JON XI

He reached his room and closed the door, the sound echoing the finality of the one he had closed on his uncle's sobs. He did not light a candle. The grief was a cold, heavy weight in his chest, a permanent scar on his soul. But the storm of his discovery and the pain of the confrontation had passed, leaving behind a cold, hard resolve. The paths of Jon Snow had been a lie or an exile. The path of Aemon Targaryen would be his own.

As the first grey light of dawn began to creep into his room, he was already moving. He knew what he had to do.

Jon's first stop was the forge. The air was thick with the smell of coal smoke and hot iron, the rhythmic clang-clang-clang of Mikken's hammer a constant, reassuring heartbeat in the castle. The blacksmith grunted a greeting, wiping sweat from his brow with a leather-clad forearm.

"It's ready, Lord Snow," he said, gesturing to a long, cloth-wrapped bundle. Jon had paid for it with the silver he'd found in the smuggler's lockbox, a secret treasure for a secret purpose. Mikken unwrapped it. It was a longsword, perfectly balanced, its steel clean and bright. It was a simple, practical weapon, unadorned but for a single, snarling wolf's head carved into the pommel. It felt like an extension of his arm.

"And the other thing?" Jon asked.

Mikken grinned, reaching under his workbench to pull out a much smaller, more slender bundle. He unwrapped it to reveal a short, thin blade, more like a rapier than a Northern sword. It was light, perfectly balanced for a smaller hand. "A strange request," the blacksmith said. "But a fine piece of steel. Like a needle."

"It's perfect," Jon said, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips.

He found Arya by the kennels, trying to teach a new litter of wolfhounds to sit. She looked up as he approached, her face a mixture of excitement and suspicion. But when she saw the long, thin bundle in his hand, her expression hardened.

"You're really going," she said, her voice flat. It wasn't a question.

"I am," he said softly. "I have a gift for you."

"I don't want a gift," she snapped, turning away from him. "I want you to stay."

"I can't, Arya," he said, his own voice thick with an emotion he couldn't name. "But I wanted you to have this. So you could protect yourself." He held out the sword. She looked at it, her lower lip trembling, then snatched it from his hand. She pulled it from its sheath, her eyes widening at the sight of the slender, deadly blade.

"It's so light," she whispered in awe.

"It's for stabbing," Jon said, echoing the words of a Braavosi water dancer he had read about in one of the Maester's books. "Not for hacking like Robb's oafish swords. Remember the first lesson of water dancing: stick them with the pointy end."

Arya giggled, the sound a small, bright thing in the cold air. She launched herself at him, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist. "I'll miss you," she mumbled into his tunic.

"I'll miss you too, little sister," he said, holding her tight.

His farewell with Sansa was a colder affair. He found her embroidering with Septa Mordane. She looked up at him, her expression one of polite indifference. "I am leaving for the Wall, Sansa," he said. "I came to say farewell."

She simply nodded, her eyes returning to her needlework. "I wish you well, Jon." It was a dismissal. The Sight showed him the same storm of conflict, but the grey wall of duty was thicker than ever.

Bran and Rickon were easier. He found them in the yard, engaged in a mock battle with wooden swords. He told them he was going to see Uncle Benjen, and they peppered him with questions about the Wall, about wildlings and giants. He hugged them both, promising to bring them back a story.

That night, he packed. He had little to his name. A few changes of clothes, a whetstone, his new sword. He tucked the small purse of coins from the smugglers into a hidden pocket. Lastly, he retrieved the ironwood box from its hiding place. He opened it one last time, looking at the Targaryen banner, the silver harp, and his mother's letter. He wrapped them carefully and placed the box at the very bottom of his pack, a secret and a burden he would carry with him to the end of the world.

He lay on his bed, waiting for the morning, his mind a whirlwind. He was Aemon Targaryen, a princE. But what did that mean? He thought of the System, of the skills it had given him. It was training him for something, but for what? To be a warrior? A leader? A killer? He needed a philosophy, a set of rules to guide him.

And then he remembered.

