Jon’s days had settled into a quiet rhythm.

  Mornings with the sword, afternoons with books. Motion and thought, practice and study—this had become his life.

  And today was no different.

  Morning light filtered into the courtyard, pale and gentle, illuminating frost-kissed stones and worn paths smoothed by generations of boots. Jon carried a wooden practice sword and a scuffed shield as he stepped inside. Other trainees were already moving through their drills: footwork patterns traced carefully across damp stone, quick cuts practiced against fixed poles, repetitive blocks delivered with the patient precision of muscles trained to obey.

  Ser Rodrick stood near a loose cluster of boys, wooden sword in hand, his posture rigid and unyielding. His eyes never lingered on one face for long. He moved constantly—correcting a stance here, adjusting a grip there—watching not for effort, but for mistakes.

  “Keep your feet under you!” Rodrick barked as one boy overreached and nearly lost his balance. “Don’t let the sword lead you—you lead the sword.”

  That was the rhythm of training. Stance, cut, step, repeat. Nothing graceful. Nothing impressive. Purpose over flair. Actually facing an opponent came later; first came learning how to move without opening yourself to death.

  Jon joined the line with quiet resolve. As always, he began with the basics Rodrick emphasized above all else—stance and balance. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight centered, elbow tucked close to the body. His first swing was slow and deliberate, a downward cut.

  Rodrick stepped closer, eyes narrowing as Jon’s shoulders rolled forward too early. “Bend your knees more,” he said, voice steady, unemotional.

  Jon adjusted, lowering himself a fraction, grounding his weight. He swung again. Still imperfect, but closer. He felt the difference immediately.

  Across the yard, others drilled as well. Younger boys repeated thrust-and-step motions until their arms shook, learning movement before aggression. A few edged into controlled contact, discovering how another blade felt against their own.

  They repeated the basics until boredom crept in and arms burned. Only then did Rodrick finally call them together.

  “Partner up. Light contact only,” he ordered. “Respect your opponent. We train to survive, not to hurt.”

  A few boys shifted, breath releasing in quiet relief. The basic drills were over for the day.

  “Thank the gods,” someone muttered under his breath, and another boy whispered, rolling his shoulders, “Finally.”

  Jon’s partner stepped forward, taller and broader, wooden sword in hand, shield already raised. His movements carried the ease of someone long familiar with the yard. Jon tightened his grip and settled into stance.

  “Ready?” the boy asked, casual but sharp.

  Jon nodded.

  They circled, boots scraping lightly against frost. Jon struck first—a horizontal cut toward the torso. The blow met the boy’s shield with a solid thunk, sending a jolt up Jon’s arm. He stumbled half a step, then forced his feet back under him.

  “Too slow!” Rodrick barked. “Don’t let your weight trail behind you!”

  Jon pivoted, swallowing his frustration, and swung again—slower, more controlled. A small success, but a real one.

  The boy answered immediately, advancing with a thrust aimed at Jon’s chest. Jon raised his shield just in time, wood rattling loudly on impact. He steadied himself, forcing his breathing to slow. This time, his next movement was defensive, measured—not reacting blindly, but anticipating.

  “You’re too tense,” Rodrick called, his voice quieter now, eyes fixed briefly on Jon, appreciating resilience. “Relax. Feel the rhythm. You’re not swinging logs.”

  Jon noticed the subtle change of tone—and did not waste it. He exhaled, loosened his grip, and moved again. He stepped back, deflected a thrust, and countered with a wider horizontal cut.

  “Better than last time we paired up,” the boy said with a grin. “But keep your guard up.” He pressed forward.

  They traded blows, the clash of wood ringing across the courtyard. Sweat stung Jon’s eyes, chilling as it met the frost-laden air. His muscles screamed, yet with each failed strike he learned something—the weight of the sword, the timing of a step, the angle that worked and the one that didn’t.

  “Not bad,” Rodrick said as he passed, adjusting another boy’s elbow before glancing back at Jon. “Recover faster. Snow—don’t stiffen your wrist.”

  Jon corrected mid-motion, letting his forearm loosen. He ducked beneath a wide swing and answered with a quick thrust toward the center of his partner’s guard. The blade connected briefly—a clean, deliberate touch.

  He staggered back, breathing hard, face burning. A flicker of pride rose despite himself. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t clean. But it worked.

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  His partner advanced again, faster now. Jon parried once, blocked again, then shifted left—a small, intentional feint. The boy misread it, and Jon, seizing the chance, tapped the boy’s arm lightly with the flat of his blade.

  “Ha!” the boy said, retreating with a confused look. “Didn’t think you had that in you, Snow.”

  Jon didn’t answer. He was too exhausted to speak. But something steady burned in his chest. He understood now what Rodrick wanted—not victories, not praise, but endurance.

  By the end, Jon hadn’t won. Not even close. But he had lasted.

  Jon wiped his brow, hands blistered but steady, and felt the deep, satisfying fatigue of progress earned.

  While Jon embraced the little satisfaction he earned today, Rodrick’s eyes flicked over the yard. The old swordsman was secretly proud of the young ones, but his focus wavered briefly. The clatter of wooden swords and the rhythmic stomp of boots tugged him somewhere else—a memory of a battlefield that haunted him for years, The memory was older than the Greyjoy Rebellion — older, and deeper. Robert’s Rebellion. Chaos, futile bravery, endless loss. For a moment, the scene of the yard and the boys sparring overlapped with blood-soaked fields and men slaughtering one another beneath banners long fallen.

