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[Look To The Stars] Chapter 18: Departures and Divides
🕑 Added 2025-07-14 05:51:08 +0000 UTCDisclaimer: This is a work of fiction and all rights for character, plots and settings belong to GRRM and George Lucas/Disney. I have no ownership.
A/N: If you enjoyed this chapter, please give it a like :) --------------------------------------------------------
Year 298 AC/7 ABY
Winterfell, The North
Jon tightened the saddle straps on his garron, a black courser with a white blaze down its nose. Dawn had barely broken over Winterfell, painting the eastern sky in pale watercolors of pink and gold. Mist rose from the ground like restless spirits, curling around their boots and the horses' fetlocks. The air held the sharp bite of morning chill, the kind that made breath visible and cheeks flush red.
Ghost sat nearby, eerily silent as always, his red eyes fixed on Jon. Beside him, Ghost's mother Amidala waited with equal patience for Master Luke.
"All set?" Jory Cassel approached, leading his own mount. Behind him, Harwin and Alyn checked their provisions one final time. "We should reach Deepwood Motte in ten days if the weather holds."
Jon nodded, not trusting his voice just yet. Leaving Winterfell had always been his dream—to go to the Wall, to find glory somewhere beyond the shadow of his bastard name. Now he was leaving, but everything had changed. The name he'd carried, the shame he'd endured, the identity he'd built his life around—all of it built on a lie.
The thought still made his stomach clench.
"The horses are ready," Master Luke said, approaching with his pack. His Master has gotten used to wearing Northern clothing now—sturdy leathers and wool with a fur claok, this time though a sword at his hip rather than his hilt. He's has to have hidden it somewhere under the cloak. "But we needn't leave until you've said your goodbyes."
Arya reached him first, barreling across the yard with Needle clutched in her hand. Her hair was a wild tangle, and her face was flushed from running.
"Look!" She brandished the slender blade, taking the stance he'd shown her. "I've been practicing every morning. Watch."
She executed a series of movements—still clumsy but showing promise. Each foot placement deliberate, each thrust of the blade careful and precise. Jon felt a tightness in his throat.
"Water dancer in the making," he said, ruffling her hair. "Keep your shoulders loose, remember? And—"
"—stick them with the pointy end," she finished for him. "I know."
"Good." He knelt to her level. "Keep practicing. When I return, I expect you to best me."
Her face crumpled suddenly, and she threw her arms around his neck. "I hate that you're leaving."
"I'll come back," he promised, holding her tight. "I swear it."
"You better." She pulled away, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand.
Bran approached next, solemn-faced and serious beyond his years. Something had changed in him since the Force training began as a stillness, an awareness that sometimes made Jon uneasy settled in Bran.
"We'll meet again," Bran said, his voice carrying a strange certainty, "when the snow falls and the white winds blow."
"That sounds ominous," Jon replied, trying to smile.
Bran shrugged. "It's what I saw. The lone wolf returns to the pack in winter."
Jon clasped his shoulder. "Keep practicing what Master Luke taught you. You have a gift, Bran." Jon managed to turned the clasp into a hug before turning to Sansa.
She stood slightly apart, elegant even at this early hour, her auburn hair neatly braided. In her hands, she held something small and dark.
"I made this for you," she said, her voice formal but not cold. She held out a square of black cloth. "It's a favor. Knights carry them for luck."
Jon took it, surprised by the gesture. On the cloth, she had embroidered a white direwolf, running with its head raised—Ghost perfectly captured in thread and fabric. The craftsmanship was exquisite.
"Thank you, Sansa." He struggled to find more words. Their relationship had always been the most distant, shaped by her mother's influence. "It's beautiful work."
"I'm sorry I wasn't a better sister," she said suddenly, color rising in her cheeks.
"You have nothing to apologize for."
"I do. I believed..." She glanced away. "Well, it doesn't matter what I believed. Be safe, Jon."
She surprised him further by rising on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He tucked the favor carefully inside his jerkin, close to his heart.
Rickon was last, and the most difficult. The youngest Stark clung to Jon's leg, his face buried against Jon's knee, refusing to let go.
"Don't want you to go," he sobbed, his small body shaking.
Jon picked him up, holding him close. "I'll bring you a present from the South," he promised. "Something wonderful."
"Don't want a present. Want you to stay."
Jon looked helplessly at Robb, who stepped forward with Old Nan. The ancient woman held out her arms.
