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Chapter 13 (The Voice That Calls From Deep), Chapter 14 (A Mother's Touch), Chapter 15 (The Three-Eyed Raven's Warning), Chapter 16 (Great Winter is Coming), Chapter 17 (The First Drop), Chapter 18 (A Line of Water, A Touch of Fire), and Chapter 19 (The Kindness of Small Hands) are already available for Patrons.
Jon Snow stared at the wooden beams of the ceiling above his bed, listening to the distant crash of waves against White Harbor's stone breakwater. Sleep refused to come. The candle on his bedside table had burned down to a stub, its flame guttering weakly—a mocking reminder of what he had lost.
He extended his hand toward the candle, just as he had done a hundred times before in the privacy of his chamber at Winterfell. Focus. Breathe. Feel the heat. Nothing happened.
"Seven hells," Jon muttered, dropping his hand back onto the bed.
He rolled onto his side, punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape. His mind raced with questions that had no answers. Why had his firebending vanished? How could an ability simply disappear after he'd worked so hard? He could create a tiny flame, now not even smoke came from his palm. And what did it mean that his waterbending seemed to be growing stronger even as his connection to fire faded?
"Maybe I was never meant to bend more than one element," he whispered to himself. But that made no sense. Roku, Kyoshi, Kuruk. Korys had called him "Avatar," whatever that truly meant.
And then there was Nymeria Sand, with her knowing smirk and cryptic invitation. Tomorrow—no, today now, he realized, noting the faint glow of pre-dawn light at his window—he would meet her in the training yard after the midday meal.
Jon's stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought. What if she tried to kiss him? What if she expected something from him that he couldn't give? He barely knew her, and yet there was something in the way she looked at him, as if she could see straight through to his soul.
"Wylla and I aren't... we're not...would she be mad?"
But weren't they? The memory of her lips brushing his cheek sent a rush of warmth through him that had nothing to do with firebending. The way she had looked at him in the hidden tower, the secrets they'd shared... it meant something. Jon might be young, but he wasn't stupid.
He groaned and rolled onto his back again. "It's not about kissing," he said to the empty room. "It's about my mother."
That was the heart of it, wasn't it? Nymeria knew something—or thought she did—about his mother. In all his ten years, whenever Jon had asked about his mother, Lord Stark had turned away, his gray eyes shadowed with an emotion Jon couldn't name.
*"She died long ago, Jon. May she find peace."* That was all his father ever said. But now, for the first time, someone else was offering answers.
How could he not grasp at that chance, even if it meant risking Wylla's good opinion? Even if it meant meeting alone with a woman whose intentions he couldn't begin to fathom?
"I just want to know who I am," Jon whispered.
He closed his eyes and imagined what his mother might have looked like. Did she have his dark curls? His solemn expression? His strange purple eyes that sometimes drew curious glances from those who noticed them?
Unbidden, his thoughts turned back to his waterbending practice. At least that was improving. The water had felt almost alive between his hands, responsive in a way fire had never been. Where firebending had always required intense concentration and willpower, the water had seemed to anticipate his desires, flowing wherever his mind directed.
Was that why he'd lost his firebending? Had water somehow doused the flame within him?
Avatar, the word came to his mind. What did that mean? Roku had refused to answer, and Korys had not given him a clear answer. Why could he hear those people? Why did he sometimes dream that he was a woman named Yangchen? Why did he know their names before they introduced themselves? What am I? The question hung in the darkness above his bed. Who am I?
Jon turned onto his side again, pulling the blanket up to his chin despite the mild night. He wasn't just Jon Snow anymore—the Bastard of Winterfell, Lord Stark's shame. He was something more, something... different. And whatever that something was, it terrified and thrilled him.
His eyelids grew heavy as exhaustion finally began to claim him. In the space between waking and sleeping, Jon thought he heard whispers—dozens of voices speaking.
As consciousness slipped away, Jon's last coherent thought was a simple prayer: Please let Nymeria know something about my mother. Please let me find some piece of who I'm supposed to be.
The Red Priestess
Moonlight silvered the waves of the Bite as Melisandre stood upon the narrow balcony of her borrowed chamber in New Castle. The Red Priestess had chosen this room specifically—it faced north, toward the heart of this strange, cold land where old powers stirred from their slumber.
Before her on the stone balustrade burned a single candle, its flame unnaturally still in the sea breeze. She wore only a thin silk robe of deepest crimson, yet showed no sign of discomfort in the cool night air. The massive ruby at her throat pulsed with a steady, heartbeat rhythm, casting eerie shadows across her alabaster features.
