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The morning sun cast long shadows across the training yard of New Castle, painting the stone walls in hues of amber and gold. Jon Snow leaned against the rough wooden fence, his purple eyes fixed on a crumbling bit of mortar between two stones. His mind was leagues away from the rhythmic clatter of wooden swords and Ser Wendel's booming instructions to the younger boys.
What would Father say if I told him? The question had haunted Jon for days now. He imagined Lord Stark's face—would those solemn gray eyes widen with wonder or narrow with suspicion? Would he embrace Jon's strange abilities or see them as dangerous sorcery? The North remembered the old tales of skinchangers and greenseers, but bending the elements was something else entirely—something foreign, something unknown.
A small flame danced across Jon's memory—his first successful firebending attempt. The warmth, the light, the sense of power flowing through his veins. Then came the water droplet hovering above the glass. Small victories, but they represented something monumental.
"I know that look," Robb's voice cut through Jon's reverie. His half-brother stood before him, auburn hair tousled from practice, a wooden training sword hanging loosely from his hand. "That's the look you get when you're trying to solve all the world's problems at once."
Jon straightened, forcing a smile. "Just thinking."
"About what? Or should I say about whom?" Robb's blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "Perhaps a certain green-haired lady who can't seem to take her eyes off you whenever you're in the same room?"
Heat rushed to Jon's cheeks, but not from embarrassment alone. Something else flared within him—an unfamiliar irritation that burned hot and quick.
"Mind your own business, Stark," Jon snapped, the words emerging with an edge of arrogance he'd never used with Robb before.
Robb blinked, momentarily taken aback, before a broad grin spread across his face. "Well, well! Lord Snow has found his wolf's teeth at last!" He executed an exaggerated bow. "My sincere apologies for disturbing your communion with that fascinating bit of broken wall, my lord. As your loyal servant, I merely thought to rescue you from the thrall of such stimulating stonework."
Jon's irritation dissolved as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by shame. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that."
"Perhaps because it's true," came Theon Greyjoy's drawling voice as he sauntered toward them, bow in hand. The ward of Winterfell had been practicing at the archery butts, and sweat darkened his tunic between his shoulder blades. "Snow wins one archery contest through some trick, and suddenly he thinks himself above his betters."
Robb groaned. "Not this again. He didn't cheat, Theon. For the hundredth time, just accept that Jon got lucky."
Lucky. The word twisted in Jon's gut. It hadn't been luck—it had been Kuruk. The Man had taken control, freezing the lake, guiding Jon's arrow through ten fish in an impossible display of precision. Jon had been as much a spectator as Theon or Robb.
"Shut up, Theon!" The words burst from Jon with unexpected force. "You may be the bigger one, but you're clearly acting the most childish here. Even my father didn't want to hear your accusations, remember?"
Theon's eyes narrowed to slits, his hands tightening around his bow until his knuckles whitened. Jon could almost see the desire to strike him written across the older boy's face. For a heartbeat, Jon wished he could summon water from the nearby well just to make Theon trip and fall face-first into the mud.
"That's enough, both of you," Robb said firmly, stepping between them. He fixed Theon with a stern look that mimicked Lord Stark's with surprising accuracy. "Remember who brought you here, Theon. My father wouldn't be pleased to hear you've been fighting with his son."
Then Robb turned to Jon, his expression softening slightly but remaining firm. "And Father wouldn't be happy to hear you've been brawling in the yard either, Jon."
Theon held Jon's gaze for a moment longer before looking away with a dismissive grunt. "Whatever. This place is boring anyway." He leaned his bow against the fence and stretched. "Now, if you boys are done playing with wooden swords, have you heard about the establishment down by the fishmarkets?"
"Establishment?" Jon asked, still feeling the residual heat of anger in his chest.
A wolfish grin spread across Theon's face. "The Mermaid's Purse. It's White Harbor's finest whorehouse. The sailors say the women there can—"
"Seven hells, Theon," Jon cut him off, rolling his eyes. "Is that all you ever think about?"