"Come, little one," she crooned. "Your brother has important work to do."
"Stories?" Rickon hiccupped.
"All the stories you want," she promised. "About Brandon the Builder and the Children of the Forest."
Reluctantly, Rickon allowed himself to be transferred to Old Nan's thin but surprisingly strong arms. Jon felt the absence of his warmth immediately.
Robb was the last, and in many ways the hardest farewell. They'd shared everything—training, lessons, meals, jokes as brothers.
"Well," Robb said, "this is it."
"This is it," Jon echoed.
"The next time I see you, you'll probably be speaking like some fancy Southron lord." Robb's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "All perfumed and soft-handed."
"Never," Jon swore. "Do not even dare to make such jests. I'll come back exactly as I left."
"No, you won't." Robb's voice grew serious. "None of us will be the same. Too much has changed already."
They embraced, a fierce hug that said all the things they couldn't put into words. When they separated, Jon saw movement behind Robb and froze.
Lady Catelyn Stark stood watching them, her face pale in the morning light.
A terrible silence fell over the courtyard. Jon felt his spine stiffen. He had spent fifteen years avoiding this woman's cold stares, her subtle cruelties, her persistent reminder that he didn't belong. What did she want now? To ensure he actually left? To warn him never to return?
Her presence clearly surprised everyone, not just Jon. Robb turned, his expression shifting to something Jon couldn't read—a knowing look that left Jon puzzled. But Sansa, Arya, and Bran looked as confused as Jon felt.
Lady Stark approached slowly, her hands clasped tightly before her. Up close, Jon could see her eyes were red-rimmed, her face drawn with fatigue. She looked as though she hadn't slept.
"Jon," she said, his name awkward on her lips.
Jon inclined his head slightly. "Lady Stark."
She swallowed hard. "I..." Her voice caught. She tried again. "I wanted to speak with you before you departed."
Jon waited, tension coiling in his gut. Master Luke had moved to stand beside the Stark children, drawing them slightly back, giving this moment space—though Jon noticed his teacher watched with keen interest.
"I did not come to see you," Lady Stark continued, her voice strangled, "after what was revealed. That was... cowardly of me."
Jon blinked, confused by the direction of this conversation.
"I've come to apologize," she said, the words rushing out now as though she feared losing her nerve. "Not just for my absence these past days, but for... for all of it. For fifteen years of coldness. For making you feel unwelcome in your own home. For blaming you for circumstances you could not control."
Jon stared at her, speechless. He glanced at his siblings—at Robb's knowing expression, at the shock on the faces of the others. So they didn't know either. Whatever had prompted this, only Robb seemed aware of it.
"You don't need to say anything," Lady Stark continued. "I don't expect forgiveness. But I wanted you to know..." Her voice faltered. She reached out hesitantly, her fingers brushing his cheek in the briefest of touches. "I'm sorry for what I couldn't give you."
Before Jon could formulate any response, she turned and walked away, her back straight, her steps measured. Jon watched her go, a storm of conflicting emotions raging within him.
"What was that?" Arya demanded, breaking the silence. "What did she mean? What's been revealed?"
Jon looked to Robb, who shook his head slightly. The secret remained a secret still. The rest of the Stark children didn't know of his true parentage.
"Nothing," Jon said finally. "Just... Lady Stark and I have come to an understanding."
Arya looked unconvinced, but before she could press further, Lord Stark emerged from the Great Keep. His arrival saved Jon from difficult questions, though it brought its own complications.
Father—Uncle Eddard now, though the title felt foreign even in Jon's thoughts—approached with measured steps. Ghost rose to his feet, padding over to Jon's side as if sensing his discomfort.
Jon felt a curious mixture of emotions at the sight of the man he'd spent his life believing was his father. Gratitude for the protection he'd provided. Anger at the lies. Confusion about who he was supposed to be now. Love, still, despite everything—a love that made the anger burn all the hotter.
"The day has come," Uncle Eddard said, his voice carrying the weight of the North in its deep timbre. He looked older than he had a week ago, lines carved deeper around his eyes and mouth.
"It has, Lord Stark," Jon replied, the formality a shield against the rawness of his feelings.
Uncle Eddard's eyes met his, gray to gray, the same Stark coloring that had once seemed proof of Jon's paternity, now just another layer of the deception.
"You're justified in your feelings, Jon," Uncle Eddard said quietly, as if reading his thoughts. "I apologize for not telling you sooner. I had always meant to, but I wanted to have a plan first. A way to protect you when the truth came out."
