To a new life, to new beginnings.
This run of Jon will go hard!
Expect quiet the journey.
...
As a side note plan to do extra chapter releases besides the daily chapters, what are some good goals?
-
Snow fell softly over Winterfell, fat white flakes drifting down from a sky the color of old iron. Jon Snow stood in the yard with a wooden practice sword in his hand and felt the weight of three lifetimes pressing behind his eyes.
He was sixteen years old once again. His fingers were smaller. His arms lean but not yet hardened. The yard rang with the clack of wood on wood as Robb laughed and pressed him back toward the kennels. Theon Greyjoy called out some jape from the side. Bran tried to imitate their footwork and failed, nearly tripping over his own boots.
It was the same morning. The same cold. The same sky. But Jon was not the same. He remembered dying. He remembered the Wall breaking like thunder.
He remembered ice demons taller than towers, wyrms bursting from the frozen earth, elder Others drifting like crowned gods of winter. He remembered the city of ice. And he remembered standing alone as the world ended.
A tremor went through him not from cold, but from memory. "Jon?" Robb lowered his sword, frowning. "You're staring."
Jon blinked. He forced his grip to loosen. "Just thinking."
Robb snorted. "You think too much."
Jon couldn't help it as he looked far to the North. Because somewhere far beyond the horizon, beyond leagues of forest and frost, beyond the Lands of Always Winter, something was stirring. It had stirred in every life. It would stir again.
…
The castle was a hubhub of activities since the royal family was coming as they always did. Jon's attention was drawn to something else however. He felt it when he closed his eyes. Not sight exactly. This was subtler. A hum beneath the skin. A breath in the soil. Magic.
Nature magic.
It was small, laughably small compared to what he had once wielded before in his second life. But it was there. He had woken with it. A whisper coiled inside him, like roots searching for water.
This was the fledgling power of those who had the talent for magic however never properly learned how to wield it and advance deeper into the higher mysteries. He could only wield some green cantrips.
He was just the uninitiated. One of the many folks that dotted the world who had this strange knack or talent of doing something. Either they could light candles after staring at it for so long or whatever they grew became larger and more healthier, or many other ways that magic shows itself within those who had the spark for whatever magic.
He picked up some berries growing on the bushes and brambles in the godswood, and flexed his fingers, focusing on the dark red tiny fruits. Jon let his breathing slow. The cold receded from his awareness. Instead, he felt the earth beneath the yard; stone, soil, worm, root. He reached not with his hands but with that new, quiet thread inside him. Grow, he thought. Live.
The magic responded. It was not dramatic. No green light burst from his palms. No wind rose in answer. It was subtler than that. The berries swelled slightly. Color deepened. Frost melted away in a thin sheen of water. Life, coaxed.
He rolled it between finger and thumb. It was warm. He hesitated. Then he ate it. The taste burst across his tongue; rich and sweet, nothing like before. Warmth spread down his throat and settled in his belly like a banked ember. The lingering bruise along his ribs from yesterday's fall faded to nothing.
It was Goodberry. The same stuff the children of the forest made him eat in their hidden groove whenever he got slightly injured or bruised in his training. To be honest it was pathetic compared to what he could do before but it was a start.
Jon swallowed the rest and exhaled slowly. He would not squander this life.
…
The horns sounded before noon. The royal banners had been sighted. Even now, a shiver ran through him. He remembered the last times standing beside Robb as the direwolf pups were crawling around their foot. Remembered Ned Stark's stern voice. Remembered the look on Catelyn's face. Remembered the weight of destiny moving like a glacier.
Eddard Stark would ride south and never return. Robert Baratheon would laugh and feast and after he died all hell would break loose and war would begin that would bleed the realm dry. Joffrey Baratheon would sit a throne and ignite chaos. And while the Seven Kingdoms tore at each other, the true enemy would gather.
Jon's jaw tightened. This time, he would not allow the realm to waste itself so easily. But how? He was a bastard. He could not stride into the hall and proclaim that ice gods would one day march south. They would laugh or worse.
He needed time. Power. Knowledge. So far the gods have granted him opportunities to try to fix this and he would see it done.
The yard erupted in noise as the royal procession crested the hill. Golden banners snapped in the wind. Knights glittered like spilled coins against the snow. Jon's stomach twisted. He scanned the column instinctively, searching for faces he had known too well.
There broad, bearded, laughing too loudly. Robert. Behind him, golden and cold, riding with perfect posture. Cersei. Children clustered close. A blond boy with cruel eyes already measuring the world as something to own. Joffrey.
Jon felt no rage. Only calculation. King's blood. In one life, he had hurled that boy into a sea of dead and watched him explode into living fire. It had bought them weeks. And still the Wall had fallen. The memory haunted him not because Joffrey had died, but because it had not been enough. Nothing had been enough.
The feast that night unfolded as it always had. Laughter. Boasts. Wine. Jon stood at the edge of it all, as always neither fully included nor entirely ignored.
But this time, he watched with a strategist's eye. Robert drank too much. He would die too soon. Ned was too honorable for the vipers' nest awaiting him. The realm was brittle. And winter was coming. Those words of his house were truer words than anything.
