Jon moved through the dense trees of the Wolf Wood, the familiar chill of the northern air biting at his cheeks. The thick forest canopy allowed only thin shafts of pale sunlight to break through, casting long shadows across the ground. His breath came in steady clouds as he trudged deeper, Ghost padding silently beside him, ever alert. Jon had always found solace in these woods, away from the judging eyes of Winterfell. Here, amidst the whispering pines and snow-laden branches, he could forget the weight of his name. Snow. The bastard name. It seemed to echo with every step, a constant reminder of the place he did not truly belong.

He paused, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, and glanced at Ghost, whose red eyes gleamed in the fading light. The direwolf tilted his head, sensing Jon's unease. Jon sighed softly, letting the tension in his shoulders ease. "It’s just us out here," he muttered, more to himself than to Ghost. It was in the quiet of the Wolf Wood that he could think clearly, away from the expectations, the cold looks from Catelyn, and the uncertainty of his future. He had been considering the Night’s Watch more seriously with each passing day, but here, surrounded by the silence of the North, it felt like the only choice. It was the one place a bastard might truly belong, and yet, the thought of leaving Winterfell—leaving Robb, Arya—tugged at him like an unseen weight.