Jon stared at the bucket in the corner of the stone room and felt a twinge of apprehension. It has been more than a week since he reincarnated in this hell hole but still, he didn't get used to this kind of bathrooms yet.

  A bathroom in Winterfell wasn’t a room, it was a corner with a pail, a basin, and enough cold stone to make your teeth chatter before your body even realized it. He shivered—not from the cold, but from the challenge ahead.

  The first obstacle was his clothing. Layers pressed down on him like a leaden cage. He tugged at his woolen tunic, struggled to wriggle out of his padded jerkin, and yanked the thick cloak off over his shoulders, already shivering from the effort. His woolen breeches clung to his legs, stiff and scratchy, and his boots felt like iron. Every movement was a battle: bend too far and the layers pulled, twist too fast and the cloak snagged. He cursed quietly under his breath. “And I used to hate the office's bathrooms…”

  Finally unencumbered enough, he lowered himself toward the bucket. Balance was a full-body exercise. One wrong shift and he could spill, slip, or topple entirely, making a mess of himself and the stone. He muttered, “Bloody hell… it’s just a bucket!”

  The water basin offered a reprieve—or at least a challenge of its own. Cold. Freezing cold. His hands recoiled instinctively, slapping the surface, tiny splashes sending droplets across his boots and the floor. He scrubbed quickly, every motion awkward; the wool of his socks and breeches had already soaked slightly from his shivering, clinging to his skin like a punishment.

  Even the simplest motions became ridiculous: trying his best to adjust the breeches, leaning forward while trying to keep balance, bending over to rinse his hands. His arms tensed; his back protested; the bucket seemed to mock him with every clang against stone. He cursed again, under his breath, louder this time. “I swear, I will never take warm water for granted again.”

  Every move was a negotiation between body and fabric, between modern reflexes and medieval reality. He stumbled slightly, and fought to straighten before he lost dignity entirely.

  Finally, he adjusted the cloak and tunic, tugged the jerkin back into something like order, and wiped his hands on the hem of the woolen tunic, leaving streaks of cold water across his chest. He breathed heavily, shaking, and muttered, “I can’t believe I used to complain about traffic lights.”

  Exhausted, cold, and slightly triumphant, he realized how much every small task in this place demanded awareness and effort.

  Jon looked at the bucket, feeling disgusted, he knew that no one will clean after him, he needs to empite the bucket in the disposal pits , either in early morning or late at night so the smell doesn't spread into the corridors while he's carrying the bucket, that was the job of the lowest ranking servants here, but they clean after the other children, as for the lord's chambers, they have their own privy with underground channel to get ride of the wastes.

  So Jon's only option is to clean after himself.

  After sitting in his room alone for sometime, Jon decided to go out and see what winterfell has for him today.

  Jon stepped into the courtyard just as the boys were finishing their morning sparring. The wooden swords clattered against shields, ringing out in the cold, gray air.

  His stomach tightened. He knew what was expected: he would join them eventually. But for now, he stayed at the edge, pretending to observe.

  A voice sliced through the wind.

  “Snow. You’re staring again. Do you plan to watch all day, or are you finally going to try?”

  Jon turned to see Theon Greyjoy leaning against a post, smirk sharp as a knife. His eyes glittered with malice.

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  “I was just…” Jon began to talk, but Theon stepped closer, cutting him off.

  “Don’t lie. You’re afraid. Afraid you’ll make a fool of yourself.”

  Jon’s jaw clenched. He didn’t respond. Any word could be twisted, mocked, turned against him. Theon thrived on that, that's what the child's mind remembers about Theon.

  Theon shoved him lightly, not enough to hurt physically but enough to make him stumble on the icy stones. He laughed. “See? Weak as ever.”

  Jon bit back a retort. He had no strength yet, only awareness, and awareness did nothing against someone like Theon.

