Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jon's practice sword whistled through the crisp morning air, cutting invisible enemies as steam rose from his skin despite the cold. The heart tree watched silently, its carved face neither approving nor condemning his presence. He preferred training here in the early hours, away from the judging eyes of others, particularly Lady Stark's.

His sword stopped mid-swing as last year's memories invaded his thoughts unbidden. The sound of coughing had filled the halls of Winterfell, servants moving like ghosts through corridors with cloths pressed to their faces. But what haunted him most was Robb's feverish face, usually robust cheeks hollowed by illness.

"You never get sick," Arya had whispered to him that evening, perched on his bed like a little bird. "Never ever. I've watched."

"Everyone gets sick sometimes, little sister," he had replied, though even then he'd known it wasn't true – at least not for him.

"No, you don't. I've seen Robb sick before, and Sansa, and even Father once. But never you." Her gray eyes, so like his own, had sparkled with conviction. "It's like magic."

The memory shifted to later that same week, when Lady Stark had cornered him in the library:

' "Why are you not ill?" she had demanded, her usually composed face twisted with worry and suspicion. "Everyone who has been near my son has fallen ill. Everyone except you."

Jon had stepped back, clutching the book he'd been reading. "My lady, I-"

"You spend every day with him, training in the yard, sharing meals, yet you stand here healthy while my son burns with fever."

"Theon is well too," Jon had protested, hating how defensive he sounded. "He hasn't fallen ill either."

Lady Stark's laugh had been bitter, cutting. "Theon Greyjoy gains nothing if my son dies. But you... if Robb were to die, what might a bastard hope to gain?" '

The accusation had hit him worse than the slap many years ago. Even now, months later, practicing alone in the godswood, Jon's hands tightened on his practice sword until his knuckles went white.

"How dare you?" he had whispered then, trembling with rage and hurt. "How dare you think I would ever-"

"Enough."

His father's voice had cut through the library like ice. Jon had never seen Lord Stark so angry, his gray eyes hard as winter frost as he regarded his wife.

"Father, I-" Jon had started.

"Leave us, Jon."

He had fled, but not before hearing his father's words to Lady Stark: "You will never speak to him like that again. Never."

"My love," Lady Stark had begun, but Lord Stark's voice had grown colder still.

"He is my blood. He would sooner cut off his own hand than harm Robb. You know this, Cat. You know it."

Back in the present, Jon's practice sword struck the ground with enough force to send snow flying. A raven cawed somewhere above, making him start.

"I thought I'd find you here," came Arya's voice behind him. She was bundled in furs, her hair wild as always. "You always come here when you're brooding."

"I don't brood," Jon protested automatically.

"Yes, you do. You're doing it right now." She plopped down on a nearby root, pulling her knees to her chest. "Thinking about last year?"

Jon looked at her sharply. "How did you-"

"Because I was thinking about it too. Sansa mentioned at breakfast how she's sure she's getting a cold, and it reminded me." Arya tilted her head. "You still haven't been sick, you know. Not once."

"Arya..."

"I've been keeping track," she continued, undeterred. "Three years ago, when that stomach illness went through the castle? Everyone was sick, even the kitchen cats. But not you. And last winter, when-"

"Perhaps I'm just healthy," Jon interrupted, not wanting to discuss it.

"Or perhaps you're magical," Arya insisted. "Like the heroes in Old Nan's stories."

"I'm not a hero from a story," Jon said, but he couldn't help smiling at her earnestness. "I'm just... me."

"Maybe that's enough," Arya said quietly. "Maybe being you is exactly what makes you special."

Jon sat beside her, ruffling her hair affectionately. "Nothing special about me, little sister. I'm just a bastard who's good at not catching colds."

"You're more than that," Arya said fiercely. "Mother was wrong, you know. About everything."

Jon's smile faded. "You heard about that?"

"I hear lots of things. People don't notice me much, especially when I'm hiding." She looked at him seriously. "Father was right to be angry. She shouldn't have said those things."

"She was worried about Robb," Jon said, though the words tasted bitter. "Any mother would be."

"That's no excuse," Arya declared. "You love Robb as much as any of us. More than Theon does, even if he is Father's ward."

Jon picked up a stick and drew patterns in the snow. "Sometimes I think it would be easier if I did get sick. Just once. Then maybe she wouldn't..."

"Wouldn't what? Hate you?" Arya snorted. "She'd find another reason. Don't wish yourself ill just to please her, Jon. Being different isn't wrong."

"When did you get so wise?" Jon asked, trying to lighten the mood.

"I've always been wise. You just never noticed because you were too busy brooding."

That startled a laugh out of him. "I don't-"

"Yes, you do," came Robb's voice, and they both turned to see him approaching through the trees. "Gods, but you do love to brood, brother."

Jon stood quickly, brushing snow from his clothes. "I thought you were training with Ser Rodrik this morning."

"I was. But then I saw my favorite sister sneaking off to the godswood, and I thought I'd see what mischief you two were plotting." Robb's smile faded slightly. "Though from your faces, I'd say this isn't about mischief at all."

"We were just talking," Arya said quickly.

"About last year," Robb guessed, and Jon saw understanding dawn in his brother's eyes. "Ah. Mother's words."

Jon looked away. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing," Robb said firmly. "It was wrong, what she said. I told her so myself, after Father did."

This was news to Jon. "You did?"

"Of course I did. You're my brother, Jon. I know you'd never wish me harm." Robb's blue eyes were serious. "And I don't care if you never get sick. Though I must admit, I'm rather jealous of that particular trait."

"See?" Arya said triumphantly. "I told you it was magical."

"It's not magical," Jon protested, but Robb was grinning now.

"Oh, I don't know about that. Seems rather convenient, doesn't it? Never having to drink Maester Luwin's horrible remedies? Never missing training because of a cough?" He clasped Jon's shoulder. "If it is magic, brother, I'd say you got the better end of that bargain."

"You're both idiots," Jon grumbled, but he was fighting a smile now.

"We're your family," Arya said simply. "Being idiots is what family does."

"Speaking of idio--speaking of family," Robb said, "Father's looking for you, Jon. Something about helping him review the winter stores."

Jon nodded, gathering his practice sword. As he turned to go, Robb caught his arm.

"Jon? Whatever Mother said... it doesn't change anything. You're my brother. Always will be."

For a moment, Jon couldn't speak past the lump in his throat. He nodded instead, clasping Robb's arm in return.

As he walked back toward the castle, he could hear Arya pestering Robb about whether he thought Jon might have other magical abilities they hadn't discovered yet. Robb's laughing response made him smile despite himself.

The sunlight filtering through the heart tree's red leaves caught his unique eyes - one as green as summer grass, the other an impossible shade of purple that sometimes made the servants whisper and look away. At thirteen, he was already showing signs of the striking beauty that made some of the older servants uncomfortable, though Jon never understood why they'd sometimes stare at his face with such strange expressions.

As he walked back toward the castle, he passed two servants who quickly averted their eyes. Jon was used to it by now - his face seemed to unsettle people more and more as he grew older, though he couldn't understand why. He'd caught his father watching him sometimes with a strange, almost pained expression, especially when the subject of his perfect health came up.

He could still hear Arya behind him, now trying to convince Robb that Jon's eyes were proof of magical abilities. "Old Nan says mismatched eyes mean the gods marked him special," she was insisting, while Robb laughed good-naturedly.

Lady Stark's voice cut through his thoughts as he entered the courtyard: "Keep your distance from him," she was telling Sansa, who had been watching Jon approach. His stepmother's eyes lingered on his face with that familiar mixture of suspicion and barely concealed hostility before she hurried her daughter away.

Jon squared his shoulders and continued toward the keep. Let them whisper about his eyes, his face, his perfect health. At thirteen, he was learning to wear their suspicions like armor. Besides, as Arya had said - being different wasn't wrong, even if it made others uncomfortable.

Later

Jon knocked on the heavy wooden door of his father's solar, brushing a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to smooth down the stubborn curls that training had left wild. The faint scent of ink and aged parchment seeped from beneath the door, mingling with the smoky warmth of the hearth.

"Enter," came his father's familiar voice.

Pushing the door open, Jon found Lord Stark hunched over his oak desk, quill scratching against parchment. The firelight cast his father's face in stern relief, brows furrowed in concentration, the way they did when Winterfell's weighty responsibilities demanded his full attention. But when he looked up and saw Jon, a faint warmth softened his expression, hinting at the father behind the lord.

"Ah, Jon. Good." Lord Stark set the quill down, a practiced hand folding the letter he'd been working on. Jon caught a fleeting glimpse of a wax seal—a merman riding a large fish—before his father tucked it away carefully.

"Robb said you wanted to see me, Father?" Jon shifted his weight, his mismatched green and purple eyes glinting with quiet curiosity.

"Yes." Lord Stark leaned back, the chair creaking under him as he scrutinized Jon. "In two weeks' time, I'll be traveling to White Harbor to discuss some matters with Lord Manderly. Robb will come along, of course, and..." He hesitated, studying Jon's face. "I'd like you to join us."

Jon's eyes widened, one reflecting the daylight from the window while the other seemed to brighten with an inner excitement. Yet his natural caution tempered his enthusiasm.

"Me? But... wouldn't Bran want to go?"

Lord Stark's lips twitched with a glint of amusement. "Bran is four, Jon. The highlight of White Harbor for him would likely be counting every step in the New Castle before falling asleep halfway through."

"He'd probably try to climb them all."

Lord Stark's chuckle filled the room. "Precisely why he's staying here. No, Jon, I think it's time you saw more of the North beyond Winterfell's walls. You're thirteen now. It will be good for you to meet people, learn how to—"

"Hide my face better?" Jon muttered with a touch of irony.

Lord Stark's gaze sharpened slightly. "Jon."

"Sorry," Jon said, looking down. "It's just... what about Lady Stark? Won't she..."

Lord Stark's mouth set into a firm line. "Last I checked, the direwolf sigil on Winterfell's banners belonged to House Stark, not House Tully." His gray eyes held Jon's. "Now, would you like to come to White Harbor with Robb and me?"

A grin broke out across Jon's face, and he nodded, dark curls bouncing with his enthusiasm.

Lord Stark arched an eyebrow. "You look like one of those nodding dog ornaments the merchants bring over from Esoss."

Jon's face flushed, but he beamed. "Sorry, Father. I mean—yes, I'd very much like to come."

"Good." Lord Stark's hand returned to the quill but paused halfway. "Oh, and Jon? While we're there, you'll need to learn to dance."

Jon's happiness faltered, his expression turning to one of horror. "I... what?"

"Dance." Lord Stark's tone was matter-of-fact, his amusement barely hidden. "You know, moving your feet to music without crushing anyone's toes?"

"I know what dancing is," Jon said, scandalized. "But why do I have to learn?"

Lord Stark suppressed a grin. "Because Lord Manderly will host a feast, and his granddaughters will attend. It would be rather rude if the sons of Winterfell's lord couldn't dance with them."

"But I'm not—" Jon began, bewildered.

"You're my son," his father interrupted firmly. "And you'll learn to dance."

Jon slumped against the doorframe, his voice muffled in exasperation. "Couldn't I just fight a bear instead?"

"The bear might prove a better dancer," his father replied, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "At least they can stand on their hind legs without tripping."

"Father!" Jon blurted, scandalized by the jest.

"Off with you now," Lord Stark waved him away, his eyes still glinting with amusement. "And Jon—try not to look so defeated. It's dancing, not a death sentence."

"Same thing," Jon muttered under his breath as he turned to go.

"I heard that."

Jon practically fled the solar, only to barrel straight into Robb, who was waiting eagerly in the hallway.

"Well?" Robb asked, eyes bright with anticipation. "Did Father tell you? About White Harbor?"

"Yes," Jon replied, then groaned. "And about the dancing."

Robb's grin spread wide. "Oh, this is going to be wonderful. You should see your face—you look like someone told you you'll have to kiss Old Nan."

"I'd rather kiss Old Nan than make a fool of myself in front of Lord Manderly's granddaughters," Jon grumbled, running a hand over his face.

"Don't let Lady Manderly hear you say that about her granddaughters," Robb laughed. "Come on, it won't be that bad. I'll help you practice."

Jon eyed him suspiciously. "You know how to dance?"

"Of course!" Robb puffed his chest slightly. "Mother made sure..." he hesitated, his voice trailing off as he realized what he'd implied.

Jon's expression turned sober. "Of course," he repeated, voice subdued. "Lady Stark would make sure her heir knows how to dance properly."

"Jon..." Robb started, reaching a hand out.

"No, it's fine. Really." Jon's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I just... I don't want to embarrass Father."

Robb's gaze softened. "You won't. And look, we've got two weeks. Between me and Sansa—"

Jon's mismatched eyes widened in horror. "Sansa? No. Absolutely not."

"She's actually quite good at teaching—"

"No."

"But—"

"I'd rather dance with the bear."

"What bear?" Arya's voice piped up suddenly as she appeared from behind a column, startling both boys.

"Seven hells, Arya!" Robb clutched his chest. "Where did you come from?"

"I'm everywhere," Arya replied mysteriously, her grin just as mischievous as her sudden appearance. She turned to Jon. "What's this about a bear?"

"Jon has to learn to dance for White Harbor," Robb explained, ignoring Jon's frantic head-shaking.

Arya's eyes lit up with a gleeful sparkle. "Really? This is better than nameday! Can I watch?"

"No," Jon said firmly.

"Can I help?"

"NO."

"I could be your partner! I'm the right height!" she persisted, standing on her toes for effect.

"Absolutely not."

"I promise I won't laugh... much."

Jon shot Robb a pleading look. "The bear. Please. Find me a bear."

"Stop being such a baby," Arya rolled her eyes. "It's just dancing. Even Hodor can dance."

"Hodor doesn't have to dance with Lord Manderly's granddaughters," Jon pointed out.

"Lucky him," Robb muttered, then quickly added, "I mean, lovely girls, I'm sure."

"Very lovely," came their father's voice from behind them, making all three children jump. "And getting lovelier with every complaint about dancing with them, I see."

"Father!" Jon's face turned scarlet. "I didn't mean... I'm sure they're very..."

"Perhaps we should find that bear after all," Lord Stark mused, his eyes twinkling as he continued down the corridor. "Though I doubt Lord Manderly would appreciate us bringing one to his feast."

As their father disappeared around the corner, Arya burst into laughter.

"It's not funny," Jon protested.

"It's a little funny," Robb conceded. "Come on, brother. Let's go find Sansa before you decide wrestling a shadowcat is preferable to dancing lessons."

"Is that an option?" Jon asked hopefully.

"No," both his siblings said in unison.

As they led him toward the great hall, Jon could have sworn he heard his father's laughter echoing down the corridor. He cast a glance up at the ceiling, sighing in defeat.

"Fine," he conceded. "But if anyone else finds out about this..."

"Don't worry," Arya patted his arm with mock sincerity. "I'm sure your magical powers will help you dance perfectly."

"I don't have magical powers!"

"Then how do you explain never being sick?" Arya challenged, eyes narrowing in dramatic suspicion.

"And those eyes," Robb added with a smirk, one arm slung around Jon's shoulders.

"And the fact that you're the only one who can calm Hodor down when he's upset," Arya continued.

"That's not magic; that's just being kind," Jon protested, shaking his head.

"Magic of kindness then," Arya declared with finality. "Maybe it'll work for dancing too!"

Jon looked over at Robb in exasperation. "The bear?"

"No bear," Robb said firmly, steering him toward the sept. "But if it makes you feel better, I promise to step on Wynafryd Manderly's feet at least once, so you won't be the only one making a fool of yourself."

"My hero," Jon replied dryly, though a reluctant smile crept onto his face.

"That's what brothers are for," Robb grinned. "Now come on, let's find Sansa before you think of any more wild animals to dance with instead."

"I still can't believe this is happening," Jon muttered as they passed through Winterfell's corridors. "And you're far too happy about this," he added accusingly to Arya, who was practically skipping beside them.

"Of course I am!" Arya said with a wicked grin. "Finally, someone else has to suffer through dancing lessons besides me. Though I doubt you'll have Septa Mordane breathing down your neck about 'proper foot placement' and 'maintaining a lady-like posture.'"

Jon raised an eyebrow, his eyes glinting mischievously. "But I thought you hated anything remotely lady-like? Isn't dancing right up there with embroidery and 'sitting pretty' on your list of torments?"

"Oh, I do hate it," Arya agreed cheerfully. "But Mother made sure I at least knew the basics. Something about 'social graces' and 'not embarrassing the family name.'" She mimicked Lady Catelyn's stern voice, and Robb snorted in laughter.

Jon grinned, looking her up and down as if assessing. "I'm trying to picture you in a proper dress, twirling around the dance floor. All elegant and graceful—"

"Finish that sentence, Jon, and brother or not, you'll regret it," Arya warned, though her eyes gleamed with amusement. "You're lucky you're my favorite brother, or you'd already be eating dirt."

"Oh?" Robb feigned a wounded look, hand on his heart. "And what am I, chopped liver?"

Arya pretended to consider this. "Acceptable. I probably wouldn't hurt you... much."

"How generous of you," Robb chuckled. "And Theon?"

"Theon isn't my brother," Arya said flatly. "If he made that joke, he'd be checking his bed for spiders for a month."

As they neared the sept, a group of girls around fourteen or fifteen years old passed by, glancing shyly in Jon's direction before dissolving into giggles.

Jon groaned, attempting to hide behind Robb.

"Oh, look who's popular with the ladies," Robb teased, elbowing Jon. "Maybe one of them could teach you to dance. I'm sure they'd be more than willing to... what was it Father said? Help you 'move your feet to music without stepping on anyone's toes'?"

"Shut up," Jon muttered, his cheeks turning crimson.

"They're stupid," Arya declared, scowling after the retreating girls. "All they do is giggle and stare at boys like they're some kind of rare animal in a menagerie."

"Jealous, little sister?" Robb asked, grinning.

"As if!" Arya snorted. "I'd rather kiss a horse."

"Well, there's always the stables," Jon suggested with mock innocence.

Arya smacked his arm. "Just for that, I hope you step on all the Manderly girls' toes."

"You might get your wish," Jon sighed. "I don't understand why they were looking at me like that anyway."

Robb and Arya exchanged amused, knowing looks.

"What?" Jon demanded.

"Nothing," they replied in unison, a bit too quickly.

"Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately, brother?" Robb asked, trying to suppress his laughter. "Between those eyes of yours and that face—"

Jon's hand went to his cheek, suddenly self-conscious. "What's wrong with my face?"

"Nothing's wrong with it," came Jeyne's voice, unexpectedly, from the sept's doorway. "That's rather the point, isn't it?"

"Jeyne, we will talk later. My father said I need to teach Robb how to dance," Sansa interjected with a saccharine smile, and Jeyne gave one last lingering look at Jon before hurrying back inside, casting glances over her shoulder.

"Sansa!" Arya exclaimed. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to hear about Jon's admirers," Sansa said, her expression prim but with a teasing gleam in her eyes. "Honestly, Jon, you shouldn't look so surprised. Half the serving girls can't stop talking about your eyes, and Jeyne practically swoons whenever she sees you training in the yard."

"She does not!" Jon protested, looking stricken.

"Oh, she absolutely does," Sansa confirmed, her smile widening. "I think her exact words were 'mysterious and brooding.'"

Robb burst into laughter, and Jon's face took on a desperate expression, as if he wished for the ground to swallow him up.

"I do not brood," he muttered under his breath.

"You're brooding right now," Arya helpfully pointed out.

Jon sighed heavily. "Can we please just focus on the dancing?"

"Ah, yes, the dancing," Sansa said, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Don't worry, Jon. By the time I'm done with you, those Manderly girls won't know what hit them."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Jon mumbled as Sansa led them toward a practice room in the sept.

Inside, Sansa clapped her hands with the authority of a teacher. "Now, first things first: Robb, you'll have to be the girl."

Robb's laughter stopped short. "What? Why me?"

"Because you already know the steps, and Arya's too short," Sansa explained, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Ha!" Arya's face lit up with wicked delight. "Now who's laughing?"

"I am not being the girl," Robb declared, crossing his arms defiantly.

"Would you rather Jon practice with one of his admirers?" Sansa asked sweetly. "I'm sure Jeyne would be more than willing—"

"Fine," Robb grumbled. "But if Theon ever hears about this—"

"He won't," Jon assured him quickly. "Not unless he wants to end up as the latest addition to Arya's spider collection."

Sansa tilted her head thoughtfully. "Speaking of collections, did you see Beth Cassel gathering winter roses earlier? She was asking if you liked them, Jon."

Jon groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. "Seven hells. Can we please just start the dancing lesson?"

"Of course," Sansa said with a serene smile. "Robb, curtsy for Jon."

"I will not—" Robb started to protest.

"Curtsy," Sansa said, her tone taking on a steely edge, "or I'll tell Mother who really put that frog in Septa Mordane's bed."

Robb shot his sister a glare but, with a sigh of defeat, dipped into a clumsy curtsy, causing Arya to burst into laughter.

"Right then," Sansa said briskly. "Jon, bow to your partner."

Jon bowed awkwardly, his cheeks pink as he avoided looking Robb in the eyes.

"Lower," Sansa corrected. "You're greeting a lady, not picking something up off the floor."

"The lady in question being our brother," Arya added with a wicked grin.

"Shut up, Arya," Jon and Robb muttered in unison.

"Now," Sansa continued, undeterred, "place your right hand on Robb's waist—"

"Oh gods," Jon whispered in mortification.

"If your hand goes anywhere near my waist, Snow, I'll tell Theon everything," Robb threatened.

"Tell him what?" came Theon's voice from the doorway, freezing them all in place.

For a moment, there was complete silence. Then Arya, quick as a fox, grabbed Theon's arm, steering him out of the room. "Theon! Just the person I needed! I need help with my bow practice."

Theon's voice trailed off in protest as Arya pulled him down the hall. Jon and Robb exchanged looks.

"We never speak of this," Robb said, his expression dead serious.

"Agreed," Jon replied fervently.

"If you two are quite finished," Sansa sighed, "can we continue? Or would you rather explain to Father why you can't dance at Lord Manderly's feast?"

Jon squared his shoulders, determined. "Fine. Let's do this."

"That's what I want to hear," Sansa said approvingly. "Now, Robb, try to look a bit more ladylike."

"I hate all of you," Robb grumbled, but he straightened his posture, trying his best to appear graceful.

"No, you don't," Arya said cheerfully, returning from her Theon-diversion mission. "Now shut up and dance, dear brothers. This is better than any mummer's show."

Jon tried to lead Robb through the steps, but his feet betrayed him almost immediately, clumsily stepping on Robb's foot for the third time.

"Jon," Sansa's voice rang out, exasperated. "You're leading a dance, not marching into battle."

"Same thing," Jon and Robb muttered in unison before sharing a grin.

Sansa sighed, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Boys, honestly. What are we going to do with you?"

"Send us to the Wall?" Jon suggested, hopeful.

"Nice try," Sansa smirked. "But you're not getting out of this that easily. Now, from the top, and this time, try not to look like you're facing execution."

"There's still time to find that bear," Jon whispered to Robb, who barely stifled a laugh.

"Less talking, more dancing," Sansa commanded. Her tone had a sharpness that reminded them both of their father, and they straightened up instinctively.

And so the dancing lesson continued, with only a few additional bruises to Robb's feet and Jon's pride.

Later, as they continued practicing, Sansa let out a sigh for what felt like the hundredth time. "No, no, no," she groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Jon, you're supposed to glide, not stomp around like you're wearing Hodor's boots."

"I am gliding," Jon insisted, staring down at his feet in concentration.

"And stop looking down!" Sansa commanded. "A proper dancer keeps his head up and maintains eye contact with his partner."

"I'd rather not maintain eye contact with Robb, if it's all the same to you," Jon muttered under his breath.

"Believe me, the feeling's mutual," Robb replied, gritting his teeth as he attempted to hold his 'lady-like' posture. "Seven hells, Jon! Are you trying to cripple me?"

"Maybe if you didn't keep moving—"

"I'm following the steps!" Robb protested. "You're the one who keeps going left when you should be going right!"

"Maybe if Sansa's instructions were clearer—" Jon started defensively.

"My instructions are perfectly clear," Sansa cut in with exasperation. "You're just not listening."

From her perch on a nearby bench, Arya watched the scene with gleeful amusement, though a curious thought nagged at her. Sliding closer to Sansa, she whispered, "Since when do you care so much if Jon can dance or not? You usually just call him 'half-brother' and ignore him."

Sansa's gaze flickered toward Arya before returning to the dancing disaster before her. "He's going to White Harbor as a representative of House Stark," she whispered back. "If he makes a fool of himself, it reflects poorly on our family."

Arya narrowed her eyes. "So you don't actually care about helping Jon. You just care about the family's reputation."

"Of course I care about the family's reputation," Sansa whispered, her tone defensive. "And you should too. Now be quiet, and—oh, for goodness' sake, Jon! You're leading a dance, not wrestling a direwolf!"

Jon, who had managed to tangle both his and Robb's feet together again, shot her a desperate look. "Maybe we could take a break?"

"No breaks," Sansa declared. "Not until you can finish a dance without maiming your partner."

"It's too late for that," Robb groaned, gingerly testing his sore foot. "I'm going to be covered in bruises tomorrow."

"Don't be so dramatic," Sansa rolled her eyes. "Now, let's try it again. And this time, Jon, remember: one-two-three, one-two-three, not one-stumble-crash."

Arya's irritation at Sansa's motives was quickly overwhelmed by the sheer hilarity of watching Jon and Robb try to waltz. Jon looked like he was preparing for combat, his face set in grim determination, while Robb kept attempting to lead despite his assigned "lady" role.

"Stop trying to lead, Robb!" Sansa called.

"I can't help it! He's about to lead us into a wall!"

"I am not—" Jon started defensively, right before narrowly steering them away from a column.

"See?" Robb exclaimed triumphantly.

Sansa put a hand to her chin, tapping thoughtfully. "Perhaps we need a different approach." Her eyes landed on Arya, and a slow smile spread across her face. "Arya, come here."

"What? No!" Arya's eyes went wide in horror.

"Yes," Sansa said, nodding decisively. "You're closer to the height Jon will actually be dancing with. Robb's too tall."

"Thank the gods," Robb muttered, limping away to collapse onto the bench, thoroughly enjoying the reprieve.

"But—" Arya started to protest.

"No buts," Sansa cut her off. "Jon needs to practice with someone closer to the height of the Manderly girls."

Arya crossed her arms defiantly. "I am not wearing a dress."

"You don't need to wear a dress," Jon said quickly, looking both relieved and desperate. "Just... help me not look like a complete fool?"

Arya glanced at Jon's pleading face, and after a long, dramatic sigh, she relented. "Fine. But if you step on my feet like you did Robb's—"

"I'll let you put spiders in my bed," Jon promised solemnly.

"Deal," Arya grinned, taking her position. "But I'm leading."

"You most certainly are not," Sansa interjected, folding her arms. "Jon needs to learn to lead properly."

"Well, he can't possibly be worse with me than he was with Robb," Arya shrugged, rolling her eyes.

"I'm right here," Robb called out indignantly from his spot on the bench.

"Yes, nursing your war wounds," Jon smirked, glancing at his brother.

"Just dance," Sansa commanded, clapping her hands. Jon quickly placed a hand on Arya's waist while she put hers on his shoulder, both of them looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"This is weird," Arya announced, making a face.

"Incredibly weird," Jon agreed, his brows knitted in concentration as he tried to remember the steps.

"Less talking, more dancing!" Sansa clapped her hands again. "And Jon, remember to—"

"I know, I know. Glide, don't stomp," Jon recited, trying to keep his voice steady. He took a deep breath, focused on his feet, and managed three steps before his boot came down directly onto Arya's toes.

"That's it!" Arya yelped, pulling her foot back and glaring at him. "Spiders it is!"

"It was an accident!" Jon protested, leaping back as Arya aimed a half-hearted kick at his shin.

"Children!" Sansa's voice cracked like a whip, snapping them both back to attention. "This is not helping!"

"Speak for yourself," Robb grinned from his safe position, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. "This is the best entertainment I've had all week."

"Just wait until it's your turn to practice again," Sansa threatened, making Robb's grin fade instantly.

Jon sighed, glancing at Sansa hopefully. "Maybe we should call it a day?"

"Absolutely not," Sansa said firmly, her no-nonsense expression in place. "Not until you can complete one dance without injuring your partner or yourself."

"We're going to be here forever," Arya groaned, rolling her eyes.

"Then I suggest you both start taking this seriously," Sansa replied, smoothing her dress with an air of authority. "Now, from the beginning. And Jon?"

"Yes?"

"If you step on Arya's foot again, I won't stop her from putting spiders in your bed."

"Traitor," Jon muttered under his breath, but he straightened his posture and carefully adjusted his stance, trying not to look as though he was about to march into battle.

"At least you don't have to dance with Theon," Robb offered helpfully.

The mental image made them all pause, then they burst into laughter, Sansa even cracking a reluctant smile.

"Now that would be worth seeing," Arya snickered.

"Don't give Sansa any ideas," Jon warned, only to yelp as Arya deliberately stepped on his foot.

"Sorry," she said sweetly, though her grin was anything but innocent. "I was just practicing my gliding."

Two hours later, Jon and Arya had finally managed to complete a full dance without any major catastrophes. Their movements were still stiff and tentative, but for the first time, no toes had been crushed in at least the last quarter hour.

"Well, that only took about as long as fighting three bears," Jon remarked dryly, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.

"Bears would've been more fun," Arya agreed, stretching her arms out with a dramatic sigh. "At least then we could've stabbed something."

"You two and your obsession with violence," Sansa huffed, though there was a hint of satisfaction in her voice as she watched them complete another turn without a misstep.

"Says the one who's been torturing us for hours," Robb called from the bench, where he'd been alternating between unhelpful commentary and dramatic complaints about his "grievously wounded" feet.

"I'd rather be climbing the Broken Tower with Bran," Robb continued, stretching with a loud groan. "At least if I fell to my death, it'd be quick, unlike this slow torture."

"No one's dying," Sansa rolled her eyes. "Though your dancing might make a few people wish they were dead."

Jon blinked in surprise, exchanging a look with Arya. "Was that a jest from proper Lady Sansa?" he gasped in mock shock. "Quick, Arya, mark the date!"

"Already done," Arya grinned, holding up an imaginary quill. "Right after I marked the date you managed to dance without maiming anyone."

They practiced a bit longer, Sansa finally calling it a day after another half-hour, her teaching tone fading to its usual cool distance as she turned to Jon. "That should be sufficient," she said with a prim nod, not quite looking at him. "Try not to embarrass us too badly in White Harbor."

Jon felt the sting of her formality and kept his face neutral. "Thank you for the lessons, Lady Sansa."

As they left the sept, Jon groaned, stretching his arms over his head. "Seven hells, I'm more exhausted than after a full day's training. Six hours with a sword is easier than this."

"That's because you actually like the sword," Robb pointed out, throwing a friendly arm around his shoulders. "Though I have to say, your graceful twirling has improved tremendously."

"I do not twirl," Jon grumbled, shoving Robb off with a half-hearted scowl.

"Oh, you definitely twirl," Arya chimed in, walking on his other side. "And very prettily too."

"I hate you both," Jon muttered, though he couldn't keep the smile from creeping onto his face.

As they passed through the courtyard, a group of girls, including Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole, walked by. They took one look at Jon—still flushed from dancing—and burst into a fit of giggles, glancing back as they hurried on, whispering behind their hands.

Jon frowned, running a hand through his unruly dark curls. "I don't understand. What are they always giggling about?"

Robb chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Oh, brother. For someone so observant in the training yard, you can be remarkably blind."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jon looked at him, bewildered.

"It means you're hopeless," Arya declared with a laugh, elbowing his side. "But we like you anyway."

Jon groaned again, rubbing his face in exasperation. "This dancing business is going to be the end of me."

"At least you'll be able to manage it at the feast," Robb reassured him, grinning. "By the time we're done, you'll be dancing circles around those Manderly girls."

"Let's not go that far," Jon muttered, but he found himself laughing alongside his siblings as they continued back to Winterfell, his dread of White Harbor feeling a little lighter with every step.

Night

That night, Jon tossed and turned in his bed, his mind caught in a swirling, unsettling fog. His dreams felt darker than usual, vivid and intense, carrying him through scenes that blurred reality and nightmare. His consciousness seemed to drift between darkness and flashes of chaotic scenes—people running, terror etched into their faces, screams filling the air like a song for death.

"I will destroy all my enemies."

The voice was familiar and yet not his own, seeming to echo from deep within his mind, but also foreign, as if spoken by a shadowed stranger. The sound was powerful, commanding. Around him, lightning cracked, bathing everything in blinding flashes. Heat and smoke filled his senses as flames rose higher, licking the edges of his vision.

With a strangled gasp, Jon sat up, his chest heaving. The echoes of screams faded, but the sensation of heat, the acrid scent of smoke, and that ominous voice still clung to him. Glancing around, he saw only his familiar chamber, still and silent, cloaked in shadows.

"Just a dream," he whispered to himself, willing his heartbeat to slow. "Just a strange dream."

But as he lay back down, a heaviness settled over him, a nagging sense that this dream was no ordinary one. The voice lingered in his mind like an echo, almost like a memory or a distant warning. It felt too real, as though he had stepped into a different reality—a glimpse of something buried deep within him.

His green eye seemed to catch and reflect every trace of moonlight, gleaming with an unnatural intensity, while his purple eye remained calm. He blinked hard, and when he opened his eyes again, they were both back to their usual state—odd but familiar mismatched hues.

"I'm losing my mind," he muttered, turning onto his side with a feeble attempt at humor. "Too much dancing. Sansa's finally driven me mad with all that twirling."

But despite his words, he couldn't shake the eerie feeling in his chest. The screams, the voice promising destruction, seemed to pulse within him. He thought about waking Robb or finding Arya, but what would he even say? That he'd dreamt of a voice commanding him to destroy his enemies? That he'd felt a heat that wasn't real, smelled smoke that shouldn't exist?

Better to keep it to himself. It was probably just nerves about White Harbor, mixed with the ridiculous dancing lessons and all the talk of Manderly girls. If he kept repeating that to himself, maybe he'd believe it.

As he finally drifted back to sleep, his hand unconsciously rose to touch his green eye, and in the depths of his mind, he swore he could hear a faint rumble of distant thunder, like an echo.

And then he saw something else—an image, hazy but intensely real.

"Do not hurt her!" he heard his own voice scream, though he didn't remember speaking the words. Cold laughter rang all around him. Shadows obscured his vision, but he could hear every sound—footsteps closing in, the clinking of metal.

"Put down your weapon, boy, and we will let her live."

"Alright... here." He felt his arm moving, heard the faint clatter of a sword hitting the ground, then silence.

"Good," a voice hissed in the darkness. "Kill him."

A sharp pain lanced through him as he felt a blade slide into his stomach from behind. The pain was blinding as he heard a sound, the slice of a throat being cut.

"NOOO!" Jon's scream tore through the silence. At that moment, a bolt of lightning struck the ground with a deafening crack, the echo reverberating like a demon awakening from the depths of the earth. A roar filled his ears, mingling with the screams of those around him.

"I will destroy all my enemies."

Chapter Text

Morning came too quickly, the memory of Jon's unsettling dream lingering at the edge of his mind. He splashed cold water on his face, as if he could wash away the memory of fire, smoke, and that dark, threatening voice. Dreams are just dreams, he reminded himself firmly, even if this one felt different.

Jon made sure to scrub up before heading to break his fast, knowing Lady Stark would take any opportunity to find fault with his appearance. The great hall was already lively with the morning bustle of servants and family. Jon's eyes instinctively drifted to the high table, searching Lady Stark's expression to gauge what kind of morning lay ahead. Today, her usual chilly stare was even icier than usual.

More surprising was the sight of Sansa, sitting unusually silent and barely picking at her food. Her usual bright conversation with Jeyne Poole was absent, her gaze fixed on her plate as she pushed bits of food around in circles.

Jon slid onto the seat beside Robb, keeping his voice low. "What's wrong with Sansa?"

Robb's face clouded slightly, his usual cheer tempered with discomfort. "Mother had...words with her last night."

"About teaching me to dance," Jon said flatly. It wasn't a question.

"Jon—"

"It's fine," Jon cut him off, though his appetite vanished. "I should have known better."

"It's not your fault," Robb replied, a rare edge of frustration in his tone. "The dancing lessons were necessary. Mother's just..." He trailed off, searching for a gentler description of his mother's behavior.

"Being herself?" Jon offered dryly.

"Well, I was going to say 'unreasonable,' but yes, that works."

Before they could continue, Theon dropped onto the bench across from them, grinning broadly as he reached for the bread.

"So, preparing for your grand debut in White Harbor?" Theon drawled. "Try not to shame the family name too badly, Snow."

"I'll do my best to live up to your shining example, Greyjoy," Jon replied blandly, helping himself to some fruit.

Theon smirked, undeterred. "You could never. The ladies of White Harbor won't know what hit them when I arrive. Well, they might have some idea—my reputation does tend to precede me."

"Yes, they'll be sure to hide their valuables and lock up their daughters," Robb quipped.

"You jest, but I've already received three letters from admirers there," Theon said with a smug grin.

"Your right hand writing with different colored inks doesn't count as multiple admirers," Jon said, his tone deadpan, causing Robb to choke on his drink.

From the next table over, Arya's distinct snort of laughter could be heard, followed by Bran's high-pitched giggle.

"Jealous, are you?" Theon retorted, his cheeks tinged red. "You wouldn't know what to do with a woman if one fell into your lap."

"Unlike you, who wouldn't know what to do with a woman unless you paid her first?" Jon raised an eyebrow.

Robb nearly fell off the seat laughing while Theon's face turned crimson.

"At least I know how to talk to them," Theon huffed. "You just stand there looking confused whenever a girl so much as glances at you."

"Better confused than desperate," Jon shrugged.

"I am not desperate—"

"You tried to flirt with Old Nan last week because you were drunk, and she was wearing a new shawl," Robb pointed out.

"I did not!" Theon protested, then hesitated. "Did I?"

"You told her her eyes sparkled like stars in a winter sky," Jon confirmed solemnly.

"And that her white hair reminded you of freshly fallen snow," Robb added with a smirk.

"She threatened to hit you with her knitting needles," Jon finished.

"Gods, no wonder she won't look me in the eye anymore," Theon groaned, dropping his head into his hands. Jon and Robb exchanged grins of triumph.

"Don't worry," Robb said, patting Theon's shoulder. "I'm sure the ladies of White Harbor will be much more receptive to your... unique charms."

"Especially if they're blind. And deaf. And have no sense of smell," Jon added helpfully.

Theon shot them both a mock glare. "You are lucky I won't  be coming or they all would run after me. You'll see."

"Oh, we'll see something, alright," Robb chuckled. "Probably you getting slapped by at least three different women."

"Five, minimum," Jon countered with a grin.

Robb's eyes gleamed. "Want to make it interesting? Ten silver stags says he gets slapped by at least four women before the first feast is over."

"Done," Jon said, his grin widening. "Though we should probably set some rules. Does a drink in the face count?"

"Absolutely."

"What about a knee to the—"

"I'm sitting right here!" Theon interrupted indignantly.

"Yes, and you're ruining our wagering with your presence," Robb told him. "How are we supposed to bet on your humiliation if you're listening?"

"Some friends you are," Theon grumbled, though his lips twitched with suppressed laughter.

"We're the best friends you have," Jon pointed out. "We're the only ones willing to tell you when you're making a fool of yourself."

"Which is often," Robb added, taking a swig of his drink.

"Very often."

"Almost constantly, really."

"It's practically a full-time occupation, keeping track of all your foolishness."

"You should pay us for the service."

"Generous compensation would be appropriate."

Theon paused, a reluctant half-grin twitching at the corner of his mouth, but he kept his pace, settling at a table across the room.

"Good luck with that," Jon and Robb called after him in unison. They could see his shoulders shake with laughter as he disappeared into the crowd.

"He's going to be insufferable when we return, isn't he?" Jon sighed, glancing at Robb.

"Oh, absolutely," Robb nodded. "But at least we'll be gone for a week, so maybe he'll have calmed down by the time we're back."

"Small mercies," Jon agreed, though his eyes drifted toward the end of the high table. He noticed that Sansa was gone, and Lady Stark's frosty demeanor hadn't improved. "I should probably make myself scarce before your mother decides I'm corrupting you with my bastard ways."

"Your bastard ways of eating breakfast? Scandalous indeed."

"You never know. I might be eating it in a particularly baseborn manner."

"Ah yes, holding your spoon with the wrong hand, using the wrong fork for eggs—bringing untold shame upon House Stark with every bite."

"Exactly. I'm surprised she hasn't banished me to the stables yet."

"Don't give her ideas," Robb warned, only half-joking.

Jon chuckled, clapping Robb on the shoulder as he stood. "I'll see you at training later? Unless your delicate feet are still recovering from yesterday's lessons."

"My feet may never recover," Robb lamented, holding his hand to his heart in mock tragedy. "I may be forced to retire from dancing forever."

"A truly tragic loss for the North," Jon said solemnly. "The ladies will be devastated."

"They'll have to console themselves with Theon."

Both shuddered dramatically at the thought, then broke into matching grins.

As Jon left the hall, he caught Arya's eye and winked, drawing a quick smile from her. Some things remained constant, he reminded himself—Theon's ridiculous boasting, Robb's friendship, Arya's unfiltered acceptance. If he focused on those, maybe he could forget about the strange dreams, Lady Stark's icy disdain, and Sansa's quiet punishment for the kindness she'd shown him. Almost.

"Speaking of White Harbor," Robb murmured as he rejoined him in the corridor, "I hear some of the Manderly boys like to challenge visitors to 'prove themselves' in the training yard."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "The Manderlys? Aren't they all supposed to be..." He gestured expansively, imitating the bulk the Manderlys were famed for.

"Fat as whales?" Robb grinned. "Yes, that's the rumor. Too much of that famous White Harbor food."

"And too rich to need to fight," Jon added with a smirk. "When was the last time anyone from House Manderly won a tournament?"

"Well, Lord Wyman has two sons," Robb pointed out. "Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel."

"Both old enough to be our fathers," Jon replied, chuckling. "Unless you're planning to challenge men twice your age?"

"Gods, no! Father would have my head if I picked fights with our hosts. But there must be squires and other noble sons fostering there..."

"Those we could handle," Jon nodded, a glint in his mismatched eyes. "Though let's hope they don't actually want to fight."

"Scared, Snow?" Robb teased.

"Of some pampered port city boys? Hardly," Jon scoffed. "I'm more worried about offending their delicate sensibilities when I knock them into the dirt."

"You'll have to get through me first," Robb reminded him. "I'm still ahead in our sparring matches."

"By one! And the last one didn't count—you cheated."

"Did not!"

"You threw snow in my face!"

"I merely used my surroundings to my advantage," Robb said with an exaggerated air of superiority.

"You don't need to worry about fighting anyone," Arya's voice cut in as she reached them. "Just challenge them to a dance. After seeing you two, they'll run away screaming."

Jon groaned, while Robb clutched his chest in mock offense. "I'll have you know we're quite accomplished dancers now."

"Yes," Arya nodded solemnly. "Like a pair of drunken bears trying to walk on their hind legs."

"I prefer to think of it as two wolves with a particularly good sense of rhythm," Robb sniffed, pretending to be insulted.

"More like two wolves after they've been kicked in the head by a horse," Jon muttered.

"At least you didn't step on anyone's feet in the last hour of practice," Arya added, giving Jon a consoling pat. "That's progress."

"Such heartfelt encouragement," Jon replied dryly. "Truly, your faith in us is overwhelming."

"Oh, I have complete faith," Arya grinned, "that you'll both make complete fools of yourselves in White Harbor."

"Is she really our sister, or did someone change her for another, dumber one?" Robb asked Jon, feigning exasperation.

"Too late," Arya said cheerfully. "You're stuck with me. Too bad I can't come with you. I would love to see you two...stomping on the ground."

"Speaking of dancing disasters," Robb turned to Jon, a mischievous gleam in his eye, "maybe that's how we should handle any challenges in White Harbor. Skip the swordplay entirely—just challenge them to a dance-off."

"Yes, because that would be so much less humiliating," Jon rolled his eyes.

"It would certainly be more entertaining," Arya chimed in. "For everyone else, at least."

"Your support is noted, little sister," Robb said, ruffling her hair playfully.

Arya squawked, batting his hand away. "Watch it! I can still blacken your eye if you keep it up."

Robb chuckled, rising from his seat. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Jon and I need to practice our... what did you call it? Our drunken bear impression?"

"For the honor of House Stark," Jon added with mock solemnity.

"The things we do for family," Robb sighed dramatically as they walked out of the hall.

Arya called after them, grinning. "Just try not to break any more toes! Father says we can't afford to cripple any potential allies!"

Later

Jon found solace in the quiet corners of the library, where shelves of ancient tomes and scrolls stood like silent sentinels. Despite what most assumed about him, he cherished reading nearly as much as the thrill of swordplay. Here, the only sounds were the crackle of torches on the stone walls and the faint rustle of pages as he turned them.

In these moments, when he was certain no one was near, he would hum softly or even sing under his breath. It was a habit he'd picked up as a child, one that had brought him comfort until Lady Catelyn had heard him once, her sharp words silencing his songs. "Bastards shouldn't draw attention to themselves," she had told him, cold and final. After that, he saved his voice for times of utter solitude, in the godswood or here among the endless shelves.

Today, he found himself drawn to a section on foreign lands, his curiosity piqued by tales of distant empires and lost civilizations. "A city made entirely of gold," he murmured skeptically, running his finger along the yellowed page that described the Golden Empire of Yi Ti. "And I'm the King Beyond the Wall." Despite his disbelief, he was entranced. The text claimed that Yi Ti's streets were dusted with gold, and its towering spires topped with rubies so large they glowed like flames at dusk.

"If the whole place was made of gold, someone would have melted it down by now," he mused aloud. Catching himself talking to the books again, he muttered, "And now I'm turning into Maester Luwin."

He read on until his stomach growled, reminding him he'd missed the midday meal. The kitchens would be quiet now, and though sneaking food might earn him a sharp rebuke from the cooks, they had never minded his presence. Old Nan had once said it was because he'd caught a family of rats stealing from the larder, but Jon suspected it was also because he was careful to leave no trace of his visit, often lending a hand with kneading bread or chopping vegetables when they were particularly swamped.

As he made his way down the hall, he heard Robb's familiar voice echoing from around a corner.

"There you are! I should have known you'd be hiding with your precious books."

"I wasn't hiding," Jon replied, feigning indignation. "I was reading about Yi Ti."

"Of course you were," Robb chuckled. "While the rest of us mere mortals were practicing our swordwork, you were off learning about... what exactly?"

"A city made of gold," Jon said, shaking his head with a smile.

"Sounds very practical," Robb grinned. "Not at all likely to be stolen or melted down."

"That's exactly what I was thinking," Jon laughed. "Anyway, I'm heading to the kitchens. Want to join me?"

"Are you going to sing while you cook?" Robb teased, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Maybe that lovely ballad about the bear and the maiden fair?"

Jon groaned, feeling his ears redden. "That was one time, and you swore never to mention it again."

"No, I believe I swore not to mention how you were dancing while singing it. The singing itself was never part of the agreement."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't. You love me almost as much as you love your books. And your secret singing."

They reached the kitchens, which were mercifully empty except for a few servants tidying up from the midday meal. They nodded respectfully to Robb, who was already eyeing a basket of freshly baked bread.

"What are you making?" Robb asked, hopping up onto one of the tables.

"Get off there before Cook sees you," Jon warned, arching an eyebrow. "Remember what happened last time?"

Robb winced, rubbing his backside. "That woman has unnaturally good aim with a wooden spoon."

"And an unnaturally hard swing," Jon agreed as he began gathering ingredients. "I'm making those meat pies you like."

"The ones with the pepper and onions?"

"Unless you'd prefer I sing instead?"

"No, no, the pies are fine," Robb said quickly, then added with a grin, "Though I'm sure the kitchen staff would love a performance."

