ASOIAF : Creed

The world grew colder with every league they traveled north—colder not just in temperature, but in color, in spirit. Now the land was pale and hollow, a bleak white canvas of snow and silence. Even the sky seemed drained, hanging overhead like a sheet of washed-out slate.

The King's Road had long since disappeared beneath the snow. They followed instead a narrow, frozen trail—little more than an impression in the ice—winding toward the Wall. Jon had heard tales of the North beyond Winterfell, but they hadn't done justice to the silence, to the sheer vastness of it all. There was no warmth here. No color. No mercy.

Mole's Town was less a town and more a burrow beneath the snow. There were a few squat, windowless buildings on the surface, but the true village was underground, a warren of tunnels and cellars dug deep into the earth to escape the endless cold. Steam rose from hidden vents in the snow, carrying the faint, smell of boiled turnips and damp earth.

A few women watched them pass from the tops of stone stairwells that led down into the darkness, their faces pale and pinched, their eyes full of a weary curiosity. It was a grim, joyless place, a last, desperate stop for those with nowhere else to go. Jon met one pair of eyes and looked away.

Ahead, Castle Black emerged like a wound in the whiteness. Its towers were squat and scarred, its walls stained with smoke and soot, its timber keeps clinging to the base of the Wall like branches on a cliff. The Wall itself dwarfed everything, rising into the sky—blue and grey and eternal.

As they passed through the gate, a horn sounded—a long, echoing note. Men in black stopped what they were doing and turned. Their faces were weathered by ice and time, unreadable in the way of men who had already survived too much.

From among them stepped a man with long, rangy strides—familiar, sure-footed even across packed snow.

"Jon!" he called, a broad, relieved smile breaking across his face.

"Uncle Benjen." The words left Jon in a breath that turned to fog, and for the first time in weeks, a genuine smile broke across his own.

Benjen Stark, First Ranger of the Night's Watch, looked older than Jon remembered, but not diminished. He carried the wildness of the North in his eyes—keen and restless. He wasn't alone. Two men stood beside him, one massive and fur-cloaked, the other sharp as a flint blade.

The larger man had a shaved head and a grim face that bore no nonsense. A black raven sat on his shoulder, unmoving but alert, its dark eyes watching Jon like it understood more than a bird should. He stepped forward, his gaze taking in not just Jon, but Vayon Poole and the guards.

"Master Poole," the old man said, his voice a low growl. "Welcome to Castle Black. I trust the journey was not too harsh. I am Jeor Mormont, the Lord Commander." He gestured for two of his men. "Take the new recruits to the cells. They'll be processed in the morning."

As the prisoners were led away, Benjen placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Lord Commander, this is my nephew, Jon Snow. He's come to visit, to see the Wall for himself."

Jon stepped forward slightly. "Lord Commander. It is an honor."

Mormont's grim face did not soften, but he gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. "We are honored to host a son of Winterfell. I trust you will enjoy your stay." His eyes, sharp and assessing, seemed to linger on Jon for a moment longer than necessary.

Benjen then gestured to the other man, whose lips were curled in a faint, dismissive sneer. "And this is Ser Alliser Thorne, our Master-at-Arms."

Ser Alliser said nothing, his cold eyes simply raking over Jon in a look of clear distaste.

Benjen ignored him and turned back to Jon, his own eyes softening. "Come. Let's warm you up. There's talk ahead of us."

He led Jon across the yard, past the armory and the kennels, through courtyards swept raw by the wind. The King's Tower was spartan but sturdy, built not for comfort but endurance. Inside, the stone walls held a welcome heat. A fire blazed in the hearth, its light golden against the grey.

Benjen poured mulled wine into two plain wooden cups. "I was surprised when I saw your father's raven," he said, handing one to Jon. "Truly. I never thought he'd let you come. So… are you ready to take the black?"

Jon took the cup in cold hands and held it for a moment, letting the warmth seep into his bones. "No," he said. "I'm not joining the Watch."

Benjen blinked. The smile faded from his face. "Then why are you here? Your father's letter said—"

"It said what it needed to say," Jon cut in. "I'm here to see you. One last time. And then I'm leaving Westeros. I'm going to Essos."

Benjen frowned. "Essos? What's happened? Did you quarrel with your father? With Robb?"

