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Chapter Text

The modest home in Republic City stood bathed in the soft glow of late afternoon, its stone walls and wooden beams a testament to the harmony Aang had spent his life building. Inside, the air carried faint traces of incense and sea salt. The room was cluttered with relics of a full life: an airbender staff propped against the wall, a faded Fire Nation tapestry draped over a chair, a carved wooden seal from the Northern Water Tribe resting on a shelf. 

Aang lay on a low bed in the center, his frail form swallowed by a thick blanket. His hair, once a bold arrow of youth, was now a sparse, gray wisp across his scalp, and his breathing came in shallow rasps, each one softer than the last. 

Katara sat beside him, her silver hair pulled back, her face etched with the lines of age. She clutched his hand, her thumb tracing small, steady circles over his knuckles, as if she could anchor him to the world a little longer. 

Around them stood their children—Kya, her cheeks damp with silent tears; Bumi, broad-shouldered and restless, his jaw tight; Tenzin, the youngest, his head bowed in quiet reverence. Near the window, Zuko lingered. Sokka paced a step near the door, leaning on a cane, its tip tapping faintly against the floor.

Toph was nearby, tapping the floor with her feet.

The silence broke as Zuko turned from the window. "Remember that Fire Festival, Aang?" he said, a rare smile tugging at his lips, crinkling the scar on his cheek. "You tricked me into dancing—worst moves I've ever seen. Thought I'd trip over your glider just to escape." A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, and Bumi let out a snort, his shoulders easing for a moment.

Sokka grinned. He tapped his cane once, then leaned forward. "Oh, and that moon spirit stunt—thought we'd lost you for good that time. Froze my boots off waiting for you to wake up, but you always came back, didn't you?" His voice lifted, light as ever, but it dipped at the end, and he rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away as if to hide the sheen in his eyes.

Katara's lips trembled. She leaned closer, her forehead nearly brushing Aang's. "The world will be fine, Aang," she said, her words a soft promise. "You've given it everything—peace, balance, a future. Rest now." Her grip tightened on his hand, her shoulders hunching slightly, as if she could will his heart to keep beating.

Aang's eyes fluttered open, half-lidded and cloudy, but a spark of his old mischief danced there for a fleeting second. His lips curved into a faint, trembling smile, and his fingers twitched beneath Katara's. 

He leaned his head closer to Katara and told her. "I...have something...important...to tell you." Katara leaned closer, and the others quieted down as Aang smiled slightly.

"Will...will you...will you go penguin sledding with me?"

Katara almost giggled, but before she could give him an answer, she noticed. His chest was no longer rising and falling. She froze, her breath catching as she searched his face. The smile lingered on Aang's lips, serene and unbroken, his eyes closed as if in sleep. A tear slipped down her cheek, then another, and she pressed her forehead to his, a soft sob breaking free. 

Sokka's cane lay forgotten on the floor as he stumbled forward, catching himself on the edge of Aang's bed. His weathered face crumpled. "You really did it this time, didn't you?" he whispered, voice cracking. "No coming back from the ice, no spirit water..." His hand found Katara's shoulder, squeezing gently. For once in his life, Sokka had no jokes to tell, no quips to lighten the mood. His best friend, his brother in all but blood, was gone.

Zuko pressed his palm against the wall, head bowed, his long grey hair falling forward to hide his face. "You changed my life," he murmured, his raspy voice thick with emotion. "You changed everything." His good eye glistened as he remembered a young monk offering friendship to a lost prince. "The world needed you then. It still needs you now." His fingers traced the rough stone of the wall, remembering countless adventures, shared meals, late-night conversations about peace and redemption.

Toph remained rooted to her spot, her unseeing eyes wide, feet pressed firmly against the floor as if trying to detect some trace of Aang's heartbeat that she might have missed. Her face was turned away from the others, but they could see her shoulders trembling slightly. "Typical Twinkletoes," she said, her voice rough and unsteady, "leaving without saying goodbye properly." Her hands clenched at her sides.

Kya moved to her mother's side, wrapping an arm around Katara's shoulders. Her healer's hands itched to do something, anything, but there was nothing left to heal. "Dad," she choked out, tears flowing freely now. "Remember when you taught me to catch clouds? You said they were just water waiting to dance..." She pressed her face into her mother's shoulder.

Bumi stood at attention. He was the only one of Aang's children without bending, but his father had never made him feel lesser for it. "You always said being different was a gift," he said hoarsely. His hand unconsciously touched the United Forces insignia on his uniform. "That everyone had their own path to walk." His composure cracked slightly, a single tear tracking down his weathered cheek.

Tenzin knelt beside the bed. The weight of being the last airbending master pressed down on him like a physical thing. "Father," he whispered, his usually steady voice wavering. "How do I..." He couldn't finish the thought. How do I carry on? How do I lead our people? How do I live up to your legacy? He felt a small hand slip into his—Kya, offering silent support.

The sun continued to set, casting long shadows across the room. Outside, a warm breeze stirred the wind chimes, their melody somehow sadder now. Republic City hummed in the distance, unaware that the world had fundamentally shifted.

.

.

The mist parted like curtains of silk, and Aang found himself standing in an endless expanse of shimmering light. His body felt light, lighter than it had felt for a decade and when he looked down at his hands, they were young again. He appeared as if he was in his forties, instead of his late sixties. In the distance, landscapes shifted and merged—the volcanic peaks of Roku's island, the sweeping plains of Kyoshi, the icy waters of Kuruk's North, and the misty mountains of Yangchen's temples.

"Welcome home, Aang."

The voice was warm and familiar. Roku emerged from the ethereal light, his Fire Nation robes flowing despite the absence of wind, his topknot ornament gleaming with the same gentle authority Aang remembered from their years of guidance. 

"Roku." Aang bowed. He ran up to him, and the two shared a big hug before pulling away; then he noticed someone else appearing.

Kyoshi towered in her full warrior regalia, her painted face stern beneath her headdress, her fans folded but ready at her belt. She gave a curt nod, her expression unreadable behind the white makeup.

Kuruk appeared like an old friend who Aang hasn't seen for a long time, his Water Tribe armor worn comfortably like everyday clothes, spear resting loosely across his shoulders. He raised a hand in an easy greeting, a half-smile playing on his face.

Yangchen floated into view last, her Air Nomad robes pristine, her hands folded peacefully within her sleeves.

"You've served our legacy well," Roku said, placing a ghostly hand on Aang's shoulder. "The world has found balance under your guidance."

"Has it?" Kyoshi's voice cut through the misty air like one of her fans. She stepped forward, her metal boots silent on the ethereal ground. "Shall we discuss the years wasted before confronting Ozai? The mercy shown to Yakone? The unrest in the Fire Nation colonies that nearly sparked another war?"

"Kyoshi..." Roku began, but she raised a hand.

"We do him no favors with gentle lies. Every Avatar must learn from the mistakes of their predecessors."

Kuruk pushed off from his spear, which he'd been leaning on. "Give the kid a break, Kyoshi. He just got here." He winked at Aang. "Besides, not all of us can claim to have created an entire island by splitting a peninsula."

"That was necessary," Kyoshi said flatly.

Yangchen's gaze seemed to drift beyond their gathering, into the shifting mists. "I wonder," she mused, "who will carry our mantle next? The world has changed so much since my time. Since any of our times."

Aang looked around at his predecessors, feeling both at home and adrift. "What happens now?" he asked, still not used to the idea that he was now dead and he would be with his past Avatars from now on.

Roku gestured to the ethereal space around them. "Now, we wait. The cycle continues, as it has for thousands of years. The next Avatar will be born to the Southern Water Tribe, and we will watch, guide, and protect them as we have always done."

"Will the world be okay?" Aang couldn't help asking, Katara's final reassurance still echoing in his thoughts. "Without an Avatar, I mean. Until the next one is ready?"

"You left them a legacy of peace," Roku said confidently.

Kyoshi crossed her arms. "Peace is as fragile as a spider-fly's web. One strong wind..."

"The world managed a hundred years without an Avatar once," Kuruk pointed out, twirling his spear absently. "Granted, it wasn't pretty, but they'll survive sixteen or so years."

"You fostered understanding between nations," Yangchen added softly. "That is a foundation stronger than any one Avatar's presence."

Before Aang could respond, a brilliant light pierced the spiritual mists, brighter than the sun. The Avatars shielded their eyes, their spiritual forms wavering in the intense glow.

"Ah," Roku said as the light began to fade. "It begins. The next Avatar is—"

He stopped abruptly. The light had dimmed, but something was wrong. The spiritual connection that should have felt familiar, should have led to the Southern Water Tribe, instead pulled them toward... somewhere else. 

They found themselves looking through newborn eyes at stone walls, at winter roses scattered across a blood-stained bed, at a man's grief-stricken face as he reached for a dying woman.

The Tower of Joy

The tower room smelled of blood and roses.

Ned Stark burst through the wooden door, his sword still dark with the blood of the Kingsguard below. The circular chamber was awash in the red light of dusk. Winter roses lay scattered across the floor, some crushed beneath his boots as he rushed forward.

"Lyanna!" The name escaped his throat, half relief, half terror.

His sister lay upon a bed of blood, her dark hair spread across the pillows like ink spilled on parchment. Winter roses crowned her pale face. Her skin was as white as fresh snow, save for the fever's flush high on her cheeks.

"Ned?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "Is that you?"

He fell to his knees beside her bed, taking her blood-stained right hand in his. It felt too cold, too light, like a bird's hollow bones. "I'm here, little sister. I'm here now."

"Forgive me," she breathed, tears tracking down her temples. "Please..."

"Save your strength." Ned turned toward the door, his voice thundering off the stone walls. "HELP! SOMEONE BRING A MAESTER!"

Lyanna's fingers tightened on Ned's with surprising strength. "Listen," she pleaded, "there isn't time. You have to know..." Her voice caught, and she struggled for breath.

"Don't speak," Ned urged. "Help is coming."

"I married him," Lyanna pushed the words out between labored breaths. "Rhaegar. We... there was a septon. Witnesses. I loved him, Ned." Fresh tears spilled from her eyes. "The baby... his name is Aemon Targaryen. You have to protect him. Robert... Robert will..."

A soft cry drew Ned's attention. A wet nurse—he hadn't even noticed her presence in the room—stepped forward from the shadows, cradling a bundle wrapped in Targaryen crimson and black.

"Promise me," Lyanna begged as the wet nurse placed the child in Ned's arms. The bundle shifted, and two eyes opened to meet his—bright purple, unmistakably Targaryen. "Promise me, Ned. Robert will kill him. You know he will. Promise me..."

Blood soaked through the sheets, spreading like a crimson tide. Ned clutched both his sister's hand and his... his nephew... as Lyanna's breathing grew more ragged. Her grip on his hand weakened.

"I promise," he said fiercely. "I promise, Lya. I'll protect him. I'll keep him safe. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "I knew you would." Her eyes drifted to the window, where the red sun was setting over the red mountains of Dorne. "I...I...Goodbye..."

Her hand went slack in his.

"Lya?" Ned's voice cracked. "Lyanna?" He shook her shoulder gently, then more forcefully. But his sister's eyes stared unseeing at the winter roses that had been her doom, at the sun setting on the end of her song.

The baby—Aemon—began to cry, a sharp wail that pierced the heavy silence of the death chamber. Ned pulled him closer.

Footsteps pounded up the tower stairs. Howland Reed appeared in the doorway, crannogman short but reed-strong, his eyes widening at the tableau before him: the Lord of Winterfell kneeling beside his dead sister's bed, cradling a newborn babe, surrounded by winter roses and bloody sheets.

"Ned?" Howland's voice was soft with horror and understanding.

Ned Stark rose slowly, his sister's son held close to his chest. When he spoke, his voice was as cold as the winds of winter, as heavy as the burden he would now bear.

"We must leave," he said. "And no one—no one—can ever know."

''' From the spirit realm, the Avatars watched the scene unfold, their expressions ranging from confusion to deep concern.

"Did she say Robert would kill the baby?" Kuruk asked, his normally carefree demeanor replaced by disbelief. "What kind of monster threatens an innocent child?"

Kyoshi's painted face remained impassive, but her eyes narrowed. "Some people will do anything for a price. A throne, power, revenge—these have inspired infanticide since time began."

The others glanced at her but chose not to inquire further about her apparent familiarity with such dark matters.

"Who is this Robert she speaks of?" Yangchen asked, turning to Aang. "Is he a warlord from your time I'm not familiar with?"

Aang shook his head, his younger face creased with confusion. "I'm as puzzled as you are. I've never heard of a Robert Baratheon or Targaryens or any of these other names." He gestured at the pool showing Ned cradling the infant. "I think we'll understand more once we figure out where exactly we are."

"Something is wrong," Kyoshi stated flatly, her fans clicking open and closed in her hands—a nervous habit she'd never quite abandoned. "This isn't right."

"What do you mean?" Roku asked, his golden eyes troubled.

Kuruk stepped forward, squinting at the scene in the pool. "She's right. The cycle should have continued in the Southern Water Tribe. The next Avatar should be born among my people." He gestured at the stone tower, the desert landscape beyond the window. "That's no igloo. Those aren't Water Tribe furs or clothing."

"Perhaps it's a remote settlement?" Yangchen suggested, though doubt colored her voice. "The world changed much during Aang's time."

"Maybe," Aang said, not sure yet what to make of this. '''

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.

The sun hung low over the dusty Stormlands road, a sullen orange disc veiled by clouds of grit kicked up by the horses' hooves. Ned Stark rode at the head of the small party, his gray cloak flapping behind him. His stallion, a sturdy beast with a thick mane, plodded steadily, its head bowed under the weight of the small wagon it towed. The wagon creaked with every rut, its wooden frame groaning as it jostled Lyanna's body, draped in a thin sheet that fluttered faintly at the edges.

Beside Ned rode Howland Reed, his lighter frame hunched in the saddle, his green cloak blending with the patchy scrub lining the road. His narrow face was set in a scowl, his dark eyes flicking back toward the tower that had disappeared long ago into the distance. Wylla, the wet nurse, rode a few paces behind, her brown woolen dress patched and faded, clinging to her slight figure as she clutched a bundle to her chest—baby Jon, wrapped in a scrap of gray cloth, his tiny head nestled against her shoulder. The infant's cries pierced the stillness now and then, sharp and insistent, but Wylla shifted him gently, offering a breast beneath her shawl, and his wails faded to soft whimpers, then silence as he drifted back to sleep.

Howland's reins creaked in his grip as he turned to Ned, his voice filled with frustration. "We should've brought them north, Ned. Our friends—Garret, Willam, the others. Burying them by that cursed tower feels wrong. They deserved better than a shallow grave in the sand."

Ned kept his eyes on the road, his broad shoulders stiff beneath his armor. His jaw tightened, a flicker of grief crossing his weathered face before he spoke. "There was no place for them, Howland. The wagon's small—Lyanna's all it can carry. Better they rest there, beneath stones, than lie open for the crows to pick at." He glanced back at the wagon, his dark hair falling into his eyes, and his hand tightened on the reins, the leather creaking under his calloused fingers.

Howland's scowl deepened, his thin lips pressing into a line. He shook his head, his cloak rustling as he shifted in the saddle. "Still doesn't sit right. They fought for her—for you. And now they're just... left behind." His gaze drifted to Wylla, then to the bundle in her arms. Jon stirred, a faint coo escaping him, and Howland's expression softened for a moment before hardening again. He leaned closer to Ned, dropping his voice to a near-whisper. "And what about him? What's your plan, Ned?"

Ned's eyes flicked to the side, meeting Howland's briefly before returning to the horizon. "We ride to King's Landing. I tell Robert Lyanna's dead—he'll want to know, deserves to know. I'll say the boy's mine, a bastard. Swear my oath to him as king, then we ride north to Winterfell. That's the end of it."

Howland jerked his head toward Jon, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself and hushed it again. "You're taking him there? Ned, look at him—those eyes. Purple as a bruised sky. Someone's bound to notice, to wonder. What if they guess he's Rhaegar's? Safer to leave him behind, stash him somewhere quiet 'til we're sure."

Ned's horse snorted, tossing its head, and he pulled the reins taut. He turned fully to Howland now. "Not bringing him's more suspicious," he said. "If they ask where the babe is and I say he's not with me, they'll want to know why—where he is, who's got him. Questions I can't answer without unraveling everything." He paused, his gaze dropping to Jon, who slept soundly against Wylla's chest, oblivious to the weight of his existence. "I've thought it through, Howland. I'll tell Robert his mother's Ashara Dayne. She had violet eyes—close enough. folk'll believe it, or at least not care to dig deeper."

Howland stared at him, his mouth parting slightly, then snapping shut. He rubbed a hand over his face, dragging it down his scruffy beard, and let out a short, incredulous huff. "Ashara Dayne? Ned, you're betting a lot on folks not asking too many questions. Robert's no fool—not when he's sober, anyway. And if he's not convinced..." He trailed off, his eyes flicking to Jon again, then back to Ned, a flicker of unease in his pinched features.

"He'll be convinced," he said, his voice quieter now, almost a growl. "He'll mourn Lyanna, drink himself stupid, and laugh at me for siring a bastard. That's how it'll go." He glanced at Wylla, who kept her head down, her dark hair falling over her face as she adjusted Jon's blanket. "Wylla, you'll back me up if anyone asks. Say you were with me at Starfall, that Ashara's the mother. Understood?"

Wylla nodded quickly, her hands tightening around Jon, her voice a soft murmur. "Aye, m'lord. Whatever you say." Her fingers brushed Jon's cheek, and he nuzzled closer, his tiny fist curling against her shawl.

Howland shook his head again, slower this time. "If something goes wrong then I will be there to protect you." 

''' Aang tilted his head, his orange robes fluttering as he bounced on his toes. "It's been two weeks since he was born," he said, his voice bright but tinged with confusion. "Two weeks, and no sign of bending anywhere—no one has used bending yet?"

Roku stood beside him. He clasped his hands behind his back, his fingers twitching as he nodded. "It is odd," he said. "We've passed two castles on this journey—crumbling heaps of stone, older than anything I've seen in our world. No pipes, no machines, no flags of the Fire Nation, Earth Kingdom, nothing. Just banners with strange beasts—stags, wolves. It's like we've stepped back centuries."

Kuruk lounged against an invisible wall, his blue tunic loose, his wolf-tail swinging as he scratched his chin. "This place looks nothing like home," he said. "No ice huts, no volcanoes, no earthbender walls. And King's Landing? Never heard of it. Sounds like some backwater hole nobody bothered to map." He smirked.

Aang nodded, his grin fading as he rubbed the back of his neck, his bare feet scuffing the mist. "Yeah, I've flown over every nation with Appa—never saw anything like this. Maybe it's some super isolated spot? Like, way out past the Si Wong Desert or something?"

Kyoshi stepped forward, crossing her arms. "You're all missing the point," she said, her voice cutting like a blade. "This little Avatar's in deep trouble. From what I've pieced together, this Robert Baratheon's the big chief here—king, whatever they call it. If he's not convinced this Ned Stark's the father, he might do something drastic. Kill the kid, maybe. People do worse for power." Her jaw tightened, a flicker of cynicism curling her lips as she glanced at the wagon, Lyanna's shrouded form barely visible.

Roku's frown deepened, his warm eyes darkening as he followed her gaze. "You think it could come to that?" he asked, his voice quieter.

Kyoshi shrugged, her fan stilling. "I've seen it before. Power's a hungry thing—swallows anything in its way. And those purple eyes? They're screaming trouble." She tilted her head.

Kuruk snorted. "Great. So our new guy's born into a nest of vipers, and we're stuck watching. Fantastic start." He flashed a grin, but it was tight, his fingers flexing as he glanced at Jon's sleeping form.

Aang swallowed, his hands clenching at his sides, his wide eyes darting between the others. "We've got to help him, right? I mean, if he's in danger—"

Yangchen who had been quite during now finally spoke. "I'm afraid there isn't much we can do Aang. The new Avatar is too young to protect himself."

"What about the Avatar State? Can that help him?" Aang asked, sounding a little desperate.

"Aang," Kyoshi said slowly, sounding a little annoyed. "He is just a baby, what exactly do you think will happen to him if he is suddenly forced into the Avatar State."

Aang's eyes fell, realising that there was nothing any of them could do to help the new Avatar.'''

As evening approached, the small party made camp in a sheltered hollow. Howland gathered wood for a small fire while Ned tended to the horses. Wylla sat with her back against a rock, the infant dozing in her arms.

"He's a quiet one," she observed as Ned approached, offering him a waterskin. "Hardly ever fusses unless he's hungry. Strong too, for one born in such circumstances."

Ned took a long drink before responding. "Stark blood," he said simply.

"What will you name him?" Wylla asked, adjusting the swaddling cloths. "He should have a name before we reach the capital."

For a moment, Ned was silent, staring into the distance as if the answer lay somewhere on the horizon. 

"Jon," he said. "After Jon Arryn. My foster father."

Howland, returning with an armful of firewood, nodded approvingly. "A good name."

"Jon Snow," Wylla tested the name, looking down at the sleeping infant. "It suits him."

Ned reached out, gently brushing a finger across the babe's cheek. "Jon," he repeated, and for a brief moment, something like tenderness softened his normally solemn features. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the expression vanished, replaced by the mask of Lord Stark, Warden of the North.

"We should reach King's Landing within three days," he said, rising to his feet. "Once there, I want you to stay with Jon in whatever chamber we are provided in the Red Keep, Wylla."

"As you wish, my lord," she replied with a small bow of her head.

Ned turned to Howland. "You'll accompany me to the Red Keep." His jaw tightened. "We'll tell him she died of fever. Nothing more."

Howland nodded grimly. "And after?"

"After I swear fealty to the new king, we head north." Ned's gaze drifted to the crude wagon and its shrouded cargo. "It's time to bring Lyanna home."

The walls of King's Landing rose before them like a great beast of pale stone, scarred and blackened in places from the recent sacking. Even from a distance, Ned could see the holes in the battlements where trebuchet stones had struck, the hasty repairs visible as patches of fresher stone against the weathered fortifications.

"Halt!" The guard's voice carried from the Dragon Gate. "State your name and purpose!"

"Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell," Ned's voice rang clear in the morning air. "Here to see His Grace, King Robert Baratheon."

The guards straightened immediately, exchanging quick glances. One rushed to signal the gate's opening while another dispatched riders into the city. The massive doors groaned open, revealing the city beyond.

("This architecture," Yangchen murmured in the spirit realm. "Even in my time, we had nothing quite like this. It feels like we are a thousand years in the past.")

