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The following 7 chapters are already available to Patrons.
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), Chapter 16 (Great Winter is Coming), and Chapter 17 (The First Drop) are already available for Patrons.
Avatar Kyoshi towered over Kuruk, her painted face intensifying her glare. Her massive frame seemed even larger as she leaned forward, fans clenched at her sides.
"What were you thinking?" she demanded, her voice cutting through the ethereal silence. "Taking control of the boy's body without warning, without permission—from any of us!"
Kuruk crossed his arms, his Water Tribe hunting clothes rustling as he shifted his weight. The casual smirk never left his face. "It was hardly a possession. More like... guidance with emphasis."
"Guidance?" Kyoshi's voice dropped dangerously. "You froze a lake in the middle of summer and skewered ten fish with a single arrow. In front of witnesses!"
"And it was magnificent," Kuruk replied. "The boy was embarrassing himself. You should have felt his excitement afterward—he was thrilled!"
"He was terrified," Aang interjected, his normally peaceful face creased with concern. "I felt it. One moment he was in control, the next—nothing. Do you have any idea how disorienting that is?"
Roku stepped forward, his long beard and Fire Nation robes giving him a regal air even in disagreement. "Your intention wasn't wrong, Kuruk. The boy needs to experience the power of bending to fully embrace it. But your methods..." He shook his head. "Taking control without warning risks fracturing his trust in us all."
"Oh please," Kuruk rolled his eyes. "You're all acting like I dropped him in the middle of an Agni Kai. It was a fishing competition! I helped him win!"
Yangchen moved closer. "That Greyjoy boy saw something, Kuruk. He witnessed water freeze instantly on a summer day. These people have no concept of bending—they will not see it as a gift."
"They'll see it as dark sorcery," Aang added, his gray eyes troubled. "From what I've observed of this world, they burn people for far less."
Kuruk waved a dismissive hand. "No one's going to believe Theon Greyjoy. He's a hostage child with a chip on his shoulder. Ned Stark already dismissed him."
"This time," Kyoshi said coldly. "But plant enough seeds of doubt, and eventually, something grows."
"You're just upset because I acted while the rest of you debate endlessly," Kuruk countered. "The boy has potential—exceptional potential—but he needs to be pushed."
Kyoshi's eyes narrowed. "Is that what this was about? Or did you just hate being second?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Kuruk's casual demeanor faltered.
"You know exactly what it means. Jon connected with Roku's element first, then mine. You couldn't stand that water—your element—might come third or fourth in his development."
Kuruk's face reddened. "That's—"
"The truth," Kyoshi finished for him. "You've always been impulsive, Kuruk. In your life, during your time as Avatar, and now in death. But this isn't about you. It's about Jon."
Kuruk threw up his hands. "Fine! You want to coddle the boy, go ahead. But when the time comes that he needs real power—not philosophical air stances or candle-lighting exercises—he'll be grateful for what I showed him."
"There will not be another incident like this," Kyoshi stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Taking over the body of the current Avatar is dangerous. It fractures their connection to their own spirit, creates confusion in their energy pathways, and can permanently damage their ability to enter the Avatar State later. Do you understand?"
For the first time, Kuruk appeared chastened. "I... wasn't aware of that."
"Of course you weren't," Yangchen said softly. "You never completed your own training."
The barb landed, and Kuruk's shoulders slumped slightly.
Aang approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We're all trying to help Jon in our own way. But we need to be united in our approach. This world... it's not like ours. The dangers are different. The politics are more lethal than any bending art."
"The boy has two great secrets," Roku added. "His Targaryen blood and his Avatar spirit. Either one could get him killed if discovered too soon."
Kuruk sighed deeply. "Fine. I won't take control again without consulting all of you first." A hint of his smirk returned. "But mark my words—he'll be even more eager to train his waterbending now. And when he masters it faster than any of you expected, you'll thank me."
As the council began to disperse, Kyoshi lingered. "We'll see," was all she said before turning away.
None of them noticed the figure watching from behind the curtain of spirit vines. Korys, the Second Avatar, observed with ancient eyes that gleamed with calculation. The discord among the Avatars was... useful. Division created opportunity. And opportunity was exactly what he needed.
"Fascinating," he whispered to himself, before melting back into the shadows of the Spirit World. "Most fascinating indeed."
Jon Snow
The Great Hall of New Castle bustled with activity as breakfast was served. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the blue-green tapestries depicting the Manderly merman that adorned the walls. The clatter of plates and murmurs of conversation filled the air, but at one end of a long table, three boys sat in uncomfortable silence.