  Though Rodrick had not fought in every battle of that war, he had seen enough of its madness to never truly leave it behind

  Thinking of the grim future that might await these younglings, he exhaled sharply, grounding himself again.

  A few boys noticed the sudden slack in his posture, exchanged quiet glances, whispering barely audibly. “He drifts again… don’t bother him,” one muttered. They all knew Rodrick sometimes disappeared in thought like this, and none asked why.

  Jon didn’t notice. But the rhythm of strikes, the clash of wood on wood, carried more than practice—it carried the ghosts of battles past, reminders that even strength came with scars invisible to the untrained eye.

  Across the yard, another spar drew the boys’ attention. Robb and Theon faced each other, wooden swords gleaming faintly in the pale light, shields poised. Every movement between them was fluid, instinctive—a rhythm Jon had yet to touch.

  Robb tested Theon’s guard with a measured strike. Theon sidestepped, hips twisting smoothly, answering with a counter that tapped Robb’s shield. They moved as if in conversation, each step and pivot anticipating the other’s thought.

  Jon watched closely. Their footwork was flawless—advancing, retreating, pivoting without ever losing balance. Every strike had intent, every block precision. This wasn’t strength. It was discipline, honed through repetition.

  “You’re slower today,” Theon said, smirking as he ducked a blow.

  “Showing you my mercy,” Robb replied with a grin, parrying and tapping Theon’s wrist. “Focus, or you’ll bleed on the yard.”

  Their banter was brief, sharp, without malice. Jon noticed details others missed—Theon’s subtle step back to bait a swing, Robb’s shift of weight that turned defense into offense, the way neither tensed unnecessarily. Without realizing it, Jon was studying their spar, absorbing as much from watching as he did from swinging his own sword.

  They exchanged blows until both paused, breathing hard, faces flushed. No winner.

  They lowered their swords, chests heaving.

  “Not bad,” Robb said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Thought I’d have you on the ropes by now.”

  Theon grinned, tilting his head, mischief sparking in his eyes. “You think too much of yourself, Stark. I was letting you feel clever.”

  Robb’s smile widened, pride rolling off him like armor. “Don’t pretend you weren’t outmatched.”

  Theon laughed, shrugging. “Outmatched? Hardly. Next time, I’ll make sure you feel it.”

  Robb shook his head, still amused. “We’ll see, Greyjoy. We’ll see.”

  Jon tightened his grip on his own sword.

  This is the goal, he thought.

  Not today.

  But one day, he will surpass everyone in this place.

  Hours passed without Jon noticing when one ended and another began. Training faded into routine—a meal eaten absently, hands washed, corridors crossed by habit. Winterfell moved around him as it always had, life continuing in its steady rhythm.

  By late afternoon, Jon found himself in the study—his refuge within the walls.

  The room was quiet, warmed faintly by a small hearth. He reached for a familiar book.

  Northern Myths and Murmurs.

  Opening the page he marked, he lingered for a moment, then continued reading, drawn into the words.

  The North remembers what men choose to forget.

  Of the Pale Cats

  Found where snow swallows sound.

  Their eyes are mirrors, reflecting not light, but intent.

  Hunters who chased them were later found untouched—save for faces frozen in terror.

  Of the Giants

  Once they shaped stone with bare hands and spoke to mountains as kin.

  Some say they fade not by death, but by forgetting.

  Of the Little Ones Beneath the Trees

  They watched when the First Men came.

  They still watch.

  Leaf and bark were their skin, and the forest answered when they bled.

  The stories stirred something in Jon. They reminded him faintly of another book from another life—One Thousand and One Nights. Tales layered within tales, wonder balanced between truth and imagination.

  Yet here, the weight was different. In this world, these stories had roots not just imagination.

  He read until the words blurred and the light dimmed. When he finally closed the book, it felt as though he had returned fully to his body—sore, tired, grounded in stone and cold air.

  And then night came quietly.

  Jon lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the castle settle. His thoughts replayed the day—Rodrick’s corrections, the ache of effort—before drifting further, toward memories he usually kept locked away.

  Of who he had been.

  Of who he was becoming.

  Of the narrow, uneasy space between Jon and Rayan.

  Jon quickly pushed the thought aside, as if dwelling on it too long would bite him.

  Eventually, duty pulled him up again. After all, he didn’t want to spend the night with a bucket filled with his piss.

  He took the bucket and stepped into the empty corridors, the smell unpleasant but familiar. Disgusted, Jon realized it would take him a very long time to get used to this. He emptied it at the disposal pits and scrubbed his hands clean.

  On the way back, his steps slowed. Winterfell felt different at night—larger, quieter, almost watchful. For the first time since arriving in this world, Jon truly looked at the castle: its towers, its walls, its architecture unlike anything he remembered from his former life. Older. Stronger. Built to endure.

  Nostalgia struck once more, hard and sudden. He resisted but finally gave in just enough to let his feet wander aimlessly for some time.

  Then he unintentionally heard a movement.

  In a far corner of the yard, where torchlight thinned into shadow, a small figure swung a wooden sword. Not practicing—playing.

  Jon slowed. Too small for a trainee. A little boy, he thought.

  Then the figure stepped into the edge of the light. Loose hair. Slight frame. A stance wrong for a boy.

  Jon’s breath caught for a second.

  That's Not a boy.

  A girl.