Five Baratheon soldiers fell in around their small party as they entered the city proper. Their golden cloaks were pristine. Ned's eyes tracked the damage as they rode: collapsed buildings, scorched walls, streets still showing dark stains that rain hadn't yet washed away.

The common folk watched their procession with hollow eyes. Some recognized the direwolf banner and whispered among themselves—the Wolf Lord, the one who'd quarreled with King Robert over the dead Targaryen children. A woman clutched her baby closer as they passed, and Ned felt the weight of Jon in Wylla's arms behind him grow somehow heavier.

("There are signs of intense fighting," Kuruk observed, his warrior's eye catching details. "But no evidence of bending damage. No melted stone, no earthbender barricades, nothing we'd expect to see."

"A war without bending," Aang added, looking troubled. 

They wound their way through the city's meandering streets, climbing steadily toward Aegon's High Hill. The smell of smoke still lingered in some quarters. Ned, used to the clean air of the North, breathed shallowly.

"The city will bear these scars for years," Howland said quietly, guiding his horse closer to Ned's. "Tywin Lannister was thorough in his... loyalty demonstration."

Ned's jaw tightened but he said nothing. The argument with Robert over the Lannisters' brutality—over the tiny broken bodies wrapped in crimson cloaks—was still too fresh.

The Red Keep loomed above them now, its pale red stone catching the morning sun. As they approached the main gates, Ned noticed what Howland had already seen: every dragon relief, every Targaryen symbol, had been methodically destroyed. The three-headed dragon that once adorned the metalwork had been roughly hammered into shapeless bronze, leaving ugly scars in the metal.

("This systematic destruction of symbols," Kyoshi noted. "It's not just war damage. It's deliberate erasure."

"But erasure of what?" Aang wondered.

"Dragons, apparently," Roku replied dryly. "Though not like any dragons we know.")

The courtyard was a flurry of activity as they dismounted. Servants scurried about, workers continued repairs, and guards maintained their posts. The Baratheon stag flew everywhere the dragon once had, golden on black instead of red and black. Ned, Howland and Lady Wylla dismounted their horses once they entered the main courtyard.

Ned lifted Jon carefully from Wylla's arms. The babe stirred but didn't wake, his purple eyes remaining mercifully hidden.

"Howland," Ned spoke quietly, "show Wylla to whatever chambers they provide. Make sure she's comfortable." He paused, then added even more softly, "And keep watch."

Howland nodded, understanding all that wasn't said. He guided Wylla toward a waiting servant, while Ned adjusted his hold on Jon, ensuring the babe's face was partially hidden against his chest.

"Something is very wrong here," Yangchen said suddenly. "The spiritual energy... I don't feel any kind of spiritual energy. From what I remember even the most isolated area still had even the tinest spiritual energy, this places lacks of it. As if spirits didn't exist in this place."

"Could we be..." Aang hesitated. "Could we somehow be in a different world entirely?"

"Either we're beyond any known maps," Kyoshi stated bluntly, "or yes, we've somehow crossed into another world entirely. And given what we've seen..."

"Another world," Kuruk finished. "We already had our hands full with our own world, and now we are in a world that we know nothing about."

A steward approached, bowing deeply. "Lord Stark, His Grace is in The Throne Room. He's asked to see you immediately." The man's eyes flickered to the bundle in Ned's arms, then quickly away.

Ned took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. In his arms, Jon slept on, unaware of the lies about to be told in his name, unaware of the spirits watching through his eyes, unaware that he represented something unprecedented in not one world, but two.

The steward led the way into the Red Keep, and Ned followed, each step carrying him closer to the moment of truth. 

.

.

The doors to the throne room swung open with a ponderous groan that seemed to reach deep into Ned's bones. Two Baratheon guards flanked him, their yellow cloaks bright against the somber stone of the hall. Light streamed through high windows, illuminating motes of dust that danced in the air like snow.

Ned hesitated at the threshold. This was where his father had burned while Brandon strangled himself trying to reach a sword to save him. This was where Aerys had laughed while the Starks died. The same floor, the same walls, the same throne.

But not the same king.

Jon Snow stirred in his arms, making small noises of discomfort. Ned adjusted his hold, drawing the infant closer to his chest as he strode forward. His footsteps echoed in the cavernous hall, which was mercifully empty save for a handful of courtiers lingering near the walls, watchful and silent as crows.

"Ned!"

The booming voice broke the silence. At the far end of the hall, a massive figure was descending from the Iron Throne—a monstrosity of blackened metal that rose some two meters from the dais, forged from the thousand swords of Aegon's enemies. Robert Baratheon, newly crowned king of the Seven Kingdoms, took the steps two at a time, his jeweled crown sitting awkwardly on his black hair.

Even in fine velvets and silks, Robert looked more like a warrior than a king. His beard, trimmed shortly in the southern style, did little to soften his expression of eagerness.

"Where is she?" Robert demanded before he'd even reached the bottom step, his voice carrying the length of the hall. "Where's Lyanna?"

Ned swallowed, the familiar weight of grief settling in his chest. There was no gentle way to say it. "Lyanna is dead."

Robert froze, one foot still on the bottom step. His face fell like a stone dropped from a tower, the eagerness draining from his features. "Dead?" he repeated, as if the word itself were foreign to him.

"A fever took her," Ned said, the lie bitter on his tongue. "By the time I reached her, it was already too late."

Robert's blue eyes turned bright with unshed tears. He looked away, taking deep, shuddering breaths that made his broad shoulders rise and fall. For a moment, Ned thought he might crumble right there on the steps.

"Your Grace," came a softer voice from the side of the throne. Jon Arryn, Hand of the King and foster father to both Ned and Robert, approached with measured steps. His face, lined by his sixty-six years, was solemn with sympathy. "I am deeply sorry for your loss, Ned. Lyanna was... she was a remarkable young woman."

Ned nodded, grateful for the older man's steadying presence. Jon Arryn had raised him from boyhood at the Eyrie, had taught him honor and duty when he was too young to understand their weight. If anyone in this viper's nest of a city could be trusted, it was he.

Robert's grief transformed suddenly into rage. He roared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling: "I should kill him again! Seven hells, I wish I could kill Rhaegar Targaryen a thousand times for what he did to her!"

The outburst startled the infant in Ned's arms. Jon awoke with a start and began to cry, his thin wail cutting through the tension in the hall.

Both Robert and Jon Arryn turned toward the sound, noticing for the first time the bundle Ned carried. Robert's rage gave way to confusion as he stared at the child.

"What's this?" he asked, gesturing toward the crying infant. "Whose babe are you carrying, Ned?"

Ned took a breath, steeling himself. "My son."

Robert's jaw dropped. Jon Arryn raised a single bushy eyebrow, his keen eyes studying Ned's face.

"Your...?" Robert began, then barked a laugh of disbelief. "You? Honorable Ned Stark fathered a bastard?" His astonishment quickly transformed into delight. "By the gods! Who was she, Ned? Which woman finally got your dick wet outside your marriage vows?"

Ned's expression remained cold as northern snow. "I would rather not speak of it."

Robert stepped closer, peering at the now-quieting child. His eyes narrowed slightly as he noticed the infant's most distinctive feature. "Purple eyes," he remarked, glancing up at Ned with sudden curiosity. "Don't see that color much outside of..."

"Ashara Dayne," Ned said quietly, the reluctance in his voice not entirely feigned. "He's her son."

Robert's face split into a broad grin. "Ashara? The beauty from Starfall?" He clapped Ned on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "Well done, Ned! Well done indeed! Half the realm wanted to bed that woman, and you actually did it!" He laughed again, the sound booming throughout the hall. "Quiet Ned Stark, who would have thought?"

Ned didn't share in the mirth, his face remaining impassive. The child in his arms had settled.

Robert's laughter faded as he noticed Ned's lack of response. A new question formed on his face. "But why do you have him? Why isn't the boy with his mother?"

"He's my son," Ned replied firmly. "I intend to raise him myself."

Both Robert and Jon Arryn looked taken aback. The Hand of the King studied Ned with increased intensity, as if trying to read the truth behind his gray eyes.

"At Winterfell?" Jon Arryn asked. "What will Lady Catelyn say to this?"

A flash of guilt crossed Ned's face. "Whatever she wishes. But the boy is my blood. He will be raised as such."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the three men. Ned could feel the weight of Jon Arryn's gaze, too perceptive by half. The old man had always been able to sense when his foster sons were hiding something.

"Well," Robert said finally, breaking the tension, "a man takes responsibility for his seed. I respect that." He clapped Ned on the shoulder again, more gently this time. "So, what shall you do now, Lord Stark?"

"I came to swear my oath to you," Ned said. "And to bring Lyanna home. We'll leave for Winterfell in the morning."

"So soon?" Robert's disappointment was palpable. "I'd hoped you might stay awhile. Help me rule this bloody kingdom."

Ned shook his head. "The North has been without his Lord for too long. And winter is coming."

Robert sighed heavily. "Always with the dire warnings, you Starks." He glanced at the Iron Throne with obvious distaste. "Very well. We'll have the ceremony this evening. You can swear your fealty, and then..." his voice softened slightly, "then you can take her home."

Ned nodded, grateful for this small mercy at least. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"Seven hells, don't call me that," Robert growled. "Not you. I get enough of that from these southern lickspittles." He gestured vaguely at the courtiers who had been pretending not to eavesdrop.

Jon Arryn stepped forward. "I'll have chambers prepared for you and your... companions," he said, his eyes flickering briefly to the child. "You must be weary from your journey."

"Thank you, Lord Arryn," Ned replied formally, though his eyes conveyed more personal gratitude.

As Ned turned to follow the steward who had appeared to guide him to his quarters, Robert called after him. "Ned! What have you named him? The boy?"

Ned paused, looking down at the infant whose purple eyes had closed once more in peaceful sleep. "Jon," he said. "After Lord Arryn."

The older man's weathered face softened with genuine surprise and emotion. "I... I am honored, Ned."

Robert nodded approvingly. "Jon Snow. Has a good sound to it." He smiled, unaware of the weight those two simple words would carry in the years to come. "Jon Snow of Winterfell."

''' In the spirit realm, the Avatars observed the exchange with various degrees of understanding and confusion.

"So this Robert is indeed the king," Roku mused, stroking his long white beard. "A new king, it seems, given the way they speak of this Rhaegar person in the past tense."

"A king filled with rage," Yangchen noted, her serene face troubled. "Did you see how quickly his grief transformed to violence? 'Kill him a thousand times,' he said. Such hatred doesn't bode well for stability."

Kuruk leaned forward, studying Robert's flushed face. "He's a warrior thrust onto a throne, not born to it. I've seen this before—men who can win battles but can't govern peace."

"And he clearly has no idea who Jon really is," Aang added, looking relieved. "This deception is dangerous. If he hates this Rhaegar so much that he'd want to kill him a thousand times, what would he do to Rhaegar's son?"

"Exactly what Lyanna feared," Kyoshi stated flatly. "He'd kill the child without hesitation."

"The old man—Jon Arryn—he suspects something," Roku observed. "Did you see how he watched Lord Stark? He knows there's more to this story."

"He does," Kyoshi agreed, "but he seems protective of both men. A mentor figure, perhaps?"

"What I don't understand," Aang said, "is why Jon's eyes are so important. In our world, purple eyes wouldn't cause such concern."

"In this world, they're clearly a marker of bloodline," Yangchen explained. "Notice how quick Lord Stark was to mention this Ashara person when the eye color was noted. Purple eyes must be distinctive to certain families here."

"The throne itself tells us much," Roku added grimly. "Did you see  that thing, it looks more like a monster turned into a throne, I don't understand why someone would want to sit on that thing. This is a harsh world we've found ourselves in."

"And our young Avatar is at the center of their game of succession," Kyoshi concluded. "Born to one house but claimed by another, his very existence a threat to a king's peace of mind."

"We need to learn more," Aang insisted. "About this world, these houses, this conflict. If we're to guide Jon properly, we need to understand what he faces."

The others nodded in agreement, their spectral forms gathered close around the pool that showed the infant Jon Snow.

"For now," Yangchen said softly, "he is safe in Lord Stark's care. That, at least, is a blessing."

"Let's hope it remains so," Kyoshi replied, her painted face grim. 

.

.

The heavy iron gates of King's Landing groaned shut behind them, sealing off the city from Ned's view. He didn't look back. There was nothing in that red castle he wished to see again—only memories best left undisturbed and a friend who was now a King.

The Northern army stretched before him in a long column—direwolf banners snapping in the brisk southern breeze, horses and men alike eager to return home. Lords Umber, Karstark, Manderly, Glover, and the rest rode near the front, their own smaller retinues marching behind Ned's personal guard. Howland Reed rode beside him, silent as always. Behind them came Wylla, the wet nurse, with Jon bundled securely against her chest.

"Lord Stark," called Lord Wyman Manderly, urging his horse forward. The large man's face was flushed with the effort of riding, but his small eyes were shrewd. "Your sister's body should reach Winterfell before we do. The ship I arranged would have made landfall at White Harbor a week past."

Ned nodded his thanks. "I've sent word ahead. A statue is being prepared for the crypts."

"A fitting tribute," Greatjon Umber rumbled from his massive destrier. "Lady Lyanna deserves her place among the Starks of old."

The mention of Lyanna brought a fresh wave of grief, but Ned kept his face composed. He had wept once, alone in his chambers after Robert's coronation feast. That would be enough. Winter was coming, and Starks did not have the luxury of extended mourning.

As they traveled north, the landscape gradually transformed. The lush greenery of the Crownlands gave way to the rockier terrain of the Riverlands, then to the swampy mysteries of the Neck. With each passing day, the air grew sharper, the nights colder. When they finally crossed the Neck, the first snowflakes began to fall—summer snow, a welcome sight to northern eyes.

"Look, my lord," Howland said one evening, gesturing to where Wylla was showing Jon his first snowfall. The infant's tiny hand had escaped his swaddling, reaching up toward the white flakes with apparent fascination.

"He knows he's coming home," Ned said softly.

Howland's green eyes studied Ned's face. "Home to Winterfell, yes. But what about Lady Catelyn? Have you considered what you'll tell her?"

Ned's expression hardened. "The truth—that Jon is my blood and will be raised alongside my trueborn children."

"And if she resents the boy?" Howland pressed gently.

"Then she resents him, I cannot make her love him," Ned replied, though the thought pained him. "But he stays. I've made my promise, Howland. I'll not break it, whatever the cost."

The crannogman nodded, apparently satisfied. "He has the look of a Stark, at least. More so every day."

It was true. Though Jon's eyes remained that distinctive Targaryen purple, his face was already showing the long Stark features. In time, perhaps, the eyes would be the only hint of his true paternity—a secret Ned intended to carry to his grave.

'''In the spirit realm, the five Avatars watched the scene with varying degrees of relief and concern.

"Well, at least the young Avatar is finally safe," Aang said, as they observed Jon's wide-eyed wonder at the falling snow. "Away from that king and his court."

Kyoshi snorted, crossing her arms over her armored chest. "He's not 'safe,' merely removed from one immediate threat. Just because a king didn't kill him doesn't mean someone else won't."

"Must you always expect the worst?" Kuruk groaned, leaning on his hunting spear. "Don't talk like there's an assassin lurking behind every tree. The boy's surrounded by an army, for spirits' sake."

"Now that the immediate danger has passed," Yangchen interjected cutting through the bickering, "we must address more pressing matters."

"Such as?" Aang asked, turning to his predecessor.

Yangchen's usually calm face was troubled. "We must discuss the fact that we find ourselves in an entirely new world—one we know nothing about. A world that has apparently never heard of bending. Where the Avatar himself might not even be able to bend at all."

A stunned silence followed her words.

"Not bend?" Kuruk repeated incredulously. "But the Avatar must bend. It's... it's what we do!"

"How can the Avatar maintain balance without the elements?" Aang asked, his voice small with worry.

Roku, who had been quietly contemplative, suddenly spoke up. "I believe Jon Snow—or Aemon Targaryen, whatever his true name may be—can learn to firebend, at the very least."

The others turned to him in surprise.

"How can you be so certain?" Aang asked.

Roku stroked his long white beard, his golden eyes thoughtful. "Because I can sense it in him. The new Avatar has fire in his blood—quite literally. The spark is there, waiting to be kindled."

"You think he can bend fire in a world where bending doesn't exist?" Kyoshi asked skeptically.

"I do," Roku affirmed. "And if he can bend one element, I see no reason why he couldn't master the others. The Avatar Spirit itself carries the knowledge of the elements—it's not dependent on the world around it."

The others considered this, hope cautiously rekindling.

"But there's still a fundamental problem," Kuruk pointed out, suddenly serious. "If this world has no knowledge of bending, where will he find masters? How can he learn to control even one element if there's no one to teach him?"

The question hung in the air like a dark cloud. None of them had considered this obstacle.

"We could teach him," Aang suggested after a moment, brightening at his own idea. "We've all mastered our native elements. Between us, we have all the knowledge he needs."

Kyoshi let out a derisive snort. "And how exactly do you propose we do that? It will be years before Jon can even communicate with us, and even that ability is something Avatars are usually taught. We can appear to him briefly in dreams or moments of extreme spiritual connection, but not like a master who can teach for hours each day."

"Kyoshi's right," Yangchen said gently. "Our ability to interact with him is limited. And without proper training, he might never develop the spiritual awareness to see or hear us clearly."

Roku sighed, the sound like a distant wind. "The situation is indeed challenging. But not impossible. Remember, the very first benders learned from the original sources—dragons, badgermoles, the moon, the sky bison. They had no human masters."

"So you're suggesting what?" Kuruk asked. "That we somehow get him near a dragon? Good luck finding one in this world."

"No," Roku replied patiently. "I'm suggesting that the knowledge is within him—within us—already. We must find ways to awaken it."

"Through dreams, perhaps," Yangchen mused. "Or moments of meditation. If we can reach him in the spiritual realm, even briefly..."

"It won't be enough," Kyoshi insisted. "Bending requires physical discipline, not just spiritual guidance. A few cryptic dreams won't teach him proper forms or breath control."

"Then we'll have to be creative," Aang said, his expression determined. "Maybe we can influence his instincts, help him discover bending on his own through necessity or emotion."

"Like how you first airbent," Roku nodded. "Or how many Avatars discover their abilities in moments of danger or strong feeling."

"It's still a poor substitute for proper training," Kyoshi maintained, "but I suppose we have no better options."

Yangchen's face became resolute. "Whatever difficulties lie ahead, we must find a way. I believe there is a reason the Avatar cycle has brought us to this world. Balance is needed here, perhaps even more than in our own realm."

"Then it's settled," Aang said firmly. "We'll do whatever we can to guide Jon—to teach him bending and help him discover his purpose as the Avatar in this new world."

"It won't be easy," Kyoshi warned, though her tone had softened slightly. "The boy faces challenges none of us ever imagined. No recognized authority as Avatar, no understanding of the elements, and a heritage that would get him killed if discovered."

"When has it ever been easy to be the Avatar?" Aang asked with a small smile. "I was the last airbender. Roku had to oppose his childhood friend. Kyoshi created an island to protect her people. We've all faced impossible odds."

"And now, so will he," Roku concluded, looking down at the infant who was still reaching for snowflakes, unaware of the ancient spirits watching over him or the remarkable destiny that awaited him. "May the spirits grant him strength for the journey ahead."

As the Northern army continued its march through the increasingly snowy landscape, Jon Snow slept peacefully against Wylla's chest, dreaming infant dreams filled with strange images of fire and air, earth and water.

Chapter Text

293 AC

Jon Snow thrashed in his small bed, the furs tangled around his legs like grasping hands. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold that turned his breath to fog even inside the stone walls of Winterfell. His face contorted in concentration as he mumbled in his sleep.

"Stone... too big... can't..." he muttered, his small hands twitching atop the furs.

In his dream, Jon wasn't Jon at all. He looked through the eyes of someone else—a woman with delicate hands adorned with blue arrow tattoos. Before him loomed a creature of impossible size, a giant made entirely of stone and earth that tore great chunks from the mountainside and hurled them with devastating force. Jon—no, not Jon, someone else—moved with speed, evading the massive projectiles that shattered the ground where she had stood moments before.

"The Avatar State is not to be used lightly," came a voice from within and without simultaneously.

With movements that felt as natural as breathing, Jon's dream-self summoned gusts of wind that lifted her skyward, then brought forth water from a nearby stream, shaping it into a massive whip that sliced through the stone giant's arm. Fire erupted from her palms in controlled bursts, superheating the creature's rocky surface until it cracked and splintered. Finally, with a decisive gesture, she split the earth beneath the giant, creating a chasm that swallowed it whole.

"Yangchen..." Jon mumbled, the foreign name slipping from his lips like a secret.

His purple eyes snapped open, wide and disoriented in the dim light of dawn that filtered through his window. For several heartbeats, Jon remained frozen, his gaze darting to every corner of his small chamber as if expecting to find someone—or something—watching him. The shadows held nothing but the familiar outline of his meager possessions: a small wooden sword leaning against the wall, a chest containing his clothes, and a basin of water now filled with ice.

Jon exhaled slowly, his rigid posture relaxing. "No one there," he whispered to himself, relief evident in his childish voice.

This wasn't the first such dream. For as long as he could remember—which admittedly wasn't very long for a boy of ten—Jon had experienced these vivid visions. Sometimes, he dreamed of strange creatures: massive bison that soared through the air, badgers the size of bears that tunneled through earth as if it were water, dragons unlike any described in Maester Luwin's books. Other times, he talked with people who called him names he knew he had never heard before, yet those names all sounded familiar.

"Yangchen," he repeated softly, testing the name on his tongue. It joined the litany of others that had come to him in dreams: Kuruk, Szato, Gun, Onaara, Kyoshi—names he'd never heard in the waking world yet somehow knew belonged to him. 

Jon remembered the time, nearly a year past, when he'd worked up the courage to tell his father about these dreams. Lord Eddard Stark had listened with his usual solemn attention. When Jon had finished his halting explanation, describing how he'd bent water into fantastic shapes and summoned fire from empty air, his father had placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Dreams are just dreams, Jon," Lord Stark had said. "They may seem real while we sleep, but they are just dreams."

Later, when the dreams persisted, Jon had been taken to Maester Luwin. The learned man had been more curious, asking detailed questions about what Jon had seen and felt, but his conclusion had been much the same.