Robb, despite his attempt to remain the responsible one, couldn't hide his amused expression. "Even if we wanted to go, which we don't," he added quickly, "Father would lock us in the deepest cell beneath New Castle and throw away the key if he caught us anywhere near a brothel."
"And we're ten," Jon pointed out. "The guards wouldn't let us in without Lord Stark's permission, which he would never give."
Theon snorted. "Ten. Practically men grown. When I was ten on Pyke, my brothers were already—"
"Spare us the ironborn tales," Robb interrupted, tossing his wooden sword from hand to hand. "Besides, we're here for the tourney, not to explore White Harbor's... less reputable attractions."
Jon found himself grateful for the change in subject. The tension between him and Theon had dissipated somewhat, but he could still feel the older boy watching him, suspicion lurking behind his eyes.
He saw something at the lake. Something he can't explain. The thought unsettled Jon more than he cared to admit. If Theon became convinced of Jon's strange abilities, how long before others began to notice as well? How long before the whispers reached his father's ears?
And what would Lord Stark do then?
Jon's hand drifted to his belt where a small waterskin hung. He'd taken to carrying it everywhere since his first successful waterbending attempt. A precaution? A comfort? He wasn't entirely sure.
.
.
Jon's footsteps echoed down the stone corridor as he made his way back to his chamber. His mind raced with thoughts of water droplets and flowing movements, mentally rehearsing the techniques Kuruk had shown him. Perhaps if he practiced enough before dinner, he might be able to form more than just a drop of water—
"Jon?" A girl's voice, soft but clear, interrupted his thoughts.
He turned to find Wylla Manderly half-hidden behind a fluted column, her green hair cascading over one shoulder. She peered around the marble with a mischievous smile that transformed her entire face, making her sea-green eyes sparkle like sunlight on water.
Jon's cheeks instantly burned hot. Robb's teasing words from earlier flooded back—"Perhaps a certain green-haired lady who can't seem to take her eyes off you..."
"Ahhhh, someone has a little crush," Kuruk's amused voice echoed inside Jon's head, startling him. He'd never heard the Avatars speak to him without being physically present before.
Crush? Jon wondered, unfamiliar with the term. Did Kuruk mean Wylla was crushing him somehow? Or that he was being crushed by something? The confusion must have shown on his face.
"Are you alright?" Wylla stepped fully from behind the column, her brow furrowed with concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
If only you knew, Jon thought wryly, composing himself. "I'm fine. Just... thinking."
"You do that a lot," she observed, moving closer. "How are you finding White Harbor? Better or worse than Winterfell?"
The question caught Jon off guard. No one had asked his opinion on anything so directly in quite some time. "I like it here," he admitted. "It's... brighter somehow. More open. Though I haven't seen much beyond New Castle and the harbor."
"Then I've been a terrible host! We can't have that, can we?" Before Jon could respond, her small hand darted out to grasp his, her fingers warm against his skin. "Come with me."
Without waiting for his response, she tugged him forward, nearly causing him to stumble as she pulled him down the corridor with surprising strength for a girl her size.
"Where are we going?" Jon managed to ask as he regained his footing, acutely aware of her hand still holding his.
"You'll see," she replied cryptically, a gleam in her eye. "Does Winterfell have many secret passages?"
Jon shook his head. "Not that I know of. The castle is ancient, but it was built for function, not intrigue. Father says secret passages are more common in southern keeps."
"Perhaps it does, and you simply haven't found them yet," Wylla suggested with a knowing look. "White Harbor has dozens. Grandfather says they were built to hide our treasures and escape if needed. Now they're just convenient shortcuts—and excellent places for hiding from my Septa when she wants me to practice my needlework."
They turned down a narrower corridor that Jon didn't recognize, the torches spaced farther apart, casting long shadows on the stone floor.
"I've seen you, you know," Wylla said suddenly, glancing at him sideways. "Leaving the castle before dawn, heading toward the harbor. You return hours later, looking... different."