"*Āeksios Ōño, āzma perzyty, dohaeragon nyke*," she whispered, her voice carrying the exotic cadence of distant Asshai. "*Se ūndegon*."
The candle flame stretched upward, growing impossibly tall, then compressed to a pinpoint of brilliant blue-white light as her words intensified.
"*Bantis zōbrie issa se ossyngnoti lēdys*," she intoned, her copper eyes reflecting twin points of fire. "The night is dark and full of terrors, but the fire burns them all away. Show me the one who disturbs the balance, Lord of Light. Show me the child whose spirit burns with more than mortal flame."
The tiny flame erupted suddenly, swelling to the height of a man before collapsing back upon itself. Within its dancing core, visions formed and dissolved—a boy with haunting purple eyes, snowflakes melting upon his upturned palm, water swirling in impossible patterns at his command. The images shifted: the same boy surrounded by ethereal blue figures, their faces solemn as they whispered secrets into his ears.
Melisandre's lips parted slightly, her breath quickening as the visions unfolded. "What does this mean?"
The flame showed the boy again, this time enveloped in a column of blinding white light, his eyes glowing with power, unknown power. Around him, the elements themselves bent to his will—earth cracking, air swirling, water rising, fire blooming.
Then, abruptly, the visions changed. A shadow fell across the flame, and within it, Melisandre glimpsed something that made even her blood run cold—darkness given form, ice that screamed, blue eyes watching from beyond a wall of white. The vision was gone as quickly as it had appeared, leaving her shaken.
"What game do you play, Lord?" she asked, her voice barely audible over the distant crash of waves. "Who is this boy?"
The ruby at her throat pulsed more intensely, almost burning against her skin. The candle flame twisted into strange configurations, spelling out answers in a language only she could read.
Melisandre nodded slowly, understanding dawning in her eyes. "So it is not one power but many," she murmured. "Not one world, but realms interlaced like fingers."
She passed her hand through the flame without flinching, dispelling the visions. The candle burned normally once more, though its light seemed feeble after what it had contained.
"Tomorrow," Melisandre said, her lips curving into a smile that held neither warmth nor mercy. "Tomorrow I shall find this boy."
Jon Snow
' Jon found himself standing on a stone balcony overlooking a vast city unlike any he had ever seen. Soaring towers of white stone stretched toward the clouds, connected by delicate bridges that seemed impossibly thin. People dressed in orange and yellow robes moved through the air itself, riding currents of wind on strange wooden devices with wings.
This isn't Westeros, Jon realized. The world around him seemed at once strange and achingly familiar, as if he were remembering a place he had never visited.
A bell tolled mournfully in the distance, and the scene shifted. The beautiful city was burning now, bodies of the orange-robed people scattered across courtyards and hanging from broken bridges. Men in red armor rode creatures that looked like horses but were not—massive beasts with scales and six legs. They hurled great balls of fire from their palms, incinerating everything in their path.
The scene changed again. Now he stood at the edge of a massive walled city. Within its rings, people dressed in green silks manipulated stone and earth with gestures, raising houses and defenses. Outside the walls gathered an army bearing a flag with a red flame.
The scene shifted, and he found himself standing in a village of simple wooden structures built alongside canals of blue-white ice. People with dark skin and blue clothes manipulated water as easily as Jon might wield a sword.
Big ships appeared on the horizon, metal monstrosities belching black smoke. From their decks came torrents of fire, melting the ice and boiling the water. The villagers fought desperately, but they were outmatched.
With each shift, Jon felt himself being pulled deeper into this strange dream world. Figures in blue appeared before him. He recognised Kyoshi, Kuruk and Roku, but he wasn't sure about two others, one with a bald head, with painted blue arrows, but Jon was sure his name was Aang. The other one was a woman, almost her entire head was bald, and she had the same arrows, and despite never meeting her before. Jon knew her name. 'Yangchen.'
The kaleidoscope of visions finally settled on a single scene. Jon found himself looking from behind a wooden door.
A man stood protectively before the door, tall and proud in simple farmer's clothes. His hands were calloused but strong, his stance that of someone who knew how to fight. Facing him were four soldiers in dark green uniforms adorned with a golden insignia Jon didn't recognize.
"The boy comes with us," the lead soldier said, his voice cold and flat. "Lord Tarka will want him for training."
