(Chapter 1 is available with images. See the bottom of the page)
Chapter 1: Jon
The wind whispered through the courtyards of Winterfell, carrying with it the scent of pine and the chill of the northern wind. Jon Snow pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he slipped silently along the shadowed corridors. The stolen loaf of bread was soft in his hands, a guilty prize from the kitchens where the embers of the hearths had long since cooled.
He preferred the castle at night. In the darkness, he could wander freely, unburdened by the glances that reminded him of his place.
Bastard.
The word clung to him like a shadow he could never outrun.
As he made his way back to his chambers, muffled voices caught his ear—hushed tones seeping from the slightly ajar door of Maester Luwin's chambers. Jon knew he should move on, but the urgency of the whispers rooted him to the spot.
"This cannot continue," came Lady Catelyn's voice, heated with a tension that made Jon's heart quicken. "His presence here... it is untenable."
"My lady," Maester Luwin replied gently, "he is yet a child. In Lord Stark's eyes—"
"He is no kin of mine," she hissed. "Nor of true Stark blood. Every day that boy lingers, he dishonors our name, taints our children's legacy."
Jon's throat tightened.
He had known Lady Stark's disdain, felt it in every icy glance, but to hear it laid bare was a knife twist.
"There are... certain measures that might be taken," the maester said cautiously. "Yet, to act without Lord Stark's consent—"
"Ned is not here," she snapped. "He has left me to manage Winterfell in his absence and manage it I shall. The boy must go. If the Wall is his fate, so be it. Let him swear the oath and vanish from sight, where his shame can stain us no longer."
The Wall.
The words fell like stones. Jon pressed a fist to his mouth to stifle the gasp threatening to escape.
"Lord Stark is at the Wall, my Lady. Even if I were to do your bidding, he would meet the boy on the road."
"Send him to White Harbor. To a ship bound for Eastwatch by the Sea."
Maester Luwin sighed. "The Night's Watch is ill-suited for one so young. And what of Lord Eddard's will? His care for the boy remains steadfast."
Lady Catelyn's voice hardened. "Ned's heart blinds him. It is my duty, as his wife, to act with the clarity he lacks. Will you help me, Maester?"
A heavy silence hung in the air. Jon could almost see the maester's conflicted expression, the weight of duty pressing upon him.
At length, Luwin spoke. "I serve House Stark in all matters, my lady, and will see your command fulfilled, though I must urge you to reconsider this decision."
"This matter is settled."
Footsteps approached the door.
Jon spun on his heel, retreating down the hallway as quietly as he could, the shadows swallowing him whole.
He didn't stop until he reached the solitude of the godswood.
The godswood loomed around him, its silence almost mocking. Jon stared at the pale face of the heart tree, the ancient eyes carved into the bark, as if it could offer some kind of solace. But the Old Gods had never answered him, not once in all the times he had sought their guidance.
What would they care for a bastard like him?
His hands tightened into fists, the stolen bread crumbling between his fingers. He felt a sharp anger bubbling up inside him, hotter than any fire, burning away the cold. Catelyn Stark wanted him gone. That much had always been clear in her eyes, in the way she looked through him as if he were no more than air. But to hear her say it aloud, to know she was plotting to send him away without even telling Father—his chest ached with a deep sense of betrayal. He had thought Winterfell was his home.
You have no place here.
The words reverberated in his head, not in her voice, but his own. The godswood, the courtyards, the walls of the keep—they had always felt like home, but now they seemed foreign, hostile even. A place where he would never belong.
He glanced up, toward the direction of the distant tower where his brothers slept, where Robb and Bran, even little Rickon, lay tucked in their warm beds.
They're your family, he reminded himself, but the thought rang hollow.
Robb, his closest friend and brother in all but name, would inherit Winterfell, and Jon would be nothing more than the bastard brother on the fringes of his life. Always there, but never truly part of it.
The cold bit into his skin as he stood, his breath curling in the air like smoke.
He looked around the godswood, his eyes tracing the familiar paths he'd walked so many times. The ancient oaks and sentinel trees, their dark branches stretching up toward the sky like the fingers of the dead. He had found peace here once. Now, it felt like a cage, the weight of Winterfell's stones pressing down on him from all sides.