Theon Greyjoy stabbed at his eggs with unnecessary force, his jaw clenched tight. Every few moments, he would shoot a dark glance across the table at Jon, who hardly seemed to notice.
"I know what I saw," Theon muttered for perhaps the fifth time that morning. "The water froze. In summer."
Robb Stark, seated between them, sighed deeply and rolled his eyes. "Yes, Theon, we know. You've mentioned it several times." He picked up a piece of bread and tossed it at Theon's chest. "Come now, aren't you excited about the tourney? I heard there will be knights from as far as the Vale competing."
"I don't care about southern knights," Theon grumbled, but his expression softened slightly. "Though I suppose the archery competition might be worth watching. I could show these mainlanders how the ironborn shoot."
Jon heard none of this. His mind was leagues away, replaying the moment at the lake. One instant he had been drawing back his bowstring, focusing on a fish beneath the water's surface, and the next... nothing. A strange floating sensation, like being suspended in a dream, aware but unable to move or speak. Then the rush of power—cold and fluid, yet somehow solid—as the water responded to his will.
No, not his will. Kuruk's will.
It was incredible, Jon thought, absently pushing food around his plate. The water just... obeyed. Froze solid in an instant. The memory of the perfect line of fish, skewered through by a single arrow, sent a shiver of excitement through him. What else could he do with such power? Could he form weapons from ice? Could he walk across the surface of the sea?
But then the darker thoughts crept in. The way his consciousness had been pushed aside, relegated to a spectator in his own body. That had been... terrifying. What if it happened again? What if next time it wasn't just for a moment at a lake, but in the middle of a conversation with Father, or during training with Ser Rodrik? What if he couldn't get control back?
And yet... Father had smiled at him afterward. Not the reserved, careful smile he usually gave Jon, but a proud, beaming grin—the kind Jon had seen directed at Robb a thousand times. The memory of it warmed him more than any fire could.
I could make him proud, Jon thought. If I master these abilities, truly control them instead of letting them control me, I could be worth something. Not just Ned Stark's bastard, but something more.
In his mind's eye, Jon saw himself on a battlefield, pulling moisture from the air to form a gleaming sword of ice, cutting through enemies. He imagined freezing the ground beneath enemy horses, creating walls of ice to protect northern villages, commanding the very snow during winter—
"Jon? Are you in there?" Robb's knuckles rapped against Jon's forehead as if knocking on a door. "Hello? Anyone home?"
Jon blinked rapidly, the fantasy dissolving as he returned to the present. "What? Sorry, I was just..."
"Miles away," Robb finished, grinning. "You didn't even notice Lord Manderly's grand exit. He was announcing something about the tourney preparations and practically knocked over two servants on his way out."
Jon felt heat rise to his cheeks. "I was thinking about... the training yard."
"The training yard," Theon repeated flatly, his eyes narrowing. "Or perhaps you were thinking of what other tricks you might perform?"
"Leave off, Theon," Robb warned. "Not everyone needs to fill every silence with the sound of their own voice." He turned back to Jon. "But you did miss something important. Prince Oberyn from Dorne is coming to White Harbor."
Jon's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Prince Oberyn Martell? The Red Viper? Here?"
"Aye," Theon said, momentarily forgetting his suspicions in light of the gossip. "They say he's bringing three of his bastard daughters with him."
"Sand Snakes," Robb added. "That's what they call them."
Jon frowned. "But why would a Dornish prince come all the way to White Harbor? We're as far from Dorne as you can get in Westeros."
Robb shrugged. "For the tourney, what other reason would there be? White Harbor is the North's window to the world. Even princes from Dorne might wish to test their skills against northern warriors."
Jon considered this, finding logic in Robb's words. After all, House Stark had come for the same reason.
"The Viper is said to poison his blades," Theon added, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. "And he's killed more men in duels than most knights have in battle."
The conversation halted as Lord Eddard Stark approached their table, his solemn face showing the faintest hint of amusement at their animated discussion.
"Prince Oberyn, is it?" he asked, taking a seat beside Jon. "I see Lord Manderly's news has spread quickly."
"Is it true, Father?" Robb asked eagerly. "Will the Red Viper really come to White Harbor?"
Ned nodded. "Lord Manderly received a raven seven days ago. Prince Oberyn sails from Sunspear with three of his daughters."