That night he dreamed. Not of wolves or swords. Of silence. A vast white expanse beneath a black sky. In the distance, shapes moved in orderly, unending lines. He knew that formation. He had stood before it. He had seen elder Others gliding above ranks of ice demons. Had seen wyrms coiling beneath glaciers like veins of death. He felt again that crushing certainty.
The vanguard alone had been enough to destroy kingdoms. And beyond them the true host. He woke gasping. The room was dark. His breath fogged faintly in the chill. He pressed a hand to the stone floor. Cold.
But beneath the cold…Life.
Moss clinging stubbornly to the damp floorboard of his room. His magic must had reacted subconsciously when he had that nightmare. Looking at the moss which clung desperately, he would have to be like it. To hold onto life and not let go. Not give in to the despair that creeped in.
-
Jon sat alone in the godswood as the last rays of sunlight vanished behind the winter hills, leaving the world a pale, gray shadow. Ghost lay at his feet, ears twitching at the faint sound of wind through the trees, and Jon's hands rested lightly on the moss-covered roots of a weirwood. He traced the lines in the bark, imagining them like the veins of the earth itself, connecting life, death, and memory.
His mind was occupied through by other things, flashes from lives he had already lived. He remembered the Wall falling, the endless tide of ice and death, the Others gliding above the frozen fields like gods. He remembered fire leaping from the body of a boy he had once despised, the way the red witch had used him as a vessel to turn the battlefield into a furnace of annihilation. Tens of thousands of wights, giants, ice demons all gone in a heartbeat of fire. And still, he remembered the horror, the suffocating knowledge that even such power had not been enough.
That memory, and the gnawing certainty of what was coming, pressed down on him. He could not stay in Winterfell, could not simply train with wood and steel, could not wait for the world to end while he studied the slow lessons of men's courts. No, he needed more.
He needed the power the red witch had and more. He needed fire.
Jon closed his eyes and let the memory of Joffrey's explosion consume him for a heartbeat. He did not feel triumph or satisfaction. He felt the weight of possibility. He could learn to wield that power, to shape it, to turn it against the enemy that would one day rise beyond the Wall again.
More than that, he recalled how when he bleed upon his blade it alighted in flame. He had some strange affinity to the flames and he wanted to pursue it wherever it led.
"Fire," he whispered, voice almost lost in the wind. "If I can learn it, if I can master it… maybe the North will stand. Maybe the Wall will not fall. Maybe…" He rose, letting Ghost move ahead into the snow. The air felt sharper against his cheeks, but his resolve was like iron.
Fire magic required hands that could channel it, minds that could bend it. And the stories he had heard whispered led to the free cities of Essos which hinted at teachers who could unlock what few others could even dream to touch.
He pictured those rich streets of the free cities most of all Volantis, the First Daughter of the Old Freeholds, her council halls beneath banners older than any Westerosi dynasty. That was the place that knew the mystical arts better than most men dared to imagine. It would test him. It would not coddle him. And yet, if he survived its trials, if he proved himself, perhaps he could learn what no one in Westeros could.
The choice was clear. Stay in Winterfell, live out another life of waiting and fear, or leave, risk everything, and gain knowledge that might save the world. The pull toward action, toward purpose, was stronger than the fear of what his family would think, stronger than the cold pressing into his bones, stronger than the shadow of his father's disappointment or his family's grief.
He made up his mind. He would leave. He would go to Essos. He would seek out the teachers of fire and learn to wield it.
He packed lightly the next few days to make sure no one noticed him, robes and cloaks, a small satchel of provisions, his dagger, a few tomes on Essos from Maester Luwin.
…
Snow still clung stubbornly to the high walls of Winterfell as Jon packed lightly for a journey he could not yet fully admit even to himself. The courtyard was quiet, too quiet, except for the low whines and rustling of fur. Ghost padded at his side, ears twitching at the distant crunch of boots on stone. He had not yet eaten, but Jon's mind was elsewhere, already straining to the south, to the fire and power he had glimpsed in his last life.
He left small notes for his family, carefully written on thick, roughly cut parchment: a letter to Robb, warning him to guard the North; one for Arya, to take care and always be herself; a brief scrawl to Bran, urging caution and watchfulness. The weight of what they would think, and the grief it would cause, was too great. And perhaps it was better this way. Better that they would believe he had gone to the Night's Watch but soon find out that was false.
The night was black, wind gnashing at the stones and ice sheets rattling against the battlements. Ghost's fur shimmered faintly under the moonlight. Jon led him silently through the stables, where he borrowed a plain saddle and bridle. He made sure the gates were unguarded enough; he had spent weeks observing the routine of the castle guards, the timing of patrols, and the shift changes.
He rode lightly through the godswood, branches scratching at cloak and hair. The weirwoods stared down, red eyes like candles burning in dark, and for a moment Jon paused. "I'll be back," he whispered to the trunks and roots and old faces carved in bark. Ghost nuzzled him, almost impatient, and they passed beyond the shadow of the godswood, slipping toward the East Gate.