The wind gusted, scattering red leaves at his feet, and Jon's eyes flicked back to the heart tree. Its face remained as it always had, expressionless, timeless. But something in Jon had changed. The decision had already begun to take root in his mind.
Lady Stark was going to send him to the Wall.
Jon shivered as he imagined it, the endless snow stretching out before him, the sharp wind biting his skin, colder than anything he could imagine. He thought of Uncle Benjen, of stories of duty and brotherhood in the icy wilderness—but that life was one of exile, not one of choice. A life for a man who had nowhere else to go.
He'd thought of it before. Making a life of honor for himself. Bastards could rise high on the wall, or so Uncle Benjen had told him, but not like this. Not when she wanted to force him into it. The thought of spending his days in that frozen wasteland, far from everything warm and alive because she was full of spite and hatred burned him from within.
There are other places.
He remembered the books he'd read about the lands to the south. Maester Luwin's lessons on the Crownlands, the Reach, and Dorn. Dorne, the sun-kissed realm far to the south, where the heat was said to make the air shimmer like glass. A place where bastards had names of their own, where the rules of the north didn't apply.
South.
He could go south. He could make his way, find a life far from Winterfell and far from her shadow. No one there would whisper bastard behind his back. They'd call him Jon Sand, and perhaps that wouldn't sound so bad, under a bright sun with a warm breeze on his face.
A distant howl of a wolf echoed through the night.
Jon turned, his decision settling like iron in his gut.
He would leave Winterfell.
Not in disgrace, not driven out by Catelyn Stark's wishes, but on his own terms.
He would find his own place, far from her scorn, far from the Starks, far from the life he could never truly be part of. He had no plan, no map for what lay ahead, but the road south would be his. He would head for Dorne.
As he slipped back through the quiet corridors, past the slumbering castle and the warm hearths that had never truly been his, Jon Snow clenched his jaw, the cold sharp against his face. He would not cry. He would not be weak.
When the dawn broke over Winterfell, Jon Snow would be gone.
The cold draft slipped through the stone walls as Jon knelt over his small wooden desk, the candle's flame flickering with every breath of wind. The room was sparse, like the rest of Winterfell—bare, practical, no warmth beyond what his own body could summon under the heavy furs. He dipped the quill into the inkwell and stared at the empty parchment before him.
The words wouldn't come.
What could he say to Father that wouldn't sound like cowardice?
He wasn't running—at least, that's what he told himself. But every word he tried to form seemed hollow.
Father, he wrote at last.
He paused, watching the ink soak into the parchment, his hand shaking slightly. He could see Ned Stark's face as clearly as if he were standing before him now. That stern, unyielding gaze, the set of his jaw when he spoke of honor and duty. Jon could still hear his voice, telling him there was no shame in his blood, though Jon had never been able to believe it.
He wrote carefully, slow, his brow furrowed as if the words themselves would carry the weight of his heart.
I must go. Not because of anything you have done, but because I do not belong here. Winterfell is not my place, no matter how hard I try to make it so. You have given me more than I could ask for, more than I deserve, but I can no longer be a shadow in this castle. It is time I find my own path.
He hesitated, then added:
Do not blame Lady Stark for this. I know she only wishes to protect her family. I should not burden you any longer. I will find my way south, far from the North, far from Winterfell.
I will not shame you. I swear it.
Your son,
Jon
The last line blurred as his vision wavered, but he blinked away the tears. He would not cry. Not now, not here.
He folded the note with trembling hands, addressed it to Father, and set it on the table for someone to find.
The candle sputtered, nearly snuffed out by the draft.
Jon straightened, running a hand through his dark curls.
He had packed only what was necessary—his cloak, the warmest he had, though he would soon be leaving the cold behind. Some bread he had taken from the kitchens and his small dagger, a gift from Uncle Benjen that he had worn every day since. He'd need it on the road. No one traveled without a weapon, even a boy.
The corridors were dark and the castle still when he left his room.
The servants were long in bed, and even the guards would be lax at this hour, huddled near the warmth of their fires. Jon padded through the halls, the stones cold beneath his boots, his heart racing in his chest with every step.
He knew Winterfell like the back of his hand.