"The mind wanders far in sleep, Jon," the maester had explained, fingering the many links of his chain thoughtfully. "Your dreams are unusual, certainly, but not cause for concern. Children often dream of having powers beyond their reach—it's quite natural."

Jon slipped from beneath his furs, wincing as his bare feet touched the cold stone floor. He padded to his window, pushing open the shutters to gaze out at the snow-covered courtyard below. Dawn had barely broken, and Winterfell was still largely asleep, though smoke already rose from the kitchens where the bakers would be preparing the day's bread.

Fresh snow had fallen overnight, carpeting the practice yard in pristine white. Jon stared at it, remembering his dream—not this night's dream of Yangchen and the stone giant, but an earlier one where he had moved snow with nothing but gestures of his hands, gathering it into a swirling vortex around him.

A foolish impulse seized him. Jon extended his hand toward the snow outside his window, concentrating with all his might. He imagined the snow rising, swirling, obeying his command as it had in his dream.

Nothing happened.

The snow remained undisturbed, save for where a raven hopped across its surface, leaving tiny tracks in its wake.

"You are an idiot," Jon mumbled to himself, dropping his hand and feeling heat rise in his cheeks despite being alone.

He turned from the window, moving to the basin of water to wash his face. As he reached for the cloth beside it, his hand hovered over the ice-filmed surface. His mind went to the dream he had tonight. He knew not who Yangchen was, but he remembered the way she had moved her hands, controlling the elements as if she had invisible hands.

Without fully understanding why, Jon held his palm just above the water's frozen surface and closed his eyes, focusing on the memory of warmth, of fire dancing across fingertips.

"Jon! Are you awake?" Robb's voice shattered his concentration as his half-brother burst through the door without knocking. "Ser Rodrik says we can have an extra hour of sword practice if we come down early!"

Jon jerked his hand away from the basin, an inexplicable feeling of guilt washing over him. "I—yes, I'll be right there."

Robb, already dressed and practically bouncing with energy, grinned. "What were you doing? You looked like Maester Luwin when he's trying to decipher those old scrolls from Valyria."

"Nothing," Jon replied quickly. Too quickly. "Just... thinking."

"Well, stop thinking and start moving! First one to the armory gets to use the good practice sword!" Robb darted away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Jon reached for his clothes, pushing thoughts of dreams and strange names from his mind. He was Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell—not Yangchen or Kuruk or whoever these people were that haunted his sleep. Dreams were just dreams, as his father said. They held no meaning, no power.

Yet as he dressed, Jon couldn't help glancing back at the basin of water. For just a moment, before Robb had burst in, he could have sworn he felt the ice begin to respond to his touch, the surface softening ever so slightly beneath his hovering palm.

"Just your imagination," he told himself firmly, pulling on his boots. "Dreams are just dreams."

.

.

The Great Hall of Winterfell bustled with morning activity as servants hurried about, bringing platters of food to the high table where the Stark family broke their fast. Steam rose from bowls of porridge sweetened with honey, plates of eggs, and fresh bread still warm from the ovens. 

Jon Snow sat beside his half-brother Robb, both boys devouring their food with the ravenous appetite of active ten-year-olds. Jon's purple eyes—so unlike the Stark gray or Tully blue that dominated the high table—darted occasionally toward Lady Catelyn, careful not to draw her attention. As always, she had seated him far enough from her to make her feelings clear, yet not so distant as to invite comment from Lord Stark.

"No! No!" came the stubborn cry from little Arya, who at five years old had developed a formidable will that belied her tiny stature. She pushed away the spoon of mashed turnips Lady Catelyn was attempting to feed her.

"Arya," Lady Catelyn sighed, her patience clearly wearing thin. "You must eat something besides bread."

"No turnips!" Arya declared, crossing her arms over her chest.

Jon couldn't help but chuckle at his little half-sister's defiance. Of all his siblings, Arya seemed to like him best, often toddling over to him whenever he entered a room, much to Lady Catelyn's poorly concealed dismay.

"What do you think Ser Rodrik has planned for us today?" Robb asked, nudging Jon with his elbow and pulling his attention away from Arya's breakfast rebellion. "More footwork drills?"

Jon grimaced. "I hope not. My legs still ache from yesterday."

"Mine too," Robb admitted, lowering his voice. "But I didn't want to say anything. Father says a lord never complains about training."

Jon nodded solemnly. "Well, I'm not a lord, so I can complain all I want," he replied with a grin.

Robb laughed, nearly choking on his milk. "Lucky bastard."

Jon's smile faded for a moment, but he decided to ignore the small little voice in his head, telling him that he was more than a bastard.

"When we're older," Robb continued, eyes bright with excitement, "we should travel south together. Visit the great tournaments, become knights like in the stories."

"Knights?" Jon raised an eyebrow. "Northmen don't typically become knights. It's a southern tradition, with the Seven and all."

"So? We could be the first. The Knight of Winterfell and..." Robb trailed off, searching for an appropriate title.

"The Bastard of Winterfell doesn't have quite the same ring to it," Jon said dryly.

"No, you'd be... the Purple Knight! For your eyes," Robb decided, nodding as if the matter were settled.

Jon rolled those same purple eyes. "Very fearsome."

"It could be!" Robb protested. "Besides, did you know the Daynes of Starfall sometimes have purple eyes too? And they have the most famous knight in all the Seven Kingdoms—the Sword of the Morning."

Jon knew this, of course. Maester Luwin had once told him that his unusual eye color likely came from his mother, though his father never confirmed this. The Daynes were one possibility, though Lord Stark had never named Jon's mother, no matter how many times he'd worked up the courage to ask.

Their conversation was interrupted as Jory Cassel, captain of the household guard, approached Lord Stark with a sealed letter. Ned read it quickly, his expression warming.

"Good news, my lord?" Lady Catelyn asked, having finally surrendered to Arya's demands and replaced the turnips with berries.

"Indeed. Lord Wyman Manderly will be paying us a visit. He should arrive within the week," Ned replied.

Robb turned to Jon with wide eyes. "Lord Manderly? From White Harbor?"

"How many other Manderlys do you know?" Jon teased, but he too was surprised. Visitors to Winterfell were relatively rare, especially noble houses bringing their entire families.

"White Harbor?" Sansa, who at seven years old was already showing signs of Lady Catelyn's beauty and grace, perked up immediately. "Are they bringing ladies? Real southern ladies?" Her voice rose with each word, nearly reaching a squeal by the end.

"Not southern ladies, Sansa," Ned corrected gently. "The Manderlys may follow the Seven, but they are Northmen now and have been for a hundred of years."

"Still," Lady Catelyn added, smoothing Sansa's auburn hair, "the Manderly girls are said to be very well-mannered. You'll have new friends to play with."

"Is it true, Father?" Sansa asked, blue eyes wide with excitement.

"Yes, Lord Manderly travels with his two sons, Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel, and his granddaughters Wynafryd and Wylla. They're near Robb and Jon's age, I believe."

Jon felt a small flutter of both excitement and anxiety. New children to play with could be wonderful—or terrible, depending on how they viewed baseborn children. Most noble visitors either ignored him entirely or regarded him with poorly concealed disdain.

"Robb," Lord Stark continued, his voice taking on the tone he used for lessons, "you'll be expected to represent House Stark properly. Lord Manderly is one of our most important bannermen."

"Yes, Father," Robb replied, sitting up straighter.

Jon tried not to let his disappointment show. Of course his father hadn't included him in the instruction—he wasn't a Stark, not truly. He was just the bastard, tolerated but not expected to participate in formal duties. He doubted the Manderly granddaughters would have any interest in his company once they learned his surname was Snow.

"Jon," Lord Stark added unexpectedly, "you as well. You both represent this house."

Jon's head snapped up, purple eyes wide with surprise. "Yes, my lord," he managed, a warm feeling spreading through his chest at the inclusion.

Lady Catelyn's lips thinned almost imperceptibly, but she said nothing. Across the table, baby Arya chose that moment to fling a berry with surprising accuracy, landing it directly in Jon's porridge and giggling wildly when it splashed.

"Arya!" Lady Catelyn scolded, but Jon just laughed, fishing out the berry and popping it into his mouth with a conspiratorial wink at his little sister.

.

.

The training yard echoed with the clack of wooden swords and the grunts of exertion as boys of various ages practiced under Ser Rodrik Cassel's watchful eye. The old master-at-arms barked corrections when needed, his magnificent white whiskers quivering with each shout.

Jon and Robb faced each other in the center of the yard, wooden practice swords at the ready. A light snow had begun to fall, dusting the ground and their hair with delicate flakes that melted almost instantly upon contact with their overheated skin.

"Ready, Snow?" Robb called, his breath visible in the cold air.

"Always, Stark," Jon answered with a grin.

They circled each other, practice swords extended. Jon felt the familiar calm settle over him, the strange clarity that always came during training. His body seemed to know what to do before his mind could even process it—a gift, Ser Rodrik had called it, though the old knight qualified this by adding that Jon still needed much more practice.

Robb lunged forward with a quick thrust aimed at Jon's midsection. Jon sidestepped nimbly, the movement so fluid it almost felt as if the very air were helping him along. He'd always been quick—quicker than Robb, quicker than all the boys of his age—and it gave him an advantage despite Robb's slightly greater strength.

"Too slow!" Jon taunted, dancing away from another swing.

"Stand still and fight, then!" Robb countered, pressing forward with renewed determination.

Their wooden swords met with a series of rapid clacks as they exchanged blows. Jon parried one strike, then another, feeling that strange awareness guiding his movements. The world seemed to slow around him, and he could almost predict where Robb's next attack would fall.

When Robb swung at his right side, Jon was already moving to block, catching the wooden blade with his own. In the same move, he pivoted and struck Robb's chest with what he intended to be a light tap.

Jon's wooden sword touched Robb's chest, and a sudden gust of wind seemed to erupt from the point of contact. Robb's eyes widened in shock as he was lifted clean off his feet and thrown backward through the air, landing with a heavy thud in a snowdrift more than a meter away.

The training yard fell silent. Every boy stopped mid-swing to stare. Even Ser Rodrik stood frozen, his weathered face a mask of astonishment.

Jon stared at his own hands in disbelief, then at the wooden sword, then at Robb sprawled in the snow. Had he really hit him that hard? Impossible—he wasn't nearly strong enough to send Robb flying like that.

"Seven hells!" Robb exclaimed, scrambling to his feet with excitement rather than anger. Snow clung to his auburn hair and clothes as he rushed back to Jon. "How did you do that? You have to teach me!"

"I... I don't know," Jon stammered, genuinely confused. "I didn't mean to hit you so hard."

"Hard?" Robb laughed incredulously. "Jon, you threw me through the air! It was like... like magic or something!"

Ser Rodrik strode over, his expression stern. "Lord Robb, there's no need for such theatrics in training. Flinging yourself backward might seem amusing, but you could break a bone if you land wrong."

"But I didn't do it on purpose!" Robb protested. "Jon hit me, and I just... flew backward! I swear by the old gods, Ser Rodrik. Ask anyone who saw!"

The master-at-arms turned to Jon, bushy eyebrows raised in question.

"I only meant to tap him," Jon said quietly, confusion evident in his voice. "I don't know what happened."

Several of the other boys nodded in agreement. 

"Must have been the ice," Ser Rodrik concluded after a moment's consideration. "You slipped on a patch of ice just as Jon struck you. It happens."

But Jon knew there had been no ice. And from the look on Robb's face, so did he. Something else had happened—something neither of them could explain.

As training resumed, Jon couldn't help but think of his dreams—dreams where he commanded the elements with a mere gesture, where wind and fire obeyed his will. Dreams that felt more like memories than fantasies.

He looked down at his hand, still gripping the wooden sword, and for just a moment, he could have sworn he saw the air itself rippling around his fingers, like heat above a summer road.

"Jon!" Ser Rodrik's voice snapped him back to reality. "Focus, boy! Back to positions!"

Jon shook his head to clear it and returned to his stance. But as he raised his practice sword once more, a whisper seemed to brush against his consciousness—a woman's voice:

"The air responds to your will, young Avatar. It has awakened first, as it often does."

Jon glanced around, looking for the source of the voice, but there was no one near him except Robb, who was watching him with curious eyes.

"Are you all right?" Robb asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine," Jon replied automatically, though he was far from certain this was true. "Just... thinking."

"Well, think about how you're going to teach me that trick," Robb grinned, raising his wooden sword again. "Because that was the most amazing thing I've ever seen."

Jon managed a weak smile in return, but his mind was elsewhere—the voice felt familiar.

.

.

The Winterfell library was Jon's sanctuary. Unlike the Great Hall, where Lady Catelyn's gaze reminded him constantly of his place, or the training yard, where he was always "the bastard" no matter how well he performed, the library treated all seekers of knowledge equally. Here, among the dusty tomes and ancient scrolls, Jon could forget for a while that he was Jon Snow and simply be a boy with questions.

The chamber was smaller than one might expect for an ancient castle. Oak shelves lined the circular walls, reaching from floor to ceiling, each crammed with leather-bound volumes in various states of preservation. Narrow windows set high in the walls allowed wan northern light to filter through, supplemented by scattered candles and oil lamps.

Jon sat cross-legged on a bench at one of the heavy wooden tables, a stack of books beside him and one open before him. He'd been here since midday when Ser Rodrik had dismissed them from training earlier than usual—perhaps still unsettled by the strange incident with Robb.

Though he'd never admit it aloud, Jon took pride in his studiousness. Maester Luwin had once mentioned to Lord Stark within Jon's hearing that the boy had asked to learn his letters at four namedays, while Robb hadn't shown interest until he was nearly seven. It was a small thing, but Jon cherished such distinctions—they were rare enough in his life.

"House Manderly," Jon read softly to himself, finger tracing along the elegant script. "Originally from the Reach, they were driven from their lands by House Gardener and found refuge in the North when King Stark granted them White Harbor in return for their oath of fealty."

The book contained detailed descriptions of White Harbor itself—the only true city in the North, built entirely of white stone, with wide clean streets and a magnificent harbor where trading ships from across the Narrow Sea docked year-round. Jon tried to imagine it, so different from Winterfell's ancient grey stone and the simple wooden buildings of Winter Town.

He flipped forward, finding a section on House Manderly's customs. Unlike most northern houses, they followed the Faith of the Seven rather than the old gods, a remnant of their southern origins. They maintained a sept rather than a godswood as their primary place of worship. And, most intriguingly to a hungry boy of ten, they were famously fond of feasts and food, Lord Wyman himself being reportedly so fat he could no longer sit a horse.

Jon grinned, wondering if it was true. He'd never seen a man too fat to ride.

The afternoon wore on, and Jon barely noticed as the light from the windows dimmed. He'd lit a single candle in a brass holder beside his book, its warm glow sufficient for his purposes. He was so engrossed in a description of the Merman's Court, where Lord Manderly held audiences while seated on a throne carved in the shape of a massive sea creature, that he didn't hear the library door open.

A sudden draft swept through the chamber, extinguishing his candle with a soft hiss.

"Oh, come on," Jon groaned, setting down the book and preparing to stand. He'd need to retrieve the tinderbox from Maester Luwin's workbench across the room to relight it.

But before he could rise, the strangest thing happened. The candle's wick, still smoking slightly from being so recently extinguished, suddenly flared back to life. A small, steady flame appeared as if conjured from thin air, casting its familiar warm glow once more across the pages of his book.

Jon stared, mouth slightly open in shock. He blinked several times, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him in the dimness.

"What in the seven hells...?" he whispered, glancing around the library. He was alone—or appeared to be.

First wind in the training yard, and now fire in the library? Jon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the perpetual northern cold. Was he losing his mind? Were his strange dreams somehow bleeding into the waking world?

"Ah, Jon. I knew I would find you here," came a familiar voice, interrupting his spiraling thoughts.

Jon looked up to see Maester Luwin approaching, his grey robes swishing softly against the stone floor and the chain of his office clinking gently with each step. The old man's kind eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, nodding toward the open book.

"House Manderly, I see," the maester observed, leaning slightly to examine the page. "Preparing for our visitors already?"

Jon nodded, grateful for the distraction from what had just happened. "Yes, Maester. I wanted to know more about them before they arrive. Father says first impressions are important."

"Indeed they are," Luwin agreed, settling onto the bench opposite Jon. "Though I suspect the young Manderly ladies will be more interested in your swordplay than your knowledge of their family history."

"Still," Jon said, "better to know than not know."

The maester's smile widened. "A scholar's mindset. You remind me sometimes of—" He stopped himself, shaking his head slightly.

Jon's curiosity piqued, but he let it pass. Instead, he glanced around the library once more, confirming they were truly alone. Making a decision, he closed the book and leaned forward.

"Maester Luwin, may I ask you something?"

"Of course, Jon," the maester replied warmly. "A mind without questions is like a lamp without oil—it gives no light."

"Has there ever been a time... I mean, do the books mention any period in history when people could do strange things with elements? Like water, air, fire, and earth?" As he spoke, fragments of his dreams flashed through his mind—a woman raising walls of stone with a gesture, a man summoning water from a field of flowers around him.

Luwin's expression softened with understanding. "Ah. You've had another dream, haven't you?"

Jon nodded, suddenly feeling foolish. Perhaps he shouldn't have asked.

"Well," the maester said thoughtfully, stroking his chin, "if we were to believe everything written in the oldest books, the Children of the Forest supposedly used powerful earth magic to shatter the Arm of Dorne—the land bridge that once connected Westeros to Essos. They allegedly called upon the waters to flood the land, drowning thousands of First Men who were invading their territories."

"Do you believe that story?" Jon asked, leaning forward eagerly.

Luwin's eyes twinkled. "What I believe, young Jon, is that our ancestors were capable of far more than we give them credit for. The further back we look in history, the more the line blurs between fact and legend." He adjusted his maester's chain, the various metal links clinking together. "Perhaps they had knowledge or abilities that have been lost to time. Perhaps the stories grew in the telling."

Jon considered this. "Are there other stories? About controlling elements?"

"Hmm," Luwin mused. "The most well-known tales would be those of the White Walkers beyond the Wall. Old Nan would tell you they could control ice and bring terrible snowstorms with their march. The legends say their arrival brought the Long Night—a winter that lasted a generation, where children were born, grew up, and died without ever seeing spring."

A chill ran down Jon's spine at the description, though he wasn't sure why. "Did they exist? The White Walkers?"

"If they did," Luwin replied, his tone turning more practical, "they've been gone for eight thousand years. Most maesters believe they never existed at all—merely tales to frighten children into behaving." He smiled kindly. "Like grumkins and snarks."

Jon nodded, trying not to show his disappointment. He'd hoped for... well, he wasn't sure what exactly. Some explanation for the strange occurrences? Some confirmation that his dreams weren't mere fantasy?

"Why do you ask, Jon?" Luwin inquired gently. "These dreams seem to trouble you."

Jon hesitated, glancing at the candle that had mysteriously relit itself. Should he tell the maester what had happened in the training yard? About the wind that had sent Robb flying? About the flame that had appeared without flint or tinder?

"It's just..." Jon began, but faltered. Even to his own ears, it would sound mad. "They feel so real. Not like normal dreams at all. More like... memories."

Luwin reached across the table and patted Jon's hand. "The mind is a mysterious thing, far more complex than even the Citadel understands. Dreams can seem extraordinarily real, especially to imaginative young minds."

"But what if they're more than dreams?" Jon persisted. "What if—"

The library door swung open again, admitting Septa Mordane, who was leading Sansa by the hand. The stern-faced woman nodded curtly to Maester Luwin before guiding Sansa toward the shelves containing books on noble houses and their genealogies.

The moment for confidences had passed. Jon sighed and began gathering his books to return them to their shelves.

"Thank you, Maester Luwin," he said quietly.

The old man studied him with kind but penetrating eyes. "If these dreams continue to trouble you, Jon, you can always come to me. Day or night."

Jon nodded gratefully, but as he placed the books back on their shelves, his mind returned to the mystery of the self-lighting candle. He glanced back at it, still burning steadily where he'd left it.

In his mind, a voice that wasn't his own whispered: "Fire is life, young Avatar. It responds to your will because it recognizes your spirit."

Jon shook his head sharply, dispelling the strange thought. He was Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell. Not some mystical figure from his dreams. Not someone who could command the elements.

Yet as he left the library, he couldn't help but wonder—if he were to hold out his hand and will the flame to come to him, would it obey?

He wasn't yet brave enough to try.

Chapter Text

The spirit realm shimmered like a dream caught between dusk and dawn. A vast expanse of mist swirled around a grove of ghostly trees. The past Avatars—Aang, Roku, Kyoshi, Yangchen, and Kuruk—formed a loose circle around a tree.

Through the pool, they watched Jon Snow sitting alone in the Training Yard, his small frame dwarfed by the ancient tree. Snow dusted his dark hair as he stared at his hands, brows furrowed, willing the air to move as it had with Robb days before. A faint breeze stirred, rustling the leaves, but it faltered, and he slumped, kicking at the snow in frustration.

Kyoshi broke the silence first, her voice a guttural growl that cut through the ethereal stillness like a blade. "This is unbearable." She towered over the others, fan snapping open in her hand with a sharp click. The green shimmer of her earthbending aura pulsed irritably. "We're stuck here, whispering through cracks, while he flails around like a blind badgermole. Yangchen got through to him once—'air had awakened first,' big deal! He doesn't even know what it means. No masters, no benders, no spirits—nothing! Even if we scream 'You're the Avatar,' he'll never bend a pebble, let alone save this place."

Aang, perched cross-legged on a cushion of swirling air, tilted his head with a grin. "Oh, come on, Kyoshi, give him a break! He's only ten. And he's already airbending! Did you see him send Robb flying? Twirled him right through the air like a leaf! Sure, he doesn't get it yet, but he's got spirit—literally. He'll figure it out. I mean, I didn't have masters right away either, and I turned out fine." He twirled a finger, sending a tiny gust spiraling toward Kyoshi, who swatted it away with a glare.

"Fine?" Kyoshi snorted, her painted face twisting into a scowl. "You ran off and got frozen for a century, leaving the Fire Nation to torch the world. Spare me the optimism, kid." Her fan snapped shut, the sound echoing like a thunderclap.

Roku stepped forward. "Enough, both of you. This isn't about what we did—it's about Jon. This world is different, yes—no bending nations, no spirit portals—but the Avatar spirit adapts. It always has. Look at him." He gestured to the pool, where Jon traced a finger through the snow, lost in thought. "His powers are waking on their own. Air first, now hints of fire. He's young, unguided, but the spark's there. Our connection's weak, but it'll grow when he's ready to listen."

