. "You have the potential to be something greater, and it is my duty to see that you are prepared for whatever may come."

Jon nodded slowly, though he didn't fully understand what his father meant. He only knew that his father believed in him, and that was enough for now. As they walked back to the warmth of Winterfell's halls, Eddard's words echoed in Jon's mind, a seed planted in the cold earth of his young heart—a seed that would one day grow into something far greater than he could imagine.