A bitter wind howled through the wolfswood, sending dead leaves skittering across the frost-hardened ground. Jon Snow trudged through the underbrush, his black wool cloak wrapped tightly around his lean frame. Ghost, his white direwolf pup, darted between the ancient sentinel trees, his red eyes gleaming in the dim afternoon light.
Jon's olive skin had grown pale from the northern cold, his dark curls collecting snowflakes as he followed Ghost deeper into the woods. The young man's leather jerkin and boots were well-worn, marking him as someone who spent more time in the practice yard than the great hall – fitting for the bastard son of Winterfell.
Ghost suddenly froze, his attention fixed on something half-buried in the snow beneath a massive weirwood tree. The heart tree's face wept red sap, the carved features twisted in what seemed like warning. Jon approached cautiously, his boots crunching in the fresh powder.
There, partially covered by dead leaves and frost, lay a black leather-bound book. Jon brushed away the debris, revealing strange characters etched in silver on its cover. The book felt unnaturally cold in his gloved hands.
"What's this then?" he muttered, thumb running along its spine.
"Found something interesting, Snow?"
Theon Greyjoy emerged from behind a tree, his expensive fur-trimmed cloak and cocksure smirk setting Jon's teeth on edge. The ward's olive complexion and dark hair marked his Iron Islands heritage.
"Nothing that concerns you, Greyjoy," Jon replied, instinctively tucking the book into his cloak.
Theon's eyes narrowed. "Everything in these woods belongs to Lord Stark. Or have you forgotten your place, bastard?"
Ghost growled low in his throat, causing Theon to take an involuntary step back. The tension crackled between them like static before a storm.
"I'll show it to my father when I return," Jon said carefully, each word measured. "Unless you'd like to explain to him why you're following me instead of attending to your duties?"
Theon's face darkened, but he forced a laugh. "Keep your secrets then. They're all you'll ever have." He turned and stalked away through the trees.
Once alone, Jon withdrew the book again. As he opened it, a single black feather drifted to the ground. The first page bore words in an elegant hand: "The human whose name is written in this note shall die."
Ghost whined and pressed against Jon's leg. Above them, a raven called out three times, its harsh cry echoing through the silent woods. Jon quickly closed the book, but he could feel its weight against his chest like a stone as he turned back toward Winterfell, unaware that a tall, skeletal figure with glowing red eyes had materialized in the shadows of the heart tree, watching him go.
The single candle in Jon's chamber cast long shadows across the stone walls of Winterfell's guest tower. He sat at the rough wooden desk, the Death Note open before him, its pages ghostly white in the flickering light. Ghost lay curled by the hearth, his red eyes reflecting the dying embers.
Jon's fingers trembled as they traced the rules written in that elegant, otherworldly script. His dark curls fell forward as he hunched over the book, still dressed in his black training leathers from the practice yard. The day's events played through his mind like a fever dream.
Earlier, he'd witnessed Ser Rodrik drag a deserter from the Night's Watch into Winterfell's courtyard. The man had been raving about White Walkers, but Jon had seen the terror in the eyes of the farmer's daughter the deserter had attacked while fleeing south. Her throat bore purple bruises from his hands, her tears still fresh as she identified him.
"The condemned will be executed tomorrow," Ser Rodrik had announced, his white whiskers quivering with disgust.
But Jon had seen the girl's father weeping, heard whispers of other victims found in the deserter's wake. The man was a murderer who'd broken his sacred vows, and tomorrow's justice seemed too far away.
The quill felt heavy in Jon's hand as he opened the ink pot. A raven watched through his window, its head cocked at an impossible angle.
"Karl Breakspear," Jon whispered as he wrote, remembering the deserter's name from the charges read in the courtyard. His handwriting looked small and uncertain against the Death Note's pristine pages. After a moment's hesitation, he added, "Heart fails while sleeping."
The candlelight guttered, though there was no breeze. Ghost raised his head, ears pricked toward the window where the raven had been.
Jon waited, counting his heartbeats. Perhaps nothing would happen. Perhaps he was a fool for believing in—
A commotion erupted in the courtyard below. Jon rushed to his window, looking down at the torch-lit gathering outside the cells. Guards rushed in and out of the prison door, their voices carrying up through the cold night air.
"He's dead!" "Just stopped breathing—" "Get Maester Luwin!"
Jon stepped back from the window, his back hitting the cold stone wall. The Death Note lay innocent as any common ledger on his desk, but he could feel something fundamental had shifted in the world. Power – terrible and absolute – now rested in his hands.