Kyoshi rolled her eyes, pacing around the weirwood, her heavy boots leaving no mark on the misty ground. "Ready? At this rate, he'll be an old man before he hears us properly. I've faced armies, leveled mountains—waiting around for a kid to stumble into his destiny isn't my style. We're crippled here, Roku. Even if he does hear us, how's he supposed to learn? Wave his hands at snow and hope for the best?"

Yangchen chimed in. "Kyoshi's got a point about the pace, but I'm with Aang—Jon's got potential. Air's awake, fire's flickering—did you see that candle relight itself in the library? That's something. I understand the situation isn't exactly favorable, but I'm sure he will get the hang of it sooner or later, and then he can finally start doing his job as the Avatar."

Aang chuckled. "Do his job as the Avatar? He's a kid, Yangchen! Let him have a little fun first. Besides, he's curious—asking that maester about people controlling elements? He's already chasing the truth. Give him time, and he'll be zooming around on an air scooter, saving the day. I bet he'd love that."

Kuruk, who'd been silent until now, stirred from the edge of the circle. "You're all dancing around the real problem." He stepped closer, eyes fixed on the pool, though his gaze seemed to pierce beyond it. "That maester mentioned White Walkers, that old woman that was called Old Nan talked about them. Dead things walking, ice that kills. In my time, I hunted dark spirits—I don't know what is in this world, but I wouldn't be surprised if the white walkers really exist."

Roku stroked his beard. "If they're spirits—or something like them—they might feel the Avatar's presence. The Avatar draws balance and trouble. But we can't know yet. Our focus should be guiding Jon, not chasing shadows we can't see."

Aang flipped upright, landing lightly on his feet, his grin softening into something thoughtful. "Kuruk's got a point—something feels off about this place. But I say we help Jon first. He's close to something—I can feel it. That breeze he made? It's a start. Maybe next time, we push a little harder and get through to him. He's got a good heart; he'll listen when he's ready."

"There's something else we need to talk about," Kyoshi suddenly said after a moment of silence. "It's not just his bending—or lack of it. It's how he's being raised. That's what's concerning."

Aang blinked, tilting his head like a curious owl. "What's wrong with it? He's got a dad—well, an uncle pretending to be a dad—in a big castle with wolves and everything! Sounds pretty cozy to me."

Kyoshi's eyes narrowed; she knew from personal experience just how important a good childhood was; a bad one was like a rotten tree just waiting to crash down. "Cozy? He's a bastard, Aang—at least, that's what they call him. Ned Stark's his uncle or whatever, sure, but the man's got his own kids to fuss over. You see how he lights up for Robb, that redheaded girl, the new baby? Jon's an afterthought. And that wife of his—Lady Stark? She looks at him like he's a stain on her fancy dress. Cold as the snow out there." 

Aang frowned, landing softly on the ground. "But he's got Robb! They're buddies—sparring, laughing. That's something, right?"

Kyoshi's lip curled. "Robb's a start, sure. And that five-year-old sister of his—Arya?—she toddles after him sometimes. Cute, but useless for guidance. Then there's the old Maester—Luwin Whatever—older than Roku, creaking like a rusty gate. Those are his 'true friends.' A brother, a toddler, and a relic. That's it." She said sharply. "He's surrounded, but he's alone."

Yangchen raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. "What are you getting at, Kyoshi? Spit it out."

"He needs more—love, direction, a real push. Ned's honor keeps him alive, but it's not enough. Lady Stark's ice-wall attitude? That'll fester. If he grows up feeling like a shadow, unwanted, what kind of Avatar will he be? One who doesn't care about balance—or worse, one who turns it upside down. I've seen warriors break under less."

The group fell silent, the weight of her words settling like frost. Aang rubbed the back of his head, his optimism dimming for a moment. "You think he'd... give up on balance? Jon doesn't seem like that."

"Seems don't matter," Kyoshi shot back. "He's a kid—malleable. If this 'bastard' label digs too deep, he might not want to save anyone if he's left drifting without a tether. I had my family, but then everything went to hell after Jianzhu...." She stopped talking, that monster was still a fresh wound in her heart. "I'm trying to say that small comments towards him will pile up, Bastard here, bastard there, those comments will fester like a wound, and one day he might explode in the worst possible time."

Roku stroked his beard again, his calm unshaken. "You raise a fair point, Kyoshi. His upbringing shapes his spirit as much as his bending does. But Eddard Stark seems like a man of duty—he protects Jon, even if imperfectly. And the boy's heart is strong—I see it in his quiet resolve, his curiosity. He seeks answers, even now."

Yangchen nodded slowly. "Maybe Kyoshi's onto something, though. He's got potential, but potential's fragile. If he's going to be this world's Avatar, he needs more than accidental gusts and a cold castle. He needs to feel like he belongs somewhere—or he'll never step up."

Kuruk straightened, his gaze still fixed on some unseen horizon. "Belonging's good, but purpose might come from those White Walkers—if they're real. Dark spirits don't care about love—they just strike. I'd know." He cracked his knuckles, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Maybe Jon needs a fight to wake him up."

Aang perked up, bouncing back. "Or a friend! Robb's great, but—what if someone else sees what's special about him? Like those Manderly girls. Kids can surprise you!"

Kyoshi rolled her eyes. "Optimist to the end, huh? Fine—let's hope a fish-girl with green hair saves the day."

.

.

The great hall of Winterfell bustled with activity as servants scurried about, hanging fresh banners, polishing ancient sconces, and scrubbing the stone floors until they gleamed. House Manderly's impending visit had transformed the typically efficient castle into a whirlwind of preparation.

Jon Snow stood in the midst of this organized chaos, a scroll clutched in his small hands, trying his best to stay out of everyone's way while still completing the task Maester Luwin had assigned him. The old maester had asked him to deliver inventory lists to key members of the household staff—the kitchens, the stables, the armory, and the steward's quarters. It was an important job, Jon knew, but not one that required him to stand at his father's side or participate in any formal capacity.

"Move aside, boy!" barked a harried cook's assistant, nearly colliding with Jon as she rushed past with a massive platter of salted cod. "These need to be soaked before tomorrow's feast!"

Jon pressed himself against the wall, watching as three more kitchen staff followed in her wake, each carrying similar burdens. The smell of the fish was pungent even from a distance, and Jon wrinkled his nose.

"Not to your liking, young lord?" came an amused voice.

Jon turned to find Maester Luwin approaching, his chain of office clinking softly with each step.

"It's not that," Jon replied, straightening his posture. "I was just surprised they're preparing so much food already. The Manderlys won't arrive until tomorrow."

"Ah, but preparation is key to a successful welcome," Luwin said wisely. "Especially when hosting the Manderlys, who are famous for their appetites. Lord Wyman alone can consume more at a single sitting than you and your brother manage in a day."

Jon's eyes widened. "Is he really so fat he can't sit a horse? Thats what Robb said."

The maester's lips twitched with suppressed amusement. "Lord Wyman is... substantial in size, yes. But I wouldn't recommend using such terms within his hearing. The Lord of White Harbor may be rotund, but his mind is as sharp as Valyrian steel, and his loyalty to House Stark is absolute."

Jon nodded. "The book said his family came from the Reach originally."

"Indeed they did," Luwin confirmed, pleased by Jon's retention of his reading. "When they lost their lands there, they fled north and were granted White Harbor by the Starks in exchange for their fealty. They've been loyal bannermen ever since—and the North has benefited greatly from their trade connections and wealth."

A crash from the kitchens interrupted their conversation, followed by a stream of colorful cursing that made Jon's ears burn. Luwin sighed.

"I'd best see what disaster has befallen us now. Have you delivered all your scrolls?"

Jon shuffled the remaining parchments in his hands. "Not yet. I still need to take this one to the stables and this one to the steward."

"Best get on with it, then," the maester advised, patting Jon's shoulder before hurrying toward the kitchens.

Jon made his way through the courtyard, which was nearly as busy as the great hall. Stableboys rushed to and fro, preparing extra stalls for the Manderly horses. Armorers hammered out dents in ceremonial shields that would hang during the welcoming feast. Even Old Nan had been pressed into service, sitting in a patch of weak winter sunlight as her gnarled fingers worked a needle through a banner that had suffered moth damage during storage.

As Jon approached the stables, he spotted Robb and Ser Rodrik deep in conversation outside the armory. Curiosity getting the better of him, Jon changed course to join them.

"—need to look my best," Robb was saying earnestly. "Father says the Manderlys have granddaughters my age."

Ser Rodrik tugged at his magnificent white whiskers. "Aye, they do. Lady Wynafryd and Lady Wylla, if I recall correctly. But you're a bit young to be concerning yourself with impressing young ladies, Lord Robb."

Jon arrived just in time to see his brother's face flush. "I didn't mean it like that! I just meant I need to show them that Winterfell has the best fighters in the North."

"Ah, now that's a worthy goal," Ser Rodrik nodded approvingly. "Though I'm not sure your mother would approve of you knocking about a highborn lady with a practice sword."

Robb laughed, then noticed Jon hovering at the edge of their conversation. "Jon! There you are. Ser Rodrik says we can have a special training session tomorrow to show the Manderly girls how we fight in Winterfell."

Jon frowned slightly. "I thought I wasn't supposed to participate in the formal welcome."

"This isn't formal," Robb insisted, his blue eyes bright with excitement. "Just regular training, but with an audience. Besides, you're better with a sword than I am—I need you there."

Pride warmed Jon's chest at his brother's compliment, but uncertainty quickly followed. "Lady Stark won't like it."

"Lady Stark has more pressing concerns than your training schedule," Ser Rodrik interjected gruffly. "The yard is my domain, and I say both Stark boys will show what they've learned."

Jon bit his lip to keep from correcting the old knight's reference to him as a "Stark boy." Instead, he nodded his thanks.

"I need to deliver these first," he said, holding up the remaining scrolls. "But I'll be ready tomorrow."

As Jon turned to continue his task, Robb called after him: "Wear your good tunic! The dark grey one with the wolf embroidery that father had made for your name day!"

Jon felt his cheeks warm at his brother's enthusiasm but continued on his way to the stables. The master of horse, a grizzled man named Hullen who had served House Stark since before Jon was born, accepted the inventory scroll with a grunt of acknowledgment.

"Mermen coming to the wolf's den," the man muttered as he unrolled the parchment. "Always brings trouble, mixing salt water with fresh."

"Trouble, sir?" Jon asked, curious at this assessment.

Hullen glanced down as if surprised to find Jon still standing there. "No, not trouble exactly. Just different ways, boy. The Manderlys follow the Seven, keep different customs. Brings a bit of... complication." He squinted at the inventory. "Seven hells, they're bringing forty horses? Where am I supposed to put forty more bloody horses?"

Jon slipped away quietly as Hullen launched into creative suggestions for where Maester Luwin could store his inventory requests. His final delivery took him to the steward's quarters, where he found not only the steward but Lady Stark herself, bent over a large ledger.

Jon froze in the doorway, unsure whether to enter or retreat. Lady Catelyn's dislike of him was a constant undercurrent in life at Winterfell—never openly hostile, but as palpable as the chill that seeped through the castle walls in winter.

The steward noticed him first. "What is it, Snow?"

Lady Catelyn looked up, her Tully-blue eyes fixing on Jon with that familiar coolness. Jon swallowed the knot in his throat and stepped forward, holding out the scroll.

"Maester Luwin sent me with the guest chamber assignments," he explained, his voice carefully neutral.

The steward reached for the scroll, but Lady Stark intercepted it. "Thank you, Jon. I was just discussing this matter with Poole."

Jon bowed slightly, preparing to retreat, but Lady Stark wasn't finished.

"Since you're here, I should inform you of the arrangements for tomorrow's welcome." Her tone was perfectly proper. "You will not be expected to stand in the receiving line with the family. However, your father wishes you to be present in the courtyard. You'll stand with Maester Luwin and the senior household staff."

Jon nodded, having expected as much. It was a compromise—acknowledging him as part of the household while not forcing Lady Stark to present him alongside her trueborn children.

"Thank you, my lady," he replied formally.

Lady Catelyn studied him for a moment longer than necessary, a slight frown creasing her forehead. "That tunic you're wearing is too small for you. See Septa Mordane about getting a better one for tomorrow. You should represent the household properly."

Jon blinked in surprise at what was, for Lady Stark, an almost maternal concern. "Yes, my lady."

She had already returned her attention to the ledger, effectively dismissing him. Jon backed out of the room, oddly unsettled by the interaction.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity. Jon, having completed his assigned tasks, found himself pressed into service wherever an extra pair of hands was needed—helping the cooks carry supplies, assisting the grooms with grooming the Stark horses to glossy perfection, and even joining Robb in practicing their formal bows under the critical eye of Septa Mordane.

"No, no, Snow! Your left foot should be behind your right, not alongside it," the septa corrected for the third time, her perpetual frown deepening. "How do you expect to show proper respect to Lord Manderly if you cannot even bow correctly?"

"I doubt Lord Manderly will care much about the bow of a bastard, Septa," Jon muttered, though he adjusted his stance as instructed.

"Bastard or not, you are still Lord Stark's blood, and you will not embarrass this house," the septa declared firmly. "Again, both of you."

As Jon and Robb practiced their bows, Sansa watched from her seat by the window, her small hands working delicate stitches into a handkerchief embroidered with the merman of House Manderly—a welcome gift for one of the Manderly girls.

"Will they really have green hair, Septa?" the seven-year-old asked, her voice filled with wonder.

"I've heard that the younger one does," Septa Mordane replied, momentarily distracted from her criticism of Jon's posture. "Though why Lady Wylla chooses to dye her hair such an unseemly color, I cannot fathom."

"I think it sounds wonderful," Sansa sighed dreamily. "Like a mermaid from Old Nan's stories."

"It sounds ridiculous," Robb countered. "Who wants green hair?"

"I do!" piped up a small voice from the doorway. Five-year-old Arya toddled into the room, her nurse chasing behind her. "Green hair! Green hair!" she chanted, clapping her hands.

"You see what you've started?" Septa Mordane scolded Sansa, who looked mortified at the thought of her little sister demanding green hair. "Lady Arya, come here at once and sit quietly if you wish to stay."

Predictably, Arya did exactly the opposite, launching herself at Jon with a squeal of delight. "Jon! Up!"

Jon caught her automatically, swinging her into his arms as the nurse apologized profusely for the interruption.

"It's alright," Jon assured the flustered woman. "I can watch her for a bit."

"Snow, we haven't finished practicing," the septa protested.

"I think Jon's bow is fine," Robb interjected, coming to his brother's defense. "Besides, Arya listens to him better than anyone else."

It was true. The willful toddler, who frequently escaped her caretakers and disrupted lessons, would sit contentedly for hours if Jon was the one telling her stories or showing her the horses in the stable.

"Very well," the septa relented with a sniff. "But see that she doesn't get into mischief. The last thing we need is Lady Arya running amok when the Manderlys arrive."

Jon carried Arya to the window seat, settling her on his knee. "Would you like to hear about the mermen coming to visit us tomorrow?" he asked softly.

Arya nodded eagerly.

"Well, they come from a city made of white stone, right by the sea," Jon began, his voice dropping into the storytelling cadence he reserved for Arya. "And they sail in ships with sails green as summer grass..."

.

.

A light snow dusted Winterfell's courtyard, speckling the ancient grey stones with white. From his position near the stables, Jon Snow watched with fascination as the Manderly procession passed beneath the portcullis and filled the yard with color, and noise.

First came the knights—a dozen men on sturdy northern steeds, their armor gleaming despite the long journey, green cloaks rippling like sea waves behind them. Each man bore the merman sigil of House Manderly emblazoned on his shield: a green-haired merman with a trident against a blue-green field. Jon had never seen so many knights in one place.

Behind the knights rode two large men who could only be Lord Wyman's sons, Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel. Both had inherited their father's girth, though to a lesser degree. Their beards were neatly trimmed and adorned with small golden tridents.

Then came Lord Wyman Manderly himself, and Jon couldn't help but gape. The Lord of White Harbor was indeed as enormous as the stories claimed—so heavy that he rode not on a horse but in a specially built litter carried by eight straining men. 

As the litter bearers carefully lowered their burden to the ground, Jon glimpsed Lord Wyman's face—round and flushed from the cold, but surprisingly jolly, with clever blue eyes that missed nothing as they surveyed Winterfell's courtyard. Despite his massive size, there was a dignity to the man, accentuated by his rich clothing of blue-green velvet trimmed with white fur and silver thread.

"Seven hells, he really is too fat to sit a horse," whispered Robb, who had appeared at Jon's side.

Jon elbowed his half-brother in the ribs. "Shhh! He'll hear you."

"No, he won't," Robb countered, though he lowered his voice. "Look, there they are—the granddaughters."

Jon's attention shifted to two girls dismounting from ponies near the rear of the procession. Both were bundled in blue-green cloaks lined with silver fox fur, their hair partially visible beneath fur-trimmed hoods—one auburn, the other, surprisingly, a pale green.

"She does have green hair! Why do you think she has green hair?" Jon whispered.

"How should I know?" Robb shrugged. "Maybe it's a Manderly custom. Come on, let's go closer."

Before Jon could protest, Robb grabbed his arm and pulled him forward, weaving through the crowd of stable boys, servants, and guards who filled the courtyard.

"Robb, wait," Jon hissed, suddenly aware of Lady Catelyn's gaze falling upon them from where she stood beside Lord Stark. "I shouldn't—"

"Don't be stupid," Robb interrupted, still pulling him along. "Father said we both had to welcome them properly, remember?"

Jon did remember, but he also knew that formal welcomes had protocols, and bastards weren't typically included in the receiving line. Still, he allowed Robb to drag him forward until they stood at the edge of the clearing that had formed around the Stark family.

Lord Eddard Stark stood tall and solemn in the center, his face set in its usual stern lines, though a small smile played at the corners of his mouth as Lord Wyman approached. Lady Catelyn stood beside him, elegant in a grey dress embroidered with silver direwolves, her auburn hair arranged in an intricate northern style. Little Sansa, at seven, was a miniature version of her mother, practically vibrating with excitement as she curtsied perfectly. 

"Lord Stark!" boomed Wyman Manderly, his voice as substantial as his frame. "By the old gods and the new, it's good to see Winterfell again!" He extended a pudgy hand adorned with golden rings, which Lord Stark clasped firmly.

"Lord Manderly," Ned replied warmly. "White Harbor does us honor with this visit. You and your family are most welcome."

The formal greetings continued, each Manderly being introduced to each Stark in turn. Jon hung back, watching as Sansa blushed prettily when Ser Wylis complimented her hair, and as Arya reached out to touch the green locks of the younger Manderly girl, who didn't seem to mind at all.

"That's Wylla," Robb whispered, nodding toward the green-haired girl.

Jon studied the girls with interest. Wynafryd was tall for her age, with a serious face and elegant bearing that reminded him somewhat of Sansa, though her auburn hair was several shades darker. Wylla's green hair framed a round face dominated by curious eyes and a stubborn chin. While her sister perfectly mimicked the adults' formal manners, Wylla seemed to be fighting the urge to run off and explore, her gaze darting from the towers of Winterfell to the godswood to the training yard.

Then, suddenly, those curious eyes locked with Jon's purple ones.

Jon froze. He wasn't used to being noticed, especially not by highborn visitors. For a moment, neither moved. Then, to Jon's surprise, Wylla smiled at him—a broad, gap-toothed grin that transformed her face from merely pretty to genuinely charming.

Before Jon could decide whether to smile back, Lord Stark's voice broke the moment.

"And these are my sons," Ned said, gesturing to where Robb stood. "Robb, come forward and greet Lord Manderly."

Robb stepped forward confidently, bowing with perfect form. "Welcome to Winterfell, my lord."

"Ho!" Lord Wyman chuckled, his multiple chins quivering. "The young wolf himself! Strong lad, just like your father at your age." He turned to look at Jon, who was trying his best to blend into the background. "And this one?"

A brief silence fell. Jon felt rather than saw Lady Catelyn stiffen.

"My son, Jon Snow," Lord Stark said simply, his voice neither apologetic nor defensive.

Jon stepped forward, acutely aware of every eye upon him. He bowed precisely as Ser Rodrik had taught him, keeping his face carefully neutral. "My lord. Welcome to Winterfell."

To Jon's surprise, Lord Wyman showed no sign of the disdain or discomfort that visitors usually displayed upon learning of Jon's bastard status. Instead, the massive lord studied him with those shrewd blue eyes.

"Unusual eyes you have there, young man," Lord Wyman observed. "Reminds me of the stories of old Valyria."

Jon didn't know how to respond to that, but thankfully Lord Stark intervened.

"Come, my lord. You must be weary from your journey. We've prepared chambers for you and your family, and there will be a feast tonight to welcome you properly."

As the formal party moved toward the Great Keep, Robb grabbed Jon's arm again. "See? That wasn't so bad. And Wylla smiled at you!"

Jon shrugged, trying to appear indifferent though he'd been surprised by the girl's friendliness. "She was probably just being polite."

"No, she wasn't," Robb insisted. "Wynafryd was being polite. Wylla looked like she actually wanted to talk to you." He grinned mischievously. "Maybe she likes purple eyes."

"Shut up," Jon muttered, shoving Robb good-naturedly. "Come on, we should get ready for the feast."

The Great Hall of Winterfell glowed with warmth and light. Extra torches had been mounted in the wall sconces, and dozens of candles illuminated the long tables where the household of Winterfell and their guests from White Harbor dined together. The air was heavy with the scents of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet pastries imported specially from White Harbor for the occasion.

Jon sat at his usual place, far down the table from the high seats where Lord Stark entertained Lord Manderly. From this distance, he could observe without being observed, a skill he'd perfected over years of feasts where he was present but not quite part of the celebration.

"More sweet drink, Jon?" asked a serving girl, pausing beside him with a pitcher.

Jon shook his head. "No, thank you. I've had enough."

In truth, he'd barely touched his cup. The last thing he wanted was to give Lady Catelyn any reason to fault his behavior in front of important guests.

As the meal progressed, Jon found his attention repeatedly drawn to the Manderly granddaughters. Wynafryd conducted herself with perfect decorum, speaking softly and laughing politely at the jests of those around her. Wylla, however, seemed to have little interest in traditional behavior. She questioned the servants about the preparation of each dish, swapped plates with her grandfather to try different foods, and at one point was gently scolded by her father for attempting to feed scraps to one of Winterfell's hounds beneath the table. Jon's attention then turned to Wynafryd, who was talking with Robb.

