The wind howled through the dense forests of the North, biting and unforgiving, as Jon Snow ran through the snow-covered woods, his breath sharp and ragged. His feet pounded the frozen earth, leaving behind only a trail of hurried footsteps in the thick snow. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the trees, and Jon could feel the weight of his decision pressing down on him. He couldn't stay. Not after tonight.
He'd reached the breaking point.
Winterfell—his home, his cage—was no longer a place of refuge. Catelyn Stark's cruelty had become too much, her disdain for him too deep. She hated him, treated him like an unwanted ghost in her home. Her words stung, her glares colder than the northern winds. But it was the last straw, the lash of a whip that broke his spirit, the day she had told him he was not welcome, that he would never be a Stark.
Jon had left before the break of dawn, slipping from the castle unnoticed, his heart a heavy weight in his chest. His father, Ned Stark, had tried—he really had—but Jon had seen the helplessness in his eyes, the quiet apology that spoke louder than words. Jon was just another bastard, another reminder of a past that couldn't be erased.
As the sounds of Winterfell faded behind him, Jon knew it was over. He had no home now, no family. Only the cold world ahead.
But that wasn't what terrified him. It was the night. The dread of the coming darkness that clawed at his mind like an invisible force.
The soldiers would come for him. Ned had sent them, no doubt, to bring him back. But Jon was already far beyond their reach. They would never find him.
Hours passed as he moved deeper into the wilderness, the chill sinking into his bones. His thoughts were a muddled mess, grief and rage swirling within him. What was he supposed to do now? He had no place, no purpose. He was just a shadow—a bastard with no future.
But as the moon rose high above him, casting its pale glow over the land, Jon came to a stop. He had been running aimlessly, but now, something else stirred in the air. A feeling. A presence.
Jon turned, his senses heightened, his heart pounding louder than the wind. Through the dense forest, in the distance, he saw it—movement. A figure, cloaked in black, standing still in the shadows. A flicker of steel caught in the moonlight. Jon's curiosity and desperation outweighed any fear, and he approached cautiously.
As he drew closer, he saw the figure was no mere traveler. A man, cloaked in shadows, held a dagger stained crimson in the moonlight. The body of a man, lying in the snow at his feet, blood pooling around him. The assassin's hooded face remained impassive, unmoving as he wiped the blood from his blade.
Jon froze. His heart hammered in his chest. This man was no common killer. He had the look of someone who had lived in darkness his entire life, someone who knew how to end lives without hesitation, without remorse.
"Who are you?" Jon's voice was strained, raw from the cold, but he couldn't stop himself from asking.
The assassin turned, his face shrouded by the darkness of his hood. For a moment, there was only silence between them. Then, the assassin's voice broke the stillness, low and emotionless.
"I am no one," the assassin said simply.
Jon felt a chill run through him—not from the cold, but from the words themselves. He had heard rumors, whispers of an order that existed in the shadows, an order of killers who took on no name, no identity. The Faceless Assassins. The stories told of their ruthlessness, their skill, and their ability to change their faces, to become anyone.
"I want to join you," Jon said, without thinking, the words tumbling from his lips in a rush of desperation. "I have nothing left. No family. No place. No name. I want to become... no one."
The assassin didn't respond immediately. He studied Jon with cold eyes, sizing him up. Jon felt his gaze pierce through him, as though the man was stripping him bare, seeing all his fears, his weaknesses.
Finally, the assassin nodded slowly. "You will have to prove yourself," he said, his voice carrying a weight of finality. "The Faceless do not take on those who cannot let go of their past."
Jon's chest tightened. "I can let go. I have nothing left to hold on to."
The assassin gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Then follow me. There is much to be done, and you are no longer a wolf of Winterfell. You are no one now."
As the assassin turned and melted into the shadows, Jon followed, his heart filled with a strange mixture of dread and hope. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel like a bastard. He didn't feel like the son of Eddard Stark. For the first time, he felt like he was finally stepping into a world that might, just might, offer him the purpose he had always longed for.
And so, Jon Snow—no longer a Stark, no longer a wolf—disappeared into the night, leaving the past behind him, and began his journey into a future he could never have imagined.