The farmer shook his head, one hand reaching for an old sword hanging on the wall. "My son stays here," he said firmly. "As long as I breathe, you won't take him."
Behind the farmer, a woman clutched at his sleeve. "Please, Jian," she whispered. "Don't fight them. We can't win."
"Listen to your wife," the soldier said with a cruel smile. "She understands your situation better than you do."
Jon felt his heart racing, felt small hands trembling against the wooden door. Don't fight, Father, the child thought desperately. Please don't fight them.
But the farmer—Jian—had already drawn his sword. "Run," he told his wife without turning. "Take Korys and run. I'll hold them."
Korys. The name echoed in Jon's mind. This was Korys's memory.
Everything happened too quickly after that. The soldiers didn't draw weapons. Instead, they made sharp, thrusting motions with their fists. Stone spears erupted from the ground beneath Jian, impaling him before he could swing his sword. The woman screamed. Jon had never heard such a scream before.
She turned to run, to grab her son, but the soldiers were faster. Two held her while the others laughed. What happened next made Jon's stomach turn. He wanted to look away, to wake up, but he was trapped.
One of the soldiers drew a knife across her throat almost as an afterthought. Her blood pooled on the packed earth floor as they turned toward the door where Korys hid.
"Come out, little earthbender," the leader called. "Your parents chose the hard way. Don't make the same mistake."
The door splintered as a stone projectile smashed through it. Young Korys scrambled backward, tears streaming down his face, his chest tight with terror and grief and something else—something hot and wild that seemed to consume him from within.
"There you are," the soldier said, reaching for him. "Now be a good little—"
In that moment, everything went white. He could hear a single voice; he was talking to him, it sounded familiar, but he did not care to listen.
After a while, Jon could see again, but everything was destroyed, there were strange earth shapes everywhere, and there were limbs scattered around, one head had its mouth wide open, as if it wanted to scream. '
Jon jerked awake with a strangled cry, his body drenched in cold sweat. Dawn light filtered through his window. He sat up, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes as if he could physically push away the images from his dream.
"Gods," he whispered, his voice shaking. "What was that?"
But he knew. Somehow, he had witnessed Korys's past. It was not the first time he had seen people's past before; he once remembered a dream when he had been a woman named Yangchen, other times when he had been Kyoshi, but what did all of this mean?
Jon splashed water on his face from the basin, trying to wash away the lingering images of his nightmare. His reflection stared back at him—pale, with shadows under his eyes. The strange purple irises that had always set him apart seemed more vibrant this morning, almost glowing in the early light.
Focus, he told himself. The dream changes nothing.
He filled the basin to the brim and stepped back, extending his hand as Kuruk had taught him. The familiar pull in his core responded immediately, water rising from the basin in a thin stream that coiled through the air like a serpent. Jon moved his fingers in small, precise circles, guiding the water into more complex patterns—a spiral, a figure eight, a wavering line.
"Better," he murmured, pleased with his increasing control.
Jon flicked his wrist sharply, and to his surprise, the water instantly transformed into a jagged shard of ice that hovered before him, its point needle-sharp. He hadn't consciously attempted to freeze it—the transition had occurred almost instinctively.
With a gesture, the ice melted back to water. Jon tried again, this time with deliberate intent, willing the liquid to solidify. The water froze instantly, forming not one shard but three—perfect ice daggers floating in formation.
"Seven hells," Jon whispered, both thrilled and unnerved by how easily the water responded to his will—far easier than firebending had ever been.
He attempted to create a flame in his palm for comparison, focusing on the techniques Roku had taught him—breath control, visualization, the inner heat that must be channeled outward. Nothing. Not even the faintest wisp of smoke or spark of warmth.
"What's happening to me?" Jon muttered, letting the ice daggers melt and splash back into the basin.
Troubled by this continued imbalance in his abilities, Jon decided he needed fresh air and a change of scenery. He dressed quickly in simple clothes—dark breeches, a gray tunic, and the supple leather boots Lord Stark had commissioned for him before they left Winterfell. He strapped a small eating dagger to his belt, more for comfort than protection, and looped his waterskin over his shoulder filled with water.
The castle was already stirring as Jon made his way through the corridors and out into the courtyard. Servants hurried about preparing for the day's tournament events, knights and squires clustered around the armory, and merchants set up stalls to sell refreshments to spectators.