"Keep it up, and you're not getting any pie," Jon threatened, though he was already chopping onions. "Make yourself useful and fetch me some flour."

"I am the heir to Winterfell," Robb replied loftily, crossing his arms. "I don't fetch things."

"Then the heir to Winterfell can starve."

"Tyranny!" Robb declared with mock offense, but he grabbed the flour. "I shall remember this abuse of power when I am Lord of Winterfell."

"Then you'll rule hungry," Jon smirked as he set about mixing the dough.

The two worked side by side, Jon kneading dough while Robb sliced onions and tried not to tear up, grumbling under his breath about the horrors of kitchen duty. They settled into a rhythm, and Jon could feel the lingering tension of the morning fading away.

"So, what else does this book of yours say?" Robb asked after a while. "Are the people in Yi Ti gold as well, or is it just the buildings?"

"Apparently, they wear gold robes embroidered with jewels and feast on the finest foods from across Essos," Jon replied, rolling out the dough. "It sounds like a fairy tale. Imagine trying to eat off plates made of gold. We'd be freezing our fingers off up here before the food even got to our mouths."

"Then I'll stick to plain old metal plates," Robb said with a grin, wiping his flour-covered hands on his tunic. "Though I wouldn't mind seeing a place like that someday. Father says we should know our lands well, but I wouldn't mind knowing what's beyond them, either."

"Maybe one day we'll see it," Jon murmured, though he doubted he would ever travel much beyond Winterfell.

Just then, the kitchen door swung open, and Arya bounded in, grinning as she spotted them. "Ha! I knew I'd find you two hiding in here."

"We're not hiding," Jon replied, shooting her a mock glare. "We're making pies."

"Right. And you're also wearing half of the flour you're using." She poked Robb's arm, leaving a perfect white smudge on his tunic. "Mother will be thrilled."

"Someone's looking to be kicked out of the kitchen," Robb warned, eyeing her playfully.

"Relax," Arya shrugged, plopping down on a stool. "So, who's this golden city for, anyway? Or is that just Jon's excuse for not joining you for swordplay?"

"City of Yi Ti," Jon corrected. "It's made of gold, and the people eat from jewel-encrusted plates. And they're apparently very particular about manners, so maybe you'd fit right in."

Arya snorted. "Oh, sounds dreadful. Give me real plates and a real sword any day."

"That's what I said," Robb chimed in. "Just more proof that I'm the sensible one around here."

"More like you both just lack imagination," Jon retorted with a grin as he placed the finished pies into the oven. "There's a whole world beyond Winterfell. Maybe one day we'll see it for ourselves."

"Together?" Arya asked, her face lighting up with excitement. "Promise?"

Jon and Robb exchanged a look, both of them smiling. "Promise," they replied in unison.

"Jon, can't you be faster?" Robb groaned dramatically, clutching his stomach. "I'm withering away here."

"Faster?" Jon raised an eyebrow as he continued kneading the dough. "What do you expect me to do? Pray to the god of food?"

"Here you are again, using your power over me," Robb retorted an exaggerated look of betrayal on his face. "I always knew you were a traitor."

"What power?" Jon snorted. "I'm just the bastard cook."

"A singing brother cook," Robb corrected him, placing extra emphasis on "brother."

"No pie for you."

"Alright, alright! I take it back!" Robb said quickly, eyes fixed on the tantalizing pies baking in the oven. "You're a wonderfully silent cook who has never sung a note in his life."

Jon chuckled as he dusted his hands with flour. "Your flattery could use some work."

"Unlike your singing," Robb said with a straight face, "which needs no work at all."

Jon reached for a handful of flour and flicked it at Robb, who yelped, brushing the powder from his hair. "Now who's abusing their power?" Robb demanded.

"Still you. I'm just defending my honor."

"Your honor as a secret singer?"

"That's it," Jon said, reaching for more flour, but Robb ducked out of the way just in time.

"Peace! Peace! I yield to your superior... everything," Robb laughed, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Just feed me."

"That's better." Jon nodded with mock regality, returning to his cooking. "Though I notice you're still not helping."

"I brought flour!" Robb pointed out, trying to look innocent.

"And have done nothing since, besides crying over those onions like a little girl," Jon retorted with a smirk.

"Hey!" came from Arya, clearly unimpressed by the comment. 

"I'm providing moral support," Robb said, ignoring Arya's glare, "and protection, in case anyone tries to steal your pies."

"The only one likely to steal them is you," Jon replied, rolling his eyes.

"I would never!" Robb gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I might borrow them indefinitely, but steal? Never."

Jon shook his head as he sprinkled spices over the filling, a small smile tugging at his lips. These were the moments he treasured most—him, Robb, and Arya together, without titles or expectations, just three siblings trading jokes over simple kitchen tasks.

"Do you think they have meat pies in Yi Ti?" Robb asked, watching as Jon carefully sealed each pie.

"Probably made with gold leaf and dragon scales," Jon replied dryly, glancing up with a smirk.

"That sounds uncomfortable to eat," Robb mused.

"About as uncomfortable as living in a city made of gold, I'd imagine."

"You don't think it's real, then?" Robb asked, genuinely curious.

Jon shrugged. "I think people like to make things sound grander than they are. Like those tales of the Thousand Islands where they say the women are ten feet tall and have scales instead of skin."

Robb's eyes widened in mock horror. "You mean they're not? Well, there go my marriage prospects."

Jon chuckled. "I'm sure Theon knows some ten-foot-tall scaled women he could introduce you to."

"Probably claims he's bedded a few," Arya chimed in, rolling her eyes.

They all laughed, knowing well enough of Theon's talent for exaggerating his adventures.

As the rich, savory aroma of the pies began to fill the kitchen, Jon noticed Robb eyeing the oven with thinly veiled longing. "They'll be done soon," he assured him. "Try not to drool on the table."

"I do not drool," Robb said, attempting to look dignified. "I anticipate enthusiastically."

"Oh, is that what we're calling it now?"

Before Robb could respond. "Nothing smells quite like Jon's pies. I could tell they're yours from a field away." Arya chimed in with a little smile.

Robb grinned, nudging Jon. "And how would you know they're Jon's, Arya?"

Arya shot him a look. "Because the kitchen's still standing. If you were cooking, something would be on fire by now."

"That happened once!" Robb protested.

"Three times," Jon corrected with a grin.

"Twice," Robb argued, looking to Arya for backup. "The third time was mostly Theon's fault."

"Which is why you're banned from cooking unsupervised," Arya said with satisfaction. "While Jon here gets to make his pies whenever he wants."

"And sometimes he even shares them," Robb added with a heavy hint, casting Jon an exaggeratedly hopeful look.

Jon pointed his knife at the pair of them. "Not another word about singing, or these pies are going straight to Bran and Rickon."

"Our lips are sealed," Robb said with a solemn nod, though Arya's expression clearly said otherwise.

"Though not about the dancing," Arya whispered to Robb, just loud enough for Jon to hear.

Jon narrowed his eyes and reached for the flour again, and both siblings quickly scrambled out of his reach, laughing. He couldn't help but chuckle himself as he returned to work, knowing that these moments—when he wasn't the bastard of Winterfell but simply their brother.

Once the pies were finally done, Jon carefully removed them from the oven, the golden-brown crusts crackling with steam and the mouthwatering scent filling the room.

Jon handed one to Robb and Arya. 

Arya took a huge bite, her face lighting up. "These are amazing," she mumbled through a mouthful of pie. "You should forget about being a warrior and become a chef instead."

"The best chef in all the Seven Kingdoms," Robb agreed, reaching for his second pie. "You could cook for kings."

"Or better yet, cook for us," Arya added, licking her fingers.

Jon snorted, muttering as he gathered up the dishes. "The Night's Watch doesn't need a chef."

"What was that?" Robb asked, raising an eyebrow as he swallowed a mouthful.

"Nothing," Jon replied quickly. "Just said these need more seasoning next time."

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the kitchen filled with the warmth of freshly baked pies and quiet laughter. 

Robb stretched, patting his stomach contentedly. "I could get used to this."

"A Winterfell tradition," Arya announced grandly. "Jon's meat pies."

"Maybe you should make some for the Manderlys," Robb suggested with a wink. "I'm sure they'd be thrilled to have a Stark chef in residence."

"They're rich enough to have chefs aplenty," Jon replied, shaking his head. "Though maybe a little Northern flavor wouldn't hurt them."

"Maybe you'll marry one of those Manderly girls and be a cook and a lord," Arya said with a grin.

Jon's face flushed, and he focused on the crumbs on his plate. "I think I'll leave the lordly marriages to you, Robb."

Robb laughed, nudging him. "We'll see. If I ever become a lord, I'll be needing a cook. Don't think you'll escape so easily."

"Sounds like a great lord, one who puts his brother to work in the kitchens."

"A lord with excellent taste in food," Robb corrected. "Anyway, think of it: the future Lord of Winterfell served by the best chef in the North. Now that's a family tradition."

Jon laughed, shaking his head as he rose to clear away their plates. Then he remembered his plans to join the Night's Watch when he reached sixteen name days.

He felt a pang of guilt at the lie, but he wasn't ready to tell them about his plans for the Wall. Not yet. He could already picture their reactions—Robb's confusion, the hurt that would flicker in his eyes, and Arya's fury, the way she'd cross her arms and swear she'd go with him. No, it was better to keep this to himself for now.

"More seasoning? They're perfect as they are," Arya declared through a mouthful of pie, but her expression shifted as she caught sight of something behind him. "Oh no, Mother's looking for me. I was supposed to be at my lessons ages ago."

"And I need to speak with Father," Robb added reluctantly, casting Jon a quick, grateful smile. "Thanks for the pies, brother."

Jon watched them leave, feeling the quiet settle back around him as he returned to tidying up. The kitchen had to be spotless when he was done—he'd learned early that crumbs or a dirty countertop could mean trouble, so he worked with brisk, practiced efficiency.

A soft, lilting giggle caught his attention, and he turned to see one of the serving girls lingering at the doorway. Martha? No, maybe Mary? She was older than him, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with auburn hair that shone like red stars, reminding him a little of Sansa's. She gave him a knowing smile, her eyes lingering on him a second longer than expected before she slipped back into the hallway.

Jon felt his cheeks warm, caught off guard by the encounter. He'd noticed her before, of course—who hadn't?—but she'd never looked at him twice. He was so distracted that he didn't notice the knife slipping until—

"Ah! Fuck!" The curse slipped out before he could stop it. He dropped the knife, staring in shock as blood pooled instantly from a deep gash on his thumb. Blood dripped onto the countertop, thick and heavy. He swallowed, stomach twisting. The cut was deep—too deep. He could see white beneath the blood, and a chill washed over him.

Maester Luwin, he thought, trying to steady his breath. I need to—

But before he could finish the thought, a strange warmth spread through his hand. The burning pain dulled, replaced by something warm and pulsing, like fire flickering just under his skin. His eyes widened in disbelief as wisps of steam—actual steam—rose from the wound.

Jon stood frozen, watching as the raw edges of the cut slowly drew together, the flesh knitting itself back into place. The heat intensified for a moment, and then the wound was gone, as if it had never been. No gash, only smooth, unbroken skin. All left was the blood that had escaped his wound while it was still open.

"What in the seven hells?" he whispered, staring at his hand. He turned it this way and that, searching for any sign of the injury. The skin was unmarred, smooth as ever. Even the calluses he'd earned through countless hours in the training yard were still there, unchanged.

He touched the spot where the cut had been, half-expecting it to reopen, but nothing. No pain, no scar. Just the memory of what he'd seen—of what he'd felt.

Jon's mind raced as he grabbed a cloth and wiped away the smeared blood, his hands trembling. He remembered stories he had read—legends of ancient magic, tales of warriors blessed by the gods. But those were just stories, things that happened to heroes of the past, not to bastards cutting their fingers in kitchens.

He glanced around, his pulse thundering in his ears. The kitchen was empty, still and silent as ever. No one had seen... whatever this was. He rubbed his thumb again, half-hoping he'd imagined it. But he hadn't.

Should I tell someone? he wondered. Maester Luwin would know if such a thing was possible. Or maybe Father...

No. No one would believe him. They'd think he was lying, or worse, losing his mind. And yet he knew what he'd seen, felt the warmth of the wound closing, the unnatural sensation of his flesh mending itself.

Jon finished cleaning in a daze, his eyes darting repeatedly to his thumb, to the place where his skin should have still been raw and bleeding. He stuffed the bloodied cloth deep into the kitchen waste bin, hiding any trace of the cut. No one needed to know, and he couldn't risk anyone asking questions he couldn't answer.

As he left the kitchen, he flexed his hand, marveling at the unmarked skin. Whatever had happened, one thing was certain—this wasn't something a bastard boy from the North should be able to do. Like his secret plans for the Wall, this too would remain hidden.

Chapter Text

Jon spent the rest of the day in a fog, his mind drifting repeatedly back to that impossible moment in the kitchen. He moved through his routines—training, eating, even sparring—without any real focus, as if he were watching himself from afar.

During sword practice, Ser Rodrik's shouts barely registered, and Robb's practice sword whacked him several times, breaking his trance and leaving dull aches to accompany his spinning thoughts.

"Your head's in the clouds today, Snow," Theon jeered, leaning on his sword. "Did a serving girl addle your wits?"

Jon grunted, too distracted to even muster his usual retort. His mind was consumed with questions, each one twisting tighter as he replayed the sensation of his wound mending itself.

At supper, Arya tried to engage him, her face scrunched up with concern. "Are you feeling well?" she asked, her grey eyes scrutinizing him as he absently pushed food around on his plate.

"Just tired," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. Another lie, but what could he say? That a cut had healed before his eyes? That he felt a warmth not his own pulse through his hand, leaving him unharmed and stunned? She'd think he was mad, and perhaps he was.

Now, the library offered a chance for answers. Surrounded by towering shelves, he hunted for anything that could make sense of what had happened, his fingers grazing over the spines of dusty tomes and scrolls, searching for words that might unlock this mystery. The dim candlelight cast long, shifting shadows over ancient pages as he skimmed texts about skinchangers, wargs, greenseers, and woods witches.

"The First Men were said to possess abilities beyond our understanding," he read aloud from one passage. "House Stark, in particular, was rumored to have produced skinchangers who could enter the minds of beasts, particularly direwolves."

Interesting, but not quite what he was looking for.

Another book recounted legends of Azor Ahai and his flaming sword. Not that either, Jon thought, feeling the weight of his own blood pounding against his temples. He pored over passages on the supposed immortality of the Great Other and stories of the Children of the Forest, but none offered anything resembling what he'd experienced.

Then he stumbled across a chapter on the priests of R'hllor and their rituals, the pages yellowed and brittle with age. "The resurrection rituals of R'hllor's priests are said to return the dead to life," he read, intrigued. "Though at great cost. The restored often bear marks of their journey—hair white as snow, eyes red as blood, no longer needing to eat or drink, can never sleep again, cannot reproduce and memories fractured like broken glass." But his experience didn't match this description either. I wasn't dead, just... cut.

"Still reading, Jon?" a familiar, gentle voice broke the silence, and Jon looked up, startled. Maester Luwin stood at the end of the row, his kind eyes twinkling in the candlelight. Outside the narrow windows, darkness had fully fallen.

"I lost track of time," Jon admitted sheepishly, closing the book he was reading.

"So I see," Luwin said, smiling. "Your thirst for knowledge does you credit, Jon, but even the most dedicated scholar needs rest." He glanced at the pile of books surrounding him. "Though, if you wish, you may take some of these with you to continue your reading in your chambers. Just ensure they're returned by morning."

"Thank you, Maester," Jon said gratefully, already eyeing the most promising tomes. "I'll take care of them."

"I know you will," Luwin nodded, his fingers grazing the links of his chain. "You've always been gentle with books, unlike some of your siblings." A faint chuckle escaped his lips. "May I ask what has captured your interest so thoroughly? It's rare I find anyone so engrossed in texts about ancient magic."

Jon froze, heart hammering, before forcing a casual tone. "Just curious about the old stories. The ones Old Nan tells about the Age of Heroes."

"Ah," Luwin murmured, touching the Valyrian steel link on his chain thoughtfully. "Magic is a fascinating subject, though it's more the realm of legend than fact these days. Still, it's good to study even the improbable. Knowledge, in all its forms, has value."

Jon nodded, carefully stacking the nine volumes he'd selected. Nine, he noted, a number that felt oddly fitting, almost like fate.

Luwin paused before leaving, his gaze lingering on the stack of books Jon held. "Though I wonder," he said quietly, "if you might find more practical knowledge in the histories of the North. The Stark bloodline, for instance, has many intriguing tales that are well-documented."

Jon's eyes darted up to Luwin's face, catching a glimmer of something unspoken. But the old maester's expression remained gentle, with no hints of anything more.

"Perhaps," Jon replied cautiously. "I'll look into those next."

"Good lad," Luwin patted his shoulder before heading back down the hall. "Off to bed now. The books will still be there tomorrow."

Jon clutched the volumes to his chest, their weight grounding him as he walked through Winterfell's dark, winding corridors. His thumb tingled as he walked, and he nearly dropped the books in his haste to examine it. But the skin remained intact, smooth and unmarked. He flexed his fingers, marveling at how uninjured they looked, the memory of pain and warmth lingering like a half-remembered dream.

Back in his chambers, he arranged the books on his desk, lighting two extra candles for reading. He skimmed each title, the words glinting in the flickering light:

Mysteries of the Known World

Magic of the First Men

Rituals and Rites of Ancient Westeros

A Study of Supernatural Occurrences

The Old Powers of the North

Legends of the Dawn Age

Blood Magic Through the Ages

Death and Life: The Red Rebirth

Garth Greenhand: The Man Who Died One Thousand Times

Jon opened the first book, determined to find some explanation for the strange healing he'd experienced. But the words blurred as exhaustion weighed down his eyelids, and his mind drifted back to the sight of steam rising from his skin, to the moment his flesh seemed to stitch itself back together.

"There has to be an explanation," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Something I'm missing."

He read on, one book after another, finding tales of woods witches with their herbs and songs, red priests with their fiery prayers, even legends of the children of the forest healing with music. But nothing spoke of wounds healing unaided, of flesh repairing itself without even the hint of a scar.

Just as he was about to abandon his search, a line caught his eye in an old, leather-bound volume. He leaned closer, forcing himself to read each word slowly.

"It is written that the blood of the First Men carried powers beyond our understanding, powers that grew stronger the purer the bloodline remained. Some maesters theorize that these abilities may lie dormant for generations, only to emerge unexpectedly..."

Jon's hand went to his thumb, the memory of warmth and healing still fresh in his mind. The Starks were of the First Men, their blood as ancient as the land beneath Winterfell. But he was just a bastard, a Snow, even if he did have Stark blood from his father.

Unless...

He shut the book quickly, shoving the thought away before it could fully form. There was no use speculating about his mother, about why Lord Stark had never spoken of her, about whispers of bloodlines and hidden power. Those paths led nowhere good.

The candlelight flickered as Jon's head nodded forward, eyes growing heavy as he tried to focus on the ancient texts. The words swam before him, and though he fought to stay awake, sleep eventually claimed him.

When he opened his eyes again, everything felt... different. 

Gone were the familiar stone walls of Winterfell. Instead, he stood on an endless expanse of sand stretching as far as he could see. This wasn't like any desert he'd read about in Maester Luwin's books. The sky was dark, not with the velvet blackness of night but rather a peculiar twilight, frozen as if held in time. And towering over everything was a tree.

The word "tree" felt inadequate for what he saw. It was as if lightning had been captured and woven into the shape of an enormous weirwood, though there were no red leaves or white bark. This tree was pure light, its branches stretching up and up, disappearing into the dark sky while its roots spread across the horizon like glowing veins in the sand.

"Robb?" Jon called, his voice sounding oddly muffled in the still air. "Arya? Father?"

Silence.

"Seven hells," he muttered, running a hand through his dark curls. "I must be mad. That cut's addled my brain, and now I'm having fever dreams."

Yet, despite his attempt to rationalize, everything felt too vivid, too real. The sand shifted under his boots, cool air prickled his skin, and a strange heaviness settled over him, pressing down with a substance his usual dreams lacked.

Something drew him forward, a silent urging that made his feet move before he could question it. He approached the tree, each step leaving imprints in the sand that lingered for a moment before being swept away by an invisible breeze.

When he reached the glowing roots, Jon hesitated only briefly before reaching out to touch one. The moment his fingers brushed its surface, a rush of images surged through his mind:

Towering figures, colossal beings, trudged across a desolate land. They looked human, yet... wrong. Skinless, their muscles and sinews exposed. Steam rose from their bodies with every movement, their faces, they all seemed sad as their giant feet smashed the ground.

The visions intensified, faster now: mountains taller than any he'd seen, people soaring through the air on strange contraptions, cities gleaming with structures unlike any in the known world, and always, always those skinless giants, lumbering forward like harbingers of doom.

"Jon Snow."

The voice cut through the visions like a blade. Jon spun, his heart hammering, and found himself face-to-face with a woman.

She was beautiful, but unlike any courtly beauty he'd seen. Her hair glowed, radiating the same ethereal light as the tree, and her eyes were bright purple. Her clothing was simple but foreign, familiar yet strange, and her expression was one of sorrow and gentle warmth.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "And what is this place?"

"My name is Ymir," she replied, her voice carrying the same weight as the air around them. "And you, Jon Snow, are something quite remarkable."

Jon nearly laughed. "I'm just a bastard," he said, the words a reflex now.

"You are far more than that, Jon. You are a bridge between worlds, a connection that should not exist—and yet, here you stand."

"I don't understand." He fought the urge to back away. "What worlds? What connection?"

"You are an Eldian," she said, as if the term should mean something to him. "Your blood carries the power of two realms—the fire magic of your father's people, the ice magic of your mother's people and the strength of mine."

Jon's mind reeled, trying to process her words. "Is that... is that why I could heal myself? Why there was steam?"

Her lips curved into a faint smile. "That is only the beginning. The paths connect all Eldians, across time and space, and now they connect to you as well."

"But why me?" he asked, feeling a crack in his voice. 

Before she could answer, the world around them began to blur and shift, the tree pulsing as if with a heartbeat. Jon felt a pull in his chest, a strange tugging sensation.

"You're waking up," Ymir said, her form fading like mist. "Remember, Jon Snow—you carry the blood of two worlds. Your healing is just the first sign. There will be more, and you must be ready."

"Wait!" Jon called, desperation lacing his voice. "How can I be ready for something I don't understand?"

Her fading voice echoed faintly: "Follow the paths, Jon Snow. They will show you the way."

Jon jerked awake in his chair, his heart racing, his left eye throbbing. The candle beside him had burned out, leaving the room bathed in the faint light of early dawn creeping through his window. The books still lay open before him.

He reached up, touching his left eye, which still tingled strangely. Then he glanced into a small mirror he kept nearby, finding his reflection staring back, his mismatched eyes staring strangely back at him. It felt like two people were looking at him; it felt like his green eye belonged to someone else, not to him.

"Follow the paths," he murmured, testing the words. "But how?"

A raven cawed sharply outside his window, making him jump. The sounds of Winterfell waking began to filter through the walls—servants shuffling about, horses in the yard, the distant clang of the blacksmith's hammer ringing in the morning.

He glanced at the books on his desk, then back at his reflection. He had even more questions now than when he'd started, but at least he had a direction. Ymir had told him he was Eldian, whatever that meant, and that he was bound to something larger than he could imagine.

Later

Jon sat on the edge of his bed, turning the strange dream over in his mind like a puzzle piece that wouldn't quite fit. Ymir's words echoed in his head, haunting and mysterious: "You are an Eldian." The word felt foreign, heavy on his tongue when he whispered it into the silence of his room.

"Eldian," he repeated softly, his voice barely carrying. "What in seven hells is an Eldian?"

His eyes fell to the knife at his belt—the simple one Father had given him on his tenth nameday. The memory was warm, comforting; the blade was plain but strong, the steel clean and true, with a direwolf etched into the pommel. Before he could talk himself out of it, he drew the knife and held it over his thumb.

"This is probably the stupidest thing I've ever done," he muttered. "And I once let Arya convince me to climb the broken tower in the dark."

The cut was quick, a sharp slice that sent a flare of pain through his hand. Blood welled up immediately, dark red droplets pooling and dripping onto the cold stone floor. Jon gritted his teeth, forcing himself to watch, not pull back, even as the sting intensified.

And then, it happened again. Steam rose from the wound, curling upward like mist off the hot springs. The pain ebbed, replaced by a strange warmth. He could only stare as his flesh knit itself back together, leaving smooth, unbroken skin. Only the blood splattered on the floor remained as evidence of the cut.

"Seven hells," he breathed, examining his thumb. He rubbed the spot where he'd cut himself, searching for any sign of tenderness, a hint of the pain that had been there seconds before. But there was nothing. No ache, no scar—just perfect, unmarked skin.

As he stared at his thumb, a memory stirred. Last winter, a fever had swept through Winterfell, leaving Robb bedridden with fever-bright cheeks and a terrible cough that had kept him awake for days. Sansa had succumbed too, though her sickness wasn't as severe. Even Rickon had taken ill, coughing and sniffling. But Jon... he had remained perfectly healthy.

"I've never been sick," he murmured, a revelation dawning on him. "Not once in my life." Everytime Arya called him magical, he had been sure this was just her making jokes, but she had been right without knowing.

No childhood fevers, no sniffles, not even a scrape that didn't heal almost immediately. At the time, Old Nan had called him "sturdy as an ox" and said he was blessed with a strong constitution. But now...

"It's been healing me all along," he realized. "Every time I might have gotten sick, every scrape or bruise... it's been hiding in plain sight."

Jon stood and began pacing his small chamber, the implications rattling through his mind like a storm. Should he tell someone? Father would listen—Lord Stark always listened to his children, even his bastard son. But what could he say?

"Father, it appears I have magical healing abilities, and a woman in my dreams says I'm something called an Eldian. Also, my green eye sometimes tingles for some reason. Pass the salt?"

A bitter laugh escaped him; it sounded mad, even in his own head.

No, he decided. He would keep this to himself for now, learn more before bringing it to anyone else. He needed to understand what he could do, what limits this power had. "Follow the paths," Ymir had said. But what paths? The only paths he knew were those in Winterfell's godswood, and somehow, he doubted those were what she'd meant.

Jon wiped up the blood from the floor, careful to leave no trace. His mind was racing, tumbling over the pieces of this strange new truth. A healing ability tied to this "Eldian" blood. A dream of glowing trees and giants without skin. And not a single clue what any of it meant.

"One thing at a time," he told himself firmly. "First, learn to control the healing. Then worry about the rest."

A knock at the door made him jump.

"Jon?" Arya's voice called through the wood, impatient. "Are you awake? Ser Rodrik's waiting in the yard for practice."

"Coming!" he called back, hastily hiding the bloodied cloth under his bed.

When he opened the door, Arya peered at him with a raised eyebrow, her grey eyes sharp. "You look... strange. Like you didn't sleep."

Jon forced a smile. "Just stayed up reading," he said, feeling the lie slip out more easily than he'd expected.

Arya's gaze flicked to the books scattered across his desk. "Since when are you interested in magic stories? I thought that was more Sansa's thing."

"Just curious," he replied with a shrug, steering her toward the door. "Come on, we shouldn't keep Ser Rodrik waiting."

As they walked to the training yard, Arya chattered on, mostly about her plans to sneak into archery practice again. Jon's thoughts drifted as he absently rubbed his thumb, still marveling at the absence of any mark, as if he'd never held the knife at all. Ymir's words echoed in his head, filling him with more questions than answers. The tree of light, those monstrous creatures, the strange, ancient sadness in her eyes... Part of him wanted to dismiss it all as a fevered dream, a product of too little sleep and too many wild tales.

But the healing was real. The steam was real. And, somehow, he knew the rest was real too.

"Jon!" Arya's sharp tone snapped him back. "Are you sure you're all right? You keep drifting off."

"I'm fine, little sister," he assured her, reaching out to ruffle her hair. She ducked with a grin and swatted at his hand.

"Well, stop thinking so much. You need to focus if you're going to help me practice my sword fighting."

Jon chuckled, his smile genuine. Whatever was happening to him, whatever these new powers meant, some things remained constant. Arya would always be Arya—fierce, loyal, and demanding as ever.

"As my lady commands," he replied with an exaggerated bow, earning himself a playful punch on the arm.

"I'm not a lady!" she protested, as she always did.

When they entered the training yard, Jon made a decision. He would keep this secret, at least for now, and learn what he could about his abilities on his own. But he wouldn't let it change him, not to his family or anyone else.

He was still Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell—just a bastard who happened to have some unusual qualities.

"Ready yourself, Snow!" Ser Rodrik's voice boomed from across the yard. "Let's see if you're more focused today than yesterday."

Jon grinned, drawing his practice sword and pushing thoughts of steam, paths, and Eldians to the back of his mind. For now, he had a different kind of learning to do, one that involved bruises and sweat.

But later, alone in his chamber, he would experiment again, test his limits, try to piece together what he was becoming. And maybe—if he dared—find his way back to that strange desert, that vast expanse of sand and light, and search for Ymir beneath the glowing tree, hoping she could finally give him the answers he sought.

Until then, he would wait, watch, and learn. He'd kept his desire to join the Night's Watch hidden long enough—this would just be one more secret to add to the growing pile.

.

.

The training yard echoed with the familiar sound of clashing wood as Jon and Robb circled each other, boots scuffing against the packed earth. But something was different today—Jon could feel it in his muscles, in the swift, effortless way his body responded to each movement. It was as if his body had been restrained before, held back somehow, and now he was finally unleashed.

"Come on, Snow," Robb taunted, grinning. "Stop dancing and hit me."

Jon obliged, stepping forward with what he intended to be a straightforward strike. But as his wooden sword connected with Robb's, a sharp crack split the air. Robb's practice sword snapped cleanly in two, the broken half spinning through the air before landing in the mud with a dull thud.

The yard went silent. Robb stared at his broken sword, then up at Jon, blue eyes wide with shock.

"Seven hells, Jon," Robb breathed. "Have you been doing push-ups in secret? Or did you replace your arms while I wasn't looking?"

Jon stared down at his own hands, barely keeping his expression neutral while his mind raced. "I... I've been training extra, that's all," he managed.

"Training extra?" Robb turned the broken hilt in his hand, his face a mixture of awe and disbelief. "This is seasoned oak, Jon. Seasoned oak doesn't just snap like a twig."

Ser Rodrik, who had been observing with his usual steely gaze, stepped forward. "Get another sword, Stark," he commanded. "Let's see if that was a fluke."

"Ready?" Robb called, returning with a fresh sword, though he held it a bit more cautiously now.

Jon nodded, settling into his stance, silently telling himself to hold back, to be careful. But as they began again, his movements felt effortless, his body responding with an ease he'd never known before. He was faster, sharper—he could see every gap in Robb's stance, anticipate every shift in his footwork. Every step felt instinctual, as if some new sense guided his every move.

Robb swung high, and Jon sidestepped, his counter flowing naturally, his practice sword tapping Robb's ribs before his foster brother could even react.

"Point," Ser Rodrik called out, his thick brows furrowing.

They reset, and again, Jon found himself moving with unnatural precision. Robb, who was usually his equal or better, couldn't seem to touch him. Every strike was parried, every thrust countered, every move deflected with perfect timing.

"Seven hells," Robb panted after their third match, wiping sweat from his brow, a mix of frustration and amazement in his eyes. "When did you become Arthur Dayne reborn?"

"Just... having a good day," Jon muttered, struggling to sound casual, though his heart raced with alarm. He could feel Ser Rodrik's intense gaze studying him.

"A good day?" Robb let out a breathless laugh. "You're moving like... I don't even know what. Like something out of Old Nan's stories."

"The boy's right," Ser Rodrik interjected, his voice laced with suspicion as he stepped closer. "Your form has improved dramatically, Snow. Almost... unnaturally so."

Jon tightened his grip on his practice sword, swallowing hard as he tried to steady his voice. "I've just been working on my footwork, like you suggested."

"Aye, practice can improve a man's skill," Ser Rodrik said, rubbing his whiskered chin thoughtfully. "But not overnight. And not like this."

"Perhaps Jon's finally showing his true talent," came Theon Greyjoy's mocking voice from the fence, where he'd been watching. "Maybe he's been holding back all these years to make the heir to Winterfell feel better about himself."

"Shut it, Greyjoy," Robb snapped, though his gaze lingered on Jon, concern flickering in his eyes.

"I think that's enough for today," Ser Rodrik announced, his tone brisk. "Snow, I want you here tomorrow morning before the others. We'll test your skills properly."

Jon nodded, relieved for the chance to leave. As he turned, he saw Robb's gaze follow him, concern and a hint of fear clouding his blue eyes.

"Jon," Robb called after him. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Jon hesitated, a part of him aching to confide in Robb, to tell him about the dreams, the strange strength coursing through him, the unnatural speed. But the words caught in his throat.

"I'm fine," he said, forcing a smile. "Just fine."

As he walked away, Theon's voice floated after him, louder than usual. "I bet money that he has been hiding his real talent all this time just to make you feel better Stark..."

Jon quickened his pace, heading toward the solitude of the godswood. His mind raced with questions, with memories of Ymir's haunting words and the disturbing visions of giants and glowing trees. The healing had been strange enough, but this? This was something else entirely.

He reached the godswood, weaving his way through the ancient trees until he stood beneath the heart tree. The carved face seemed to peer down at him, its eyes carved deep and knowing. A small pool lay nearby, its surface calm and dark, reflecting the red leaves and the pale bark. Jon knelt beside it, his gaze drifting to his reflection.

"What am I becoming?" he whispered, the words lost in the silence of the godswood. He reached out, his fingers brushing the surface of the pool, sending ripples across his reflection.

The godswood held its peace, the heart tree watching him with an eerie stillness, offering no answers. He remembered Ymir's cryptic words, her gentle, sad smile, the warning in her voice. "Follow the paths, Jon Snow. They will show you the way."

But what paths? What answers could he find here, with his secrets tangled tighter than ever?

The ripples stilled, and he saw his reflection clearly again—two eyes, mismatched and strange, he always found it odd that he had two mismatched eyes, but since that dream, it felt as if his green eye wasn't his, but it belonged to someone else.

Learn. Control. Understand.

The mysteries of his blood, his new strength, the strange powers lurking within him—all of it demanded answers. He would wait, study, and find his way back to that vast desert and its tree of light, to speak with Ymir again if he could.

He was Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. At least, he had been—until now.

Chapter Text

The pre-dawn air was crisp and cold as Jon made his way to the training yard, each step crunching over frost-covered ground. The silence was deep, broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves or the distant cry of a raven. The castle lay still under the last shreds of night, the ever-present guards scarce as they changed shifts between night and morning.

Jon paused in the middle of the yard, his mismatched eyes scanning his surroundings to confirm he was alone. Eldian. The word whispered through his mind again, lingering like a ghost he couldn't shake, as persistent as the northern wind. Last night, he was hoping he would meet Ymir again, but instead, he had dreamed of a giant skinless face looking down on him from a wall and people running away in fear.

"Not even Maester Luwin knew," he muttered, recalling the old maester's puzzled look when Jon had casually brought up the term yesterday. "All those books, all that knowledge, and nothing..."

His gaze fell on one of the large wooden barrels near the wall, used to store training weapons. He knew that barrel well; he'd watched it take four men to shift it when full. The strange thought that had been nudging him since his practice with Robb finally demanded action.

"This is madness," he whispered, his breath misting in the cold air. "Complete madness."

He crouched next to the barrel, planting his hands firmly on its rough wooden base. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and tensed his muscles, ready to test his limits.

With a sharp exhale, he lifted.

The barrel rose—barely, but it lifted. His arms trembled with the effort, and he could feel the strain in every muscle, but he was doing it. He was lifting something that should have been impossible for a thirteen-year-old to even budge, even if he was lifting it only a little above ground.

"Seven hells," he gasped as he lowered the barrel back down. His heart thundered, the raw weight of what he'd just done settling over him. As he examined his hands, he noticed small splinters where the rough wood had bitten into his palms. The tiny wounds stung, but even as he watched, wisps of steam rose, and the skin knit itself back together in seconds.

"Right then," he murmured, flexing his hands and feeling the lingering warmth. "That's... that's not normal."

Still shaking, he crossed to the rack and drew one of the practice swords. The familiar weight was oddly comforting. He turned to face one of the training dummies, its ragged form weathered from countless strikes over the years. Usually, he had to hold back when striking the dummy to avoid damaging it—or himself.

Not today.

Jon's first strike slammed into the dummy with a solid thud, making it shudder on its post. The second came sharper, sending splinters flying from the wooden core. With each strike, he moved faster, his body falling into a rhythm. His feet seemed to shift on their own, his muscles flowing with an effortless grace he'd never felt before.

"One, two, three," he muttered under his breath, his focus narrowing. "Strike, parry, thrust."

Each movement was precise, each strike more powerful than the last. The dummy's stuffing began to leak from new gashes, but Jon barely registered it. He was lost in the movement, in the strange, exhilarating strength coursing through his limbs. His body knew exactly where to be, how to adjust to each shift of his weight, each angle of his swing. Every strike felt right, like he was finally using his body to its full potential.

He adjusted his stance, striking with a downward slash that tore through the dummy's arm and sent it spinning. The cold morning air prickled his skin, but he felt none of it. His world narrowed to the thrill of movement, the surge of power that felt both foreign and familiar.

"Faster," he whispered, his breath visible in short bursts. He shifted his weight, bringing the sword down with a controlled sweep that split the dummy's torso wide open. Straw scattered across the yard, fluttering in the frosty air.

The silence that followed was almost eerie. Jon stood, breathing hard, his heartbeat echoing in his ears as he stared at the torn remains of the dummy.

This... this wasn't normal. He'd broken dummies before, sure, but not like this. This wasn't the strength of a thirteen-year-old—or even a grown man. It was something more, something he didn't yet understand.

"Eldian," he whispered again, the name heavy on his tongue. Whatever that word meant, it was changing him in ways he didn't yet understand.

Two Weeks Later

The morning air was filled with the sounds of horses snorting, the occasional jingle of armor, and voices raised as the party readied to depart. Jon adjusted himself in the saddle, his hands steady on the reins, while his eyes tracked his father giving final instructions to those staying behind. He caught sight of Theon's sullen expression and couldn't help but feel a hint of satisfaction. Over the past two weeks, Ser Rodrik had intensified Jon's training, pushing him harder with each passing day. While Ser Rodrik's experience still outmatched Jon's, the old knight had acknowledged that Jon's improvement was "unusually quick." Yet, when Rodrik had mentioned it to Lord Stark, his father had dismissed any concerns, remarking simply that skill could run in the family—"Jon's uncle Brandon wasn't always the fierce man people remember him to be."

Jon had tried to find that desert again, but it was impossible. He had experimented on his healing abilities, but not as much as he would have wished; all he did was cut the skin of his fingers or toes a little, but not much else; it still hurt, and he didn't feel testing how much he could heal by cutting himself even more. 

"Try not to miss us too much, Greyjoy," Robb called out with a mischievous grin. "I'm sure the kennels will be good company."

"Better the kennels than having to watch you try to dance, Stark," Theon shot back, though his usual cockiness was dampened by the obvious disappointment of being left behind.

"JON! ROBB!" Arya's voice rang out, and Jon turned to see his little sister hurtling down the steps, her dark hair already escaping its braids despite the early hour. She skidded to a stop in front of them, her face flushed with excitement. "Take me with you! I can hide in one of the supply wagons!"

Jon chuckled, his expression softening. "And have Lady Stark send the entire northern army after us? I think not, little sister."

"I could pretend to be a boy!" Arya insisted, her eyes glinting with determination. "I'm better with a sword than Bran anyway," she added, darting a look behind her as Septa Mordane hurried down the steps after her.

Robb laughed. "The last time you tried pretending to be a boy, you forgot to lower your voice and called Ser Rodrik 'my lady' by accident."

"That was one time!" Arya protested, though her lips twitched with suppressed laughter.

"Besides," Jon added, "someone needs to keep Theon in line while we're gone."

"Oh, I can do that." Arya's eyes gleamed with mischief. "I already put mud in his boots this morning."

"Arya!" Septa Mordane finally caught up, looking scandalized as she glared at the little wolf. "A lady does not—"

"Good thing I'm not a lady then," Arya quipped, dodging as the Septa reached for her, making Robb snort with laughter.

Lord Stark turned his horse around, his expression stern, though amusement glimmered in his eyes. "Are you two ready?"

"Yes, Father," Robb said quickly, then leaned over to Jon and whispered, "Though I'm not sure White Harbor is ready for us."

"Just try not to step on any ladies' feet during the dancing," Jon replied with a smirk. "Lord Manderly might take offense if you cripple his granddaughters."

"I've been practicing," Robb said defensively. "Sort of."

"Oh yes, the practice swords, the dummies, the...barrel?" Jon teased, quirking an eyebrow.

"That barrel was loose!" Jon muttered, remembering the weight-lifting experiment in the yard. Soon, Lady Stark and Sansa came to see them. The two said their words to Lord Stark and Robb, but neither said anything to him. Jon could tell that Sansa wanted to say something to him, but instead, she kept her eyes on the ground.

"MOVE OUT!" Jory's voice cut through the chatter, and the soldiers in their party readied to depart, each one looking stoic and prepared.

"Don't worry, little wolf," Robb called back to Arya as their horses began to move. "We'll bring you back something nice!"

"I don't want something nice!" Arya yelled, crossing her arms. "Bring me a sword!"

Robb grinned, then turned to Sansa, who was standing gracefully beside Lady Stark. "What about you, Sansa? Shall we bring you back a handsome lord?"

Sansa flushed, lowering her gaze with a shy smile. "Just... just bring back stories of the dancing."

As they rode through the gates, Jon could hear Arya's voice floating after them. "And don't let Jon dance with all the pretty girls first, Robb! You know he's the better dancer now!"

Robb groaned, feigning despair. "My own sister thinks my brother is a better dancer than me."

Jon couldn't resist. "Well, she's not wrong."

"Oh, and when did you become such an expert? Practicing with the stable boys?"

"Better than practicing with the hay bales, like you do," Jon countered, unable to hide his grin.

"That was private!" Robb spluttered, almost losing his grip on the reins. "How did you even—?"

"The stable boys told me," Jon replied, his grin widening.

"Traitors, all of them!" Robb declared dramatically, glancing around at the soldiers who were barely stifling their laughter. "Just wait until we get to White Harbor. We'll see who the real dancer is."

"As long as we're not counting the toes you crush," Jon said, nudging his horse forward.

The road stretched out ahead, the walls of Winterfell growing smaller behind them. The familiar sight of the castle in the early morning light filled Jon with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. White Harbor was a mystery to him—a place of feasts and dances, of lords and ladies unlike any he'd ever seen. He had heard stories about the port city, but he wasn't sure what awaited him there.

Robb, oblivious to Jon's nerves, was too busy describing his "secret moves" with all the confidence of a young lord.

"Oh, yes," Jon laughed after Robb nearly slipped off his horse, miming an intricate spin. "That's sure to impress the Manderly girls."

"Careful, Snow," Robb said, settling himself back on his saddle with mock dignity. "Or I'll tell everyone you learned to dance from Old Nan."

"Only if I tell them about your famous hay bale routine," Jon shot back.

As the Kingsroad stretched on, their banter continued, lightening the mood for everyone in their party. 

Jon looked over his shoulder at Winterfell, now a distant silhouette.

But then Robb nudged him again, breaking him from his thoughts. "Keep talking, Snow," Robb chuckled, "and you'll be the one dancing solo in front of the entire hall."

One Week Later

The warm breeze ruffled Jon's dark curls as he rode beside Robb, both boys having shed their fur cloaks hours ago. The sun climbed higher, its warmth a rare but welcomed change from Winterfell's chill. They had paused by a small stream, letting their horses drink while the men stretched their legs and took swigs from water skins. The air itself felt moist, and sometimes it felt difficult to breathe.

"If I'm sweating this much now," Jon said, wiping his brow, "the people in King's Landing must melt right off their horses."

"Maybe that's why the Targaryens went mad," Robb mused, grinning. "Too much sun cooking their brains."

"Oh, is that what happened to you, then?" Jon shot back with an unusually snarky smirk. "Too much time in the glass gardens?"

Several of the soldiers stifled their snickers, poorly disguising them as coughs.

"At least I don't look like I'm about to faint from the heat," Robb retorted. "You're as pale as those statues in the crypts."

"Those statues have better dancing form than you," Jon replied smoothly.

Jory, who was checking his horse's saddle, let out a hearty laugh. "The lad's got you there, Lord Robb!"

Robb rolled his eyes and redirected the conversation. "I wonder what Dorne is like. If we're complaining about the heat here, they must be cooked alive down there."

"They wear robes that keep the sun off them," Jon replied, thinking back to Old Nan's stories. "Though I heard they barely wear anything at all in their water gardens."

Robb's eyes widened. "Even the ladies?"

"Especially the ladies," one of the soldiers chimed in, earning himself a stern look from Lord Stark.

"Maybe this is why they say that the Red Viper is always so angry," Jon suggested. "He's too hot to wear proper armor, so he has to poison his weapons instead."

"Speaking of proper armor," Robb said, grinning as he played along, "what do you think they wear at the Wall? Five cloaks? Ten?"

"Ask Uncle Benjen next time he visits," Jon replied, smirking. "Though I heard they stuff their smallclothes with rabbit fur to keep warm."

This earned a round of genuine laughter from the men, some of whom had visited the wall and had been there to see the remembers of the Night's Watch.

"What about Highgarden?" Robb said, shifting his focus as he absentmindedly plucked a wildflower from the ground. "They must have it easy down there, with all those flowers and knights in flowery armor..."

"Careful, Robb," Jon teased. "Sound too interested, and you might find yourself betrothed to a Tyrell. You'll be practicing flower arrangements instead of swordplay."

Robb groaned theatrically. "Mother would have me embroidering roses into my tunics!"

"Might be an improvement over your dancing," Jon quipped, earning a playful shove from Robb.

"Though," Robb said thoughtfully, "I heard the Tyrells throw these massive feasts that last for days. Tables piled so high with food you can barely see the person across from you."

"Explains why their motto is 'Growing Strong,'" Jon replied dryly. "They're probably all too stuffed to fit in their armor."

Even Lord Stark had to turn away to hide a grin at that one.

"And the Westerlands?" Robb continued, a glint of mischief in his eye. "Do you think the Lannisters really shit gold?"

"No," Jon answered with a smirk, "but I bet they have golden chamber pots to shit in."

The soldiers burst out laughing, the carefree moment easing the weariness of travel.

"Boys," Lord Stark called out, though amusement danced in his eyes, "perhaps we should focus more on reaching White Harbor than discussing the entire realm's privy habits."

"Yes, Father," Robb replied, then leaned over to Jon and whispered, "Do you think the Greyjoys have special underwater chamber pots?"

"Is that why they say 'What is dead may never die?'" Jon whispered back, a wicked grin on his face. "Because nothing can survive what they dump in the ocean?"

"Seven hells, Snow," one of the soldiers chuckled, shaking his head. "When did you get so sharp-tongued?"

Robb grinned, nudging Jon playfully. "Oh, he's been saving it all up. Usually, he's just in a corner brooding with those mismatched eyes of his, looking all mysterious."

Jon shot back, "Better than standing in corners practicing my curtsy like some people."

 "I was demonstrating what not to do!"

"Sure, just like you were 'demonstrating' how not to fall into the hot springs last week," Jon replied, struggling to keep a straight face.

"Mount up!" Lord Stark's voice called out, cutting through their laughter. "We've still got a few hours of daylight left."

As they mounted their horses, Robb leaned over to Jon with a playful glint in his eye. "Just wait until we get to White Harbor. We'll see who the better dancer is when all the ladies want to dance with the heir to Winterfell."

"They might change their minds when they see your 'demonstration' of how not to dance," Jon replied, smiling fully for once, a rare and genuine grin.