Jon was trying to hear what Lady Wynafryd was saying that he didn't notice Wylla slip away from her seat until she suddenly appeared on the bench beside him, her green hair slightly disheveled and her eyes bright with curiosity.

"Why are you sitting all the way down here?" she asked without preamble, her voice piping and clear.

Jon blinked in surprise. "I... this is where I usually sit."

Wylla frowned, looking up at the high table and then back at Jon. "But you're Lord Stark's son, aren't you? Shouldn't you be up there with your brother?"

Jon felt heat rise to his cheeks. It felt like she was mocking him; after all, she was the same age as him; he doubted that she did not know what a bastard was at this point. "I'm Lord Stark's natural son," he explained awkwardly. "His bastard."

"Oh." Wylla considered this information, her head tilted to one side. "We don't have many bastards in White Harbor. Or at least, nobody talks about them." She shrugged. "It seems silly to make you sit way down here just because your parents weren't married."

Jon had never heard anyone dismiss his bastard status so casually. He didn't know whether to be offended or grateful for Wylla's bluntness.

"Why are you so quiet?" she continued, plucking a piece of bread from his trencher and popping it into her mouth. "Your brother talks all the time. He's been telling my sister about hunting and riding and training to be a knight. Don't you do those things too?"

"I'm not training to be a knight," Jon mumbled, uncomfortable with her direct questions. "Northmen don't typically become knights. It's a southern tradition, with the Seven and all."

"We're northmen, and we have knights," Wylla countered. "My father and uncle are both knights. Grandfather says you can follow the old gods and still be a knight. He says what matters is being honorable and brave."

Before he could respond, a sudden, powerful gust of wind rattled the shutters of the Great Hall, the wooden panels banging so loudly that conversations halted mid-sentence as heads turned toward the windows.

"Gods, that wind came from nowhere," muttered a nearby guard, making the sign of the seven-pointed star over his chest.

"Winter is coming," quipped another, drawing chuckles from those nearby.

But Jon wasn't laughing. He wondered what had caused this.

"Are you alright?" Wylla asked, peering at him with genuine concern. "You've gone all pale."

"I'm fine," Jon insisted, though his voice sounded distant to his own ears. He tucked his hands beneath the table. "I just... I need some air."

"But there's plenty of air in here," Wylla pointed out reasonably. "Too much, actually, with that wind."

Robb, who had noticed the commotion, called down from his seat near the high table. "Was that you making the wind blow, Jon?" he laughed. "Like in the training yard?"

Several nearby diners glanced curiously at Jon, who felt his face flush with embarrassment.

"I should go," he murmured to Wylla, rising from the bench. "I'm not feeling well. Please excuse me."

Without waiting for her response, Jon made his way toward the doors of the Great Hall, fighting the urge to run. Behind him, he could hear Robb explaining to someone, "Jon threw me three feet in the air last week! It was amazing!"

Jon wanted to go back to his chamber, but there were too many servants everywhere, and the training yard was full of people talking and drinking, there was only one place left for him to go, a place he rarely went. The God's Wood of Winterfell.

Jon reached the place, feeling a warm feeling creeping up to his cheek. He didn't know what happened to him, but now that he was alone, he felt embarrassed with himself; he should not have run like that, especially since Lady Wylla had come to him to talk, and what did he do...he ran away like a child.

"I should apologise to her." Jon mumbled under his breath, wondering if he should try to return back to the feast and apologize or talk with her tomorrow. Would she even want to talk with him? He was a bastard after all.

"You are more than a bastard, Jon."

For a moment, Jon thought this was just another voice, like the other two times. He had looked around but hadn't seen anyone, but this time, it felt closer. Jon turned his head towards the Weirwood Tree, and standing there was a figure. It was transparent like a ghost, but it was glittering blue. It looked like a woman—a Woman wearing paint on her face.

"Who are..." Jon's words stuck to his throat, he knew he had never seen her before, yet, she seemed familiar to him. "...Kyoshi!"

Chapter Text

Jon stared at the blue, translucent figure standing before the heart tree. The woman was tall—impossibly tall—even taller than his father. Her face was painted white with red markings, and she wore strange, ornate armor, unlike anything Jon had ever seen. Most striking were her eyes—penetrating and ancient as if they had witnessed centuries pass.

"You know my name," she stated rather than asked, her voice resonating with quiet authority. "Interesting."

Jon took an instinctive step backward. "Are you... a ghost?" His hand moved to the dagger at his belt, though he doubted steel would do much against an apparition.

"I am no ghost, Jon Snow." Kyoshi remained motionless, her hands folded before her. "I am a part of you that has always been there, sleeping until now."

"That makes no sense," Jon replied, his voice steadier than he expected. "I've never seen you before."

A subtle smile crossed Kyoshi's painted face. "And yet you knew my name. Just as you knew how to call the wind in the Great Hall, though no one taught you."

Jon's eyes widened. "That was... I did that?"

"Yes." Kyoshi nodded once. "The wind responds to your emotions, particularly strong ones. Fear, anger, confusion—these can trigger your abilities when you lack control."

Jon shook his head, trying to make sense of her words. "What abilities? Who are you really?"

Kyoshi seemed to consider her answer carefully. "I am someone who once wielded the same power you now possess. I am here to help you understand it, control it."

"Why me?" Jon asked, the question barely above a whisper.

"That is a conversation for another time," Kyoshi replied firmly. "For now, what matters is teaching you control before your abilities reveal themselves again, perhaps in ways more dangerous than a gust of wind."

Jon thought of the feast, of Robb's comment about being thrown in the training yard. Had he really done that? The possibility both terrified and fascinated him.

"Can you teach me not to do it at all?" he asked cautiously. "To make it stop?"

Kyoshi's expression hardened. "No. This power is part of you—denying it would be like trying not to breathe. I can, however, teach you to master it rather than be mastered by it."

Jon approached slowly, his curiosity overcoming his fear. Kyoshi's blue figure remained still, watching him with those ancient eyes.

"What is this power called?" he asked.

"Bending," Kyoshi answered. "The element you've accessed is air. There are others, but for now, we focus on the one that has awakened in you."

"Bending," Jon repeated, testing the word. "Airbending."

Kyoshi nodded approvingly. "The element of freedom, of movement and evasion rather than confrontation. It suits your current path."

Jon glanced around the godswood, half-expecting others to appear from behind the ancient trees. "Are there others like me? In Winterfell? In the North?"

"No," Kyoshi said simply. "You are unique in this world."

The weight of her words settled on Jon's shoulders. Unique. Different. Hadn't he always felt that way? The bastard of Winterfell, with eyes unlike any Stark, always apart even when included.

"Show me," he said suddenly, his voice stronger. "Show me what airbending is supposed to look like when it's controlled."

Kyoshi raised an eyebrow at his demand but seemed pleased by his directness, she then touched his forehead, and everything went white. 

Jon opened his eyes and noticed that he was somewhere else entirely; they were in a forest somewhere, but there was a thick fog everywhere around him. "How did I get here?" Jon wondered out loud.

"You are in the Spirit World." 

Jon whirled around and saw Kyoshi standing near him. "Spirit World?" Jon asked, not understanding where he was. He had read a lot of books, and he was sure he had never heard of this place.

"I will explain later, Jon, but I brought you because you wanted to see Airbending."

She stepped away and moved to a clearing in the forest.

"Watch," she commanded.

She moved her hands in a circular pattern, and to Jon's amazement, leaves from the forest floor rose in a spiraling column, dancing in the air as if alive. With another motion, she created a small whirlwind that rustled the branches of nearby trees without breaking them.

"Airbending is the element of harmony," she explained as the leaves settled gently back to the ground. "It does not destroy; it redirects. It does not oppose; it yields and then returns. Like the air itself, it is all around us, invisible until shaped by will."

Jon watched, mesmerized. "How do I begin?"

"With breath," Kyoshi answered, her tone softening slightly. "All bending begins with proper breathing." She demonstrated a deep breathing technique, her chest expanding fully before releasing the air slowly.

Jon mimicked her, feeling somewhat foolish but determined.

"Good," Kyoshi nodded. "The first step in controlling airbending is controlling yourself. Your emotions, your breath, your stance—all must be in harmony."

She guided him through several breathing exercises, correcting his posture with verbal instructions rather than physical contact—reminding Jon of her incorporeal nature.

"When you feel yourself losing control, return to your breath," she instructed. Center yourself. The air responds to turmoil with turmoil and peace with peace."

Jon practiced the breathing technique again, feeling a subtle shift in his awareness as he focused.

"Why haven't I seen you before." he asked suddenly. 

Kyoshi's expression remained unreadable. "When you are ready to learn, a teacher appears. I am that teacher, Jon Snow."

"But who are you really?" Jon persisted. "Where do you come from? Why do I know your name?"

Kyoshi raised a hand, silencing his questions. "In time, I will answer what I can. For now, accept that I am here to help, nothing more."

Jon frowned but nodded reluctantly. "Will I see you again?"

"When you need guidance, I will appear," she replied. "But our time tonight grows short. The living world pulls at you, and maintaining this connection requires energy from us both."

Indeed, Jon noticed that Kyoshi's blue form had become slightly less distinct, her edges blurring.

"Before I go, I will teach you a simple form," she said, taking a stance with her feet shoulder-width apart. "This is the foundation of airbending movement."

She demonstrated a series of flowing motions, arms moving in circular patterns while her stance shifted with subtle weight transfers. Jon followed as best he could, feeling awkward.

"Practice these movements daily," Kyoshi instructed. "Not to bend air—that will come later—but to teach your body the language of the element. The body must understand before the element will respond."

Jon repeated the form several times under Kyoshi's watchful eye, receiving occasional corrections.

"You learn quickly," she observed. "That is good."

"Will this keep me from... from making accidents happen?" Jon asked, thinking of the feast.

"With practice, yes," Kyoshi nodded. "Unconscious bending happens when emotion overwhelms control. These exercises will strengthen your control."

Jon moved through the form once more, concentrating on each position. "I'll practice," he promised.

"I know you will," Kyoshi said, her form growing fainter. You have the spirit of persistence, Jon Snow. You will need it." She then approached him and touched his forehead. Everything went dark.

Jon opened his eyes and saw himself lying on the ground, the snow touching his cheek. For a moment, he thought he had imagined the whole thing, but when he looked up, he saw Kyoshi standing there still. As if she could read his thoughts, she said. "It wasn't a dream." she said with a small smile, her form starting to fade.

"Wait! There's so much more I need to know!"

Kyoshi's voice came as if from a great distance. "Knowledge comes to those patient enough to receive it properly. Master what I have taught you today. We will speak again."

"When?" Jon called, but the blue figure had vanished completely, leaving him alone beneath the heart tree.

The godswood fell silent save for the rustling of leaves in the night breeze. Jon stood motionless, trying to process everything he'd learned. Part of him still wondered if he'd imagined the entire encounter—a dream or hallucination brought on by stress and the strange events at the feast.

But when he moved his arms in the pattern Kyoshi had taught him, he felt something respond—not visibly, not yet, but a whisper of connection to the air around him.

"Airbending," he whispered to himself, testing the word again.

He practiced the form once more in the moonlight, movements becoming more fluid with each repetition. 

"Jon?" A voice called from the edge of the godswood. "Are you hiding?"

Jon scrambled to his feet, brushing leaves from his clothes. "I'm not hiding," he called back, recognizing Wylla Manderly's distinct voice. Her green-haired head appeared between two sentinel trees.

"Everyone's looking for you," she said, approaching him. "Lady Stark seems rather pleased you're missing, but your brother Robb is worried."

Jon winced. "I didn't mean to worry anyone."

"What happened at dinner?" Wylla asked, stopping a few feet away. "One moment we were talking, and in the next a gust of wind came out of nowhere." She tilted her head, studying him with curiosity rather than judgment. "My grandfather says the North holds old magic. Was that you?"

Jon stiffened. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do." Wylla smiled. "But I won't tell anyone."

"There's nothing to tell," Jon insisted.

Wylla shrugged. "If you say so. Either way, you should come back before they send out search parties. Or don't, and we can explore instead. I've never seen a godswood like this."

Jon hesitated. The prospect of returning to the hall, facing Lady Stark's cold stare and the curious glances of their guests, made his stomach twist. But staying here with this strange, green-haired girl who spoke to him as if he mattered...

"What would we explore?" he asked.

Wylla's smile widened. "Everything."

.

.

Dawn broke over Winterfell, painting the ancient stones gold. Jon had been awake for hours, sitting cross-legged on his bed as Kyoshi had instructed, trying to "connect with his breath." Whatever that meant.

A sharp knock at his door broke his concentration.

"Snow!" Theon Greyjoy's voice called. "Ser Rodrik wants us in the yard. The Manderly boys are joining training today."

Jon sighed, stretching his stiff legs. Another day of Theon's barbs and Robb's well-meaning but uncomfortable attempts to include him. At least the training would be a distraction from his failed meditation attempts.

"Coming," he called, reaching for his practice clothes.

In the yard, Ser Rodrik stood with Robb and three boys wearing the merman sigil of House Manderly. Two were clearly cousins of Wylla—they had the same round Manderly features, though their hair was traditionally colored. The third was taller, perhaps a year or two older, with a serious expression.

"There you are, Snow," Ser Rodrik grunted. "We'll be practicing sword forms today with our guests. Pair up—Robb with Wendel, Theon with Marlon, and Jon with Wylis."

The taller boy, Wylis, gave Jon a polite nod as they moved to an open space in the yard. Jon returned the gesture, grateful the boy didn't immediately wrinkle his nose at being paired with Lord Stark's bastard.

"I've heard you're quick," Wylis said as they took up training swords.

Jon shrugged. "Quick enough."

"We'll see," Wylis smiled, taking a ready stance. "In White Harbor, we train with sailors from all over the world. They have... unusual techniques."

Jon raised an eyebrow but said nothing, settling into his own stance. Ser Rodrik called for them to begin, and Wylis launched forward with surprising speed for his size. Jon parried the first strike, feeling the impact reverberate up his arm.

Wylis wasn't just strong; he moved with speed. Jon found himself giving ground, defending against a flurry of strikes that seemed to draw from unfamiliar patterns. A crowd began to gather—servants pausing in their morning duties, guards off their night shift, and several Manderly retainers eager to watch their young lords train.

Jon saw an opening and darted left, his smaller size allowing him to slip past Wylis's guard. The older boy pivoted, but not before Jon landed a light tap on his side.

"Point to Snow," Ser Rodrik called.

Wylis nodded respectfully, but his eyes narrowed with new focus. "Good speed."

They reset, and this time Jon found himself hard-pressed to match Wylis's adjusted strategy. The Manderly boy had learned from the first exchange and now used his longer reach to keep Jon at bay.

"You must be like the wind," Kyoshi's voice echoed in Jon's memory. "Flowing around obstacles rather than meeting them head-on."

Without thinking, Jon relaxed his stance slightly, focusing on his breathing as Kyoshi had taught. Something shifted in his awareness—the world seemed to slow fractionally, Wylis's movements becoming more predictable. Jon didn't just see the next strike coming; he felt it, sliding around the wooden blade with millimeters to spare.

The crowd gasped as Jon moved with sudden, faster speed. Even Ser Rodrik's bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. Jon wasn't fighting as he'd been taught—he was moving differently, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground as he flowed around Wylis's attacks.

Three rapid touches later, Wylis stepped back, breathing hard. "Seven hells, Snow, where did you learn to move like that?"

Jon blinked, the strange awareness fading. He looked down at his hands, then at the impressed faces surrounding them. "I... just practice a lot."

From the edge of the crowd, he caught sight of green hair—Wylla watching with a knowing smile that made him flush.

"Again," Ser Rodrik commanded, his voice gruffer than usual. "And Snow, stick to the forms I've taught you."

Jon nodded, trying to ignore the whispers spreading through the onlookers. He hadn't used any strange power, had he? He'd just... moved. But even he couldn't explain the sudden clarity he'd felt, the way his body had responded without conscious thought.

As training continued, Jon deliberately held back, focusing on the familiar drills. But he could feel Wylis watching him with newfound respect, and worse, Theon's suspicious glare burning into his back.

"That was amazing!" Wylla declared, appearing beside Jon as he left the armory after returning his practice sword. "You moved like water! No one could touch you!"

Jon glanced around nervously. "Keep your voice down."

"Why? Everyone saw it." She fell into step beside him as he headed toward the kitchens. "Even my cousin can't stop talking about it, and Wylis never admits when someone's better than him."

"I wasn't better," Jon muttered. "Just faster."

"Much faster." Wylla's green eyes sparkled with excitement. "Is that part of your secret?"

Jon stopped walking. "I don't have a secret."

"Fine, be mysterious." She rolled her eyes. "But you should know, mysterious boys are very interesting to girls."

Jon felt his cheeks burn. "I'm not trying to be interesting."

"That's what makes it worse," she laughed. "Anyway, I've been thinking about last night. You owe me an adventure now that I found you in the godswood and didn't tell anyone you were hiding."

"I wasn't hiding," Jon protested automatically.

"Adventure," Wylla insisted, ignoring his objection. "I've never been to Winterfell before, and my father says we're leaving in seven days. I want to see everything."

Jon hesitated. He should be practicing what Kyoshi taught him, not playing tour guide to a girl who asked too many questions. Yet something about Wylla's straightforward manner appealed to him. Unlike most visitors, she looked him in the eye and spoke to him as an equal, not Lord Stark's shameful shadow.

"What do you want to see?" he found himself asking.

Wylla grinned triumphantly. "The crypts, the broken tower, the glass gardens, and any secret passages you know about."

"That would take all day."

"Good thing we're starting now then." She grabbed his wrist. "Lead the way, Jon Snow."

The glass gardens were warm and humid, a stark contrast to the crisp autumn air outside. Jon rarely visited—the gardens were Lady Stark's domain, and he avoided places where he might encounter her alone. But the workers were busy elsewhere, and Wylla had insisted.

"It's like summer in here," she marveled, touching the warm glass. 

Jon watched her examine the various plants, her green hair blending with the foliage. "The hot springs beneath Winterfell heat the glass," he explained. "It's how we grow food even in winter."

"Smart," Wylla nodded appreciatively. "A practical sort of magic."

"It's not magic," Jon corrected. "Just heated water and glass."

Wylla gave him a skeptical look. "The First Men built Winterfell, and they had all sorts of magic. Maybe they enchanted the springs too."

Jon shrugged. The distinction seemed important to her for some reason.

"Do you believe in magic, Jon Snow?" she asked suddenly, picking a small blue flower that had no business blooming in the North.

The question caught him off-guard. Two days ago, he would have said no without hesitation. Now, with Kyoshi's voice still echoing in his mind and the memory of wind responding to his emotions...

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

Wylla studied him, twirling the flower between her fingers. "I do. My great-grandmother was from beyond the Wall, though my family doesn't like to talk about it. She used to tell my grandmother stories about skinchangers and children of the forest."

"Old Nan tells those stories too," Jon said. "About the Long Night and the White Walkers."

"Do you think they're just stories?"

Jon considered the question. "Most of them, probably. But maybe some have truth buried inside."

Wylla smiled, tucking the blue flower behind Jon's ear before he could protest. "That's what I think too. A practical sort of magic." She laughed at his discomfort with the flower. "It suits you. Brings out your eyes."

Jon plucked the flower from his hair, embarrassed but not truly annoyed. "We should go before someone comes."

"Fine, to the crypts next." Wylla headed toward the door, then stopped. "Oh! I almost forgot." She pulled something from her pocket. "I brought treats."

In her palm sat two lemon cakes, slightly squashed from being in her pocket. "I snuck them from breakfast. Thought we might need provisions for our adventure."

Jon stared at the offering, strangely touched by the gesture. No one ever saved treats for him.

.

.

"So, this is the armory?" Wylla asked, her green hair bouncing as she peered around the doorway. "It's smaller than I thought it would be."

"It's big enough," Jon replied with a half-smile. 

"Do you practice with real swords or wooden ones?" Wylla asked, stepping fully into the armory and running her fingers along a training blade.

"Wooden ones until we're older," Jon explained, watching as she examined everything with boundless curiosity. "Ser Rodrik says we'll graduate to blunted steel next year, maybe."

"In White Harbor, my grandfather makes my sister take needlework lessons three times a week," Wylla said, wrinkling her nose. "But I convinced him to let me learn the bow instead." She pantomimed drawing a bowstring. "I'm getting quite good—I can hit the target six times out of ten now."

Jon raised his eyebrows, genuinely impressed. "We could go to the archery range later if you like. I'm not as good as Robb, but I practice whenever I can."

"Yes!" Wylla's face lit up with excitement. "I'd love that! But first, show me everything else. Is there a tower we can climb? Or a secret passage? All proper castles have secret passages."

Jon couldn't help but chuckle at her enthusiasm. "Winterfell has a few, but they're not really secret—just old servants' corridors and the like." He hesitated, then added with a conspiratorial tone, "There is one passage that runs beneath the Bell Tower that almost nobody uses anymore."

"Perfect! Let's go there first," Wylla declared, already heading toward the door.

Jon hurried after her, marveling at her energy. He had thought highborn ladies were like Sansa—prim, proper, and concerned with mannerly things. Wylla Manderly was like a whirlwind in human form.

As they crossed the courtyard, Jon noticed Theon Greyjoy watching them from near the stables. At thirteen, Theon considered himself far above spending time with "children," but Jon had noticed how his eyes followed the Manderly girls since their arrival.

Sure enough, Theon sauntered over to intercept them, his usual smirk firmly in place. "Lady Wylla," he said with an exaggerated bow. "Has Snow been boring you with tales of old stones and dusty corners? Perhaps you'd prefer a more... knowledgeable guide?"

Wylla tilted her head regarding Theon with a cool assessment. "And you would be?"

"Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands," he replied, puffing up his chest slightly.

"Ah, the hostage," Wylla said sweetly. "I remember now. My grandfather mentioned your father's little... misadventure. How fortunate Lord Stark is so merciful."

Jon nearly choked, trying to suppress a laugh as Theon's face darkened.

"I'm Lord Stark's ward," Theon corrected stiffly. "And I know Winterfell better than Snow here—I could show you places he's never seen."

"I doubt that very much," Wylla replied, her smile never wavering. "Jon grew up here, after all. Besides, I find him excellent company—quiet enough to actually hear myself think, unlike some who seem to love the sound of their own voice."

