Winterfell did not sleep.
It merely grew quieter.
Jon learned that quickly.
At night, the castle shed its noise layer by layer—the servants first, then the guards' idle chatter, then even the wolves settled into stillness. What remained was the sound of the wind crawling over stone, and the faint creak of a place that had stood too long to ever truly rest.
Jon sat alone in his room, a candle burning low.
On the table lay a letter.
He hadn't opened it.
He already knew what it said.
Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals and the First Men…
He pressed his fingers flat against the parchment, feeling its texture. The wax seal bore the crowned stag. In the show, this letter had been a summons. An honor. A death sentence that arrived smiling.
Ned Stark would ride south.
And he would not come back.
Jon closed his eyes.
This was the first time he truly understood the danger of knowing too much. In stories, foreknowledge was power. Here, it was a weight that pressed against his ribs until breathing felt deliberate.
He could stop it.
The thought came unbidden.
Not shouted. Not tempting.
Just… there.
He could make the letter burn. Make the king fall ill. Make the road south impassable. Make Robert never ask. Make Ned refuse.
The possibilities branched endlessly, effortless as breath.
Jon's stomach turned.
That wasn't how this world worked.
Westeros punished blunt hands. It rewarded knives in the dark, words spoken once and never repeated, choices that looked like accidents long after they were made.
He pulled his hand away from the letter.
"If I'm going to change this," he murmured to the empty room, "I can't do it like a god."
He stood.
The godswood was colder at night.
The heart tree loomed white and silent, its carved face watching with eyes that had seen kings kneel and children die. Snow dusted its roots, untouched, as if even the wind avoided it.
Jon stood before it, breath slow, controlled.
He didn't pray.
He listened.
And again—that feeling.
The world did not pause this time.
It leaned.
Like a door not fully shut.
Jon reached out—not with his hands, but with intent. Not to command. Not to change.
To nudge.
The heart tree's branches creaked softly.
Somewhere far south, a raven shifted on its perch, restless.
Jon felt it then: how easy it would be to do more. How thin the line was between influence and domination. The power didn't demand payment. It didn't resist.
That frightened him more than anything.
He stepped back.
"That's enough," he whispered.
The cold bit deeper, as if in agreement.
The next morning, Winterfell buzzed.
The king's arrival was chaos wrapped in banners and laughter. Robert Baratheon filled the courtyard like a storm given flesh—booming voice, red face, crushing embraces.
Jon watched from the edge, expression carefully neutral.
Robert barely noticed him.
Good.
Ned Stark did.
His father's eyes lingered a moment longer than usual, brows faintly drawn.
Later, as the feast roared on and wine loosened tongues, Ned found Jon in a quieter hall, away from the noise.
"You've been distant," Ned said gently.
Jon chose his words with care. Each one felt like walking a blade's edge.
"Winterfell feels… different," Jon said. "Like it's holding its breath."
Ned studied him. "You sound older."
Jon almost laughed.
"South doesn't suit you," he added softly.
Ned's mouth twitched. "You've never seen the south."
"I've heard enough."
A pause.
Ned turned, looking down the corridor where laughter echoed. "The king wants me to be his Hand."
"I know."
That earned him a sharp look. "I haven't said—"
"You don't have to," Jon said quickly. Too quickly.
Silence stretched.
Jon forced himself to meet Ned's eyes. "Promise me something."
Ned waited.
"When you go," Jon said, "don't trust the smiles. Write often. And if you ever feel… boxed in—leave. Don't stay out of pride."
Ned's gaze softened, but something else flickered beneath it. Concern. Curiosity.
"You speak as if you expect danger."
Jon hesitated.
This was the moment.
He could lie.
Instead, he chose something closer to truth.
"I think the court is rotted," he said. "And rot spreads quietly."
Ned nodded slowly. "You're not wrong."
He placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. Solid. Warm. Real.
"I'll be careful," Ned said.
Jon didn't believe him.
That night, alone again, Jon stood at his window.
Torches flickered below as the royal party prepared for departure. Horses stamped. Armor clinked. History rolled forward, stubborn as a river.
Jon closed his eyes.
Careful isn't enough, he thought.
So he reached—not far, not loudly.
Just enough to twist one thread.
In King's Landing, a man named Jon Arryn's last words shifted on a dying tongue.
Not much.
Just enough.