Jon nearly missed a step, his heart lurching painfully against his ribs. "You... follow me?"
"Don't flatter yourself, Jon Snow," she retorted with a smirk. "I don't need to follow you. My chamber overlooks the courtyard. I see you leave when I'm reading by my window. I just wondered why. Most boys your age would rather sleep until noon if given the choice."
Jon's mind raced for an explanation that wouldn't sound like madness. He could hardly tell her about communing with spirit-beings or practicing techniques to bend water to his will.
"Winterfell is landlocked," he said finally, the partial truth coming easier than expected. "You can't see the sea from even the tallest tower. I just... I like watching the sunrise over the water. It's like nothing I've ever seen before."
Wylla studied his face for a moment, as if searching for deception, then her expression softened. "If it's views you want, Jon Snow, I can show you one that will make your harbor lookout seem ordinary." She squeezed his hand. "Come on!"
They continued through increasingly deserted parts of the castle until they reached what appeared to be a blank section of wall at the end of a dusty corridor. Jon was thoroughly lost now, certain he could never find his way back without assistance.
Wylla approached the wall, pressing her hands against a specific stone and pushing. To Jon's amazement, a section of the wall swung inward with barely a sound, revealing a narrow passage beyond.
"Grandfather says this was originally built as an escape route," she explained. "But I think the builder just wanted somewhere private to meet his paramour."
"What is this?" Jon peered into the darkness.
"A secret!" Wylla's eyes sparkled with delight. "The oldest parts of New Castle are full of them."She slipped through the gap, beckoning Jon to follow. "It's a surprise. You'll have to trust me."
Jon hesitated for only a moment before squeezing through after her.
The passage was dimly lit by small, irregularly placed arrow slits that let in thin shafts of daylight. Jon had to duck his head in places, and the walls pressed close on either side. He fought the impulse to summon a flame to his palm—how easy it would be to light their way with firebending. But that would mean questions he couldn't answer.
"By the spirits, I detest cramped spaces," a female voice complained in his head. It wasn't Kyoshi's commanding tone. This voice was unfamiliar—younger, with a lilting accent he couldn't place.
Jon glanced around in confusion but saw only Wylla ahead of him, navigating the passage with practiced ease.
"This way," she called back, taking his hand again to guide him through a particularly dark stretch. "Mind the step here—it's uneven."
They emerged into a tight spiral staircase that wound upward, the stone steps worn smooth from centuries of use. Jon counted forty-seven steps before they reached a small wooden door. Wylla pushed it open, and bright light flooded the stairwell.
"After you," she gestured with a flourish.
Jon stepped through the doorway and felt his breath catch in his throat. They stood in a circular chamber at the top of what must have been one of New Castle's highest towers. Unlike most towers, this one had no walls above waist height—just slender white columns supporting a domed roof. Between the columns, the entirety of White Harbor spread out before them in a panorama that seemed to encompass the whole world.
The late afternoon sun hung low over the sea, turning the water into a rippling sheet of molten gold. Ships dotted the harbor, their sails catching the light like the wings of great sea birds. Beyond the harbor walls, the Bite stretched to the horizon, meeting the sky in a hazy line that blurred the boundary between water and air.
"Gods," Jon whispered, moving toward the edge. "It's..."
"I know," Wylla said softly, coming to stand beside him. "I come here when I need to think, or when Grandfather and Father are being particularly stubborn about something. It helps to see how small everything looks from up here."
Jon nodded, understanding completely. From this height, the concerns that had been weighing on him—Theon's suspicions, his strange abilities, whether to confide in his father—seemed distant and manageable, like the toy-sized figures moving through the streets below.
"This was an old watchtower," Wylla explained. "It hasn't been used for defense in generations. My sister and I found it when we were playing hide-and-seek years ago. Almost no one remembers it exists."
"Thank you for showing me this," he said sincerely.
"You are welcome," Wylla said with a beautiful smile that made his face burn like a candle.
They fell into comfortable silence, the wind tugging at their hair as they absorbed the panoramic view. Jon felt a strange sense of peace wash over him—being so high above the world, surrounded by open air.
