ASOIAF : Creed

On his last few days at the Wall, a strange, quiet restlessness took hold of Jon. He had done everything he had set out to do—spoken with his uncle, found counsel with Maester Aemon, and honed his skills to a razor's edge. His path was set, a line drawn on a map leading east, away from everything he had ever known. But something was missing: a final goodbye.

He found Benjen in the stables, checking the rigging on a new saddle.

"Uncle Benjen," Jon began, his voice quiet. "I have a request."

Benjen looked up, his eyes full of weary, protective concern. "What is it, Jon?"

"Before I leave... I want to see a weirwood. One last time." Jon looked toward the colossal, shimmering face of the Wall. "I know there's a grove north of here—where the brothers take their vows. I want to see it. To... pay my respects to the Old Gods."

Benjen was silent for a long moment, but he understood. This wasn't just about religion. It was about Lyanna. It was a pilgrimage to the heart of his mother's faith—a final connection to the Stark blood in his veins before he left his home behind.

"That's north of the Wall, Jon," Benjen said, his voice low. "In the Haunted Forest. It's not a place for a stroll."

"I know," Jon replied. "But I need to do this."

Benjen held his gaze, seeing the iron resolve in his nephew's eyes. "Wait here," he said at last. "I'll speak with the Lord Commander."

He returned an hour later, his face grim, but his eyes held a reluctant approval. "The Old Bear agrees," he said. "He calls it a fool's errand, but he says the Watch owes you a debt. We ride at first light. Just the two of us. And we do not linger."

They left before the sun had even crested the Wall—two dark figures riding through the ice tunnel into the vast, silent wilderness of the true North. The Haunted Forest was not like the wolfswood of Winterfell. The trees here were older, bigger, their branches heavy with snow, their presence ancient and brooding. The silence was absolute, a heavy, listening quiet that seemed to swallow the sound of their horses' hooves.

Jon felt a thousand unseen eyes upon them, and for the first time, he activated The Sight not to find an enemy, but to see the forest itself. The ancient weirwoods glowed with a faint, impossibly old blue-white aura.

[Intent: Watchful. Ancient. Asleep]

A chill ran down his spine, sharper than the cold. This wasn't just symbolism. This wasn't just belief. This was real. The magic of the Old Gods—it seemed the First Men had been right to fear the weirwood trees.

After a few hours of tense, silent riding, they arrived.

The grove was a place of sacred stillness. Nine massive weirwoods stood in a circle, their bone-white bark a stark contrast to the dark green sentinels around them. In the center stood the heart tree, its gnarled branches reaching like skeletal arms toward the grey sky, its carved face weeping frozen tears of red sap.

Jon dismounted, his boots crunching in the snow. He walked slowly into the center of the circle, his head tilted back, looking up at the canopy of blood-red leaves against the grey. This was it—the heart of his mother's world, the source of the Stark's strength. He breathed in the cold, clean air, trying to burn the image into his memory.

The profound, listening silence. The sight of the weeping face on the ancient, bone-white bark. He knew, with a certainty that ached, that it would be a long, long time before he stood before the Old Gods as a son of the North again. He closed his eyes for a moment, offering a silent, nameless prayer—not of worship, but of farewell.

As he turned to leave, a strange, inexplicable feeling took hold of him—not a thought or a sound, but a deep, instinctual pull. His eyes were drawn to a snowdrift near the base of the heart tree, a place he had overlooked.

"What is it?" Benjen asked, seeing the look on his face.

Jon didn't answer. He walked toward the drift, a sense of fated significance settling over him. There, curled into a small, tight ball and almost invisible against the snow, was a direwolf pup. A small, silent bundle of pure white fur, utterly alone. It wasn't whimpering or crying. It was simply watching him, its eyes as red as the weirwood's leaves.

"Gods be good," Benjen breathed from behind him. "A lone pup... I've never seen the like."

An outcast. A ghost. Like him.

He knelt in the snow and gathered the small, shivering creature into his arms. The moment his fingers touched its fur, a powerful, undeniable connection sparked between them—a silent understanding deeper than words. The System chimed, its text a brilliant, shimmering silver.

[Familiar Bond Forged: Direwolf]

[Wolf-Dream skill has been enhanced]

[New Skill Unlocked: Beast Sense (Tier I) – You can feel the general emotional state and surface thoughts of your bonded familiar.]

Jon didn't know what the bond meant, not yet—but something inside him felt more complete than it had in years.

As he held the pup, he reached out his free hand and placed it on the cold, hard bark of the heart tree.

The world dissolved. He was no longer in the forest. He was in a dream, a vision unfolding soft as snowfall, sharp as truth.

He saw a silver wolf, alone on a hill of snow, howling into a storm. From its eyes fell tears like rubies, staining the white ground red. The snow beneath its paws began to smoke, curling into ash.

He saw a star fall from the heavens, trailing fire, drowning in a sea of smoke. But in the deep, it pulsed once, twice—and rose again. No longer a star, but a sword of pale flame, singing with light.

Then came a vision slower than the rest: a crown of winter, impossibly cold, melting under the weight of a single, sorrowful dragon's tear.

The visions faded, leaving behind a single, clear thought that was not his own, a rustle of a thousand leaves at once:

"Go."

