The Winterfell courtyard stirred softly under a pale sky in 285 AC. A faint mist draped the grey stone walls softening their edges, and the air carried the scent of frost laced with woodsmoke.
From the kitchens, the faint clatter of pots drifted, blending with the steady thud of an axe biting into logs near the stables.
In the training yard, five boys aged five and six stood in a loose line. Their small hands gripped wooden swords and bucklers and their breaths were forming fleeting clouds in the chill.
Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's Master-at-Arms, paced before them. His boots crunched on the hard-packed earth, and his voice carried a calm authority.
"Spread your feet, Ben." He stopped beside a lanky boy whose stance was too rigid, nudging his ankle with the flat of his wooden sword. "Shoulder-width apart and knees bent. You're not rooted like a tree." Stepping back, he lifted his own sword, its weathered wood catching the weak sunlight.
He demonstrated a slow, deliberate cut. "One strike, it should be smooth and steady. You'll learn to parry before you swing."
The boys followed, their movements were stiff but earnest and the soft clack of wood meeting wood echoed, mingling with their quiet grunts.
A squire, a lean youth with a mop of brown hair stood nearby with a water skin slung over his shoulder, he was ready to adjust a slipping grip or offer a sip when small arms faltered.
This was their first season in the yard, a rite sanctioned by Lord Stark's command: Start them at five with wooden weapons.
Months earlier, Ser Rodrik had presented the swords and bucklers before the gate in a simple ceremony, a northern tradition marking their path to manhood.
Now, they practiced the basics; stance, footwork, careful cuts, and parries under his watchful gaze.
"No wild swings, lads," he said as one boy's sword wobbled. "Keep your guard up, or you'll taste the dirt." The lesson would end when their arms grew heavy or their focus wavered, Ser Rodrik's patience tempered by his insistence on discipline.
Beyond the yard, near a low stack of firewood dusted with frost, two smaller boys lingered.
Robb Stark, three years old, bounded about with a stick in hand. His auburn curls peeked from beneath a wool cap that sat askew on his head. "Take that, you bandit!" he called out, his voice bright with glee as he slashed at the air. Dust swirled around his boots, and his stick became a hero's blade in a world woven from his imagination.
Beside him stood Jon, two and a half, his dark hair tucked under a cap that sagged over his brow. He clutched a twig, its bark rough and cool against his small fingers, but he didn't swing it.
His eyes were fixed on the training yard, studying the boys' stances with a focus that felt too heavy for his age.
'Feet apart and weight on the back foot', he thought, his mind sharp despite the clumsy limits of his toddler's body.
He wasn't just a child; he was a stranger in this world, someone who had watched Game of Thrones in another life, who knew the fates of kings and the horrors creeping beyond the Wall.
'Knees bent, sword angled up. Keep it steady.' Each motion burned into his memory, it's a step toward surviving the wars he knew were coming; White Walkers, betrayals and a throne soaked in blood.
The yard unfolded like a quiet dance.
A boy's sword dipped too low and Ser Rodrik corrected it with a gentle tap.
Another shifted his weight poorly teetering, and the squire stepped forward, guiding his feet with a murmured, "Easy, kid. Do it like this."
The air held the faint smell of leather and sweat, and the ground bore faint grooves from years of drills.
Jon watched it all, his small chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. 'First the stance, then the cut. Slow, like he shows them.' His fingers tightened on the twig, his arm was itching to mimic the motion but he held still.
Robb spun toward him with his stick raised high. "Jon! play!" His grin was wide and his cheeks pink from the cold. "Fight bad guys! You knight!" His words tumbled out, short and eager, his small voice tripping over the sounds but brimming with excitement. His stick waved wildly, nearly clipping Jon's cap.
Jon blinked, drawn from the yard's steady cadence. He looked at Robb; his brother, his tether to this strange new life and felt a quiet warmth.
Robb's world was games and laughter, unshadowed by the burdens Jon carried, and he wanted to keep it that way. "Not now, Robb," he said softly, his voice thick and the words felt awkward on his tongue. He offered a small smile hoping it seemed natural. "Maybe soon."
Robb's face fell for a moment, but his frown vanished as quickly as it came. "No fun!" he chirped, darting off to battle an imaginary foe behind the firewood.
His stick struck the pile with a thwack, sending a puff of dust into the air.
Jon's gaze returned to the yard.
A boy named Tom, stocky for his age, stood with his feet too close together.
Ser Rodrik knelt beside him, guiding his legs apart. "Shoulder-width, Tom," he said, his tone firm but kind. "Feel the ground under you."
Jon repeated the words silently: 'Shoulder-width.'
Another boy swung his sword too fast, the wood clattering against his buckler.
Ser Rodrik's voice cut through: "Slow down, Will. Control the blade, don't let it control you."
'Control,' Jon thought, tucking the lesson away.
The morning unfolded slowly, and the sun was climbing higher with its light burning away the mist.
A kitchen maid crossed the courtyard, her apron speckled with flour.
She paused to watch Robb's antics, a fond smile softening her face. "Lord Stark's heir," she said to a stablehand hauling a bundle of straw. "Full of spirit, that one."
The stablehand glanced over, his eyes brushing past Jon, who stood still as a shadow. "Aye, but the other's quiet. Odd for a boy so young," he said, shrugging as he moved on.
Jon heard their words but gave no sign, his focus locked on the yard.
The twig in his hand felt like more than it was, a promise, a first step.
'Two years', he thought, imagining himself at five with a wooden sword in his grip and Ser Rodrik's voice shaping his strikes.
The idea sparked something inside him, a steady and unyielding resolve.
He had to be ready.
Robb's laughter rang out again as he lunged at his invisible raider, his stick carving wild arcs.
Jon watched him for a moment, his lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. He's strong, he thought. 'He'll be great one day and I'll protect him, no red weddings under my watch.' For now, though, Robb was just a boy, and Jon would let him stay that way as long as the world allowed.
The training yard pressed on, the boys' swords moving slower now and their small arms tiring.
Ser Rodrik clapped his hands, his voice warm but final. "That's enough for today, lads. Rest well, and we'll try again tomorrow." The boys scattered, some rubbing their shoulders, others chattering as they handed their swords to the squire.
Jon remained where he was with the twig still in his hand and his eyes lingering on the empty yard.
The stances replayed in his mind; feet apart, knees bent and sword steady.
He'd hold them close, building his strength piece by piece until his body could match his will.
The courtyard settled into its familiar rhythm, Robb's laughter fading as he ran toward the stables.
Jon stood alone, a small figure against Winterfell's vastness, carrying a weight no one else could see.