The road to White Harbor was long and treacherous. The North was a vast region large enough to fit the other kingdoms and there were not that many folks along the roads. It had forests thick with pine and birch, rolling hills, frozen rivers, and marshes that could swallow a man whole. The land was alive: the faint tracks of wolves along the snowdrifts, the distant call of a raven, the creak of frost-laden trees. Jon pressed on carefully, moving only at dawn and dusk when the low light would help hide him from prying eyes.
He slept only when the forest provided shelter beneath fallen trees or rock outcroppings. Ghost was always near, ever alert, ears twitching at distant howls that were never quite wolves. The reason he was on such guard was because danger was never far.
Lord Eddard Stark had sent out men in every direction when he left the castle. Word of Jon's disappearance spread like wildfire. Northern villages were put on alert, travelers questioned, and any lone rider resembling the bastard of Winterfell was chased down.
Jon could sense it in the shadows: the faint whinny of horses in the distance, the crack of a twig, a fleeting silhouette in the trees. He altered his route daily, doubling back, crossing frozen streams to break tracks, and avoiding villages as much as possible.
It was weeks before he reached the foothills that led toward White Harbor. Even here, the forests thinned, giving way to the broad, frozen plains of the eastern North. Jon could see the faint smoke rising from distant villages and hamlets, but he skirted them carefully, taking side roads, moving through frozen gullies, and crossing streams far from known bridges. Food was scarce; he scavenged what he could and rationed carefully. Ghost grew leaner but stayed alert, never whining, never slowing.
At last, the spires of White Harbor appeared faintly against the horizon, gray towers rising from the snow like jagged teeth. Jon allowed himself a brief moment of awe. White Harbor was unlike anything in the North he had yet seen. The city sat where the White Knife met the Narrow Sea, its walls tall and well-kept, the streets clean and orderly. He remembered Maester Luwin's lessons on the importance of port cities, they were gateways to the wider world, centers of commerce, power, and intrigue. He would need to navigate both the streets and the harbor with equal care.
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Jon rested for a few days in small inns along the outskirts of the city, careful not to draw attention. He paid in coins he had scavenged or earned through small favors, and he kept his hood drawn low. Even as he rested, he could feel the weight of House Manderly's gaze. Lord Wyman Manderly had surely been informed of his disappearance by his Lord father and would have men watching every inn, every alley, every road in and out of the city.
Entering the city proper, it was a mixture and the murmur of travelers; merchants from the Vale and the Riverlands, fishermen from the Narrow Sea, sailors from Braavos and Lys. Jon listened closely, learning names, routes, and rumors. He discovered which captains were in port and who would be more likely to take a stranger aboard without prying too closely. Each day, he kept watch on the harbor, sending out feelers, always cautious, always aware that one misstep could end him before his journey truly began.
Finally, after three days of careful observation, he made his choice of who to travel with and went down to the harbor at dawn. The tide was high, and the sea lapped against the docks in icy gray waves. The smell of salt and fish was thick and pungent, mingling with the acrid smoke of the burning torches along the piers. Ships of all sizes creaked as they shifted with the waves. Jon could see sailors hauling barrels, men shouting in Braavosi, Tyroshi, and Westerosi accents, and the glitter of rigging and sails glinting in the pale sunlight.
He spotted Aurane Waters. The man stood apart from the others, leaning casually against a mast, observing the harbor with the easy confidence of someone who had walked the seas longer than any of the men who hailed him. His silver hair caught the morning light, and his dark eyes swept the crowd, landing on Jon with a flicker of recognition.
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"Hey there," Jon greeted. This man was the only choice he had since most captains were heading down the Narrow sea to other Westeros ports and they had looked at him with suspicion as he travelled alone and with pretty large wolf-like dog.
"You're far from home, bastard," Aurane said quietly, voice smooth and melodic, cutting through the din of the harbor. "And the Manderlys have men in every corner. You've been clever to slip past them this long."
Jon froze for a heartbeat, then nodded. "So you know who I am."
"Not many folks have a direwolf," the man grinned as he took a bite of his fruit. "I know who you are. Lord Stark's son. And the Manderlys? They'd pay a king's ransom to hand you back."
Jon could only sigh and cut right to the chase of it, if his game was up then it was up. "I need passage. To Braavos."
Aurane's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Braavos, eh? You have ambition, boy. Want to make your way up in the Free Cities."
"You could say that, not much here for me so I figure I try my luck elsewhere," Jon shrugged his shoulder. He had greater designs than making some coin but let the man imagine he was unhappy with his lot in life like all bastards were.
Aurane laughed softly, shaking his head. "I like that, us bastards always have to chase something too big for them." Tossing the pit of his fruit into the sea, he extended his hand, suave and confident, and Jon took it without hesitation. The contact was firm, a promise of both opportunity and danger.
"I can take you. We bastards need to stick together."
Jon nodded, "Thanks. I owe you for this."
"Don't worry," the man tipped his large feathered hat towards him. When I am need I will call upon you, but for now. We will leave tonight," Aurane continued. "The Manderlys may have men watching, but they have nothing on my, the best captain on this side of the world. Stick close to me, and we'll see if you survive the Narrow Sea and make it to Braavos."