"Ahhh, the wind in my face. It's been a long time since I have felt it."
Jon turned sharply to his right. A blue figure stood beside him, translucent and glowing with ethereal light. The man was tall and slender, with long hair pulled back in elaborate loops and a thin beard that reached his chest. His robes billowed around him though they didn't move with the natural wind. This wasn't Kuruk, Kyoshi, or Roku—Jon had never seen this man before.
Yet somehow, from the deepest recesses of his mind, a name emerged.
"Korys," Jon whispered in awe.
The blue figure turned, he pressed a finger to his lips in warning. Jon glanced at Wylla, who continued gazing at the horizon, completely unaware of the spirit beside them. Of course—she couldn't see or hear Korys. If Jon started speaking to empty air, she'd think him touched by madness.
Korys leaned closer, his voice a whisper only Jon could hear. "An Airbender is at their most powerful the higher they are from the ground. The air is purer here, less constrained by the earth below."
Jon remained silent, uncertain how to respond without alerting Wylla.
"Try this," Korys continued, demonstrating a fluid circular motion with his arms—different from the more direct movements Kyoshi had taught him. "She will enjoy the results."
Jon glanced at Wylla from the corner of his eye. She seemed lost in her own thoughts, her attention fixed on a ship entering the harbor. Carefully, Jon mimicked Korys's motion, drawing his arms in a circle before pushing outward with open palms.
The effect was immediate and far more dramatic than he expected. A swirling gust of wind erupted around them, catching fallen leaves and flower petals from nearby planters and sending them dancing in a colorful spiral. Jon's hair whipped around his face, and Wylla gasped in surprise.
"That came out of nowhere!" she exclaimed, laughing as she brushed a pink petal from her shoulder. She gave Jon a curious look, her brow furrowing slightly. "Reminds me of that strange draft in the great hall at Winterfell when we were having lemon cakes." Her tone was casual, but her eyes held a question she didn't voice.
"The wind does strange things around towers," Jon offered weakly, heart pounding with exhilaration and nervousness.
Wylla nodded, returning her gaze to the horizon. "It's like water that way," she mused. "Always finding the path of least resistance, flowing around obstacles rather than trying to break through them." She smiled, unaware of how her words resonated with Jon's recent waterbending lessons. "My grandfather says sailors who fight against the current drown, while those who understand how to work with the water survive even the worst storms."
Jon stared at her, a realization dawning. That's it! I've been trying to force the water instead of working with it. I need to feel its flow, not command it.
Korys faded from view, leaving Jon.
"We should head back before they notice we're missing," Wylla said eventually, reluctant to leave their private sanctuary. "What did you think? Was it worth the journey through the dark?"
"Absolutely," Jon replied honestly. "I've never seen anything like it."
As they began their descent, Wylla's hand found his again, guiding him through the darkness. Jon found himself smiling, already planning to return to his chamber and try his new approach to waterbending.
This day had given him more than just a spectacular view—it had offered a new perspective, both on bending and on the green-haired girl who continued to surprise him.
The descent through the narrow passage was less daunting with Wylla leading the way. She navigated the darkness, her hand occasionally brushing against Jon's to ensure he followed closely.
"What did you think?" she asked, voice echoing off the stone walls. "Was it everything I promised?"
"More," Jon admitted. "I didn't know such a place existed in White Harbor. Are there other secret passages I should know about?"
Wylla's laughter bounced through the darkness. "Perhaps. The castle has many secrets, Jon Snow. Some say there's even a tunnel that leads all the way to the harbor, built so the Manderlys could escape by sea if enemies breached the walls."
"And do you know where this tunnel is?" Jon asked, curious despite himself.
"Maybe I do, maybe I don't." He could hear the smile in her voice. "I might show you... if you prove yourself worthy of New Castle's secrets."
"And how might I do that, my lady?" Jon found himself falling into their playful banter with surprising ease.
