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The following 7 chapters are already available to Patrons.
Chapter 10 (A Drop of Water), Chapter 11 (What is An Avatar), Chapter 12 (Jon Snow or Jon Sand), Chapter 13 (The Voice That Calls From Deep), Chapter 14 (A Mother's Touch), Chapter 15 (The Three-Eyed Raven's Warning), and Chapter 16 (Great Winter is Coming) are already available for Patrons.
The Spirit World shimmered around Aang like a dream woven from threads of mist and memory. He stood on a cliff's edge, overlooking a vast, swirling sea of clouds that pulsed with faint hues of violet and gold. The air here was alive, humming with an energy that tugged at his spirit, but it wasn't the same as the winds he'd once danced with on Appa's back. No, this was different—foreign, heavy, as if the very essence of this place was trying to tell him something he couldn't quite hear.
Aang's bare feet pressed into the cool, mossy stone beneath him, grounding him as his mind drifted. Ten years, he thought, his heart tightening. Ten years since he'd last seen Katara's warm smile, heard Tenzin's laughter, or felt Bumi's rough hug. Ten years since Kya had teased him about his cooking, her waterbending splashing playfully at his ankles. He could still see them in his mind's eye, gathered around him in Republic City as his breath had grown shallow, his body fading. Katara had held his hand, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes. "We'll be fine, Aang," she'd said, her last words to him ringing like a promise. But are they? The question gnawed at him, a persistent ache he couldn't shake. Were they safe? Had the world he'd fought so hard to balance held together without him? Or had something gone wrong—something he couldn't fix from here?
He closed his eyes, reaching out with his spirit, searching for a thread, a whisper, anything that might connect him back to them. He'd always believed the Spirit World bridged all things—time, space, life, death—but this place felt severed, like a rope cut clean through. They're in a different world, he thought; he had known this for many years now, yet he still found it hard to believe. Not just a distant corner of their own, as Roku kept insisting, but an entirely separate realm. Westeros, they called it. A land of iron and blood, where bending didn't exist, where the elements slept silent beneath the earth. He'd watched Jon Snow grow, felt the Avatar spirit take root in the boy, but it didn't make sense.
Aang opened his eyes, exhaling a soft gust that rippled the clouds below. "There's got to be a way," he muttered, twirling his staff absently in his hands. The familiar weight of it was a comfort, even if it was just a memory made solid in this strange place. "If I could just—y'know, zip back for a second, see Katara, make sure Tenzin's still practicing his forms...and check if he has any children." His voice trailed off, a wistful grin tugging at his lips. He could almost hear Katara scolding him—"Aang, stop daydreaming and focus!"—and the thought made him chuckle, though it quickly faded into a sigh.
A sudden shift in the air snapped him out of his reverie. The clouds churned faster, parting like curtains, and a figure emerged from the mist. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a wild mane of dark hair tied back with a leather cord, the man strode forward with the confidence of someone who'd walked this realm far longer than Aang had. His wore grey robes, unlike the brown robes that the Air Nomads of today wore. Aang's eyes widened. Korys. He knew the name, though they'd never spoken. The Second Avatar—an Air Nomad from an age so ancient that even Yangchen never saw his statue. For six years, Aang had sensed him lurking at the edges of their gatherings, silent and brooding, but now here he was, stepping right up like they were old pals.
"Well, hey there!" Aang said, flashing a bright smile as he leaned on his staff. "Korys, right? I was wondering when you'd pop by. You've been, uh, pretty quiet lately."
Lately, more like never, no one here remembers when he said his last words, Aang thought, but didn't say the words.
Korys didn't return the smile. His sharp gray eyes fixed on Aang, cutting through the levity like a blade through silk. "Ten years, Aang," he said, his voice low and rough, like waves grinding against a rocky shore. "Ten years we've been stuck in this nowhere place, watching these people stumble through their wars and petty squabbles. Why aren't we doing anything about it?"
Aang blinked, tilting his head. "Doing anything? What do you mean? We're guiding Jon, aren't we? Helping him figure out this Avatar stuff in a world that's, y'know, not exactly built for it."