Rather than heading toward the tourney grounds, Jon turned toward the harbor gates. White Harbor's famous market would be in full swing by now, and he'd heard tales of the exotic goods that arrived daily on ships from Essos and beyond.
The sea air hit him as soon as he passed through the gates—salty, tinged with fish and tar. Ships of all sizes crowded the harbor, their colorful sails bright against the blue morning sky. The waterfront market sprawled before him, a chaotic maze of stalls and tents where everything from Dornish peppers to Qartheen spices could be found.
Jon wandered through the market, taking in the sights and sounds. A Braavosi juggler tossed flaming batons while reciting poetry in his musical accent. A merchant from the Summer Isles displayed fabrics so bright they hurt Jon's eyes. A wrinkled old woman offering "authentic wildling charms" eyed Jon suspiciously as he passed her stall.
"Those don't work, you know," said a voice beside him, startling Jon from his observations.
He turned to see a gray-bearded sailor leaning against a stack of crates. The man nodded toward the old woman's charms. "Carved them herself in that alley behind the fishmonger's. About as magic as my cock."
Jon smiled despite himself. "I wasn't planning to buy one."
"Smart lad," the sailor said before wandering off.
Jon continued through the market until he reached a section where traders from the Free Cities displayed their wares. Here, the goods were more exotic—strange musical instruments from Lys, ornate masks from Volantis, weapons of curious design from Norvos and Qohor.
As he examined a curved blade unlike any he'd seen in Winterfell's armory, a flash of white caught his eye. Across the aisle, helping to unload crates from a cart, was a girl about his own age. Her hair was not blonde like House Lannister, but pure white, like fresh snow under moonlight. When she turned, Jon caught his breath—her eyes were purple, a shade deeper than his own.
For a moment, their gazes locked across the crowded market. Jon felt a strange sensation, as if a thread had been pulled taut between them. The girl's expression shifted from surprise to wariness, then to something harder—disdain, perhaps, or outright hostility. She turned away, saying something to the older woman beside her—her mother, Jon guessed by their similar features.
"She thinks you're judging her," came a voice at Jon's elbow. An older man with the weathered face of a longtime sailor stood there, arranging carved figurines on a nearby stall. "The Lyseni girl and her mother. They're not used to being stared at here."
"I wasn't—" Jon began, then stopped himself. "Do you know them?"
The sailor shrugged. "They came on Tormo's ship last moon. Sell silks and potions, though not the kind most respectable folk would admit to buying." He winked at Jon. "The girl's got the look of Old Valyria about her, same as you around the eyes. Rare to see that this far north."
Jon wanted to ask more, but the white-haired girl and her mother had disappeared down an alley between the stalls.
"My lord! My lord, a moment of your time!" A merchant waved frantically from a nearby stall. He was a round man with an elaborately oiled beard and rings on every finger. "You have the look of quality about you, my lord. A discerning eye!"
Jon almost looked over his shoulder, unused to being addressed as "my lord," before realizing the merchant was indeed hailing him.
"I have just the thing for a young nobleman such as yourself," the merchant continued, beckoning Jon closer. With a flourish, he produced a dagger from beneath the counter. "Behold! Genuine Valyrian steel, my lord, from before the Doom itself!"
Jon examined the blade skeptically. It was well-crafted, with a hilt wrapped in red leather and small golden studs, but the metal lacked the distinctive rippled pattern of true Valyrian steel. Still, it was a fine weapon, perfectly sized for his hand.
"It's very nice," Jon said politely, "but I'm only looking."
"For you, my lord, a special price," the merchant insisted. "I have more treasures on my ship—a sword perhaps? Red leather grip, gold pommel, magnificent!"
"Thank you, but no," Jon said firmly. "I'm just exploring the market."
The merchant's face fell, but he nodded respectfully. "As you wish, my lord. Should you change your mind, Lazaro of Lys is at your service."
Jon moved on, oddly pleased at being mistaken for a lord despite the embarrassment it caused. If Theon had been here, he'd never hear the end of it.
"Beautiful, aren't they?"
Jon turned at the sound of a woman's voice—melodious, with an accent he couldn't place. The woman was wearing all red, and for a moment, Jon was sure he could warmth coming from her presence.
Be careful, Jon, there's something wrong with her. Jon heard a voice in his head, but it was not Kuruk; it was Male, but it was neither Kuruk nor Roku.
"Yes," Jon agreed cautiously. "They are, my lady."
Her lips curved in a small smile. "I am no lady. I am merely a servant of the Lord of Light."