  Robb appeared then, striding through the yard. “Leave him be, Theon. He’ll join when he’s ready.” His voice was calm, commanding—but Jon sensed no real protection, only a warning for Theon to be subtle. Theon only grinned wider.

  Jon's eyes tracked Theon, his mind alert to every movement, every sneer, every mocking glance. Theon’s laughter followed him like a shadow, and only now did Jon realize how much of a mental pressure Theon caused to the original owner of this small body .

  Befor the end of the training session, Jon retreated to the maester’s study. The silence there was a relief, this was one of the very few places where Jon felt at peace. here, there is no Theon, no servants glancing at him with disgust, no shame or boys making fun of him, here he can be himself, no need to worry wether his feelings were genuine or echos of past lives. Once Jon entered the study, Maester Luwin glanced at him, then the maester returned to sorting papers.

  “Jon, you seem quite enthusiastic about studying these days.” Luwin said. “Unlike your usual self, But that's a good thing, you will go through history today, The names, the events, the lineages. You must know where you stand before you can stand at all.”

  Jon nodded. He could do this. At least here, there was structure, a measure of control. He scribbled names and dates, absorbing them in silence.

  A flicker of memory brushed past—his wife laughing at a story he had told her, the warmth of her hand on his shoulder. It was brief, almost painful in its brevity. He pushed it aside. He can't afford to lose himself in his daydreams, he needs to control this yearning for the past, live the present and plan for the future.

  Winterfell demanded attention.

  And like that, Jon sought solace in the library. The rows of shelves rose above him like silent giants. The scent of old parchment and ink was intoxicating, almost sweet against the chill of the stone halls. He wandered, tracing spines with his fingers, letting the knowledge seep into him. History, the deeds of long-dead men and women, battles, treaties, old maps—here, he could hide, even if briefly, from Theon, from Catelyn, from the indifference of everyone else.

  Jon drifted between the shelves slowly, fingertips brushing spines.

  Titles revealed themselves in faded ink and cracked leather:

  The Kings of Winter — a heavy tome bound in grey sealskin, its edges darkened by age

  The First Men: Their Customs and Burdens

  On the Old Gods and the Silence They Keep

  The Wall and What It Guards

  The North Remembers: Sayings, Songs, and Hard Truths

  Meditations on Duty, by Maester Harmune

  These were not books meant to entertain. They were records. Warnings. Explanations offered without comfort.

  He pulled The Kings of Winter. The weight of it surprised him—real weight, the kind that made his wrists tense. He carried it to a narrow table and opened it carefully, the parchment whispering in protest.

  The writing was dense. Precise.

  He read slowly, adjusting to the cadence, the rhythm of a world that did not soften its words for the reader.

  “The North was not forged by banners or crowns, but by endurance. Winter makes no distinction between lord and beggar; it only measures how long one can stand before bending. Those who ruled longest were not the strongest of arm, but the hardest of will. A king who sought love perished quickly. A king who sought duty endured.”

  Jon stopped.

  Not because he didn’t understand—but because he did.

  He read the paragraph again.

  Then once more.

  The words didn’t lecture. They didn’t persuade. They stated a truth and left him alone with it.

  He closed the book gently and reached for another.

  Suddenly he remembered his own set of books and novels in his past life, he used to read about history , theology, philosophy, books were one of his pleasures in the past life.

  He lingered there, breathing in the quiet, the only sound the soft scuff of his boots on the floor.

  By the time he returned to his room, the cold had settled deep into his bones. He sat on the narrow cot, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, a new day will come but with the same mockery from Theon, the same disgusted looks from the servants, the same everything that led little Jon to abandon this life.

  Right now Jon was not worried about the wars or the crazy events that is going to unfold in the future. He wasn't an obsessed fan of this fucked up world in the first place, he might have some knowledge of the main events but that was all.

  Right now Jon was worried about living his life trapped in this place, a place where even survival looks like a troublesome task, especially with everyone in this place ostracizing him.