Jon Snow sometimes wished he could simply vanish—fade into the stones of Winterfell, melt into the shadows beneath the battlements, or disappear into the cold winds sweeping across the courtyard. If he were invisible, he could avoid the glances, whispers, and awkward moments that always followed him.
Three banners now hung over Winterfell's vast courtyard:
the white direwolf of House Stark, proud and solemn as the North itself;
the crimson lion of House Lannister, gleaming in the cold light;
and the golden stag of House Baratheon, crowned and bold.
With more banners came more visitors, and with more visitors came more curious eyes. Jon had long grown used to the northerners' indifference—here, a bastard was simply another part of the world—but the southern nobles were different. Their gazes lingered. They whispered behind gloved hands, or worse, pointed openly, their words dripping with speculation.
Everyone wanted to know whose son he truly was.
Some claimed his mother was the beautiful Ashara Dayne.
Others insisted it was Wylla, a maid with loose morals.
Some even said she was a nameless fisherwoman.
Whatever the truth, the existence of a bastard son reminded the world that even stern, honorable Eddard Stark—who seemed carved from ancient ice—had once been young and capable of passion. Jon's presence was, to many, a reminder of their own secret sins.
Jon watched the training yard from the long, covered walkway. The clang of blunted steel echoed between the stone walls as two young men sparred in the center of the yard.
The taller one was Theon Greyjoy, slender and handsome, with dark brown hair and a sharp, smug grin. At nineteen, he carried himself like a noble prince despite being a hostage from the Iron Islands.
His opponent, Robb Stark, was the rightful heir to Winterfell. With reddish-brown hair, striking blue eyes, and the sturdy build of a young northern lord, Robb fought with a mixture of discipline and enthusiasm. The two clashed again and again, steel ringing in the cold air.
Jon admired Robb—how could he not? Robb was everything Jon was not allowed to be: heir, trueborn, beloved. They had grown up together, trained together, bled together. Robb treated him as a brother. Theon, however, never bothered with such courtesy. To Theon, Jon was beneath him, a bastard unworthy of a lord's friendship.
A small figure approached the railing beside Jon, moving with surprising agility despite his short legs.
"They're putting on quite the performance, wouldn't you say?" Tyrion Lannister tilted his oversized head, his mismatched green-and-black eyes sharp and observant.
Jon turned to him with a faint smile. "Not bad."
He felt a strange affinity for the dwarf. They were both outsiders, both objects of mockery or pity, both reminders of things people preferred not to see. A bastard and a dwarf—two men who would never be truly welcome among nobles.
Tyrion studied Jon carefully. "You're Lord Stark's son as well, and from what I hear, your swordsmanship isn't half bad."
Jon felt warmth in those words—rare warmth. "Robb's spear strike is stronger, but I'm quicker with a sword. And Hullen says my riding is among the best in Winterfell."
"That's something to be proud of. Knights can rely on their swords, but I… must rely on my wits." Tyrion chuckled softly.
He paused before adding, "I also heard you had quite a long conversation with your uncle Benjen at the feast."
"Yes, my Lord," Jon said respectfully.
Tyrion leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Allow me to guess your thoughts, boy. Lady Catelyn is… less than warm to you. And Lord Stark, honorable as he is, cannot protect you forever. Meanwhile, your uncle serves the Night's Watch, and northerners hold the Watch in high regard. Could it be that you feel you have no place here—and wish to flee north to The Wall?"
Jon stared at him, stunned by how easily the dwarf stripped him bare. "You are a giant, my Lord. I've thought about it many times."
"Are you ready for what that choice means?" Tyrion asked, and there was no mockery in his voice—only real concern. "The Wall is cold, harsh, and unforgiving. The Night's Watch takes no wives, fathers no sons. You may not understand what you're giving up."
"Uncle Benjen told me all of that," Jon replied quietly. "He said once the words are spoken, there is no turning back."
Tyrion nodded. "Your uncle speaks the truth. But do you know what the Watch truly is today?"
"The shield that guards the realms of men," Jon recited instantly. Everyone in the North knew the creed.
Tyrion laughed—coldly, sadly. "That was once true. But now? The Watch survives on criminals. Rapists. Thieves. Murderers. The dregs of the dungeons. They don't volunteer—they're sentenced."
Jon blinked, taken aback. He had imagined rough brothers, hardy men of the North—but not criminals.
"Why rush into such misery?" Tyrion pressed. "Why be so eager to give up all women, all freedom? Even I, a dwarf, have three uncles who would rather leap into a dragon's mouth than join the Watch."
Jon stiffened. "My uncle Benjen chose the black for honor."
Tyrion smirked. "Honor has its uses… especially when stabilizing succession."
Jon frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Read more history, little bastard." Tyrion's tone grew wistful. "Long ago, the She-wolves of Winterfell fought to claim this entire castle when the Stark lord lay dying. A dozen children, five ambitious widows—chaos. Sending an extra son to The Wall was… convenient."
Jon fell silent. He had read some history, enough to know that many Starks sent younger sons to The Wall not only for honor, but to keep Winterfell's inheritance clear.
Tyrion shrugged. "Your uncle was valuable. Lord Stark has only him left. A second Stark at Winterfell could have meant much. But he chose the Wall. Whether that was wise… who can say?"
Jon's jaw tightened. "My uncle is a good man. He values duty above all."
Tyrion laughed lightly. "Yes… the Starks do cling tightly to honor."
Jon lifted his chin. "bastards have honor too."
Tyrion softened. "Of course they do. And you, my young friend, are free to choose who you will be. Look at the King's bastard across the sea."
Jon stiffened. "Gendry? The traitor?"
"Aye," Tyrion said with clear amusement. "An enemy of my House, yes. But he's good steel. If he had stayed in King's Landing, my dear sister would have had him quietly eliminated. Instead, he's across the Narrow Sea carving his own destiny."
Jon exhaled slowly. A boy his age leading armies, commanding fleets, wearing a dragon banner… it was difficult not to feel a sting of envy.
Tyrion leaned in. "And do you know the truth behind all of this unrest?"
Jon frowned. "You mean the war with the Mercenary King? The King's bastard?"
"Who else?" Tyrion spread his hands dramatically. "The fat King curses him by day; the Queen curses him by night. They may despise each other, but they agree on one thing: no more kinslayers. The kingslayer we already have is quite enough."
Jon imagined three hundred warships clashing in the Narrow Sea—masts splintering, fire spreading over waves, steel meeting steel. His blood stirred at the image.
"In such times," Tyrion murmured, "does the Wall still call to you? Or does the fire of battle sound louder?"
Jon felt torn—caught between the rigid path of duty and the tempting freedom of danger. If war began, he might not even be able to reach the Wall.
"So think hard," Tyrion advised. "You're young. You have time. Travel the world first, taste life, make mistakes. Once you take the black, all roads close forever."
Jon swallowed. "Why tell me all this?"
Tyrion shrugged lightly. "Perhaps because I find you likable. Perhaps because Lady Catelyn's sour face reminds me far too much of my dear sister. Or perhaps"—he lowered his voice—"because the Starks are not the only ones with shadows hanging over their heads."
Jon stared at him, unsure what to say.
Tyrion tapped his cane against the floor, then turned to leave. "Think carefully, Jon Snow. A bastard may have no name… but he may still choose his destiny."
And with that, the dwarf walked away, leaving Jon alone on the walkway—caught between the Wall, the world, and a war that had not yet begun.
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