Theon's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You should be careful who you insult, little girl. The Greyjoys don't forget—"

"Don't pay what you owe?" Wylla interrupted. "That's what my grandfather says about ironborn. 'They take and take, but they never give back.' Not a very admirable quality in a friend, I think."

Theon's face had gone from red to white with fury. "You'll regret that," he hissed before turning on his heel and stalking away.

"Was that too harsh?" Wylla asked Jon, looking suddenly uncertain. "Father says my tongue is sharper than my wits sometimes."

Jon shook his head, a genuine smile spreading across his usually solemn face. "No, it was... perfect, actually. No one talks to Theon like that."

"Well, someone should," Wylla sniffed. "He looks at girls like they're sweetcakes he wants to gobble up. My sister noticed it at dinner last night—we have a signal for when boys are being creepy."

Jon laughed outright at that, surprising himself. "I didn't know girls had signals for that sort of thing."

"Oh, we have signals for everything," Wylla said with a sage nod. "Now, show me this secret passage before Greyjoy comes back to try his luck again."

The old passage beneath the Bell Tower was narrow and dusty, lit only by the occasional shaft of light from cracks in the masonry above. Jon led the way with a small lantern he'd borrowed from Mikken's forge, while Wylla followed close behind, one hand clutching the back of his tunic to avoid losing him in the dimness.

"This is magnificent," she whispered, her voice echoing slightly. "How old do you think it is?"

"As old as Winterfell, probably," Jon replied, navigating a particularly tight corner. "Eight thousand years, if the stories are true."

"Eight thousand?" Wylla sounded awed. "White Harbor is barely a thousand years old. Grandfather says we're practically newcomers compared to houses like the Starks."

Jon nodded, forgetting she couldn't see him clearly. "The Kings of Winter ruled here since the Age of Heroes. The crypts are filled with them, all the way down to the lowest levels."

"Can we see the crypts?" Wylla asked hopefully.

Jon hesitated. "They're... sacred to House Stark. I don't think Lord Stark would approve of me taking visitors there."

"But you're a Stark too," Wylla pointed out.

"A Snow," Jon corrected automatically, the familiar ache settling in his chest.

Wylla made a dismissive noise. "Your father is Lord Stark, isn't he? That makes you a Stark in all the ways that matter."

Jon didn't answer, touched by her simple assertion but knowing the world didn't work that way. Instead, he pointed ahead to where the passage widened. "Look there—this opens into a small chamber that used to be a guard post, I think. Robb and I found it last year."

The chamber was little more than an alcove cut into the stone, but it had a small, arrow-slit window that offered a surprising view of the wolfswood beyond Winterfell's walls. Someone had left an old wooden crate there, which now served as a makeshift seat.

"This is wonderful," Wylla declared, rushing to the window and peering out. "A perfect secret spot. Do you come here often?"

"Sometimes," Jon admitted. "When I want to be alone."

"And now you've shown it to me," Wylla said, turning to face him with a broad smile. "Does that mean we're friends now?"

Jon blinked, caught off guard by her directness. "I... suppose it does."

"Good." Wylla plopped down on the crate, patting the space beside her. "Friends tell each other secrets. I'll go first: I hate the color green."

Jon sat beside her, brow furrowed in confusion. "But your hair..."

"Exactly!" Wylla laughed. "Grandfather was trying to arrange a match between my cousin and me once, and I didn't want it. So I dyed my hair green, thinking he'd be so horrified he'd cancel the whole thing." She tugged at a strand of her vibrant hair. "It worked, but then everyone in White Harbor loved it so much that Grandfather insisted I keep it. Said it was 'distinctive' and 'remembered me to the merman in our sigil.'"

Jon chuckled at the irony. "So you're stuck with it now?"

"At least until I find something more outrageous," Wylla confirmed with a mischievous grin. 

And that, Jon decided as Wylla's chatter echoed in the narrow passage, was worth more than any secret chamber or hidden path in Winterfell.

.

.

By late afternoon, they'd circled back to the godswood. Jon had been avoiding it since meeting Kyoshi, but Wylla insisted on seeing the heart tree again in daylight.

"It feels different from our godswood in White Harbor," she said, approaching the ancient weirwood. "Older. More alive somehow."

Jon hung back, watching her place a reverent hand on the white bark. The carved face seemed to watch him accusingly, as if disappointed in his lack of progress with Kyoshi's teachings.

"My father says the old gods speak through the heart trees," Jon said. "That's why they have faces—to see and hear our prayers."

Wylla glanced back at him. "Have they ever answered you?"

Not the gods, Jon thought, but someone else entirely. "No."

"Maybe you're not listening properly." Wylla pressed her ear against the trunk in an exaggerated gesture. "I hear... absolutely nothing. Your gods are very quiet, Jon Snow."

Despite his unease, Jon laughed. "Maybe they don't speak to southerners with green hair."

Wylla gasped in mock offense. "White Harbor is in the North!"

"Barely," Jon teased. "You worship the Seven and eat fish instead of meat."

"We worship both," Wylla corrected, walking back to him. "The old and the new. And fish is meat, you savage wolf-boy."

Their banter continued as they sat beneath the heart tree, sharing stories about their lives. Jon found himself speaking more freely than he normally would, telling Wylla about growing up with his half-siblings.

"What about you?" he asked eventually. "What's it like being a Manderly?"

Wylla stretched her legs out on the moss. "Busy. White Harbor is always full of ships and traders and gossip. My grandfather expects us to know everything happening in the city, so we spend a lot of time just watching and listening." She tugged at a strand of her green hair. "It turns out my green hair can be useful for something. Strange hair is common among traders, so they talk more freely around me."

"Is that why you still keep it green? For spying?"

"Partly," she admitted. "But mostly because it annoys my mother and makes my grandfather laugh." Her expression grew more serious. "I like being different. People remember me, and in White Harbor, being memorable is valuable."

Jon nodded, understanding more than she might expect. As Ned Stark's bastard, he was memorable too, though not in ways he would choose.

"What will you do?" Wylla asked suddenly. "When you're grown. Will you stay at Winterfell?"

The question caught Jon by surprise. He rarely allowed himself to think so far ahead. "I don't know. There's not much place for a bastard. Maybe the Night's Watch, like my uncle Benjen."

Wylla frowned. "That's a waste. You could do anything."

"Bastards can't inherit lands or titles."

"So? There's more to life than inheritance." She sat up straighter. "You could be a knight, or a ship captain, or join a sellsword company in Essos. With how fast you move, you'd be famous in no time."

Jon had never considered such possibilities. His thoughts had always been constrained by his birth, his future seemingly predetermined by his bastardy.

"Maybe," he said noncommittally. "What about you?"

"I'll help run White Harbor someday," Wylla said with certainty. "My sister Wynafryd will marry someone and he will inherit, but she'll need me. I'm better with people, and she's better with numbers. Together we'll make House Manderly even greater." She grinned. "And I'll never stop dyeing my hair, even when I'm an old woman."

Jon could see it easily—Wylla as an elderly matriarch, still green-haired and sharp-tongued. The image made him smile.

"It's getting late," he said, noticing the lengthening shadows. "We should head back before the evening meal."

Wylla sighed dramatically. "I suppose our adventure is over then."

"For today," Jon found himself saying. "We still have two more days before you leave."

Her smile was answer enough.

That night, after the castle had quieted, Jon slipped from his bed. The meeting with Kyoshi still weighed on his mind, her instructions unfulfilled. If what she claimed was true—that he could control air—he needed to learn how.

He'd chosen a small, unused storeroom in the First Keep for his practice. The risk of discovery was minimal; the old keep was largely abandoned except for storage. A single candle provided just enough light to see by as Jon settled cross-legged on the stone floor.

"Center yourself," Kyoshi had instructed. "Feel the air around you as an extension of your being."

Jon closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing as she'd demonstrated: slow and steady, in and out. Minutes passed, perhaps hours. His legs grew numb, but he maintained his position, searching for the connection Kyoshi described.

When nothing happened, he attempted a different approach. Kyoshi had performed a series of circular movements with her arms, creating currents of air. Jon stood, mimicking the motions as best he could remember.

No matter how he moved, the air remained stubbornly still. Frustration built within him as he repeated the exercises, faster and with more force, willing something—anything—to happen.

"Why isn't this working?" he muttered, dropping his arms in defeat. The candle flame flickered but remained constant.

Jon slumped back to the floor, raking his hands through his dark curls. Perhaps he'd imagined the whole encounter with Kyoshi. Perhaps the wind at the feast had been coincidence, nothing more than a draft from an open door.

But deep down, he knew that wasn't true. Something had changed within him, awakened. He just couldn't reach it.

He tried again the next night, and the night after that, each attempt ending in failure. By the third evening—Wylla's third night in Winterfell—Jon's frustration had reached its peak.

"Show yourself," he demanded of the empty air, hoping Kyoshi might reappear. "I need help. I don't understand what you want from me."

Only silence answered. Jon paced the small storeroom, anger and disappointment churning inside him. Three days of friendship with Wylla had brightened his spirits, but each night's failure crushed that newfound optimism.

"Fine," he snapped to the empty room. "If you won't help me, I'll figure it out myself."

He stopped pacing, planted his feet, and thrust his palm forward as he'd seen Kyoshi do—but with all his frustration behind the movement. Nothing happened with the air, but to his shock, a tiny flicker of flame appeared above his open hand.

Jon stared in disbelief as the small fire danced above his palm for two heartbeats before vanishing. It hadn't come from the candle; it had appeared from nothing, from his own energy.

Not air, but fire.

He tried again, focusing on the warmth he'd felt, the image of flame in his mind. For a moment, nothing happened—then a spark, smaller than before but definitely there, materialized above his trembling fingers.

Jon's heart raced. This was different from the airbending Kyoshi had demonstrated. This was fire. Why fire and not air? Was he doing something wrong?

He made several more attempts, managing only the smallest flames that extinguished almost immediately. The effort left him exhausted, as if he'd run from Winterfell to Wintertown and back.

Jon slumped against the wall, mind reeling with questions. If he could create fire, did that mean he could eventually control all the elements, as Kyoshi claimed? And why did fire come to him first, when Kyoshi had been trying to teach him airbending?

He had no answers, only more questions. But one thing was certain—this was no imagination, no coincidence. He had created fire from nothing.

The candle guttered as a draft swept through the room. Jon stared at his hands in the fading light, both terrified and exhilarated by what he'd discovered.

Fire. The element of power, of destruction. The element that had nearly destroyed his father's family when the Mad King burned Rickard Stark.

Jon extinguished the candle and sat in darkness, pondering what this discovery meant. Fire answered his call, not air. Why? And what would Kyoshi think of this development?

More importantly, what was he to do with this power now that he'd found it?

Chapter Text

Jon woke before dawn, his mind still whirling with the discovery of the previous night. Fire. He had created fire from nothing but his own will and energy. The small flame had danced above his palm for only moments before vanishing, but it had been real—tangible heat against his skin, light in the darkness.

He lay in bed, staring at his hands. They looked ordinary enough—calloused from sword practice, a small scar on his right thumb from when he'd cut himself helping Mikken at the forge. Nothing to suggest they could conjure flame.

With a deep breath, Jon concentrated, trying to recapture the feeling from the night before. He pictured fire in his mind, willed heat to gather in his palm. Nothing happened.

"Too tense," he muttered to himself, remembering how his frustration had seemed to trigger the ability. He relaxed his shoulders, exhaled slowly, and tried again.

This time, the faintest wisp of smoke curled from his fingertips, dissipating almost immediately. Jon stared in mixed wonder and alarm. It wasn't much, but it confirmed last night hadn't been a dream or hallucination.

A sudden knock at his door made him jerk upright, hastily shoving his hands under the furs.

"Jon? Are you awake?" Arya's voice called through the door. "Septa Mordane's busy with the Manderly girls, so I'm free until breakfast. I thought we could practice with the bow."

Jon cleared his throat, willing his heartbeat to slow. "I'll be out in a moment, little sister."

"Hurry up! The yard will be crowded once Ser Rodrik starts the morning drills."

He heard her footsteps racing away and exhaled with relief. The last thing he needed was for anyone to catch him experimenting with his newfound... ability? Curse? Jon wasn't sure what to call it yet.

He dressed quickly, pulling on a worn tunic and breeches. As he tugged on his boots, a thought occurred to him: If he could create fire, was it possible he might accidentally burn someone? The idea sent a chill through him despite the morning warmth. He would need to be careful—more careful than ever. With that thought in mind, he put on his clothes and left his chambers to join Arya.

"You're holding too tight," Jon said, adjusting Arya's grip on the bow. "Relax your fingers a bit—that's it."

Arya squinted at the target, her tongue poking out between her teeth in concentration. She released the arrow, which flew straight and embedded itself in the outer ring of the target.

"Better," Jon praised. "Much better than yesterday."

Arya beamed up at him, her face flushed with pride. "Again?"

"Why not? We've still got time before—"

"Before what?" a cheerful voice interrupted. "Before your Lord Father catches his daughter playing with weapons instead of needlework?"

They turned to find Wylla Manderly leaning against the armory door, her green hair pulled back in a simple braid. She wore a riding dress of sea-green, practical enough for movement but still fine enough to mark her station.

"Before we broke our fast," Jon finished, feeling unexpectedly pleased to see her.

Arya studied the newcomer with undisguised curiosity. "You're the one with the green hair. I saw you at the feast."

"You are quite observant." Wylla snorted, earning a look from Arya. "And you're the one who put frogs in your sister's bed," Wylla replied with a grin. "I heard the screaming all the way from the guest house."

Arya's eyes widened with delight. "You're not going to tell Septa Mordane, are you?"

"Tell her what?" Wylla winked. "I simply happened upon Lord Stark's children practicing archery. Nothing unusual about that."

Jon cleared his throat. "Arya, this is Lady Wylla Manderly of White Harbor. Lady Wylla, my sister Arya."

"He is my favorite brother," Arya corrected automatically, then flushed when Jon's expression tightened. "Jon's more my brother than Sansa is my sister sometimes."

Wylla laughed. "I understand completely. My sister Wynafryd is so proper I sometimes wonder if we're related at all."

"Is that why you dyed your hair green?" Arya asked, direct as always. "To annoy her?"

"Arya," Jon admonished, but Wylla waved off his concern.

"Partly," she admitted. "Though it was mainly to avoid a marriage my grandfather was arranging."

Arya's eyes grew round. "Did it work?"

"Perfectly. The boy's mother was horrified—said I was 'unnatural' and would bear green-haired children." Wylla rolled her eyes. "As if hair dye works that way."

"I'm never getting married," Arya declared firmly. "I'm going to be a knight like Visenya Targaryen."

Jon exchanged an amused glance with Wylla. "Visenya was a warrior queen, not a knight, little sister."

"Same thing," Arya insisted, setting down her bow. "Lady Wylla, do you know how to use a bow properly? Jon says I need to relax my grip, but it feels wrong."

"I'm decent with a bow," Wylla admitted. "Though I suspect your brother is better."

"Show me," Arya demanded, thrusting the bow at Wylla.

Jon expected the Manderly girl to refuse—most highborn ladies would. Instead, Wylla accepted the bow with a confident smile.

"Watch carefully, then," she said, selecting an arrow from the quiver.

Her form was good—better than "decent," Jon noted. She nocked the arrow smoothly, drew the bowstring back to her cheek, and released. The arrow struck two rings from the center.

"See how I hold it?" Wylla demonstrated her grip to an attentive Arya. "Firm enough for control, but not so tight you strain your fingers."

"Can I try again?" Arya asked, practically bouncing with eagerness.

As Arya took another shot under Wylla's guidance, Jon found himself watching them both with a strange feeling in his chest. It was... nice, he decided. Nice to see Arya getting guidance from someone other than himself, especially a highborn lady who didn't scold her for her interests.

"Your turn, Jon," Wylla called, breaking his reverie. "Show us how it's done properly."

Jon accepted the bow, suddenly aware of both girls watching him. He nocked an arrow, focusing on the target rather than his audience. The familiar motion calmed him—draw, aim, release. The arrow flew true, striking the inner ring just shy of the bullseye.

"Well done!" Wylla clapped appreciatively.

"Jon's good at everything," Arya declared with sisterly pride. "Except dancing. He's terrible at dancing."

"I am not," Jon protested, feeling his ears grow warm.

"Are too. I've watched you practicing with Sansa when Septa Mordane made you. You step on her feet every time."

Wylla laughed, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Perhaps Lord Jon simply needs a better partner."

Before Jon could respond, the distant sound of a bell signaled the hour to break their fast.

"We should go," he said, returning the bow to the rack. "Father doesn't like us being late to meals."

Arya groaned but helped gather the scattered arrows. "Will you sit with us at breakfast, Lady Wylla?"

"If your father permits it," Wylla replied. "And please, just call me Wylla. 'Lady' always makes me feel like I'm talking to my mother."

As they walked toward the Great Hall, Arya fell into easy conversation with Wylla, peppering her with questions about White Harbor and why she chose green for her hair.

"Have you ever considered another color?" Arya asked. "Like red, or blue?"

"Blue might be next," Wylla mused. "To match our house colors. Though purple would be more dramatic."

"You should do purple," Arya decided. "Sansa would be scandalized. She thinks hair should only be proper colors."

"And what do you think?" Wylla asked.

Arya considered this seriously. "I think people should look however they want. Hair is just hair."

"Wise words from one so young," Wylla said with a smile. "What about you, Jon? What color should I choose next?"

Jon, who had been content to listen to their chatter, was startled to be included. "I... I don't know much about such things."

"But you must have an opinion," Wylla pressed. "If you could change your hair color, what would you choose?"

The question was so frivolous, so far removed from his usual concerns, that Jon found himself genuinely considering it. "Silver, perhaps," he said finally, thinking of the stories Old Nan told of the Targaryens with their silver-gold hair.

Something flickered in Wylla's eyes—surprise, perhaps. "Silver would be striking," she agreed. "Though difficult to achieve, I imagine."

"Jon would look ridiculous with silver hair," Arya declared, breaking the moment. "His hair should stay exactly as it is."

They had reached the Great Hall, where most of the household was already assembled. Lord and Lady Stark sat at the high table with Lord Manderly and his granddaughters. The Stark children occupied their usual places, with an empty seat beside Arya.

"There you are," Lady Catelyn said, her gaze sharpening when she saw Jon and Wylla together. "Arya, you're late again."

"Sorry, Mother," Arya replied, not sounding sorry at all. "We were practicing archery."

Catelyn's lips thinned. "Archery. I see." Her gaze shifted to Wylla. "Lady Wylla, I trust my husband's... son... was not troubling you?"

"Not at all, Lady Stark," Wylla replied smoothly. "In fact, Jon was kind enough to show me the archery range. I've been practicing at home and wanted to compare techniques."

Whether Lady Stark believed this explanation or not, she merely nodded stiffly. "Arya, take your seat. The meal is about to begin."

Arya scurried to her place, but not before whispering to Jon, "Meet us in the godswood after breakfast."

Jon nodded slightly, then made his way to the lower tables where he usually sat with the guards and household staff. To his surprise, Wylla followed him.

"What are you doing?" he asked in a low voice. "Your place is at the high table."

"I know," she replied, then raised her voice. "Grandfather, may I sit with Jon and the others this morning? I'd like to hear more about Northern archery techniques."

Lord Manderly, a massive man whose great girth was matched only by his jovial nature, boomed with laughter. "Of course, child! Make friends wherever you can—that's what I always say."

Lady Stark's expression suggested she did not share Lord Manderly's sentiment, but she said nothing as Wylla triumphantly took a seat beside Jon.

"You shouldn't have done that," Jon murmured as servants began placing platters of food on the tables. "Your grandmother won't be pleased."

"My grandmother died three years ago," Wylla replied, helping herself to a slice of bread. "And Grandfather never denies me anything, especially when I'm making 'valuable Northern connections.'"

Jon wasn't sure how he qualified as a valuable connection, but he didn't pursue the matter. Instead, he found himself drawn into conversation with Wylla and several of the younger guards, discussing the merits of different bow styles.

For once, breakfast passed pleasantly, without the usual weight of Lady Stark's cold gaze on his shoulders.

.

.

"This is the best climbing tree in all of Winterfell," Arya declared, pointing to a gnarled sentinel pine near the edge of the godswood. "Bran and I found it last summer."

After breakfast, Jon had honored his promise to meet Arya, only to find Wylla already with her. The three had retreated to the godswood, where Arya seemed determined to show Wylla every secret spot she and her brothers had discovered over the years.

"It looks... very tall," Wylla observed, craning her neck to see the upper branches. "Do you climb all the way to the top?"

"Bran does," Arya said. "I can barely reach two meters. Jon doesn't climb at all."

"I've climbed," Jon protested. "Just not as high as Bran."

"No one climbs as high as Bran," Arya said proudly. "Mother says he'll give her grey hairs before she's forty."

Wylla circled the tree, eyeing it speculatively. "We don't have trees like this in White Harbor—at least, not in the city proper. The wolfswood is like nothing I've ever seen."

"Have you been beyond the walls?" Arya asked. 

Wylla shook her head. "Grandfather would have a fit. He says the woods are full of wolves and wildlings."

"The wolves keep to themselves," Jon said. "And there haven't been wildling raiders this far south in years."

"Could we go?" Wylla asked eagerly. "Just a little way in? I've never been in a proper forest before."

Jon hesitated. The wolfswood wasn't dangerous exactly, especially close to Winterfell, but it wasn't his place to take Lord Manderly's granddaughter traipsing through the wilderness.

"Please, Jon?" Arya added her plea, grey eyes wide. "Just to the old oak. It's not far."

Jon sighed, already knowing he would give in. "Just to the oak, then. No further."

The old oak stood barely a quarter-mile into the wolfswood, close enough to Winterfell's walls that one could still see the towers through the trees. Jon led the way, keeping a watchful eye on both girls as they ventured deeper into the forest.

"It's so quiet," Wylla whispered, as if afraid to disturb the stillness. "But not silent—there's sound everywhere, just... different sounds."

Jon nodded, understanding what she meant. The wolfswood had its own language: the whisper of leaves overhead, the distant call of birds, the occasional crack of a branch as some small animal moved through the undergrowth.

"There it is," Arya announced, pointing ahead to where an ancient oak stood in a small clearing. "Robb says it's older than Winterfell, but I think he's making that up."

The oak was massive, its trunk wider than three men standing side by side. Its branches spread outward like grasping fingers, creating a canopy that dappled the ground below with shifting patterns of sunlight and shadow.