"For starters," Wylla said as they reached the hidden door that would return them to the main corridor, "you could sit with me tomorrow during the archery competition."
The door swung open, bathing them in the soft glow of wall sconces. In the warm light, Jon could see the hopeful expression on Wylla's face, her green hair framing features that seemed to have grown prettier since their adventure began.
"I..." Jon felt heat rush to his cheeks. Inside his head, he heard multiple voices laughing—not just Kuruk but what sounded like several other people finding amusement in his discomfort.
"Y-yes," he finally managed. "I'd like that."
Wylla's face brightened, her smile wide enough to crinkle the corners of her eyes. Before Jon could react, she leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
Jon's eyes widened, his brain momentarily emptying of all thought. Her lips had been warm, soft, and gone too quickly for him to process what had happened.
"I enjoyed our time together," he said when his voice returned, the words tumbling out in a rush.
"Which part did you enjoy more?" Wylla asked with newfound boldness. "The tower or the kiss?"
Jon opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, unable to form a coherent response.
Wylla giggled, the sound light and musical. "Think on it. I'll save you a seat at the feast tonight." With that, she turned and walked away, her blue dress swishing around her ankles, leaving Jon frozen in place.
"That was amazing, Jon," Kuruk's voice echoed in his mind, rich with amusement. "Soon, you'll have girls running after you like bees after honey."
Jon frowned, puzzled by the voice's presence outside of his training sessions. Normally, Kuruk appeared to him as visible spirits, not disembodied voices in his head. Was his connection to them growing stronger? The thought both excited and unnerved him.
When he finally reached his chamber, Jon's mind was racing with possibilities—not just about Wylla's kiss, but about what he had learned in the tower. Korys had shown him a new airbending technique, and Wylla had inadvertently given him insight into his waterbending struggles.
Flow around obstacles rather than trying to break through them...
Jon closed the door firmly and looked around his chamber. Near the window stood a small table with an empty pitcher.
He tugged the bell-pull, and within moments, a servant knocked at his door—a middle-aged woman with gray streaking her brown hair.
"Water, please," Jon requested. "A full pitcher, if you don't mind."
The woman nodded and returned shortly with a clay pitcher brimming with fresh water. Jon thanked her and waited until her footsteps faded down the corridor before he locked the door with a key and turned his attention to his task.
He placed the pitcher in the center of the table and pulled up a chair. Taking a deep breath, Jon extended his hand toward the water, recalling Kuruk's instructions—feel the push and pull, like the tide responding to the moon.
But this time, he also remembered Wylla's words. Work with the water, not against it.
Jon closed his eyes, sensing the water before him. Instead of trying to command it, he tried to feel its nature—cool, fluid. He imagined himself not as its master but as its partner in a dance.
When he opened his eyes and made a gentle lifting motion with his hand, a small droplet rose from the pitcher's surface, hovering shakily in the air.
"That's it," Jon whispered, maintaining his focus. The droplet wobbled but remained aloft.
After a few moments, it fell back with a tiny splash. Progress, but minimal. Jon sighed and tried again, and again, each attempt yielding similar results—a droplet, sometimes two, never lasting more than a few heartbeats.
Frustration began to build in his chest. He knew he was capable of more—he had felt the power surging through him when Kuruk had taken control.
"What am I missing?" Jon muttered, running his fingers through his dark curls.
He recalled the spiral motion Korys had shown him for airbending. Perhaps waterbending required a similar approach? Jon tried a circular motion with his hands, imagining the water following the path he created.
To his surprise, the water responded more readily. A thin stream rose from the pitcher, following his guiding hand as he drew it upward. Jon's heart quickened with excitement as he coaxed more water to join the stream.
With careful concentration, he gathered enough water to fill a drinking glass, suspending it in the air above the pitcher. As his confidence grew, the water condensed into a wobbly sphere, reflecting the candlelight like a liquid gem.
"Think of it taking the shape of a dagger," a voice suggested—Korys, his tone smooth as silk.