They resumed their journey south, the sun now well above the horizon, casting long shadows as they made their way down the Kingsroad. Every so often, a soldier would chuckle, the banter still fresh in their minds. 

"Seven hells," Robb said, wiping his eyes as his laughter subsided. "I'd almost forgotten how much fun it is to get out of Winterfell for a while."

Jon nodded, feeling the same excitement thrumming through him. There was a sense of freedom here on the open road, away from the watchful eyes of Lady Stark, the heavy walls of Winterfell, and the endless whispers about his blood. This was his first time far away from Winterfell. He had been in hunts before to watch, but never this far, and this would be his first time being in another castle.

The day wore on, the light growing softer as they traveled, until the sun dipped low on the horizon. 

The crackling fire cast dancing shadows across the gathered faces as Jon helped secure the last tent peg. Despite the soldiers' protests, both he and Robb had insisted on helping make camp.

"My lords, you didn't have to," Jory said, but Jon could see the approval in his eyes.

"If we didn't help," Jon replied with a slight smile, "Robb might have tried cooking again. I'm saving lives, really."

"That rabbit was perfectly fine!" Robb protested, settling down by the fire.

"Aye, if you like your meat both burnt and raw at the same time," one of the older soldiers, Alyn, chuckled.

The men gathered around the fire, passing around wine skins and dried meat. The night air was warmer than Winterfell, but still held enough chill to make the fire welcome.

"Tell us about the Rebellion," Robb eagerly requested, always hungry for war stories.

"Again?" Alyn laughed. "You've heard it all before, my lord."

"Tell us about your first battle," Jon suggested quietly, earning several appreciative nods.

"Now that's a tale worth telling," said Desmond, an older soldier with a graying beard. "Mine was against some Targaryen loyalists near Maidenpool. Pissed myself before the fighting even started."

"You did not!" Robb exclaimed.

"Oh, aye, I did. Ask your lord father," Desmond nodded toward Ned Stark. "He was there, saw me shaking like a leaf in autumn."

Lord Stark's usually stern face softened with the memory. "As I recall, you made up for it by taking down three men yourself."

"Three?" Jon asked, genuinely interested.

"Well, two and a half," Desmond admitted. "The last one was already bleeding out from someone else's work." he added as he was using his knife to sharpen a wooden spear, the tip was quite sharp, Jon was sure it could puncture someone easily if it was thrown with enough strength.

"Still counts," Robb declared magnanimously.

"My first wasn't nearly so grand," Jory added. "Some bandits thought they could raid a village near Torrhen's Square. Turned out they were half-starved and could barely lift their weapons."

"Did you piss yourself too?" Jon asked with uncharacteristic cheek.

"No, but I did throw up afterward," Jory admitted good-naturedly. "Right on my captain's boots."

The stories continued as night deepened, tales of glory mixed with honest admissions of fear and foolishness. Jon found himself more relaxed than he'd been in weeks, the weight of Winterfell's walls lifted from his shoulders.

"It's different out here," he said quietly to Robb. "Feels..."

"Freer," Robb finished, understanding in his eyes.

Suddenly, Jon stiffened. A chill ran down his spine, sharp and cold as a blade of ice. He jumped to his feet, spinning to face the darkness beyond their camp.

"Jon?" Lord Stark's voice cut through the sudden silence. "What is it?"

Jon's mismatched eyes scanned the treeline, searching for... something. His heart was pounding, though he couldn't explain why.

"Someone's watching us," he said, his voice low but certain. "I can feel it."

"Feel it?" Robb started to joke, but fell silent at the expression on Jon's face.

The soldiers were already moving, hands going to weapons as they scanned the darkness. Lord Stark stood, his gray eyes intent on his son.

"Where, Jon?"

"There," Jon pointed toward a particularly dark patch of forest. "It feels... cold. Like when you walk past the crypts at night, but..."

"But worse," Robb finished, no longer joking as he drew his knife, as he looked at Jon surprised. "Your eyes," Robb said suddenly. "Jon, your eyes..."

"What about them?"

"The purple one... it's glowing."

Jon turned to his brother, a sharp retort ready, but Robb's serious expression stopped him. Before he could respond, a wolf howled in the distance - too close for comfort.

"Well," Jon said, trying to lighten the mood despite his racing heart, "at least it's not as bad as your cooking."

"Only you would joke at a time like this," Robb shook his head, but Jon could see him relax slightly.

"One of us has to keep their wits," Jon replied, though his hand remained on his knife pommel. "And since you lost yours years ago..."

The roar shattered their conversation, a deep, guttural sound that sent a jolt of fear through the camp. Horses reared and whinnied in panic, their eyes rolling white as they strained against their reins. Yellow eyes gleamed from the shadows beyond the firelight, moving closer with a predatory stealth.

"Gods be good," Jory whispered, his voice barely audible as he drew his sword, the steel glinting in the flickering light.

"Robb, Jon, behind us. Now." Lord Eddard Stark's voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. The boys obeyed.

From the darkness, the creature emerged—a bear, but unlike any they had ever seen. It was massive, towering over even the tallest man when on all fours, and when it reared onto its hind legs, it seemed to scrape the very stars. Its fur was as black as a moonless night, matted and bristling, with patches missing to reveal taut, scarred skin beneath. The face was grotesquely elongated, the snout too long, the jaws housing teeth that seemed more like fangs. Saliva dripped from its maw, sizzling as it hit the flames of the scattered firewood.

Several men crossed themselves or muttered prayers. Even Lord Stark, who had faced down men and beasts alike during Robert's Rebellion, felt a chill run down his spine.

"Hold the line!" Ned commanded, positioning himself at the forefront, his sword Ice gleaming with a cold light.

But before any formation could be properly established, the bear charged with a speed that belied its enormous size. 

Jon's body moved before his mind could catch up. Acting on instinct, he lunged forward and grabbed a burning log from the fire. The heat seared his palm, but he scarcely felt it. With a surge of strength that surprised even himself, he hurled the flaming wood at the beast. The log struck true, crashing into the bear's face and exploding in a shower of sparks and embers.

The bear let out a deafening roar of pain, rearing back on its hind legs as it clawed at its burning muzzle. The acrid smell of singed fur filled the air. 

"FOR WINTERFELL!" The battle cry echoed as they charged, swords and spears glinting.

The beast was a whirlwind of fury. Its massive paw swept out, catching two soldiers and sending them hurtling through the air like rag dolls. One landed with a sickening crunch against a tree; the other lay motionless where he fell. Yet the men pressed on, their blades finding purchase in the bear's thick hide. Blood, dark and viscous, oozed from the wounds, but the creature seemed unfazed.

Still the bear fought. It snapped its jaws, crushing a spear shaft in its teeth as easily as a twig. Its claws raked across three more men, their screams cutting through the chaos. 

Jon's gaze locked onto a fallen spear lying on the ground. Without fully understanding why, he sprinted forward. He scooped up the spear, feeling the familiar power. The weapon felt light, almost an extension of his own arm.

"Jon, don't!" 

Ignoring the warning, Jon drew back and hurled the spear with all his might. It sliced through the air like a comet, striking the bear squarely in the neck with such force that the shaft drove deep into its flesh. The creature stumbled, a gargled roar escaping its throat as it struggled to remain upright. Blood spurted from the wound, spraying across the trampled grass.

The beast swayed, its strength waning. With a final, shuddering breath, it collapsed to the ground.

Silence enveloped the clearing, broken only by the ragged breaths of the survivors and the distant crackle of dying flames.

"Seven hells," one of the uninjured soldiers whispered. "I've never seen a bear that size."

"The face," another murmured, his eyes wide with lingering terror. "Did you see its face? Too long, too... unnatural."

"Jon." Lord Stark's voice was measured as he approached his son. "That throw... how did you—?"

"I don't know," Jon interjected, his eyes fixed on his hands. "I don't know how I did that."

"The injured! We need help over here!" Jory shouted urgently.

The camp sprang into action. Men rushed to assist the wounded. Supplies were fetched, fires rekindled for light, and makeshift stretchers assembled from cloaks and spears. 

Jon stood rooted to the spot, the enormity of what had happened crashing over him. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Robb, his expression a mix of awe and concern.

"Are you hurt?" Robb asked, his eyes scanning Jon for any sign of injury.

Jon shook his head numbly. "No. I'm fine."

"You saved them," Robb said quietly, coming to stand beside him. "Whatever... however you did it, you saved them."

"Look at its claws," Jon replied, his voice distant. "Each one's the size of a knife. If it had reached the horses..."

"But it didn't," Ned placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Thanks to you."

Jon finally turned to meet his father's gaze. "Father... that strength... it's not natural."

"No," Ned agreed softly. "But neither was that bear. And right now, we have wounded men who need attention. We'll speak of this later."

As they moved to help the injured soldiers, Jon couldn't shake the feeling that the bear's unnatural appearance and his own impossible strength were somehow connected. The word 'Eldian' whispered through his mind again, accompanied by phantom memories of steam and roars far more terrible than any bear's.

Behind them, the massive corpse steamed slightly in the cool night air, though everyone was too busy with the wounded to notice. By morning, it would look significantly smaller than it had in the darkness, but its face would remain disturbingly elongated.

Jon stood apart from the others, flexing his hands as he tried to process what had just happened. He could feel the occasional glances from the soldiers - not fearful, exactly, but wondering. The kind of looks usually reserved for Theon when he did something he didn't expect.

"Snow," called out one of the injured soldiers - Desmond, who was being helped to his feet despite a nasty gash across his ribs. "If you hadn't thrown that spear, half of us would be meeting the old gods tonight."

"You would have killed it anyway," Jon replied quietly, uncomfortable with the attention.

"Aye, maybe," Desmond grimaced as they wrapped his wound. "But how many more of us would it have taken with it? That thing wasn't natural, and neither was that throw of yours - but I'd rather have unnatural help than be unnatural feed for that beast."

Jon glanced at his father, trying to read his expression in the firelight. Lord Stark was helping tend to the wounded, his face giving away nothing, but Jon could sense a conversation brewing behind those gray eyes.

"Mount up!" Ned's voice carried across the clearing. "White Harbor isn't far, and their Maester will have better supplies than what we carry. We ride now."

"In the darkness?" someone questioned.

"Would you rather wait here for that thing's mate?" Jory replied, already helping one of the injured men onto a horse.

As they prepared to leave, Robb sidled up to Jon, who was still staring at the bear's massive corpse.

"Well, brother," Robb said, trying to lighten the mood, "I suppose this means you'll have to dance with all the ladies at White Harbor now. Can't very well turn down the hero who saved Lord Stark's men from a monster bear."

"Robb..."

"Though maybe leave out the part about the impossible spear throw," Robb continued, checking Jon's saddle straps. "Just say you heroically stabbed it while doing a perfect dancing spin. The ladies love that sort of thing."

Despite himself, Jon felt a small smile tugging at his lips. "You're not... worried?"

"About what? That my brother is stronger than he looks? That he can throw spears better than the king's guards?" Robb shrugged. "I'm more worried about how I'm going to compete with your new heroic reputation. Maybe I should find a bear to fight too."

"Please don't," Jon replied, finally mounting his horse. "One monster bear is enough for tonight."

"Besides," Robb added, mounting his own steed, "whatever's happening with you, we'll figure it out. We always do. Remember when we were eight and you accidentally set that hay bale on fire?"

"That was you with the torch."

"Details," Robb waved dismissively. "The point is, we handled it then, we'll handle this now. Though preferably with less shouting from Old Nan this time."

The party began moving through the darkness, the injured supported by their companions. Jon found himself riding closer to his father than usual, waiting for the questions he knew would come. But Lord Stark merely reached over and squeezed his shoulder once, firmly.

"Whatever strength you have, Jon," Ned said quietly, so only his son could hear, "you used it to protect others. Remember that."

The rest of the ride was conducted in relative silence, broken only by the occasional grunt of pain from the wounded and Robb's periodic attempts to lift spirits with increasingly outlandish tales of what he'd tell the ladies of White Harbor about their bear encounter.

"Maybe we should say it was dancing too," Robb suggested at one point. "A massive bear that challenged us to a dance competition, but got angry when Jon proved to be the better dancer."

"Shut up, Stark," Jon replied, but he was smiling now, the tension finally starting to ease from his shoulders.

Chapter Text

The morning sun painted the white stone buildings of White Harbor in shades of pink and gold as their party approached the city's gates. Seagulls cried overhead, circling above the harbor where ships bobbed gently on the sparkling water. The crisp sea breeze carried the scent of salt and seaweed mixed with the distant aroma of fresh bread baking in the ovens, and it was so much different from Winterfell. 

"Who approaches?" called a guard from atop the gate, the high walls adorned with the sigils of House Manderly—a merman with a trident.

"Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, with my sons and men. Lord Manderly expects us," Ned replied.

"Of course, my lord. Open the gates!" The guard signaled, and with the groaning creak of heavy timber and iron, the massive wooden doors began to swing inward, revealing the bustling city within.

As they rode through, Jon couldn't help but stare in awe. Pristine white buildings rose in tiers toward the New Castle, their surfaces gleaming like pearls in the morning light. The streets were paved with smooth, pale stones that clattered softly under the horses' hooves—a welcome change from the muddy paths of the North. Balconies overflowing with flowering plants.

At the edge of it all lay the vast expanse of the Narrow Sea, its waters shimmering like a thousand sapphires melding into the horizon. The sunlight danced upon the gentle waves.

"Close your mouth, brother," Robb teased, pulling his horse alongside Jon's. "You look like one of those fish they catch here—gaping and wide-eyed."

Jon snapped his mouth shut, a slight blush creeping up his cheeks. "I've never seen so much water," he admitted, his eyes still drawn to the endless stretch where the sea met the sky. "It's like the world just goes on forever."

"That's generally what seas do," Robb grinned. "Though I heard sometimes they get tired and take a nap."

Jon raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Is that what happened to your wits? They went for a swim and got lost at sea?"

A soldier riding nearby snorted at their exchange but quickly winced as his bandaged shoulder. The night's events were still fresh in everyone's minds—the sudden attack, the bear larger and more ferocious than any they'd encountered, and the unexplainable surge of strength Jon had felt. Jon glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if to reassure himself that they were still his own.

The streets were already coming alive despite the early hour. Fishmongers were setting up their stalls, the smell of the fresh catch mingling with that of baking bread and spices from nearby bakeries. Vendors called out their wares—everything from colorful silks and handcrafted jewelry to exotic fruits brought in by trading ships. Sailors with weathered skin and salt-crusted beards headed toward the docks, shouting greetings and exchanging hearty laughs. Children darted between the adults.

Townsfolk paused in their morning routines to watch the procession of northern lords and their men. Eyes lingered on the bloodied bandages of the injured soldiers and the grim expressions of the guards. Whispers spread quickly—a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"The sea's not even the most impressive part," Robb continued. "Wait until you see the Merman's Court. The walls are all carved with—"

"Scenes from under the sea," Jon finished for him. "I do read, Robb. Though I'm sure you just looked at the pictures."

Robb feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart. "You wound me, brother. I'll have you know I read every word. Even the ones with more than two syllables."

"Boys," Ned called from the front, turning slightly in his saddle. "Stay focused. We're guests here, and we have wounded who need care."

"Yes, Father," they replied in unison. 

As they wound their way up toward the New Castle, Jon found his eyes continually drawn to the harbor below. Ships of all sizes dotted the waters—sleek trading vessels with brightly colored sails bearing emblems from distant lands, sturdy fishing boats already returning with their morning catch. He could hear the creaking of the ships' riggings, the flap of sails catching the wind, and the chorus of sailors' shanties floating across the water. 

"Don't even think about it," Robb said, noticing the gleam in Jon's eyes. "Arya would have fits if you ran off to become a sailor. Besides, who would keep me humble with your witty jests?"

"I wasn't thinking that," Jon protested, though the thought had crossed his mind. The idea of setting sail, of exploring waters and distant lands—an escape from Winterfell. And most of all, an escape from his name. From his bastard name.

"No? So you weren't imagining yourself as Jon the Seafarer, terror of the Narrow Sea?" Robb nudged him playfully.

"Actually, I was imagining pushing you off the dock," Jon retorted, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "I'd be doing the sea a favor."

They shared a laugh, but the levity was short-lived as they approached the castle gates, where more Manderly men awaited them. The white stone walls rose impressively, their surfaces adorned with banners depicting the emerald-green merman holding his trident. Guards clad in sea-green cloaks and silver armor stood at attention.

Jon noted that while the castle lacked the ancient, rugged grandeur of Winterfell's gray stones, it possessed a certain elegance. This was a castle designed not just for defense, but for displaying the money of White Harbor. Large windows with intricate stained glass. Carvings of seashells, waves, and sea creatures adorned the archways and columns.

"My lord," one of the Manderly guards bowed deeply to Ned. "We weren't expecting you until midday. And..." his eyes shifted to the injured men, concern etching his features, "your ravens didn't mention casualties. Is all well?"

"The casualties are recent," Ned replied grimly, his expression giving nothing away. "We were attacked on the road by a beast unlike any we've seen. We require your maester's attention immediately."

"Of course, my lord. Though Lord Manderly is still abed..." the guard hesitated, glancing at the sky to gauge the early hour.

"Then wake him," Ned's tone was firm. "His Lord Paramount bled defending his lands from a threat that should concern us all."

The guard swallowed hard and nodded. "At once, my lord." He signaled to a nearby servant, who dashed off into the castle's interior.

As the guards moved to assist the wounded, Jon found himself studying the castle's architecture, trying to focus on anything but the memory of the monstrous bear. The details of the stonework fascinated him—the way each block was perfectly fitted without mortar, the carved sea serpents that seemed to writhe along the parapets, the pearls and mother-of-pearl inlays.

"Stop brooding," Robb nudged him gently. "You're making the white stones look gray."

"I'm not brooding," Jon replied, though his eyes remained distant. He traced a finger along the intricate pattern of a seashell carved into a nearby column. "I'm thinking."

"Same thing with you," Robb sighed dramatically. "Come on, I heard the Manderlys serve the best fish soup in the Seven Kingdoms. Though given what I've seen of Lord Manderly, they probably serve the best everything. I could eat a horse."

"Is food all you think about?" Jon asked, finally tearing his gaze away from the stonework to meet his brother's eyes. 

"No," Robb grinned mischievously. "Sometimes I think about how terrible you are at dancing. Perhaps you can show off your skills at the feast tonight—give the ladies something to giggle about."

Before Jon could craft a witty retort, the castle doors swung open wide. A flurry of servants and attendants poured out to assist with the wounded. Maester Theomor, a portly man with thinning gray hair and a chain that seemed almost too tight around his neck, bustled forward. His robes were a deep blue trimmed with silver, the colors of House Manderly, and his chain of office clinked softly with each hurried step.

"Lord Stark," he bowed quickly, his eyes sharp and assessing as they flickered over the injured men. "We will see to them immediately. What manner of creature inflicted these wounds?"

"A bear," Ned replied, his jaw tightening. "But unlike any bear I've known. Larger, more ferocious, and... unnatural."

Maester Theomor's brows knitted together. "Unnatural, you say? Troubling indeed. I shall send word to the Citadel after I've tended to your men."

"Thank you," Ned nodded appreciatively. "Your assistance is most welcome."

The doors of New Castle swung open to reveal Lord Wyman Manderly, a man so massive he seemed to fill the entire doorway. His girth was legendary throughout the North, but what surprised Jon was the grace with which he descended the marble steps to greet them. Clad in robes of sea-green velvet trimmed with silver.

"Lord Stark!" Manderly's voice boomed across the courtyard like a horn at sea. "You arrive early, my friend, though by the looks of your men, not early enough." 

"Lord Manderly," Ned clasped the larger man's offered hand firmly. "We encountered some trouble on the road." 

"So I see," Manderly said. The concern in his gaze was genuine. "We'll hear that tale soon enough, I trust. But first, allow me to present my family. My sons, Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel."

Flanking him were his family members. To his right stood Ser Wylis Manderly, his eldest son, a tall and broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes the color of the sea after a storm. His posture was formal, hands resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. Beside him was Ser Wendel Manderly, slightly younger and rounder, his face flushed with good humor. His eyes sparkled with mirth, and a perpetual smile played on his lips.

"And here are my granddaughters," Lord Wyman announced proudly. "Lady Wynafryd and Lady Wylla."

Lady Wynafryd stepped forward first, inclining her head. She was poised and elegant, with dark hair cascading in loose curls over her shoulders, adorned with delicate silver pins shaped like tiny seashells. Her eyes were a deep blue, and she wore a gown of soft lavender.

Beside her stood Lady Wylla, and Jon noticed her right away. Her hair was intricately braided and dyed a vibrant shade of green, reminiscent of seaweed swaying beneath ocean waves. The braids were woven with thin silver threads and tiny pearls. She wore a dress of deep teal embroidered with patterns of waves and leaping fish in silver thread. Her eyes were a bright emerald. 

Jon can't help but feel as if he had seen her before, but that was impossible. He had never been to White Harbor, and he was certain she had never visited Winterfell. Sansa would have mentioned it.

"Allow me to introduce my sons. This is Robb Stark, my heir, and Jon Snow."

Robb stepped forward. "Lord Manderly, it's an honor to be welcomed into your home."

Jon followed suit, feeling the weight of the gazes upon him. "My lord," he said quietly, his eyes briefly meeting Lord Manderly's before flickering away.

"Ah, young Robb!" Manderly exclaimed, clasping Robb's hand warmly. "The spitting image of your father at your age. And Jon Snow," he added, his tone remaining cordial. "Welcome to White Harbor."

Jon didn't miss how several of the gathered nobles' smiles became more fixed, more formal. It was a subtle shift, but one he'd grown accustomed to.

"Come, let's not stand out here all morning," Lord Wyman gestured expansively toward the castle entrance. "We've prepared a feast to break your fast. Freshly caught salmon, warm bread, and sweet fruits from the south. And of course, we'll see to your wounded immediately."

As the adults began discussing arrangements, Wylla stepped forward with a swish of her skirts, her emerald eyes alight with curiosity. "I hope your journey wasn't too uncomfortable, Lord Robb," she said politely, then turned her gaze to Jon. "And you, Jon Snow. Though by the looks of things, 'uncomfortable' might be putting it lightly."

"The ride was fine, my lady," Jon replied, trying to keep his voice steady. Up close, he noticed faint freckles dusting her cheeks. "It's the giant bear that was the problem."

Wylla's eyes widened with intrigue as she tilted her head. "A giant bear? Now that sounds like a tale worth hearing."

"Jon's being modest," Robb interjected with a grin, clapping a hand on Jon's shoulder. "He saved half our men from it."

"Robb..." Jon muttered, feeling a flush creep up his neck.

"Is that so?" Wylla's gaze sharpened, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "And how did you manage such a feat, Jon Snow?"

"I just... got lucky with a spear," Jon said, shrugging. He felt suddenly self-conscious under her piercing gaze.

"He threw it with such force you'd think he was the Warrior himself," one of the injured soldiers chimed in, pride evident in his voice despite his bandaged arm.

"A warrior who can't dance," Robb added teasingly, shooting Jon a sly look.

"I can dance fine," Jon protested, his ears burning.

"Can you?" Wylla's eyes danced with amusement. "Perhaps you'll honor us with a demonstration at tonight's feast. It's been a while since we've had entertainment as exciting as a bear-slaying, spear-throwing dancer."

"I... uh..." Jon struggled to find a response. Her laughter was light and musical, and he quite liked hearing it.

"Don't tease our guests too much, Wylla," Lady Wynafryd interjected gently, though a hint of a smile played on her lips. "They've had a long journey."

"Just getting to know them, sister," Wylla replied innocently. She turned back to Jon, her expression softening slightly. "Truly, we're glad you're all safe. White Harbor can be dangerous, but not usually from bears."

"Perhaps the bears have taken to the sea," Jon offered, regaining a bit of his composure.

"Let's hope not," she laughed. "Our sailors have enough to worry about without bears climbing aboard."

"Wylla," Lord Wyman called from ahead. "Come along now."

"Coming, Grandfather!" She gave Jon and Robb a quick curtsy. "I look forward to seeing you both at the feast. Try not to get into any more trouble before then."

As she moved away, Jon couldn't help but watch her go, the sway of her green braids mesmerizing. Robb nudged him with a knowing grin. "She's something, isn't she?"

"She's... unique," Jon admitted, still feeling the warmth in his cheeks.

"Careful, or you'll find yourself tangled in those green braids," Robb joked.

"Better than you tripping over your own feet at the dance," Jon retorted, grateful to shift the focus.

Robb elbowed Jon in the ribs. "So much for being better with bears."

"Shut up," Jon muttered, though he couldn't help but watch as Wylla disappeared into the castle, her green braids bouncing lightly with each step.

"Both of you, come," Ned called. "Lord Manderly wants to hear about this bear, and I want the truth told before the tale grows any larger."

As they followed their father inside, Jon caught one last glimpse of green hair through a window above. The interior of New Castle was just as impressive as its exterior—high ceilings adorned with intricate carvings of sea creatures and floors laid with polished stone that reflected the light from tall windows.

Perhaps White Harbor wouldn't be so bad after all, even if he did have to dance.

"Stop grinning," Robb whispered as they walked down a corridor lined with suits of armor, each holding a different weapon. "You look like you've been hit in the head by a spear instead of throwing one."

"I thought you said I should smile more," Jon retorted, attempting to regain some semblance of dignity.

"I meant smile, not moon about like a lovesick mummer."

"Boys," Ned's warning tone silenced their banter, but couldn't quite erase Jon's small smile. For once, being introduced as a Snow hadn't been the most memorable part of a formal greeting. He felt a flicker of happiness at that thought.

The Merman's Court lived up to its reputation—carved wooden sea creatures and intricate aquatic scenes adorned every wall and pillar, making Jon feel as though they were walking through an underwater palace. The ceiling was painted to resemble the surface of the sea from below, with beams of light filtering through waves teeming with fish and mythical sea monsters. The floor was laid with mosaic tiles depicting swirling currents and schools of fish, so vivid they seemed to move beneath one's feet.

Lord Wyman Manderly settled into his ornate chair, a massive throne carved from driftwood and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. His massive frame filled it completely, and the chair creaked slightly under his weight. 

"Now then, Ned," Wyman leaned forward, his multiple chins quivering with concern. His voice echoed in the high-ceilinged hall, commanding attention. "What manner of beast did this to your men?"

Ned stood in the center of the hall. "A bear, but like none I've ever seen. Three meters tall at least, standing on all fours, with an unnaturally long face and yellow eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness."

"Three meters?" Ser Wylis interrupted, disbelief clear in his voice. He exchanged a skeptical glance with his brother Wendel. "Father, surely—"

"Let him finish," Wyman raised a hand, his usually jovial face now serious, the lines around his eyes deepening.

"It attacked without warning," Ned continued. "Its fur was matted and dark, almost black, and it moved with a speed that belied its size. Took down five of my men before we could stop it. If not for Jon..." He placed a hand on Jon's shoulder, gently pushing him forward.

Jon felt every eye in the hall turn to him. He kept his gaze steady, though he couldn't help but notice Wylla leaning forward in her seat, her green braids falling over one shoulder like cascading seaweed. Her eyes were bright with curiosity.

"The boy?" Wendel asked skeptically, eyebrows raised. "What could he—"

"He threw a spear," Ned cut in, his tone brooking no argument. "With enough force to pierce the bear's neck. Ended the fight there and then."

Silence fell over the hall. Jon could see the doubt in their faces—how could a boy of three-and-ten, and a bastard at that, take down such a monster?

"Impossible," Ser Wylis muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly.

"I saw it myself," Robb spoke up, stepping forward to stand beside his brother. His blue eyes met those of the Manderly men. "The spear went halfway through its neck. I've never seen anything like it."

"And you say this happened near the Sheepshead Hills?" Wyman asked, his small eyes sharp with intelligence despite his massive frame. "There have been... strange reports from those parts lately. Livestock disappearing, travelers going missing. Though nothing like this."

Jon noticed Wylla watching him intently, her expression thoughtful rather than doubtful. When their eyes met, she didn't look away. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, as if trying to solve a puzzle. Jon felt his chest tighten strangely.

"I'd like to see this bear," Wyman declared, his tone leaving no room for debate.

"It's still where we left it," Ned replied. "Though I suggest sending a large party. Even dead, it's not something a small group should handle."

"I'll lead the men myself," Ser Wylis stood, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, eager to see for himself.

"And I'll go too," Wendel added quickly, not to be outdone by his brother. "If such a beast roams our lands, we need to ensure there aren't more."

"Before you do," Wyman raised his voice slightly, commanding attention once more. "Young Jon, come closer."

Jon approached the dais, conscious of every eye in the hall following his movements. Up close, Lord Manderly's gaze was surprisingly keen, his eyes assessing.

"You don't look strong enough to drive a spear through a normal bear's neck, let alone one of that size," he said bluntly, his tone not unkind but deeply inquisitive.

"I didn't think I was, my lord," Jon replied honestly, meeting the lord's gaze. "I still don't know how I did it."

"Hmm," Wyman stroked his beard thoughtfully, his rings glinting in the light. "Wylla, what do you think? You've always had a good eye for truth-tellers."

Jon's heart jumped as Wylla rose from her seat. She approached him, circling once, her green braids swaying with each step, the scent of lavender and sea salt lingering in the air.

"Well, Grandfather," she said finally, her voice clear and melodic, "either he's telling the truth, or he's the finest mummer in the Seven Kingdoms. And I don't think even the finest mummer could fake that blush when I look at him."

Several people chuckled. Jon felt his face grow even warmer, his cheeks burning. But Wylla wasn't mocking him—her eyes held genuine curiosity and something else he couldn't quite name.

"Very well," Wyman nodded, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Wylis, take your men and find this bear. I want to see it for myself." He turned back to Ned. "In the meantime, my friend, let's break our fast. Your men need rest, and I suspect there's more to discuss."

As they filed out of the hall, the grand doors opening to reveal servants waiting to guide them, Jon felt a light touch on his arm. Wylla had fallen into step beside him, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"You know," she said quietly, so only he could hear, "most men who come here tell tales of their great deeds, boasting and preening like peacocks. You look like you'd rather face another bear than talk about what you did."

"I would," Jon admitted, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "At least I'd know what to do with the bear."

She laughed softly, and he quite liked the sound of her laughter. "Well, Jon Snow, I look forward to hearing the full story. Perhaps during the feast? I still expect that dance you promised."

"I never promised—" Jon began, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"Didn't you?" She smiled mischievously, her eyes dancing. "Perhaps I imagined it." She walked ahead to join her sister, her gown swaying elegantly, leaving Jon staring after her.

"Close your mouth, brother," Robb whispered as he passed, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "You're in the Merman's Court, not trying to catch fish."

Jon snapped his mouth shut, swallowing hard, but his eyes followed the green braids until they disappeared around a corner. Somehow, the prospect of dancing didn't seem quite as daunting as it had before.

Later

Jon closed the heavy wooden door of his chamber, still marveling at the finely carved seahorses decorating its frame. The room itself was larger than his at Winterfell, with a view of the harbor that made the ships look like children's toys floating in a pool.

But his mind wasn't on the luxurious surroundings. He flexed his right hand, remembering the sensation when he'd thrown the spear. There had been something... different. A surge of strength that felt both foreign and familiar, like a memory he couldn't quite grasp.

"What are you?" he muttered to his palm, half-expecting it to answer.

His eyes fell on a small knife on the side table, probably meant for fruit. Before he could talk himself out of it, he grabbed it and drew the blade across his palm. The cut was shallow, but it stung enough to make him hiss.

"Seven hells," he cursed, watching blood drip onto the pristine white stone floor. Steam began rising from the wound.

Jon stared as the edges of the cut began knitting themselves together. He focused on the sensation, trying to understand it, and suddenly—

Golden light crackled around his hand like miniature lightning. The world tilted, and he wasn't in his chamber anymore.

A massive figure roared toward the sky. It appeared like a giant man, fifteen meters tall, with dark hair and strange wounds on his back. Smoke obscured his face, and when he revealed it, it was the face of a demon. Then he roared again before breaking a house with his foot. The screams of the people inside could be heard as he crushed them like ants.

Jon stumbled backward, gasping as the vision released him. His legs hit the bed, and he sat down hard, fighting against a surge of power that threatened to overwhelm him. His whole body hummed with energy, golden sparks dancing across his skin.

"No," he gritted out, clenching his fists. "Whatever you are, no."

Gradually, the power receded, leaving him shaking and covered in cold sweat. He looked at his palm - the cut was gone, leaving only unmarked skin behind.

A knock at the door made him jump.

"Jon?" Wylla's voice called from the other side. "Are you well? I thought I heard..."

Jon quickly wiped the blood from the floor with his sleeve. "I'm fine! Just... dropped something."

"Are you decent? I brought you some of that fish soup Lord Robb wouldn't stop talking about."

Jon looked down at his shaking hands. The golden light was gone, but he could still feel something lurking beneath his skin, waiting.

"I... give me a moment," he called back, trying to steady his voice.

"If you're naked, I promise not to peek. Much."

Despite everything, Jon felt himself smile. "Lady Wylla..."

"Oh, so formal! Should I call you Ser Bear-Slayer?"

Jon took a deep breath, forcing the lingering power down. "You can come in."

The door opened, and Wylla entered carrying a tray. She took one look at his face and set it down quickly.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said, humor replaced by concern.

"Just tired," he lied, hating how easily it came.

She studied him for a moment, then sat beside him on the bed - close enough that he could smell the salt air in her hair.

"You know," she said softly, "when I was little, I used to have nightmares about giant sea monsters coming up from the harbor. Grandfather said it was because I spent too much time staring at the carvings in the great hall."

"Did they stop? The nightmares?"

"No," she smiled. "I just learned that some monsters are worth facing." She nudged his shoulder with hers. "Like bears, perhaps?"

Jon looked at his healed palm, thinking of the terrible figure from his vision. "Perhaps."

"Well, eat your soup before it gets cold. And Jon?"

"Yes?"

"Whatever's troubling you... you don't have to face it alone." She stood and walked to the door, pausing there. "Though I still expect that dance later."

After she left, Jon stared at the closed door for a long time. Finally, he picked up the soup spoon, noticing with relief that his hand had stopped shaking.

"Some monsters are worth facing," he repeated quietly, though he wondered if Wylla would say the same if she knew what he'd seen. What he might be becoming.

The soup was indeed excellent, but Jon barely tasted it, his mind filled with visions of giant figures and golden lightning. And somewhere beneath it all, a girl with green hair who didn't seem afraid of monsters.

Chapter Text

The door opened, and Wylla entered with that smile that made Jon's chest tighten, and for a moment, he forgot about giants and healing wounds. 

"I thought you might want a tour of the castle," she said, her voice light and inviting. She tilted her head slightly, a playful glint in her eyes. "Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine," he replied too quickly, his tone betraying a hint of nervousness. "Just... tired from the journey."

"Tired from slaying monster bears, you mean," she teased, crossing the room to stand by the window. She appeared completely at ease, seemingly unbothered by being alone in a young man's chamber. "Though I suspect there's more to that story than what was said in the hall."

Jon's hand tingled where the cut had been, a phantom sensation that made him clench his fist. "What makes you say that?"

"The way you looked when Father asked how you did it," she observed, turning to face him. Her expression was serious now. "Like you weren't quite sure yourself."

"My lady—" he began, unsure of how to explain.

"Wylla," she corrected gently. "I think saving half a dozen men from a giant bear earns you the right to use my name, don't you?"

"Wylla," he said softly, and her smile widened. The name felt familiar on his tongue, as if he'd spoken it many times before. "I... there are things I don't understand about what happened."

"Such as?" she prompted, taking a step closer.

"Such as how a bastard boy managed to throw a spear hard enough to kill a monster," he admitted, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice.

She raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you're more than just a bastard boy."

"I'm not—" he started, but the words caught in his throat.

"You're not what? Special? Important?" Her eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was sincerity beneath her teasing tone. "Too late for that, I'm afraid. You've already made quite an impression on White Harbor. The mysterious Jon Snow, who slays monsters and blushes when pretty girls talk to him."

"I don't—" he began to protest, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. He realized he was, in fact, blushing.

She laughed softly. "See? Absolutely hopeless. Come on, I'll show you the best parts of the castle, including all the secret passages my sister thinks I don't know about."

"Should you be showing those to a stranger?" he asked, both intrigued and cautious.

"Are you planning to use them for nefarious purposes?" she countered, a playful challenge in her gaze.

"No, but—"

"Then it's fine." She reached out and grabbed his hand—the one that had been cut—and he felt a warmth spread from her touch. She tugged him toward the door with surprising strength. "Unless you'd rather stay here and brood?"

Jon let himself be pulled along, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "I don't brood," he said defensively.

"Of course not," she teased as they stepped into the corridor. "You just stare intensely into the middle distance while thinking deep, meaningful thoughts."

"That's... that's not the same thing," he argued, though he knew she was jesting.

"It absolutely is." She peeked around a corner, ensuring the path was clear. "Coast is clear. First stop: the old tower where they say the mermaid queen used to sing to passing ships."

As she led him through the castle, Jon found himself relaxing despite everything. The halls of White Harbor were a marvel. Servants bustled about, but they paid little mind to the two youths weaving through passages.

They climbed a winding staircase that spiraled upward, the steps worn smooth by generations of feet. The walls here were lined with faded murals of underwater kingdoms, colors softened by time.

"Up here," Wylla beckoned, her voice echoing softly. She pushed open a heavy wooden door that creaked in protest.

They emerged onto a rooftop terrace enclosed by a low stone wall. The view took Jon's breath away. The city of White Harbor sprawled below, its white buildings gleaming in the afternoon sun. Beyond, the vast expanse of the sea stretched to the horizon, waves shimmering like molten silver.

"This is incredible," Jon murmured, stepping forward.

"I thought you'd like it," Wylla said, leaning against the wall beside him. "It's my favorite place in the whole castle. Hardly anyone comes up here anymore."

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching gulls wheel overhead and ships glide into harbor like toy boats. The distant sound of sailors' shanties and dockworkers' shouts drifted up to them, mingling with the cry of seabirds.

"You're doing it again," Wylla noted, her tone lighter.

"Doing what?" he asked, glancing at her.

"Brooding," she said with a soft smile. "What's really on your mind, Jon Snow?"

He hesitated, but there was something about her—an openness—that invited honesty. "I think," he began slowly, "that I'm changing into something. And I'm not sure what."

She turned to face him fully, her expression thoughtful. "Good something or bad something?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "It's just... ever since the bear, things have felt different. I feel different."

"Different how?" she pressed gently.

He struggled to put it into words. "Stronger, faster maybe. Like there's something inside me that's waking up."

Instead of looking skeptical, she nodded. "Sometimes we grow in ways we don't expect, especially after facing something challenging."

"It's more than that," he said, his gaze drifting back to the sea. "There are things happening that I can't explain."

Wylla was quiet for a moment. "My mother used to say that the world is full of mysteries, and not all of them need to be solved immediately. Sometimes, we just need to live them."

He looked at her, surprised. "You don't think I'm... strange?"

"Oh, you're definitely strange," she teased lightly, then her expression softened. "But in a good way. Besides, normal is overrated."

He chuckled softly. "Perhaps you're right."

"Of course I am," she declared confidently. "Now, come on. I want to show you where my grandfather hides his best wines."

"Is that proper for a lady to know?" he asked with mock seriousness.

"Proper?" She grinned mischievously. "I'm the girl with green hair, Jon Snow. Proper sailed away long ago."

As they continued their exploration through the labyrinthine corridors of White Harbor, the sun began its descent. The light filtered through stained-glass windows depicting epic sea voyages and legendary creatures of the deep. Jon found himself captivated not just by the castle's beauty but by the effortless way Wylla navigated. He wondered if maybe, just maybe, these changes—whatever they were—didn't have to be faced alone.

Even if he did have to dance at the feast.

"You're thinking about the dancing again, aren't you?" Wylla asked, her eyes flickering with amusement as she glanced sidelong at him.

"How did you—"

"You have a special brooding face reserved just for dancing," she interrupted, her lips curving into a teasing smile. "It's quite adorable, actually."

"I'm not adorable," he protested, attempting to muster a dignified tone, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"No? Tell that to your blush," she retorted, her laughter light and melodious. Before he could respond, she grasped his hand and tugged him down another corridor. "Now, about those wines..."

They descended a narrow spiral staircase that seemed to wind endlessly into the depths of the castle. The air grew cooler, tinged with the earthy scent of aged wood and stone. Lanterns hung intermittently along the walls, their flickering flames casting elongated shadows.

"The cellars?" Jon inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Not just any cellars," Wylla replied mysteriously. "The oldest ones. Built when White Harbor was first constructed. They say the walls here remember."

"Remember what?"

"Whispers," she said softly, her voice echoing slightly. "Secrets, promises, perhaps even dreams."

He chuckled. "Sounds like something Old Nan would say."

"Maybe she knows more than people give her credit for," Wylla suggested. "Now, watch your step. Some of these stones are loose."

They entered a vast chamber lined with rows upon rows of wine barrels and dusty bottles. The ceiling arched overhead, supported by thick pillars. In the center stood a large, ornate table scattered with maps and nautical instruments.

"Impressive," Jon remarked, running a finger over a compass etched with runes he didn't recognize.

Wylla selected a bottle from a nearby rack, examining its label. "Ah, here we are. Arbor gold from the best vintage." She pulled the cork effortlessly and poured the golden liquid into two crystal glasses.

"Should we be doing this?" Jon asked, accepting the glass but eyeing it warily. "What if someone finds out?"

She leaned against the table, swirling her wine thoughtfully. "Sometimes it's good to break the rules a little. Live in the moment."

He took a tentative sip, the rich flavor surprising him. "Fair enough."

They clinked their glasses gently, the sound echoing softly. "To new experiences," she toasted.

"To not tripping over my own feet tonight," he added wryly.

She laughed. "I'll drink to that." After a moment, she regarded him thoughtfully. "You know, you don't have to be nervous about the feast."

"I'm not nervous," he lied, avoiding her gaze. "Just... cautious."

"You're a terrible liar, Jon Snow."

He sighed, conceding the point. "Fine. Maybe a little nervous. It's just not something I'm used to."

"Dancing? Or being the center of attention?"

"Both, I suppose."

She set her glass down and moved closer, her expression gentle. "Would it help if I showed you some steps now? A private lesson before the grand performance?"

He hesitated. "I wouldn't want to impose."

"Consider it a fair trade for the bear story you still owe me." Without waiting for his agreement, she took his hand and led him to an open space between the barrels. "Now, place your hand here," she guided his hand to her waist, "and hold my other hand like this."

He followed her instructions, acutely aware of the warmth of her waist beneath his palm and the softness of her hand in his. "Like this?"

"Perfect," she affirmed. "Now, it's a simple pattern. Step forward with your left foot as I step back, then to the side..."

They moved slowly at first, the only sound the distant drip of water and the soft rustle of their clothing. Gradually, Jon began to relax, the steps becoming more fluid.

"See? You're a natural," Wylla encouraged.

"Hardly," he scoffed lightly, though a smile played on his lips.

They continued to dance. Jon found himself forgetting his earlier apprehensions. Here, in this hidden cellar with Wylla, the weight of his worries seemed lighter.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of secret passages, hidden rooms, and tales about the castle's storied past. Wylla showed him the old armory filled with antique weapons, a gallery of paintings depicting the Manderly lineage, and a secluded courtyard where a solitary weirwood tree grew—a rarity so far south.

"How did a weirwood come to be here?" Jon asked, marveling at the white bark and red leaves.

"No one knows for certain," she replied. "Some say it's as old as the castle itself. Others believe it sprouted from a seed carried by the wind. I like to think it chose to be here."

They sat beneath the tree, and if Wylla noticed how he occasionally flexed his hand or glanced nervously at the harbor visible beyond the castle walls, she didn't mention it.

"Tell me about Winterfell," she prompted, leaning back against the smooth trunk of the weirwood. "Is it true there are hot springs that keep the castle warm even in the depths of winter?"

He nodded. "Yes. The walls absorb the heat, making it more bearable when the snows come."

"Sounds cozy," she mused. "And the godswood there—it's said to be immense."

"It is," he confirmed. "It's one of my favorite places. Quiet, peaceful. A good place to think."

"Or brood," she teased lightly.

He chuckled. "Perhaps."

As the shadows grew longer, she suddenly stood and extended her hand. "Come on. There's one last place I want to show you before we have to prepare for the feast."

They made their way to one of White Harbor's highest towers. The climb was steep, but the reward was a panoramic view that stole Jon's breath. The sea stretched out endlessly, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange, pink, and violet. The city below bustled with evening activity, lanterns flickering to life like stars fallen to earth.

"Beautiful," he whispered.

"Isn't it?" Wylla agreed softly. "I come up here when I need to clear my head."

He glanced at her; the sun made her seem even more beautiful. "Thank you for today," he said earnestly. "I haven't... felt this at ease in a long time."

She turned to meet his gaze. "You don't have to carry your burdens alone, Jon."

He looked away, the weight of his secrets pressing against the moment. "It's complicated."

"It doesn't have to be," she insisted gently. "Sometimes sharing makes the load lighter."

He considered her words, a part of him yearning to confide in someone. But another part, the part that had been taught to guard his emotions, held back. "Perhaps," he allowed.

She seemed to sense his hesitation and didn't press further. Instead, she leaned on the parapet, her green braids cascading over her shoulder. "You know, the feast tonight isn't just about formality. It's a celebration. A chance to forget our troubles, if only for a while."

He smiled faintly. "Even if I have to dance?"

She laughed, the sound blending with the distant crash of waves against the harbor walls. "Especially then."

As they began their descent, Wylla suddenly paused on one of the steps. "Oh, I almost forgot." She reached into a small pouch at her waist and pulled out a simple silver pin with a wolf head. "I want to give this to you."

He stared at it in surprise. "Why?"

"Consider it a token of friendship," she said, a hint of shyness creeping into her demeanor. "I noticed you don't wear any sigils. I thought you might like one."

He accepted the pin reverently. "Thank you. It's... it's wonderful."

She brushed off his gratitude with a casual wave. "It's nothing, really. Just don't lose it."

"I won't," he promised, affixing it to his tunic.

Later

Jon adjusted his doublet for the hundredth time, examining his reflection in the polished metal surface that served as a mirror. The clothing was finer than anything he'd worn at Winterfell - dark grey with silver threading.

"If you keep fussing with it," Robb's voice came from the doorway, "you'll wear holes in it before you even reach the feast."

Jon turned to find his brother leaning against the doorframe, already dressed in Stark colors. "How do I look?"

"Like a proper lordling," Robb grinned. "Though perhaps one who's about to face execution rather than a feast."

"Very funny. At least I don't look like I've been struck by lightning every time Wynafryd glances my way."

The comment hit its mark - Robb's ears turned pink. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"No? Shall we count how many times you've walked into things while watching her? I heard you nearly fell into the harbor when she gave you a tour of the city."

"I was admiring the ships."

"Of course. And I suppose Lady Wynafryd just happened to be standing near those ships?"

Robb straightened his own doublet. "I'm perfectly capable of dancing with any lady present."

"Like you danced with Sansa?" Jon raised an eyebrow. "I believe her toes are still recovering."

"That was different. I was nervous."

"And you're not nervous now?"

Before Robb could retort, a knock interrupted them. A Manderly guard in sea-green armor stood at attention.

"My lords, the feast is beginning. Lord Stark sent me to escort you."

They followed the guard through the winding corridors of White Harbor. The sounds of music and laughter grew louder as they approached the Great Hall.

"Remember," Robb whispered, "try not to step on any feet. Especially those attached to green-haired ladies."

"Remember to watch where you're walking instead of staring at the elder Lady Manderly."

The Great Hall was transformed. Hundreds of candles cast a warm glow over the carved wooden walls, making the sea creatures seem to dance in the flickering light. At the high table, Lord Stark sat in conversation with Lord Manderly, their heads bent together in discussion. Wylla and Wynafryd sat nearby, both dressed in shades of blue and green that reminded Jon of the sea.

When Wylla caught his eye, she smiled that smile that made his stomach flip.