"And who is that?" Jon asked, curiosity overcoming his initial wariness.
"The one who brought me here. The one who gave you powers you don't yet understand."
Jon's blood ran cold. "What are you talking about?"
The priestess reached out as if to touch his face. Jon stepped back instinctively, his hand moving to the small dagger at his belt.
"There's no need for that," she said softly. "R'hllor's chosen need fear nothing from his priestess." Her ruby necklace pulsed once, like a heartbeat. "You bear a great burden, though you don't yet comprehend its weight. The flames have shown me your path, walking between worlds, between elements. I have seen it in my flames."
"Stay away from me," he said, his voice sharper than he intended. "I don't know what you think you've seen in your flames, but you're mistaken."
The Red Priestess merely smiled. "Time will reveal all truths. When you are ready to understand your purpose, you will find me—or I will find you."
Jon pushed past her without another word, his heart hammering in his chest. He moved quickly through the market, taking random turns until he was certain she wasn't following him. Only when he reached the edge of the harbor, where the stone quay met the castle road, did he pause to catch his breath.
*She knows*, he thought with rising panic. *Somehow, she knows what I can do*.
Jon glanced back toward the market, half-expecting to see a flash of red moving through the crowd, but the priestess was nowhere in sight. Still, her words echoed in his mind: *walking between worlds, between elements*.
Whatever game the gods were playing with him, it seemed the pieces were multiplying—and Jon had never felt less prepared to play.
Ned Stark
Lord Eddard Stark stood on the covered walkway overlooking New Castle's main training yard, his hands resting on the weathered stone balustrade. Beside him, Lord Wyman Manderly unfolded a parchment map of the tourney grounds, weighted against the morning breeze by a small silver trident paperweight.
"We've placed House Karstark here," Wyman said, his multiple chins quivering as he pointed to the diagram. "And the Hornwoods beside them. I thought it prudent to separate the Umbers and Boltons after that business at the Dreadfort last hunting season."
Ned nodded absently, his attention caught by movement in the yard below. Among the squires and young nobles practicing their swordplay was a boy he hadn't noticed before. Slight of build, with dark hair cut short against his neck, the boy moved with a grace that belied his apparent age—no more than ten or eleven. He was sparring with one of the Manderly guards, using a wooden practice sword that seemed too large for his frame, yet he wielded it with surprising control.
"Who is that?" Ned asked, interrupting Wyman's dissertation on seating arrangements. "The dark-haired boy with Ser Marlon."
Lord Manderly squinted, then chuckled. "Ah, that's just Darro. A village boy from near the castle. He comes to watch the training most days, and Ser Marlon took a liking to him. Allowed him to pick up a practice sword."
Ned raised an eyebrow. "You let common children train with the noble sons?"
Wyman shrugged his massive shoulders. "We have guards watching everything. Besides, here in the port, we're used to strange people every day. It's not uncommon."
Ned watched as the boy—Darro—executed a perfect feint followed by a thrust that would have been impressive from a squire twice his age. "Your father would never allow this, and you know it."
Both men laughed. The old Lord Manderly had indeed been rigid about maintaining the proper distinctions between smallfolk and nobility.
"My father was many things, but adaptable was not one of them," Wyman admitted, refolding the parchment map. "Now, about the Dornish delegation—I've placed them near the viewing platform where they'll have shade throughout the day. Prince Oberyn mentioned his paramour's delicate complexion..."
"Speaking of the Red Viper," Ned muttered, spotting the distinctive copper-skinned figure emerging from a side corridor.
Prince Oberyn Martell strolled toward them, one arm wrapped around his paramour's waist. Ellaria Sand's dark hair was arranged in an elaborate southern style that seemed out of place among the simpler Northern fashions, but her beauty was undeniable. Oberyn whispered something in her ear that made her laugh, then pressed his lips to hers in a kiss that would have been considered scandalously intimate in most Northern courts.
"Lord Stark," Oberyn called out, finally noticing them. "And Lord Manderly. Is everything prepared for today's festivities?"
"It will be today," Ned replied evenly, meeting the Dornishman's gaze without flinching.
"Will you be able to be there for once, Lord Martell?"
Oberyn's easy smile faltered, his dark eyes narrowing dangerously. "You Northerners and your schedules," he said after a moment, his voice deceptively light. "Always so... rigid."