Every secret passage, every forgotten stairwell. He had used them all in his games with Robb, playing at knights and lords, hiding from the watchful eyes of Septa Mordane or Maester Luwin. Those childhood games had never felt so far away.
He slipped through a narrow archway near the armory, the cool night air biting at his cheeks.
The main gates were heavily guarded, but the smaller side entrance near the stables—he had seen it open late into the night, used by stable hands and hunters who came and went with little fanfare.
Jon moved with deliberate care, staying close to the shadows.
His breath came in shallow puffs as he reached the stables, the familiar scent of hay and horse sweat filling his nose. The horses shifted in their stalls as he entered, their ears flicking at his presence, but they did not stir. Jon approached his mare, her chestnut coat gleaming dully in the dim light of the stable's torches. She wasn't as fast as his father's stallion or as strong as Robb's warhorse, but she would carry him the distance he needed to go.
To the north.
Not south to White Harbor where his father would expect him to go—no, Jon knew that the moment Ned Stark found the note, he would send riders to the Kingsroad and the harbor. That's where he'd look first. Jon wouldn't be there.
He'd cross the Wolfswood to Deepwood Motte—a stronghold nestled in the Wolfswood but also by the coast. The west shore of the North rarely got any trade, but Jon remembered that Maester Luwin had once mentioned ships that came there to resupply on their way to Braavos. Though he never mentioned them again, they stuck in Jon's memory for the ships came from the west, where none had ventured before, and none could speak of. The ships never brought any goods to Deepwood Mote, or so Maester Luwin had said, only purchased supplies and moved on without speaking to anyone.
No one would expect him there.
He could sneak on a fishing boat heading to Barrowton to sell or even catch one of the western ships if he got lucky. Whatever the case, he would skirt the well-known routes and watchful eyes of White Harbor.
"Easy, girl," Jon whispered, untying the mare's reins from the post. He led her out carefully, the crunch of hay underfoot muffled by the wind. Every sound seemed louder in the night, every creak of the wood, every clink of metal. But no one stirred. The castle slept on, oblivious to his departure.
He swung into the saddle, the weight of the pack hanging on his shoulders. The mare shifted beneath him, eager to move. Jon glanced back at Winterfell, its towers rising up against the dark sky, the distant light of torches flickering along the walls.
His chest tightened, and for a moment, he hesitated. He had never been beyond the walls on his own. But there was no going back now.
Not after what he'd heard.
The mare's hooves beat a steady rhythm against the frozen ground as Jon rode through the night, the trees of the Wolfswood looming around him, their branches stretching out like black fingers against the sky. The wind whispered through the leaves, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine, and though the chill sank deep into his bones, Jon kept his cloak drawn tight around him, his eyes fixed ahead.
The silence of the woods was both comforting and unsettling.
He had ventured into the Wolfswood many times before, with Father and Robb for hunts or lessons, but never alone. Tonight, the familiar paths seemed darker, the trees taller, their roots twisting beneath the snow like sleeping serpents. Every rustle of leaves, every crack of a branch, set his heart pounding in his chest.
He glanced up at the sky, where the moon hung low, half-hidden behind a veil of clouds.
The mare snorted beneath him, her breath curling in the cold air. She was strong, steady, but Jon could feel her muscles beginning to tire beneath him. They had been riding for hours now, and the woods seemed to stretch on forever. He'd need to stop soon, give her rest, but not yet. Not until they were farther from Winterfell, farther from where any search party might find them.
His thoughts drifted back to the note he'd left on his desk.
What will Father think when he finds it?
He imagined Lord Eddard sitting at his desk after coming back from his visit to the Wall, his brow furrowed as he read Jon's careful words. Would he be angry? Would he understand? Jon didn't know. His father was a man of honor, of duty, but Jon had never been sure if that honor extended to him. Not fully. How could it, when his very existence was a stain on his father's name?
I'm not running away, he told himself again, but the words felt hollow.
He had heard Catelyn Stark's voice, sharp and cold as the winds of the North, plotting to send him away as if he were no more than an inconvenience. She would have done it, he was sure of that. And when his father returned, it would have been too late.
Better to leave on my own terms, he thought, though the ache in his chest told a different story.