Jon hesitated at the base of the dais, his gaze flickering between the high table and the gathered guests in the great hall. The aroma of roasted fish and fresh bread filled the air, mingling with the murmur of conversation and bursts of laughter.

"Perhaps I should sit with the—" Jon began.

"If you say 'with the squires,' I will personally drag you up these steps," Robb interrupted, his tone half-serious. "Besides, look how disappointed Lady Wylla would be."

Following Robb's gaze, Jon saw Wylla seated at the high table, her vibrant green braids adorned with tiny silver seashells. She was patting the empty seat beside her, a playful yet expression on her face. The arch of her eyebrow and the slight tilt of her head made it clear that refusal wasn't an option.

"The things I do for you," Jon muttered to Robb as they began ascending the steps to the dais. His own attire—a deep blue tunic with understated embroidery—suddenly felt inadequate under the scrutiny of so many noble eyes.

"For me? Brother, I believe you're doing this entirely for yourself," Robb chuckled, giving Jon a light nudge. "And for a certain lady's green braids."

Jon felt heat creep up his neck but managed a retort. "And what's your excuse? I saw you practicing your smile in the mirror earlier."

Before Robb could respond, they reached the table where Lord Wyman Manderly sat at its center, his massive frame clad in opulent robes of sea-green velvet. His face was flushed from wine and mirth, his booming laughter echoing as he conversed with Lord Stark.

"Ah, the young heroes arrive!" Wyman boomed, his eyes twinkling with genuine delight. He raised a jeweled goblet in their direction. "Come, sit! We were just discussing your bear hunt. Quite the adventure!"

Jon found himself guided to the seat beside Wylla, while Robb took the space near Lady Wynafryd, who greeted him with a demure smile. The sisters exchanged a knowing glance.

"I was just telling Grandfather about our tour of the castle," Wylla said as Jon settled into his seat. The table before them was laden with an array of dishes—succulent roast pheasant, buttered vegetables, and exotic fruits from the southern regions. "Though I left out the part about the wine cellar."

"How kind of you," Jon replied dryly, reaching for a goblet of spiced wine. The warmth of the cup was reassuring in his hands.

"I thought so," she said, her lips curving into a teasing smile. Her gown, a shimmering teal that matched her eyes, accentuated the natural grace with which she moved. "You look very handsome tonight, by the way. Almost like you're not terrified of dancing at all."

"I'm not terrified," Jon protested, though his grip on the goblet tightened involuntarily.

"No?" Wylla arched an eyebrow, her gaze dropping pointedly to his hands. "Then why are your knuckles white on that poor cup?"

Realizing his tension, Jon consciously loosened his grip, flexing his fingers. "I'm simply... appreciating the craftsmanship," he said, attempting nonchalance.

"Of course." She leaned closer, the soft scent of lavender and sea air enveloping him. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't worry, I won't let you make a fool of yourself. Much."

"Your kindness knows no bounds, my lady," he replied, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

"Wylla," she corrected automatically, her eyes meeting his with a hint of sincerity. "And yes, I know. I'm practically a saint."

Further down the table, Robb was engaged in an animated conversation with Wynafryd. She listened attentively, a soft blush coloring her cheeks as Robb spoke. Jon caught his brother's eye and smirked, raising his goblet slightly in a silent toast.

"Your brother seems quite taken with my sister," Wylla observed, following Jon's gaze. She delicately picked at her meal, her fingers adorned with simple yet elegant rings.

"Is it that obvious?" Jon asked, cutting into a slice of roasted duck.

"Only to everyone with eyes." She chuckled softly. "Earlier today, he walked straight into a pillar because she smiled at him."

Jon laughed. "And here I thought he was admiring the architecture."

Wylla's laugh was bright and uninhibited, drawing the attention of nearby guests. She seemed entirely unfazed by the glances, her focus solely on Jon. "You Starks are terrible liars. It's rather refreshing, actually."

"We have other qualities to recommend us," Jon countered, a playful glint in his eye.

"Oh? Like what?"

"Well, we're quite good at killing abnormally large bears," he said, taking a sip of his wine.

"Ah yes, the bear." Her expression turned thoughtful. She glanced around subtly before continuing in a quieter tone. "Speaking of which... did you ever figure out how you managed that throw?"

Jon's hand tingled slightly at the memory, a phantom echo of the strange energy he'd felt. "Not exactly," he admitted, his gaze shifting to the flickering candle flame.

"Mysterious." She grinned, her eyes alight with intrigue. "I like mysteries."

Before Jon could respond, Lord Manderly rose from his seat, his voice carrying effortlessly over the din of the hall. "Music!" he proclaimed, clapping his hands. "Let's have some dancing! A feast isn't complete without a bit of merriment!"

Jon felt a jolt of anxiety as all eyes turned toward the center of the hall where musicians were assembling. The soft strains of a lute and the lilting notes of a flute began to weave together.

"Don't worry," Wylla whispered, placing her hand gently over his. Her touch was cool and calming. "Just follow my lead and try not to think too much."

"That's your answer to everything, isn't it?" he said, managing a faint smile.

"Has it steered you wrong yet?" she replied, her eyes meeting his with reassuring confidence.

He took a steadying breath. "Fair point."

As she led him toward the dance floor, Jon caught sight of Robb. His brother was being similarly escorted by Wynafryd, his earlier composure replaced with eager anticipation. Robb gave Jon an encouraging nod.

"Ready?" Wylla asked, positioning his hands—one resting lightly on her waist, the other clasped in hers.

"No," Jon confessed honestly, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Perfect." She smiled warmly. "Just keep your eyes on me."

The music swelled, and they began to move. The initial steps were tentative, Jon focusing intently on matching her movements and keeping rhythm with the music. But Wylla was an excellent partner, her guidance subtle yet effective. She anticipated his hesitations, adjusting seamlessly to keep them in harmony.

"See?" she said after guiding him through a particularly intricate turn. "You're not hopeless after all."

"High praise indeed," he replied, a genuine smile breaking through his earlier apprehension.

"Oh, I have higher praise ready," she teased, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "But you'll have to earn it."

"And how exactly would I do that?" he asked, his confidence growing with each successful step.

She leaned in slightly, her voice just above a whisper. "I'm sure you'll think of something. You did slay a bear, after all."

"You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"

"Not a chance, Jon Snow. Not a chance." Her laughter was soft, and he found it contagious.

As they spun across the floor, Jon caught glimpses of Robb and Wynafryd. His brother had yet to step on any feet, which was a marked improvement.

"Your brother's doing well," Wylla commented.

"He's motivated."

"Aren't we all?" She smiled up at him, and Jon forgot about everything else. Right now, there was just this: music, movement, and a green-haired lady who made him feel like maybe, just maybe, being a bastard wasn't the most important thing about him.

As the music changed to a slower tune, Wylla moved closer. "See? You can dance after all."

"I had a good teacher."

"Flattery will get you everywhere." She glanced at their siblings. "Though perhaps not as far as your brother seems to be getting."

Jon followed her gaze to see Robb and Wynafryd standing rather closer than the dance strictly required.

"Should we be concerned?" he asked.

"About them? No. About the fact that your father and my grandfather are watching them with entirely too much interest? Possibly."

Jon looked at the high table to find both lords indeed watching the young couples with poorly concealed satisfaction.

"Were we just set up?" he asked.

"Obviously." Wylla seemed entirely unbothered by this. "Though I can't say I mind. Do you?"

Jon looked down at her - at her mischievous smile and bright eyes and those green braids he'd grown inexplicably fond of.

"No," he said honestly. "I don't mind at all."

"Good." She rested her head on his shoulder as they swayed. "Because I have plans for you, Jon Snow."

"Should I be worried?"

"Probably. But you'll enjoy it anyway."

The rhythmic thump of Lord Manderly's goblet against the oak table silenced the hall faster than any shout could have. The sudden quiet was almost startling, the musicians trailing off mid-note, conversations dying mid-sentence. Even the serving girls froze, wine pitchers hovering above half-filled cups.

Lord Wyman Manderly's face was flushed from wine and good cheer as he pushed himself to his feet, his massive frame causing the high table to creak in protest.

"My honored guests!" his voice boomed across the hall. "Before we continue our festivities, I would have us all raise our cups to young Jon Snow!"

Jon felt his stomach drop. He'd been having such a pleasant evening he'd almost forgotten about—

"This brave lad," Lord Manderly continued, gesturing expansively, "saved Lord Stark, Lord Robb and twenty soldiers from a bear of monstrous proportions! A beast twice the size of any I've seen in thirty years!"

Jon could feel the heat rising in his face as hundreds of eyes turned toward him. Wylla squeezed his hand sympathetically, though he could see she was fighting back a smile.

"The greatest soldier had his spear knocked aside like a twig! But young Snow here..." Lord Manderly paused for dramatic effect, "stepped forward with nothing but steel and courage, facing down the beast that had already wounded five men!"

"Grandfather does love his storytelling," Wylla whispered. 

"Please stop helping," Jon muttered, wishing desperately that the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

The hall erupted in applause and cheers. Jon could see Robb grinning broadly, while Lord Stark wore an expression that seemed caught between pride and exasperation.

"And now!" Lord Manderly's voice rose above the acclaim, "I present to you all the proof of young Snow's valor! Bring forth the bear!"

The great doors at the end of the hall swung open with theatrical timing. Ten servants, straining under the weight, carried in an enormous platter. Upon it lay the bear, now expertly butchered and roasted, garnished with herbs and root vegetables. Steam still rose from the meat, filling the hall with a rich, savory aroma.

Gasps echoed through the crowd. Even those who hadn't seen the live bear could now appreciate its sheer size from the amount of meat presented. The platter was so large it took up nearly a quarter of the high table when the servants finally managed to set it down.

Lord Stark's expression had shifted fully to resignation. He caught Jon's eye and gave a small shake of his head, as if to say, "I should have known this was coming."

"Come, Jon Snow!" Lord Manderly beckoned. "Take your place at the high table! The hero's portion awaits!"

"I think I'm going to be sick," Jon whispered to Wylla.

"Nonsense," she said cheerfully, giving him a gentle push forward. "Though I do hope you're hungry. Grandfather's going to expect you to eat at least three portions to prove your manliness or some such nonsense."

As Jon reluctantly made his way to the high table, he could hear Lord Manderly launching into a more detailed version of the story, complete with dramatic gestures that threatened to knock over several wine cups.

"...and then the bear reared up, tall as a giant! But did young Snow falter? No! Quick as lightning, he..."

Lord Stark leaned over as Jon took his seat. "Well, son," he said quietly, amusement lurking in his voice, "I suppose this is what comes of trying to be modest about your deeds. Lord Manderly does so love a good story."

"I'm never leaving Winterfell ever again," Jon declared under his breath.

From her place back in the crowd, Wylla caught his eye and mimed a bear's clawing motion, grinning widely. Despite his embarrassment, Jon felt his lips twitch into a smile.

Lord Manderly was still going strong: "...and the way he wielded that sword! Like something out of the age of heroes! Why, I haven't seen such bravery since..."

It was going to be a very long night.

Chapter Text

The feast continued well into the night, the warm glow of candlelight casting dancing shadows across the walls of the Great Hall. The musicians had switched to slower, more intimate melodies as the evening wore on, and many of the older guests had already retired.

Jon held Wylla close as they swayed to the music, her green hair occasionally brushing against his cheek. The embarrassment of Lord Manderly's bear tale had finally begun to fade, helped along by Wylla's constant stream of witty observations about the remaining guests.

"Oh, look," she whispered, nodding toward a corner. "Lord Locke has finally fallen asleep in his cups. I do believe that's a new record - he usually makes it at least another hour."

Jon smiled, watching as the elderly lord's head bobbed gently. "Should someone wake him?"

"Absolutely not. Last time someone did, he challenged them to a duel. Granted, he could barely stand, but it's the principle of the thing."

"Is everything a story with you?"

"Of course! Life's more interesting that way." She grinned up at him. "Besides, you're one to talk, Bear Slayer."

Jon groaned. "I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

"Not in this lifetime. Though I must say," she added, her voice taking on a teasing lilt, "watching you squirm when Grandfather was telling the tale was quite entertaining."

"Glad I could provide amusement, my lady."

"Always so proper," she sighed dramatically. "Even after I dragged you into a wine cellar."

"Speaking of which," Jon glanced around the now-thinning crowd, "perhaps I should escort you to your chambers before you find any more cellars to explore."

Wylla's eyes sparkled with mischief. "My, my, Jon Snow. Are you proposing to take advantage of an innocent young lady?"

Jon couldn't help but laugh. "Innocent? You?"

"I'll have you know I am the very picture of innocence," she declared, batting her eyelashes exaggeratedly. "Just ask Lady Dandyrlyn. She's been watching me like a hawk all evening to ensure my virtue remains intact."

"Is that why she looked ready to faint when you showed me that 'secret passageway' earlier?"

"Possibly. Though that might have been because she saw where my hand was."

Jon grinned wickedly and leaned in closer. "Well, can't blame her there - your hands do tend to wander into some... interesting places."

Wylla gave him a saucy smirk, trailing her fingers up his chest. "Only the most interesting places, my lord. I have very... talented hands, after all." She beamed at him. "Now, about that escort..."

The music was winding down, and servants had begun clearing away the remnants of the feast. Even the great bear platter had been reduced to bones, though Jon suspected Lord Manderly would have those mounted somewhere as a trophy.

"It would be my honor," Jon said with an exaggerated bow, offering his arm.

Wylla took it with equally exaggerated grace. "Well, if you insist. Though I should warn you - my chamber is quite far. We might have to take several detours."

"Straight there," Jon insisted, though he couldn't keep the smile from his face.

They made their way out of the Great Hall, nodding to the few remaining guests. The corridors of White Harbor were quieter now, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. 

"Did you enjoy yourself tonight?" Wylla asked, her voice softer now that they were alone.

"More than I expected to," Jon admitted. "Though I suspect that had more to do with the company than the feast itself."

"Careful there, Jon. Keep saying sweet things like that and I might have to keep you."

The feast's sounds had faded behind them, replaced by the distant crash of waves against the harbor walls.

"Thank you again for the dance," Wylla said, her green hair catching the torchlight.

Before Jon could respond, a figure stumbled around the corner ahead – Lord Wyllman Manderly, his normally pristine robes somewhat askew.

"Grandfather?" Wylla stepped forward. "Are you alright? Do you need help to your chambers?"

The old lord waved off her concern, his face flushed from wine. His eyes fixed on Jon with the unfocused intensity of the deeply drunk. "Ah! The hero of the hour!"

Lord Wyllman lurched forward, clapping a meaty hand on Jon's shoulder hard enough to make him step back. "That bear would have been dangerous to our people if not for you, boy. Quick with that sword or was it a spear? Just like your lord father."

A small, warm smile crossed Jon's face. It wasn't often he received praise from highborn lords, and for a moment, he allowed himself to savor it.

"Very grateful, very grateful indeed..." Lord Wyllman's words slurred together. "Good show, Lord Snow. Good show."

The old man stumbled past them, humming tunelessly. 

"Well, that was pleasent," Wylla observed. "Though I suppose 'lord' is technically a compliment—"

She broke off as she felt Jon's arm tense under her hand. Looking up, she saw his jaw was clenched, his earlier warmth replaced by something harder, colder.

"Jon? What's wrong?"

He didn't answer, just continued walking, his steps now more measured, controlled. Wylla felt the shift in him like a slap in the face, as if walls had suddenly sprung up between them.

"Jon?" she tried again, but he remained silent.

They reached her chamber door far too quickly. Wylla turned to face him, studying his expression in the flickering torchlight. The man who had been laughing and flirting with her all evening seemed to have vanished, replaced by someone more distant.

"Would you like to come in?" she asked softly. "I have wine... we could talk..."

"Thank you for the dances tonight, my lady," Jon said formally, his voice carefully neutral. "I enjoyed them very much."

Before she could respond, he took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles - proper, courteous, and completely devoid of the warmth they'd shared all evening.

"Jon, wait—"

But he was already turning away, his boots echoing on the stone floor as he disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.

Wylla stood at her door for a long moment, watching the space where he'd been. Something had changed in that moment when her drunk grandfather had called out to him. Something had broken or perhaps been reminded.

She thought about the way he'd smiled earlier when she'd teased him about his brooding, the way his eyes had lit up when she'd made him laugh. She thought about the gentle way he'd touched her hair, the heat in his gaze when they'd been alone in the wine cellar.

And then she thought about the sudden coldness that had come over him at being called "Lord Snow," as if the very words had been a blade between his ribs.

"Oh, Jon," she whispered to the empty corridor, realising what the problem was.

But only the shadows answered, dancing silently on the walls as the torches flickered in the night breeze.

Inside her chamber, Wylla poured herself a cup of wine and walked to the window. Below, she could see the lights of White Harbor spread out like fallen stars, and beyond that, the darker expanse of the sea. Somewhere in the castle, Jon Snow was probably brooding in some dark corner, building his walls even higher.

She took a sip of wine and smiled to herself. Well, if there was one thing Wylla Manderly enjoyed, it was a challenge. And Jon Snow, with all his complexities and contradictions, was proving to be the most interesting challenge she'd encountered in quite some time.

"Run all you want, Jon Snow," she murmured, watching a distant ship's lantern bob on the horizon. "But you cannot escape from me."

Jon Snow

Jon's footsteps echoed through the empty corridors of White Harbor, each step taking him further from Wylla's door, yet the weight in his chest only seemed to grow heavier. 

He found himself at a window, looking out over White Harbor. 

"Lord Snow."

The words tasted bitter in his mouth as he whispered them to the night air. Two simple words that had shattered the evening's warmth like ice cracking beneath unwary feet.

His mind wandered back to his arrival in White Harbor, how different everything had seemed. The streets paved in stone so pale they almost glowed, the constant bustle of trade and commerce - it had all been so foreign to a boy raised in Winterfell's halls.

And then there was Wylla.

Jon closed his eyes, but that only made her image clearer in his mind: green hair catching the sunlight, quick smile always ready with a jest, eyes that sparkled with mischief. He remembered their first meeting, how she'd practically dragged him around the castle.

"If you're half as good as they say," she'd declared, "you can help me win a bet against my sister."

He hadn't stood a chance against her. Before he knew it, he was being dragged to the practice yard, where she'd proceeded to prove that she was far from the typical noble lady.

"My grandfather says a lady should know how to defend herself," she'd explained while demonstrating a surprisingly decent archery stance. "Though I think he meant something more along the lines of 'how to call the guards' rather than 'how to put an arrow through someone's eye at fifty paces.'"

Jon found himself smiling at the memory, then immediately sobered. That was exactly the problem, wasn't it? How easily she made him smile, how naturally she drew him out of his usual reserve.

He resumed his walk to his chambers. The corridors seemed colder now, the shadows deeper. Or perhaps that was just his mood coloring everything darker.

The wine cellar incident replayed in his mind. How she'd grabbed his hand during the feast, her beautiful eyes. How they had danced with one another.

"The best wines are always hidden in the back," she'd confided, producing a key from somewhere in her dress. "Grandfather thinks he's terribly clever with his hiding places, but he forgets I grew up exploring every nook of this castle."

They'd shared wine and stories, sitting on old crates in the dim cellar. She'd asked about Winterfell, about his siblings, about his training - and unlike others, she'd seemed genuinely interested in his answers. There had been no pity in her eyes when he spoke of being the Bastard of Winterfell, no careful distance in her manner.

Jon reached his chamber door but paused before entering. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood, trying to get his thoughts in order.

"I'm such a fool," he muttered. 

Inside his chamber, he paced restlessly. The room was comfortable, far more luxurious than his quarters at Winterfell, but right now it felt like a cage. The fire had burned low, casting more shadows than light.

"Lord Snow," he said again, tasting the mockery in it. How many times had he heard those words spat at him? From stable boys to kitchen maids to visiting lords - always with that edge of derision, that reminder that he was reaching above his station by merely existing in noble spaces.

But when had Wylla ever treated him that way?

He thought of their dance earlier that evening and how natural it had felt to hold her close and talk with her. She'd made him forget, for a while, all the barriers that should have stood between them.

And that was the problem, wasn't it?

Jon sank into a chair by the dying fire, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He'd allowed himself to forget his place, to pretend he could have something he had no right to want.

"I'm a bastard," he reminded himself harshly. "And she's the granddaughter of one of the most powerful lords in the North."

The facts lined up in his mind like an army arrayed for battle: He was baseborn, with no inheritance and no prospects beyond what he could carve out for himself. In three years, he planned to take the black, to join the Night's Watch where his birth wouldn't matter. Even if he didn't, what could he offer someone like Wylla?

Lord Manderly might be fond of him now, might praise his skill with a sword and celebrate his defeat of the bear, but that warmth would freeze faster than a summer snow if Jon dared to think above his station. The Lord of White Harbor would never allow his granddaughter to marry a bastard, not even Lord Stark's bastard.

And Wylla... gods, Wylla deserved better than a life of whispers and sidelong glances, of people wondering why she'd lowered herself to marry a bastard. She deserved someone who could give her a proper place in society, not someone who would drag her down into the shadows with him.

"I should never have let it get this far," he told no one. "I should have kept my distance from the start."

But even as he said it, he knew it wouldn't have been possible. Wylla wasn't the sort of person you could keep at a distance. She crashed through carefully constructed walls like a summer storm, bringing light and laughter with her.

Jon thought of how cold he'd been when leaving her at her door, how the hurt had flashed in her eyes before she could hide it. He'd done that to protect them both, he told himself. Better a clean break now than a messier one later.

Still, the memory of her standing there, hand outstretched in invitation, haunted him. What if he'd accepted? What if he'd followed her into her chamber, shared more wine, more conversation, more...?

"No," he said aloud, standing abruptly. "It ends now. It has to."

Tomorrow, he would maintain his distance. He would be polite but formal. He would remember his place, remember who he was and who she was, and why there could never be anything between them.

Lord Snow. Not even a real lord, just a mocking title for a bastard who dared to walk among his betters.

The fire had died completely now, leaving the room in darkness save for the moonlight streaming through the window. Jon walked to the window, looking out over the sleeping city. 

Was she thinking of him? Wondering what had gone wrong? Or had she already dismissed him, realizing that he wasn't worth her time?

Either possibility hurt more than he wanted to admit.

Wylla

In her chambers, Wylla paced restlessly, her fingers drumming against her wine cup. The memory of Jon's sudden coldness gnawed at her thoughts, his abrupt transformation from the warm, engaging man she'd been dancing with into something distant and formal.

"'Thank you for the dances tonight, my lady,'" she mimicked his words, rolling her eyes. "As if we hadn't spent the entire day flirting in wine cellars and hidden passages."

She moved to her vanity, studying her reflection in the mirror. The green hair that had drawn so many of Jon's subtle glances throughout the evening was slightly disheveled from dancing. She touched it thoughtfully, remembering how his eyes had followed the movement when she'd tossed it over her shoulder while laughing at one of his dry observations about Lord Locke's snoring.

"Lord Snow," she murmured, understanding dawning in her eyes. "That's what changed him."

Growing up in White Harbor, Wylla had learned to read people as easily as she read the shipping ledgers her grandfather insisted she study. The way Jon had tensed at those words, the way his warm mismatched eyes had suddenly gone hard as iron.

"You stupid, noble fool," she said to her reflection. "You think being a bastard matters to me?"

She'd seen how he carried it, that weight of his birth. It was there in the careful way he held himself among the nobles. But she'd also seen how it fell away when they were alone, when he forgot to maintain those rigid walls he'd built around himself.

"He made me laugh," she told her reflection. "Do you know how rare that is? Not just giggling at some lordling's clumsy attempts at wit, but really laugh?"

The wine cellar came back to her – how he'd tried to maintain his proper distance until she'd practically dragged him into a conversation about the ridiculous names nobles gave their swords. His deadpan suggestion that she name her bow "Splinter" had caught her so off guard she'd nearly spat out her wine.

Wylla moved to the window, looking out over the harbor. Somewhere in this castle, Jon Snow was probably convincing himself that he wasn't worthy of happiness, of connection, of her.

"As if he has any say in what I want," she muttered stubbornly.

She thought of how he'd looked during the feast, when he'd forgotten to be the Bastard of Winterfell and had just been Jon – the way his rare smiles transformed his entire face, how his eyes crinkled at the corners when he was truly amused, the gentle way he'd held her while they danced.

"And now he's going to try to avoid me," she realized. "He's going to be all 'my lady' this and 'pardon me' that, like we're suddenly strangers."

The thought made her angry. Not at Jon – well, maybe a little at Jon – but at the society that had convinced him he was somehow less worthy because of circumstances beyond his control. At the people who'd used "Lord Snow" as a weapon to remind him of his place.

"Well," she said, straightening her shoulders with determination, "they clearly don't know Wylla Manderly very well."

She'd never been good at doing what was expected of her. Her grandfather often said she'd inherited her grandmother's spirit along with her sharp tongue. Where other noble ladies learned to embroider, she'd learned to shoot. Where they learned to simper and flirt behind fans, she'd learned to argue policy and trade with merchants and ship captains.

And where they might turn away from a bastard-born lord's son, she found herself increasingly drawn to his quiet strength, his dry humor, his carefully hidden kindness.

"You want to run away, Jon Snow?" she challenged the night air. "Fine. But you should know – I'm very good at hunting."

Tomorrow

Dawn had barely touched the horizon when Wylla put her plan into motion. 

"Perfect," she murmured, quickly braiding her green hair and donning a practical dress suitable for movement. She'd chosen it deliberately – fine enough to maintain her status, but sturdy enough for what she had in mind.

The practice yard was exactly as she'd expected: empty save for Jon. She paused in the shadows of the archway, taking a moment to observe him. He moved with fluid grace as he worked through sword forms. Even in practice, there was something compelling about his intensity, the absolute focus he brought to each movement.

"Your footwork's improved," she called out, stepping into the yard. "Though you're still favoring your right side."

Jon startled, nearly dropping his practice sword. "Lady Wylla," he said stiffly, immediately falling into a formal bow. "I apologize if my practice disturbs your morning."

"Oh, stop that," she said, rolling her eyes. She walked to the weapons rack and selected a practice sword. "If you're going to avoid me, at least be honest about it."

"My lady, I—"

"And if you 'my lady' me one more time, I'm going to hit you with this." She gave the practice sword an experimental swing. "Now, are you going to teach me that disarming move you used on Ser Marlon, or do I need to ask one of the guards?"

Jon's expression was a fascinating mix of confusion, alarm, and something else – something that looked suspiciously like longing before he masked it. "This isn't appropriate."

"Appropriate?" Wylla laughed. "I'm the granddaughter of Wyman Manderly. When have I ever cared about appropriate?" She moved into a basic stance, one she'd learned from watching the guards train. "Besides, grandfather himself said I should learn to defend myself. Unless you think you're not qualified to teach?"

She saw the challenge hit home, saw the way his jaw tightened. Good. Let him try to hide behind propriety – she knew how to break through those defenses.

"Your grip is wrong," he said finally, sighing. "You'll drop the sword if you hold it like that."

"Then show me the right way."

He hesitated, then moved behind her. His hands were warm as they adjusted her grip, his voice low as he explained the proper technique. Wylla smiled to herself, feeling his careful distance already beginning to crack.

"Better," he said, stepping back quickly. "But your stance is still off."

"Then we'll have to practice until I get it right," she said cheerfully.

"Lady Wylla—"

"Same time tomorrow," she repeated firmly. "Unless you want me learning bad habits from someone else?"

She saw the conflict in his eyes, the war between his sense of duty and his desire to help. Finally, he nodded, though she could see he wasn't happy about it.

"Excellent!" She returned the practice sword to the rack. "And since you've already ruined my morning dress with all this dust, you might as well join me for breakfast. I have questions about that shield block you used."

"I shouldn't—"

"The kitchens sent up those blackberry tarts you like," she added innocently. "Far too many for me to eat alone."

"Come on, Jon," she said after a moment of silence, gentling her voice. "You can go back to avoiding me after breakfast if you really want to."

He followed her, as she'd known he would. One small victory in what she knew would be a longer campaign, but Wylla was nothing if not persistent.

.

.

Over the next several days, she implemented what she privately called her "Siege of Snow" strategy. She caught him in the practice yard each morning, insisting on lessons that required his hands-on guidance. She appeared in the library when he was studying maps, armed with questions about northern geography that only he could answer. She recruited him to help her practice archery, claiming her aim was off (it wasn't).

Each time, she could see his resolve weakening. His formal "Lady Wylla" became just "Wylla" again when he forgot to maintain his distance. His smiles, though still guarded, came more freely. He stopped flinching when their hands accidentally touched.

But it wasn't enough. She could still see the walls behind his eyes, the way he pulled back whenever they got too close to something real.

"Time for a more direct approach," she decided one evening, watching him slip away from the dining hall early to avoid sitting near her.

She knew where he would go – the battlements had become his favorite retreat when avoiding her. Sure enough, she found him there, staring out over the harbor.

"It won't work, you know," she said, coming to stand beside him.

"What won't?"

"This noble suffering act. Pushing me away to protect me, or whatever bullshit reason you've convinced yourself is right."

"Wylla—"

"No, you're going to listen now." She turned to face him fully. "You think I don't know what I want? You think I haven't considered every argument you're torturing yourself with? I'm not some naive girl who doesn't understand the world, Jon Snow."

"I'm a bastard," he said quietly, still not looking at her.

"And I'm a woman with green hair who'd rather learn swordplay than needlework. Neither of us fits the mold we're supposed to, do we?"

That got him to look at her, finally. She pressed her advantage.

"You think my grandfather cares about your birth? He cares that you're honorable, that you're skilled, that you fought a bear to protect your people. He cares that you make his granddaughter smile."

"It's not that simple—"

"It's exactly that simple," she interrupted. "Unless... unless I'm wrong, and you don't actually care for me. If that's true, tell me now, and I'll stop pursuing you."

The silence stretched between them, filled with the sound of waves and distant seabirds. Wylla held her breath, watching the conflict play across his face.

"I... I can't give you what you deserve," he said finally, his voice rough.

"Then it's a good thing I decide what I deserve," she replied, stepping closer. "And what I want is you, Jon Snow, titles or no titles."

She saw the moment his resolve cracked, saw it in the way his shoulders slumped and his eyes softened. When she reached for his hand, he didn't pull away.

"I'm still joining the Night's Watch in three years," he warned, but his thumb was tracing patterns on her palm.

"Then we have three years," she said simply. "Unless I convince you otherwise."

"You're impossible," he said, but the words held a warmth that had been missing for days.

"Completely impossible," she agreed cheerfully. "You might as well stop fighting it."

And there, on the battlements of White Harbor, Jon Snow finally stopped fighting. When he kissed her, it tasted like victory and possibility and something very much like hope.

Wylla smiled against his lips, making a mental note to thank her grandmother for teaching her that sometimes the best battles were won not with swords or arrows, but with persistence, courage, and an absolute refusal to let go of what you knew was right.

Chapter Text

The morning sun glinted off the waves of White Harbor as Jon approached Wylla in the castle courtyard. His dark curls were slightly tousled by the sea breeze, and for once, his usual solemn expression had softened into something almost hopeful.

"Would you like to walk through the city with me?" he asked, then added with a hint of dry humor, "I promise to try not to brood too much."

Wylla's face lit up with a bright smile. "Look who's finally making jokes about himself," she teased, reaching for his hand. "And yes, but I have one condition."

"Which is?"

"I get to kiss you whenever I want," she declared, her green hair catching the sunlight as she tilted her head challengingly. "Even if we're in the middle of the fish market."

Jon's cheeks colored slightly, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he laced his fingers through hers. "Even if I smell like fish afterward?"

"Especially then," she laughed. "Come on, I want to show you my favorite places."

They made their way down from White Harbor, Wylla pointing out landmarks along the cobblestone streets. "See that building with the blue shutters? Best meat pies in the North. And that tavern there – The Merry Merman – has singers from as far as Oldtown sometimes."

"You seem to know every corner of the city," Jon observed, ducking under a line of drying laundry strung between buildings.

"Of course I do. Grandfather says a ruler should know their people, not just their names in ledgers." She pulled him down a narrow alley that opened into a small square. "This is where the children play ships and pirates. I used to join them when I was younger, until Septa Merrianne caught me and had a fit about 'proper lady-like behavior.'"

Jon grinned. "Let me guess – you were the pirate queen?"

"Obviously," she said with mock offense. "Though sometimes I was a kraken. I did excellent kraken impressions."

They emerged onto the docks, where fishing boats were unloading their morning catch. The air was thick with the smell of salt and sea, and sailors called out to each other in half a dozen different languages.

"Have you ever been to Essos?" Jon asked suddenly, watching a Braavosi trading galley being guided into port.

Wylla's eyes sparkled. "I have, actually. Grandfather took me to Braavos when I was twelve, and we visited Pentos last year." She led him to a quiet spot overlooking the harbor. "Can I tell you something? Something I haven't told many people?"

Jon nodded, struck by the sudden seriousness in her tone.

"I want to be an explorer when I'm older," she confessed. "I want to sail to places beyond the maps, chart new trading routes, see things no Westerosi has ever seen before."

"That doesn't surprise me at all," Jon said softly, studying her beautiful face. "You never seemed like someone content to stay in one place."

"Most people laugh when I tell them. Or pat my head and say I'll grow out of it." She turned to face him fully. "You're the first person who's just... accepted it."

"Why wouldn't I? You're the most determined person I know. If anyone could do it, it would be you."

Wylla's response was to pull him down for a kiss, right there on the docks. When they parted, she was grinning. "I warned you about the random kissing."

"I'm not complaining," he murmured, still close enough that she could feel his breath on her lips.

They continued their walk, Wylla pointing out more locations – the shipwright's district where massive vessels took shape, the marketplace where traders from across the Known World haggled and bargained.

"Tell me about Braavos," Jon requested as they paused to watch a street performer juggle colored balls. "What was it like?"

"Magnificent," Wylla said, her eyes distant with memory. "The city rises right out of the sea, with canals instead of streets. The buildings are all different colors, and there's music everywhere – not just in taverns, but right on the streets. And the Titan!" She gestured expansively. "It's massive, Jon. When ships pass beneath it, they look like children's toys."

"No slavery there," Jon noted.

"No, thank the gods. That's why we mainly trade with the Free Cities – Braavos, Pentos, Lorath. Though even Pentos still has servants who are slaves in all but name." Her expression darkened. "I saw real slavery in Myr, when our ship had to stop there for repairs. I never want to see anything like that again."

Jon squeezed her hand. "You could change things, you know. As an explorer, as a trader. Make new routes that bypass the slave cities entirely."

"That's exactly what I want to do!" She pulled him down another street, this one lined with bookshops. "Look, this is where I get all my maps and sea charts. The owner, Magister Wendel, gets books from all over the world."

They spent the next hour in the shop, with Wylla showing Jon maps of places he'd only read about – the Summer Isles, Asshai, the ruins of Old Valyria. Her knowledge was impressive, and her enthusiasm infectious.

"This one," she said, carefully unrolling an old parchment, "shows trading routes that haven't been used since the Century of Blood. I've been studying them, trying to figure out if any could be reopened."

"Careful," Jon teased, "you're starting to sound like a proper lady of trade."

"Take that back!" she gasped in mock horror. "I am highly improper, I'll have you know. Just yesterday I scandalized Septa Merrianne by suggesting women should be allowed to captain ships."

"The horror," Jon deadpanned. "Next you'll be suggesting they should be allowed to wear breeches."

"Well, now that you mention it..." She grinned wickedly.

They left the bookshop and made their way through the fish market, where Wylla bartered with familiar ease for fresh oysters. They sat on the sea wall to eat them, legs dangling over the water.

"When did you first know you wanted to explore?" Jon asked, watching her expertly shuck an oyster.

"I was six," she said, handing him the opened shell. "A Summer Islander came to trade, and she had all these incredible stories about butterfly wings the size of dinner plates, and trees that touched the clouds. I decided right then that I wanted to see everything the world had to offer." She paused, looking at him curiously. "What about you? What did you want to be when you were six?"

Jon was quiet for a moment. "I wanted to be Aemon the Dragonknight," he admitted finally. "I used to pretend my practice sword was Dark Sister."

"Used to?" Wylla nudged his shoulder. "Don't think I haven't seen you naming your practice swords when you think no one's looking."

He laughed, the sound carrying across the water. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"So you keep saying," she agreed cheerfully. "And yet here you are, eating oysters with me and not brooding at all."

The sun was starting to set, painting the harbor in shades of gold and pink. They made their way back through the city, stopping occasionally for Wylla to make good on her promise of random kisses.

"There's one more place I want to show you," she said as they climbed back toward White Harbor. She led him to a hidden spot behind the Sept of the Snows, where a small garden overlooked the entire city and the sea beyond.

"I come here sometimes, when I need to think," she explained, sitting on a weathered stone bench. "You can see everything from here – the harbor, the ships, all the possibilities waiting out there."

Jon sat beside her, their shoulders touching. "Thank you for showing me your city," he said quietly.

"Thank you for wanting to see it," she replied, resting her head on his shoulder. "Most lords just see the trade numbers, the political advantages. They don't care about the street performers or the children playing pirates or the stories behind every shop and alley."

"I'm not most lords," he reminded her.

"No," she agreed, lifting her head to look at him. "You're much better."

The kiss this time was slower, sweeter than the playful ones they'd shared throughout the day. When they finally parted, the first stars were appearing in the darkening sky.

"So," Wylla said, breaking the comfortable silence, "same thing tomorrow? I still haven't shown you the glassworks district. Or the street where they make those meat pies you like."

"As my lady commands," Jon said with exaggerated formality, earning himself a punch in the arm.

"Don't start that again," she warned, but she was smiling. "Besides, you still owe me a proper sword lesson. My footwork is terrible."

"It really is," he agreed solemnly, dodging her second punch with a laugh.

As they finally made their way back to the castle proper, Wylla squeezed Jon's hand. "You know what the best part about being an explorer would be?"

"What's that?"

"Getting to choose your own path," she said softly. "No one telling you where you have to go or who you have to be."

Jon looked at her for a long moment, understanding dawning in his mismatched eyes. "That does sound nice," he admitted.

"Something to think about," she said lightly, but her green eyes were serious. "After all, the world is much bigger than just the North."

She kissed him one last time before they entered the castle.

Tomorrow

The glassworks district greeted them with waves of heat from its many furnaces, the air shimmering above the stone buildings. Even in the cool northern morning, Jon could feel the warmth radiating from the workshops they passed.

"How do you stand the heat?" he asked, watching Wylla navigate the familiar streets with ease. Unlike him, she seemed unbothered by the rising temperature.

"You get used to it," she replied, her green hair tied back in a practical braid. "Besides, the results are worth it. Wait until you see what they make here."

She led him to the first workshop, where massive windows let in natural light. Inside, glassblowers worked their magic, their cheeks puffed out as they breathed life into molten glass. Jon watched, fascinated, as one craftsman twisted and shaped the glowing material into an intricate vase.

"Master Torrhen," Wylla called out to a gray-haired man supervising the work. "Is it alright if I show Jon around?"

The master glassblower looked up, his weathered face breaking into a smile. "Lady Wylla! Of course, of course. Just keep clear of the furnaces." He eyed Jon appraisingly. "This the young man you've been talking about?"

Jon felt his cheeks warm, and not from the heat of the furnaces. Wylla, naturally, was completely unabashed.

"The very same. I'm showing him the finer points of White Harbor's crafts."

"Well then, you'll want to show him the dragon piece Mikal's working on," Torrhen suggested with a wink.

They moved deeper into the workshop, where a younger craftsman was carefully shaping what appeared to be a dragon's wing in glass. 

"It's for the Sept," Wylla explained. "Grandfather commissioned a series of stained glass windows depicting the history of White Harbor. This one shows Queen Alysanne's visit on Silverwing."

Jon stepped closer, mesmerized by the way the glass seemed to capture the very essence of dragonfire. "How do they make the colors?"

"Different minerals mixed into the glass," Wylla explained. "See those panels over there? The blue comes from copper, the red from gold." She grinned. "I spent half my childhood pestering the glassblowers with questions. Drove my septa mad – she thought I should be more interested in embroidery than trade crafts."

"Somehow I can't picture you sitting quietly with a needle," Jon said, earning himself an elbow in the ribs.

"I'll have you know I can embroider perfectly well," she protested. "I just choose not to. Come on, there's more to see."

They moved from workshop to workshop, each specializing in different techniques. One created delicate goblets that rang like bells when tapped. Another produced mirrors so clear they seemed like windows to another world. A third specialized in tiny glass figurines that captured every detail of their subjects.

"Look at this," Wylla said, carefully lifting a glass direwolf no bigger than her thumb. "Reminds me of the Stark sigil."

Jon studied the miniature wolf, amazed at the detail – each fur strand seemed individually rendered in the transparent glass. "How do they make something so small?"

"Very carefully," came a voice behind them. A woman with hands scarred from years of glasswork approached. "Each piece takes days to complete. One wrong move and..." she mimed something shattering.

"Mistress Leona makes the finest small pieces in White Harbor," Wylla told Jon proudly. "She taught me a bit about glasswork when I was younger."

"Taught you?" Jon looked at her with surprise.

"Just the basics," Wylla said. "How to gather the glass, how to shape simple forms. I wasn't very good at it, but it was fascinating to learn."

"She has a good eye," Leona added. "Even if her technique needed work. Here, let me show you something special."

She led them to a workbench where several pieces were cooling. Among them was a delicate glass rose, its petals caught in the moment of blooming.

"For you, my lady," Leona said, carefully wrapping it in soft cloth. "A thank you for last month's medicine when my boy was sick."

"You don't have to—" Wylla started, but Leona waved her off.

"I insist. Besides," she added with a knowing smile, "perhaps you can share it with your young man here."

They left the workshop with the wrapped rose, Wylla's cheeks slightly pink. "Everyone in the city is terrible at minding their own business," she muttered, but she was smiling.

"Is there anywhere in White Harbor where people don't know you?" Jon asked, amused.

"Probably not," she admitted. "Grandfather says it's important to know the people you serve. Not just the lords and merchants, but the craftsmen and fishermen too. Every person in this city contributes something valuable."

They paused at a small shop selling glass beads and trinkets. Through the window, they could see hundreds of colored glass pieces catching the light.

"I used to spend my pocket money here," Wylla said nostalgically. "I had this idea that I could buy enough beads to make a dress that would look like the sea. Septa Merrianne put a stop to that pretty quickly."

"I can picture it," Jon said, imagining a younger Wylla stringing together blue and green beads with determined concentration. "It would have suited you."

"More than proper lady's dresses?" she teased.

"Everything suits you," he said simply, and was rewarded with a kiss.

They continued through the district, stopping to watch a master craftsman create a complex piece that would become part of a chandelier for the Merman's Court. The man manipulated the molten glass with tools that looked like extensions of his own hands, turning and shaping the material with practiced ease.

"It's like magic," Jon murmured, watching the formless blob transform into elegant curves and spirals.

"Better than magic," Wylla replied. "This is skill and knowledge passed down through generations. Every piece tells a story – not just of its maker, but of all the masters who taught them, all the techniques refined over centuries."

She led him to one final workshop, smaller than the others but no less impressive. Here, the craftsmen worked with colored glass, creating intricate patterns that would become windows and decorative pieces.

"This is where they made the windows for my chamber," Wylla said, pointing to similar work in progress. "See how they layer the colors? When the sun hits them just right, it looks like the whole room is underwater."

"Is that why you chose them?" Jon asked. "To feel like you're at sea?"

She looked at him with surprise and pleasure. "Yes, exactly. Most people think I just liked the colors." She squeezed his hand. "You understand more than you let on, Jon Snow."

They emerged from the glassworks district as the sun reached its peak, their clothes slightly damp from the heat of the furnaces. Wylla carefully cradled her wrapped glass rose.

"Thank you for coming with me," she said as they made their way back toward the castle. "I know it's not as exciting as sword practice."

"I enjoyed it," Jon said honestly. "It's amazing, seeing how much skill and artistry goes into each piece. And..." he hesitated, then continued, "I like seeing this side of you. The way you know everyone, how much you care about the city and its crafts."

Wylla stopped walking and turned to face him. "You know what I like? That you actually pay attention. You don't just nod and smile like most lords would. You actually want to understand."

"I'm not—"

"If you say you're not a lord one more time, I'm going to throw this glass rose at your head," she threatened. "You are what you are, Jon Snow, and what you are is someone who cares about people and their work and their stories. That matters more than any title."

Before he could respond, she rose on her tiptoes and kissed him, there in the middle of the street. She tasted of summer and possibility, and Jon found himself wondering, not for the first time, if maybe she was right about what really mattered.

"Now," she said when they parted, "let's get out of this heat before we both melt. And later, you can tell me more about what you thought of everything. I want to hear everything that comes out of your pretty lips."

Later

Jon stood at the window of his chambers in White Harbor, watching the harbor lights flicker in the gathering dusk. His fingers absently traced the glass rose Wylla had placed on his windowsill, its delicate petals catching the last rays of sunlight.

The past weeks had shifted something fundamental within him, like sand transforming into glass under intense heat. Every certainty he'd held about his future – the Wall, the Night's Watch, the path of honor his uncle Benjen had chosen – seemed less absolute now.

"What am I doing?" he murmured to himself, pressing his forehead against the cool glass of the window.

His reflection stared back at him, and for once, he didn't immediately see Ned Stark's bastard. Instead, he saw what Wylla seemed to see: just Jon, a young man with choices still before him, despite what his name might suggest.

The memory of their walk through the glassworks district still lingered, not just the sights and sounds, but the way she'd moved through her city with such confidence and care. The way she'd known everyone's names, their stories, their crafts. The way she'd looked at him when he'd asked questions about the glassmaking process, her green eyes bright with pleasure at his genuine interest.

He moved to his bed and sat heavily, running a hand through his dark curls. Growing up in Winterfell, he'd learned early to keep his feelings guarded, to expect less, to step back and let others take the lead. But Wylla... she demanded honesty, pushed past his careful walls with the same determination she brought to everything else.

"Seven hells," he muttered, falling back onto the bed.

It wasn't just attraction – though there was plenty of that, with her bright smiles and impulsive kisses and the way her green hair caught the sunlight. It was the way she saw the world as full of possibilities rather than limitations. The way she dreamed of exploring distant shores without shame or hesitation. The way she made him feel like his dreams might be worth pursuing too.

A knock at his door startled him from his thoughts.

"Come in," he called, sitting up quickly.

Ser Marlon entered, carrying a stack of books. "Lady Wylla asked me to bring these to you," he said, placing them on the desk. "Something about trading routes and the Free Cities."

Jon felt his cheeks warm slightly, but Ser Marlon's expression held no judgment, only a knowing sort of amusement.

"Thank you," Jon managed.

"She's a special one, our Wylla," Ser Marlon said casually. "Not many young ladies would spend their time studying trade routes and ship designs." He paused at the door. "Then again, not many young men would appreciate such interests in a lady."

After the knight left, Jon examined the books. Each one had small pieces of parchment marking specific pages, with notes in Wylla's decisive handwriting. Maps of trading routes, histories of successful merchant ventures, accounts of explorations beyond the known world.

She was sharing her dreams with him, he realized. Not just talking about them, but showing him the substance behind them, the careful research and planning that went into making dreams into reality.

Jon moved back to the window, where the glass rose caught the light of the rising moon. He remembered what she'd said about choosing your own path, about the world being bigger than just the North. The Wall had always seemed like his only choice, an honorable way to make something of himself despite his birth.

But now...

Now he found himself imagining other possibilities. Sailing to distant ports, mapping new trading routes, building something meaningful that had nothing to do with his name or lack thereof. And in every one of these imaginings, there was a flash of green hair and a challenging smile, daring him to dream bigger.

"I'm in trouble," he said to the empty room, but he was smiling as he said it.

He thought of Wylla's words in the glassworks district: "You are what you are, Jon Snow, and what you are is someone who cares about people and their work and their stories. That matters more than any title."

Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time to stop letting his birth define his future. 

He fell asleep with the taste of salt air on his lips and dreams of distant shores in his head.