Jon's throat tightened. "Something like that." He looked up, fixing his uncle with a steady gaze. "Uncle… do you know who my mother was?"

Benjen stiffened. The flicker in his eyes was all Jon needed. "No," he said eventually, his voice low. "Your father never told me. It was a secret he kept to himself. Even from me."

Jon reached into his pack and pulled out the folded banner. When he unfurled it across the table, the flames caught on the red dragon, and the fabric shimmered like blood and shadow.

Benjen stared at it, his lips parting in disbelief. "What…?"

"It was in Aunt Lyanna's tomb," Jon said. "With a letter. From her. To her son."

He held out the parchment. Benjen took it with hesitant hands, as if afraid of what it might say.

Silence stretched as his eyes moved across the page. The fire popped softly behind them.

When he finished, his hands lowered slowly, still holding the letter. His face was pale, stricken.

Benjen's eyes snapped to Jon's—searching, haunted. "No. Gods, Jon, no…"

"It's true," Jon said. Then he told him everything: the crypt, the letter, the quiet fury in Eddard's voice when the truth spilled out. The truth of Rhaegar, of Lyanna. Of the choice—to live a lie in safety, or to leave everything behind.

Benjen slumped onto a stool. He didn't speak. The fire cracked in the silence, as if struggling to stay alive in the cold truth.

Finally, Benjen whispered, "That damned fool. He bore it all alone? Never told anyone? Did he think I would betray him? That I wouldn't help carry that burden?" His anger was not for the secret itself, but for the lack of trust, for the burden his brother had chosen to carry.

"You always had a piece of her in you, you know," Benjen murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "That wildness, that quiet strength. I saw it, but I never understood. She would have been so proud of the man you've become." He shook his head slowly. "So the war was built on a lie. She wasn't stolen. She chose Rhaegar."

"She did," Jon said, his voice quiet.

Benjen looked up, his eyes sharp again. "And now you must leave because of the choice Ned gave you? To stay and live a lie, or to leave forever? He put that on you?" His anger flared anew, this time hotter, directed at the cruelty of the ultimatum. "Gods, Ned! What was he thinking, forcing that on a boy?"

"He was thinking of how to keep his promise," Jon said, his voice weary but firm. "He was thinking of Robert Baratheon and what happened to Elia's children. He was thinking of peace. I am angry with him… but I understand the choice he made."

Benjen was silent, the truth of Jon's words hitting him like a physical blow. He paced the small room, "So what now? What is your plan?"

"I will go to Essos," Jon said, the words finally spoken aloud.

"To Essos?" Benjen's voice was sharp, incredulous. "Are you mad, Jon? You're a boy of fourteen! You'll be killed or sold to a slaver before you see a fortnight. The Free Cities are no place for a lone boy."

"I'm not a boy," Jon replied,"And I can take care of myself."

"Take care of yourself?" Benjen stood before him, his frustration and fear warring on his face. "Jon, I am the First Ranger. I have seen what this world does to men far stronger and more skilled than you. This is a fool's plan. There are other choices! You can stay here, with me. Take the black for real. Your name, your past—it would all be washed away. You would be safe."

"Safe?" Jon asked, a bitter laugh escaping him. "Or would I be a prisoner? I have spent my life in a cage of secrets, Uncle. I will not trade it for another one. I want to see the world, forge my own path, not be bound by another set of vows."

Benjen looked defeated, grasping at straws, his fear for Jon overriding all else. "Then let me go with you," he said, the words a desperate, hopeless plea. "I can... I can leave this place. We can go together. You should not be alone."

"You have a duty," Jon said, his own voice softening. "Your place is here. My path is my own. I did not come here to ask for your help, Uncle. I came to say goodbye."

Benjen stopped pacing and studied him, truly studied him, with new eyes. He saw the boy he had known, but he also saw the man he was becoming—hardened, determined, and carrying a weight no boy should have to bear. The anger and fear drained away, leaving only a profound, weary resignation.

"I need to see Maester Aemon," Jon said finally, his voice heavy.

Benjen nodded, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "You'll speak with him. But not tonight. Tonight, you rest. And tomorrow… I'll take you to him. He is a wise man. If anyone can offer you counsel on this mad path you've chosen, it is him."