"It's magnificent," Wylla breathed, approaching the tree with reverence. "We have the heart tree in our godswood, but nothing like this."

She pressed her palm against the rough bark, closing her eyes as if listening to something only she could hear. Jon watched her, struck by how at ease she seemed in these Northern surroundings despite her southern upbringing.

"Jon, look!" Arya called, pointing to the upper branches where a nest was just visible. "Is that a raven's nest?"

Jon shaded his eyes, studying the dark shape. "I think it's abandoned—too early for nesting season."

Arya was already halfway up the trunk, using the gnarled bark for handholds. "I'm going to see!"

"Arya, wait—" Jon began, but she was already scrambling upward with the agility of a squirrel.

"She certainly doesn't lack for courage," Wylla observed, coming to stand beside him as they watched Arya's ascent.

"Or recklessness," Jon muttered. "She's always been like this—rushing headlong into everything without a moment's thought."

"I like her," Wylla declared. "She reminds me of myself at that age."

"You're hardly ancient now," Jon pointed out.

Wylla laughed. "True enough. But there's something about being ten that's... freer, somehow. Before you really understand all the rules they expect you to follow."

Jon nodded, thinking of how Arya still railed against the restrictions placed upon her as a girl, while Sansa, only two years older, had already embraced them fully.

"It's empty!" Arya called down from nearly thirty feet above. "Just some old twigs and—oh! There's something shiny!"

"Be careful," Jon called back, tension coiling in his stomach as he watched her reach precariously toward something they couldn't see.

"I've got it!" Arya's triumphant cry was followed by her beginning a much faster descent, half-climbing, half-sliding down the trunk until she dropped the final few feet to land in a crouch before them.

"Look what I found," she said, holding out her prize: a small silver pendant on a broken chain. The pendant was shaped like a trident, its prongs gleaming dully in the filtered sunlight.

"That's a merman's trident," Wylla said, peering at the trinket. "Like House Manderly's sigil."

"It must belong to one of your household," Jon suggested. "Lost during a hunt, perhaps?"

Wylla shook her head. "I don't think so. Look at the style—it's old, much older than anything we'd wear now."

Arya held it up, letting it spin slowly on its chain. "Maybe it belonged to the First Men."

"The First Men didn't use silver like this," Jon corrected gently. "And the Manderlys came north only a thousand years ago."

"Still, it's a strange coincidence," Wylla mused, touching the pendant lightly. "Finding a merman's trident in a tree, just when we Manderlys are visiting."

"You should keep it," Arya decided, pressing the necklace into Wylla's hand. "It's a sign."

"A sign of what?" Jon asked, amused by his sister's sudden superstition.

Arya shrugged. "I don't know. But Old Nan says when you find something unexpected, it's the gods trying to tell you something."

Wylla closed her fingers around the pendant, an unreadable expression crossing her face. "Thank you, Arya. I'll treasure it."

The sound of a distant horn cut through the forest stillness—the signal for midday meal.

"We should head back," Jon said, glancing at the position of the sun. "They'll be looking for us."

As they made their way back toward Winterfell, Arya skipping ahead while Jon and Wylla followed at a more sedate pace, Wylla slipped the broken necklace into her pocket.

"Your sister is a gift," she said softly. "Fierce and kind."

"She is," Jon agreed. "Though Lady Stark fears she'll never make a proper lady."

"There are many ways to be a lady," Wylla replied. "My grandfather says a woman's spirit is like the sea—try to contain it, and you'll only create a storm."

"Your grandfather sounds like an unusual man."

"He is," Wylla agreed with a fond smile. "That's why he's lived so long and grown so fat—he doesn't waste energy fighting against the tides."

They walked in companionable silence for a moment before Wylla spoke again, her tone more serious. "Jon, may I ask you something?"

A flutter of anxiety passed through him. Had she noticed something strange about him? The incident with the shutters at the feast? His distraction this morning?

"Of course," he replied, keeping his voice neutral.

"The farewell feast tonight—will you be there?"

It wasn't what he'd expected. "I'll be there," Jon said slowly. "Though not at the high table."

Wylla stopped walking, turning to face him directly. "I want you to sit with me at the high table."

Jon stared at her in disbelief. "That's... that's not possible. Lady Stark would never allow it."

"Leave Lady Stark to me," Wylla said with a determined gleam in her eye. "Or rather, to my grandfather. He can be very persuasive."

"Why?" Jon asked, genuinely confused. "Why would you do that?"

Wylla's expression softened. "Because you're my friend, Jon Snow. And friends should sit together at feasts." She tilted her head, studying him. "Unless you'd rather not?"

"No, it's not that," Jon said hastily. "It's just... unusual."

"So is green hair," Wylla replied with a grin. "I've never cared much for usual."

The afternoon passed in a blur of activities. Lord Stark had arranged for a hunt to honor Lord Manderly, and most of the men rode out after the midday meal. Jon, to his surprise, was invited to join them—something that rarely happened when important guests were present.

Lord Manderly himself remained behind, claiming his girth made long rides uncomfortable, but his steward and several of his household knights joined the hunting party. Jon found himself riding alongside Robb and Theon, with Jory Cassel and several other Winterfell guards nearby.

"I hear you've been showing the Manderly girl around," Robb said as they trotted through the wolfswood. "The one with the green hair."

"Wylla," Jon confirmed. "She's... interesting."

Theon snorted. "Interesting is one word for it. Sharp-tongued little viper is another."

"Still bitter she put you in your place, Greyjoy?" Robb laughed. "Father said she's the most refreshing young lady he's met in years."

"Lord Stark said that?" Jon asked, surprised.

Robb nodded. "At breakfast this morning. Said she reminds him of Aunt Lyanna—all fire and no fear."

Jon stored that information away, oddly pleased by the comparison. He had heard stories of his father's sister all his life—her beauty, her wildness, her tragic death. To have Wylla compared to her by Lord Stark himself was no small thing.

The hunt was successful—two deer and a wild boar, enough to ensure the farewell feast would be well supplied. By late afternoon, they returned to Winterfell, where preparations for the evening's festivities were already underway.

Jon barely had time to clean up and change into fresh clothes before it was time to make his way to the Great Hall. He had half-convinced himself that Wylla's plan would come to nothing—that he would take his usual place at the lower tables and watch the highborn guests from afar.

He was therefore stunned when, upon entering the hall, he was intercepted by Lord Manderly himself.

"Young Snow!" the enormous lord boomed, clapping a meaty hand on Jon's shoulder. "There you are, lad. Come, come—you're seated with us tonight."

Jon blinked in confusion. "I... my lord?"

"At the high table, boy," Lord Manderly clarified, already steering Jon toward the dais where the high table stood. "My granddaughter speaks very highly of you—says you've been an excellent guide to Winterfell. The least we can do is have you join us for our farewell meal."

Jon caught sight of Lady Stark's rigid posture and tight-lipped expression as Lord Manderly led him toward the high table. Beside her, Lord Stark watched with a carefully neutral expression, though Jon thought he detected a hint of amusement in his father's eyes.

Wylla, already seated beside her sister Wynafryd, beamed triumphantly as Jon approached. She had dressed for the occasion in a gown of deep teal, embroidered with silver thread in patterns of waves and sea creatures. Her green hair was elaborately braided and coiled atop her head, with several small silver ornaments woven through it.

"Jon!" she called, waving him over. "Your seat is here, between me and Arya."

Indeed, there was an empty chair placed exactly there, as if it had always been intended for him. Jon hesitated, looking to Lord Stark for permission.

His father gave a slight nod. "Take your seat, Jon," he said quietly. "Lord Manderly has requested it."

That was apparently enough to override even Lady Stark's objections, though Jon could feel her cold gaze on him as he made his way around the table to the indicated chair.

"You actually did it," he murmured to Wylla as he sat beside her. "How?"

"I told you—my grandfather never denies me anything," Wylla whispered back, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Especially when I told him how knowledgeable you are about Northern history and customs."

"But I'm not—"

"You are compared to most," Wylla interrupted. "Besides, Grandfather believes in rewarding courtesy. When I told him how kind you'd been to me, he was determined to thank you properly."

Jon was saved from responding by the arrival of the first course: a rich seafood soup that Lord Manderly had apparently brought from White Harbor, complete with exotic spices that filled the hall with an unusual but appetizing aroma.

"From the far east," Lord Manderly explained to Lord Stark. "Our ships bring them from Qarth and beyond. The secret is in the saffron—most expensive spice in the world, but worth every gold dragon."

Beside Jon, Arya made a face at the unfamiliar flavors but gamely continued eating. On his other side, Wylla seemed perfectly at ease, chatting with both him and her sister Wynafryd as if Jon's presence at the high table was the most natural thing in the world.

As the meal progressed through several courses—each more elaborate than the last, showcasing both Northern and coastal specialties—Jon gradually relaxed. No one, apart from Lady Stark, seemed to find his presence unusual. Even Sansa, initially scandalized, had settled into polite conversation with Wynafryd about the latest fashions from White Harbor.

"This is nice," Wylla said quietly during a lull in the conversation. "Having you here, I mean."

Jon glanced at her, surprised by the sincerity in her voice. "It's... different," he admitted. "I'm not used to sitting up here."

"You should be," she said firmly. "You're Lord Stark's son, whatever your last name."

Before Jon could respond, Lord Manderly's booming voice cut through the general conversation.

"Lord Stark! I've been meaning to discuss something with you." The massive lord raised his goblet. "As you know, White Harbor thrives on trade and celebration. In three months' time, we plan to host a tourney to mark the anniversary of our founding—one thousand and fifty years since the Manderlys came north."

A murmur of interest rippled through the hall. Tourneys were rare in the North, more common in the southron kingdoms.

"There will be contests of archery and swordplay," Lord Manderly continued, "as well as a grand melee. Nothing as elaborate as they do in King's Landing, mind you, but a proper Northern celebration."

"It sounds a fine event," Lord Stark replied diplomatically. "White Harbor does your house proud, Lord Manderly."

"Indeed, indeed," the fat lord agreed. "But what would honor us most would be your presence, Lord Stark. You and your family would be our most distinguished guests."

Jon saw Lord Stark's slight hesitation. His father rarely traveled, especially not for something as frivolous as a tourney.

"I'm honored by the invitation," Lord Stark began, clearly preparing a gentle refusal. "However, the demands of governing the North—"

"Can surely wait for a week or two," Lord Manderly interrupted jovially. "Besides, it would be an excellent opportunity for the young ones to see more of the North. Educational, you might say."

To Jon's surprise, Lord Stark seemed to reconsider. His gaze swept across his children—Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and even little Rickon—before settling briefly on Jon himself.

"Perhaps you're right," Lord Stark said finally. "It has been some time since we visited White Harbor. The children would benefit from seeing more of the lands they will one day help govern."

Lady Stark's eyebrows rose in surprise, but she nodded in agreement. "It would be good for them to understand the importance of House Manderly to the North."

"Excellent!" Lord Manderly clapped his hands together in delight. "Then it's settled! The Starks will join us for the tourney. Your sons might even wish to participate in some of the events—the younger divisions, of course."

Robb straightened with interest. "I would be honored to represent Winterfell, my lord."

"As would I," Theon added quickly, not to be outdone.

"And your brother too, perhaps?" Lord Manderly nodded toward Jon. "I hear he's quite skilled with a sword."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the high table. Jon froze, aware of Lady Stark's expression hardening. Even Lord Stark looked uncertain how to respond.

"Jon is an excellent swordsman," Robb said into the silence. "Better than me in some respects."

Lord Stark cleared his throat. "We shall see, when the time comes, who will represent Winterfell."

It wasn't quite a confirmation that Jon would be included, but neither was it a refusal. Jon kept his eyes on his plate, unwilling to meet anyone's gaze.

Beside him, Wylla squeezed his hand briefly under the table. "You'll come," she whispered. "I'll make sure of it."

Long after the feast had ended, when most of Winterfell lay sleeping, Jon slipped from his bed once more. His mind was too full for sleep—the unexpected honor of sitting at the high table, Lord Manderly's invitation, Wylla's determined friendship. And beneath it all, the lingering mystery of the fire he had conjured.

He made his way to the same storeroom in the First Keep, careful to avoid the night guards on their rounds. Once inside, he lit a small candle and placed it on a shelf, then retrieved a blank piece of parchment he had taken from Maester Luwin's stores earlier that day.

Jon placed the parchment on the floor, then sat cross-legged before it. If he could create fire, even a small flame, he should be able to burn the parchment. 

He extended his hand toward the parchment, concentrating as he had the night before. Nothing happened.

Jon closed his eyes, breathing deeply to calm his frustration. 

He tried again, focusing on the memory of that feeling—the heat in his palm, the brief flicker of light. Again, nothing.

For nearly an hour, Jon attempted various approaches. He tried different hand positions, different thoughts, even speaking aloud to command the fire to appear. The parchment remained stubbornly unburned.

"Why won't it work?" he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. "I know I did it before."

As if in response to his frustration, a tiny spark appeared above his fingertips, flickering uncertainly before vanishing again.

Jon stared at the spot where it had been, then at the parchment. He wasn't imagining things. The fire was real—he simply couldn't control it yet.

With renewed determination, he tried again, focusing all his concentration on the parchment. This time, he pictured the fire in his mind, imagined the heat flowing down his arm into his hand, gathering at his fingertips.

A small flame sputtered to life above his palm, wavering like a candle in a draft. Jon held his breath, afraid the slightest movement might extinguish it. Slowly, carefully, he lowered his hand until the flame nearly touched the parchment.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, a small brown spot appeared on the parchment, spreading outward as the flame caught the edge. Jon quickly withdrew his hand, watching in astonishment as the fire consumed the parchment, reducing it to ash within moments.

He had done it. There was no denying it now—he had created fire from nothing but his own will.

As the last embers died away, Jon sat back, mind racing with implications. What was happening to him? Was it some kind of magic? Old Nan's stories spoke of skinchangers and greenseers among the First Men, but never of people who could create fire at will.

He was still pondering these questions when a strange warmth filled the room, accompanied by a soft blue light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.

"Well done," a voice said from behind him. "Though your technique could use refinement."

Jon whirled around to find himself face to face with a tall, elderly man in elaborate red robes. His long white hair was pulled back from his face, which was distinguished by a pointed beard and penetrating eyes. Like Kyoshi before him, he seemed both present and not present, solid yet somehow transparent.

"Who are you?" Jon demanded, though part of him already knew the answer.

"My name is Roku," the apparition replied with a slight bow. "I am here to help you, as Kyoshi was."

"Help me with what?" Jon asked, rising to his feet. "What's happening to me? Why can I create fire?"

Roku studied him with a thoughtful expression. "You created fire because fire is the element that resonates most strongly with your spirit at this moment. It is the element of power, of desire, of will—and you, Jon Snow, have all three in abundance."

"But Kyoshi showed me air," Jon said, confusion evident in his voice. "She made the air move. She said I could do the same."

"And so you can," Roku agreed. "In time, you will master all four elements—air, water, earth, and fire. But each person's journey is different. For you, fire has awakened first."

"Four elements?" Jon shook his head, trying to make sense of it all. "Who are you people? What do you want from me?"

Roku's expression softened. "We are guides, Jon. Helpers on your path. As for what we want... we want what you want—to understand your purpose, to fulfill your potential."

"And what is my purpose?" Jon asked, frustration evident in his voice. "Everyone speaks in riddles. Kyoshi showed me airbending but wouldn't explain why. Now you appear and talk of four elements as if it should make sense to me."

"Patience," Roku counseled. "Some questions can only be answered when you are ready to hear them. For now, know this: the power you possess is ancient and sacred. It is a gift, but also a responsibility."

Jon sighed, recognizing he would get no direct answers. "Fine. Then at least show me how to control this... fire. I don't want to accidentally burn down Winterfell."

Roku smiled, seemingly pleased by the practical request. "A wise concern. Very well, I will teach you the basics of firebending control."

For the next hour, Roku guided Jon through several exercises—breathing techniques to regulate his inner heat, meditation to focus his energy, simple movements to direct the fire's flow.

"Firebending comes from the breath, not the muscles," Roku explained as Jon practiced a sequence of movements. "The breath becomes energy in the body. The energy extends past your limbs and becomes fire."

Jon followed the instructions, finding that with proper technique, he could create small, controlled flames more consistently.

"Why fire?" he asked during a brief rest. "Why not air, like Kyoshi tried to teach me?"

Roku considered the question. "The elements manifest differently for each person, influenced by their nature and circumstances. Fire is the element of drive and determination. Perhaps recent events have awakened these qualities in you."

Jon thought of Wylla's friendship, of sitting at the high table, of the possibility of traveling to White Harbor. Things he would never have imagined possible a week ago.

"Will I still learn airbending?" he asked.

"In time," Roku assured him. "For now, focus on controlling your firebending. Practice the breathing exercises daily, but be cautious. Fire is the most dangerous element—it consumes everything in its path if left unchecked."

Jon nodded, understanding the warning. "And will you return? To teach me more?"

"When you need guidance, we will be there," Roku said, his form already beginning to fade. "Remember, Jon Snow—fire is life, not just destruction. In the right hands, it brings warmth and light to darkness."

As Roku vanished completely, his final words lingered in the air: "Trust in yourself. The path ahead is long, but you will not walk it alone."

Jon remained in the storeroom for some time afterward, practicing the techniques Roku had taught him. By the time he finally returned to his bed, dawn was breaking over Winterfell's walls.

The Manderlys departed Winterfell the following morning, their procession of carriages and mounted guards assembling in the courtyard shortly after breakfast. Jon stood with the Stark children as Lord Stark and Lady Stark exchanged formal farewells with Lord Manderly.

"Remember, three months hence!" Lord Manderly boomed as he prepared to mount his specially reinforced horse. "We'll expect all of you in White Harbor for the tourney!"

"We shall be there," Lord Stark promised, clasping the larger man's arm in farewell.

As the adults continued their goodbyes, Wylla broke away from her sister and grandfather to approach the Stark children. She hugged Arya, who returned the embrace fiercely, then exchanged polite nods with Sansa and Bran.

When she reached Jon, she gave him a hug, not caring what the others thought.

"Thank you for showing me Winterfell," she said, loud enough for others to hear. Then, lowering her voice, she added, "And for being my friend."

"Safe travels," Jon replied. "I hope we meet again."

"We will," Wylla said with certainty. "At the tourney, if not before. You'll be there, Jon Snow. I'll make sure of it."

She pressed something into his hand—a small object wrapped in a scrap of cloth. Before he could inquire about it, she was being called back to her family's carriage.

Jon watched as the Manderly procession departed through Winterfell's gates, Wylla's green hair visible through the carriage window until they turned onto the King's Road.

Only when they had vanished from sight did he unwrap the small parcel Wylla had given him. Inside was the silver merman pendant Arya had found in the oak tree, its chain mended with a length of green silk thread.

Attached was a small note in an untidy but legible hand:

For luck. Don't lose it—I expect to see it when you come to White Harbor. Friends keep their promises.

-Your friend, Wylla

Jon smiled, tucking the pendant and note into his pocket. Three months until the tourney. Three months to master the strange fire that now lived within him.

Three months until he would see Wylla Manderly again.

As he turned back toward Winterfell, Jon felt something he hadn't experienced in a long time: anticipation for the future, and the strange, warm certainty that something extraordinary had begun.

Chapter Text

Yangchen kicked off her boots—figuratively, since spirits didn't wear shoes—and paced barefoot through the mists, her robes snapping like a storm banner. "Alright, Kyoshi, spill it," she barked, jabbing a finger at the towering warrior. "You had him right there—spinning air like a clumsy toddler—and you didn't drop the big 'Hey, kid, you're the Avatar' bomb? What's the holdup? He's bending—sort of!!"

Kyoshi, arms crossed tighter than a warship's rigging. "Oh, brilliant plan, Yangchen—let's drown the boy in cosmic nonsense and watch him flail! He's ten, not some grizzled bender ready to punch volcanoes. You want me to waltz in and say, 'Congrats, Jon Snow, you're the reincarnation of us lot, doomed to juggle four elements and save a world that doesn't even know what airbending is'? He'd bolt—or think he's gone mad!"

Aang, perched on a floating ball of air like a kid on a bouncy toy, grinned wide enough to light the void. "Aw, come on, Kyoshi—he'd be fine! I was twelve when I got the Avatar news, and sure, I freaked out a little—okay, a lot—but I turned out great!" He spun his airball, nearly toppling off. "He's got that serious face—perfect for big revelations!"

Kyoshi's glare could've melted steel. "You ran away, Aang—froze yourself in an iceberg for a century! Real inspiring. Jon's got no iceberg to hide in—just a castle full of swords and a stepmother who'd sooner skin him than hug him. Overwhelm him now, and he'll shut down faster than a turtle-duck in a thunderstorm."

Roku stroked his beard with all the calm of a sage watching a bar fight. "Kyoshi's got a point," he said. "He's young—too young to carry it all. This isn't our world—no temples, no sages, no flying bison to whisk him off for training. Dump the Avatar scroll on him, and he might reject it outright. Wisdom lies in pacing—let him taste the elements first, sip by sip."

"Pacing? Sip by sip? Roku, he's not sampling tea—he's the damn Avatar! He's got air tickling his fingers—barely—and we're sitting here like nannies debating bedtime stories! What's next—wait till he's got a beard to match yours before we tell him he's got a world to balance?" Yangchen said, looking slightly annoyed.

Kuruk, sprawled on a spectral rock like a bear napping after a hunt, yawned loudly. "Eh, beard or no beard, kid's got guts—I'll give him that. Took to that air stance like a drunk seal, but he didn't quit. Tell him what you want—I'm just here to see if he can punch a spirit in the face someday." He smirked, cracking his knuckles. "Bet he'd be fun at a tavern brawl."

Kyoshi rolled her eyes. "He's not punching anything if we break him, Kuruk. Imagine it—'Hey, Jon, you're a legend reborn, master of stuff no one here's heard of, in a land where magic's a campfire tale.' He's a boy—lives in a drafty castle with a fake dad and a real witch for a stepmom. Hit him with everything, and he'll either hide under his bed or decide he's cursed. I say we drip it out—air now, fire later, the big Avatar speech when he's, what, twelve? Thirteen? Old enough to not cry himself to sleep over it."

Aang tilted his head, bouncing his airball. "Cry? Nah, he's tougher than that! But... maybe you're right. I mean, I had Gyatso to soften the blow—Jon's got, uh, very old Maester, a little sister, and his brother. Little steps might work."