He wasn't ready to admit it yet, but part of him still wanted his father to appear out of thin air to stop him, to tell him he belonged.
The mare stumbled, her hoof catching on a root hidden beneath the snow. Jon pulled the reins, bringing her to a halt. He stroked her neck, feeling the tension in her muscles, the heat of her body steaming in the cold night air. She was a good horse, but she couldn't go on much longer without rest.
Where do we stop?
The trees thinned ahead, the ground leveling out into a small clearing, the stars reflecting faintly in a stream that cut through the wood. Jon dismounted, his legs stiff and aching from the long ride. He led the mare to the stream, letting her drink while he crouched by the water, splashing the icy liquid on his face. The cold bit his skin, but it cleared his head, sharpening his senses.
The sound of the wind, the murmur of the stream, the rustle of leaves in the distance—it all seemed louder out here, away from the walls of Winterfell. Jon pulled his cloak tighter, glancing around the clearing.
No wolves, no signs of danger, though the darkness pressed in on all sides.
He found a patch of dry earth beneath a towering oak, its roots twisted and gnarled, like the hands of an old man reaching out from the soil. He gathered what fallen branches he could find, though the wood was damp and reluctant to catch. Still, after several tries, the small fire sputtered to life, its warmth a fragile comfort against the biting wind.
Jon sat by the fire, his back resting against the rough bark of the oak.
The mare stood nearby, her head low, her breaths steady now. He pulled a hunk of bread from his pack, tearing at it absently as he stared into the flames.
The night stretched on, the silence weighing heavy, and Jon's thoughts wandered. What lay ahead? Deepwood Motte was still many leagues away, and beyond that—who knew? He had no plan, only a vague hope of finding a boat, a way to slip south without drawing notice. Once he made it to Dorne, what then? The South seemed like another world, a place of sun, heat, and sands he could barely imagine.
A place where the rules of the North didn't apply.
Will I be able to adapt?
A twig snapped in the distance, and Jon's hand went instinctively to the dagger at his belt. His eyes scanned the darkness, his heart quickening. The woods were full of dangers—wolves, outlaws, worse things—but there was nothing, only the wind stirring the branches.
He forced himself to relax, though he kept his hand on the hilt of the dagger. The fire crackled, casting faint shadows on the snow. He would rest, just for a few hours, then ride again at first light. Deepwood Motte was still almost three hundred and fifty miles away, but he would reach it.
I will be free.
Jon leaned back against the tree, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. The fire burned low, its warmth fading as the night deepened. He closed his eyes, the sound of the stream lulling him into a restless sleep, where dreams of Winterfell and the unknown southern sands merged into one.
Darkness wrapped around him, thick and impenetrable. The trees twisted into shadows with long, gnarled fingers reaching for him, though their touch was cold and distant. The clearing vanished, the earth beneath his feet giving way to something else, something unfamiliar. His body moved through it, weightless, as though the ground had disappeared entirely.
What…?
The stars above swirled, distant pinpricks of light spiraling into a maelstrom, drawing the night sky into itself. Jon felt the pull, an invisible current tugging at him, like a river's undertow pulling him beneath the surface. He reached out for something—anything—to hold onto, but there was nothing. Only the emptiness, vast and endless, pressing in on him from all sides.
What's happening?
A whisper echoed in the void, faint and indistinct. It grew louder, a chorus of voices, overlapping, tangled. Some were soft, pleading, others harsh, filled with anger, their words melting into one another until they were indistinguishable. Yet, Jon could feel the weight of them, as though they were not just sounds, but something more—something alive, something ancient.
Then he saw it.
A great, towering figure loomed before him, faceless and featureless, yet its presence filled the space, immense and suffocating. A shroud of black mist coiled around it, twisting and writhing like serpents. Jon's heart pounded as the figure stepped forward, silent yet impossibly heavy, the ground quaking beneath each step.
Jon wanted to run, but his legs wouldn't move.
His breath came in ragged gasps, as if the very air had turned to ice in his lungs. The figure loomed over him now, its towering shape blotting out the sky. He couldn't see its face—if it had one—but he felt its eyes on him, cold and searching, as if it saw through his skin, through his bones, deep into the core of him.