The voice echoed in his head as he snapped back to reality with a sharp gasp, kneeling in the snow. The world seemed to spin for a moment, the images from the vision—a silver wolf, a drowning prince, a sword of starlight—a confusing, chaotic storm in his mind. He shook his head, trying to clear it, the meaning of the cryptic symbols just out of his grasp. He didn't know what it all meant, what any of it meant. But the final command, the rustle of a thousand leaves speaking as one, had been brutally, undeniably clear

"What will you do with him, Jon?" Benjen asked, his voice pulling Jon fully from his reverie. "You can't bring a direwolf on a ship to Essos."

Jon looked down at the creature, then back at his uncle. "He's coming with me. He's an outcast, like me. It feels... fated."

Benjen was silent for a moment, a look of grim understanding on his face. "He needs a name, then."

Jon looked at the pup's white fur, as pale as the snow, and at its silent, watchful nature. It made no sound—a phantom in the snow.

"Ghost," he said. The name felt right, a perfect reflection of them both.

They rode back to Castle Black in silence, the small, white direwolf tucked safely inside Jon's cloak—a warm, living companion for his journey.

His mind, however, was far from silent. The vision churned within him, the cryptic images refusing to fade. He remembered Old Nan's stories from his childhood, tales of the Children of the Forest and the First Men. She had spoken of "greendreams," prophetic visions sent by the Old Gods through the weirwoods.

That evening, he sought out the Castle Black library. It was smaller than Winterfell's, but its collection on the ancient North was surprisingly deep. He found what he was looking for in a heavy, leather-bound book called The Skinchangers of the Frozen Shore. He read for hours, Ghost sleeping silently at his feet.

The book spoke of the magic in the blood of the First Men. It described greenseers, those who could receive prophetic dreams, and wargs, or skinchangers, those who could enter the minds of animals and share their senses. He read of the powerful bond between a warg and their chosen beast, a connection that transcended words.

It all clicked into place. His [Wolf-Dream] and [Beast Sense] skills were not just random abilities granted by the System. They were a manifestation of the ancient magic of his mother's bloodline, awakened and quantified by the System's power. The vision had been a greendream, a true prophecy. He was a warg. He was a greenseer. He was a Stark, in a way he had never truly understood before.

He had come to the grove to say goodbye to the North. But the North, it seemed, had other plans. It had given him a companion for his lonely road, and a final, living piece of his mother's world to carry with him into the fire.

On his last afternoon at the Wall, Jon sought out Maester Aemon for a final conversation. He found the solar empty, Clydas informing him that the Maester was tending to a sick man in the infirmary and would be gone for an hour or more. It was the opportunity he had been waiting for.

He sat at the Maester's small writing desk, the quiet of the rookery a perfect shield. From his inventory, he retrieved the components: the reinforced leather bracer, the sharp stiletto blade, and the collection of strange, custom-made springs, plates, and rings he had commissioned from Donal Noye.

He laid them out on the desk—a puzzle of leather and steel. Then he called up the schematic for the [Hidden Blade] from the System, a ghostly, three-dimensional image of the assembled weapon hovering in the air before him, visible only to his eyes.

The work was slow and painstaking. His fingers, though nimble, fumbled with the tiny, intricate parts. The schematic showed him how the interlocking plates formed a track, how the spring mechanism had to be perfectly aligned to deliver the right amount of tension. Twice, he nearly sliced his own thumb on the razor-sharp edge of the blade as he tried to fit it into its housing.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, it was done. He held the finished product in his hand: a simple, dark leather bracer that hid a deadly secret. He strapped it to his left forearm, the leather fitting snugly against his skin. He took a deep breath, his heart hammering in his chest. The schematic had shown that the trigger was a small, internal pressure plate. It required a specific, deliberate motion—the curling of his ring finger to press the button against his palm—to activate.

With a soft, metallic shink, the blade shot forward, locking into place over his wrist. He held his hand steady, marveling at the deadly design. With another, more subtle movement, the blade retracted, vanishing back into the bracer with a quiet, satisfying click.

He tested it again. Shink. Click. Out and in. A hidden blade—now a permanent part of him. He wore it beneath the sleeve of his tunic, a cold, reassuring weight on his arm.

The next morning, the courtyard was bustling. A supply contingent was preparing to ride for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. It was the perfect cover—an arrangement Benjen had made for him. From there, a ship to Braavos would be an easy thing to find.

He said his first goodbye in the Maester's solar.

"The world is a large place, Aemon Targaryen," the old man said, his blind eyes seeming to see into Jon's soul. "Find your own path in it. And try to find some happiness along the way. It is the one thing our family has always struggled to hold onto."

"I will, grand-uncle," Jon said, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't name.

His final farewell was with his uncle, by the gates. Ghost sat silently at his feet, a pale shadow against the snow. Benjen handed him a heavy purse of coins.

"This is from me. Don't argue. You'll need it."

Jon took it, then held out a letter. "For my… for Lord Stark. Will you see that he gets it?"

Benjen took the letter, his face a mask of sorrow. "I will."

They stood in silence for a long moment—an uncle and a nephew at the end of the world.

"Be careful, Jon," Benjen said at last, his voice rough.

Then, softer—almost an afterthought: "We're Starks. Even when we stand alone. Don't forget that."

"I will," Jon replied. He pulled his uncle into a fierce, final hug. "Thank you. For everything."

He swung himself into the saddle, Ghost leaping up to sit before him, a silent, watchful companion. He did not look back. He rode out with the contingent, through the great ice tunnel, and into the pale light of the morning.