' The dream came to Jon like a tide washing over stone. He stood before a tree so vast its crown was lost in the clouds, its trunk wider than Winterfell's great hall. The bark was white as bone, yet no weirwood this – its leaves shimmered like beaten gold in a wind he couldn't feel.

At its base, darkness yawned – a cave mouth carved into the living wood. And there she stood, Ymir, her golden hair flowing as if underwater, her purple eyes glittering like stars, and beside her stood someone else. Still, this person appeared like a man, but his entire figure was made out of shadows; Jon couldn't even see his face except his glittering green eyes that reminded Jon of his own green eye. 

Find me, her voice whispered in his mind, clear as winter air. Find the tree.

She didn't move her lips, but Jon felt each word settle in his bones like the first snow of winter. The massive tree pulsed with a heartbeat that wasn't its own, and Ymir's form began to fade into the darkness of the cave.

Find us.

Jon woke with a gasp, his sheets tangled around him, the taste of sap sweet on his tongue. Through his window, the first light of dawn was breaking over White Harbor, but in his mind's eye, he could still see those ancient eyes.

Tomorrow

"Come on, Jon! I want to show you something amazing," Wylla said, practically bouncing with excitement as she adjusted her riding gloves. Her green hair was braided tightly against her head, a practical style for riding that somehow made her look even more striking.

Jon frowned, his mismatched eyes – focusing on her with concern. "After what happened with the bear? Wylla, wandering into the forest isn't the wisest choice right now."

"Oh, don't be such a worrier," she teased, though her expression softened at his genuine concern. "It's barely outside the walls. Besides," she added with a grin, "I've arranged for five of our best guards to accompany us. See?" She gestured to where five mounted Manderly soldiers waited, their armor gleaming in the morning sun.

"My lady has insisted this expedition is worth the risk," said Ser Marros, the lead guard, with a mixture of resignation and fondness that suggested he was well-acquainted with Wylla's adventurous spirit.

Jon ran a hand through his dark curls, a habit he'd developed when deep in thought. "And you won't tell me what this mysterious something is?"

"Trust me, you'll love it. It's exactly the sort of thing that would appeal to your brooding nature."

"I don't brood," Jon protested automatically, earning laughs from both Wylla and the guards.

"Of course not," Wylla agreed, far too quickly. "You just... contemplate deeply. Now, are you coming or not?"

Jon looked at the assembled group, then back at the castle walls. He was stronger now than he'd been during the bear attack, his daily training sessions with the Manderly master-at-arms having honed his skills further. And with five experienced guards...

"Fine," he conceded, unable to resist Wylla's infectious enthusiasm. "But we stay close to the walls."

"Yes, yes," Wylla agreed, already urging her horse forward. "Now hurry up!"

They rode out through the Hunter's Gate, the guards forming a loose protective circle around Jon and Wylla. The forest here was different from the wolfswood near Winterfell – the trees were shorter, shaped by constant sea winds, and the undergrowth was thicker with salt-resistant plants Jon didn't recognize.

"How much further?" Jon asked after they'd been riding for about fifteen minutes.

Wylla just laughed and spurred her horse ahead. "Race you there!"

"My lady!" called out Ser Marros in protest, but she was already gone, weaving between the trees with practiced ease.

Jon couldn't help but grin as he urged his own mount forward, following the flash of green hair through the forest. Behind him, he heard the guards scrambling to keep up, their armor clanking with each movement.

The chase was brief but exhilarating. Wylla led them through a winding path that seemed to go nowhere until suddenly, the trees opened up into a small clearing. And there, dominating everything, was the tree.

Jon pulled his horse to a stop, his mismatched eyes widening in amazement. The tree was enormous, unlike anything he'd ever seen before. It must have been at least a hundred meters tall, its trunk wider than several men standing shoulder to shoulder. The bark was a deep, rich brown, scored with age-old patterns.

"Seven hells," breathed one of the guards. "How did we not know this was here?"

"It's not visible from the walls," Wylla explained, dismounting her horse. "The other trees hide it until you're right upon it. I only found it because I got a bit... turned around during a ride last year."

"Got lost, you mean," Ser Marros corrected dryly, but he too was staring at the tree in wonder.

Jon dismounted and approached the massive trunk, his boots crunching on fallen leaves. The tree seemed to radiate an ancient presence like a sleeping giant that had stood watch over these woods since the Age of Heroes. 

"Look at this," Wylla called, gesturing to the base of the tree.

Jon moved closer and saw what had caught her attention. There was an opening at the foot of the tree, a dark hollow that seemed to continue downward into the earth. It wasn't large – a person would have to crawl to enter.

"Don't get too close, my lady," warned one of the younger guards, Ser Willem. "We don't know how deep that goes."

Jon remembered the tree from his dream; he felt as if someone was watching them, but when he looked around, there was no one there. Jon picked up a small stone and dropped it into the opening. They all listened, but no sound of impact came back to them. Ymir, I'm here. Where are you? Jon wondered to himself, almost expecting an answer, but none came. He wondered if he was supposed to crawl into that hole and see where it brought him.

"What do you think?" Wylla asked, watching Jon's face closely. "Isn't it magnificent?"

Jon circled the tree slowly, taking in its massive scale. His green eye appeared darker in the forest shade, while the purple one seemed to catch what little light there was.

"It's incredible," he said finally. "It must be ancient. Older than White Harbor itself, maybe."

"Older than the Manderlys in the North, certainly," Wylla agreed. She reached out to touch the bark, tracing one of the strange patterns. "See these markings? They're not random. Look here – doesn't this one look like a ship?"

Jon moved closer, his shoulder brushing against hers as he examined the pattern she was pointing to. She was right – there was something deliberate about the scoring in the bark. Some looked like crude pictures, others like symbols he didn't recognize.

"Could be the First Men," suggested Ser Marros, who had joined them in examining the trunk. "They were known to mark important places."

"Or the children of the forest," added Wylla excitedly. "Old Tana's stories say they could speak to trees, make them grow in certain ways."

"Old Nan's stories say a lot of things," Jon said, but he was smiling. The tree did have a magical quality about it, standing here while kingdoms rose and fell around it.

They spent the next hour exploring the clearing, the guards maintaining a watchful perimeter while Jon and Wylla studied the tree from every angle. Wylla had brought paper and charcoal, and she made careful rubbings of some of the more distinct markings.

"Grandfather will want to see these," she said, carefully storing the papers in her saddlebag. "He loves anything to do with history."

"Your grandfather seems to love anything that makes White Harbor unique," Jon observed.

"Of course he does! That's what makes him such a good lord." Wylla's voice took on the passionate tone it always did when discussing her city. "He understands that every special thing about White Harbor, every secret and story, makes it stronger. Makes the people prouder to call it home."

"Like you," he said without thinking.

"What?"

"You make people proud of White Harbor too. The way you care about everything here, the way you know all the stories and the people. It's... inspiring."

Wylla's cheeks flushed pink, but her smile was radiant. "Jon Snow, was that actually a compliment? Without any brooding qualifiers?"

"I told you, I don't brood," he protested, but he was smiling too.

Their moment was interrupted by Ser Willem calling out, "My lady, my lord, we should head back soon. The light will be failing before long."

They gathered their things and mounted up, but before they left, Wylla rode close to the tree one last time. "We'll be back," she promised it. "There are too many mysteries here to solve in one day."

As they rode back toward White Harbor, Jon wondered why Ymir showed him the tree to his dream. Who was the figure beside her? What was happening with him?

Six Days Later

Over the next few days, Jon and Wylla returned to the giant tree repeatedly, each visit revealing new details in its ancient bark. By their fourth visit, they had documented most of the visible markings, and Wylla had created a detailed map showing the safest path through the forest to reach it.

On their fifth visit, while Wylla was sketching a particularly intricate pattern that looked like intertwined serpents, Jon decided to examine the hollow at the base more carefully.

"Be careful," Wylla called out, not looking up from her work.

Jon lay flat on his stomach, peering into the darkness with a torch. The opening was barely wide enough for his shoulders, and as he extended the torch forward, his heart nearly stopped. The hollow wasn't just a shallow depression as they'd thought – it dropped away sharply, descending into a black void that seemed to have no bottom.

"Gods," he muttered, quickly pulling back. "It's a shaft of some kind. Deep enough that..." He didn't finish the thought, but Wylla understood.

"Deep enough that falling would mean death," she completed grimly. "Well, that's disappointing. I was hoping we might find some ancient treasure down there."

"Your grandfather would have my head if I let you explore something like that," Jon said, standing and brushing dirt from his clothes.

The five guards, who had grown accustomed to these expeditions, maintained their usual watchful positions around the clearing. The afternoon sun was beginning to slant through the trees, casting long shadows.

"We should head back soon," Jon suggested, helping Wylla pack away her sketching materials.

That's when they heard it – a sharp, piercing whistle that seemed to come from all directions at once.

"Shields!" Ser Marros shouted, but it was too late.

Arrows hissed through the air like angry wasps. Two found gaps in the guards' armor – one taking Ser Willem in the throat, another striking Ser Marros in the arm.

"Take the lady! Kill the rest!" a rough voice bellowed.

They erupted from the undergrowth – wildlings, at least twenty of them, wielding crude weapons. Jon's blood ran cold when he spotted two carrying proper steel swords – deserters from the Night's Watch, most likely, leading this raid.

"Wylla, get behind me!" Jon drew his sword.

The three uninjured guards formed a protective circle around Jon and Wylla, while Ser Marros, despite his wound, raised his sword with his good arm.

"Fancy sword you got there, boy," one of the deserters called out, his black cloak tattered but still recognizable. "Give us the green-haired girl, and maybe we'll let you keep it when you're dead."

"You want her?" Jon's voice was deadly calm, his mismatched eyes hard as stone. "Come and try."

The wildlings charged with savage war cries. Jon had fought them before, knew their tendency to attack in overwhelming numbers rather than with skill. But these were led by trained men, making them far more dangerous.

Wylla had drawn a dagger – a gift from her grandfather, Jon remembered – and stood ready.

Soon, two more guards fell as Jon tried to protect Wylla, but they were too many of them.

Jon's vision turned red as fury consumed him. The wildling charging at him never saw the punch coming - Jon's fist connected with devastating force, obliterating the man's lower jaw in a spray of bone, teeth, and gore.

"Seven hells!" one of the deserters screamed, stumbling backward as pieces of his companion's face rained down.

Jon didn't pause. His sword sang through the air in a brutal arc, cleaving straight through one raider's neck. The head flew several feet before landing with a wet thud, eyes still blinking in confusion. In the same move, he pivoted and took another wildling's head clean off, arterial spray painting the ancient tree's bark crimson.

An arrow suddenly punched through Jon's thigh and another on his stomach. He growled in pain but didn't falter. To everyone's shock, steam began rising from the wounds as flesh knitted itself back together around the arrow.

"What in the bloody fuck are you?!" a wildling shrieked, backing away in terror.

"Your worst nightmare."

He launched himself at the nearest group, his sword becoming a whirlwind of death. The steel opened throats and severed limbs with terrifying ease. One wildling's torso was nearly bisected, his intestines spilling onto the forest floor as he screamed.

"Please, mercy!" begged another as Jon advanced.

"Like you showed mercy to innocent villagers?" Jon's blade took the man's sword hand, then his head.

A spear caught Jon in the side, but steam hissed from the wound almost immediately. The pain was intense, but he fought through it, spinning to catch his attacker's neck with his bare hand. The wildling's throat crushed like ripe fruit under Jon's impossible strength.

Blood loss was taking its toll despite his healing. His vision swam as three raiders attacked at once, their crude weapons opening deep gashes across his chest and back. Steam rose from each wound, but the agony only fueled his anger.

His sword danced and sang its song of death. One wildling was literally disemboweled, another lost both arms before Jon's backswing took his head. The third died screaming as Jon's blade split him from collar to groin.

"Die, you fucking monster!" A huge raider stabbed Jon from behind with a rusted sword.

Jon whirled with frightening speed, his fist punching and crushing the man's chest like it was made of glass. The man choked on his blood as he fell to the ground. The last Manderly knight had died, but few wildlings were left.

The clearing had become a charnel house. Dismembered corpses littered the blood-soaked ground. Steam rose from Jon's numerous wounds as they sealed themselves, but each healing brought fresh waves of agony.

Only three raiders remained when a sharp voice cut through the carnage: "Stop now, or I will kill this bitch!"

Jon turned, his heart freezing. One of the deserters had Wylla in a brutal grip; steel pressed against her pale throat. Her green hair was matted with blood - though thankfully not her own - and her eyes were wide with fear, a wildling near her feet, choking on her blood with a wound on his neck, and blood dripped from Wylla's knife.

"Drop your sword," the only deserter commanded, "or I'll paint the ground with her blood."

Jon's grip tightened on his sword's hilt as his mind raced. The other two wildlings moved to flank him, weapons ready. Blood dripped steadily from Jon's healing wounds. He had lost too much blood and could hardly keep himself standing.

"You're some kind of demon," the deserter continued, pressing the blade harder against Wylla's throat. "But even demons can't move faster than a knife."

"Jon, don't. Just kill those bastards. Don't list-" Her voice was muffled when the deserter closed her mouth with his hand and pushed the blade hard enough against her neck for a trail of blood to roll down her neck.

"Do not hurt her!" Jon shouts. 

"Put down your weapon, boy, and we will let her live."

Jon slowly let go of the blade. The wildling hissed before ordering, "Kill him."

Jon gasps as a blade punctures his back, coming out from his stomach. He watches as Wylla screams his name and tries to struggle, but in that struggle, the deserter got angry when she slashes his eye with her knife. Jon tried to run towards them with everything he had when the second wildling drove his bone knife into his stomach from the side. 

With a roar of fury and anger, the deserter drove his knife into her neck.

"NOOOO!" Jon screamed in horror, his voice raw with anguish. Wylla's body crumpled to the ground, blood staining the snow, her eyes watching him.

Suddenly, a familiar feeling of strength surged through Jon, but this time, he didn't fight it back; he let it consume him. Golden lightning began to dance and crackle around his wounds. The gashes on his stomach started to close as threads of muscle and sinew knitted back together.

The wildlings watched in stunned disbelief as a massive bolt of golden lightning struck down from the sky, enveloping Jon in a blinding flash. His body began to swell and grow, bones elongating and muscles bulging grotesquely.

In mere moments, where Jon had stood, there was now a tall creature that looked like it had sprung from a nightmare. It had the bulging musculature and disproportionate limbs of a human. But the face...the face was a horrifying visage, like a sneering demon hungry for blood, and on his scapulas, there was a strange mark on each one.

The transformed Jon threw his gigantic head back and let out a bellowing roar that shook the ground, golden lightning still crackling across his hulking frame, his mismatched eyes glittering with fury as he looked down at the wildlings.

"Kill Them."

Chapter Text

The transformed creature that had once been Jon Snow dominated the forest clearing, its massive form blocking out the weak winter sun. Fifteen meters of rippling, sexless muscle towered above the tree line, skin an unnatural pale grey that crackled with golden energy. Long dark hair whipped around its face like writhing snakes, framing mismatched eyes that blazed with inhuman fury - one emerald, one purple.

When it roared, the sound shattered the forest's silence. Birds exploded from the trees in panicked flocks. Deer bounded away in terror, their hooves thundering across frozen ground. Even the ancient trees seemed to tremble, their branches shaking as if trying to flee the horror in their midst.

The two remaining wildlings and the night's watch deserter stood frozen, their crude weapons forgotten as terror overwhelmed them. The creature's mismatched eyes fixed upon them with predatory focus, muscles rippling beneath its smooth, featureless torso as it moved with impossible speed for its size.

Its massive hand closed around the first wildling before he could even scream. Bones crackled like kindling as the creature slowly squeezed, blood spurting between massive fingers. The man's eyes bulged as his ribcage collapsed, puncturing lungs and heart. His death rattle was cut short by a wet crunch as his skull imploded, brain matter and bone fragments spraying through the gaps in the creature's fingers. When it opened its hand, only a shapeless mass of pulped flesh and shattered bone remained, steaming as it splattered across the snow.

The second wildling managed to turn, managing two steps before giant fingers seized him. His terrified screams echoed through the forest as the creature gripped his legs with one hand and his upper body with the other. Slowly, deliberately, it began to pull.

"Please!" the man shrieked, "Gods, please no!"

The creature's only response was to pull harder. Muscles stretched beyond their limits as tendons began to snap one by one, each with a sound like a bowstring breaking. Blood vessels burst beneath the man's skin, creating ugly purple bruises that spread like spilled wine. His spine crackled ominously as it was stretched.

With a wet, meaty sound, the wildling's skin began to tear at the waist. Blood sprayed in an arterial fountain as muscle fibers separated. His screams became gurgling wails as the creature continued pulling, ensuring maximum suffering. Internal organs spilled from the growing rent in his torso, steam rising from hot viscera as it hit the snow. Finally, with a sickening pop, the spine severed completely. The creature pulled the two halves apart, intestines stretching between them like gory ropes before snapping. The wildling's screams ended only when his body finally separated, his upper half still twitching as the last sparks of life faded from his eyes.

The deserter who had murdered Wylla - the one who had driven his blade across her pale throat - had used the distraction to flee. He crashed through the underbrush, one eye ruined by Wylla's final act of defiance, blood streaming down his face. Behind him, he heard the creature's thunderous footfalls as it gave chase, each step shaking the earth. Trees snapped like matchsticks beneath its feet as it pursued its prey.

The deserter glanced back, his remaining eye widening in horror as he saw the monster gaining on him despite its enormous size. Its inhuman face was twisted in a snarl of rage, golden lightning crackling across its massive frame. The man's foot caught a root and he sprawled in the snow, scrambling backward as the creature's shadow fell over him.

"Please!" he begged, "I'll do anything! Have mercy!"

The creature's voice boomed like thunder, deep and distorted: "Like you showed her mercy?"

Its huge hand shot out, seizing the deserter by his legs. The man screamed as he was lifted, dangling upside down at eye level with the monster. The creature began squeezing, slowly crushing the bones in his legs until they splintered, marrow oozing from compound fractures.

The deserter's screams echoed through the forest as the creature methodically worked its way up his body, pulverizing each limb in turn. Arms shattered, shoulder blades cracked, ribs caved in one by one. Blood sprayed from his mouth as crushed organs failed. Still the creature continued, using its massive fingers to peel away skin and muscle, exposing shattered bone and mangled tissue beneath.

The man's screams grew weaker as shock set in, but the creature kept him conscious, wanting him to feel every moment of agony. Finally, when the deserter was nothing more than a barely-living mass of pulped flesh and bone, the creature placed one giant thumb against his skull. With slowness, it applied pressure until the bone began to crack. The deserter gave one final, gurgling scream as his skull collapsed, brain matter and bone fragments painting the creature's massive hand.

The monster dropped the mangled corpse, its massive form trembling with rage and grief. The golden lightning intensified as it threw back its head and roared again, the sound shaking snow from tree branches and echoing off distant mountains. Its mismatched eyes blazed as it surveyed the carnage - crushed and dismembered bodies scattered across the blood-soaked snow, steam rising from cooling entrails.

Steam billowed from the massive titan form as it began to collapse, muscles twitching and spasming in death. The fifteen-meter body swayed, its long dark hair matted with blood and viscera, before crashing to its knees. The muscled form pitched forward, crushing trees beneath its immense weight.

The decomposition began immediately. Flesh started dissolving from the extremities, great sheets of muscle tissue sloughing away in steaming chunks. The pale grey skin split and peeled back, revealing layers of rapidly deteriorating sinew and bone beneath. A nauseating smell of organic decay filled the air - like rotting meat mixed with ozone.

Inside the titan's nape, Jon Snow regained consciousness in a cocoon of hot, pulsing flesh. Organic cables threaded through his muscles, connecting his nervous system to the dying titan form. Each decomposing twitch sent waves of agony through his body. He could taste blood and something fouler - titan spinal fluid, bitter and metallic.

With a hoarse scream of effort and pain, Jon began tearing himself free. His fingers ripped through membrane and muscle, sending hot fluids spraying across his face. The organic tethers resisted, stretching like rubber before snapping with wet pops. Each severed connection felt like a nerve being torn out.

He emerged from the titan's nape like a bloody birth, trailing streamers of dissolving tissue. Steam rose from his bare skin as supernatural healing sealed the connection points, leaving phantom pains where the titan flesh had merged with his own. Chunks of decomposing matter clung to his shoulders and hair, already beginning to evaporate.

Jon's legs gave out as he slipped down from the nape and hit the ground, knees sinking into blood-soaked snow. His head spun as memories of the rampage crashed over him in violent fragments:

The crack of bones as he crushed the first wildling...

The wet tearing sound as he ripped the second in half...

The deserter's screams as he methodically destroyed him...

"Wylla..." he choked out, forcing his exhausted body to move. Steam still rose from his healing wounds as he crawled toward where she lay, her green hair stark against crimson snow. The sight of her lifeless form sent fresh waves of grief and rage crashing through him.

He gathered her cooling body in his trembling arms, cradling her head against his chest. Her blood had frozen to her throat where the deserter's blade had opened it. Her eyes stared sightlessly at the darkening sky.

"I'm sorry," Jon whispered, voice raw. "I'm so sorry I couldn't save you."

Memories of their last moments together tortured him - her smile that morning, the warmth of her kiss, her final desperate warning cry before the blade fell. 

The aftermath of his titan rampage surrounded them. Mangled corpses lay scattered across the clearing, already being covered by gently falling snow. Trees had been snapped like twigs, the ground churned to mud mixed with blood and viscera. 

Jon's body shook with silent sobs as he held Wylla's corpse. The healing steam had faded, leaving him exposed to the bitter cold, but he barely felt it. The pain was nothing compared to the hollow ache in his chest.

Jon clutched Wylla's body closer, his tears falling onto her pale face as he cradled her head against his chest. His fingers trembled as they brushed through her blood-matted green hair, trying hopelessly to restore some semblance of order to the tangled strands. Each sob that wracked his body sent fresh waves of exhaustion through his aching muscles.

"I love you," he whispered brokenly against her cold forehead. "I should have been faster, should have protected you better..." His voice cracked as he rocked her gently, as if trying to comfort her in death as he had so often in life.

Behind him, the massive titan skeleton continued its inexorable decay. The bones, each thicker than ancient tree trunks, began to crystallize and fragment. The massive skull, with its empty sockets where those mismatched eyes had blazed with fury, started to collapse in on itself. Pieces of the ribcage crumbled away like sand in a strong wind, the fragments dissolving into steam before they could hit the ground.

The spine - longer than a dozen horses laid end to end - deteriorated last, vertebrae disintegrating one by one from tail to neck. Within five minutes, even the largest bones had completely vanished, leaving nothing but ghostly wisps of steam rising from a massive patch of melted snow. The ground where the titan had fallen was completely bare, the heat having melted through several feet of accumulated snowfall to expose the frozen earth beneath.

As the last traces of steam dissipated into the cold air, Jon pressed his lips to Wylla's forehead one final time, tasting salt tears and dried blood. 

.

.

Jon's eyes focused on Wylla's face, still beautiful even in death. Her green hair, matted with blood, framed features that would never again light up with curiosity or break into that knowing smile he'd grown so fond of. The dagger her grandfather had given her lay beside her lifeless hand, its blade stained with the blood of the man who'd killed her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice raw. "I promised to protect you." His fingers trembled as he gently closed her eyes, unable to bear their empty gaze any longer. The clearing still reeked of death and lightning, evidence of what he'd become, of what he'd done – and yet it hadn't been enough to save her.

The sound of approaching horses barely registered. Names being called out echoed distantly in his mind, meaningless sounds that couldn't penetrate the fog of his grief. Someone was shouting his name, then Wylla's. He held her tighter, as if he could somehow keep her with him just a little longer.

"Gods, no. No, no, no..." Lord Manderly's broken voice cut through Jon's haze. Heavy footsteps approached, and suddenly hands were trying to take her from him.

"Let her go, son," his father's voice came softly. "Jon, you need to let her go."

Jon's arms refused to release her at first, but gentler hands – Robb's, he realized dimly – helped pry his fingers loose. He watched as Lord Manderly cradled his granddaughter's body, his massive frame shaking with sobs.

"My little mermaid," the Lord of White Harbor wept, rocking her like she was still the small child who used to sit on his knee. "My sweet, clever girl..."

Ned Stark's face swam into Jon's vision, lined with concern and grief. "Jon," he called, but Jon could barely focus on the words. The world was starting to spin, darkness creeping in at the edges.

"Father..." he managed, before consciousness slipped away.

---

Sunlight streamed through the windows of his chamber in White Harbor when Jon opened his eyes. For one blessed moment, his mind was blank, peaceful. Then reality crashed back, driving the air from his lungs.

Wylla was dead.

A soft snore drew his attention to the chair beside his bed. Robb was slumped there, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he'd been there all night. His brother's presence confirmed what Jon had desperately hoped wasn't true – this wasn't some horrible nightmare he could wake from.

"Robb," Jon's voice cracked.

His brother startled awake immediately. "Jon! Thank the gods." Robb leaned forward, relief evident on his face. "We weren't sure you'd wake. The maester couldn't explain... there was so much blood, but your wounds..."

Jon turned away, his mind racing. How could he explain what happened? The rage, the power, the transformation he still didn't understand? The memory of what he'd become filled him with equal parts terror and shame.

"I don't remember much," he lied, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. "It's all... confused."

"Father says the clearing looked like a battlefield. Thirty dead wildlings, the knights..." Robb paused, his voice heavy. "No one understands how you survived, Jon. Three of the bodies were... they looked like they'd been torn apart by some kind of beast."

Jon's hands clenched in the sheets. He could remember flashes of what happened, exactly how those men had died, and could still feel the inhuman strength that had flowed through him. 

"It doesn't matter," Jon said harshly. "None of it matters. I failed her, Robb. I was supposed to protect her, and I failed."

"Jon, don't. There were too many of them. The fact that any of you survived long enough for us to..."

"She died because of me," Jon cut him off, his voice raw with self-loathing. "Lord Manderly trusted me to keep her safe, and instead..." He could still see her final moments, the flash of her knife, the defiance in her eyes even at the end.

"She died fighting," Robb said quietly. "We found her dagger... she took one down herself. She was brave, Jon."

Jon turned away, unable to bear his brother's attempt at comfort. The power that surged through him, the transformation – it had all come too late. What good was becoming something more than human if he couldn't save the one person who mattered?

"Lord Manderly?" Jon finally asked, dreading the answer.

"He's... he's with her. Preparing for the ceremony. Father's with him."

Jon closed his eyes, remembering the lord's heartbroken sobs. Another person he'd failed. The secret of what he'd become burned inside him, but how could he share it? Who would believe him? More importantly, who would ever trust him again if they knew the truth?

"I should have died instead of her."

"Don't say that," Robb's voice was sharp. "Don't you dare say that."

"What I should or shouldn't say doesn't matter anymore," Jon cut him off bitterly. "Because she's dead, Robb. She's dead, and I have to live with that. I have to live with watching her die, with knowing I could have..." He stopped himself before revealing too much, but the words 'been faster, changed sooner, controlled it better' echoed in his mind.

Tears finally came then, hot and bitter, as Jon turned to face his brother. "I was starting to care for her, Robb. Really care for her. And now..."

Robb moved from the chair to sit on the bed, trying to hug his brother, but Jon shook his head. He didn't want anyone's comfort; he didn't want Robb's hugs, he wanted Wylla. He wanted her alive. But the gods took the one thing that made a bastard happy.

Later

Jon stared at the ceiling of his chamber, his heart heavy with the thought of facing Lord Manderly. The man who had welcomed him into his home, who had trusted him with his most precious treasure. The memory of Lord Manderly's broken sobs as he cradled Wylla's body haunted him.

"I can't face him, Robb," Jon whispered, his voice thick with shame. "How do I look into the eyes of a man whose granddaughter died under my protection?"

"Father says Lord Manderly doesn't blame you," Robb offered softly. "He knows you fought to protect her. The evidence was clear enough in that clearing."

Jon let out a bitter laugh. "Doesn't blame me? He should. He should hate me. He should throw me out of White Harbor, demand my head." His voice cracked. "She was everything to him, Robb. You didn't see how his eyes lit up when she'd talk about her latest projects, or how proud he was when she'd debate with the merchants in court."

He pushed himself up, ignoring the lingering weakness in his limbs. "And now I have to stand at her ceremony, watching them lay her in the crypts, knowing that if I'd been better, stronger..." He stopped. "She should be alive, sketching those damn trees she loved so much."

"The ceremony is at sunset," Robb said quietly. "Father says Lord Manderly requested you be there, if you're strong enough."

Jon's throat tightened. Of course, the lord would maintain proper courtesy, even in his grief. It made everything worse somehow. "They're burying her with her sketchbook," he said suddenly, remembering. 

"I saw her drawings once," Jon continued, his voice distant. "She had this way of capturing life in everything she sketched. Even those old trees seemed to breathe on her pages. And now..." He clenched his fists, fighting back fresh tears. "Now all those blank pages will never be filled."

The weight of all the things that would never be – her drawings, her laughter, her future – pressed down on Jon. And soon he would have to stand before her grandfather, before all of White Harbor, knowing that his secret, his strange new power, had emerged too late to save her.

"I don't know how to do this, Robb," he admitted quietly. "How do I honor her memory when I'm the reason she has no future?"

Robb didn't know what to say to that.

Later

The setting sun cast long shadows across White Harbor as Jon made his way to the ceremony. Each step felt heavier than the last, but he forced himself forward, Robb a steady presence at his side. The Manderly crypts, unlike the stark simplicity of Winterfell's, were adorned with intricate carvings of waves and sea creatures – a final home befitting the merfolk of White Harbor.

Lord Manderly stood like a mountain of grief, his massive frame somehow diminished by sorrow. When his eyes met Jon's, there was no accusation there, only a shared, devastating loss that made Jon's guilt burn even fiercer. Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel flanked their father, their usual jovial demeanor replaced by stone-faced silence, eyes rimmed red from tears long since spent.

Wynafryd's sobs cut through the evening air like knives. Jon couldn't bear to look at her – Wylla's older sister, who had always been the proper lady to Wylla's wild spirit. Her friends surrounded her, offering comfort that seemed to bounce off her like rain on stone. Each of her cries was a fresh reminder of his failure.

"Jon Snow," Lord Manderly's voice was hoarse, barely recognizable as the booming tone that once filled the Merman's Court. "You... you should stand with the family."

The words nearly broke him. Jon wanted to refuse, to say he didn't deserve such an honor, but he couldn't deny Lord Manderly anything, not now. He moved forward, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes upon him. The crowd was massive – merchants, sailors, servants, nobles – all come to bid farewell to their lord's beloved granddaughter.

"She loved you, you know," Wynafryd whispered as he took his place beside her, her words meant only for him. "She never said it, but I knew. The way she talked about you..." A fresh wave of tears overtook her.

Jon's throat closed up. He wanted to tell Wynafryd that he had loved Wylla too, that he hadn't realized how much until it was too late, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he stood in silence as the septons began their prayers.

The coffin arrived, carried by six of the household guards who had trained with Wylla in the yard. It was beautiful, carved with mermaids and dragons – she would have loved that detail, would have traced the patterns with her fingers and invented stories about each figure. Jon's mind betrayed him then, flooding him with memories:

Wylla in the marketplace, haggling fiercely with a silk merchant, her green hair catching the sunlight...

Her laughter as she showed him her favorite hiding spots in the castle, places she'd go to sketch and dream...

The softness of her lips when she kissed him under the heart tree, the way she'd pulled back with that mischievous glint in her eyes...

Her face alight with excitement as she explained her latest theories about the ancient markings...

The proud tilt of her chin when she'd mastered a new defensive move in the training yard...

"Like ashes," he thought bitterly, each memory a burning coal in his mind. "All turned to ashes."

Around him, he could hear the whispers, though people tried to be discrete:

"...but how did he survive?"

"...twenty wildlings they said..."

"...bodies torn apart..."

"...something strange in that clearing..."

"...the Stark boy must have..."

Jon clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus on the ceremony. The truth burned inside him, desperate to get out, but he kept it locked away. How could he explain what he didn't understand himself? How could he tell them that something inhuman lived inside him now, something that had awakened too late to save her?

Lord Manderly stepped forward to speak, his voice struggling to remain steady. "My granddaughter was the very best of House Manderly. She had her grandmother's beauty, her mother's wit, and a spirit entirely her own. She was fierce and gentle, scholarly and wild, proper and rebellious – all in equal measure." He paused, gathering himself. "She saw beauty in the old things, wisdom in the ancient ways. She believed in magic, in the power of the old gods and the new. She..."

The lord's voice finally broke. Ser Wylis stepped forward to support his father, continuing where he left off. "She would want us to remember her with joy, not sorrow. To remember her laughter, her passion, her endless curiosity. She would tell us to look forward, to keep searching for answers, to keep believing in possibilities."

Jon's hands trembled as they lowered the coffin. Wylla's sketchbook lay atop it, along with her dagger – the one that had saved her life once, but couldn't save it again. The blank pages would never know her touch, never capture the visions in her mind.

Wynafryd stepped forward, placing a wreath of blue winter roses on the coffin – Wylla's favorite, though she'd always complained that the ones in White Harbor weren't as beautiful as those from Winterfell. The sight of them nearly undid Jon's composure.

"She was going to visit Winterfell," he thought. "She wanted to see the glass gardens, to sketch the heart tree, to explore the crypts..." Another future lost, another promise broken.

As the final prayers were said and the coffin was sealed into its resting place, Jon felt something inside him harden. The power that now coursed through his veins, the strange new strength that made him something more than human – he would learn to control it, to understand it. He owed her that much. She had believed in magic, in possibilities. She had died seeking understanding of the ancient powers.

"I'll find the answers, Wylla," he promised silently. "I'll understand what these markings mean, what's happening to me. I'll make your death mean something."

The ceremony ended as the last light faded from the sky. People began to drift away, returning to lives that would somehow continue without Wylla in them. Lord Manderly remained, staring at the sealed crypt, his massive frame silhouetted against the torchlight.

"My lord," Jon found himself saying, though he hadn't planned to speak. "I..."

"Not now, Jon Snow," Lord Manderly said softly, not unkindly. "There will be time for words later. For now... for now, let an old man grieve his little mermaid."

Jon bowed and turned away, unable to bear the sight of the lord's pain any longer. Robb was waiting to escort him back to his chambers, but Jon knew sleep would not come. Not with the weight of secrets pressing down on him, not with the memory of Wylla's smile haunting his dreams.

Behind him, he could still hear Lord Manderly's muffled sobs echoing through the crypts, a father's grief for a cherished granddaughter. And beneath that sound, barely audible, came the whispers of the crowd, still wondering how the bastard of Winterfell had survived when their lord's precious granddaughter had not.

Jon welcomed their suspicion, their doubt. It was no less than he deserved. The truth was far worse than anything they could imagine, and it would remain his burden to bear alone.

Chapter Text

As they walked back from the crypts, Robb watched his brother with growing concern. The whispers followed them like shadows through the torchlit corridors of White Harbor, and though Jon appeared to ignore them, Robb could see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands would clench and unclench at his sides.

"You haven't told me what really happened," Robb said quietly when they were finally alone in Jon's chambers. "I know you, brother. You're carrying something heavy."

Jon moved to the window, his back to Robb. "Leave it be."

"The servants talk, you know. Those three men were torn apart. Not killed by sword or arrow, but ripped to pieces." Robb stepped closer. "They say it looked like the work of some great beast, yet there were no tracks, no signs of—"

"I said leave it!" Jon's voice cracked like a whip, his shoulders tight with tension. Then, softer, "Please, Robb. Don't ask me questions I can't answer."

Robb studied his brother's reflection in the darkened window. Jon had always been the quieter of the two, more prone to brooding, but this was different. There was something haunted in his eyes now, something that went beyond grief.

"You think I don't notice?" Robb pressed on. "The way you flinch when people wonder how you survived? The way you avoid looking at your own reflection? Something happened out there, Jon. Something you're afraid to speak of."

Jon turned then, and for a moment, Robb thought he saw something flicker in his brother's eyes – something wild and ancient and not entirely human. But it was gone so quickly he might have imagined it.

"What good would talking do?" Jon's voice was hollow. "Will it bring her back? Will it ease Lord Manderly's pain? Will it stop the nightmares?" He laughed bitterly. "Some things are better left in silence, brother."

"Not between us," Robb insisted. "Never between us. We're brothers, Jon. We're—"

"We're what?" Jon cut him off. "What are we, Robb? Because I'm not even sure what I am anymore." His voice dropped to a whisper, so low Robb almost missed it.

Robb watched as Jon seemed to fold in on himself, all the fight draining out of him.

"I hear them, you know," Jon continued quietly. "The whispers. 'How did the bastard survive when the lord's granddaughter died?' 'What really happened in that clearing?' 'Why won't he speak of it?'" He turned back to the window. "Perhaps they're right to wonder. Perhaps they should be afraid."

"Afraid? Of you?" Robb moved to stand beside his brother. "Jon, you're my brother. Nothing will ever change that. Whatever happened out there, whatever you're not telling me – it doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?" Jon's reflection showed a bitter smile. "What if I told you I'm not the same person who left Winterfell? What if I told you something happened to me, something I don't understand, something that terrifies me?"

Robb placed a hand on Jon's shoulder, feeling him tense at the touch. "Then I'd say you're still my brother, and we'll figure it out together."

For a moment, Jon seemed to lean into the touch, as if desperately wanting to share his burden. But then he straightened, shrugging off Robb's hand.

"No," he said firmly. "This is my burden to bear. My penance for failing her." He turned to face Robb, his eyes hard. "Promise me you'll stop asking, Robb. Promise me you'll let this lie."

Robb wanted to argue, to insist that brothers shouldn't keep secrets, that whatever darkness Jon was carrying didn't have to be faced alone. But he saw something in Jon's expression that made him hesitate – not just grief or guilt, but genuine fear. Fear for Robb, perhaps, rather than of him.

"I promise," Robb said finally, though it pained him. "But remember this – whatever you're not telling me, whatever you think you have to protect me from... I'm here. When you're ready, if you're ever ready, I'm here."

Jon nodded once, then turned back to the window. Robb lingered for a moment longer, watching his brother's silhouette against the night sky, before quietly leaving the room. As he walked away, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd failed somehow – that by honoring Jon's request for silence, he was leaving his brother to face some unnamed darkness alone.

Three Days Later

Jon's footsteps echoed through the corridors of White Harbor, each step feeling like lead. Robb walked beside him in silence, offering quiet support. The morning light filtered through the high windows, but it brought no warmth to Jon's cold dread.

The guards opened the doors to the main hall, and Jon felt his heart constrict at the sight before him. Lord Manderly sat in his great chair, looking aged beyond his years. Ned Stark sat to his right, his face grave. Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel flanked their father, their usual jovial nature replaced by solemn gravity. Wynafryd sat apart, her tears falling silently, each drop a reminder of what they'd all lost.

Jon walked to the center of the hall, his steps measured, his back straight despite the weight crushing his chest. He stopped and raised his eyes to meet Lord Manderly's, preparing himself for the hatred he expected to see there.

"Jon Snow," Lord Manderly's voice was surprisingly gentle. "How are you feeling, lad?"

The question caught Jon off guard. He'd expected accusations, anger, blame – not this concern for his wellbeing. His throat tightened.

"I am... well enough, my lord," he managed, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue.

Lord Manderly nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Jon's face. "Tell us what happened that day. Tell us about my granddaughter's last moments."

Jon's hands trembled slightly, and he clasped them behind his back to still them. He could feel his father's steady gaze, Robb's concerned presence, Wynafryd's quiet sobs.

"We went to the great tree," he began, his voice hoarse. "As we had done every day that week. Wylla..." his voice caught on her name. "She was excited. She'd found new markings she wanted to study."

He closed his eyes briefly, seeing it all again. "The wildlings came from nowhere. Thirty of them, with two deserters from the Night's Watch. They'd been watching us, learning our routine."

"Your men fought bravely," he continued, looking at Lord Manderly. "Every one of them died protecting her, as they'd sworn to do." He swallowed hard. "But there were too many."

"And you?" Lord Wylis Manderly spoke for the first time. "How did you survive against such numbers?" Jon could see it in his eyes; after all, his daughter was dead, and the bastard was still alive. Jon knew the man hated him.

Jon's hands clenched behind his back. How could he explain what he himself didn't understand? The healing, the steam, the transformation – it all seemed like a fever dream now.

"I fought," he said simply. "I killed as many as I could. But I was... I was tiring." His voice grew thick with self-loathing. "One of the deserters, he... he got behind Wylla. Had a knife to her throat."

Wynafryd's sob broke through his narrative. Jon forced himself to continue, though each word felt like glass in his throat.

"He told me to drop my sword. I should have been faster, should have found a way..." Jon's voice cracked. "Wylla... she... she fought back. She had her dagger. She struck at him, caught him in the eye."

Lord Manderly made a sound, something between pride and anguish. "That's my girl," he whispered.

"He... he killed her for it," Jon's voice was barely audible. "Out of anger, he... her throat..." He couldn't continue.

The hall was silent save for Wynafryd's quiet weeping. Jon could feel the weight of their stares, their unspoken questions about what happened next.

"After that..." Jon struggled to find the words. "I don't... I don't remember clearly. There was rage, so much rage. Something happened to me. Something I can't explain or understand. When it was over, the remaining three were dead."

"Torn apart," Ser Wylis said quietly. "We found what was left of them."

Jon met his eyes steadily, though shame burned in his chest. "Yes."

"And the footprints?" Ser Wendel asked. "The giant tracks in the snow?"

"I don't know," Jon answered honestly. "I don't remember. Everything after... after she fell... it's all fragments and darkness."

Lord Manderly leaned forward in his chair, his massive frame creaking with the movement. "Look at me, Jon Snow."

Jon forced himself to meet the lord's gaze, expecting to finally see the condemnation he deserved. Instead, he saw something else – grief, yes, but also understanding.

"My granddaughter believed in the old powers," Lord Manderly said slowly. "She believed magic still lived in the North, in the ancient places, in the blood of the First Men. She died seeking understanding of these mysteries."

"My lord, I—" Jon started, but Lord Manderly raised a hand.

"You loved her," the lord stated simply. "Don't deny it. I saw it growing between you two. And she... she loved you too."

The words felt more painful than any swords. He felt tears threatening to fall and blinked them back furiously.

"Whatever happened in that clearing," Lord Manderly continued, "whatever power awoke in you... she would have understood. She would have wanted to understand."

"It doesn't matter," Jon's voice was raw. "It came too late. I failed her. I failed you."

"No," Lord Manderly's voice grew firm. "You fought for her. You avenged her. And something tells me you're carrying a burden." Jon shook his head in denial. Why weren't they screaming at him? Why weren't they angry with him? Why were they not blaming him? He deserved it. He should be blamed. He should be punished.

"Look at me, Jon Snow."

Jon forced himself to meet the lord's gaze. He found something that made his chest tighten – understanding, and a deep, sorrowful gratitude.

"You tried to protect her," Lord Manderly's voice was thick with emotion. "You fought against impossible odds for my daughter. Despite what your name might be, you've proven yourself more of a true knight than any I've ever known."

Jon's hands trembled behind his back, his throat constricting.

"My lord," Jon's voice was barely more than a whisper, rough with unshed tears. "How can you say that? How can you call me a knight when I..." his voice caught, "when I failed to protect the one person who saw past the bastard name? Who saw me for who I was?"

He could feel his father's gaze on him, heavy with concern, could sense Robb's desire to step forward and offer comfort. But Jon stood alone in the center of the hall, as he had always been alone.

"I was too weak," he continued, his voice breaking. "All my training, all my preparation, and in the end, I couldn't..." He stopped, unable to continue.

Lord Manderly opened his mouth to speak again, but Jon couldn't bear to hear more kindness he didn't deserve. He bowed deeply, hiding the tears that threatened to spill.

"By your leave, my lord."

Without waiting for a response, Jon turned and strode from the hall, his back straight despite the weight crushing his chest. He could feel the tears burning behind his eyes but refused to let them fall. He didn't deserve the release of grief, not when Wylla would never laugh again, never dream again, never pursue her passion for the ancient mysteries she loved so much.

The heavy doors closed behind him, and only then did he allow himself to falter, one hand reaching out to steady himself against the cold stone wall. Robb found him there moments later, but Jon shook off his brother's attempted comfort.

One Week Later

The clash of steel against steel echoed through White Harbor's training yard before dawn had even broken. Jon moved like a man possessed, his sword singing through the air as he practiced forms against imaginary opponents. His muscles burned, but he welcomed the pain – it was better than the hollow ache in his chest.

"You're up early again," Ser Rodrik's voice cut through the morning mist. The old master-at-arms had been watching Jon's relentless training with growing concern.

"Can't sleep," Jon replied shortly, not breaking his rhythm.

"You haven't been sleeping for a whole week."

Jon ignored the observation, focusing instead on his footwork. Left, right, pivot, strike. Each movement precise, each strike carrying more force than necessary. The training dummy shuddered under his blows.

"Seven hells, Snow," one of the guards watching called out. "That dummy had a family."

Jon's only response was to strike harder.

---

By midday, Jon had moved to the weight yard. Barrels needed moving, and he volunteered without hesitation. The guards watched in amazement as he lifted a barrel full of weapon parts – a task that usually required two men.

"That's not natural," one guard muttered. "Boy's gotten stronger than an ox."

Robb approached as Jon set down the barrel, sweat soaking through his shirt despite the cold. "You need to rest, brother."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You haven't been fine since—"

"I said I'm fine, Robb." Jon's voice carried an edge that made his brother fall silent.

Across the courtyard, Wynafryd appeared briefly at a window. Jon caught her gaze for a moment before she turned away, her face a mask of barely contained grief. He could almost hear her thoughts: 'It should have been you. Why did my sister die while you lived?'

He grabbed another barrel.

---

The afternoon found him practicing archery until his fingers bled. Draw, aim, release. Again and again, until the targets blurred before his eyes.

"Your form has improved," A soldier remarked.

"Not good enough," Jon muttered, nocking another arrow.

"Jon, you've been at this for hours—"

The arrow split its predecessor at the center of the target.

"Not. Good. Enough."

---

Evening brought sparring matches. Jon faced opponent after opponent, his movements becoming more fluid, more powerful with each passing day. Something had changed in him since that day in the woods. His strikes carried an inhuman strength, his reflexes sharper than ever.

"Again," he demanded after disarming his fourth opponent.

"Snow, we've been at this—"

"Again!"

The guards exchanged worried glances but complied. Jon fought until his arms shook from exhaustion, until he could barely lift his practice sword. Only then did he allow himself to stop, because only then could he hope to sleep without seeing her face.

---

In his chambers, Jon examined his hands. The blisters had healed with that same strange steam, leaving no marks. 

A knock at his door interrupted him.

"Enter," he called, quickly pulling on his sleeves.

Lord Eddard Stark stepped into the room, his face grave in the candlelight. Jon straightened immediately, though his tired muscles protested.

"Father."

"Sit, Jon," Ned said softly, closing the door behind him. "We need to talk."

Jon remained standing. "I should prepare for tomorrow's journey—"

"Sit."

Something in his father's tone brooked no argument. Jon sank onto the edge of his bed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

"The guards tell me you've been first to the training yard and last to leave, every day for a whole week," Ned began. "They say you're lifting weights that should be impossible, fighting with a strength that seems... unnatural."

Jon's jaw tightened. "I need to get stronger."

"Why?"

"Because I was weak!" The words burst from Jon with unexpected force. "Because I wasn't strong enough when it mattered! Because she—" His voice broke.

Ned moved to sit beside his son. "Jon, what happened wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it?" Jon's laugh was bitter. "I was supposed to protect her. I promised I would protect her. And now she's dead, and I'm... I'm whatever I am now."

"And what are you?"

Jon fell silent, unable to answer.

"The servants whisper about your growing strength," Ned continued quietly. "About the way your injuries seem to vanish."

