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Chapter 5 - Chapter 5 Foundations of the Future, Part I

The practice yard of Winterfell was nearly empty as dusk crept in, the clang of steel fading into echoes against the stone walls. Boys drifted away toward the hall, still shoving shoulders and laughing, their wooden blades dragging behind them like tired banners.

 

Jon Snow remained. His sword struck against the wooden beam set into the yard — steady, unyielding, a rhythm carved into the silence. Sweat streaked his brow, dark hair clinging to his forehead as he swung again and again, each breath burning but controlled.

 

At the far side of the yard, Robb Stark leaned on the fence, watching. Sansa lingered a step behind him, her skirts brushing the dirt, a kitchen maid at her side carrying a tray of empty pitchers.

 

"Another swing?" Robb's voice came, half a smirk, half a taunt. "You'll wear the post to splinters before you wear yourself out."

 

Jon lowered the practice blade, breath still heavy, but didn't answer Robb right away. His dark eyes lingered on the wooden beam, its surface already scarred from countless strikes.

 

'Yes, that's enough for today,' Jon thought to himself. 'The progress is good. I've already completed this month's quest. Now… let's do something fun.'

 

A faint smile crossed his lips as he turned toward Robb and Sansa. "Come with me. I'll tell you a story."

 

That caught Sansa's interest at once. She had wandered in behind Robb, her steps light, her gaze curious. At the mention of a story her eyes brightened, dreamy, as if she already expected gallant knights, golden-haired princes, and fair maidens. She followed eagerly when Jon led them toward a small shed at the edge of the yard.

 

Inside, the air was cool, carrying the smell of wood and hay. A low bench ran along the wall. Robb leaned against it while Sansa sat down neatly, skirts gathered in her lap. A young maid of Winterfell, Elsie, no more than nine years old, slipped in behind them. She was the daughter of a kitchen worker, carrying an empty basket, curious enough to stay when she heard talk of stories.

 

Jon sat across from them, resting his practice sword against the wall. He looked at their expectant faces — Robb's skeptical grin, Sansa's shining eyes, Elsie's quiet attention — and felt the weight of the moment settle.

 

"Now then," Jon said, his smile faint but steady. "Let me tell you a story."

 

"This is no tale of knights or thrones," Jon began, voice slow, deliberate, each word carrying weight. "It is the tale of a lion cub — son of a great king." His eyes shifted between them, searching, holding, until even Robb's smirk dulled. "The cub thought his father's shadow would always shelter him. But shadows stretch and fade. In time, the cub was left alone."

 

Sansa tilted her head, brow furrowed. "A lion?" she asked softly, but Jon pressed on.

 

The words carried, low but strong, threading through the cool evening. Even a passing servant paused by the fence to listen, caught in the quiet gravity of his tone. Shadows lengthened as Jon's voice filled the yard, weaving the shape of a tale — of betrayal, loss, exile, and the long road home. We do not hear all his words, only the echoes that linger: a young heir wandering far from his kingdom, a false uncle seated on the throne, the weight of destiny returning.

 

At last, Jon's voice deepened, steady as steel. "…and so the cub returned, standing against the uncle who had stolen his father's place. The fires raged, the pride rose, and the true king reclaimed his place in the circle once more."

 

Silence followed. For a breath, even the wind seemed to wait. Then Sansa's hands came together in a soft clap, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining as if she had stepped into the tale herself. The servant girl, Elsie, gave a small nod, reluctant to break the hush..

 

But Sansa frowned a little, thoughtful now, lips pursed as though tasting the lesson. "So… the prince was not noble simply for being a prince. He had to prove it."

 

Jon nodded once. "Exactly. Being born in a royal family, or even as a prince, doesn't make you truly special. What matters are the choices you make, the things you do. That's what shapes who you are, not your birth." He glanced at her, voice steady but gentle. "Even in the lion's tale, there was one who was not born noble, yet he stood by the cub, brave and true. Deeds gave him honor, not his name."

 

Sansa's eyes widened at that, her small mind working, quietly storing the thought away.

 

Robb let out a laugh, shaking his head. "Careful, Snow. Keep talking like that and you'll end up a bard or a maester instead of a swordsman. No wife for you if you spend your days telling stories."

 

Sansa giggled at that, covering her mouth with her hands.

 

 

 

Jon only smiled faintly, lowering his gaze, but inside he marked the moment. Words, he thought, could cut deeper than steel — and heal, too.

 

[System Notification]

Skill unlocked: Storytelling (Lv. 1)

+10 EXP gained

 

As the others drifted off toward the hall for dinner, Jon lingered in the quiet.

'These stories… they're a good way to connect with them,' he thought. 'Maybe even enough to keep Sansa from being shaped too much by Lady Stark or her septa later. She's still young, only three. I have time.'

 

He leaned back against the wooden beam, exhaling slowly. 'A month here already. Not too much progress, but steady. Better than the Jon Snow they remember from the show.'

 

 

 

Meanwhile

 

 

A knock came at the door of Ned Stark's solar.

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