A soft chuckle emanated from the darkest corner of his chamber. Jon whirled to face it, his hand instinctively reaching for a sword that wasn't there. A towering figure materialized from the shadows – skeletal, hunched, with eyes like burning coals.
"Well, well," the creature rasped, its voice like steel on stone. "How interesting. A noble bastard with the power of a god." It grinned, revealing rows of sharp teeth. "I am Ryuk, and that's my Death Note you have there. I think you and I are going to have some fun, Jon Snow."
Ghost growled, but made no move to attack, as if unsure whether this being could be harmed by mortal teeth.
Jon stood frozen, his mind reeling between the horror of what he'd just done and the terrifying reality of what stood before him. But beneath it all, a small voice whispered that justice had been served more swiftly and cleanly than any headsman's blade.
Through his window, the lights of Winterfell flickered like stars fallen to earth, and somewhere in the night, wolves began to howl.
The pale light of dawn crept through Jon's chamber window, finding him still awake, seated on the edge of his bed. The Death Note lay in his lap, its black cover absorbing what little light touched it. His training clothes from yesterday were wrinkled from a night spent pacing, his dark curls disheveled from running his fingers through them countless times.
Ryuk loomed in the corner, hunched to avoid the ceiling beams, watching with those burning red eyes. The creature's presence made the very air feel wrong, like the heaviness before a storm.
"Why me?" Jon finally asked, his voice hoarse. Ghost lifted his head from his paws, ears twitching at the sound. "Of all the people in the Seven Kingdoms – lords, knights, kings..." He ran his thumb along the book's edge. "Why would this fall to a bastard?"
Ryuk's laugh rattled like dead leaves. "Fall to you? The Death Note wasn't meant for anyone. It fell, that's all. You simply found it."
"But that can't be—" Jon stood abruptly, pacing again. The rough stone floor was cold through his socks. "Things like this don't just happen. Not to people like me."
The writing desk still bore evidence of last night's test – the open ink pot, the quill laid aside, Karl Breakspear's name stark against the white page. Jon had checked three times to make sure he hadn't dreamed it all.
A servant's footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, then faded. Somewhere below, Winterfell was waking up, unaware that death itself now resided in their midst.
"People like you?" Ryuk tilted his head at an impossible angle. "And what sort of person are you, Jon Snow?"
The words struck deeper than they should have. Jon moved to the window, looking out over the courtyard where workers were already gathering. He could see the practice yard where he trained with Robb, the stables where he helped Bran with his riding, the guard posts where he sometimes stood watch – all the places where he existed on the edges of true belonging.
"I'm no one," he said quietly. "The bastard of Winterfell. I have no lands, no titles, no true place here. The most I could hope for was to join the Night's Watch, to find some kind of honor there." His hand tightened on the Death Note. "And now I hold the power of a god."
Ryuk drifted closer, his shadow stretching impossibly across the floor. "And what will you do with it?"
Jon watched as Ser Rodrik crossed the courtyard below, likely heading to announce Karl Breakspear's death to Lord Stark. The deserter's passing had been clean, peaceful even – far more than he deserved. More than the headsman's block would have given him.
"I could do anything," Jon whispered, and the thought terrified him as much as it thrilled him. "I could punish the wicked, protect the innocent. I could..." He trailed off, remembering all the sideways glances, the whispered comments, Lady Catelyn's cold stares.
"I could make them respect me."
The words hung in the air like frost. Jon felt the weight of them, of the darkness they suggested, and quickly added, "But that's not... I wouldn't..."
"Hyuk hyuk hyuk," Ryuk's laughter filled the chamber. "Now this is getting interesting."
A knock at the door made Jon jump. He quickly tucked the Death Note under his mattress.
"Jon?" Robb's voice called through the wood. "Father wants us all in the great hall. They're saying the deserter died in his cell last night."
"I'll... I'll be right there," Jon called back, fighting to keep his voice steady.
As Robb's footsteps faded, Jon retrieved the Death Note, staring at its cover. He was nobody, a bastard, a boy playing at swords in the shadow of his trueborn brother. But now...
"Coming?" Ryuk asked, his grin wider than ever.
Jon tucked the Death Note inside his jerkin, feeling its cold weight against his chest. As he pulled on his boots, he caught his reflection in the chamber's small mirror – he looked the same as yesterday, and yet somehow completely different.
"Everything's going to change now, isn't it?" he asked quietly.
Ryuk's only response was that knowing laugh.