Theon leaned forward. "They say he's one of the greatest warriors in Dorne."
Jon studied his father's face, trying to read his expression. Did Lord Stark know Prince Oberyn? Had they fought together or against each other during Robert's Rebellion? He wanted to ask but hesitated, unsure if it was his place.
Robb had no such reservations. "Will you enter the tourney, Father? You could fight Prince Oberyn!"
Ned's mouth quirked up at one corner. "When the war was real, I was there fighting. Tourneys are not for me."
"But could you beat him?" Robb pressed, always eager for tales of his father's prowess.
Ned considered the question carefully. "It would depend on which one of us had more help."
"Help?" Robb's brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean? Tourneys are meant to be fair combat between two warriors."
"There is no such thing as a 'fair fight' in war," Ned said, his voice dropping lower, taking on the tone he used for important lessons. "You are never truly in a one-on-one fight. You must find a way to be at an advantage—terrain, numbers, surprise, better intelligence. The moment you believe in the nobility of fair combat is the moment you've lost."
Robb looked disappointed. "That doesn't answer my question."
"Who says I need to answer you?" Ned replied, though his eyes were kind. "I need to tell you the truth. When you're fighting in a war, your sword will be the only thing keeping you alive. You'll remember these words someday, and they will help you. Keep you alive."
Jon absorbed every word, feeling as though Lord Stark had handed him something precious—a truth most men learn too late. At that moment, something clicked into place. His new abilities weren't just about power or impressing others; they could be the advantage his father spoke of. Not just a sword, but something unexpected that enemies would never anticipate.
As the conversation moved on, Jon remained silent, turning his father's wisdom over in his mind like a well-worn coin. The advantage. He would remember those words for the rest of his life.
.
.
The training yard of New Castle rang with the familiar music of combat—wooden swords clacking against each other, the shuffle of feet on packed dirt, grunts of exertion, and the occasional bark of laughter. The yard was smaller than Winterfell's but better equipped, with practice weapons crafted by the finest woodworkers in White Harbor and training dummies stuffed with sea grass.
Jon swung his practice sword, trying to focus on his footwork rather than the repeated glares Theon kept shooting his way. Each time their eyes met, Theon's narrowed with suspicion before he deliberately looked away.
"Gods be good, Theon," Robb finally snapped after their third bout. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Are you still upset about the fish? I didn't realize you were such a sore loser."
Theon lowered his practice sword. "This isn't about losing. This is about—" he glanced around and lowered his voice, "—whatever unnatural thing your brother did to the water."
"Half-brother," Jon corrected automatically, the words leaving a familiar bitter taste.
"Whatever you want to call yourself," Theon scoffed. "I know what I saw."
Jon tightened his grip on his practice sword. Part of him longed to slip away to the harbor, to feel that connection with water again. Since the fishing competition, he'd felt a strange pull toward the sea—like the tide itself was calling to him. But he couldn't risk it, not with Theon watching his every move.
"Just let it go," Robb said, clapping Theon on the shoulder. "Come on, let's practice that parry sequence Ser Rodrik showed us."
Before Theon could reply, conversations died mid-sentence. The clacking of practice swords ceased.
Four figures stood at the edge of the training yard, their appearance so unlike the Northerners that they might as well have stepped out of another world.
At their center stood a man of medium height with a lean, dangerous grace that made him seem taller. His black hair was pulled back from a sharp-featured face dominated by dark, intelligent eyes. He wore a copper-colored silk tunic embroidered with tiny suns, loose-fitting trousers of burnt orange, and a sleeveless jerkin of supple brown leather. In his hand, he carried a spear with a polished shaft of red-gold wood and a wicked blade that gleamed even in the muted northern sunlight.
The three young women who accompanied him were unmistakably his daughters, sharing his olive skin and black hair, though each had her own distinctive style. The oldest wore riding leathers with a whip coiled at her hip. The second dressed in flowing silks of blue and violet that complemented her slender frame. The youngest wore a strange combination of silk blouse and leather breeches, with what appeared to be a dozen daggers strapped to various parts of her body.
"Who are they?" Robb asked, looking at the taller man, the way he was moving his spear.
"Prince Oberyn," Jon confirmed, recalling the descriptions he'd read. The Red Viper of Dorne.
"How would you know that?" Theon asked, still looking at Prince Oberyn as if he was preparing for a fight.
"Books." Jon answered casually as if the answer was obvious.