Korys snorted, crossing his arms. "Guiding him? We're babysitting a boy who doesn't even know why he's bending air in a land that's never heard of it. This isn't our world, Aang. You said it yourself when we first saw this place—ten years ago, standing right here, watching that girl gave her baby away to Lord Eddard Stark. It's not just some isolated patch of our world. It's different. No bending, no spirits, no balance to keep. These people don't need an Avatar. They're all just... normal."
Aang frowned, twirling his staff a little faster as he processed that. "Normal's not a bad thing," he said, his tone light but thoughtful. "They've got their own way of doing things here. And Jon—he's special. He's got the spirit in him for a reason. Yangchen says there's always a purpose, even if we don't see it yet."
"Yangchen," Korys spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "She'd tell you there's a reason the sky's blue and the sea's wet. Everything's got a 'reason' in this world—wars, betrayals, children dying in their mothers' arms. Doesn't mean we have to accept it. Doesn't mean we belong here."
Aang's grip tightened on his staff, his easy grin fading. He didn't like where this was going. Korys's words stirred something restless in him, a flicker of doubt he'd been pushing down for years. What if he's right? he thought. What if we're wasting time here while my family needs me back home? But he shook his head, forcing the thought away. Katara's words repeated in his head like a bell. "I don't know," he said slowly. "I've seen too much to think anything's random. If we're here, it's because we're supposed to be. Jon's learning, growing—he got fire, well he is trying, and Kuruk's starting him on water. That's not nothing."
Korys stepped closer, his presence looming like a storm cloud. "And what about your world, Aang? What about the one you left behind? The one we left behind, the one we all died for, some of us more than others. You think it's all sunshine and flying bison now that you're gone? What if you'd never broken out of that iceberg? What if you'd never faced Ozai? The Fire Nation would've burned everything—your so called Air Nomads, your family, all of it. You didn't accept that fate. You fought it. So why are we sitting here, playing wise spirits for a boy who doesn't even know who we are?"
Aang's breath caught, his staff freezing mid-twirl.
"Tenzin's the last Airbender now." Aang's chest tightened, hope flickering like a candle in the wind. What if he's right? he thought. What if there was a way back—he wanted to see his old world, he wanted to know if his son was doing well, did he have any children?
"Think about it, Aang."
Korys started walking toward the mist, his grey robes fading into the haze like ink bleeding into water. Aang's mouth opened, a dozen questions piling up—Wait, how do we do it? What's your plan?—but the words stuck, thick and heavy, like mochi in his throat.
He reached out a hand, his staff wobbling in the other, but before he could choke out a sound, Korys was gone, swallowed by the fog. Aang stood alone, the silence pressing in. He's got a point, he thought, twirling his staff absently. If I'd stayed in that iceberg, the Fire Nation would've won. I didn't accept that—so why this? His heart ached for his family, ten years lost.
But he remembered Yangchen's words; she had told him there was a reason why they were here, and maybe she was right.
---
Jon Snow rode alongside Robb and Theon, five Stark soldiers trailing behind. The lake glimmered ahead, a silver mirror nestled in the forest, and Robb's laughter rang out, bright and boyish. "You should've seen Arya," he said, grinning at Theon. "She was begging to come—practically had her boots on and everything. Then Mother spotted her, grabbed her arm, and hauled her back inside like a sack of oats. Arya was screaming, 'It's not fair!' loud enough to wake the dead."
Theon smirked, adjusting his bow across his saddle. "She'd have outshot you, Stark. Probably me too, with that temper."
Robb chuckled, nudging his horse forward. "Aye, maybe. But now it's just us—and Jon's going to regret this little fishing trip of yours."
Jon's lips twitched, but he stayed quiet, his thoughts drifting. Theon's idea, he mused, eyeing the Ironborn's smug posture. He just wants to show off. Everyone knew Theon was the best archer—his arrows flew like they had eyes of their own. Jon's grip tightened on his reins. Another chance for him to lord it over us, he thought, half-amused, half-dreading the inevitable boasting.
The horses slowed as they reached the lake's edge, the water lapping gently against a pebbled shore fringed with tall reeds. The late morning sun cast golden streaks across the surface, and a faint ripple betrayed the fish darting below. Robb swung down from his saddle, grinning as he scanned the spot. "This'll do," he said, clapping his hands. "Plenty of targets here." He turned to the five Stark soldiers, trailing them, their armor glinting dully. "Stay back a bit, lads—give us room to breathe. No need for an audience."