Jon's hands clenched into fists. "I don't know what's happening to me," he admitted in a whisper. "But it came too late. If I had been like this before, if I had been stronger—"

"Then perhaps you both would have died," Ned cut in. "Or perhaps nothing would have changed. We cannot know, Jon. We cannot live in the realm of 'what if.'"

"How do I live with it then?" Jon's voice cracked. "How do I live with knowing I failed her? That she died believing in me, trusting me, and I couldn't—" He stopped, fighting back tears.

"By honoring her memory," Ned said softly. "Not by destroying yourself in some misguided attempt at penance."

"I see her face every time I close my eyes," Jon confessed. "I hear her voice. Sometimes... sometimes I think I hear her screaming at me, asking why I lived when she died. Wynafryd looks at me and I know she's thinking the same thing."

"Lady Wynafryd is grieving," Ned said. "As are you. Grief makes us think things, believe things that aren't true."

"But they are true," Jon insisted. "I am a bastard who lived while a noble daughter died. I am a failed protector who gained strength only after it was too late to matter. I am—"

"My son," Ned interrupted firmly. "You are my son, Jon. And you are carrying a burden that would break most men. Whatever is happening to you, whatever you're becoming – you don't have to face it alone."

Jon stood abruptly, pacing to the window. "I do have to face it alone. Because no one else can understand. No one else..." He trailed off, staring into the darkness.

"Can become something inhuman?" Ned finished quietly.

Jon's head snapped around, fear evident in his eyes.

"The footprints in the snow," Ned continued. "The way the wildlings were torn apart. The steam from your wounds. I'm not blind, Jon. Something happened to you out there, something beyond our understanding."

"Are you afraid of me?" Jon's voice was barely audible.

"No," Ned replied without hesitation. "I'm afraid for you. You're pushing yourself to limits that no human should be able to reach, carrying a guilt that no one should have to bear alone."

"I have to get stronger," Jon insisted. "I have to be better. I can't... I can't fail anyone else like I failed her."

Ned stood and approached his son, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You didn't fail her, Jon. You fought for her. You avenged her. And now you're punishing yourself for surviving."

Jon's shoulders began to shake, though no tears fell. "How do I live with it, father? How do I wake up each day knowing she's gone and I'm still here?"

"One day at a time," Ned said softly. "And not alone. Whatever power you've discovered, whatever strength you're developing – use it wisely. Honor her memory not by destroying yourself, but by becoming someone who can protect others."

"I don't know if I can," Jon whispered.

Jon sat back down on his bed, studying his father's face in the candlelight. Ned Stark rarely showed vulnerability, yet something in his expression now seemed distant, lost in memories.

"When I heard about your grandfather and uncle," Ned said suddenly, his voice low and heavy with old pain, "I was in the Vale. Robert was with me. The news came by raven."

Jon's breath caught. His father almost never spoke of Rickard and Brandon Stark's deaths, and never of the moment he learned of them.

"The maester handed me the scroll," Ned continued, his eyes fixed on some point in the distant past. "I remember my hands wouldn't stop shaking as I read it. Brandon... strangled himself trying to save Father. And Father..." He paused, swallowing hard. "Father burned alive in his armor, screaming for his son."

"Father, you don't have to—" Jon started, but Ned raised a hand.

"No, you need to hear this, Jon. Because for months after, I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined their screams. I imagined what I could have done differently if I'd been there. I blamed myself for being safe in the Vale while they died in King's Landing."

Jon's hands clenched in his lap. "How... how did you bear it?"

"At first, I didn't," Ned admitted. "I threw myself into preparation for war. Every waking moment was spent training, planning, pushing myself beyond exhaustion. Sound familiar?"

Jon looked away, unable to meet his father's knowing gaze.

"But one night, Jon Arryn found me in the training yard, much like I've found you tonight. He told me something I've never forgotten. He said, 'The dead don't want our guilt, Ned. They don't want our death. They want us to live.'"

"It's different," Jon whispered. "You weren't there. You couldn't have saved them."

"And you think you could have saved Wylla?" Ned's voice was gentle. "Against thirty wildlings? The fact that you survived at all, that you avenged her, is remarkable."

"But this power..." Jon flexed his hand. "If I'd had it then..."

"We can't live in maybes, son. I spent months wondering what would have happened if I'd been in King's Landing, if I'd had an army, if I'd been stronger or faster or smarter. It nearly destroyed me."

"What changed?"

Ned was quiet for a moment. "I realized that honoring their memory meant living as they would have wanted me to live. Brandon wouldn't have wanted me to destroy myself with guilt. Father wouldn't have wanted me to lose myself in what-ifs."

He looked directly at Jon. "Would Wylla want this? Would she want you spending every waking moment punishing yourself?"

Jon felt tears threatening again. "She..." his voice cracked. "She used to scold me when I was brooding. Said I needed to learn to laugh more."

"Aye," Ned smiled sadly. "She was wise beyond her years, that one. Perhaps you should listen to her now, even in death."

"I don't know how," Jon admitted. "I don't know how to stop feeling this weight."

"You don't stop feeling it," Ned said softly. "You learn to carry it. And you learn to let others help you carry it. I had Robert, and Jon Arryn, and later Catelyn... who do you have, Jon?"

"I..." Jon hesitated. "Robb tries, but..."

"But you push him away. Like you push everyone away." Ned sighed. "That's not strength, son. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is let others see our pain."

They sat in silence for a moment, the candle flickering between them.

"Does it ever get easier?" Jon finally asked, his voice small.

"Yes and no," Ned answered honestly. "The sharp pain dulls. The guilt becomes less consuming. But you never forget. You just learn to live with the memory, to honor it without letting it destroy you."

Jon nodded slowly, absorbing his father's words. For the first time since that terrible day, he felt something loosen in his chest – not healing, not yet, but perhaps the beginning of understanding.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For telling me about grandfather and uncle Brandon. I know it's not easy to speak of them."

"No," Ned agreed, standing. "But sometimes the hardest stories are the ones we most need to share." He moved to the door, then paused. "Try to rest, Jon. And remember – Wylla saw something in you worth loving. Don't let your grief make you forget that."

As the door closed behind his father, Jon lay back on his bed, his mind full of memories – not of Wylla's death this time, but of her laugh, her passion for ancient mysteries, her gentle scolding when he was always brooding. Perhaps his father was right. Perhaps honoring her meant more than endless training and self-recrimination.

For the first time since her death, Jon allowed himself to remember Wylla as she lived, not as she died. And though the pain was still there, sharp and deep, it felt somehow different – like a wound beginning, ever so slowly, to heal.

Later

The night was cold and clear, stars scattered like diamonds across the northern sky. Jon's footsteps crunched softly in the snow as he made his way to White Harbor's crypts, where the Manderlys buried their dead in the old way despite their devotion to the Seven.

In his hands, he carried winter roses – blue as frost, the same color as the ribbons she used to wear in her hair. He'd found them growing stubbornly through the snow, much like Wylla herself had always been stubborn in her pursuits.

Her grave was simple but beautiful, adorned with shells and sea stones in the Manderly tradition. The sight of her name carved in stone made his chest tighten.

"Hello, Wylla," he said softly, kneeling before the grave. His voice was rough from disuse – he hadn't spoken her name aloud since that day. "I... I brought you flowers."

He placed the winter roses carefully at the base of the stone, their blue petals stark against the white snow.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," he continued, his breath visible in the cold air. "Going back to Winterfell. I should have come here sooner, but I..." he trailed off, gathering his thoughts. "I was afraid. I still am."

The night wind whispered through the godswood, stirring the leaves above.

"Father told me something tonight. About how the dead don't want our guilt. That they want us to live." His voice cracked slightly. "Is that true, Wylla? Would you want me to live? Because I've been trying so hard to become stronger, to never fail anyone again, but I haven't really been living, have I?"

He reached out, his fingers tracing the letters of her name on the stone.

"I remember how you used to laugh at me when I was too serious. How you'd drag me to the Wine Cellar. You were so alive, so full of passion for everything you loved." A tear rolled down his cheek, freezing before it hit the snow. "I've been dishonoring that, haven't I? By turning into this... this hollow thing that only knows how to fight and train."

Jon sat back on his heels, looking up at the stars.

"Something's happening to me, Wylla. I'm changing. Becoming stronger, faster... different. And I've been using it to punish myself, but maybe..." he paused, considering. "Maybe I should use it the way you would have wanted. To protect others, yes, but also to live. To learn. To care."

He pulled something from his pocket – a small piece of parchment, covered in her handwriting. Notes about the Long Night that she'd given him to read, that he'd kept but never looked at after her death.

"I'm going to read your research," he promised. "All of it. And I'll keep training, but not to destroy myself. I'll train to protect others, to be the kind of man you saw in me." His voice softened. "The kind of man you believed I could be."

The wind picked up, making the winter roses dance slightly against the stone. For a moment, Jon could almost imagine it was her teasing laugh carried on the breeze.

"I don't know if I'll ever forgive myself completely," he admitted. "But I'm going to try to live in a way that would make you proud. To be strong without losing myself. To care without fear. To remember you not just in grief, but in joy."

He stood slowly, his red eyes gleaming in the starlight.

"Goodbye, Wylla Manderly," he whispered. "Thank you for seeing me. For believing in me. For..." his voice caught, but he forced himself to continue, "for loving me, bastard name and all. I'll carry that with me, always."

As he turned to leave, the moon broke through the clouds, casting a silver light. The winter roses seemed to glow blue against the snow, beautiful and defiant in the cold – just like she had been.

Chapter Text

The moonlight filtered through Jon's window at White Harbor, casting long shadows across his chamber. Sleep eluded him, as it had for the past several nights. Every time he closed his eyes, the images came – massive hands, larger than any giant's, tearing through flesh and bone. Steam rising from torn flesh. Screams that seemed distant, as if heard through water.

He sat up in his bed, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. Lord Manderly's words echoed in his mind: "Three of them... gods be good, we could barely tell they were men at all. Like something had... had torn them apart."

Jon looked down at his own hands in the dim light. Normal hands, a swordsman's hands, calloused and strong but decidedly human-sized. Yet in his flashes of memory, he saw hands that could crush a man like a grape, hands wreathed in steam...

"It's not possible," he whispered to the empty room. "It can't be real."

But the footprints in the snow had been real. Massive, deep impressions that had made the hardened northern soldiers pale. And those three bodies, reduced to...

Jon squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the images, but they only grew stronger. His head began to spin, and when he opened his eyes again, he found himself standing in that familiar endless desert.

The great tree of light towered before him, its branches reaching into an eternally twilit sky. Unlike the weirwoods of the North, this tree seemed made of pure light, its "leaves" shifting and flowing like liquid starlight.

"Ymir?" His voice echoed across the empty sands. "Ymir, please. I need answers!"

Only silence answered him. The wind whispered across the dunes, carrying grains of golden sand that seemed to sparkle with their own light.

"YMIR!" He shouted this time, his desperation evident in his voice. "I'm seeing things I can't explain. I need to know if I... if I did something to those men. Please!"

Movement caught his eye, but it wasn't the silver-dressed woman he'd expected. Instead, a boy about his own age stood several paces away, watching him with intense green eyes – eyes that matched Jon's left eye perfectly. His dark hair shifted in the ethereal wind, and something about his stance made Jon's skin prickle with recognition.

"Who are you?" Jon asked, taking a step forward.

The boy remained silent, his face impassive. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his left arm and pointed directly at Jon with his index finger. When he spoke, the words were of a language he had never heard.

"I don't understand," Jon said, frustration creeping into his voice. "Please, what are you trying to tell me?"

The boy's form began to change, his skin taking on a golden-brown hue like the surrounding sand. Before Jon's eyes, the boy's body began to crumble, starting from his feet and working upward. It wasn't like watching someone collapse – it was as if he was being unmade, grain by grain, until nothing remained but a pile of glittering sand where he had stood.

A presence materialized behind him. Jon spun around to find Ymir watching him with those ageless eyes. Her silver dress seemed to capture and reflect the tree's light, making her appear to glow from within.

"You asked for answers," she said, her voice both young and old at once. "But are you ready for them?"

"Ready?" Jon's voice cracked with emotion. "I see things that can't be real. I have memories that make no sense. Three men died in ways that..." he trailed off, struggling to find the words.

"In ways that only a Titan could manage?" Ymir suggested softly.

Jon's breath caught. "A... what?"

"A Titan. A power passed down through paths that connect all Eldians. Your blood carries this legacy, Jon Snow, though how it found its way to your world, even I cannot say."

"My world?" Jon shook his head. "You speak in riddles. What do you mean, my world? And what was that boy? Why did he have my eye?"

Ymir walked past him, her feet leaving no impressions in the sand. She stopped where the boy had crumbled and knelt, letting the golden grains run through her fingers.

"He represents the power that now flows through your blood. The Attack Titan has always fought for freedom, always pushed forward. Like you, Jon Snow."

"The Attack Titan," Jon repeated slowly. "Are you saying... those huge hands I remember, that was..."

"You," Ymir confirmed, rising to her feet. "When Wylla died, your pain and rage awakened the power within you. The Attack Titan manifested, and you destroyed those who had hurt her."

Jon felt his legs weaken, and he sank to his knees in the sand. "So I did kill them. Like... like that. I became some kind of monster."

"A monster?" Ymir's voice held a note of challenge. "Is that what you think? The power of the Titans is neither good nor evil, Jon Snow. It is a tool, like your sword, like your strength. It is what you make of it."

"But I don't remember it clearly. I could hurt someone else, I could—"

"You remember more than you think," Ymir interrupted. "The flashes you see are not dreams – they are memories trying to surface. Your mind shields you from the full impact, but in time, you will remember everything."

"And what then?" Jon asked, looking up at her. "What am I supposed to do with this... this power?"

Ymir's expression softened slightly. "That is not for me to decide. Your blood connects two worlds – the power of the Eldians and something else, something older that flows through your veins. What you do with these gifts is your choice."

"Something else?" Jon frowned. "What do you mean?"

But Ymir was already turning away, her form beginning to fade. "Learn to control the power, Jon Snow. Learn to remember. The answers you seek will come in time, but first, you must accept what you are."

"Wait!" Jon scrambled to his feet. "Please, I have more questions!"

"We will speak again," Ymir's voice was growing distant. "But for now, remember this: the Attack Titan has always moved forward, seeking freedom. Like the boy you saw, it is a part of you now. Embrace it, or be consumed by it."

"Ymir!" Jon reached for her fading form, but his hand passed through empty air.

The desert began to blur around him, the tree of light dimming. Just before everything faded completely, Jon heard Ymir's voice one last time:

"The power is yours now, Jon Snow. What matters is not how you got it, but what you choose to do with it."

Jon's eyes snapped open. He was back in his chamber at White Harbor, dawn's first light creeping through his window. His heart was racing, but his mind felt clearer than it had in days.

He rose and walked to the window, looking out over the harbor as the sun began to rise. The Attack Titan, she had called it. A power passed down through blood he somehow shared with people from another world.

It should have seemed impossible, mad even. Yet as he stood there, watching the morning light paint the sky in shades of gold and pink, Jon felt the truth of it in his bones. The flashes of memory were growing clearer – he could remember the steam rising from his massive form, the raw power coursing through him, the rage and grief that had triggered his transformation.

"What you choose to do with it," he murmured, echoing Ymir's words.

He flexed his hand, wondering if he could control it now, if he could summon that power at will. But no – he wasn't ready. Not yet. First, he needed to remember everything, to understand exactly what had happened that day by the tree.

A knock at his door startled him from his thoughts.

"Jon?" It was Robb's voice. "Father wants us to break our fast with him."

"I'll be right there," Jon called back, already moving to dress.

As he prepared for the day ahead, Jon made a silent promise to himself. He would learn to control this power, to understand it.

Later

Jon adjusted the collar of his dark gray doublet, the fabric still stiff from its recent washing. He'd barely worn any of his clothes in the past week. But today was different. Today he had to face the world again.

Robb stood in the hallway, dressed in Stark colors – a brown leather jerkin over a gray wool tunic, with dark breeches and polished boots. His auburn hair was neatly combed, but his blue eyes held a shadow of worry as he studied his brother.

"You look... better," Robb said carefully, noting how Jon had actually made an effort with his appearance. The dark circles under his mismatched eyes were still there, but some of the haunted look had faded.

Jon ran a hand through his dark curls, which he'd attempted to tame this morning. "I feel..." he paused, considering his words. For a moment, the weight of his secret pressed against his tongue. How easy it would be to tell Robb everything – about the healing steam, about the massive hands he remembered, about Ymir and the desert of golden sand.

But the words wouldn't come. How could he explain something he barely understood himself?

Instead, he said, "Father came to see me last night. He... helped me see things differently."

Relief flooded Robb's features. "Good. We've all been worried. These past seven days, you wouldn't even look at anyone during meals, when you bothered to come at all."

Jon's fingers absently traced the worn leather of his sword belt. "I know. I'm sorry for that. I just needed..."

"Time," Robb finished for him. He shifted his weight, and Jon noticed a slight hesitation in his brother's stance.

"What is it?" Jon asked.

"Lady Wynafryd asked to speak with you."

Jon felt his whole body go rigid. His right hand clenched involuntarily.

"W-what does she want?" The words came out stuttered, his throat suddenly dry.

Robb stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on Jon's shoulder. "Brother, she doesn't blame you. None of them do."

"How can they not?" Jon's voice was barely above a whisper. "If someone had failed to protect Arya like I failed to protect Wylla..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

"You didn't fail anyone," Robb said firmly. "You were outnumbered more than five to one. The fact that you survived at all is..."

"A miracle?" Jon said bitterly, thinking of those three mangled bodies he couldn't quite remember destroying.

"I was going to say 'remarkable,'" Robb replied. "Jon, you can't keep avoiding everyone forever. Especially not Wylla's family."

Jon closed his eyes for a moment, remembering his father's words from the night before. Face the consequences before they pile up, he'd said. Running from them only makes them grow larger in your mind.

"After we break our fast," Jon said finally, opening his eyes. "I'll speak with her then."

Robb nodded, clearly relieved. "She'll be in the glass gardens. She spends most mornings there now... it was Wylla's favorite place."

They began walking toward the great hall, their boots echoing on the stone floors. Jon noticed servants giving him quick, furtive glances as they passed. He wondered what stories they'd heard about that day in the woods.

"Father wants us to leave for Winterfell tomorrow," Robb said as they walked. "Do you think you're ready?"

Jon thought of the massive footprints that must still be visible in the snow near that tree. "Yes," he said quickly. "I think... I think it's time to go home."

They entered the great hall, where breakfast was being served. Lord Manderly sat at the high table with Ned Stark, both men engaged in quiet conversation. Jon noticed Lord Manderly was wearing his usual fine green wool and white silk, the colors of his house, while his father wore the practical dark leathers and furs of the North.

As they made their way to their seats, Jon couldn't help but look at the empty chair where Wylla used to sit. She'd always worn her hair dyed green, shocking many of the more conservative nobles. But that was Wylla – defiant, unique, unafraid to be herself. Even her clothes had been different, preferring bright colors and patterns that made her stand out rather than blend in.

"My son," Ned Stark's voice pulled Jon from his memories. "Come, sit."

Jon took his place beside his father, noting the concerned looks both lords gave him. He forced himself to sit straight, to appear stronger than he felt.

"We'll be leaving tomorrow at first light," Ned said, buttering a piece of bread. "Lord Manderly has been kind enough to provision us well for the journey."

"It's the least I can do," Wyman Manderly said, his usually jovial voice subdued. "And Jon... I hope you'll speak with Wyna before you go. She's been asking after you."

Jon nodded, not trusting his voice. He picked at the food on his plate – eggs, bacon, fresh bread – but found little appetite for any of it.

"Eat," his father said quietly. "You'll need your strength for the ride home."

Jon managed a few bites, more to please his father than from any real hunger. His mind was already on the coming conversation with Lady Wynafryd. What could she possibly want to say to him? What could he possibly say to her?

After the meal, Jon found himself walking toward the glass gardens, his feet feeling heavier with each step. The morning sun filtered through the glass panels, creating patterns of light and shadow on the stone path. He could smell the herbs and flowers growing within – rosemary, lavender, winter roses, and dozens of others he couldn't name.

He paused at the entrance, his hand resting on the iron handle of the door. Through the glass, he could see Lady Wynafryd Manderly standing among the plants, wearing a dress of sea-green silk with white trim. Her brown hair was arranged in an elegant braid that fell over one shoulder, so different from her sister's wild green locks.

For a moment, Jon considered turning back. But then he remembered Ymir's words about the Attack Titan always moving forward, and Ned's counsel about facing what frightened you.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and stepped into the warm, fragrant air of the glass gardens. Lady Wynafryd turned at the sound, and Jon saw that her eyes were red-rimmed, though her face was composed.

"Jon Snow," she said softly. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come."

Jon bowed slightly, his throat tight. "My lady, I... I'm sorry for avoiding everyone. For avoiding you."

"As did I. Grief makes us do strange things."

She turned back to the plant she had been tending – a small bush with bright blue flowers that Jon didn't recognize.

"These were her favorite," Wynafryd continued. "She called them ocean stars because they reminded her of the way the sea looks on a clear night. She was always finding beauty in unexpected places."

Jon stood rooted to the spot, unsure what to say or do. The memory of Wylla's last moments played in his mind – her defiance even with a knife at her throat, the way she'd fought back...

"My lady," he began, his voice rough with emotion, "I failed her. I should have—"

"Should have what?" Wynafryd turned back to him, her eyes sharp now. "Should have been stronger than thirty armed men? Should have seen the future? Should have died with her?"

The warmth of the glass gardens seemed stifling now as Jon struggled to maintain his composure. His fingers trembled slightly against the dark fabric of his doublet, and he could feel sweat beginning to form at the nape of his neck despite the winter chill outside.

"Yes," he whispered, his mismatched eyes meeting Wynafryd's. "At least then she wouldn't have died alone."

Wynafryd's face softened, and she stepped closer, her sea-green silk dress rustling against the stone path. The morning light filtering through the glass cast dappled shadows across her face, highlighting the tears that threatened to fall.

"Do you think that's what she would have wanted?" Her voice was gentle but firm. "For you to die needlessly alongside her?"

Jon's throat tightened. "I don't know what she would have wanted. I only know that I see her every time I close my eyes. I see her fighting back, refusing to show fear even when..." He broke off, his right hand clenching involuntarily as the memory of steam and rage flickered at the edges of his consciousness.

Wynafryd reached out and took his clenched fist in both her hands. 

"My sister," Wynafryd said, her voice thick with emotion, "was the strongest person I knew. Not with a sword or in physical strength, but in her spirit. She defied everything expected of her, from her hair to her choices in life." She squeezed his hand gently. "Including whom she chose to love."

Jon's head snapped up, his eyes wide. "You knew?"

A sad smile crossed Wynafryd's face. "Of course I knew. She was my sister. She told me everything." She released his hand and turned back to the ocean star flowers. "She said you were different from other men. That you saw her for who she was, not for what others wanted her to be."

"I didn't deserve her," Jon said quietly, his eyes fixed on the delicate blue petals.

"That's not for you to decide," Wynafryd replied sharply. "She chose you, Jon Snow. And from what I heard of that day..." She paused, seeming to gather her thoughts. "I don't know what happened there, but you were found alive, and the wildlings who had ambushed you and Wylla. They were all dead. That doesn't sound like failure to me."

Jon's mind flashed to the parts they hadn't seen – the transformation he couldn't fully remember, the destruction he'd apparently caused. 

"My lady," he started, but Wynafryd cut him off.

"Wynafryd. Please. After everything... just Wynafryd."

Jon nodded, swallowing hard. "Wynafryd. I want you to know that if I could trade places with her—"

"Don't," she interrupted, turning to face him fully. "Don't dishonor her memory with thoughts of what couldn't be. Honor her by living, Jon Snow. By being the man she saw in you."

Tears pricked at Jon's eyes, and he blinked them back furiously. "How?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "How do I live with this?"

Wynafryd reached out and touched one of the ocean star blooms. "These flowers," she said, "they only bloom in the harshest part of winter. The gardeners say they shouldn't be able to survive here at all, but they do. They push through the cold and the dark, and they bloom anyway." She looked at him meaningfully. "That's how you live with it. You push through. You bloom anyway." 

She gave the flower to his hands. Jon's hands began to shake, and he could feel heat rising beneath his skin. The ocean star flower trembled between his fingers as his grip tightened.

"Why?" he suddenly burst out, his voice echoing harshly against the glass walls. Several nearby servants tending to the plants quickly made themselves scarce. "Why are you being so kind about this?"

Wynafryd took a step back, startled by his sudden outburst, but her composed expression didn't waver. 

"Jon—"

"No!" His voice cracked with emotion. "You should hate me! Your father should have thrown me in chains! I was right there!" The heat under his skin intensified, and he forced himself to take deep breaths, terrified of losing control. "I was right there, and I couldn't... I didn't..."

"Jon, listen—"

But the words kept pouring out, like a dam breaking. "Why aren't you blaming me? Why isn't anyone-"

"Punishing you?" Wynafryd cut in sharply, her voice carrying a steel that reminded him painfully of Wylla. "Is that what you're already doing, Jon Snow? Working yourself to exhaustion, refusing to eat, tormenting yourself with guilt?"

Jon froze, the ocean star flower crushed in his grip. Small drops of blood welled up where the stem's thorns had pierced his palm, but he barely noticed.

"You think I don't understand?" Wynafryd continued, stepping closer to him despite his visible agitation. "You think I don't see what you're doing? You want us to hate you because you hate yourself. You want us to punish you because you think it will somehow make this easier to bear."

The accuracy of her words struck him like a slap in the face. He staggered back a step, bumping into a potted plant behind him.

"My sister," Wynafryd said, her voice softening but maintaining its intensity, "would be furious with you right now. She would tell you that you're being an absolute fool, letting guilt eat you alive when you should be—"

"Living?" Jon interrupted bitterly. "Moving forward? How can I when every time I close my eyes, I see her? When I know that if I had been faster, stronger—"

"If you had been what?" Wynafryd demanded. "A god? A hero from the songs? You were one man against many, Jon Snow. One man who fought until he was nearly dead himself trying to reach her."

Jon's breathing came in sharp, ragged gasps. The crushed flower fell from his trembling fingers to the stone floor. "You don't understand. There was something I could have done. Something I should have known how to do." The words tumbled out before he could stop them, dancing dangerously close to his secret.

"Ah," Wynafryd said softly, understanding dawning in her eyes. "Now we come to it. You're not just angry that you couldn't save her. You're angry because you think you had some hidden power that could have saved her, if only you'd known about it sooner."

Jon's head snapped up, his eyes wide with shock. How could she possibly know?

But Wynafryd was already shaking her head. "We all do this, Jon. We all imagine that if we'd just known something more, done something different, we could have changed what happened. But it's a cruel trick our minds play on us. The past is written. The ink is dry."

The heat under Jon's skin began to subside, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. "Then what am I supposed to do with this... this anger?"

Wynafryd bent down and picked up the crushed ocean star flower. "You take it, and you forge it into something useful. Something that would make her proud." She held out the damaged bloom to him. "My sister didn't love you because you were perfect, Jon Snow. She loved you because you were real. Don't dishonor that love by trying to turn yourself into something you're not – either a villain worthy of punishment or a hero who could have prevented the impossible."

Wynafryd watched as Jon delicately took the crushed flower, his fingers trembling as they brushed against hers. The tear that escaped down his cheek caught the morning light filtering through the glass panels.

"You know," she said softly, adjusting her sea-green silk skirts as she guided him to a stone bench among the winter roses, "Wylla used to tell me about your walks together in these gardens. How you'd listen to her wild dreams and schemes without judgment." She smiled faintly. "She said most men would try to change her, tame her, but you... you just let her be herself."

Jon stared at the damaged flower in his hands, its blue petals still beautiful despite being crushed. "She was untameable," he whispered. "Like a storm at sea."

"Yes, exactly like that," Wynafryd agreed, her voice warm with memory. "And tell me, Jon Snow, what happens to those who try to fight against a storm?"

He looked up at her, his mismatched eyes questioning.

"They drown," she answered her own question. "But those who learn to sail with the storm, to work with its power rather than against it – they survive. That's what you did with Wylla. You never tried to fight who she was."

She reached out and gently touched the crumpled petals in his hand. "And now you're trying to fight against the tide of grief by wrapping yourself in chains of guilt. But guilt isn't remembrance, Jon. Blame isn't devotion."

Jon's voice was hoarse when he spoke. "Then what is?"

"Living fully, as she did. Taking all that love you have for her and letting it be a source of strength rather than shame." Wynafryd's eyes grew distant. "The day before... before it happened, she came to me, practically glowing. Do you know what she said?"

Jon shook his head, barely breathing.

"She said, 'Wyna, I've found someone who makes me feel like I can fly without leaving the ground.' That was you, Jon. You gave her that freedom, that joy." Wynafryd's voice grew firm. "And now you want to take those beautiful memories and turn them into chains? You want to transform her love into a prison of self-blame?"

The tear was joined by others now, falling freely down Jon's face. "I just... I keep thinking if I'd been different, if I'd been better..."

"Then you wouldn't have been the man she fell in love with," Wynafryd cut in. "You did everything you could. You fought for her against thirty men." She paused, making sure he was really listening. "That's who you are, Jon Snow. Not some perfect knight from the songs who could magically prevent all tragedy, but a real man who loved fiercely and fought bravely."

Jon looked down at the ocean star flower, its crushed form still holding beauty despite its damage. Like memories, he realized – they could be painful, but they still held something precious.

"The last thing she did," he said quietly, "was fight back. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her afraid."

"Of course she didn't," Wynafryd smiled through her own tears. "That was our Wylla. And she wouldn't want you to live in fear either – fear of your memories, fear of moving forward, fear of forgiveness." She took his free hand in both of hers. "You honor her best not by punishing yourself, but by living as boldly as she did. By keeping her spirit alive in how you face each day."

Something shifted in Jon's chest, like ice breaking up on a river. The guilt was still there, but it no longer felt like it was drowning him. Instead of chains, Wylla's memory began to feel more like wings – something that could lift him up rather than drag him down.

"I don't know if I know how to do that yet," he admitted.

"None of us do, at first," Wynafryd said gently. "But we learn. Day by day, memory by memory, we learn to carry our love without letting it crush us." She squeezed his hand. "And you don't have to do it alone. You're not the only one who loved her, who misses her."

Jon looked at her then, really looked, and saw his own grief mirrored in her eyes, but also something else – a determination to honor Wylla's memory through life, not death; through joy, not punishment.

"Thank you," he said softly, meaning it more deeply than he could express.

Wynafryd stood, smoothing her skirts. "Keep the flower," she said. "Let it remind you that even damaged things can still be beautiful. Even painful memories can still hold love." She turned to go, then paused. "And Jon? Wylla would be proud of you for this moment – for choosing to live, really live, instead of just survive."

As she walked away, Jon remained on the bench, holding the crushed but still beautiful ocean star flower. For the first time since that terrible day, his memories of Wylla felt less like a weight and more like a gift – precious and painful, but something to be cherished rather than feared.

Tomorrow

Horses stomped impatiently in the courtyard, their breath forming white clouds in the winter air. Jon stood beside his mount, adjusting the saddle straps with mechanical precision, trying not to think about how this would be the last time he'd smell the unique mixture of sea salt and spices that defined White Harbor.

Across the courtyard, his father stood with Lord Wyman Manderly. The usually jovial lord had lost his characteristic mirth along with his weight, his face drawn and aged beyond his years. Yet he managed a wan smile as he spoke with Lord Stark, his voice carrying faintly on the wind.

"...always welcome in White Harbor, Ned. You and yours."

Jon's attention drifted to Robb and Lady Wynafryd, standing near the castle steps. His brother held her hand, speaking in low tones that made her smile despite the sadness in her eyes. The sea-green of her dress reminded Jon painfully of another Manderly daughter who had favored bold colors.

For a heartbeat, he saw her there – Wylla, striding across the courtyard with her green-dyed hair streaming behind her, that fierce grin on her face that always preceded some adventure or another. His chest tightened as the memory of their first day together surfaced unbidden.

*"Come on, Jon Snow," she had laughed, pulling him down the winding stone steps to the wine cellar. "Don't tell me the brave warrior is afraid of a little darkness?"*

*"My father wouldn't approve," he'd protested weakly, even as he followed her.*

*"Good," she'd declared, her eyes glinting in the torchlight. "Neither would mine. That's what makes it fun."*

Jon blinked, and she was gone, leaving only the cold morning air and the sound of horses stamping their hooves.

Near the castle gates, Lord Stark was clasping forearms with Ser Wendel and Ser Wylis, the formal gesture softened by genuine affection. "We shall return in better times," Ned was saying.

Robb had finished his farewell to Lady Wynafryd, bending to kiss her hand with courtly grace. Jon noticed the slight blush that colored her cheeks, so similar to how her sister used to flush when...

He shook his head, turning back to his horse. Better to leave quietly, he thought. Better not to—

"Jon Snow."

The deep voice of Ser Wylis Manderly froze him in place. Jon turned slowly, bracing himself. He hadn't spoken with Wylla's father since that day. Every scenario he'd imagined during his sleepless nights had involved rage, accusations, perhaps even violence – all of which he felt he deserved.

What he didn't expect was for the big man to cross the distance between them in three quick strides and envelope him in a crushing embrace.

Jon stood rigid with shock as Ser Wylis held him. The lord's voice was thick with emotion when he spoke quietly near Jon's ear.

"Thank you," he said, the words seeming to catch in his throat. "Thank you for trying to protect my little girl until the end."

Jon's hands trembled at his sides. "My lord, I—"

"No, there is no need for any of that." He took a shuddering breath. "But more than that – thank you for loving her, Jon Snow. Wild and all. Thank you."

Jon felt tears burning behind his eyes as Wylis released him, keeping his massive hands on Jon's shoulders.

"She was always different," Wylis continued, his eyes glistening. "From the day she was born, she was a storm in human form. Her mother and I worried..." He swallowed hard. "We worried she'd never find someone who could appreciate that wildness in her. But you did."

"She made it easy," Jon whispered, his voice rough. "She was... she was the most alive person I'd ever met."

"Aye," Wylis agreed. He squeezed Jon's shoulders once more before letting go. "Carry that with you, Jon Snow. Not just the grief, but the joy she brought. The way she made the world brighter just by being in it."

From across the courtyard, Lord Stark called out that it was time to depart. Jon looked up at Wylis, struggling to find the right words.

"My lord, I... thank you. For not hating me."

"Hate you?" Wylis shook his head. "My daughter loved you, truly loved you. That makes you family, Jon Snow. And family..." He glanced at his own father and brother, at Wynafryd still standing by the steps. "Family helps each other carry the weight of loss."

Jon nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. He mounted his horse, taking one last look at the castle that had briefly been home to so much happiness.

As the party rode out through the gates, Jon heard Wylis call out one last time: "Remember her smile, Jon Snow! Remember her laugh! That's how she'd want to live in your heart!"

The words followed him as they rode north, mixing with his memories of green hair and fearless grins, of wine-flavored kisses in dark cellars and wild schemes to help the common folk. And for the first time since her death, Jon found himself smiling, remembering not just how Wylla died, but how gloriously she had lived.

Robb rode up beside him as White Harbor disappeared behind them. "You alright?" he asked quietly.

Jon looked at his brother, then back at the road ahead. "No," he answered honestly. "But I think... I think I will be. Eventually."

Robb nodded, understanding in his eyes. They rode in companionable silence for a while before Robb spoke again.

"She would have made quite the good-sister," he said softly. "Terrifying, but in the best way."

Jon's small chuckle caught him by surprise. "Gods, can you imagine her at Winterfell? She'd have had the entire household involved in some mad scheme within a week."

"The old gods themselves wouldn't have been safe from her plans," Robb grinned.

Chapter Text

Jon stood at the edge of the Godswood, the cold air biting through his cloak. Snow clung to the ancient heart tree. He leaned on his sword, the blade sunk slightly into the frost-hardened earth. His breath puffed in short, rhythmic bursts, matching the tumult of his thoughts.

"A monster," he whispered, the word hanging in the air like a ghost.

He'd replayed that day over and over in his mind, searching for answers in the hazy blur of blood, rage, and grief. He remembered the golden lightning, the surge of power, and the terrible aftermath. He remembered Wylla's lifeless body and the remains of the wildlings and deserters. But the in-between was a dark void. His body had moved, his strength unleashed, but his mind had not been his own.

The Titan. That's what Ymir had called it in his dreams. A being of immense power, tied to his bloodline, tied to... what? Eldia? What did that even mean? Jon had scoured Winterfell's library for answers, but the books spoke of nothing like what he'd become. No legends, no stories of men who turned into towering giants of flesh and fury.

The unknown gnawed at him like a hungry wolf. If only he'd understood what he was, what he could do, maybe Wylla would still be alive.

Jon clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. He could still see her face in his mind—laughing, teasing, alive. If he'd known then what he could become, would it have made a difference? She might have screamed at the sight of him, recoiled in fear, but she'd be alive. The thought of her calling him a monster cut deep, but not as deep as her absence.

He sighed, running a hand through his dark curls. "I can't change the past." 

But the future—that was something he could still grasp. If he could learn to control this power, to harness it, maybe he could protect his family. Maybe he could protect Arya, Robb, Rickon and even Sansa, despite her sharp tongue and constant airs.

But who could he trust?

The thought of telling someone churned his stomach. His father, was a man of honor and reason. But would he understand? Jon doubted it. Honor was a fine thing, but it was blind to the monstrous, to the impossible. And what if his father decided the risk was too great? What if he decided Jon was too dangerous to remain at Winterfell? Would he send Jon away, exiling him like a rabid dog?

And Arya—she'd always looked up to him, trusted him. But what would she see if she knew the truth? Would she still beg him to cook her favorite stew? Would she still call him her magical man, or would she start avoiding him, her wolfish curiosity turned to fear?

Jon didn't know. And that not knowing rooted him in silence.

He glanced back toward the keep, the faint glow of torchlight spilling from its windows. His family was in there, warm and safe, oblivious to the storm raging inside him. He turned away, his mismatched eyes falling on the heart tree. Its face, carved long ago, seemed to stare back at him, solemn and knowing.

"What do I do?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

The tree offered no answers, only the creak of its branches in the wind.

Jon closed his eyes, his mind slipping back to the dream. Ymir had been there. She'd spoken to him, her words as cryptic as the dreams themselves.

"The blood connects you to two worlds."

What worlds? And why him? He clenched his fists. She had given him nothing but riddles, leaving him to piece together the fragments of his shattered understanding.

Jon exhaled sharply, the breath clouding before him. He couldn't stay in this limbo forever. If he couldn't tell anyone, he'd have to find answers on his own. He needed to understand this Titan power—what it was, how to trigger it, and, most importantly, how to control it.

"If I don't," he muttered, "I'll never forgive myself."

Later

The training yard at Winterfell was alive with the clatter of wooden swords and the crunch of boots on packed snow. Jon and Robb circled each other. Robb's strikes came fast and sharp, his blue eyes gleaming with determination, but Jon flowed like water.

"Is that all you've got?" Jon teased, sidestepping a particularly aggressive lunge. His mismatched eyes—shimmered in the morning light as he danced just out of reach.

Robb grunted, adjusting his stance. "You're quicker than you used to be. Thought you liked fighting fair."

Jon smirked. "What's fair about getting hit?"

Arya's voice rang out from the sidelines, where she perched on a low wall, her legs swinging. "Come on, Robb! Hit him already! Or are you going to let Jon dance circles around you all day?"

Jon chuckled, dodging another strike with ease. Robb pressed forward, but Jon was too fast, slipping past each swing. Despite his growing strength, Jon held back, careful not to let the difference show. It was harder than he'd thought it would be. His body felt alive in a way it never had before, like there was something beneath his skin, waiting to be unleashed.

He parried Robb's next strike, spinning to the side and tapping him lightly on the back with the flat of his blade. "Point," Jon said, grinning.

Robb huffed, lowering his sword. "You've gotten cocky."

"No, just better," Jon replied, twirling the wooden sword in his hand. "You're the one getting slow."

Arya burst into laughter, clapping her hands. "He's right, Robb. You look like you're fighting with a sack of turnips."

Robb shot her a playful glare. "Why don't you come down here and try, then? See how you do against Jon."

Arya grinned, leaping off the wall. "I would, but I think Septa Mordane would tan my hide if I came back with bruises."

Jon lowered his sword, stepping back to let Robb catch his breath. His brother was strong, determined, but Jon could feel the difference now. Two weeks ago, he might have struggled to match Robb's speed and endurance, but now it was no contest. His body moved faster, reacted quicker, and hit harder than it ever had before.

But he couldn't let anyone see just how much he'd changed. Not fully.

A few days ago, Jon had caught himself lifting a barrel of grain as though it were nothing, a feat that should have taken two men to accomplish. He'd quickly set it down when one of the stable hands came by, brushing it off as a moment of adrenaline. Still, the whispers had started. Arya had even joked about him being half-giant, though her tone was lighthearted.

And then there was the matter of his wounds.

Jon winced as Robb lunged again, his blade catching him lightly on the forearm. It wasn't much—a scratch, really—but Jon immediately stepped back, cradling his arm.

"You all right?" Robb asked, lowering his sword.

"Fine," Jon said quickly, pulling his sleeve down to cover the injury. He couldn't let anyone see. 

Arya tilted her head, watching him. "You're not hurt, are you? Looked like Robb barely touched you."

"I'm fine," Jon repeated, his tone firmer. He turned to Robb, forcing a smile. "Let's call it for now. You're getting better, but you'll need more than that to beat me."

Robb snorted, rolling his shoulders. "One of these days, Jon. One of these days."

Arya hopped down, skipping over to Jon with her usual boundless energy. "When are you going to teach me those moves? Septa Mordane says sword fighting isn't proper for girls, but what does she know?"

Jon chuckled, ruffling her hair. "Maybe when you stop skipping your lessons."

She swatted his hand away, grinning. "You sound like Sansa."

The three of them made their way back toward the keep, the sounds of training fading behind them. Jon kept his arm tucked close, the faint warmth of the sealed cut still tingling beneath his sleeve. As they walked, Arya launched into a story about how she'd nearly bested one of the boys in the yard the other day.

But Jon's thoughts were elsewhere.

The strength, the speed, the healing—it's all connected to whatever happened in the forest that day. He could feel it, like a fire smoldering deep inside him, waiting to ignite. And while part of him was afraid of what that meant, another part—the part that remembered Wylla's lifeless body, the wildlings' cruel laughter—wanted to embrace it.

If I can learn to control it, maybe I can make sure nothing like that ever happens again. Maybe I can protect the people I love.

Maybe he could be something more than a bastard.

Midday

Jon sat at his desk, his mismatched eyes scanning the spines of the books piled before him. Dust motes floated in the dim light filtering through the window, settling on the well-worn tomes and scrolls. He rubbed his temple, frustration building. The histories and legends he'd combed through so far had offered little beyond the usual tales of the Age of Heroes and the creatures of the North.

There has to be something, he thought, his fingers tapping impatiently on the desk. Anything that explains what I've become.

His conversation with Maester Luwin played over in his mind. The old man had seemed genuinely perplexed when Jon asked about Titans.

' "Do you mean the Titan of Braavos?" Luwin had asked, tilting his head. "A statue, impressive to be sure, but hardly alive."

Jon had hesitated, not wanting to reveal too much. "No, Maester. I mean... the giants. The ones beyond the Wall."

Luwin had leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "Ah, the giants. Tales of their kind are often exaggerated, you know. It's said they once roamed in great numbers, but now? Rarely seen. Most believe them to be nothing more than legend."

Jon had pressed further. "How tall could they grow? The tallest, I mean."

Luwin had chuckled softly. "Seven meters, perhaps. Though even that seems improbable. The world is full of stories, Jon, and not all of them are true."

The answer had left Jon hollow, and he'd thanked the maester for his time. But as he turned to leave, Luwin had stopped him.

"If there's ever anything you wish to discuss, something you feel you cannot share with Lord Stark, my door is always open," Luwin had said, his voice gentle but probing. '

Jon had nodded and left, his chest tight with gratitude and anxiety. Now, staring at the useless stack of books, he felt no closer to understanding the truth. Every word seemed to mock him.

His brooding was abruptly interrupted by the sound of his chamber door flying open.

"Jon!" Arya's voice rang out, full of energy as always.

He turned to see her barreling into the room, her face alight with mischief. She was still in her practice clothes, dirt smudged across her cheek and her hair a tangled mess.

"Arya," Jon said, trying to mask his irritation. "Knocking exists, you know."

She ignored him, hopping onto his bed with a grin. "I'm starving. You're the best cook in the castle. Make me something."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "What happened to the kitchens?"

"Bread and stew again," Arya groaned, flopping onto her back dramatically. "It's like they've forgotten what real food tastes like."

Jon couldn't help but laugh at her theatrics. "I'm not your personal chef."

"You might as well be," she shot back, sitting up. "You're better at it than the cooks."

Jon shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "You think flattery's going to get you anywhere?"

Arya leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "It usually works on Sansa."

"Well, I'm not Sansa."

Arya crossed her arms, pouting. "Please, Jon? I'll help clean up afterward. Promise."

Jon sighed, pushing the books aside. He couldn't stay annoyed with her, not when she looked so genuinely hopeful. Besides, he could use the distraction.

"All right," he said, standing. "But you're helping me cook, not just cleaning up."

Arya jumped off the bed, her grin wide. "Deal."

As they made their way to the kitchen, Arya peppered him with questions about recipes and ingredients, her enthusiasm infectious. For a moment, the weight on Jon's shoulders lifted, and he found himself smiling.

Maybe answers can wait a little longer, he thought as Arya pulled him toward the pantry, already debating whether they should make honeycakes or roasted chicken.

Later

The smell of sizzling meat and roasting vegetables filled the small kitchen. Jon stood over the stove, stirring a pot of thick stew, his eyes flicking occasionally toward Arya, who was kneading dough at the counter. Flour dusted her nose and cheeks, but she didn't seem to care, her focus entirely on her task.

"You're actually helping for once," Jon said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I thought you hated being in here."

Arya smirked, not looking up. "Helping you is different. Sansa would faint at the thought of touching raw dough. She'd probably say it's unbecoming of a lady or something equally ridiculous."

Jon chuckled softly. "She's not wrong. You look like you've been wrestling a bag of flour."

Arya stuck her tongue out at him, then wiped her hands on her tunic, unconcerned by the mess. "It's better than sitting through one of Septa Mordane's lessons. At least this is useful."

Jon shook his head, returning to the stew. He couldn't deny it—Arya was nothing like Sansa. Where Sansa worried about etiquette and appearances, Arya embraced the opposite, throwing herself into anything that felt real, unfiltered, and honest. It was one of the things he loved most about her. She didn't care about titles or status, about being proper or refined. She was just Arya.

Arya glanced at him as she worked. "You feeling all right?"

Jon's stirring slowed, his brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean?"

"You haven't smiled much since you got back from White Harbor," Arya said.

Jon stiffened, gripping the spoon tighter. "I'm fine," he said dismissively. "Why are you asking?"

Arya shrugged, rolling out the dough. "Just noticed, is all. You've been... different."

"Drop it," Jon said, his voice firmer than he intended. 

"It's because of her, isn't it?" Arya asked after a moment, her voice quieter now. "That Wylla Manderly. She must've been quite a lady."

Jon's chest tightened at the name, the memory of Wylla's laughter and mischievous smile flashing through his mind. He was silent for a long moment, the crackling of the fire the only sound between them.

"She was," Jon said finally, his voice low. "The best one."

Arya didn't press further, and for that, Jon was grateful. She returned to her task, letting the conversation drift into silence. Jon focused on the food, adding spices and tasting the broth until it was just right. He plated the stew and the bread Arya had made, handing it to her with a nod.

"Here," he said. "Enjoy it while it's hot."

Arya grinned, grabbing the plate. "Thanks, Jon. You're the best." She darted out of the kitchen, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

As the door swung shut behind her, Jon leaned against the counter, his mind drifting back to the first time he'd realized something was... different about him.