The Dornish prince surveyed the training yard with casual interest, twirling his spear idly as though it weighed nothing at all. The young men of White Harbor stared back, uncertain whether to approach, bow, or continue their training.
The decision was made for them when the middle daughter broke away from the group and strode directly toward Jon, Robb, and Theon. Up close, her beauty was even more apparent—high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes like liquid amber.
"You're Starks, aren't you?" she asked without preamble, her Dornish accent giving a musical lilt to her words. "I can tell by the long faces and solemn expressions." She smiled to take any sting from her words.
Robb recovered first. "I am Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell." He gestured to his companions. "This is my father's ward, Theon Greyjoy, and my brother, Jon Snow."
The young woman raised an eyebrow at Jon. "Snow? Are you certain of that?"
Jon frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I am Nymeria Sand," she said, ignoring his question. "Those are my sisters, Obara and Tyene. And that—" she nodded toward the man who was now walking toward them, "—is my father, Prince Oberyn Martell."
"Sand," Jon repeated, the significance not lost on him. Bastards in Dorne took the surname Sand, just as Northern bastards took Snow.
Nymeria smiled knowingly. "We are all our father's daughters, regardless of marriage vows." She studied Jon. "Though I think you should be Jon Sand, not Jon Snow."
"What?" Jon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the northern air. "I was born in the North, according to my father."
"Half-Dornish, at the very least," Nymeria insisted. "Those eyes of yours..."
Before Jon could ask what she meant, Prince Oberyn joined them, his daughters flanking him like guards.
"Young wolves, so far from their den," Oberyn remarked, his accent thicker than his daughter's. "And is that a kraken I see? The North makes strange bedfellows indeed." His eyes lingered on Jon, and something in that gaze made Jon's skin prickle.
"Prince Oberyn." Ned Stark's voice cut through the tension as he strode into the training yard, Jory Cassel a step behind him. "I did not expect to see you so soon after your arrival."
"Lord Stark." Oberyn gave a bow that somehow managed to be both respectful and mocking. "It has been many years."
"It has," Ned agreed, his face a carefully composed mask. "I hope you find White Harbor to your liking."
"Oh, I find it most interesting." Oberyn twirled his spear again. "I was just admiring your boys. The young heir is the very image of a Tully, isn't he? And this one—" his eyes shifted to Jon, "—is quite observant. Recognized me instantly, from a book." Prince Oberyn then muttered something to father, but Jon couldn't hear him.
Jon turned to his father to see his reaction, but Ned's expression gave away nothing.
"I wish you a pleasant stay, Prince Oberyn," Ned said evenly, as if he hadn't heard the provocative comment. "Boys, I believe Lord Manderly's master-at-arms was looking for you. He wanted to discuss the young men's melee."
"Father, what did he say—" Jon began.
"Now, Jon," Ned said firmly.
As Jon followed his father and Robb from the training yard, he couldn't help looking back at the Dornish prince. Oberyn met his gaze with a knowing smile.
Jon's Chamber
Jon shut the door to his chamber with more force than necessary, the heavy oak striking the frame with a satisfying thud. The sound matched his mood—solid, blunt, and hard. He paced the length of the room, his boots scuffing against the stone floor.
Every time he'd tried to speak with Father on the way back from the training yard, Lord Stark had deflected his questions or simply pretended not to hear them. After the third attempt, his father had fixed him with that stern gray stare and said, "Enough, Jon. Some matters are best left alone."
But how could he leave it alone? Jon Sand, Nymeria had called him. Half-Dornish, she'd said, as though it were obvious. Every time Jon thought he was close to learning something—anything—about the woman who bore him, his father closed up like a castle under siege.
Jon ran his hands through his dark curls in frustration. All his life, any mention of his mother had been met with stony silence or vague non-answers. "She was beautiful," his father had once said during a rare moment of openness, before the walls came back up.
"Beautiful and from Dorne, perhaps?" Jon muttered to himself, kicking at the leg of his bed.
He needed to clear his head. At Winterfell, he would have gone to the godswood or the stables, but here in White Harbor, he felt trapped, confined by walls and strange faces and new questions with no answers.
His eyes fell on a glass of water sitting on the small table near his window. Jon approached it slowly, remembering his midnight conversation with Kuruk after the fishing incident.
"Water is the element of change," Kuruk had told him. "It adapts, it flows around obstacles rather than trying to break through them. That is its strength."