"Aye, my lord," Ser Rodrik replied, nodding as he and the others reined their horses to a halt some twenty paces off, near a cluster of pines. The soldiers dismounted, their murmurs fading into the rustle of leaves.
Theon leapt down next, bow already in hand, his smirk sharp as a blade. "Right, here's how it works," he said, planting his feet like he owned the damn lake. "We go one at a time—bows only, no cheating. First to ten fish wins, and the losers can carry my haul back to Winterfell." He shot Jon a pointed look. "Should be easy for me."
Jon rolled his eyes, sliding off his horse with less grace. He's insufferable, he thought, adjusting his bowstring. And he'll prove it in five minutes. Robb chuckled, nocking an arrow, clearly unbothered by Theon's swagger.
The little race began. Theon went first, drawing his bow with a flourish. His arrow sliced through the air and speared a fish clean through, the splash barely settling before he loosed another.
Nine arrows later, he'd nabbed seven, each shot swift and smug. "Seven!" he crowed, spinning to face them. "That's more than you'll manage combined, I reckon. Who's the Ironborn prince of archery now?"
Robb snorted, stepping up. "Calm yourself, Greyjoy. Watch this." His first arrow missed, skimming the water, but the next three hit true—three fish flopping on the shore, their scales glinting wetly. "Not bad, eh?" he said, grinning at Jon. "Your turn, brother."
Jon sighed, stepping forward. He nocked an arrow, aimed at a flicker in the water, and let fly. It grazed a slow, lumbering fish—the thing barely moved—and he hauled it in, grimacing. "One," he muttered, feeling Theon's eyes on him like a hawk's.
Theon laughed, loud and grating. "One? And a cripple at that! Gods, Snow, you shoot like a blind septa. Should I fetch Arya to show you how it's done?"
Jon's fist clenched, the urge to smash Theon's smug face pulsing hot in his veins. Just one good punch, he thought, jaw tight. Before he could move, a voice rumbled in his head—deep, familiar, like waves on a rocky coast. "You're embarrassing yourself, Jon Snow." Kuruk. Jon groaned aloud, the sound slipping out as he nocked another arrow.
"What's that, Snow? Praying to the Old Gods for aim?" Theon taunted, leaning against a tree.
Jon ignored him, drew back, and released. The arrow sailed wide, plunking uselessly into the lake. Robb stifled a laugh, and Theon didn't bother—his cackle rang out, sharp as a whip. "They're laughing at you," Kuruk's voice said, dry with amusement. "Your brother and that loudmouth both."
"Shut it," Jon muttered under his breath, hoping no one heard. His cheeks burned. I'm not that bad, he thought, but the evidence said otherwise. Robb clapped him on the shoulder, still chuckling.
"Don't mind Theon," Robb said. "He's just mad you're not clapping for his little show."
Theon grinned, undeterred. "Keep dreaming, Stark. Snow's the one who needs dreams—maybe he'll hit something in them."
Jon's turn came again. He stepped up, arrow ready, the lake shimmering mockingly before him. One more chance, he thought, steadying his breath. Kuruk's voice cut in, smooth and firm. "I'll take the reins—just for a second. Want a taste of your true strength, Jon Snow?"
Jon's heart skipped. "Wait—what?" he whispered, but it was too late. His body tingled, a rush of lightness flooding him, and his hands moved on their own. The arrow flew—straight, impossibly fast—and the lake erupted. Ten fish leapt skyward, skewered in a perfect line, the water beneath them freezing solid in a blink. Jon staggered, blinking, as the haul thudded to the shore.
Robb's jaw dropped. "Seven hells, Jon!"
Theon's smirk vanished, his eyes narrowing. "What... was that?"
Jon forced a shaky grin. "Luck," he said, but inside, Kuruk's laughter echoed. "Told you," the Avatar murmured. Jon's pulse raced—half awe, half dread.