The tension between them crackled like winter ice underfoot. Ten years had passed since the Rebellion, since Ned had found his sister dying in the Tower of Joy, defended by the Kingsguard. Ten years since Elia Martell and her children had been murdered on Tywin Lannister's orders. Time enough for wounds to scab over, perhaps, but never truly heal.
Lord Manderly cleared his throat. "The kitchens have prepared a special Dornish dish for the midday meal," he offered, clearly attempting to defuse the situation. "A pepper stew, I believe."
"How thoughtful," Ellaria said, placing a restraining hand on Oberyn's arm. "We look forward to it, don't we, my love?"
Oberyn's smile returned, though his eyes remained cold. "Indeed. Until the meal, then." With a nod that fell just short of respectful, he led Ellaria away.
"That man has venom in his veins, sure as any snake," Ned muttered once they were out of earshot.
Wyman sighed. "He has reason for his bitterness, Ned."
"We all have our reasons," Ned replied, his thoughts turning briefly to promises made in a room that smelled of blood and roses. "It doesn't excuse poor manners."
The sound of laughter drew their attention to the courtyard entrance, where Robb and Theon had just arrived. Both boys carried hunting bows and had the flushed, satisfied look of a successful morning's sport.
"Father!" Robb called, spotting Ned on the walkway. "We got two rabbits and a pheasant. Theon made a shot at seventy paces—right through the eye!"
Ned smiled, his mood lightening at his son's enthusiasm. "Well done," he called back. "Clean yourselves up before the midday meal."
"Have you seen Jon?" Ned asked as the boys bounded up the steps to join them. "He wasn't in his chamber this morning."
Robb shook his head. "Not since yesterday. I knocked on his door before we left, but he didn't answer."
A small furrow appeared between Ned's brows. Jon had always been the more solitary of them, but lately he'd seemed particularly withdrawn. "If you see him, tell him I'd like a word before the tournament begins."
"Of course, Father," Robb replied, exchanging a quick glance with Theon that made Ned suspect they knew more than they were saying.
As the two boys hurried off to prepare for the meal, the castle bells began tolling the midday hour. Lord Manderly patted his considerable stomach. "Shall we, Ned? I find the matters of state go down easier with a side of lamprey pie."
The Great Hall was already filling with guests when they arrived. The high table stretched across the raised dais at the far end, while longer trestle tables accommodated the various Northern houses and visitors. The walls were hung with the merman banners of House Manderly alongside the direwolf of Stark, with smaller house sigils interspersed throughout.
Ned had just taken his seat when he spotted Jon slipping in through a side entrance. The boy looked windblown, his dark curls tousled as if he'd been running.
"Where have you been?" Ned called out, his voice carrying across the hall with more force than he'd intended.
Jon froze, his eyes widening. "In the market, looking at interesting things from Essos," he replied, approaching the high table with obvious hesitation.
Ned studied his face, looking for signs of trouble, but saw only the usual seriousness in those odd purple eyes. "Alright," he said finally, his tone softening. "I must say—they do have interesting things to sell. Now let's eat."
Jon nodded, visibly relieved, and took his seat at one of the lower tables where Robb and Theon had saved him a place. Servants began bringing out the first course—a seafood soup fragrant with saffron and garlic.
"The boy has your solitary nature," Wyman observed quietly. "Though perhaps not your coloring."
Ned shot him a warning look, but Wyman merely smiled and raised his goblet in a silent toast.
Across the hall, Wylla Manderly caught Jon's eye and waved enthusiastically, her green hair making her easy to spot among the other diners. Jon's response was immediate—a deepening flush that spread from his neck to his cheeks, and a small, awkward wave in return.
Lord Manderly chuckled beside Ned. "Ah, to be young again," he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Your son seems to have made quite an impression on my granddaughter."
"Jon is a good lad," Ned replied carefully. "Though perhaps too young for such matters."
"Nonsense!" Wyman declared, helping himself to another serving of soup. "First loves are the sweetest. No real harm can come of it at their age." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Though I'd wager a golden dragon that young Jon will be stammering like a fool by the time the tourney ends, if my Wylla has anything to say about it."
Despite his concerns, Ned found himself smiling. Jon had few enough joys in his life—burdened as he was with the weight of his birth. If the Manderly girl brought him some happiness, who was Ned to interfere?
"Just so long as he remembers his place," Ned said, but he knew Jon and Wylla were only ten, so there was nothing to worry about, at least for now.
"Places change, Ned," Wyman replied, suddenly serious. "Boys become men. Bastards become legends. The North remembers... but it also adapts."