Jon extended his hand toward the glass, feeling slightly foolish. What had Kuruk said? Feel the push and pull, like the tide responding to the moon? He had managed to move a wave, but that had happened in front of a huge body of water; in front of him was just a glass of water, but it was still water; he could bend it if he tried hard enough.
He moved his hand back and forth in a gentle waving motion, trying to imagine the water responding to his will. Nothing happened.
Jon closed his eyes, remembering how it felt when Kuruk had taken control—that rushing sensation, like a cold current flowing through his veins. He tried to recapture that feeling, focusing on the water, imagining it moving.
When he opened his eyes, the water remained still as ever.
"Seven hells!" Jon swore, kicking the table leg again. The glass wobbled precariously but didn't spill. "What am I doing wrong?"
He tried to recall Kuruk's exact instructions. The Water Avatar had mentioned something about feeling the water, not just seeing it. Jon frowned in concentration and closed his eyes again, extending his hand toward the glass.
This time, instead of trying to move the water, he simply focused on feeling it. The coolness, the fluidity, the way it contained both strength and yield. For a moment, he thought he sensed something—a faint tug, like the gentlest of strings connecting his fingertips to the water's surface.
Jon opened his eyes eagerly, but the water remained unmoved. He groaned in frustration.
"Why is this so difficult?" he demanded of the empty room. "Kuruk made it look effortless!"
Jon recalled how the lake had frozen instantly, how the arrow had skewered fish. That power had flowed through him, or at least through his body.
"But it wasn't me," he realized aloud. "It was Kuruk controlling everything. I didn't learn anything."
Determined, Jon pulled the chair closer to the table and sat down, focusing intently on the glass. He remembered what Kyoshi had taught him about airbending—the importance of proper breathing, of finding his center. Perhaps the same principles applied here.
Jon took several deep breaths, emptying his mind of the day's frustrations. He placed his hands on either side of the glass, not touching it, and closed his eyes once more.
"Push and pull," he whispered. "Like the tide."
He made small, circular motions with his hands, imagining the water responding. For several long minutes, nothing happened. Jon was about to give up when he felt it—a definite connection, like a thread of awareness extending from his hands into the water.
Jon opened his eyes slowly, maintaining his concentration. The water's surface trembled slightly, forming tiny ripples that didn't match the movement of the glass or table.
"Yes," he breathed, hardly daring to move. "Come on..."
He lifted one hand gradually, visualizing the water rising to follow it. A small bead of sweat trickled down his temple as he focused harder than he ever had in his life.
The water's surface bulged upward, forming a small dome that quivered with instability.
"That's it," Jon encouraged, as though the water were a shy animal he was coaxing forward. "Just a little more."
The dome stretched higher, pulling into a wobbly column about an inch tall before collapsing back with a tiny splash. Jon blinked in surprise, then grinned despite his disappointment.
"I did it! Well, sort of."
Encouraged, Jon tried again. And again. Each time, the result was similar—a brief, unstable bulge or column that quickly collapsed. After his twelfth attempt, Jon slumped back in his chair, exhausted in a way that sword training never made him.
"Why can't I hold it?" he muttered, staring at the innocent-looking glass of water as if it had personally offended him.
Jon stood and stretched, working out the stiffness in his shoulders. As he did so, a memory surfaced—Roku teaching him to control the small flame of a candle.
"Firebending comes from the breath," Roku had said. "When your breathing is erratic, so is your flame."
Could the same be true for water? Jon sat down again, focusing on his breathing first. In, out. Steady and calm, like the gentle lapping of waves against a shore. When he felt centered, he extended his hand again.
This time, Jon didn't push. He didn't try to force the water to obey. Instead, he imagined himself as part of the same system—the water, the air, himself—all connected, all flowing together.
The water's surface began to rise, more smoothly this time. A perfect droplet, the size of a small pearl, separated from the surface and hovered, trembling slightly, about ten inches above the glass.
"I'm doing it," Jon whispered, amazed. "I'm actually—"
The droplet lost cohesion at his excitement, splashing onto the table. But Jon didn't care. He'd done it—truly done it himself, without Kuruk's intervention.
Jon sat back in his chair, a mixture of exhaustion and elation washing over him. He'd managed only the smallest demonstration of waterbending, but it was his. And tomorrow, he would try again.
Perhaps Prince Oberyn's arrival and comments about him being a Sand were a complication, but at least one thing was becoming clearer—Jon Snow was more than just a bastard. He was becoming something no one in Westeros had ever seen before.
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