Jon said nothing, but his jaw clenched.
"If given the chance to do it all again," Lord Stark continued, "I would make the same choice. I would rather have you alive and angry with me than dead at Robert's hand."
The words struck Jon like an arrow. The stark reality of what his life had been—what it could have been—laid bare. The son of Rhaegar Targaryen, born in the aftermath of rebellion, when Targaryen children were wrapped in crimson cloaks and presented to Robert Baratheon like trophies.
"Whatever you choose now," Uncle Eddard said, "whatever path you take, if you reveal yourself to the world or keep the secret, I stand with you. Always."
Jon felt tears threatening, a burning behind his eyes. He reached for the Force, using the techniques Master Luke had taught him to ground himself, to find that center of calm within the storm of his emotions.
"I want to hate you," Jon admitted, his voice low so only Uncle Eddard could hear. "There are moments when I do. But then I remember who raised me. Who taught me honor and duty and sacrifice." He drew a breath. "You worked with the hand you were dealt. I understand that. But fifteen years of lies... that's not something I can simply set aside. I need time."
Uncle Eddard nodded slowly. "Time you shall have. Just know that Winterfell will always be your home, Jon. Whatever name you choose to bear."
The sun had risen higher now, the mist beginning to burn away. Jory cleared his throat, a gentle reminder that they needed to depart if they hoped to make good distance before nightfall.
"It's time," Master Luke said, stepping forward.
Jon nodded, turning to mount his horse. Ghost moved to his side, ready for the journey ahead. Jon watched as Master Luke spoke quietly to the Stark children, giving them one final lesson until his return.
"Remember," Luke told them, "your strength comes not from power itself, but from how you choose to use it. Practice control. Practice patience. And watch out for each other."
They nodded solemnly, even Rickon, though Jon doubted the youngest understood the full meaning of the words.
Master Luke mounted his horse, Amidala rising to her feet beside him. Uncle Eddard approached them one last time.
"Keep your word," he said to Luke, his voice carrying in the morning stillness. "Do this, and I'll grant you anything in my power."
Jon frowned, wondering what promise had passed between them, but Master Luke merely nodded, his expression solemn.
They rode out through the Hunter's Gate, the smallest of Winterfell's four gates, which opened directly onto the wolfswood beyond. Jon turned in his saddle for one last look at the castle that had been his home—the towers and walls and courtyards where he'd grown from boy to man. Where he'd lived a lie that had protected him.
Ghost paused at the edge of the trees, raising his head. A mournful howl split the morning silence—a sound so rare from the albino wolf that Jon shivered at the sound of it. The call was answered, one by one, by the other direwolves within Winterfell's walls—Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria, Summer, Shaggydog—their voices rising in a chorus that followed Jon and his companions into the wolfswood.
Jon felt it like a physical pain in his chest—the separation, the uncertainty, the loss of what he'd always believed himself to be. Yet beneath the pain lay something else: a pull southward, a sense of destiny unfolding.
He did not look back again.
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Braavos, Essos
The Braavosi fog clung to Daenerys like a second skin, its dampness seeping through her threadbare cloak and into her bones. Three weeks at sea had left her with sea legs that now struggled to adjust to solid ground. The cobblestones beneath her feet felt strangely unyielding after the constant sway of Captain Groleo's ship.
Braavos rose around them in layers of stone and shadow, buildings stacked upon buildings, bridges arching over canals where water lapped against ancient foundations. The Titan of Braavos loomed in the distance, partially obscured by mist, a colossus of bronze and stone standing watch over the lagoon. They had passed beneath its massive legs hours earlier, the horn blast announcing their arrival still echoing in Daenerys's ears.
"Keep your hood up," Ser Jorah murmured beside her. His hand rested on his sword hilt, eyes constantly scanning the narrow street. "The Spider has little birds everywhere, even here."
"I doubt Lord Varys concerns himself with a girl who fled her wedding," Daenerys said, though she tugged her hood lower nonetheless. "My brother is the one who named himself king."
"You underestimate your importance, Princess." Jorah's voice was low. "You are the last female Targaryen. That alone makes you valuable."
Doreah walked on Daenerys's other side, her Lysene beauty hidden beneath a plain brown cloak. The handmaid carried a small bundle of their meager possessions, while Daenerys clutched the leather satchel containing her dragon eggs against her chest. She had not let them out of her sight since leaving Pentos.