Ned had no response to that. Instead, he watched as Jon started talking with Lady Wylla, the girl giggled at something he had said.
So like his mother, Ned thought, the familiar pang of grief and guilt washing over him.
Jon Snow
Jon barely tasted the food on his plate. The seafood soup that the other boys were praising so highly might as well have been seawater for all he noticed. His gaze kept drifting to the Dornish table where Nymeria Sand sat with her sisters and Prince Oberyn, her dark eyes occasionally meeting his across the crowded hall.
Every time their eyes connected, Jon felt a jolt of nervous anticipation. What did she know? What would she tell him?
When the servants began clearing away the soup bowls to make way for the main course, Jon rose from his seat.
"Where are you going?" Robb asked, looking up from his animated discussion with the Karstark heir. "They're bringing out the lamprey pie. Lord Manderly says it's the best in the Seven Kingdoms."
"I have work to do," Jon replied vaguely, already backing away from the table. "Save me some if it's as good as they say."
"Work?" Theon scoffed. "What work could you possibly have during a tourney, Snow? Unless you've taken up as a stablehand."
Jon ignored him, unwilling to waste precious time trading barbs with the Greyjoy heir. Nymeria had already slipped out through a side door, and he needed to follow before he lost his nerve.
"I'll be back before the archery competition," Jon promised Robb, then turned and hurried from the hall.
He'd nearly reached the corridor leading to the training yard when he heard quick footsteps behind him.
"Where are you going?" Wylla said, slightly breathless as she caught up to him. Her green hair was braided in an elaborate style today, with small silver bells woven through the plaits that jingled softly when she moved. "Where have you been, my lord?" The last words were delivered with a teasing smile.
"I was in the market at the port," Jon answered.
"It is interesting there. I go sometimes myself." She reached for his hand, her fingers warm against his skin. "But now, we're going to find secret passages—Jon and Wylla," she added with a conspiratorial grin that made his stomach flip.
Jon smiled despite himself but gently withdrew his hand. "I can't. I have to finish something."
Wylla's expression fell slightly. "Can I help?"
"No." Jon winced at how abrupt that sounded. "I mean, it's something I need to do alone."
"Is it really that important? Can you tell me?" Her sea-green eyes were wide with curiosity and something else Jon couldn't quite name—concern, perhaps, or hurt at being excluded.
"I'm so sorry, but I can't," Jon said, feeling torn between his promise to meet Nymeria and his genuine desire to spend time with Wylla.
Her shoulders slumped slightly. "Well... okay. Sorry to bother you."
"Of course not," Jon said quickly, reaching out to touch her arm reassuringly. "We can go later. I'll find you, and we'll explore more passages. I promise."
Wylla brightened at that. "Alright. Of course." She studied his face for a moment longer. "Jon, is everything all right? You seem... different today."
"I'm fine," Jon lied, forcing what he hoped was a convincing smile. "Just thinking about some things."
"You do that a lot," she observed with a small laugh. "Think, I mean."
"Someone has to," Jon replied, relieved when she chuckled at his weak jest.
"Don't be too long with your mysterious errand," Wylla called as she turned to leave. "The tourney starts soon, and Grandfather has arranged excellent seats. I promised I will save one for you."
Jon watched her go, feeling like the worst sort of traitor. But this was about his mother—about his very identity. Surely Wylla would understand if she knew.
The training yard was quieter than usual, with most of the castle's inhabitants either at the midday meal or preparing for the tournament. Jon found Nymeria waiting by the archery butts, idly examining a practice bow. She wore a flowing gown of amber silk that left her arms bare, revealing well-defined muscles that spoke of regular training with weapons. A narrow bronze circlet held back her dark hair.
"I'm here, my lady," Jon announced himself, suddenly feeling awkward in his simple Northern attire.
Nymeria turned, setting down the bow with deliberate care. "My name is Nymeria Sand," she corrected, eyes glinting with amusement. "Jon Sand, son of Eddard Stark."
Jon's hands clenched at his sides. "Why do you call me Sand?" he asked directly. "I was born in the North, after the Rebellion. My name is Snow."
"Are you so certain of where you were born?" Nymeria countered, circling him slowly. "Or when?"
Jon stood his ground, refusing to turn as she moved behind him. "Lord Stark would not lie about that."
"Wouldn't he? Men lie for many reasons, Jon. Love. Honor. Guilt." She completed her circle, facing him again. "Tell me, what do you know of Ser Arthur Dayne?"
