Winterfell, The Great Keep
"Catelyn, why this sudden fervor regarding Jon?"
Eddard Stark looked at his wife with a flicker of disbelief. Catelyn stood before him, her face flushed with a righteous indignation that bordered on fury.
The spark for this confrontation had been struck during the evening feast, when Eddard abruptly announced that Jon was to depart for the continent of Essos to serve as a sellsword. The news had sent a shockwave through House Stark, but to everyone's astonishment, the most vehement protest came from Lady Catelyn herself.
Unwilling to debate the boy's fate in front of their children, Eddard had led his wife to their private chambers immediately following the meal.
"Wouldn't it be better to send him to the Night's Watch?" Catelyn argued, her voice strained. "Benjen is there to watch over him. He might even rise to be Lord Commander one day, and we would at least have word of him."
Despite her long-standing coldness toward the bastard, Jon was a fixture of her life—a child she had watched grow from infancy. Even a stray dog earns a measure of affection after years in the same house; for a living, breathing human, the roots of familiarity ran deeper than she cared to admit.
"Jon has his own path to tread," Ned replied firmly. "I will have House Manderly contact the 'Wolf Pack' in the East. They are descendants of our own Northern blood; they will see to him."
Though Jon now knew the truth of his parentage, Eddard was not yet ready to share that burden with Catelyn. As long as Robert sat the Iron Throne, the secret of Jon's blood was a death sentence for every member of House Stark. Truthfully, Ned felt adrift; Robert's looming visit was a headache in itself, and his primary instinct now was to get Jon safely off the shores of Westeros.
"Must it truly be this way?"
"It must. For now, Jon's future lies across the Narrow Sea, in the Eastern Continent."
Seeing the immovable resolve in her husband's eyes, Catelyn relented. Her heart remained a battlefield of conflicting emotions—the old resentment battling a strange, newfound maternal anxiety.
Meanwhile, in Jon's quarters, the Stark children had formed a dense blockade. They were reeling from the news. It was common knowledge that Jon's singular ambition had always been the Wall.
"Why go to the East?" Sansa asked, her brow furrowed. The quintessential noble lady usually mirrored her mother's distance regarding their half-brother, but the finality of his departure had cracked her shell. "I've heard the people there are savages who keep slaves. It sounds... ghastly."
"I..."
Before Jon could answer, a small whirlwind of a girl collided with his chest. The impact of the headbutt and the frantic drumming of small fists made him wheeze in pain.
Arya Stark clutched his tunic, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I don't want you to go, Jon!"
Jon held her close, his heart heavy. "I have to make a choice, Arya. Like a fledgling leaving the nest. Perhaps out there, I can forge a name that belongs to me alone."
A wave of genuine sorrow washed over him. Though his soul was from another world, the memories and bonds of this body were vibrant and real. He loved these people, and that love only hardened his resolve; he needed power and influence to protect them from the winter that he knew was coming.
As a parting gesture, he presented his gifts—items the "previous" Jon had already begun to prepare. Most significant was the slender, elegant smallsword he placed into Arya's trembling hands.
"Needle," he whispered.
...
The North, The White Knife, White Harbor
The sun was just cresting the horizon of the Shivering Sea when White Harbor erupted into its daily cacophony of commerce. Gulls screamed in the salt-laden air, circling the docks in search of silver-scaled treats.
Aboard the single-masted sloop Wave-Treader, Jon watched the bustle with keen interest. The air carried the distinct "harbor musk" common to every port in Westeros—a pungent cocktail of fish guts, rotting kelp, and human waste.
Fishermen in small skiffs crisscrossed the White Knife, their nets coming up heavy and shimmering with the morning's catch.
"Hahaha! You're in luck, lad. I know several galleys bound for Myr," bellowed Lars Snow, the bearded captain of the Wave-Treader. A scion of the Waterman family from the banks of the White Knife, Lars ran a modest but sturdy operation. Jon had boarded at their family's private quay.
"Have you spent much time across the Narrow Sea, Captain?" Jon asked. The Narrow Sea was a treacherous expanse, though its storms were slightly less murderous than those of the Stormlands.
"Spent my younger years in Braavos," Lars sighed, a wistful glint in his eye. "A fine city. If you've got the dragons, you can sail with the most beautiful courtesans in the world. Ah, the taste of it... tsk, tsk!"
Jon suspected that Lars's current humble station was a direct result of those very courtesans.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The tolling of harbor bells signaled their approach. White Harbor revealed itself in increments of pale stone and grand architecture. Unlike the ancient, jagged stone of Winterfell, White Harbor was a city of bleached white, protected by high walls that extended into the sea like grasping arms.
Captains navigated the harbor mouth by watching the red flags hoisted on the twin guard towers. The bells signaled readiness; the flags signaled permission to enter.
As the flag on the starboard tower rose, the Wave-Treader joined a line of merchant vessels entering the basin. Because White Harbor was a relatively "young" city, the Manderlys had designed it with efficiency in mind, borrowing the lighthouse and tower concepts from Braavos and King's Landing.
Rowing galleys bearing the silver merman of House Manderly glided past the merchant fleet. Lars explained these were the harbor defense ships, kept on constant patrol due to the relentless predations of pirates from the Bite.
After a few more minutes of maneuvering, Lars dropped anchor at a small pier. Jon stepped onto the docks, his legs feeling the ghost-sway of the sea after the long journey from the interior.
Leaving Ghost—who had grown to the size of a large hunting dog—to follow closely, Jon headed toward the New Castle. He had spent the journey training the direwolf to wag its tail and act docile; most onlookers saw only a large, albino wolfhound rather than a creature of legend.
Wyman Manderly had already departed for Winterfell, so Jon was received by his heir, Wylis Manderly. Wylis had inherited the legendary Manderly girth; from a distance, he resembled a massive, silk-clad boulder.
"Ser Wylis, I am honored by your hospitality. May the Old Gods and your Seven look over this beautiful city," Jon greeted him.
"Hahaha! My dear Jon, welcome! My father left strict instructions to see you well-treated before he left for Winterfell. Come! Let us find a drink."
Wylis gave Jon a booming hug and led him to the castle's refectory. Though it was early, they shared several cups of fine arbor gold. Wylis pressed Jon to stay as a guest, but Jon politely declined, citing the urgency of his "family mission."
When Jon left the castle for the commercial docks later that day, he was no longer alone with Ghost. Perched upon his leather gauntlet was a magnificent hunting falcon—a specific request Jon had sent ahead via Eddard's raven.
Over the past fortnight, Jon had finally begun to decode his "System." He discovered the utility of Soul Energy: it functioned as a currency for growth. One hundred points could buy a Class Level or a Stat Point. Though he suspected Soul Energy was tied to the harvest of life, his hunts along the road had yielded no immediate prompts.
Nevertheless, he had spent a portion of his initial hoard to increase his Strength by one and his Skinchanger class by a level. In a world this dangerous, hoarding resources was a luxury he couldn't afford.
With the level-up, his mental capacity had expanded. He could now perfectly tether his consciousness to two creatures simultaneously. The falcon, circling high above the masts of the Myr-bound recruitment ship, would be his second set of eyes.
Myr, the hub of Essos's finest craftsmanship and deadliest mercenaries, was waiting.