He sat at the small desk in the corner of his room, quill ticking against parchment. He'd rewritten the opening line six times. Not necessarily out of past emotion, but. Because messaging mattered. Because clarity prevented unnecessary blowback. Because he understood the downstream effects of poorly phrased communication better than anyone in this primitive world. Who knows, perhaps in the future, under better circumstances, he would return, as not a burden but simply a friend, as beneath the cold and politics, the north itself was beautiful in its own way.
The letter was simple enough. Ned himself didn't need apologies, let alone would receive them from himself. He would get context and a clean exit narrative.
And to say the least, he was pleased with what he drafted.
"My lord, what happened today was unfortunate yet eye-opening, not just for me, I believe, for you as well. I understand the perception risk my presence creates, and I understand the challenges you face balancing the challenges of being the Warden of the North along with being a father figure, external expectations, and personal loyalties. I offer you this letter not to plead my case, but to assure you that my departure is not out of emotion, but understanding. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
"Treat this as a courtesy and I trust you will interpret it as such."
He placed the letter face down.
Now came the real work.
He closed his eyes, inhaled, and let the Essence produce freely. The call wasn't dramatic. No chanting. No theatrics. Simply an executive summons.
One by one, they materialised, masked retainers; the elite cell he had built and rebuilt over multiple lifetimes. Their presence, not suffocating, just there.
Six of them. My personal guard.
Their captain knelt first. "Lord Seijūrō."
Hearing the title again grounded him somewhat; a taste of familiarity aligned his being.
"Stand," he ordered quietly. "We're executing a midnight relocation. Low visibility, speed is essential. And by no means should there be collateral. No signals left behind."
The captain rose without question. The others mirrored him.
He continued, "Operational priority is extraction; the secondary priority is tied to said extraction is asset protection. That asset being me. While not prudent for our current mission, a tertiary priority is future revenue generation. We'll be pivoting into a competitive market, and we need liquidity to start off high."
Burning precious time, he decided to outline the rest fast.
"First destination, after mission completion, the Riverlands. During the harvest festival, gossip has it that House Vance of Atranta is hosting a tourney in the coming moons due to the birth of a spare Hugo. The event itself is bound to produce a small fortune and an opportunity to jump-start our notoriety, high reward, and low regulatory friction. Southern knights like bleeding gold into the dirt. We'll extract as much as possible."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"And we'll stay clean. No exposure of our true capabilities beyond what can pass for freakish strength, speed, and power, along with elite training".
The captain inclined his head. "Understood. Parameters accepted."
Another retainer stepped forward. "Do we anticipate pursuit? My Lord"
"Possibly," he said. "But not to worry, as from an informed standpoint, they are not professionals in the field, at least basing it off our capabilities and standards. Just household guards who will feel the need to perform loyalty theater. Avoid them. No maiming unless absolutely necessary. No killing unless a Stark or the appointed commander/captain personally authorizes it."
He looked around the room. Their masks were blank, but he could read no that's not the right word, he could feel them intrinsically. Loyalty and pure utter devotion, along with the readiness to perform.
But then came again the friction he had been delaying. The one that always arrived before he set a new path.
Leaning back in the chair, he let his thoughts cut through the silence.
He had lived too many lives drifting sideways, reincarnating, transmigrating, surviving, and adapting, but rarely building well for himself. Aimless drifting. Fighting. Dying. Repeating the cycle with no real forward motion. A veteran of centuries with nothing to show for it except memories that blurred together and skills that sharpened without purpose.
He was a Seijūrō the Seijūrō. And yet the name had degraded.
It's about time to bring prominence back to that name.
A version no shogun or other aspiring warlord could leash.
He refocused.
" We sprint until dawn, then transition to civilian patterns. Keep appearances discreet," he instructed.
He summoned his cloak, tightened the straps on the borrowed scabbard from one of his men, and glanced one last time around the room. Winterfell stone was unforgiving, but this body, Jon's body, had lived its entire life inside these walls. He felt a flicker of something he didn't want to name. Not sentiment. Not guilt. Just… awareness. He was leaving a life unfinished, but it wasn't his life, and that distinction is what he needed to define for his own sake.
He opened the door slowly.
The hall was empty.
They moved silently through the corridors, his operatives sticking close like white on rice.
They were halfway to the side tower staircase when he saw Robb. He immediately had his men blend within the shadows.
Rob stood at the far end of the hall, half in the dark, half in the torchlight. No words. No greeting. His eyes carried a mix of emotions, as he probably didn't have the vocabulary for it yet: anger at losing the duel, embarrassment at the audience, and guilt at knowing Jon was about to receive an unjust punishment, but whether it was out of jealousy and vanity, he got up and turned, and started returning to his bed chambers.
They finally arrived at the courtyard, which was cold, which was to be expected. His team formed a loose perimeter around him as they crossed to the outer gate.
He let his thoughts settle into actionable priorities.
First, execute a relatively clean getaway, which is basically complete. Secure funds by rinsing tourneys and southend nobles alike across the realm. What would allow him to start up, bring into fruition his bare bones plans of establishing a foothold and presence within Essos? Through both martial and mercantile needs, which wouldn't be nearly as difficult by using Essence-bound retainers as the backbone of his growing force.
A journey that would grow its own legend, an army worthy of my name.
Alas, he was brought back to reality. The captain signaled that the perimeter was clear.
Leaving him to give the command "Move out."
"This time, we start anew of what was. No scraps of land handed to us. No lords blocking us at every corner due to their dislike of change. No shogun or higher power demanding baseless loyalty." He exhaled a cold breath. "We are Seijūrō, powers beyond our means have reduced the clan to a myth, but we will rise again, no one will stop us in our quest to reclaim victory, we will own this world.
The captain nodded, zeal brightening his eyes. "As it should be. Your will is our desire."
This time, he wasn't drifting, living for the sake of living; no, he had a purpose, his purpose.
And nothing will stop him.
…He really should give his men some names.
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This chapter wasn't up to my particular standard, but I had to push through due to writer's block. P.S. All should be better moving forward, as I had mapped out the next couple of chapters. Hope you enjoyed, and ohh FUCKING RUN UP MY ACCOUNT ALONG WITH GIVING ME POWER STONES!