'It had been in the kitchen, just like this. He'd been cutting meat, his focus slipping for just a moment. The knife had slipped too, slicing deep into his thumb. The pain had been sharp and immediate, and he'd stared in shock as blood welled up around the cut. But then, something strange had happened.

Steam had risen from the wound, hissing softly. Jon had watched, mesmerized, as the cut sealed itself before his eyes, the skin knitting together as though it had never been harmed. The blood dried almost instantly, leaving behind no trace of the injury. He had flexed his hand, stunned.

No one else had been in the kitchen that day, and Jon hadn't told anyone.'

Jon exhaled, the memory fading. What does it mean? Why me?

The healing, the Titan, the strength—it was all connected somehow. But the Titan was too big, too terrifying to think about controlling right now. His healing, though—maybe that was a place to start. If he could find a way to control it, to understand it, maybe he could begin to unravel the mystery of what he was.

He stared at his hand, turning it over in the firelight. The skin was flawless, unmarked. Small steps, he thought. Control this first. Then maybe the rest won't seem so impossible.

Night

Jon locked the wooden door of his chambers, his heart pounding against his chest. The candle's flame cast dancing shadows on the stone walls as he sat at the edge of his bed, the steel knife gleaming in the dim light. His mismatched eyes fixed on his left palm, studying the lines etched into his skin.

"This is madness," he whispered to himself, but he knew it had to be done. Understanding these abilities might mean the difference between life and death next time. The image of Wylla's lifeless body flashed through his mind, strengthening his resolve.

Taking a deep breath, Jon positioned the knife above his palm. His hand trembled slightly. "Just do it," he muttered through clenched teeth. The blade plunged into his flesh, and he bit back a scream, tasting copper as he bit his tongue.

Steam rose from the wound immediately, like a kettle left too long on the fire. Jon watched, fascinated and frustrated, as the flesh began knitting itself back together. "Stop," he commanded in a harsh whisper. "Stop healing."

The wound continued closing, defying his will. Within seconds, only blood remained as evidence of what he'd done. Jon wiped his palm clean with a cloth he'd prepared, studying the unmarked skin with a mixture of awe and frustration.

"Seven hells," he cursed, falling back onto his bed. "There has to be a way."

.

.

Over the next few weeks, Jon developed a routine. During the day, he'd train with Robb, attend to his duties, and try to act normal despite the growing bags under his eyes. At night, he'd lock himself away and experiment.

One particularly cold night, after a grueling day of training, Jon sat cross-legged on his bed, holding the now-familiar knife. 

"Small cut this time," he murmured, drawing the blade across his forearm. The steam rose slower than usual, and he noticed his hands were shaking from exhaustion. The wound, which would normally heal in seconds, took nearly half a minute to close.

A knock at his door made him jump. "Jon?" Robb's voice called out. "Are you awake?"

"One moment!" Jon hastily wiped away the blood and pulled down his sleeve. He opened the door to find his brother's concerned face.

"You look terrible," Robb said bluntly, stepping into the room. "Have you been sleeping at all?"

Jon forced a smile. "Just having trouble sleeping lately. Nothing to worry about."

"Is it about Wylla?" Robb's voice softened. "You know you can talk to me about it."

For a moment, Jon considered telling him everything. About the healing, about the gaps in his memory during the attack, about the strange dreams of the beautiful woman named Ymir. Instead, he shook his head. "I'm fine, truly. Just need time."

After Robb left, Jon resumed his experiments with renewed determination. Night after night, he documented his findings in a small journal hidden beneath his mattress:

"Day 15: Deeper wounds take longer to heal. Exhaustion slows the process significantly.

Day 22: When completely exhausted, healing stops entirely. Must rest to restore the ability.

Day 27: Managed to delay healing for three seconds before it continued. Progress?"

One night, about a month into his experiments, Jon sat examining his latest wound - a shallow cut across his palm. He was exhausted, having pushed himself harder than usual during sword practice.

"Stop," he whispered, focusing all his will on the wound. To his amazement, the steam slowed, then ceased entirely. The wound remained open for several seconds before the healing resumed.

"I did it," he breathed, excitement coursing through him. "I actually did it."

His triumph was short-lived as a wave of dizziness swept over him. He barely made it to his bed before collapsing.

The next morning, Arya found him at breakfast, poking at his porridge with obvious concern. "You look like you've been fighting giants," she said, sliding onto the bench beside him.

"Maybe I have," Jon replied with a weak smile. "In my dreams."

"Speaking of dreams," Arya lowered her voice, "I heard you talking in your sleep last night. Who's Ymir?"

Jon's spoon clattered against his bowl. "What?"

"I was passing by your room. You were saying something about Ymir and titans. What's a titan anyway?"

"Just nonsense from an old story," Jon lied smoothly, though his heart was racing. "Nothing important."

That night, Jon made a new entry in his journal:

"Day 31: Finally managed to stop healing temporarily. Requires intense concentration and comes at a great cost to my energy."

.

.

The fire in Jon's chamber crackled softly, the only sound in the otherwise still room. He sat at his desk, absentmindedly tracing the edge of his palm with a finger. His thoughts swirled as they often did these days, consumed by the mysteries of his healing and the larger, more terrifying question of what he had become.

Two months, he thought. Two months since White Harbor, one month since I first stopped the healing. Progress, but still not enough.

The corner of his mouth twitched in frustration. Stopping the healing had been a monumental step, but it was far from mastery. He could now hold it off for up to fifteen seconds—a significant improvement—but he was acutely aware of how much further he needed to go. And then there was the new discovery: the ability to focus his healing.

It had happened accidentally during one of his late-night experiments. Two cuts on his arm. Normally, they would both heal at the same pace, taking about twelve seconds. But that night, in his exhaustion, he had focused on one cut, willing it to heal faster, ignoring the other entirely. To his shock, the prioritized wound had closed in just two seconds, leaving the other to linger untouched until he let the healing resume.

It's like steering a river, he thought. You can't stop the flow, but you can guide it.

This newfound control gave him hope, but it also left him restless. The healing was one thing, but the transformation—the Titan—remained elusive.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his door creaking open. Jon looked up to see Robb stride in, his face lit with excitement.

"Whatever it is, no," Jon said preemptively, though he couldn't help but smile at his brother's enthusiasm.

"You haven't even heard what I'm going to say!" Robb protested, dropping onto Jon's bed with familiar ease.

"Let me guess - you've convinced father to let you lead the next hunting party?" Jon raised an eyebrow.

"Better. You, me, and Theon are going to Winter Town tonight."

Jon's smile faded. "Ah. So that's your grand plan? Take the brooding bastard to a brothel?"

"You need to stop isolating yourself," Robb said, his voice growing serious. "It's been two months, Jon. Wylla wouldn't-"

"Don't." Jon's voice carried an edge sharp enough to cut. "Don't tell me what she would or wouldn't want."

Robb sighed, running a hand through his auburn hair. "I'm not trying to... gods, Jon, I just want my brother back. The one who used to laugh, who'd help me play pranks on Theon, who'd sneak extra desserts to Arya."

Jon's expression softened slightly. He knew Robb meant well, but the thought of seeking comfort in a stranger's arms felt like a betrayal. Besides, how could he explain that he spent his nights cutting himself open to understand powers he couldn't even comprehend?

"I appreciate the thought, truly," Jon said carefully. "But I don't think a night at the brothel is what I need right now."

"Then what do you need?" Robb asked, frustration creeping into his voice. "Because whatever you're doing isn't working. You barely sleep, you hardly eat, and when you think no one's looking, you stare at your hands like they might turn into dragon claws."

Jon nearly flinched at how close that observation hit to the truth. If Robb only knew what those hands were capable of...

"I need time," Jon said finally. "And space to figure things out on my own."

"You've had two months of space," Robb countered. "Sometimes the best way to move forward is to stop thinking so much and just... live a little."

Jon looked at his brother's earnest face and felt a familiar pang of guilt. How many times had he wanted to tell Robb everything? About the healing, about the transformation he could barely remember, about the beautiful woman in his dreams who spoke of things he didn't understand?

"One drink," Jon found himself saying. "No brothel, just one drink at the tavern. Will that satisfy your brotherly duties?"

Robb's face lit up. "It's a start. Though Theon will be disappointed about the brothel part."

"Theon's always disappointed about something," Jon replied dryly, earning a laugh from his brother.

As Robb left to inform Theon of the change in plans. One drink wouldn't hurt, he supposed. And maybe, just maybe, an evening away from his obsessive practicing might help clear his head.

Chapter Text

The tavern's warmth was a welcome respite from the biting cold of the autumn night. Wooden beams creaked overhead as patrons laughed and drank, the smell of ale and roasted meat filling the air. Jon watched as Theon surveyed the room with obvious disappointment.

"You look like someone stole your favorite toy," Jon commented, taking a seat at one of the worn wooden tables.

Theon scowled. "Some of us actually know how to enjoy life, Snow. Unlike certain brooding bastards."

"Enough," Robb interjected, signaling for drinks. "We're here to have fun, remember?"

"Oh yes, because nothing says fun like watching Theon sulk about not getting his cock wet tonight," Jon said dryly, earning a laugh from Robb and a deeper scowl from Theon.

"At least I know what to do with mine," Theon started, but Robb's sharp look silenced him before he could finish the taunt. They all knew where that sentence was heading - a cruel joke about Wylla.

The serving girl brought three tankards of ale, and Jon took a long drink. The liquid was bitter and warm, nothing like the refined wines served at Winterfell, but it served its purpose. Soon, the tension began to ease as more drinks followed.

Jon took another drink from his tankard, watching Theon sulk over his ale. "You look like a fish that's just discovered water isn't all there is to the world."

"Better than looking like someone who just found out this world is not a fairy tale," Theon shot back, then winced at his own words. "I didn't mean-"

"Yes, you did," Jon cut him off coldly, his mismatched eyes hardening. "You always mean it, Greyjoy."

Robb intervened quickly, "Both of you, stop. We're here to drink, not fight."

"Tell that to your squid brother," Jon muttered, earning a glare from Theon.

"At least I know how to enjoy life, Snow. When's the last time you did anything besides brood in your room?" Theon leaned forward. "Some say you've taken up needlework, spending so much time alone."

"Some say you've taken up sheep, Greyjoy. Missing the Iron Islands that much?" Jon retorted, his lips twitching slightly.

Robb nearly choked on his drink, caught between laughter and exasperation. "Seven hells, can't you two just-"

"What? Be friends?" Theon snorted. "I'd rather kiss a White Walker."

"That can be arranged," Jon said dryly. "Though the White Walker might object to kissing a kraken."

"Boys," Robb raised his voice slightly, though he was fighting back a smile. "Another round?"

"If it'll help me forget I'm sharing a table with him," Theon jerked his thumb toward Jon, "make it two."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Careful, Greyjoy. Wouldn't want you getting too drunk and trying to raid the neighbor's chicken coop again."

"At least I don't sing to my sword when I think no one's watching," Theon smirked at Jon.

"Well, at least I don't name my cock like some people," Jon looked pointedly at Theon.

Theon spluttered into his drink while Robb roared with laughter. "I told you that in confidence!" Theon hissed at Robb.

"No, you told everyone in the great hall after six cups of wine," Robb corrected him, wiping tears from his eyes.

The three fell into a comfortable rhythm of jabs and jokes, the alcohol loosening their tongues and easing the usual tensions. Jon found himself actually enjoying Theon's outrageous stories about his adventures in the Iron Islands, while Robb kept them supplied with drinks and occasional peacekeeping interventions.

"Seven hells," Robb exclaimed after his fourth ale, his cheeks flushed. "Look at you two - actually talking without trying to kill each other!"

Jon realized with surprise that he was indeed engaged in an almost friendly conversation with Theon about archery techniques. Even more surprising was how clear-headed he felt despite matching the others drink for drink.

Word spread quickly through the tavern that Robb Stark himself was present. Soon, curious locals surrounded their table, each eager to share a drink with the heir to Winterfell. Robb handled the attention with natural charm.

"To Robb Stark!" someone shouted, raising a tankard. 

The night took a different turn when three women entered the tavern, their presence immediately drawing every eye in the room. Their dresses cut just low enough to tantalize while maintaining a veneer of propriety.

The first, a redhead with bright green eyes, made straight for Theon. Within moments, she was perched on his lap, giggling at his increasingly outrageous boasts about his prowess with a bow.

The second, a brunette with a knowing smile, chose Robb. She played her part well, acting suitably impressed when others told her she was sitting with the future Lord of Winterfell.

The third approached Jon. She was arguably the most beautiful of the three, with long black hair and eyes the color of honey. Something in her face reminded him painfully of Wylla, though they looked nothing alike.

"Well," she purred, running a finger along his jaw, "aren't you something special? Those eyes... I've never seen anything like them."

"I'm sure you say that to all the men," Jon replied flatly, though he couldn't help but notice how her touch sent an unexpected shiver down his spine.

She laughed, a genuine sound that surprised him. "Usually, yes. But these?" She leaned closer, studying his mismatched eyes. "Purple and green... like something from an old tale. You're truly unique, my brooding warrior."

Before Jon could react, she pressed her lips to his cheek, the kiss lingering longer than necessary. Her perfume surrounded him, sweet and intoxicating, but all it did was remind him of wildflowers in White Harbor, of Wylla's laugh as she dragged him through the woods on another adventure.

"You're not Wylla," he whispered, more to himself than to her, as she moved to kiss his lips.

He pulled back gently but firmly. "You're very beautiful," he said, seeing the flash of disappointment in her eyes, "but I can't."

"Can't? Or won't?" she asked, studying his face with newfound interest.

"Both," Jon replied simply. "I'm sorry."

Jon watched her move away, joining a group of merchants at another table. Across from him, Theon was making a fool of himself, trying to impress his companion with increasingly unlikely tales of his seafaring adventures. Robb caught Jon's eye and raised an eyebrow in question, but Jon just shook his head slightly.

The night continued, filled with laughter and song, but Jon's thoughts kept drifting. To Wylla, to his strange powers, to the mysteries that seemed to multiply with each passing day. Still, he had to admit that Robb had been right about one thing - it felt good to be among the living again, even if only for one night.

As the hour grew late and Robb began showing signs of serious inebriation, Jon knew it was time to head back. He was surprised to find himself still steady on his feet, another strange quirk he'd have to add to his growing list of uncertainties.

"Come on," he said, helping Robb to his feet while Theon struggled to say goodbye to his new friend. "Father will have our heads if we're not back before dawn."

Looking at his brother's flushed face and Theon's exaggerated swagger, Jon couldn't help but smile. For all their differences and the secrets that now stood between them, these moments of normalcy were precious in their own way.

Tomorrow

Jon opened his eyes to early morning light filtering through his window. For a moment, he lay still, expecting the pounding headache and nausea that should follow a night of heavy drinking. Instead, he felt remarkably clear-headed, almost unnaturally so.

Was this why the ale hadn't affected him like it had Robb and Theon? Another peculiarity to add to his growing list of inhuman traits.

"One mystery at a time," he muttered, pushing himself out of bed. 

The great hall was relatively empty when Jon arrived. Arya sat at the table, pushing porridge around her bowl while Robb looked like death warmed over, his head resting in his hands.

"Good morning," Jon said, perhaps a bit too cheerfully, earning a groan from his brother.

"Not so loud," Robb mumbled, wincing at the sound of his own voice.

Arya perked up at Jon's arrival. "You went to Winter Town last night! Did you fight anyone? Did you see any criminals? Did you-"

"Arya," Robb pleaded, "mercy."

Jon couldn't help but smile as he sat down, reaching for some bread and honey. "No fights, no criminals. Just your brother making a fool of himself."

"Which one?" Arya asked innocently.

"Both," Jon replied pointing at himself as well, then glanced around the hall. "Speaking of fools, where's Theon?"

Robb managed to lift his head slightly, his eyes bloodshot. "Still in bed. Said something about praying for death before pulling the covers over his head. He said he wished earth would just swallow him whole."

"The earth would spit him right back out," Jon said dryly. "Probably taste too much like fish."

Arya giggled while Robb attempted a smile that looked more like a grimace. "You seem... surprisingly well," Robb observed, studying Jon's face. "How much did you drink last night?"

"Same as you," Jon said carefully, focusing on his bread. Another lie to add to the growing pile.

"Impossible," Robb shook his head, immediately regretting the motion. "Look at me, go look at Theon. You should be as miserable as we are."

"Maybe I can just hold my liquor better than a pampered heir to Winterfell," Jon teased, deflecting the question.

Arya leaned forward, her gray eyes bright with curiosity. "Did you really turn down a pretty lady last night? That's what I heard the servants saying."

Jon's smile faded slightly. "You shouldn't listen to servants' gossip, little sister."

"But did you? Was she beautiful? Was she a princess in disguise?"

"She was just a woman in a tavern," Jon said quietly, memories of Wylla threatening to surface. "And yes, I turned her down."

"Because of Wylla?" Arya asked softly, showing that uncanny perception that sometimes made Jon wonder if she could read minds.

Robb looked up sharply, despite his hangover. The great hall seemed to grow quieter, as if the very air was holding its breath.

"Yes," Jon admitted after a moment. "Because of Wylla."

Arya reached across the table and placed her small hand over his. "She would want you to be happy, you know."

Jon looked at his little sister, wondering when she had grown so wise. "Sometimes being happy isn't as simple as we'd like it to be."

"Like when you lock yourself in your room every night?" Arya asked innocently, but her eyes were shrewd. "What do you do in there?"

Jon felt Robb's curious gaze join Arya's. He forced a smile. "Nothing interesting. Just thinking, mostly."

"You think too much," Robb grumbled, returning to his previous position with his head in his hands. "That's your problem."

"And you think too little," Jon countered, grateful for the chance to shift the conversation. "As evidenced by your current state."

"At least I know how to have fun," Robb mumbled into his hands.

"Is that what you call trying to convince the innkeeper's cat it was actually a small lion?" Jon asked, making Arya burst into laughter.

"You did what?" she demanded, eyes wide with delight.

"I did no such thing," Robb protested weakly. "Did I?"

"Oh, you did," Jon assured him. "You also tried to knight it. 'Ser Whiskers of House Purrington,' I believe you called it."

Arya was nearly falling off her bench with laughter now, while Robb looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. Jon watched them both, feeling a genuine smile spread across his face. These moments, these simple interactions with his siblings, helped keep the darker thoughts at bay.

Later

Jon climbed the steps to his father's solar, his mind racing through possible reasons for the summons. Had someone noticed his nightly activities? Had Robb mentioned something about his strange resistance to alcohol?

The heavy wooden door creaked as he entered. Lord Eddard Stark sat behind his desk, dark gray eyes studying his son with a familiar mixture of affection and concern.

"Sit, Jon," his father gestured to the chair across from him. Jon obeyed, noting the way his father seemed to be choosing his words carefully.

"Are you feeling better?" Ned finally asked.

Jon paused, considering the layers in that simple question. Better than when he first returned from White Harbor, hollow-eyed and haunted? Better than when he spent every waking moment trying to understand the strange power within him? Better than when he couldn't close his eyes without seeing Wylla's face?

"I'm... managing," he answered honestly, if not completely.

Ned nodded, accepting the answer for what it was. "I've been thinking about your future."

"My future?" Jon's mismatched eyes narrowed slightly. "What brought this on?"

His father leaned back in his chair, his face taking on that thoughtful expression he wore when making important decisions. "What happened in White Harbor was tragic, but it's made me realize something. You deserve more from this world, Jon."

The words hit Jon like a slap in the face. He stared at his father, trying to process what he was hearing. "I don't understand."

"Being a bastard," Ned said carefully, "has always limited your options. Or rather, we've allowed it to limit your options. While it's true there are no castles for you in the North..." He paused, making sure Jon was following. "That doesn't mean all your roads must lead to the Wall."

Jon shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "Where else could I go? What else could I do? I'm a Snow."

"You're also one of the finest swordsmen of your age I've ever seen," Ned countered. "Better than Robb, though don't tell him I said that." A rare smile crossed his face. "If you wished to stay in Winterfell, you could train as a Master at Arms. Ser Rodrik won't be able to serve forever, and he speaks highly of your abilities."

Jon hadn't considered that possibility. The thought of staying in Winterfell, teaching future generations of Starks, had its appeal. But something in his father's tone suggested there was more.

"But?" Jon prompted.

"But if you don't want to spend your entire life in Winterfell," Ned continued, "there are other paths. The Free Cities are always looking for skilled swordsmen. The Citadel accepts bastards, though I suspect you'd find their lifestyle too... sedentary. Even some of the lesser houses in the South might welcome a Northern-trained warrior into their service."

Jon's mind reeled with possibilities he'd never allowed himself to consider. All his life, he'd seen the Wall as his inevitable destination, a place where birth didn't matter. But now...

"Why are you telling me this now?" he asked.

Ned's expression grew more serious. "Because I've watched you these past two months, Jon. You've changed. Not just from grief, though that's part of it. There's something... different about you. Something that makes me think you might need to find your own path, away from the shadows of Winterfell."

Jon felt his heart rate increase. Had his father noticed something? Had he seen...?

"Also," Ned added, interrupting Jon's spiraling thoughts, "your Uncle Benjen is coming to Winterfell."

"Uncle Benjen?" Jon latched onto the change of subject. "When?"

"Within the fortnight. He's bringing news from the Wall, and..." Ned hesitated. "He's expressed interest in speaking with you."

Jon leaned forward. "About joining the Watch?"

"Perhaps," Ned said carefully. "Or perhaps about other matters. Benjen has... perspectives on life's choices that I think you might benefit from hearing."

They sat in silence for a moment, Jon's mind churning with everything his father had said. The possibility of a life beyond the Wall, beyond Winterfell even, seemed simultaneously liberating and terrifying. Especially now, with his unexplained abilities to consider.

"Father," Jon started, then stopped, unsure how to continue. Part of him wanted to confess everything - the healing, the gaps in his memory, the strange dreams. But the words wouldn't come.

"Yes?" Ned prompted gently.

"Thank you," Jon said instead. "For... for seeing more in me than just a bastard."

Ned's eyes softened. "You've always been more than that, Jon. Perhaps it's time the world saw it too." He paused, then added, "Whatever path you choose, know that you will always have a home here. Being a Snow doesn't change that you're my blood."

Jon nodded, his throat tight with emotion. As he stood to leave, his father's voice stopped him at the door.

"Jon? Whatever's troubling you, whatever's changed... you can talk to me about it. You know that, don't you?"

For a moment, Jon was tempted. But the memory of steam rising from healing wounds, of his inexplicable transformation in the woods, held him back. "I know," he said softly, and left the solar.

As he descended the stairs, his mind raced with new possibilities. A Master at Arms in Winterfell? A sellsword in the Free Cities? Or something else entirely? For the first time since discovering his strange abilities, Jon wondered if they might be more than just a curse.

But first, he needed to speak with Uncle Benjen. Something in his father's tone suggested there was more to this visit than a simple family reunion. And after two months of questions without answers, Jon was ready to grasp at any thread that might lead to understanding.

Two Weeks Later

The morning air was crisp, carrying the promise of another cold day. Jon stood with his siblings in the courtyard. For 7 days now, he had stopped experimenting. So far, he could stop his healing and focus on one wound at a time, but there was nothing beyond that. Everything he had learned so far about his abilities didn't explain how he could turn into a Titan.

Lady Catelyn's glare burned into the back of his head. Jon had long since mastered the art of pretending not to notice; there was no point in giving her any satisfaction.

"Stop fidgeting," Arya whispered beside him, though she was bouncing on her toes with excitement.

"I'm not fidgeting," Jon whispered back, realizing he was indeed adjusting his sword belt for the third time.

"Are too. Is it because of Uncle Benjen? Or because you're trying not to think about whatever you were doing in your room last night?"

Jon stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"I heard noises. Were you practicing cooking again? Can you make those honey cakes tomorrow?"

Jon relaxed slightly. "Maybe. If you promise to stop eavesdropping at my door."

"I wasn't eavesdropping! I was... strategically gathering information."

"Who taught you that phrase?"

"Theon. He says it's what clever people call spying."

"Since when is Theon clever?"

Their whispered conversation was interrupted by the sound of hooves on cobblestones. Six riders in black entered the courtyard, their cloaks billowing in the wind. Jon recognized his uncle immediately - Benjen Stark had the same long face as his father, though his features were sharper, more weathered by the harsh conditions at the Wall.

"Ned!" Benjen called out, dismounting with the ease of a man half his age. The brothers embraced, and Jon noticed how his father seemed to relax slightly in his brother's presence.

"You look well, Ben," Ned said, stepping back to study his brother's face.

"The Wall agrees with me," Benjen grinned, then turned to Lady Catelyn. "My lady, you grow more beautiful each time I visit."

"You grow more silver-tongued, goodbrother," Catelyn replied with a small smile, though Jon noticed how quickly her eyes darted to him and away again.

Benjen moved down the line of Stark children. "Robb, you've grown. Soon you'll be taller than your father." He ruffled Sansa's hair, making her protest. "A proper lady now, I see." To Arya: "Still causing trouble?" Which earned him a proud grin. He lifted Bran up, spinning him around. "Getting too heavy for this!" And finally crouched to Rickon's level. "And who might this wild thing be?"

"I'm Rickon!" the youngest Stark declared. "I'm four!"

"Four? Impossible. You were just born yesterday!"

Finally, Benjen turned to Jon, and his smile softened. "Come here, my boy." He pulled Jon into a tight embrace, and Jon caught a whiff of leather, pine, and something colder - the smell of the Wall itself, perhaps.

"It's good to see you, Uncle Benjen," Jon said as they separated.

Benjen studied him intently, and Jon wondered if his uncle could see the changes in him - not just the physical ones.

"Those eyes of yours," Benjen mused. "They seem different somehow. Brighter."

Jon tensed slightly. "Just the light, probably."

"Hmm." Benjen's gaze lingered a moment longer before he turned to address the whole family. "I bring news from the Wall, but first, I wouldn't say no to some of that famous Winterfell ale. The ride was long, and my throat is as dry as a septon's sermons."

"Of course," Ned gestured toward the great hall. "We have much to discuss."

As they moved inside, Benjen fell into step beside Jon. "On your father's letters, he said you had an... eventful few months."

Jon's chest tightened. "You could say that."

"We'll talk later," Benjen said quietly. "There are questions I need to ask."

Before Jon could respond, Arya tugged at Benjen's cloak. "Did you fight any wildlings? Did you see any giants? Jon killed a giant bear, did you hear about that?"

"A giant bear?" Benjen raised an eyebrow at Jon. "No, I hadn't heard that tale."

"It wasn't that impressive," Jon mumbled.

"Not impressive?" Robb joined in. "The spear went straight through its neck! Even Father said he'd never seen anything like it."

"Speaking of impressive things," Arya continued, "Jon can cook now! He makes the best honey cakes in Winterfell."

"A warrior and a cook?" Benjen laughed. "My, my, nephew. You've been busy."

"He sings too!" Arya added helpfully. "But only when he thinks no one's listening."

"Arya!" Jon felt his face heat up.

"What? It's true! I heard you yesterday. What was that song about the maiden and the-"

"Look!" Jon interrupted desperately. "Why don't you go annoy Septa Mordana."

Benjen watched the exchange with obvious amusement. "Singing, cooking, and slaying bears. You've changed, Jon Snow."

You have no idea, Jon thought, but said only, "We all change, Uncle."

"Indeed we do," Benjen's voice turned serious. "Indeed we do." He clapped Jon on the shoulder. "Come find me after the feast tonight. We have much to discuss, you and I."

As his uncle walked ahead to join Ned, Jon couldn't shake the feeling that this visit would bring more changes.

Chapter Text

Jon sat at the lower end of the high table, watching his uncle and father discuss matters of the Wall. Steam rose from the bowls of hot stew before them, forgotten as the conversation grew more serious.

"The wildling raids are becoming more frequent," Benjen was saying, his voice carrying the weight of experience. "Three villages attacked in the past month alone."

"How many men were lost?" Ned asked, his face grim.

"Five rangers. Good men, all of them." Benjen took a long drink from his cup. "The wildlings are getting bolder, better organized."

"Savages," Jon muttered, his hand tightening around his spoon as memories of steel against Wylla's throat flashed through his mind. "What else can we expect from them?"

Benjen's sharp eyes found Jon's mismatched ones, studying him with an unreadable expression before turning to Robb. "And how goes your training, nephew? Still favoring your right side too much?"

"Ser Rodrik says I'm improving," Robb answered proudly. "Though Jon still beats me more often than not."

"Uncle Benjen!" Arya interrupted, practically bouncing in her seat. "Did you bring me anything from beyond the Wall?"

"Arya," Lady Catelyn warned, but Benjen laughed.

"And what would a lady want from such a cold, harsh place?"

"I'm not a lady," Arya declared. "And I want a knife. Like the ones your rangers carry."

"Absolutely not," Catelyn said firmly.

"But Mother-"

"Your mother's right," Ned added, though Jon noticed the slight twitch of amusement in his father's beard.

Arya turned her best pleading look on Benjen. "Please, Uncle? Just a small one?"

"I'm afraid I value my head too much to go against your parents' wishes," Benjen said diplomatically. "Though perhaps a story about the Wall would suffice?"

"Is it true there are giants beyond the Wall?" Bran asked, eyes wide with wonder.

"Bran," Sansa sighed, "giants aren't real. They're just stories."

"The world is full of mysteries, Lady Sansa," Benjen replied carefully. "Even after all my years at the Wall, I wouldn't claim to know all its secrets." 

"Will you tell us about the grumpkins and snarks too? Will you tell us about your adventures?" Sansa asked, trying to sound properly ladylike despite her obvious interest.

"Speaking of adventures," Benjen turned to Jon, "what have you been up to, nephew? Your father mentions you've been keeping to yourself lately."

Jon tensed slightly, imagining how his uncle would react if he revealed the truth about his healing, about the steam that rose from his wounds, about the gaps in his memory. "Not much, uncle."

"Not much?" Robb interjected. "Tell him about White Harbor! About the bear!"

"Bear?" Benjen raised an eyebrow.

"It was nothing special," Jon mumbled.

"Nothing special?" Robb shook his head. "Uncle, this bear was enormous. It had already wounded five of our men when Jon picked up a spear and threw it clean through its neck. One throw! Even Father said he'd never seen anything like it."

"Is that so?" Benjen studied Jon with renewed interest, and Jon noticed his uncle looking concerned at the mention of this giant bear. "You must have had quite the adventure in White Harbor."

Jon thought of Wylla's laugh, of her hand in his, of her final moments. "I did," he said softly. "I met someone there. A lady named Wylla Manderly."

The table grew quieter at the mention of her name. Jon forced himself to continue, determined not to let her memory become a weight. "She was beautiful and good. She loved exploring the woods around White Harbor, always wanting to discover something new."

Benjen caught the past tense, his expression softening with understanding. "She sounds remarkable."

"She was," Jon agreed, meeting his uncle's gaze steadily.

Benjen held his eyes for a moment longer before turning to Ned. "Speaking of travels," Benjen said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, "any thoughts of heading South again, Ned?"

Before Ned could answer, Sansa's eyes lit up. "Could we visit Highgarden, Father? I've heard the gardens there are full of golden roses, and they have singers performing day and night!"

"Highgarden?" Ned's expression was caught between amusement and exasperation. "That's half a continent away, Sansa. We can't simply appear at the Tyrells' doorstep unannounced."

"But Father-"

"What about King's Landing?" Bran interrupted, nearly knocking over his cup in excitement. "I want to see the Kingsguard! Ser Barristan the Bold must have so many stories!"

"The Kingslayer is there too," Robb pointed out, causing their father's smile to fade slightly.

"Ser Jaime," Catelyn corrected automatically, though without much conviction.

"But Ser Barristan!" Bran persisted, undeterred. "They say he's the greatest knight who ever lived! Father, did you see him fight during the rebellion?"

"I did," Ned answered carefully. "He is indeed a remarkable swordsman."

"When I'm older, I'll be just like him," Bran declared proudly. "I'll wear a white cloak and protect the king!"

Jon noticed Lady Catelyn's hand tighten around her fork, but she said nothing.

Arya, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, spoke up. "I'd rather go beyond the Wall with Uncle Benjen. That's where the real adventures are!"

"Adventure?" Catelyn's voice was sharp. "The lands beyond the Wall are no place for a lady."

"Then it's a good thing I'm not a lady," Arya retorted, causing Benjen to choke on his ale as he tried to suppress a laugh.

"We are of the North," Ned said firmly. "Our place is here, not gallivanting across the Seven Kingdoms."

"Oh? Afraid you'll melt into a puddle if you venture too far south, brother?" Benjen teased. "I seem to recall a young Ned who quite enjoyed his time in the Vale."

"That was different," Ned protested, though a slight smile played at his lips. "I was fostered there."

"And made lifelong friends," Benjen added meaningfully. "There's nothing wrong with enjoying what the South has to offer, so long as you remember where you come from."

"The South has its charms," Lady Catelyn interjected, "but winter is coming. The Starks must be in Winterfell."

"Winter is always coming," Benjen chuckled. "Doesn't mean we can't have a little adventure before the snows fall. What do you think, Jon? Wouldn't you like to see more of the realm?"

Jon, caught off guard by the question, considered carefully. "I think... I think there's much to learn beyond our walls. But home will always be here."

"Well said," Benjen nodded approvingly. "Though I notice you didn't actually answer the question."

"Perhaps in time," Ned conceded. "For now, we have duties here. The harvest feast approaches, and-"

"And you're changing the subject," Benjen interrupted with a grin. "Some things never change, eh, little brother?"

"I am the Lord of Winterfell now, Ben. I can't just-"

"Can't just live a little? Gods, Ned, you sound older than Old Nan sometimes."

The children tried to hide their snickers as their father's face reddened slightly.

"I do not-"

"'We are of the North,'" Benjen mimicked in an exaggerated solemn tone. "'Our place is here, brooding in the snow and never having any fun.'"

Even Lady Catelyn had to hide a smile at that.

"When did you become such a troublemaker?" Ned demanded, though his eyes sparkled with amusement.

"Someone has to keep you from turning completely to stone, brother." Benjen winked at his nieces and nephews. "It's a hard job, but I consider it my sacred duty."

The tension around the table dissolved into laughter, and even Jon found himself smiling. For a moment, watching his family's joy, he could almost forget the weight of his secrets, the gaps in his memory, and the mysterious power that lurked beneath his skin.

Almost.

Benjen 

The door to Ned's solar closed with a solid thunk, and Benjen immediately made himself comfortable in one of the chairs, stretching his legs out. "You know, brother, it wouldn't kill you to travel South once in a while. Take the children to a tourney, let them see the realm."

"Our place is here," Ned's response was automatic as he poured them both cups of ale. "The last time Starks went South..." He left the sentence hanging.

Benjen's smile faded. "So many years, Ned, yet you speak of it as if it were yesterday."

"Some wounds never truly heal." Ned handed his brother a cup and sat behind his desk. "But that's not why I asked you here."

"No?" Benjen took a long drink. "Then why did you send that urgent message to the Wall? What's so important that it couldn't wait for my regular visit?"

"It's about Jon."

Benjen sat up straighter, his easy manner vanishing. "What's wrong? Is he ill?"

"No, nothing like that. He's never ill, you know that." Ned rubbed his temples. "You've heard about what happened at White Harbor?"

"Only rumors."

"Lady Wylla Manderly," Ned confirmed. "Jon and she. They fell in love during our stay there. She was killed before his eyes by wildlings and deserters."

"Gods," Benjen muttered. "How is he handling it?"

"Better now. At first, he withdrew completely. Blamed himself. But he's starting to come out of it." Ned paused, choosing his next words carefully. "But there's something else. Something he's hiding."

Benjen laughed softly. "He's a young man, Ned. They all have their secrets."

"This is different." Ned leaned forward. "Do you remember how Arya used to call him 'magical man' when she was smaller?"

"Children's tales."

"Perhaps. But I've noticed things over the years. He never seems to get hurt. Never gets sick. And then there's what happened at White Harbor..."

"What about it?"

"We found thirty-three bodies, Ben. Thirty-three armed men, they were all killed, three of them were torn apart as if by some great beast. And there were footprints..."

"Footprints?"

"Massive ones. Bigger than any giant I've ever heard of."

Benjen's eyebrows shot up. "Giants? This far south? That's impossible."

"I know what I saw," Ned insisted. "The prints were larger than Lord Manderly himself. And the way those men died..." He shook his head. "No normal man could have done that."

"Are you suggesting," Benjen said slowly, "that Jon somehow... what? Turned into some giant creature and killed them all?"

"It sounds mad when you say it like that."

"Because it is mad, Ned." Benjen set his cup down. "Even if such a thing were possible, which it isn't, why would it matter? Jon's alive. The men who killed his lady love are dead. Isn't that enough?"

"You didn't see the bodies, Ben. Even Arthur Dayne in his prime couldn't have killed thirty-three men alone." Ned's voice dropped lower. "Something happened that day, something Jon won't speak of."

"And you thought I might get it out of him?"

"He trusts you. Always has."

Benjen studied his brother's face. "There's something else. Something you're not telling me."

Ned was silent for a long moment. "Sometimes... sometimes I look at him, and I see..."

"See what?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

"Clearly it does, or I wouldn't be here." Benjen leaned forward. "Why did you really call me here, Ned? What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid," Ned protested. "I'm concerned. If Jon does have some sort of... ability, he needs guidance. Someone he can trust. Someone who understands what it means to keep certain truths hidden."

Understanding dawned on Benjen's face. "Ah. Now we come to it."

"He's a good lad, Ben. Whatever happened that day, whatever he might be capable of, his heart is true. But he's carrying this burden alone, and I..." Ned's voice cracked slightly. "I don't know how to help him."

"So you want me to what? Take him to the Wall? Where secrets can be buried in the snow? That's never happening, Lyanna would revive herself just to kill me, and you of course."

"I want you to talk to him. Really talk to him. He might tell you things he won't tell me."

Benjen was quiet for a moment, swirling the ale in his cup. "And if he does? If he tells me something... extraordinary?"

"Then we'll deal with it. Together. As family."

"Family," Benjen repeated softly. "Always comes back to family with you, doesn't it?"

"What else is there?"

Benjen finished his ale and stood. "I'll talk to him. But Ned?" He waited until his brother met his eyes. "Whatever Jon might be hiding, remember that he's still the same boy who follows Arya around the castle and sings for her nameday. Don't let your fears about the past cloud how you see him now."

Ned nodded slowly. "Just... help him, Ben. Whatever the truth is."

"I will," Benjen promised. "After all, what are uncles for if not to help their nephews with their impossible secrets?" Benjen was about to bolt out of the solar when he remembered something that he had wanted to talk with his brother with. 

"There's something else I need to tell you," Benjen said, settling back into his chair. "Now that we're alone."

"More problems at the wall?"

"No, this is... different." Benjen leaned forward, lowering his voice. "There have been strange reports beyond the Wall."

Ned waved his hand dismissively. "There are always strange reports beyond the Wall. Grumpkins and snarks, if we believed every tale."

"Three months ago, I rode out with a ranging party," Benjen continued, ignoring his brother's skepticism. "We encountered an elk."

"An elk?" Ned's brow furrowed. "What's strange about that?"

"This one was the size of three horses put together." Benjen's voice was deadly serious. "And before you question my sanity, I wasn't drunk, and the Lord Commander himself was there to witness it."

Ned studied his brother's face for any sign of jesting. Finding none, he asked, "Did it attack?"

"That's the oddest part. It just... looked at us. Studied us, almost. Then walked away as if we weren't worth its time." Benjen took another drink. "Speaking of large beasts, tell me about this bear Jon killed."

Ned's face grew troubled. "I've never seen its like. Three meters tall, even on all fours. It shouldn't have been possible, and yet..."

"And yet Jon killed it with a single spear throw," Benjen finished. "First giant elk, then massive bears. What do you think is happening, brother?"

"I don't know," Ned admitted. 

"Well, hopefully, we won't encounter any dragons while we're at it," Benjen attempted to joke.

Ned's face darkened. "Don't. The realm has seen enough of dragons. The Dance of Dragons taught us that much."

"I meant it in jest."

"Some things aren't meant for jesting." Ned stood and walked to the window, staring out at the gathering dusk. "First these creatures, then whatever happened with Jon in White Harbor... Something is stirring, Ben. I can feel it in my bones."

"Like father used to say before a hard winter?"

"Worse." Ned turned back to his brother. "At least with winter, we know what to expect. But this? Giant elk, massive bears, mysterious footprints, and thirty-three dead men? What are we supposed to make of that?"

Benjen rose and joined his brother at the window. "Perhaps some mysteries are better left unsolved."

"And if they don't stay mysteries? If whatever is happening continues to grow?"

"Then we all sail to Essos and enjoy the rest of our lives as pirates," Benjen japed, earning an annoyed look from his brother.

Jon Snow

The sound of splintering wood echoed through the training yard as Jon's sword connected with the practice dummy. Benjen watched from the shadows, his eyebrows rising as one of the dummy's arms went flying across the yard. The force behind the blow seemed almost inhuman.

"That poor dummy must have gravely offended you," Benjen called out, clearing his throat as he walked out of his hiding and now approaching his nephew.

Jon spun around, his mismatched eyes brightening at the sight of his uncle. "Uncle Benjen!" He dropped the practice sword and embraced him.

"What brings you here?" Jon asked, pulling back. "Shouldn't you be discussing important matters with Father?"

"Can't spend all my time with your father," Benjen grinned. "Besides, some nephews are worth seeking out. Though I must say, your swordwork has... improved considerably."

Jon glanced at the destroyed dummy, something flickering in his eyes. "Just been practicing more."

"Are you cold, uncle?" Jon asked, noticing Benjen's thin cloak.

Benjen barked out a laugh. "Cold? Boy, compared to the Wall, Winterfell is as warm as the Water Gardens of Dorne. Speaking of which..." He studied Jon's face carefully. "Still dreaming of taking the black?"

"What's it really like there?" Jon asked eagerly. "At the Wall?"

Benjen's expression hardened slightly. "You want the pretty version or the truth?"

"The truth."

"It's a place of thieves, rapers, and murderers," Benjen said bluntly. "Men who chose the Wall over losing their heads or worse. Finding someone you can trust not to stick a knife in your back is like finding snow in Dorne."

Jon's enthusiasm dimmed, but he pressed on. "There must be some good men there. Men of honor."

"Some," Benjen conceded. "Few enough to count on one hand." He gestured toward the Godswood. "Walk with me."

They moved through the castle grounds, their boots crunching on the fresh snow. 

"You still planning to join?" Benjen asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Yes," Jon replied without hesitation.

Benjen sighed deeply. "There's a whole world out there, Jon. The Wall doesn't have to be your destiny."

"I can be of use there," Jon insisted, his words tumbling out faster. "I'm good with a sword - better than most. I can read and write, I can-"

"Stop." Benjen held up a hand. "Someone like you could climb much higher than the Wall, Jon. The South doesn't care as much about names when you prove your worth. I've seen lesser men rise to great heights."

They entered the Godswood proper now, the ancient heart tree watching them with its carved face.

"What else is there for me?" Jon asked quietly. "What other paths are open to a bastard?"

"Any path you're willing to forge," Benjen replied. "I've seen you fight. That strength of yours... it's not normal, is it?"

Jon tensed slightly. "I don't know what you mean."

"No?" Benjen gestured back toward the training yard. "That dummy didn't destroy itself. And that bear in White Harbor. One spear throw?"

"I got lucky," Jon mumbled.

"Luck doesn't explain thirty-three dead men," Benjen said softly.

Jon's head snapped up, his green eye seeming to gleam in the dim light. "What?"

"Your father is worried about you," Benjen continued. "Not afraid, mind you. Just concerned. He thinks you're carrying some burden alone."

"I..." Jon started, then stopped, looking lost.

"Whatever happened that day in White Harbor," Benjen placed a hand on Jon's shoulder, "whatever you're capable of... it doesn't have to be a curse. It could be a gift, if used wisely."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Jon whispered, but there was a tremor in his voice.

"Perhaps not," Benjen agreed. "But I know what it's like to carry secrets. To feel different. The Wall isn't an escape, Jon. It's just another prison, if you're running from yourself."

They stood in silence before the heart tree, its red eyes seemingly watching their exchange with ancient wisdom.

"What would you have me do?" Jon finally asked.

"Live," Benjen replied simply. "Find your own path. Use whatever gifts you have to make your mark on the world. The Wall will always be there if you truly want it, but don't choose it because you think it's your only option."

Jon looked at his uncle, seeing the genuine concern in his eyes. "You sound like Father."

"Gods forbid," Benjen laughed. "Though he might be right about some things. You're more than just a bastard, Jon. Much more, I suspect."

The wind rustled through the weirwood leaves, sending a shower of red down around them. Jon watched them fall, remembering steam rising from healing wounds, remembering gaps in his memory, remembering Ymir from his dreams.

"Thank you, Uncle," he said finally.

"For what?"

"For helping me."

Benjen smiled sadly. "That's what family's for, isn't it? Now, show me that sword work of yours again. Without destroying any more dummies, if you can manage it."

As they walked back to the training yard, Jon felt a little lighter, as if sharing even this small part of his burden had helped. Perhaps his uncle was right - perhaps there were other paths, other possibilities he hadn't considered.

But first, he had to understand what he was becoming. And for that, he needed more than just practice dummies.

Their training swords clashed in the yard, the wooden crack echoing off Winterfell's ancient walls. Benjen moved with grace of a seasoned warrior, each strike precise and measured. Jon found himself constantly adjusting his footwork, impressed by his uncle's speed despite the cold.

"The Watch hasn't made you slow," Jon commented, parrying a particularly clever combination.

"And whatever you've been doing hasn't made you sloppy," Benjen replied, flowing into another attack. 

Their dance continued, neither man willing to yield. Benjen's experience showed in his economy of movement, never wasting energy on flashy strikes. 

Finally, Jon saw his opening. As Benjen committed to a thrust, Jon stepped inside his guard, twisting his body in a way that shouldn't have been possible. His practice sword found its mark, tapping Benjen's chest while simultaneously disarming him.

Benjen stared at his empty hand, then at Jon. "Seven hells, nephew. Where did you learn that?"

Jon shrugged, trying to hide his smile. "Just something I've been working on."

"Something you've been working on," Benjen repeated, shaking his head. "You beat me without even using that strength I saw earlier. Impressive."

They sat on a nearby bench, catching their breath. After a moment, Benjen asked softly, "Tell me about her. Lady Wylla."

Jon's smile faded, but there was warmth in his eyes as he spoke. "She was... different. She had green hair, you know? Dyed it that color because she said life was too short to be boring." He paused, lost in memory. "She didn't care that I was a bastard. Said names were just words, and words were wind."

"Sounds like quite a woman," Benjen observed, "to break through that famous Stark shell."

"She was the best," Jon agreed quietly. "She could make anyone laugh, even Father. And she was brave. So brave." His voice cracked slightly. "She never feared anything."

"I know what it's like," Benjen said softly, "losing someone you love. It leaves a hole nothing else can quite fill."

Jon looked at his uncle curiously. "You never married."

"No," Benjen's eyes grew distant. "There was someone, once, a lovely woman. But fate had other plans." He turned to Jon. "You know she wouldn't have wanted this for you, don't you? The Wall, I mean. Wylla wouldn't have wanted you to throw your life away."

"Father said something similar," Jon admitted. "He said she'd be disappointed to see me hiding from life."

"Your father's right." Benjen picked up his practice sword again, studying it. "The Wall will always be there, Jon. But youth, opportunities, chances to make something of yourself – those don't last forever."

"I just..." Jon struggled to find the words. "Sometimes I feel like I'm carrying something inside me. Something I don't understand. And I thought maybe at the Wall, it wouldn't matter."

"It matters everywhere," Benjen said firmly. "The question is whether you'll let it define you or learn to define it yourself."

Jon remained quiet for a long time before turning his face to look at his uncle with a smile. "Did you bring any exciting tales with you, or did you come empty-handed, uncle?"