"We need a place to rest," Daenerys said, noting how Doreah's steps had begun to drag. "And food. Something hot."
Jorah nodded. "There's an inn ahead that caters to merchants from the Free Cities. Clean enough, but not so fine that questions will be asked."
The inn stood three stories tall, its whitewashed walls stained by salt and age. A carved wooden mermaid hung above the door, her paint faded but still recognizable. Inside, warmth and the scent of roasting meat greeted them, along with the low hum of conversation in a dozen different tongues.
Jorah guided them to a corner away from the hearth, where shadows offered some measure of privacy. "Wait here," he said. "I'll secure rooms."
Daenerys sank onto the bench, relief washing through her aching limbs. Braavos was not what she had expected. Viserys had spoken of the Free Cities as poor shadows of Old Valyria, but Braavos had a character all its own—proud, secretive, wreathed in fog and mystery. It reminded her of the visions the dragon eggs had shown her.
"Are you well, Princess?" Doreah asked, her voice barely audible above the inn's noise.
"Dany," Daenerys corrected gently. "You have to use that name now. I just feel…lost now that I am away from my brother." She had been prepared to give herself to Khal Drogo, to endure whatever came after, until the dragon eggs had shown her another path. "But yes, I am well enough. Just tired."
Across the room, Jorah spoke with the innkeeper, a stout Braavosi with an impressive mustache. Gold was about to change hands when the knight then suddenly stiffened, his attention caught by something behind the innkeeper.
Daenerys followed his gaze. Near the hearth sat a group of men in sea-green cloaks. Their voices carried the harsh accents of the North, and a silver pin shaped like a trident secured each cloak.
Jorah returned to their table with surprising speed, his face tight with poorly concealed alarm.
"We must go," he said, taking Daenerys by the elbow. "Now."
"But the rooms—" she began.
"Now," he repeated, already steering her toward the door. Doreah followed without question, though confusion creased her brow.
The fog had thickened outside, turning the afternoon into a grey twilight. Jorah led them swiftly through a maze of narrow streets and over small footbridges, putting distance between them and the inn. His pace was relentless, forcing Daenerys to nearly run to keep up.
"Ser Jorah," she finally said, breathless, pulling her arm from his grip. "Explain yourself."
The knight glanced back the way they had come, then at the empty street around them. "Those men in the inn wore the sigil of House Manderly."
When this meant nothing to her, he continued: "The Manderlys are a noble house from White Harbor, the North's only city. They are sworn to House Stark."
"The Usurper's Dog," Daenerys said, her voice hardening. Viserys had taught her the names of the Usurper's allies, the traitors who had helped destroy her family. "Why would his men be in Braavos?"
"White Harbor conducts trade with Braavos regularly," Jorah explained. "But Manderly men here, now, when we've just arrived... it's too great a risk."
"Do you think they recognized you?"
A shadow crossed Jorah's weathered face. "I pray not. But we should find lodging elsewhere, somewhere they're less likely to frequent."
They continued more cautiously now, working their way deeper into the city. The respectable inns and shops gave way to seedier establishments—brothels with red lanterns, taverns where hard-eyed men drank in silence, narrow buildings that leaned against each other like drunken revelers.
Jorah chose a small inn tucked between a chandlery and what appeared to be a pawnbroker's shop. The sign above the door depicted a three-headed dog, the paint so faded it was barely recognizable.
"It's not what you deserve," he said apologetically, "but we'll be less noticed here."
Inside, the common room was dimly lit and smelled of cheap wine and unwashed bodies. The innkeeper, a rail-thin woman with a scar across one cheek, barely glanced at them as Jorah negotiated for two adjoining rooms on the upper floor.
Their rooms were small but clean enough, with narrow beds and shuttered windows that overlooked a fetid canal. Doreah busied herself lighting a brazier to ward off the damp chill while Daenerys carefully placed her dragon eggs on the bed.
When Jorah returned with bread, cheese, and a flagon of watered wine, Daenerys motioned for both of them to sit.
"I owe you both my thanks," she said, tearing a piece of bread. "And perhaps an explanation."
"No explanation is needed, Princess," Jorah said. "You chose freedom over captivity. Any person of honor would understand that choice."
"But I had no plan beyond escape." The admission tasted bitter. "I knew only that I could not bear to be sold like a broodmare. I could not stand another moment of Viserys's cruelty." She touched the satchel containing the dragon eggs. "And these... they called to me. They showed me things."