The abrupt change of subject caught Jon off guard. "The Sword of the Morning? Everyone knows of him. He was the greatest knight of his generation. My father killed him at the Tower of Joy, toward the end of the Rebellion."
"Yes," Nymeria agreed, her expression unreadable. "My father says it was the only time the honorable Eddard Stark ever boasted of killing a man—and that he looked ashamed even as he did so." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "Do you know Arthur had a sister?"
Jon searched his memory of Maester Luwin's lessons. "Ashara Dayne," he said finally. "She was a lady-in-waiting to Princess Elia."
"Very good." Nymeria's smile widened. "And what do you know of Lady Ashara?"
"Not much," Jon admitted. "She... died, I think. During or after the Rebellion."
"She threw herself from the Palestone Sword," Nymeria said quietly. "The tallest tower of Starfall. Some say it was from grief over her brother's death. Others claim it was for a broken heart, or for the loss of her child."
Jon frowned, not understanding why Nymeria was telling him this sad history. "What does this have to do with why you call me Sand?"
Nymeria's dark eyes fixed on his face, studying him with such intensity that Jon had to resist the urge to step back. "Lady Ashara was known throughout the Seven Kingdoms for her beauty," she said. "Particularly for her eyes. They were a rare shade of purple—violet, some called them. Much like yours."
Jon's breath caught in his throat. Purple eyes. Like his.
"You think Ashara Dayne was my mother," he whispered, the words hardly more than breath.
"It is known," Nymeria replied simply. "At least, it is a story told in hushed voices. The honorable Ned Stark and the beautiful Ashara Dayne met at the Tourney of Harrenhal, where they danced under the stars. When he returned to Dorne at the war's end to return her brother's famous sword, Dawn, he brought with him an infant with purple eyes."
Jon's mind raced, trying to fit this new information into what little he knew of his own origins. His father—Lord Stark—had never spoken of his mother, no matter how often Jon had asked. Always, the subject was deflected or met with silent pain.
But Ashara Dayne... a highborn lady from House Dayne, which would explain his purple eyes that matched no one else's at Winterfell. It made a kind of sense.
"If this is true," Jon said slowly, "why would Lord Stark never tell me? Why keep it a secret?"
Nymeria shrugged, the gesture elegant despite its casualness. "Perhaps out of respect for Lady Ashara's family. Perhaps because the truth is more complicated than a youthful indiscretion at a tourney." She gave him a measured look. "Or perhaps he was really hurt, and maybe what Lady Ashara did was not something he expected to happen."
Before Jon could think more about this, he heard Robb's voice calling from across the yard.
"Jon! There you are!" His half-brother jogged toward them, followed closely by Theon. Both were dressed in their finest clothes for the tournament. "What are you doing out here? The tourney's starting—the Master of Games already made the opening announcements!"
"And your girlfriend Wylla is saving you a seat," Theon added with a smirk. "Fighting off everyone who tries to sit there, including a rather persistent Hornwood cousin."
Jon looked from them back to Nymeria, torn between staying to ask the hundred questions now burning in his mind and fulfilling his promise to watch the tourney with Wylla.
Nymeria solved his dilemma with a graceful nod. "If you want, we can talk later," she said, her tone making it clear that the choice was his. "I'll be at the evening feast."
Jon sighed deeply, feeling the weight of everything she had revealed pressing down on him. Ashara Dayne. His mother? The possibility seemed both wondrous and frightening.
And if it was true... would his father—Lord Stark—finally confirm it if Jon confronted him directly? Is Ashara Dayne my mother? The question formed itself in his mind.
"I have to go," Jon told Nymeria, his voice steadier than he felt. "But I would like to continue our conversation."
"Of course, Jon Sand," she replied with a slight emphasis on the name that now made a terrible kind of sense. "We Dornish believe everyone deserves to know where they come from."
As Jon followed Robb and Theon toward the tourney grounds, his thoughts whirled like autumn leaves caught in a storm. The name Ashara Dayne echoed in his mind, alongside visions of a beautiful woman with eyes the same unusual shade as his own.
Could it be true? Jon wondered, barely hearing Robb's excited chatter about the upcoming competitions. And if it is, what else might be true that I've never been told?
One thing was certain: as soon as he could find a private moment with Lord Stark, Jon would ask for the truth about Ashara Dayne. No more evasions. No more secrets. It was time he knew who his mother was—and who, by extension, he truly was.
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