Game of Thrones:Dawn of Ice and Fire.

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Chapter Five: Gift.

The warm light of early spring filtered through the narrow windows of Ned Stark's solar. Dust motes swirled in the golden beams, drifting lazily over stacks of parchment and ledgers. The room smelled of ink, aged wood, and the faint hint of smoke from the hearth.

Ned sat at the large oak desk, its surface scarred by generations of Starks who had governed the North from this very seat. His fingers traced the edge of the polished wood absently as he reviewed the reports from his bannermen. Grain stores, troop counts, trade ledgers—it was the daily weight of lordship, a mantle he had borne for five years now.

Five years.

It still surprised him how swiftly time had passed since his return to Winterfell, burdened with grief and responsibility. He had struggled at first, feeling out of place in his own ancestral home. His fostering in the Vale had made him an outsider to the traditions and expectations of the North. But that had changed in the most unexpected way—thanks to his son.

Jon Snow.

Ned's lips curved into a rare smile as he thought of the boy. Jon had been barely a year old when he had crawled into the solar, babbling as he tugged at the edges of the desk. In his clumsy efforts, the boy had knocked loose a hidden panel.

Behind it, to Ned's astonishment, was his father's journal—a record of wisdom and reflections Lord Rickard Stark had kept hidden away. Reading those pages had been like hearing his father's voice again, guiding him through the complexities of leadership. With that journal, Ned had learned to be the Lord of Winterfell that the North deserved.

And it was all thanks to Jon.

Ned leaned back in his chair, his smile deepening. The boy had always been remarkable—quiet but fiercely intelligent. Even as a babe, there had been a solemnity about him, as though he carried the weight of the world on his small shoulders.

He remembered vividly the day Jon had changed his mind about building a sept at Winterfell.

It had been a decision made out of love for his wife, Catelyn, who had struggled to adapt to the old gods of the North. Ned had commissioned plans for the sept, thinking it a small compromise for a woman who had given him so much. But then he had found Jon alone in the godswood, sitting beneath the heart tree with a book balanced on his small lap.

"Why aren't you at your lessons with Maester Luwin?" Ned had asked, puzzled.

Jon's answer had left him stunned.

"Why should I care about the faith of the new gods?" Jon had said, his grey eyes fierce. "They named me treacherous and wanton from my birth. They call the people of the North heathen savages. I won't worship gods who scorn us."

Ned had been speechless. Jon was only three years old at the time, but his words had carried a weight far beyond his years. That conversation had made Ned rethink everything. He had abandoned the idea of building the sept and ensured that his children would learn of the Faith but worship only the old gods, as the Starks had done for thousands of years.

A knock at the door broke Ned from his thoughts.

"Enter," he called.

Maester Luwin stepped in, bowing respectfully. "My lord, I believe you may wish to know—today is Jon's nameday."

Ned blinked, realization dawning. "Of course. His fifth nameday."

"I imagine he is in the godswood," Luwin said with a knowing smile.

"Of course he is," Ned murmured. "Thank you, Maester."

As Luwin left, Ned stood, stretching the stiffness from his limbs. He had prepared a gift for Jon—a bow carved from weirwood, its grain pale and smooth, strong but flexible. A gift worthy of a child who had already proven himself exceptional.

Though he couldn't throw a grand feast for Jon as he might for Robb or his other children, this gift was personal and meaningful. He hoped Jon would understand that.

Ned made his way through the keep, his boots echoing against the stone floors. The familiar chill of Winterfell wrapped around him as he crossed the courtyard and entered the godswood.

The ancient trees whispered in the wind, their branches swaying gently. The heart tree loomed ahead, its face solemn and watchful. The dark pool shimmered nearby, its surface like polished black glass.

Beneath the spreading branches, Jon sat cross-legged with a book open on his lap. His raven-black hair fell in soft waves around his face, his grey eyes focused on the words before him. Even at five, he was a quick learner, already fluent in the Old Tongue and fascinated by the ancient texts from the Winterfell library.

Ned approached quietly, marveling at the boy's intensity. As Jon grew, his resemblance to Rhaegar Targaryen was becoming more pronounced. The regal features—the high cheekbones, the graceful lines of his face—were unmistakable. But Jon had Lyanna's raven-black hair and Stark grey eyes, gifts that shielded his true heritage.

The old gods had been merciful in that regard.

"Jon," Ned called softly.

The boy looked up, his face lighting with a rare smile. "Father."

"I brought you something for your nameday."

Ned knelt beside Jon and unwrapped the weirwood bow. The wood gleamed pale in the dappled light, its craftsmanship impeccable. Jon's eyes widened in awe as he took the bow in his small hands.

"It's beautiful," Jon whispered. "Thank you, Father."

Ned placed a hand on his shoulder. "A bow for a Stark of Winterfell, though you'll need to grow into it a bit."

Jon grinned, a flash of boyish excitement breaking through his usual solemnity.

"Come," Ned said, standing. "I'll show you how to string it properly."

As they walked back toward the castle, the wind rustled through the godswood, the heart tree's red leaves whispering like a promise carried on the breeze.

Ned glanced down at Jon, pride swelling in his chest. The boy was more than he seemed—sharper, wiser, stronger than any child his age had a right to be.

He thanked the old gods silently for the boy's presence in his life.

Winter is coming, Ned thought, but with Jon by his side, he felt certain that the North would endure.