[Reward Unlocked: Memory Synchronization. Access the memory of a master to learn the principles of the Creed. Would you like to begin?]

He had ignored it in the crypt, his grief too raw. But now, on the precipice of a new life, he knew he needed this. He needed a guide.

"Begin," he whispered into the darkness.

The world dissolved into a blaze of white light. The feeling was not of soaring, like at the synchronization point, but of being pulled inward, of his consciousness being poured into another vessel. The white faded, and he was no longer in his cold room in Winterfell.

He was standing in a vast, circular chamber, its stone walls lined with statues of figures in hooded robes. The air was warm, smelling of old stone and burning torches. He looked down at his hands. They were not his own. They were the hands of an older man, strong and sure, clad in fine, embroidered leather. He was wearing white and red robes, a red sash tied at his waist. He was not Jon Snow. He was Ezio Auditore.

He stood in a circle with other men, all clad in similar robes. A man with a scarred face and a stern expression—Machiavelli—stood before him.

"You have fought for us. You have bled for us," Machiavelli said, his voice echoing in the chamber. "But you are not yet one of us."

Another man, older, with a kind face—his uncle, Mario—stepped forward. "What you have done, you have done for personal reasons. For vengeance. That is not our way."

Ezio—Jon—spoke, his voice a rich baritone that felt both strange and familiar. "I have given my life to this."

"But do you understand what it is you have given it to?" Machiavelli countered. He gestured to the assembled assassins. "We are a family. A brotherhood. We have a Creed. A philosophy that guides our every action."

He and the other assassins began to speak, their voices joining in a solemn chorus, the words burning themselves into Jon's very soul.

"Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember…" Nothing is true.

"Where other men are limited by morality or law, remember…" Everything is permitted.

"We work in the dark to serve the light. We are Assassins."

All the others responded in unison, voices layered, bound by a shared oath.

"Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."

Ezio felt the words settle over him like a cloak, both familiar and heavy. His uncle stepped forward, carrying with him a small iron brand—its tip glowing red from the brazier nearby.

Mario looked him in the eye, proud but somber.

"It is time, Ezio. In this modern age, we may not be as literal as our ancestors, but our seal is no less permanent. Are you ready to join us?"

Ezio didn't waver. He extended his left hand.

"I am."

Antonio took the brand with a pair of tongs, the heat visible in the night air.

"This will sting," he said softly, almost kindly, "but only for a moment."

With that, he pressed the glowing metal to Ezio's ring finger. Flesh sizzled, and the smell of burnt skin cut through the cold air. Ezio clenched his jaw, making no sound.

When it was done, he lowered his hand, now marked forever.

Mario stepped back, and the circle parted.

"Benvenuto, Ezio," said Machiavelli, bowing his head slightly. "You are one of us now."

Paola smiled faintly. Bartolomeo thumped him on the shoulder. Teodora raised her chin in quiet respect.

"Come," Mario said, gesturing to the edge of the tower. "There is one last step."

Without a word, Ezio walked to the parapet. The sky stretched wide and open before him, the rooftops far below. The wind howled around the tower, tugging at his cloak like a beckoning spirit. One by one, the other Assassins joined him, lining up beside their new brother.

Ezio looked down. Then he leapt.

The world dissolved into white once more, and Jon was back in his own body, lying on his bed in Winterfell, the first grey light of dawn creeping through his window. His heart was pounding, but his mind was clear, focused. He finally understood. The System wasn't just a tool for power. It was a path.

He was no longer just a bastard, or a prince, or a boy running from his past. He was something more.

He was an Assassin. And his work was just beginning.

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[A/N]:

And with that, Volume 1: "The Initiation" comes to a close. I truly hope you have all enjoyed this first part of Jon's journey!

As we move on to the next volume, the story is going to get much bigger, with more characters and a much wider scope. I'll be trying my best to keep everything consistent, but I know I'm bound to make mistakes along the way. Please, if you spot any, don't hesitate to point them out in the reviews. Your feedback is incredibly helpful and plays a huge part in making this story better for everyone.

Thank you so much for reading, and I can't wait to see you all in Volume 2!