Benjen laughed before slapping his nephew on the shoulder. "I never come empty handed, Jon. As for tales, well, three months ago, me and my group encountered this giant elk-"

Beyond The Wall

The wind howled through the trees, snow whipping against their faces as they trudged through knee-deep drifts. Tormund's usually booming voice was muffled by the storm, but his complaints carried nonetheless.

"What in the frozen tits of the ice giant's wife possessed Mance to send us out in this?" He stumbled forward, his red beard caked with ice. "Looking for some oversized elk that might not even exist!"

"If you spent half as much energy walking as you do complaining," Ygritte shot back, "we'd have found it by now."

Val raised her hand, signaling for silence. The group huddled closer together, their breath forming clouds in the frigid air. "Tracks," she said, pointing to massive indentations in the snow. "Fresh ones."

Varamyr Six Skins moved forward, his gaunt face intense with concentration. His animals – three wolves, a shadowcat, and an eagle – circled the group restlessly. "There's something strange about these tracks. No normal elk made them."

"Har!" Tormund exclaimed. "Nothing normal about an elk the size of three horses. Probably just had too much of that fermented goat's milk when we saw it."

"You weren't even there when we spotted it," Val reminded him dryly.

"No, but I heard the tale so many times, I might as well have been. 'Oh, Tormund, you should have seen it! Big as a mammoth, it was!'" He mimicked in a high-pitched voice.

"Nobody talks like that," Ygritte muttered, adjusting her bow on her shoulder.

"The eagle sees something ahead," Varamyr interrupted, his eyes glazed white for a good minute. A gasp escaped his mouth when his eyes turned to normal. "Through the trees... it's... by the gods."

Val unsheathed her blade. "What is it?"

"It's there. The elk. But..." Varamyr's face contorted. "Something's wrong. I can't... I can't get near it with any of my animals. It's like there's a wall around it."

Tormund's joking manner vanished instantly. "What do you mean, can't get near it?"

"The animals... they're afraid. They won't go close." Varamyr blinked, his eyes returning to normal. "Never felt anything like it."

"Well, that's just perfect," Ygritte growled. "Walked all this way through this storm for nothing."

"We should at least look at it," Val decided. "Mance needs to know what we're dealing with."

They crept forward through the trees, the storm beginning to ease slightly. Suddenly, they saw it – a massive dark shape moving through the white landscape. The elk stood easily twice the height of a normal one, its antlers spreading wider than a man was tall.

"Mother's mercy," one of the wildlings whispered.

"Bet you're not laughing now, eh Tormund?" Ygritte whispered.

But Tormund's usual mirth was gone, replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. "That's no natural beast. Look at its eyes."

The elk turned its head toward them, and even from this distance, they could see its eyes gleaming with an almost intelligent light.

"Varamyr," Val commanded quietly. "Try to enter its mind."

The warg's face contorted with effort, sweat freezing on his brow despite the cold. After a moment, he gasped, stumbling backward, blood dripping down from his nose. "I can't. It's... it's like trying to warg into a mountain. There's something in there, something old. Something powerful."

"Well, shit," Tormund summarized eloquently. "What do we tell Mance? 'Sorry, found your giant elk, but it's too magical to be useful'?"

"We tell him the truth," Val said firmly. "These creatures aren't meant for our armies. They're something else entirely."

The elk continued to watch them, unmoving, unafraid. Snow swirled around its massive form, giving it an almost ethereal appearance.

"Maybe," Ygritte suggested, "we should just-"

The elk suddenly raised its head, as if hearing something they couldn't. Without warning, it turned and bounded away, each step covering more ground than seemed possible.

"Har!" Tormund finally broke the tense silence. "At least now I know I wasn't drinking too much when I saw one last month!"

"You're always drinking too much," Ygritte rolled her eyes.

"True enough," he agreed cheerfully, "but at least now I know my eyes weren't lying to me. Just my common sense."

Val sheathed her blade, her expression troubled. "We need to get back to Mance. Something's changing beyond the Wall. First these creatures, then the Others..."

"Always something trying to kill us," Tormund sighed dramatically. "Why can't we ever find giant chickens instead? At least then we'd eat well while we die."

"How are you still talking?" Ygritte demanded.

"It's a gift," he grinned through his icy beard. "Like my member. Speaking of which-"

"Don't you dare start with your member stories," Val cut him off. "We have enough problems without that."

As they began their journey back, Varamyr remained silent, his animals still agitated. The tracks of the giant elk were already being filled by fresh snow, as if the creature had never been there at all.

Chapter Text

Eddard Stark

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows through the windows of Winterfell's Great Keep, painting golden stripes across the worn surface of Ned's desk. The solar held the comfortable silence of routine, broken only by the scratch of quill against parchment and the occasional whisper of papers being shifted. These quiet moments had become precious to Ned, offering space to observe the changes in his household - particularly in Jon.

The boy's gradual emergence from grief had been like watching winter ice slowly yield to spring thaw. Where once Jon had kept to the shadows of Winterfell's halls, now his voice could occasionally be heard joining Robb's laughter in the training yard, or answering Arya's endless questions about swordplay. Small victories, perhaps, but ones that made Ned's heart lighter with each passing day.

The creak of the solar's heavy oak door drew Ned from his thoughts. Maester Luwin entered, his chain clicking softly with each measured step, a scroll held carefully in his weathered hands. The red wax seal caught the sunlight, the proud stag of House Baratheon clear against the parchment.

"What's this, Maester Luwin?" Ned asked, setting aside the ledger he'd been reviewing.

The old maester's eyes crinkled with familiar warmth as he approached the desk. "I haven't read it, my lord, though I suspect it pertains to the approaching fifteenth anniversary of Robert's ascension to the throne."

Fifteen years. The words hit Ned like a punch, stirring memories he kept carefully buried. Lyanna's face swam before his eyes, pale against the blood-stained sheets, her voice weak but insistent. *Promise me, Ned. Promise me.*

"Where did all the time go?" Ned murmured, more to himself than to Luwin.

The maester smiled gently. "Time is like the snow, my lord - it falls softly, day by day, until we look up to find ourselves neck-deep in years."

With a quiet sigh, Ned broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. As he read Robert's familiar bold scrawl aloud, his voice grew heavier with each line. The tournament would be grand, as befitting such an anniversary - jousts, melees, archery contests, seven days of feasting and celebration in King's Landing.

"Seven hells," Ned muttered, letting the scroll fall to his desk. He rubbed his temples, feeling the familiar weight of obligation settling across his shoulders. Fourteen times he'd declined similar invitations, each refusal easier than the last. But now...

His eyes drifted to the window, where he could see Jon crossing the courtyard below. The boy moved with that careful precision he'd adopted since White Harbor, as if afraid of taking up too much space in the world. But there was Arya, darting out from behind a barrel to ambush him, and for a moment, Jon's guard dropped as he caught her up in a playful spin.

"What are your thoughts, Maester Luwin?" Ned asked, turning back to the older man. "You've spent more time teaching Jon than any of us these past weeks."

Luwin stepped closer to the window, his chain chiming thoughtfully. "The boy has a quick mind, sharper than ever since..." he paused delicately, "since White Harbor. But he's like a sword that's been tempered too quickly - strong, yes, but in danger of becoming brittle if not properly cared for."

The maester's eyes followed Jon's progress across the yard, where he was now demonstrating proper sword grip to an attentive Arya. "Of all your children, my lord - and yes, I count him among them - Jon has always been the one most eager to learn, to understand. Perhaps..." he stroked his chain absently, "perhaps new horizons might help him find his way back to himself."

Ned watched as Jon corrected Arya's stance, noting how his son's shoulders remained tense even in this moment of relative peace. The ghosts of White Harbor still haunted him, as clear as the mismatched eyes. A month or two in the South, away from the heavy memories of the North - it might be exactly what Jon needed.

"He's been spending more time with Benjen," Ned observed, thinking aloud. "Not so eager to take the black as he once was."

"Indeed," Luwin agreed, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "Your brother has a way of showing the boy that there are more paths in life than those we first set our hearts upon."

Below in the courtyard, Jon had finished his impromptu lesson with Arya. As he walked away, Ned noticed his son pause to help a stable boy with a heavy load of hay - a small kindness, but the sort that reminded Ned so strongly of Lyanna it made his chest ache.

"Perhaps," Ned said slowly, reaching for a fresh piece of parchment, "it's time we showed him more of the realm he might one day serve." He dipped his quill in ink, considering his next words carefully. "After all, there are some lessons that can't be learned from books alone."

Luwin's eyes sparkled with approval. "Shall I begin making preparations, my lord?"

Ned nodded, already composing the response to Robert in his mind. "Yes, but quietly for now. I'll need to speak with Catelyn first, and then..." he glanced out the window one last time, watching Jon disappear into the armory. "Then we'll see how Jon feels about a journey south."

The maester bowed slightly and moved toward the door, his chain singing its metallic song. He paused at the threshold, turning back with an expression of gentle concern. "My lord? Remember that even the strongest steel needs time to find its proper shape."

Ned smiled faintly at the metaphor. "Aye, Maester Luwin. That it does." As the door closed behind the maester, Ned returned to the letter, Robert's bold script swimming before his eyes. Fifteen years since the rebellion, since Lyanna, since promises made in a tower of blood and roses. Perhaps it was time to stop running from the ghosts of the past and face whatever future the gods had in store for them all.

Night

The evening candles cast a warm, intimate glow across the bedchamber, their flames dancing against the ancient stone walls of Winterfell. The hour was late, and beyond their windows, winter winds whispered through the godswood, carrying the promise of coming snows. Inside, wrapped in furs and each other's warmth, Ned and Catelyn lay entwined, their breathing having settled into the peaceful rhythm that followed lovemaking.

Catelyn hummed softly, her auburn hair spilling across Ned's chest like liquid copper in the candlelight. Her fingers traced absent patterns against his skin, following the familiar map of old scars. 

Ned cleared his throat, the sound surprisingly loud in the quiet room. "Robert is holding a tourney," he said, his voice low and measured. "For the anniversary of his coronation."

The humming stopped. Catelyn lifted her head, her Tully-blue eyes sharp with sudden interest. "And you're telling me this because...?" She studied his face with the careful attention of a woman who had spent years learning to read her often-taciturn husband. "You've refused all the others."

"Aye," Ned agreed, his hand continuing its gentle path along her spine. "That I have."

"What's changed?" Her voice carried that particular tone she used when she already suspected the answer but wanted to hear him say it. She shifted slightly, propping herself up on one elbow to better see his face in the flickering light.

Ned drew a deep breath, knowing the delicate ground he was about to traverse. "I think we should attend this one. All of us."

Catelyn's body tensed almost imperceptibly against his. Her expression flickered between confusion and something harder to name, like sunlight catching on ice. "Why now? Why humor Robert's pageantry after all these years?"

"My father..." Ned began, his eyes finding a fixed point on the ceiling as memories surfaced. "He always said the North was too isolated for its own good. It's why he sent me to the Vale when I was but six namedays old. Where I met Robert." He paused, remembering the boy who became his brother in all but blood. "Where I learned there was more to the realm than just our corner of it."

"This isn't about Robert," Catelyn said quietly, her voice carrying that edge of knowing that came from years of marriage. "Or your father's wisdom." She sat up further, the furs falling away from her shoulders. "This is about the boy, isn't it?"

The way she said it - *the boy* - carried years of complicated feelings, none of them warm. Ned met her gaze steadily, refusing to look away from the hurt and resignation he saw there. "This is about our children," he said carefully. "Sansa dreams of the South, of its songs and stories. This would be a chance for her to see it firsthand."

"And the others?" Catelyn's voice remained controlled, but her fingers had stopped their gentle tracing, now resting still against his chest.

"Robb could make connections with the other great houses. He'll be Lord of Winterfell one day - those relationships could prove valuable." Ned's lips quirked slightly. "And Arya... well, perhaps she might find a boy who catches her eye."

A short, surprised laugh escaped Catelyn, breaking some of the tension. "Arya? She's more likely to fall in love with a sword than any boy, be he noble or common."

"Aye," Ned chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. "That she is." He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch gentle. "I would like to go, Cat. I think it would be good for all of us to see something beyond these walls."

The unspoken hung between them for a long moment before Catelyn voiced it, her tone cooling like the night air beyond their windows. "Will the boy be coming with us?"

"Yes." Ned didn't hesitate, though his hand stilled in its caress.

Catelyn drew away slightly, though she didn't leave the bed. "Rickon is only three," she said, her voice carrying the weight of maternal concern. "The road to King's Landing is long and not without its dangers."

"He's old enough," Ned countered gently. "And he'll have his mother to watch over him." He reached for her hand, entwining their fingers. "The whole realm will be there, Cat. All the great houses, showing their strength and their children. We should be there too - the North, standing proud alongside the rest."

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft crackle of candles and the distant howl of wind. Catelyn's thumb moved absently against his palm, a thoughtful gesture he'd come to recognize over their years together. Finally, she sighed, a sound that carried resignation rather than defeat.

"You've already decided," she said, not quite a question.

"I've decided to discuss it with you," Ned corrected, drawing her back down against his chest. "Nothing is certain until we both agree it's what's best for our family."

She settled against him, her breath warm against his skin. "And you truly believe this is what's best? Taking all of us south, including..." she paused, then continued with careful neutrality, "...including Jon?"

"I do," Ned said softly, his voice carrying the weight of thoughts he couldn't share, of promises made in a tower that still haunted his dreams. "I believe we all need to see more of the world we live in. Even if that world isn't always what we wish it to be."

Catelyn was quiet for a long moment, her fingers resuming their gentle patterns against his chest. "We'll need to begin preparations soon. The children will need new clothes - they can't appear at court in Northern wool and furs. And the household will need to be arranged in our absence..."

Ned smiled in the darkness, hearing the acceptance in her planning. He pressed a kiss to her temple, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair. "Thank you," he murmured.

"Don't thank me yet," she warned, though her voice had softened. "You'll be the one telling Arya she needs to pack proper dresses."

A genuine laugh escaped him then, echoing off the stone walls. "Perhaps we should send her to King's Landing in armor instead. It might be safer for all involved."

Catelyn huffed out a reluctant chuckle, settling more comfortably against him. The candles burned lower, casting longer shadows across their chamber as the night deepened around them. 

Jon Snow

The godswood lay shrouded in winter's nocturnal silence, broken only by Jon's labored breathing and the soft crunch of snow beneath his feet. The steam from his breath mingled with the mist that perpetually clung to this sacred grove.

With a sudden, explosive movement, Jon lunged forward and drove his fist into the ground. The impact sent snow exploding outward in a crystalline burst, revealing the frozen earth beneath. The crack of his knuckles breaking against the hardened soil barely registered before steam hissed from his damaged hand, the bones knitting themselves back together with an unsettling efficiency that had become almost mundane to him now.

He flexed his healed fingers, watching the last wisps of steam curl away into the darkness. This raw strength that coursed through his veins. Perhaps he didn't even need the power Ymir spoke of, this "Attack Titan" that lurked somewhere in his blood. His current abilities already set him apart more than he'd ever wanted.

The word "Eldian" whispered through his mind like a half-remembered dream. He'd scoured every tome in Winterfell's library, spent countless hours poring over ancient texts until Maester Luwin had found him asleep among the scrolls. But nowhere, in all the recorded histories of Westeros, had he found even a whisper of that strange word. When he'd carefully broached the subject with the maester, Luwin's puzzled frown had only confirmed what Jon already suspected - whatever an Eldian was, it wasn't of this world.

The crunch of approaching footsteps pulled Jon from his brooding thoughts. He turned around, knowing it was someone from his family. His uncle emerged from between the trees like a shadow given form, his black ranger's cloak making him seem part of the darkness itself.

"What brings you to the godswood at this hour, nephew?" Benjen's voice carried both warmth and concern, his breath frosting in the cold air.

Jon met his uncle's searching gaze. "How did you know where to find me?"

"I went to your chambers first," Benjen replied, moving closer. "When you weren't there, well... you've always been drawn to this place when your thoughts trouble you." He paused, studying Jon's face with those keen Stark eyes that seemed to see too much. "Like your father before you."

"I needed time to think," Jon said.

Benjen's frown deepened, the expression making him look more like Ned than ever. "You know you can share your burdens with me, Jon. Whatever weighs on your mind..."

"There's nothing to share," Jon cut him off, perhaps too quickly. The lie felt bitter on his tongue, like the taste of copper and steam.

"Nothing?" Benjen moved closer, his voice gentle but insistent. "Then why do you stand here in the dead of night, wearing that same expression your father wore when he returned from the Tower of Joy?" He reached out, laying a gloved hand on Jon's shoulder. "If you're worried about me telling Ned-"

"Swear it," Jon interrupted, his voice suddenly urgent. "Swear before the heart tree that what I show you stays between us."

Benjen's expression grew solemn as he turned to face the ancient weirwood. Its carved face seemed to watch them with knowing eyes, red sap glistening like fresh blood in the moonlight. "I swear by the old gods and the new, what passes between us this night will remain our secret."

The sound of steel sliding against leather cut through the night as Jon drew his dagger. Before Benjen could react, he drew the blade across his palm in one swift motion. Blood welled up, black in the moonlight, and began to steam.

"Jon!" Benjen's shout echoed through the godswood as he lunged forward, but Jon stepped back, holding up his bleeding hand.

"Watch," he commanded softly, his mismatched eyes reflecting the moonlight like cat's eyes in the darkness.

Together, they watched as steam rose from the wound in delicate tendrils, dancing in the cold air like the ghost of summer's warmth. Before Benjen's widening eyes, the flesh knit itself back together, leaving only a smear of blood on otherwise unmarked skin.

The silence that followed was absolute, as if the godswood itself held its breath. Even the eternal whisper of wind through weirwood leaves seemed to have stilled. Benjen stared at Jon's healed palm, his face a mask of conflicting emotions - shock, concern, and something that might have been awe.

"How long?" he finally managed, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Since before White Harbor," Jon admitted, wiping the blood away with snow that melted instantly. "But it's more than just healing. I'm stronger now, faster. And sometimes..." he trailed off, unwilling to speak of the gaps in his memory, of the giant footprints found in the woods near White Harbor.

Benjen reached out slowly, taking Jon's healed hand in his own. His ranger's calluses caught against Jon's smooth palm as he examined it. "This is why you've been reconsidering the Wall," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Partly," Jon admitted. "But also because of what you said about honor being more than just sacrifice. About Wylla..." his voice caught on her name, still raw after all these weeks.

"The gods have marked you for something, Jon Snow," Benjen said softly, still holding his nephew's hand. "Whether it's the old gods or new ones I've never heard of, I cannot say. But this gift - or curse - it wasn't given without purpose."

Jon pulled his hand away, turning to face the heart tree. Its carved face seemed different now, almost knowing, as if it had been waiting for this moment. "What am I supposed to do with it? Where am I supposed to go?"

"That's what you need to discover," Benjen said carefully. "The world is larger than the Wall, Jon. Larger than the North itself. Perhaps it's time to look beyond the boundaries we've set for ourselves."

There was a moment of silence between them. Jon wasn't sure what to think anymore. Before he met Wylla, his future was so clear to him: join the Night's Watch and earn his honor, but Wylla had cracked the shell around him and revealed to him the sweetness that love can give and the bitterness. One who holds love for someone else earns the risk of bearing hatred one day.

"Will you tell him?" Jon asked finally, his voice small against the vastness of the night, barely louder than the whisper of wind through weirwood leaves.

Benjen shook his head, his black ranger's cloak rippling like a patch of midnight come to life. "I swore before the heart tree. Your secret is safe with me." He paused, then added softly, "But Jon? Whatever this is, whatever you become - remember who you are. You're a Stark, even if you don't bear the name. That will never change."

Jon nodded, feeling something tight in his chest loosen slightly. 

Eddard Stark - Tomorrow

Ned Stark sat at the high table, his eyes moving thoughtfully across the assembled faces of his family. The morning light caught in Jon's dark curls as he leaned close to Arya, demonstrating something with his hands that made his little sister's eyes spark with interest. Nearby, Robb and Theon had their heads bent together, their hushed conversation punctuated by meaningful glances toward one of the female servants.

The weight of the decision sat heavy in Ned's chest as he exchanged a look with Catelyn, then glanced at Benjen, who was attacking his breakfast with a ranger's efficiency. The scratching of utensils against bowls filled the comfortable silence until Ned cleared his throat, the sound carrying an authority that drew every eye in the hall.

"Everyone," he called. The various conversations died away, leaving an expectant hush. Even the servants stilled their movements. "Yesterday, I received a scroll from King Robert. He's planning a tourney in King's Landing, to celebrate the fifteenth anniversary of the Baratheon dynasty."

The reaction was immediate and varied as summer and winter. Sansa and Jeyne Poole erupted in barely contained squeals of delight, their hands clasping together in girlish excitement. "Please, Father," Sansa burst out, her Tully-blue eyes shining, "please say we can go South!"

"Sansa," Catelyn's voice carried the sharp edge of reproach. "A lady does not squeal like a common kitchen maid."

Ned's lips curved into a gentle smile, the expression softening the solemn planes of his face. "I have decided," he said, pausing as the tension in the room grew palpable, "to accept the invitation."

The great hall erupted in a chaos of reactions. Sansa and Jeyne's barely suppressed excitement broke free in a flutter of clasped hands and breathless exclamations about southern knights and courtly fashion. Robb maintained a lord's composure, but his eyes danced with poorly concealed enthusiasm as he straightened in his seat. Jon's expression shifted through a complex series of emotions, settling into something unreadable.

Arya's groan of dismay echoed off the stone walls, her face scrunching in preemptive disgust at the thought of southern propriety. Beside her, Bran had launched to his feet on his chair, practically vibrating with excitement as he loudly proclaimed his hopes of meeting the legendary Ser Barristan Selmy. Little Rickon, sweet summer child that he was, looked around in confusion at his siblings' varied reactions.

"Maester Luwin," Ned's voice cut through the commotion, "Benjen will serve as Lord of Winterfell until our return."

The maester's chain clinked softly as he turned to face Lord Stark, surprise evident in the arch of his eyebrows. "My lord, you mean to take the entire family?"

"Will we be the only Northern house represented?" Jon's question came quietly.

Luwin stroked his chain thoughtfully, the metal links chiming softly. "I suspect House Mormont will send representatives, among others. The North cannot appear absent at such a significant gathering."

Ned turned to Jory Cassel, his captain of guards, who stood attentively by the hall's great doors. "Gather fifty of our best men, Jory. We'll need provisions, horses, and wagons prepared for the journey south."

"We'll show those southern knights what true Northern steel looks like, won't we, Jon?" Robb's voice carried across the hall, bright with anticipation. His words drew a ghost of a smile from his half-brother.

Theon's face had fallen as the implications of the announcement sank in. Before he could retreat into sullen silence, Ned addressed him directly. "You'll be joining us as well, Theon." His tone grew stern as he added, "Though I expect you to comport yourself with the dignity befitting a ward of House Stark."

Theon shouted 'Yes' like a little kid, while Jon smiled. He didn't know what to expect from the South, but perhaps he could find something worth more than adventure. A Purpose.

Chapter Text

The morning air bit sharp and cold as Jon Snow tightened the straps on his horse's saddle. Around him, the courtyard of Winterfell churned with activity - forty of his father's best men preparing for the journey south, their leather armor creaking and steel clinking with each movement. The scene was vastly different from their last departure, when they'd left for White Harbor with barely twenty men.

Jon's fingers paused on the buckle as memories surfaced unbidden. Wylla's face flashed through his mind, her green hair and warm smile making his chest tighten. He shook his head, forcing the thoughts away as he checked his sword belt for the third time.

"All those guards won't make the road any shorter," Theon's voice cut through his brooding. The Ironborn stood nearby, already mounted and wearing that familiar smirk. "Though I suppose after that bear, Lord Stark's taking no chances."

Jon kept his face carefully neutral, though his mismatched eyes - one purple, one green - narrowed slightly. The mention of the bear made his skin prickle with phantom steam. "Better too many guards than too few," he replied evenly, swinging himself into the saddle.

Across the yard, his father stood with Jory Cassel, pointing to various positions on a map while surrounded by his most experienced men-at-arms. Jon caught fragments of their conversation - discussions of watch rotations, scouting patterns, defensive formations.

"They act as if we're marching to war rather than a tourney," Robb observed, riding up beside Jon on his bay stallion. His brother wore fine leather riding gear trimmed with fur, every inch the heir to Winterfell.

"After White Harbor..." Jon began, then stopped himself. Robb's expression softened with understanding.

Their attention was drawn to the commotion near the keep's entrance, where Arya was arguing fiercely with their lady mother about riding clothes. The young girl had somehow managed to swap her riding dress for boy's breeches, much to Lady Catelyn's visible frustration. Sansa, who was wearing a dress of fine blue wool, rolled her eyes at her sister's behavior.

"Three wagons just for clothes and supplies," Jon mused, watching as servants loaded the last of their belongings. "We traveled lighter last time."

"Last time we weren't going to court," Robb reminded him. "Though I doubt even three wagons will be enough for Sansa's dresses."

The jest drew a small smile from Jon, though it faded as he watched more guards file into formation. Many were veterans of Robert's Rebellion, men who'd fought alongside their father against the Targaryens. 

Finally, Lord Stark mounted his own horse, a powerful grey destrier. His face bore the solemn mask of the Lord of Winterfell, though Jon caught the gentle look he gave to Rickon, who was settled in the carriage with his nurse.

"Move out!" Jory's command rang across the courtyard. The column began to form - scouts riding ahead, guards flanking the family members, more warriors bringing up the rear. Jon found himself positioned between Robb and Theon, close enough to the main family group to be protected but not so close as to offend any Southern sensibilities about bastards.

Uncle Benjen and Maester Luwin said their goodbyes to the Stark family and watched as they started leaving.

As they passed under Winterfell's ancient gate, Jon glanced back at the only home he'd ever known. The massive granite walls rose against the grey morning sky, as they had for thousands of years. Steam rose from the hot springs, mixing with the smoke from the chimneys. 

"Thinking of staying behind?" Robb asked, noticing his hesitation.

Jon shook his head, turning back to face the Kingsroad stretching south before them. "No," he said quietly. "Just wondering what we'll find at the end of this road."

.

.

The evening fires cast dancing shadows across the camp, their warmth a welcome respite from the cooling air. Jon sat among a group of soldiers, nursing a cup of hot soup as the flames crackled before them. His father had arranged the camp in a defensive circle, with the family tents at the center and guard posts stationed strategically around the perimeter.

"Tell us about the bear again, Lord Snow," Derrick, one of the younger guards, leaned forward eagerly. His chain mail clinked softly with the movement, reflecting orange firelight. "They say it was big as a house!"

Jon didn't like the name. 'Lord Snow' felt like a mockery of who he could be. 

Jon shifted uncomfortably on his log seat, the rough bark catching at his wool tunic. "It wasn't that big," he muttered, though the memory of that day still brought a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. Steam and blood and screaming...

"Not that big?" Tommard, a grizzled veteran, scoffed from across the fire. "I heard from my cousin who served in that escort - says the beast's head alone was bigger than a war horse!"

"Aye," another guard chimed in, his face ruddy from both fire and ale. "And its claws were long as swords, they were! Ripped right through leather and mail like it was parchment!"

Jon took another sip of soup, trying to ignore how his hands tingled at the memory of that fight. The truth was strange enough without embellishment - a three-meter bear appearing from nowhere, moving with unnatural speed and strength. But now...

"How'd you kill it then, m'lord?" A fresh-faced guard asked, eyes wide with anticipation. "Did you really leap onto its back with just a dagger?"

Before Jon could correct him, Derrick jumped in. "No, no - he fought it face to face! Stood his ground while it charged, then stepped aside at the last moment and hamstrung it with his sword! Right clever move, that was!"

"That's not-" Jon started, but was cut off by another soldier.

"I heard he shot it through the eye with a bow at fifty paces!" This declaration brought a round of impressed murmurs from the newer recruits.

From a nearby fire, Jon could hear Theon regaling another group with his own version of events. "...and then Snow just stood there, shaking like a leaf, while I lined up the perfect shot..."

Jon's soup had grown cold in his hands. Across the camp, he could see his father deep in discussion with Jory, likely planning tomorrow's route. Robb was entertaining Bran and Rickon with stories in the family tent, while Sansa and Jeyne Poole whispered together, casting occasional nervous glances at the dark woods beyond the camp.

"But what I want to know," Tommard leaned forward, his voice dropping conspiratorially, "is why there ain't been no sign of such a beast before or since. Strange, that is. Almost like it appeared from nowhere, just to attack the party..."

The words hit too close to truths Jon couldn't explain. He stood abruptly, his movement sending shadows skittering across the gathered faces.

"Lord Snow?" Derrick looked up, concerned. "You haven't finished the story..."

"It was just a bear," Jon said quietly, setting down his untouched soup. "Nothing more." 

He walked away from the firelight, into the shadows between the tents. Behind him, he could hear the stories continuing, growing more fantastic with each telling. A bear big as a giant, with eyes that glowed in the dark. A monster from Old Nan's tales, come south of the Wall.

If only they knew, Jon thought, flexing his hand in the darkness. If only they knew that the real monster wasn't the bear at all.

The midday sun hung high as their party made its way along the Kingsroad, the ground gradually softening as they moved further south. Jon rode slightly behind the main family group, close enough to hear their conversations but maintaining the respectful distance expected of his station. His horse's steady gait had become almost meditative over the past few days.

"When I lead the hunt," Theon announced loudly, adjusting his fine leather riding gloves, "I'll show you what a real bear looks like. Bigger than Jon's bear, I'd wager." He sat tall in his saddle, green cloak billowing dramatically as he gestured. "The bears on the mainland are nothing compared to the ones we hunt on the Iron Islands."

Sansa and Jeyne, who were sticking out their heads from the carriages, exchanged worried glances. "But we won't actually see any bears, will we?" Jeyne asked, clutching her reins tighter. "Not this close to the Kingsroad?"

"I hope we do!" Arya called out. She was bouncing in her saddle, much to Lady Catelyn's visible displeasure. Despite her mother's best efforts, Arya had managed to keep wearing her borrowed breeches. "Maybe we'll see the same one Jon fought! That would be amazing!"

"Arya," Lady Catelyn's voice carried the weary tone of someone who'd repeated the same corrections many times, "a proper lady does not wish for encounters with dangerous beasts."

"Then I won't be a proper lady," Arya declared, earning a snort of laughter from Robb that he quickly disguised as a cough under their mother's sharp look.

Jon couldn't help but smile at his little sister's defiance. She reminded him so much of himself sometimes - the one who didn't quite fit the mold they were supposed to fill.

"If any bears do come," Theon continued, patting the bow strapped to his saddle, "they'll meet my arrows before they get anywhere near the ladies." He flashed what he clearly thought was a gallant smile at Sansa and Jeyne.

Jon watched as Bran, riding beside Robb, looked between his siblings with barely contained excitement. "Jon," the boy called out, turning in his saddle, "could you teach me how to fight a bear?"

"No one is fighting any bears," Lady Catelyn interjected firmly. Her auburn hair was neatly braided, though wisps had escaped in the wind. "And I'll hear no more talk of it. Bran, sit properly in your saddle. Arya, stop fidgeting and it's time you started wearing a proper dress."

"I'm not wearing a riding skirt," Arya pointed out helpfully.

"Yes," her mother replied dryly, "I had noticed."

Jon caught Robb's eye and they shared a knowing look. Their father rode at the head of the column with Jory.

"When we reach King's Landing," Sansa said dreamily, clearly trying to change the subject, "we'll see real knights and princes. They'll be much more interesting than bears."

"Knights are boring," Arya declared. "I'd rather see the bear."

"You can't dance with a bear at the feast," Jeyne pointed out, then paused. "Well, I suppose you could try..."

The mental image of Arya dancing with a bear set both Robb and Jon laughing, while Theon tried unsuccessfully to steer the conversation back to his supposed hunting prowess. Even Lady Catelyn's lips twitched slightly, though she quickly resumed her stern expression.

"Jon!" Arya's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Tell Sansa that bears are more interesting than princes!"

He smiled, spurring his horse forward slightly. "Well," he said thoughtfully, "I suppose it depends on the prince... and the bear."

Lady Catelyn's sigh could probably be heard all the way back in Winterfell.

Nine Days Later

The ancient towers of Moat Cailin rose before them like broken teeth against the morning sky, their weathered stones black with age and moss. Jon pulled his cloak tighter as their party approached the ruins, though the air was notably warmer than it had been days ago. The Neck's swampy terrain stretched out around them, the ground becoming softer and less certain with each league they traveled south.

Three of the fortress's original twenty towers still stood sentinel over the causeway: the Drunkard's Tower, leaning precariously to the northwest; the Children's Tower, its ancient stones etched with mysterious runes; and the foreboding Gatehouse Tower, still proud despite its crumbling battlements. Jon studied them with quiet fascination, remembering Old Nan's tales of how the fortress had held back southern invaders for thousands of years.

"It looks haunted," Bran breathed from his pony, eyes wide with wonder.

"It's just old," Theon scoffed, though Jon noticed how he kept his horse well away from the towers' shadows.

Their father had called a brief halt to allow the horses to rest and the men to check the wagons before they entered the more treacherous terrain of the Neck. As the soldiers went about their tasks, Jon watched Sansa approach Lord Stark.

"Father," she began, smoothing her dress, "since we're so close to White Harbor, couldn't we stop there for a few days? It's not that far, and-"

"No." His father's response was gentle but firm. "We'll make better time staying on the Kingsroad."

Jon felt his shoulders relax, tension he hadn't realized he was carrying seeping away. The mere mention of White Harbor made his chest tighten, memories of Wylla  - her laugh, her green hair, the way her blood had looked against the snow...

"But Father," Sansa persisted, "surely a proper rest would-"

"The answer is no, Sansa," Lady Catelyn intervened, her tone brooking no argument. She shot a quick glance at Jon, so brief he almost missed it, before turning back to her daughter. "We have a schedule to keep."

Around them, the landscape was changing subtly but noticeably. The hardy pines and ironwoods of the North were giving way to wider varieties of trees. The air carried new scents - the damp earthiness of the swamps ahead, mixed with unfamiliar flowers that managed to grow in the marshy soil.

"Look!" Arya called out, pointing to a patch of bright purple flowers growing improbably from between the ancient stones. "I've never seen those before."

"Southern flowers," Robb observed, reaching down from his horse to pluck one. "The maesters say all sorts of strange things grow in the Neck's climate."

Jon watched as his brother presented the flower to their little sister with an exaggerated bow, making her giggle. 

"The crannogmen say these ruins are protected by old magics," Bran announced, clearly reciting something he'd read in his books. "They say the Children of the Forest helped build it, and their spells are woven into the stones."

"Magic isn't real," Sansa said firmly.

Jon flexed his hand unconsciously, thinking of steam and healing flesh. If only she knew.

"Mount up!" Lord Stark's command carried across the causeway. "We'll want to make good progress before nightfall."

As the party reformed their column, Jon found himself riding beside his father for a moment. "The ruins are impressive," he said quietly, "even after all these years."

Ned nodded, his grey eyes scanning the ancient fortifications. "Aye. It was the first real stronghold of the First Men. Some say it's as old as Winterfell itself." He paused, studying Jon's face. "Are you well? After the mention of White Harbor..."

"I'm fine," Jon replied quickly - too quickly, perhaps. He forced himself to add, "It's better that we stay on the Kingsroad."

His father's expression softened with understanding. "Some wounds take longer to heal than others, son."

Jon couldn't help but think of how quickly his wounds actually healed now, steam rising from torn flesh. But the ache in his chest when he thought of Wylla - that seemed to heal at a painfully normal pace.

Three Days Later

The scouts returned just before midday, their horses' hooves kicking up soft dirt from the increasingly humid ground. Jon watched as they approached his father at the head of the column, their leather armor marked with travel dust.

"My lord," the lead scout called out, "we've spotted several Northern banners approaching from the east - House Mormont's bear, House Glover's mailed fist, and..." he hesitated briefly, "the flayed man of Bolton."

Jon noticed his father's almost imperceptible tension at the last name. Even among Northern houses, the Boltons carried a reputation.

Banners began appearing on the horizon - the black bear of House Mormont prominent among them, standing proud on its field of green. Behind it came the silver mailed fist of House Glover on scarlet, and the infamous flayed man of House Bolton on pink.

"I didn't expect to see the Mormonts this far south," Theon remarked, adjusting his position to better see the approaching parties. "Bear Island's not exactly known for tournament knights."

"Ladies from House Mormont are as fierce as any knight," Arya declared proudly, earning another weary look from Lady Catelyn.

The parties converged on a wider section of the road, where the ground was firm enough to support their numbers. Jon watched as Lady Maege Mormont rode forward to greet his father - a stout, grey-haired woman in ringmail rather than a dress, a mace hanging at her side. But it was the young woman riding beside her that caught Jon's eye.

She sat her horse with easy grace, wearing riding leathers that did nothing to hide her athletic figure. Her long dark hair was braided simply but elegantly, and her face... Jon found himself studying her features before catching himself and looking away. After Wylla, he had no business noticing pretty girls.

"Lord Stark," Lady Mormont's voice carried clearly, "we didn't expect to find you on the road south. Bear Island's ravens brought no word of Winterfell attending the tournament."

"A recent decision," his father replied warmly. "It's good to see the North will be well represented."

"Aye," she gestured to the young woman beside her, "my eldest, Dacey, insisted we show these southron knights that bear blood runs as true as any other."

Jon risked another glance at Dacey Mormont. She carried herself with the confidence of a warrior.

More introductions followed as House Glover joined them, Galbart Glover exchanging greetings with Lord Stark. Then came the Boltons, led by Lord Roose himself - a pale man with equally pale eyes, the man seemed more like a corpse someone forgot to bury. Beside him rode his son, Domeric, whom Jon had heard was fostered in the Vale.

"The King will be surprised," Roose Bolton observed in his soft voice, "to see so many Northern houses making the journey."

"Surprised and pleased, I should think," Lord Stark responded diplomatically.

As the leaders discussed travel arrangements, Jon found himself drifting closer to where the Mormont soldiers had gathered. Dacey Mormont was talking with her younger sisters, her laugh carrying across the space between them.

"See something interesting, Snow?" Theon's voice made Jon start slightly.

"Just wondering how many of us will compete in the tournament," Jon replied quickly, though he could feel his ears growing warm.

"I heard the Mormont women fight with axes," Bran piped up excitedly, having edged his pony closer.

"Maces, actually," a new voice joined them. Jon turned to find Dacey Mormont herself had approached, a hint of amusement in her dark eyes. "Though my sister Alysane prefers an axe."

Up close, Jon could see the subtle scars on her hands. 

"Will you be competing, my lady?" Bran asked eagerly.

Dacey's smile widened. "In the melee, yes."

"My brother Jon's an excellent swordsman," Arya announced proudly, appearing as if from nowhere. "He killed a massive bear all by himself!"

Jon felt his face heat as Dacey's curious gaze turned to him. "Did you now? We have quite a few bears on Bear Island, but I've never heard of one man taking one alone."

"I didn't, my lady. Soldiers of my father helped to kill the bear." Jon said almost too quickly, before riding away. 

Night

Jon sat near one of the many campfires scattered across their temporary settlement, trying to stay away from the curious glances of the other Northern houses. The plan failed when Dacey Mormont approached, carrying two bowls of stew.

"You look like you could use some food," she said, offering him one of the bowls. Her practical leather armor creaked slightly as she sat beside him, maintaining a respectful distance.

"Thank you, my lady," Jon replied automatically, accepting the bowl.

She snorted. "Dacey is fine. 'My lady' makes me sound like one of those Southern flowers we'll meet in King's Landing."

Despite himself, Jon felt his lips twitch. The comment reminded him of something Wylla might have said. The familiar ache in his chest returned at the thought of her green hair and defiant smile.

"Lost in thought?" Dacey asked, breaking into his reverie.

"Just... remembering," he said quietly, turning his attention to the stew.

Their quiet meal was interrupted by Domeric Bolton's arrival.  

"Snow," Domeric greeted, settling across from them. "I hope you don't mind, but I've been dying to ask - is it true what they say about the bear? That it was the size of a house?"

Jon stirred his stew, considering his words carefully. "No, if it really were that size, we all would be dead right now. It was about three meters tall, perhaps a bit more."

"Three meters?" Dacey leaned forward, her interest evident. "That's still massive for a bear."

"It attacked us near White Harbor, almost three months ago," Jon continued, keeping his voice level. "I was just the one who delivered the final blow, nothing more."

A familiar snort came from behind them. Robb approached the fire, grinning. "Just the final blow? Brother, you're too modest." He sat down beside Domeric, his auburn hair looking almost red in the firelight. "Jon threw a spear that went so deep into the bear's neck it nearly came out the other side."

Jon shifted uncomfortably. The last thing he needed was for everyone to know about it, but as he gave it a second thought, he realized that sooner or later, they all would be told either by the guards or his siblings, so he figured he might as well get it over with, but a bear the size of a house, who came up with that lie? 

"It was already wounded by then."

"A spear throw?" Dacey's eyebrows rose. "Through a bear's neck? That would take incredible strength."

Jon noticed Domeric studying him with new interest, his pale eyes more calculating than before. "The angle was fortunate," Jon deflected. "And the bear was focused on the injured men."

"Still," Domeric said softly, "to drive a spear through a bear's neck... that's no small feat, Snow."

"Tell them about how it came charging out of nowhere," Robb urged, clearly enjoying the chance to tell the tale.

"We were resting after riding for the whole day," Jon began reluctantly, aware of their rapt attention. "The bear just appeared, larger than any I'd seen before. It just attacked us without any provocation,"

"Five men were injured," Robb added. "Would have been worse if Jon hadn't acted so quickly."

Dacey was watching Jon with growing interest. "We have bears on Bear Island, of course, but none that size. Was it old? Sometimes they keep growing..."

"I couldn't say," Jon replied. "Everything happened too fast." 

"You'll have to show me that spear throw sometime," Dacey said, a challenging glint in her eye. "We Mormonts are always eager to learn new ways to deal with bears."

Jon thought of Wylla again, how she'd been impressed by his martial skills too, before... He stood abruptly. "Excuse me, I should check on my horse."

As he walked away, he could hear Robb continuing the story, describing details about that night, at the very least, he wasn't the type to add things that never happened. 

The night air was cool against his face as he made his way between the camps, nodding respectfully to the various houseguards he passed.

"Snow!" Dacey's voice called out behind him. He turned to find her following, her long stride easily catching up to him. "You left before finishing your stew."

"I wasn't very hungry," he said apologetically.

She studied his face in the moonlight. "You know, when someone leaves that quickly, it usually means they're running from something. Or someone."

Jon met her direct gaze, appreciating her straightforward approach. "Not running. Just... remembering."

Dacey was quiet for a moment; she seemed as if she wanted to ask for more details, but thankfully, she didn't. Instead, she asked something else. "Will you join us for training tomorrow?" she asked, changing the subject. "Domeric claims to be quite skilled with a sword, and I'd like to see if the bear-killer of Winterfell can match him."

"I'm not sure that's wise," Jon started, but she cut him off.

"Because you're a bastard? Please. On Bear Island, we judge warriors by their skill, not their names."

For a moment, Jon was tempted. It would be good to train with someone new, someone who didn't know his patterns. But the risk of injury, of his unusual healing being noticed...

"Perhaps another time," he said finally. "We should all rest well tonight if we're to make good time tomorrow."

Dacey shrugged, accepting his decision without protest. "The offer still stands, Snow."

She turned and walked away, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts.

Looking up at the stars, Jon wondered what Wylla would make of all this - the journey south, the tournament ahead, his continued attempts to hide what he was. She had accepted him, bastard name and all. Would she have accepted this other strangeness, too?

The answer died with her, he thought bitterly, and walked on into the night, leaving the warmth of the fires behind.

Sunspear

The rhythmic clash of steel against steel echoed through the secluded corner of the Water Gardens. Rhae Sand moved like flowing water, her twin short swords dancing in the morning light as she worked through the forms her father had taught her. Each strike precise, each movement calculated - nothing wasted, nothing given away.

Sweat trickled down her olive skin despite the early hour, her dark hair pulled back in a tight braid that whipped through the air as she spun. The private courtyard was her sanctuary, hidden behind orange trees and climbing vines, where she could let her careful mask slip just a fraction.

Three cuts to disable, one to kill. Her father's voice echoed in her mind as she moved through the sequence. Never make it personal, never make it linger. But everything about King's Landing was personal. Fifteen years of memories she wasn't supposed to have, of screams she wasn't supposed to remember, of a mother's desperate last embrace as she hid her daughter away...

"Your footwork is getting sloppy, little snake."

Rhae didn't break her rhythm as Oberyn Martell emerged from the shadows of the orange trees. 

"I was wondering when you'd stop lurking," she replied, completing her sequence with a flourish. "You've been watching since dawn."

Oberyn's smile was sharp as a blade. "And you've been aware of me since dawn. Good." He drew his own blade, settling into a ready stance. "Show me what's really on your mind."

Their dance began anew, steel singing against steel. Where Rhae was water, Oberyn was wind - unpredictable, dangerous, impossible to pin down. They had done this countless times over the years, speaking through blade work what could never be said aloud.

"Your uncle's letter arrived this morning," Oberyn said between exchanges. "The usurper is holding quite the tournament."

Rhae's blades moved faster, her strikes carrying more force. "Fifteen years on the throne," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "Quite the achievement."

"Indeed." Oberyn parried her attack, countering with a swift riposte. "Fifteen years since the Lannisters proved themselves such gracious guests in King's Landing."

The memory of screaming filled her head - running through dark corridors that seemed endless, the smell of blood and smoke... Rhae channeled it into her movements, her twin blades becoming silver blurs.

"The entire realm will be there," she said, ducking under Oberyn's slash. "Every major house sending representatives."

"Including the North, I hear." Oberyn's dark eyes studied her as they circled each other. "The Starks ride south for the first time since the rebellion."

Before Rhae could respond, footsteps approached the courtyard. In an instant, her intensity vanished behind a casual smile, her stance shifting to something more playful as Arianne Martell appeared around the corner.

"Cousin!" Rhae called out warmly, though her grip on her swords never loosened. "Come to join our morning practice?"

Arianne's full lips curved in amusement. "Some of us prefer to break our fast with actual food rather than steel, dear Rhae." She turned to Oberyn. "Uncle, Father requests your presence. Something about our... arrangements for the tournament."

"Of course he does," Oberyn sighed, sheathing his blade. He gave Rhae a meaningful look. "We'll continue this discussion later."

As he left, Rhae began working through her cooling exercises, aware of Arianne's thoughtful gaze. Her cousin was too clever by half, and too ambitious not to recognize ambition in others.

"You mean to go, don't you?" Arianne asked finally. "To King's Landing."

Rhae sheathed her swords with deliberate care. "Why wouldn't I? I'm just another Sand Snake, after all. No one looks too closely at bastards." The lie tasted familiar on her tongue, practiced over years. Her dark purple eyes were the only sign of her Targaryen heritage.

"The entire realm will be watching this tournament," she continued, letting some of her real enthusiasm show. "Every major house, every power player in the Seven Kingdoms, all gathered in one place. The perfect opportunity to... observe."

"Observe what, exactly?" Arianne's voice carried a hint of suspicion.

Rhae smiled, the expression not quite reaching her eyes. "The future, cousin. After fifteen years, it's time to see how the game is played outside of Dorne." She paused, then added carefully, "Besides, I hear the North is joining the festivities. Perhaps it's time we all got a closer look at our northern neighbors."

Arianne studied her for a long moment before nodding slowly. "I'll help convince Father," she said finally. "But Rhae? Be careful. The capitol has a way of uncovering secrets."

"I'm counting on it," Rhae murmured as her cousin left, too quietly for anyone to hear. She touched the hilt of one of her swords, feeling the scaled pattern worked into the grip. Dragons hidden in plain sight, just like her.

King's Landing awaited, and with it, all the ghosts of her past. But Rhae Sand was not the scared little princess who had fled in the night. Let them watch the bastard girl from Dorne - they would never see the dragon underneath.

Not until it was time.