A Song of Fire & Snow (GOT)(Jon Snow)

Chapter 4: Jon Snow

The wind howled across Winterfell's training yard, biting at Jon Snow's skin as he stood before Ser Rodrik Cassel, his wooden practice sword gripped tightly in his hand. He was young—no older than twelve summers—but already, the weight of the world pressed on his shoulders.

"Focus, Jon," Ser Rodrik instructed, his voice stern yet patient.

Jon squared his stance, his feet planted firmly in the snow. Robb stood nearby, practicing with his own sword, and for a moment, Jon let his guard down, watching his half-brother's effortless movements. Robb was a Stark, through and through—born of noble blood, the heir to Winterfell. Jon, by contrast, was a Snow. A bastard. The name was a constant reminder of what he could never be.

Ser Rodrik's wooden sword came down hard, and Jon barely deflected the blow in time, his muscles straining as he pushed back. He was good—better than most of the boys his age—but no matter how skilled he became, it never felt like enough. He fought not just to protect his family, but to prove that he was worthy of the name he could never carry.

As a child, Jon had been acutely aware of Lady Stark's coldness toward him. Her disapproval hung over him like a shadow, dark and ever-present. She had never hidden her disdain, her refusal to see him as anything other than Ned's mistake. While Robb had known the warmth of their mother's love, Jon had known only the sharp edges of her rejection.

But despite it all, Jon found his place in the Starks' world, even if it was on the fringes. He protected his siblings—Arya, especially, who looked up to him with fierce loyalty. He sparred with Robb, always trying to match him, though they both knew Robb was the one who would inherit Winterfell. Jon didn't resent him for it. Robb was his brother in all but name, and the bond between them was one of the few things Jon could rely on.

As the years passed, Jon's skills grew sharper. He fought with a determination that set him apart from the other boys, pushing himself harder, faster, always seeking to be better. He wanted to be more than just the Stark bastard. He wanted to make a name for himself, something that would make his father proud, something that would earn him the respect he longed for.

In the moments of quiet, when the training yard was empty and the cold crept into his bones, Jon often found himself wandering beyond the walls of Winterfell, staring out at the wilderness that lay beyond. The Wall was out there, distant but ever-present in his thoughts. He had heard the stories—the legends of the Night's Watch, the ancient order of men who guarded the realm from the dangers lurking in the far North. He wondered if that was where he truly belonged, beyond the Wall, where no one cared about bloodlines or bastards, only about survival.

The coldness of Lady Stark's gaze had never left him, but Jon had learned to wear his isolation like a second skin. It had hardened him, made him stronger, more determined to carve out his own place in the world. He was a protector, first and foremost. For his brothers, for his sisters, for the North.

But there was a fire inside him, one that he didn't yet understand. It burned with a need to prove himself, to rise above the title that had been forced upon him at birth. And one day, he vowed, he would find a way to make his own mark on this world, far beyond the shadow of the Stark name.