Yangchen sighed, rubbing her temples. "Fine—little steps. But he's got to move, Kyoshi. He's bending in a void—no masters, no nothing. We can't coddle him forever."

Roku nodded, his staff tapping the mist. "Nor will we. Air's his spark—let it grow. When he's ready, the truth will find him."

Kyoshi snapped her fan shut, smirking faintly. "Good. 'Cause if you lot bury him in destiny too soon, I'm not fishing him out of the snow when he bolts."

.

.

The spirit world rippled and reformed, this time taking the shape of a Fire Nation garden with volcanic mountains visible in the distance. Steam rose from hot springs dotting the landscape, and spectral fire lilies bloomed wherever the Avatars' feet touched the ground.

Roku stood at the center of their gathering, his hands clasped behind his back in a formal stance that betrayed his noble upbringing. "I've completed Jon's first firebending lesson," he announced.

"And?" Aang leaned forward eagerly. "How did he do?"

A small smile crept across Roku's dignified features. "The boy is smarter than he looks. His control is impressive for a novice—he created and maintained a flame in just one session."

"Really?" Aang's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "It took me multiple attempts, and even then..."

"Yes, well," Roku's smile turned slightly mischievous, "unlike some, he didn't immediately set everything around him ablaze. You remember how you burned Katara because you got too excited when you first firebended."

Aang looked down, his normally cheerful expression clouding with shame. "I never forgave myself for that."

"It's fine, Aang," Yangchen said gently, placing a spectral hand on his shoulder. "You learned from it. As will Jon."

"Jon was cautious," Roku continued. "Respectful of fire's power. He asked intelligent questions about control rather than offensive applications."

"That speaks well of his character," Yangchen observed. "Many novices are seduced by fire's destructive potential."

Kuruk flicked his wrist, creating a small wave of spirit water that playfully doused a nearby fire lily. "So the boy has talent. Not surprising considering who his grandfather was."

"Which grandfather?" Kyoshi asked dryly. "The one who was burned alive or the one who did the burning?"

"Kyoshi!" Aang looked scandalized.

"What? It's historical fact. This boy's lineage flows from both victim and aggressor."

Roku cleared his throat. "If we could return to the matter at hand. Jon's aptitude for firebending, while impressive, remains rudimentary. I've taught him breathing techniques and basic control exercises. He can create flame but not yet direct it with precision."

"Still, it's remarkable progress for someone with no proper instruction," Kyoshi noted. "Especially considering he lives in a world without benders."

The other Avatars exchanged surprised glances. Kyoshi rarely defended anyone, preferring harsh truth to gentle encouragement.

"Why, Kyoshi," Kuruk said with a crooked smile, "if I didn't know better, I'd think you were growing fond of the boy."

Kyoshi's painted face remained impassive. "I simply recognize potential when I see it. Jon Snow faces challenges none of us experienced—no scrolls to study, no masters to guide him, no precedent for what he is becoming. Yet he embraces these strange abilities rather than fearing them."

"I agree," Aang said, his natural optimism reasserting itself. "And he has us. We can guide him through the spiritual aspects, even if he lacks physical teachers."

"You always were an idealist, Aang," Kuruk chuckled. "But in this case, you might be right. Speaking of guidance, I believe my turn is approaching."

"What do you mean?" Yangchen asked.

Kuruk materialized a spectral fish, allowing it to swim through the air around them. "I observed the feast before the Manderlys departed. The fat lord—what was his name? Wyman?—served dishes I recognized. Sea bass with ginger. Crab stew. Oysters on the half-shell. These are coastal foods, preparations unique to seafaring peoples."

"So?" Aang prompted.

"So," Kuruk continued with an air of exaggerated patience, "this White Harbor must be a port city. Lord Stark is taking his family there for some celebration. Once they arrive, it would be the perfect opportunity for me to introduce Jon to waterbending. The proximity to the ocean will make the element more accessible to him."

"If he can connect with water at all," Kyoshi pointed out. "Fire has manifested first for him, not air as I expected. We cannot assume he will follow any pattern we recognize."

"True enough," Kuruk acknowledged with a shrug. "But I sense he has an affinity for water as well. There's something in his spirit—a duality. Fire and ice."

"You may be right," Yangchen said thoughtfully. "I've sensed it too—a connection to both elements that seems almost... inherited."

An uncomfortable silence fell at her words. They all knew the truth of Jon's parentage—fire from his Targaryen father, ice from his Stark mother.

"And what about the truth of who he is?" Aang asked. "Not just as the Avatar, but as Rhaegar and Lyanna's son? When does he learn that?"

"That's not our secret to tell," Roku said firmly. "Lord Stark made his choice for valid reasons. The boy would be in danger if his true parentage were known."

"So more secrets, more lies," Aang sighed. "It doesn't sit right with me."

"Not all truths are ours to reveal," Yangchen reminded him gently. "Some burdens must be carried by others. Our responsibility is to prepare Jon for his role as the Avatar. The rest will unfold as it must."

"I suppose you're right," Aang conceded. "Still, I hope he learns the truth someday. About everything."

"He will," Kyoshi said with unusual certainty. "I've seen it in his eyes. Jon Snow is a seeker of truth, even when that truth is painful. It's one of his strengths."

"And he'll need all his strengths in the days to come," Kuruk added, his normally carefree expression turning serious. "I've seen enough of this world to know its dangers aren't limited to what lies beyond their Wall."

The Avatars nodded in agreement.

"I wonder," Aang mused as they dispersed, "what kind of Avatar Jon Snow will become."

None had an answer, but all felt the weight of the question.

.

.

Two weeks after the Manderlys' departure, Jon knelt in his secret practice room within the First Keep, a single candle burning beside him. His eyes were closed, his breathing measured as Roku had taught him. In his outstretched palm, a small flame flickered—no larger than the candle's, but steady.

Control was the most difficult aspect. Creating fire had become easier with practice, but maintaining it at a consistent size required concentration Jon hadn't known he possessed. Too much energy and the flame would surge, threatening to grow beyond his command. Too little and it would sputter out.

"Breathe," he whispered to himself, recalling Roku's instruction. "Fire comes from the breath, not the muscles."

He inhaled deeply, feeling the flame strengthen with his breath. As he exhaled, he pictured the energy flowing out through his hand, feeding the flame but not overwhelming it.

For nearly a minute, the fire remained perfectly stable—an achievement that would have seemed impossible just days ago. Then, as his concentration briefly wavered, the flame surged upward, nearly reaching the ceiling before Jon clenched his fist, extinguishing it in panic.

"Seven hells," he muttered, heart pounding. That had been close—too close. If the flame had caught the wooden beams overhead...

Jon rose to his feet, wiping sweat from his brow. Progress was coming, but slower than he'd hoped. Roku had made it look so simple, creating and shaping fire as easily as breathing. For Jon, each small advancement required hours of practice and left him exhausted.

From his pocket, he withdrew the silver merman pendant Wylla had given him. The metal was warm from being close to his body, the trident design catching the candlelight. 

Three months until White Harbor. Three months to gain enough control that he wouldn't accidentally set Lord Manderly's castle ablaze.

Jon tucked the pendant away and assumed the stance Kyoshi had shown him weeks ago—feet planted, arms extended in circular motions. Though fire came more naturally to him, he hadn't abandoned his attempts at airbending. Something told him he would need both elements eventually.

He moved through the forms, feeling slightly foolish as no air responded to his commands. The sharp contrast between his progress with fire and his failure with air was frustrating. What was he missing?

With a sigh, Jon extinguished the candle and prepared to return to his bed. Dawn would come early, and with it, training in the yard with Robb and Theon under Ser Rodrik's watchful eye. Whatever strange abilities he was developing, he couldn't neglect his martial training. In this world, a sword was still more practical than flame.

As he slipped through the shadowed corridors of Winterfell, Jon wondered what Wylla would say if she knew what he could do. Would she be frightened? Fascinated? The thought brought a small smile to his face. Somehow, he suspected she would take it in stride, perhaps even demand he teach her.

That night, Jon dreamed of White Harbor—a city he'd never seen, with tall white walls and ships with billowing sails. In the dream, he stood atop a tower, looking out over waters that stretched to the horizon. Beside him stood a tall, broad-shouldered man, his hands guiding Jon's as they pulled the tides toward them.

"Water is the element of change," the man said, his voice familiar though Jon had never heard it before. "It adapts, flows around obstacles rather than challenging them directly."

Jon woke with the taste of salt on his lips and the strange certainty that his journey was just beginning.

.

.

A month after the Manderlys' visit, the training yard echoed with the clash of wooden swords. Jon circled Robb cautiously, both boys breathing hard after nearly an hour of sparring under Ser Rodrik's supervision.

"Good footwork, Snow," the master-at-arms called out. "Keep your balance like that."

Jon didn't reply, focusing instead on reading Robb's next move. His brother favored his right side slightly, a tell Jon had learned to recognize. Sure enough, Robb lunged with an overhead strike that Jon sidestepped easily, using the momentum to tap Robb lightly on the ribs with his practice sword.

"Hit!" Ser Rodrik declared. "Well done, lad."

Robb grinned, not bothered by the defeat. "You're getting faster, Jon. I can barely touch you anymore."

Jon returned the smile, though inwardly he knew his improvement had little to do with conventional training. The awareness he'd developed through firebending practice had sharpened his reflexes, made him more conscious of his body's movement through space. 

"One more bout," Ser Rodrik instructed. "Then archery practice for the both of you."

They resumed their positions, wooden swords at the ready. From the side of the yard, Jon noticed Theon watching with his usual smirk, though there was a calculatory gleam in the Ironborn's eyes that hadn't been there before.

"Something amusing, Greyjoy?" Jon called out, uncharacteristically bold.

Theon's eyebrows rose in surprise at being directly addressed. "Just wondering when the bastard learned to dance," he replied. "You're prancing around like a girl."

"Yet I'm winning," Jon countered, earning a surprised laugh from Robb.

"He's got you there, Theon," Robb said, twirling his practice sword. "Care to demonstrate your superior technique?"

Theon's smirk faltered. "Against the bastard? Hardly worth my time."

"Afraid he'll beat you too?" Robb pressed, his tone light but challenging.

A flush crept up Theon's neck. "Fine," he snapped, striding forward and snatching the practice sword from Robb's hand. "Let's see how good you really are, Snow."

Ser Rodrik frowned but nodded his permission. "Mind your tempers, both of you. This is practice, not a tavern brawl."

Jon inclined his head in acknowledgment, then settled into his stance. Theon was three years older, taller and stronger, but Jon had been watching him train for years. He knew Theon relied on aggressive, powerful strikes—a strategy that worked well against less experienced opponents but left openings for someone patient enough to wait for them.

Theon attacked immediately, as Jon had expected, swinging his wooden sword in a horizontal arc aimed at Jon's head. Jon ducked under the swing, stepping to the side rather than backward.

"Stand still, damn you," Theon muttered as Jon evaded another powerful strike.

Jon didn't respond, conserving his breath as he continued to circle and dodge. He could feel his awareness expanding, time seeming to slow as it did during his bending practice. Theon's movements became predictable.

When the opening came, Jon took it without hesitation. Theon overextended on a thrust, and Jon pivoted around the strike, tapping Theon's sword arm with enough force to sting but not bruise.

"Hit," Ser Rodrik called. "Match to Jon."

Theon's face darkened with humiliation. "Lucky strike," he muttered, tossing the practice sword aside.

"That wasn't luck," Robb said, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "That was skill. You've been practicing in secret, haven't you?"

"Just applying what Ser Rodrik teaches us."

The master-at-arms nodded approvingly. "Whatever you're doing, keep at it. I haven't seen footwork that clean from someone your age in years."

As they moved to the archery range, Robb fell in step beside Jon, lowering his voice so only Jon could hear. "Seriously, what's changed? You move differently lately."

Jon hesitated, tempted for a moment to confide in Robb. They had always been close, sharing secrets and adventures throughout their childhood. But how could he explain abilities he barely understood himself?

"I've been practicing some... breathing exercises," Jon said finally, which wasn't entirely untrue. "For focus and balance."

Robb seemed to accept this explanation. "Well, they're working. You should show me sometime."

"Maybe," Jon replied noncommittally. "Are you excited about White Harbor?"

The change of subject worked as Jon had hoped. Robb launched into enthusiastic speculation about the upcoming journey, particularly the tourney.

"Father says I can compete in the squires' melee if Ser Rodrik thinks I'm ready," Robb said. "You should enter too. After what I just saw, you'd have a good chance."

Jon smiled slightly at Robb's automatic inclusion of him. "I doubt Lady Stark would approve."

"Father makes those decisions, not Mother," Robb said firmly. "And anyway, Lord Manderly specifically invited you. I heard him at the feast."

Jon nodded, recalling the moment with a mix of pride and discomfort. It had been strange to sit at the high table, stranger still to be directly addressed by a lord of Lord Manderly's stature.

"We'll see," he said, a phrase he'd adopted whenever the subject of his participation in noble activities arose.

.

.

Two months after the Manderlys' departure, Jon sat cross-legged before the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood, his eyes closed in meditation. The ancient weirwood's carved face seemed to watch him with its knowing red eyes, silent witness to his solitary practice.

Jon had discovered that the godswood enhanced his connection to his abilities. Here, among the most ancient living things in Winterfell, the elements felt closer somehow.

He had been attempting to airbend again, following Kyoshi's instructions but incorporating some of Roku's breathing techniques. So far, the results had been minimal—the occasional rustling of leaves that might have been coincidence or the barest stirring of air around his hands.

Today, however, something felt different. The air seemed more responsive, almost alive against his skin as he moved through the circular motions Kyoshi had demonstrated.

"Feel the air as an extension of yourself," he murmured, recalling her words. "It is always there, always moving, even when we cannot see it."

Jon extended his hand, palm outward, and pushed—not physically, but with his energy, his will. To his astonishment, a gentle breeze stirred the fallen leaves before him, too directed to be natural.

"I did it," he whispered, eyes widening in surprise and delight.

He tried again, focusing his intent more precisely. This time, the breeze was stronger, definitely created by his motion rather than random chance. It wasn't the powerful gust Kyoshi had produced, but it was undeniably airbending.

"What are you doing?"

Jon startled at the voice, whirling around to find Arya watching him curiously from behind a nearby tree. How long had she been there? Had she seen the air respond to his command?

"Just... meditating," Jon replied, trying to sound casual. "Before the heart tree."

Arya stepped into the clearing, her head tilted skeptically. "You weren't praying. You were moving your arms around and talking to yourself."

Jon forced a laugh. "Maybe I was practicing sword forms. Ser Rodrik says visualization is important."

"Without a sword?" Arya didn't sound convinced, but her attention shifted quickly, as it often did. "Never mind. I've been looking everywhere for you. Did you know we leave for White Harbor in less than a month?"

"I did know that, yes," Jon replied, relieved by the change of subject.

"Do you think Wylla will remember me?" Arya asked, sitting beside him on the moss-covered ground. "She said she'd teach me more archery tricks when we visit."

"I'm sure she will," Jon assured her, smiling at his sister's enthusiasm. "Wylla doesn't seem the type to forget a promise."

"I liked her," Arya declared. "She's not like other ladies. She doesn't care about stupid things like embroidery or dancing." She plucked at the moss thoughtfully. "Do you think I could dye my hair green too?"

The image of Arya with bright green hair was so absurd that Jon laughed out loud. "I think Lady Stark might actually lock you in a tower if you tried."

"Probably," Arya agreed with a sigh. "But it would be worth it to see her face." She nudged Jon with her elbow. "Will you watch me practice archery before we leave? I want to impress Wylla when we get there."

"Of course," Jon promised, ruffling her hair affectionately. "Though you're already good enough to impress anyone."

Arya beamed at the compliment, then grew more serious. "Jon? Are you going to compete in the tourney?"

The question caught him off guard. "I... don't know. It might not be appropriate for me to participate."

"That's stupid," Arya said bluntly. "You're better than Robb with a sword, and Father lets him compete."

"It's different for me," Jon tried to explain. "I'm not—"

"If you say you're not a Stark, I'll kick you," Arya threatened. "You're my brother. That's what matters."

Jon felt a lump form in his throat. Arya's unconditional acceptance had always been a balm to the wounds inflicted by his bastard status. "Thank you, little sister," he said softly.

Arya punched his arm lightly. "So you'll compete? Promise?"

"I'll try," Jon said, which was the most he could honestly offer. "If Lord Stark permits it."

"Good." Arya stood, apparently satisfied with this response. "I'm going to ask if Bran can come watch us practice archery too. He needs to learn properly before we leave."

.

.

Two and a half months after the Manderlys' visit, Jon found himself unexpectedly summoned to Lord Stark's solar. Such invitations were rare; though his father treated him with affection, formal meetings in the lord's private chambers were usually reserved for Robb, the heir to Winterfell.

Jon knocked tentatively on the heavy wooden door.

"Enter," came Lord Stark's deep voice from within.

Jon stepped inside, finding his father seated behind his desk, several scrolls and ledgers spread before him. 

"You asked to see me, Father?" Jon said, standing straight as he'd been taught.

Lord Stark looked up, his grey eyes regarding him thoughtfully. "Sit, Jon," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "I wanted to speak with you about the journey to White Harbor."

Jon sat, wondering if this was the moment he would be told he couldn't attend after all. Lady Stark had been making her displeasure known about his inclusion, though quietly enough that Jon only heard rumors from the servants.

"The preparations are nearly complete," Lord Stark continued. "We leave in two weeks' time."

"Yes, my lord," Jon replied, still uncertain why this required a private conversation.

Lord Stark set aside the scroll he'd been reading, giving Jon his full attention. "I've noticed changes in you these past months, Jon. Ser Rodrik speaks highly of your progress in the training yard."

Jon tried not to show his surprise at this unexpected topic. "Thank you, Father. I've been practicing."

"So I've heard. Robb says you move like a shadowcat now—his words, not mine." There was a hint of a smile in Lord Stark's normally solemn expression. "And you seem... more confident, somehow."

Jon felt a flicker of alarm. Had his secret practice been noticed? "I'm trying to be worthy of the name you've given me," he said carefully.

Lord Stark's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "You always have been, Jon," he said quietly.

A moment of silence passed between them. Jon had long ago learned not to ask about his mother, but the question always came to him.

"About the tourney at White Harbor," Lord Stark said finally. "Lord Manderly has specifically included you in his invitation. It would be discourteous to refuse."

Jon nodded, waiting for the inevitable qualification, the reminder of his place.

"You've earned the right to participate, should you wish to," Lord Stark continued, surprising Jon. "In the squires' melee or the archery contest. Not the joust—you're not trained for that."

Jon stared at his father, momentarily speechless. "You... you would allow me to compete? As a Stark?"

"As yourself," Lord Stark corrected gently. "Jon Snow, my son. Lord Manderly seemed quite impressed with you. As was his granddaughter, I understand."

Jon felt his cheeks warm slightly. "Lady Wylla was kind to me."

"She reminds me of someone I knew long ago," Lord Stark said, he looked deep in thoughts for a moment. "Strong-willed, unafraid to speak her mind." He refocused on Jon. "It's good that you've made a friend in House Manderly. They are loyal bannermen, and Lord Wyman is sharper than his jovial appearance suggests."

"I'll remember that, Father," Jon said, still processing the unexpected permission to compete.

"Good, you can leave now, Jon." His father told him with a rare smile as Jon stood up and left the solar.

.

.

The final days before their departure flew by in a flurry of preparations. Trunks were packed, horses were shod, and the household was organized for Lord Stark's absence. Winterfell would remain under the stewardship of Vayon Poole, Maester Luwin and Uncle Benjen who would arrive tomorrow and stay until House Stark returned and then some.

On the eve of their journey, Jon returned to his room after a final training session with Robb and Ser Rodrik to find a package wrapped in plain brown cloth laid upon his bed. There was no note, no indication of who had left it.

Cautiously, Jon unwrapped the parcel to reveal a finely crafted leather doublet in dark grey, almost black, with subtle detailing that caught the light when he turned it. It wasn't ostentatious or richly decorated like the clothing lords wore, but it was far finer than anything Jon owned—appropriate for a lord's son attending a tourney, without drawing undue attention.

Jon ran his fingers over the material, wondering who had left such a gift. Not Lady Stark, certainly. Lord Stark, perhaps? Or Robb? The mystery benefactor remained unnamed, but Jon was grateful nonetheless. He would not shame his family by appearing poorly dressed in White Harbor.

As he carefully folded the doublet to pack with his other belongings, Jon caught sight of the silver merman pendant on his bedside table. He picked it up, the metal cool against his palm, and decided to wear it.

Jon slipped the chain over his head, tucking the pendant beneath his shirt. As the metal warmed against his skin, he felt a strange certainty that his life was about to change in ways he couldn't yet imagine.

The morning of their departure dawned clear and cold, a light frost coating the stones of Winterfell despite the advancing spring. The courtyard bustled with activity as the Stark household prepared to ride south.

Jon secured his meager belongings to his horse, a young grey gelding he'd helped train himself. Around him, the rest of the family made their final preparations—Robb checking his sword belt for the dozenth time, Sansa fussing over which cloak to wear for the journey, Arya darting about with excitement, Bran trying to convince Lord Stark to let him ride his own pony instead of sharing with Jory, and little Rickon looked confused, not understanding what was happening.

Lady Stark supervised it all, looking more like a battlefield commander than a Lady, issuing last-minute instructions to the servants remaining behind. Her gaze passed over Jon without stopping, a familiar coldness that he had long since learned to accept.

Lord Stark emerged from the Great Keep, his riding leathers worn beneath a heavy cloak pinned with the direwolf brooch of his house. He spoke briefly with Maester Luwin, then moved among his children, checking that each was properly prepared for the journey.

When he reached Jon, he paused, his gaze taking in the new doublet Jon wore beneath his cloak. A flicker of something—approval, perhaps, or recognition—crossed his features.

"Are you ready, Jon?" he asked simply.

Jon nodded. "Yes, Father."

Lord Stark seemed about to say more when Jory Cassel approached, informing him that the baggage train was assembled and the escort ready to depart. With a final nod to Jon, Lord Stark moved to mount his horse.

The gates of Winterfell opened, revealing the King's Road stretching south toward White Harbor. As the Stark party rode out, Jon couldn't help glancing back at the castle that had been his home for all his short life. Winterfell's grey walls and towers stood solid against the morning sky, eternal and unchanging.

Jon touched the hidden pendant beneath his doublet and turned to face the road ahead. For the first time in his life, he was leaving the North's great stronghold, venturing into a wider world.