"Jon! How in the seven hells did you do that?" he demanded, dropping his bow to gesture wildly at the frozen patch. "Did you—did you freeze the water? Ten fish with one arrow? Are you some kind of sorcerer now?"
Jon blinked, still dazed, the world snapping back into focus. His heart thudded against his ribs, and he forced a shaky laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh... guess the Old Gods are on my side today," he said, his voice unsteady but light. Kuruk, what did you do? he thought, half-expecting an answer, but the Avatar's presence had faded, leaving only a faint echo of amusement in his mind.
Robb grinned, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "Old Gods or no, that was bloody brilliant! Ten fish! You've outdone us both, brother." His pride was genuine, warm, and it sent a pang through Jon—half joy, half guilt. He's happy for me, he thought.
Theon, though, wasn't smiling. He stood a few paces away, his bow still in hand, his grey eyes narrowed as he stared at the frozen water. "That wasn't normal," he said, his tone sharp, cutting through Robb's laughter like a blade. "Fish don't just jump like that, and water doesn't freeze in the middle of summer. What's going on, Snow?"
Jon's stomach twisted. He saw too much, he thought, meeting Theon's gaze. There was no warmth there, only suspicion, and it made Jon's skin crawl. He opened his mouth to deflect, but Robb cut in, waving a hand dismissively.
"Oh, come off it, Theon. Jon's got a lucky shot, and you're sour because he's beaten your tally. Let's not ruin it with your brooding." Robb's tone was teasing.
Theon's lips thinned, but he didn't push. Instead, he turned his glare to the lake, muttering something under his breath—probably about bastards and their tricks, Jon figured.
Robb sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Anyway, I'm bored of this. Let's head back—see if Arya's managed to sneak into the kitchens again." He raised his voice, shouting into the trees. "Ser Rodrik! We're done here!"
The forest rustled, and five Stark soldiers emerged, leading eight horses by the reins. Their armor clinked softly, the direwolf sigil glinting on their tunics. Ser Rodrik Cassel stepped forward, his grizzled face creased with concern. "Something wrong, my lord?" he asked, his eyes flicking between the three boys.
Robb shook his head, grinning. "Just tired of losing to Jon's Old Gods, that's all. We're ready to go."
Jon forced a smile, but his mind was racing. Kuruk took over, he thought, glancing at the frozen patch on the lake. He moved me like a puppet. It wasn't the first time an Avatar had guided him—Kyoshi had shown him air, Roku fire—but this felt... invasive, like he'd lost himself for a moment. What if they take control of me again? The thought chilled him more than the ice at his feet.
Theon said nothing, but his silence was louder than words. He mounted his horse, his bow slung across his back, and shot Jon one last wary look before turning away. He'll watch me now, Jon realized, unease settling in his gut. He'll look for anything strange.
Robb swung onto his horse, oblivious to the tension, and gestured for Jon to follow. "Come on, hero of the lake. Let's see if Cook's got any of that venison pie left—you've earned it."
Jon nodded, hauling himself onto his own mount. The soldiers gathered all the fish they had captured—and tied them to a saddlebag. As they rode back toward White Harbor, the lake shrinking behind them, Jon's thoughts churned. Ten fish. Frozen water. Kuruk. He'd felt powerful in that moment, stronger than he'd ever been with a bow, but it wasn't his strength. It was borrowed, unearned, and it left him hollow.
.
.
The hoofbeats of the horses thudded against the packed dirt of the Kingsroad, a steady rhythm that should have grounded Jon Snow as they rode back. Jon was deep in thought, thinking back on what Kuruk did to him. He wasn't aware that his helpers could just do that. Kyoshi had not mentioned it, and neither did Roku.
Theon's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp as a drawn blade. "You're going to answer for that, Snow," he said, twisting in his saddle to fix Jon with a hard stare. "When we get to the castle, I'm telling Lord Stark everything. Every bloody detail."
Jon's stomach lurched, but before he could respond, Robb groaned, rolling his eyes. "Nothing happened, Theon. You're making a fool of yourself." He shot Theon a warning look, his tone firming. "You do remember Jon's my brother, don't you? Watch your tongue."