Doreah leaned forward. "The dreams you spoke of on the ship?"
Daenerys nodded, hesitating. She had mentioned the dreams briefly during their voyage, but had kept the details to herself, fearing they would think her mad. Now, in this dingy room far from everything she had known, the truth spilled out.
"I saw a great wall of ice, stretching from horizon to horizon, tall as the sky. Snow falling on dark stone. Children standing in a circle beneath a white tree with a face carved into its trunk." Her fingers traced patterns on the rough wooden table. "I saw a man with a blade of green light. And two boys—one with dark hair and grey eyes like winter storms, the other with hair like copper and eyes blue as the ocean. They were fighting, but not as enemies. More like... like brothers training together."
She looked up to find Jorah staring at her, his face drained of color.
"You've seen these boys?" Jorah asked, his voice unusually hoarse.
"Many times," Daenerys confirmed. "The dark-haired one especially. When our eyes meet across the vision, I feel... connected to him, somehow."
Jorah reached for the wine with an unsteady hand. "The Wall stands in the North of Westeros, Princess. Eight thousand years old, they say, built to keep out the wildlings and... darker things." He drank deeply. "And the boys you describe... I believe I know them."
Now it was Daenerys's turn to feel the blood drain from her face. "How could you know them?"
"The dark-haired boy with grey eyes—that would be Jon Snow, Lord Stark's bastard son. The red-haired one with blue eyes would be Robb Stark, his heir." Jorah set down his cup. "I saw them both the last time I was in Winterfell, the Stark ancestral seat. They were boys then, but your description matches them precisely."
"These are real people," Daenerys whispered. Not dreams or fantasies, but flesh and blood. The realization sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the room's chill. "And the wall of ice?"
"The Wall. It guards the northern border of the Seven Kingdoms." Jorah studied her face. "Princess, these visions... do they tell you to go North?"
She hesitated. The eggs had shown her the North, yes, but what did it mean? Why would they pull her toward the home of her family's enemies?
"I believe they do," she admitted finally. "But how can I go to the North? The Usurper would have my head the moment I set foot in Westeros."
"Few in Westeros would recognize you on sight," Jorah pointed out. "You were born after your family fled, and your Targaryen features could be disguised. With the right story, the right companions..."
"Would you take me there, Ser Jorah?" Daenerys asked. "To this Wall?"
Pain flickered across the knight's face. "I would find you a boat to White Harbor if that is your wish, Princess. I would see you safely to the North. But I cannot set foot in the North myself."
"Why not?"
Jorah looked away, his jaw tight. "I was exiled by Lord Eddard Stark. For selling poachers to a Tyroshi slaver. It's a crime punishable by death in the North. If I return, I forfeit my life."
The silence that followed felt heavy with unspoken things. Daenerys did not press him further. Everyone had their shames, their secrets. She knew that better than most.
"I won't ask you to risk your life," she said finally. "But if my path leads North... I must follow it."
"We'll find a way," Jorah promised. "When the time comes. For now, we should rest. We're safe here for the night at least."
Daenerys nodded, suddenly exhausted beyond words. As Jorah excused himself to his own room and Doreah prepared for sleep, Daenerys sat beside the dragon eggs, running her fingers over their scaled surfaces.
The black egg pulsed with warmth beneath her touch. In her mind, she saw snow falling on dark stone walls, felt the bitter cold of the North. The eggs belonged there somehow, she knew with inexplicable certainty. Something waited for her there, something tied to her blood and to these stone dragons.
Yet how could she go north when the Usurper's dog ruled those lands? When the man who had helped destroy her family held dominion over the very place her visions pulled her toward?
Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, last of her name, laid her head down beside the dragon eggs and closed her eyes. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges. For tonight, she would rest and dream of walls of ice and dragons flying in the snow.
Comments
Winter
Idk how to feel about this but jon is still in pain but there will be more truths to come and i hope that he faces it when the time comes dany comes north means shes more likely to come north once jon returns although if she heads to the wall she will see aemon
Full Horizon
Pm me
IS6A6E
Hey, can I make a TVTropes page for your story. I think I deserves one.
Full Horizon
Lmaoooo that would be too much on the nose
Star445
Would be funny if Old Nan said “Goodbye Egg” to Jon. If the theory about her and Duncan the Tall is true.
