Waking up and Seeking Guidance

Jon awoke with a start, the pre-dawn chill clinging to his skin like frost on a blade. His chamber in Winterfell's great keep lay shrouded in shadows, the dying embers in the hearth casting faint, ruddy glows across the rough-hewn stone walls.

Heart pounding, he sat up in his narrow bed, the woollen blankets pooling around him.

The dream clung to his mind—the Iron Throne's jagged embrace, the whispering wind that had scorched his thoughts—yet it felt more real than any nightmare he'd known, leaving an ache in his temples and a strange hum in his veins, as if some unseen **** thrummed just beneath his flesh.

He rubbed his eyes, the calluses on his palms scraping against stubbled cheeks. Outside, the world stirred faintly: a distant howl from the kennels, the creak of wind through the battlements.

Dawn hovered on the edge, the sky beyond his shuttered window a deep indigo, not yet pierced by light. The king's royal progress would arrive by midday, bringing feasts and fanfare, but for Jon, it meant only farewells—he had listened to the whispers as to why the King was coming to greet Lord Stark.

Pushing aside the unease, he swung his legs over the bed's edge, bare feet meeting the cold rush mats. He moved with quiet efficiency, habits born of a lifetime in the shadows of his siblings' brighter lives.

From the chest at the foot of his bed, he drew out simple garb: a wool tunic the colour of storm clouds, leather breeches worn soft from training yards, and sturdy boots laced tight against the morning frost.

Over it all, he shrugged into a heavy cloak lined with wolf fur, its weight a familiar shield against the north's bite. Ghost, his direwolf pup, stirred from the corner, pale eyes gleaming in the dimness, but Jon hushed him with a gentle scratch behind the ears—no need to rouse the household yet.

The castle slept on as he slipped from his room, the door's hinges whispering a faint protest.

Torchlight flickered in the corridors, casting long shadows that danced like wraiths, but Jon knew every twist and turn, every loose flagstone that might betray a step.

He descended the spiral stairs, breath clouding in the crisp air, and emerged into the courtyard where frost glittered on the cobblestones like scattered diamonds. The guards on the walls murmured low, their voices muffled by the pre-dawn hush, oblivious to the bastard son ghosting past.

He made for the godswood, drawn by an instinct deeper than thought. The ancient grove lay beyond the castle's heart, a sanctuary of weirwoods and whispering leaves where the Old Gods held court.

Jon pushed through the ironwood gate, its ancient hinges groaning softly, and the world shifted: the air grew thicker, scented with pine resin and damp earth, the ground soft underfoot with fallen needles.

The heart trees loomed like sentinels, their bone-white trunks etched with faces that seemed to watch, red sap weeping from carved eyes like blood tears.

In the centre stood the largest weirwood, its branches sprawling like a crown over the still black pool. Jon knelt before it, the cold seeping through his knees, and bowed his head.

The dream's echoes surged back—the voice's promise, that unwelcome gift thrust upon him.

What did it mean? He sought no thrones, no southern games; he craved only clarity for the road ahead. "Old Gods," he murmured into the silence, the words hanging in the mist of his breath, "if you listen to bastards, show me a sign. Guide me through whatever shadow that dream has cast."

The leaves rustled faintly overhead, as if in answer, but the face remained impassive, their secrets locked in eternal vigil.