"Jon POV"
The night is colder than usual, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones no matter how many layers you wear. But I welcome it. It keeps me sharp, keeps me moving. My breath comes in quiet puffs of mist as I saddle my horse, a dark-coated courser I purchased with the last of my name day gold. It isn't much, but it will serve.
I've spent the past few hours gathering supplies, moving carefully so as not to draw attention. A bedroll, dried meats, a waterskin, a hunting knife. Not much else. I don't need much else.
Winterfell is quiet. Most are asleep, save for the night watch on the walls. I stick to the shadows, moving like a ghost through the courtyard. It should feel wrong to leave like this, but it doesn't. It feels inevitable.
I pause just outside the stables, glancing up at the Great Keep. Somewhere inside, Robb is likely still stewing over our fight. I feel a flash of guilt, but it's quickly smothered by something sharper. Anger. Not just at him, but at everything. At Lady Stark's venomous stares. At my father's silence. At a life spent fighting for a place that was never mine to claim.
I tighten my grip on the reins. No more.
With one last look at Winterfell, I pull myself into the saddle. I do not hesitate. I do not look back.
By the time the first rays of dawn touch the walls, I am already far, far away.
"Catelyn POV"
The morning brings clarity, the kind that makes the air seem fresher, the halls lighter, the weight on my chest just a little less suffocating. It is a good morning.
Jon Snow is gone.
I suspected it when I did not see him at first meal, but I knew it for certain when the hushed whispers of the servants carried the truth to my ears. The bastard had fled in the night like the unwanted thing he was. The thought alone makes me press my lips together to hide the smallest of smiles.
I feel no guilt. If anything, I feel relief. He was always a storm cloud hanging over this house, a reminder of betrayal, of weakness. Ned's weakness. His presence made Winterfell feel less like my home and more like a prison, one where I was forced to endure the living proof of my husband's faithlessness every day.
But now, he is gone. Gone of his own volition. And that is the most satisfying part.
"Ned POV"
The fire roars in the hearth, but it does nothing to warm the icy fury settling in my chest.
Jon is gone.
It is Maester Luwin who delivers the news, his voice careful, measured. As if he fears my reaction. He should.
I grip the armrest of my chair, knuckles turning white. I want to believe it is an impulsive act, that he will return before the night falls. But I know better. Jon has always carried the weight of his place in this house like a stone around his neck. And I have let it weigh on him too long.
The realization is bitter. I meant to take him and Robb on a hunt, to set things right, to remind them that they are brothers, not rivals. But I have been too blind, too distracted by duty to see how deep the rot has spread.
I stand, my voice sharp as I address Luwin. "Send word to the gates and have the men search the roads. If he is within reach, I want him brought back."
Luwin hesitates. "And if he refuses to return, my lord?"
I exhale through my nose, shaking my head. If Jon does not wish to be found, he won't be. "Then let him go."
The words taste of failure.
But failure can be rectified.
Winterfell Will Change
By midday, I begin setting things right.
The household has become complacent, indulgent in their pettiness and divisions. No longer.
I gather the guard in the courtyard and make it clear: discipline will be enforced. Not through cruelty, but through purpose. There will be no whispers, no rumors, no favoritism among the men. Those who cannot follow this command will find themselves dismissed.
Next, I turn to my wife.
I find Catelyn in her solar, sewing as if nothing has changed. As if she is not responsible for driving my son from his home. I do not raise my voice. I do not argue. Instead, I strip her of the power she has wielded unchecked for too long.
"I will be handling household affairs directly from now on," I tell her. "You will tend to the children and nothing more."
She looks up, her lips parting in protest, but something in my expression stops her. Good. I am tired of fighting shadows in my own home.
Finally, there is the matter of Riverrun's influence.
Too many of the servants answer to Catelyn first and to me second. That ends today. I summon them one by one and deliver their dismissal. They will be sent back to Riverrun, their wages paid in full. Only the septa remains, but even she will find herself with less to do.
The sept they have begun building will be decommissioned. The excuse is simple: I am the Lord of Winterfell, and I do not see the need for one. The godswood is sacred. The Old Gods have guided the Starks for centuries. I do not require the Seven's hollow blessings.
But I do not say this aloud. Instead, when pressed, I offer the simplest truth: "Because I can."
Let them think what they will.
Winterfell will be set right. My children will be raised as Starks, with honor and discipline. And if my wife or her southern sensibilities stand in the way, then she will find that I am not the quiet, patient man she has taken me for.
Jon is gone.
But I will not fail my remaining children. Not again.
"Jon POV"
The wind cuts across the moors, carrying the sharp scent of pine and damp earth. Each mile I put between myself and Winterfell should make me feel lighter, but instead, there's a weight pressing against my chest. Not regret. I won't allow myself that luxury. Just the cold reality of what I've done.
The courser moves steadily beneath me, its breath fogging in the night air. I ride south along the Kingsroad for now, but I can't stay on it for long. The main roads are too exposed. Too many eyes, too many people who might recognize me or remember a lone rider traveling toward the western hills. A bastard of Winterfell might not be important enough for most to care, but Lady Stark—no, Catelyn—will not take any chances.
She won't risk me changing my mind. Or worse, returning.
I glance behind me, half-expecting to see the glint of torches bobbing in the distance. She would have sent men, if only to ensure I never made it far enough to turn back. They wouldn't drag me home. No, that would be a kindness. A knife in the ribs or an 'unfortunate accident' on the road would be more her way.
I tighten my grip on the reins and force myself to focus.
Flint's Finger lies far west, near the edge of the sea. If I take the Kingsroad too far south before cutting west, I risk running into travelers or patrols from White Harbor. That is not an option. I will need to turn westward soon, moving along the smaller paths that snake through the Wolfswood.
The Wolfswood is dangerous, but it is also my best chance. The thick trees will keep me hidden, and the only real threats are bandits or the occasional wandering shadowcat. Still, I will need to be careful. I should avoid the major hunting paths—highwaymen tend to stick close to those, waiting for careless merchants or isolated riders. I'll cut through the older trails, the ones where the undergrowth is thicker, where even the wolves move cautiously.
My stomach twists, but I ignore it. I ate this morning before I left, and I've had only a few strips of dried meat since. I cannot afford to waste my supplies, not when there are no villages nearby to restock. I have enough for perhaps a week if I stretch it. Less if I allow myself to eat as much as I want.
I will eat again when I stop for the night.
The trees grow denser as I move off the main road, the shadows stretching long and deep in the moonlight. I need to find a place to camp soon. Somewhere hidden, where I can see anyone approaching before they see me. A ridge, perhaps, or a hollow nestled between thick tree roots.
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