The whispers returned, louder now, clearer. They circled around him, filling his ears, filling his mind.
"You are not whole."
Jon flinched, the voice cutting through the noise like a knife. It wasn't a voice, not exactly. It was a presence, a pulse of energy that resonated in his chest, deep and unsettling.
"You are not one of them."
The figure moved closer, its shadow swallowing him. Jon's legs gave way, and he fell to his knees. The world around him twisted, the air growing thick with the same black mist that clung to the figure. It wound itself around him, tendrils of darkness curling against his skin, cold and yet burning. His heart raced, the panic rising in his throat, but he couldn't scream. The mist crawled into his lungs, filling him, claiming him.
"You do not belong."
The words struck like a blow, and Jon doubled over, clutching his chest. It felt as though his very soul was being torn from him, unraveling like thread. Yet, deep within the agony, there was something else—something stirring.
The darkness wasn't just around him. It was inside him.
He gasped for air, his vision blurring, but even in the haze, he felt it. A pulse, a thrum, not unlike his own heartbeat, but far deeper, older. It was there, buried beneath the layers of fear, beneath the cold, beneath everything he had ever known. A thread, faint but undeniable, connecting him to something vast, something beyond the woods, beyond Winterfell, beyond the world itself.
"Feel it."
The voice—no, the presence—was everywhere now, pushing, pulling, demanding. The weight of it pressed against his mind, crushing him, and yet...it beckoned. Jon felt his fingers twitch, his body reacting to something unseen, something just out of reach. It wasn't his body that moved—it was as if the air itself trembled, the ground beneath him shifting with each breath.
"You belong to the world beyond the veil. To the power that flows through all."
The black mist writhed around him, seeping into his skin, into his blood, twisting through him like a vine taking root. But with the fear came a strange understanding, as if a door had opened in his mind, showing him glimpses of something he had never known before—ancient lands, great seas of flame and ice, towering mountains and endless deserts. People, hundreds, thousands of them, their faces blurred, their voices all speaking the same truth, though he couldn't grasp the meaning.
"They cannot see you, but the world will."
Jon's breath caught in his throat. He reached out with his hand, not knowing why, and the air itself seemed to bend beneath his fingers. The mist pulsed, responding to his touch, and for a moment, Jon felt it—power. Not the kind of strength his brothers spoke of, not the physical prowess of warriors or the cunning of lords. This was different. This was something older, something wild, a force that ran through the very veins of the earth, through the trees, through the stones of Winterfell. It was in him, too.
"You are not one of them. You are more."
The world around him collapsed in on itself, the swirling mist pulling him deeper into the void. Jon's pulse quickened, his body rigid, but the deeper he fell, the less afraid he became. He could see it now, this invisible river that flowed beneath everything, connecting it all. The trees, the stones, the water—it was all part of the same current. And he, too, was part of it.
"You belong to this. And it belongs to you."
A flash of light—brilliant, blinding—erupted from the void, and Jon's eyes snapped open, his breath ragged, his heart pounding in his chest.
It was a dream…
He was back in the clearing, the fire reduced to embers, the cold biting at his skin.
No… Not a dream…
He sat up, his hands trembling as he clutched the dagger at his side. His breath came in short, quick bursts, but his mind was sharper than before. The mist, the voices, the power—it had been more than a dream. It had been something else, something real.
That's a wrap for Chapter 1!
Let me know what you liked and disliked, I would love to hear all your thoughts!
As of right now, pairings are undecided and I would love to hear your opinions on that. Let me know who you'd love to see with whom.
Chapters 2, 3, and 4 are already available in advance on my p. a. t. r. e. o. n. . c. o. m. /. TheStorySpinner (don't forget to remove the spaces and dots).
Chapter 1 is available with images for free for the public there. You do not have to be a member of any kind to access Chapter 1 with images.
One last note before I go: the continent to the West that Jon will go to is loosely based on the Sith, and I'm loosely adapting the Force to Westerosi magic. I'm saying loosely because I'm adapting everything, and it's all like 60 percent original content. I'm sorry if I'm about to disappoint anyone, but this is NOT a crossover. No Star Wars characters will be appearing.
See you in Chapter 2!