Jon stayed silent, his gaze dropping to the horse's mane. Brother, he thought, the word echoing in Robb's voice. It warmed him, even as Theon's suspicion prickled at his skin. He didn't want trouble—not with Theon, not with anyone—but that power... it wasn't something he could explain. Not yet.
White Harbor's white walls loomed into view. The party slowed as they passed through the gates, the clatter of hooves on stone mingling with the shouts of guards. Two Stark soldiers—big, burly men with direwolf cloaks—fell into step beside them as they dismounted, their boots crunching on the gravel. Jon handed his reins to one of them, his mind still buzzing, when he caught sight of Lord Ned Stark in the corridor ahead.
Ned stood tall and solemn, his dark hair streaked with grey, his cloak clasped with the direwolf sigil. Beside him was a stranger—a refined-looking man in a velvet doublet, his dark hair neatly combed, his hands clasped behind his back. They were deep in conversation, their voices low, but Jon caught the word "tourney" before Robb's shout broke through.
"Father!" Robb called, striding forward with a laugh. "Jon Snow's officially the best archer in the North now. You should've seen it!"
Ned turned, his stern face softening into a rare smile as he looked at Jon. "Is that so?" he said, his voice warm with amusement. "Last time we tried in the yard, he couldn't hit the circle without knocking over half the straw targets."
Jon felt heat creep up his neck, but the smile—that smile—made his chest ache in a good way. Lord Stark didn't smile often, not even at Robb, and Jon tucked the moment away like a treasure. Robb grinned wider, clapping Jon on the back, but Theon stepped forward, his expression dark.
"No, my lord," Theon said, his voice tight. "It wasn't just archery. It was a magic lake."
Ned raised an eyebrow, a low chuckle rumbling from his throat. "A magic lake, you say?"
Robb cut in, waving a hand. "Jon beat him, Father. That's all. Now he's mad about it."
"No!" Theon snapped, his eyes flashing as he turned to Ned. "I promise, my lord, it's not that. The lake froze—right there in front of us, in the middle of summer. Ten fish jumped out, and Jon hit them all with one arrow. In a straight line! Dark magic, it had to be."
Jon stood rooted to the spot, his heart pounding. He's telling him everything, he thought, panic flickering in his gut. But father just laughed again—a deep, rolling sound that echoed off the stone walls—and shook his head.
"We're eating in an hour," he said, his tone light but final. "Rest up, boys, and don't be late for dinner. Is rude to be late for the feast in someone else's castle." He paused, his grey eyes settling on Jon. "If you really hit ten fish with one arrow, then you got very lucky, Jon. Well done." He smiled again—small, fleeting, but real—before turning back to the dark-haired man and walking off down the corridor.
Robb smirked at Theon, smugness radiating from him like heat from a fire. "Told you," he muttered, elbowing Jon playfully before heading toward the keep. Theon glared after him, then at Jon, his silence sharper than any words. Jon avoided his gaze, his thoughts spinning as the soldiers dispersed.
Jon looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers, the memory of Kuruk's power tingling in them still.
His mind drifted back to the lake. Ten fish. Frozen water. Kuruk's voice had been so clear: "Just a taste, Jon Snow." If that was just a taste, what could the whole feast be? Jon's breath hitched as he imagined it—bending the elements like the heroes in Old Nan's stories, wielding power no one in Westeros could dream of. Maybe then he'd be more than a bastard. Maybe then Lady Stark wouldn't look at him like a stain on her husband's honor. Maybe then Lord Stark would see him—really see him—and smile like that again.
He started walking, his boots scuffing the stone floor, the corridor dim and cool around him. What am I becoming? he wondered. The power had felt real—wild, alive, like a wolf howling in his blood. But it scared him too. Theon's suspicion wasn't wrong to sting; if anyone found out, if they knew... what would they call him? A sorcerer? A monster? He didn't want that. He just wanted... something.
Ahead, the sound of Robb's laughter drifted back, mingling with the clatter of servants preparing the hall. Jon's hand brushed the hilt of his sword, a habit, and he straightened. One day, he thought, the resolve settling in his bones.
One day, I'll prove it—to Father, to everyone. I'm more than they think. Kuruk's power was a mystery, a gift, a burden—but it was his. And maybe, just maybe, he would prove to everyone that he was more than a bastard.
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