Jon furrowed his brow, focusing on the sphere. He imagined it stretching, narrowing at one end while forming a handle at the other. To his amazement, the water began to reshape itself, slowly morphing into a crude approximation of a blade.
Maintaining the form required intense concentration. Sweat beaded on Jon's forehead as he fought to keep the water cohesive and shaped. His arms began to tremble with effort, and a dull ache spread through his temples.
The moment his concentration slipped, the water dagger collapsed, splashing across the table and onto the floor.
"Seven hells," Jon swore, slumping back in his chair. The brief success had left him strangely exhausted, as if he'd spent hours in the training yard.
"A most impressive effort, Avatar Jon."
Jon's head snapped up. Standing beside the window was the transparent blue figure of Korys, his long robes seemingly billowing in a non-existent breeze. In the privacy of the chamber, the spirit had fully materialized, his features clearer than they had been in the tower.
Korys was handsome in a severe way, with high cheekbones and calculating eyes. His beard was meticulously groomed, and the loops in his hair were secured with ornate pins that glowed with the same ethereal light as the rest of him.
"You called me 'Avatar' again," Jon noted, wiping water from the table with his sleeve. "What does that mean?"
A thin smile spread across Korys's face. "It means you are chosen, Jon Snow. It means you are... significant."
"Chosen for what?" Jon pressed, frustrated by the cryptic answer.
"In time, all will become clear." Korys glided across the room, examining Jon with an appraising eye. "Your progress with waterbending is remarkable, considering you have no true master. Most would require years to accomplish what you've managed in mere days."
Jon frowned. "Then why does it exhaust me so quickly? And why can't I maintain the forms?"
"Because you are still thinking like a swordsman—relying on muscle and will rather than breath and spirit." Korys made a dismissive gesture. "It will come with practice. But waterbending is just one aspect of your potential."
"What do you mean?"
"There are other skills you could develop. Your airbending, for instance, has barely been explored."
Jon leaned forward eagerly. "What can I learn with airbending?"
Korys's eyes gleamed. "Flying, young Avatar."
Jon had dreamed of flying since childhood, watching ravens soar above Winterfell's towers and envying their freedom.
"That can't be possible," Jon whispered, though his heart raced at the prospect.
"I assure you, it is." Korys's voice carried absolute certainty. "I mastered the technique myself, long ago. True flight—not gliding or jumping, but sustained motion through the air, free from the constraints of earth."
"Could you teach me?" Jon couldn't keep the eagerness from his voice.
Korys's expression softened into something almost regretful. "Such abilities are beyond your current reach. The path to true flight requires mastery of airbending far beyond creating gusts or breezes."
The spirit drifted closer, his presence causing the candle flame to flicker despite having no physical substance. "Remember what you felt in the tower today, Jon Snow. The higher you are from the earth, the stronger your connection to the air becomes. If you wish to someday touch the sky, you must first learn to truly know the wind."
Before Jon could ask another question, Korys's form began to dissipate, fading like morning mist under a rising sun.
"Wait!" Jon called. "I have more questions!"
But Korys was gone, leaving Jon alone with a wet table, an emptied pitcher, and a mind churning with possibilities.
Flying. The very thought sent a thrill through Jon's veins. Was it truly possible? Or was Korys playing some game, dangling an impossible dream before him for reasons Jon couldn't fathom?
Either way, Jon knew he wouldn't rest until he discovered the truth. He'd return to the tower tomorrow before sunrise and practice his airbending where the winds were strongest. And later, when the archery competition began, he'd sit beside Wylla as promised, all while carrying these new secrets close to his heart.
Night - Jon Snow
The Great Hall of New Castle blazed with light from a hundred tallow candles suspended in iron chandeliers. Beneath their glow, long tables laden with seafood delicacies stretched the length of the room. Musicians played in the gallery above, their lively tunes barely audible over the din of conversation and laughter.
Jon Snow entered the hall with Robb and Theon, but unlike previous feasts where he'd skulked along the walls or sought the darkest corner, tonight he scanned the crowd. His eyes found Wylla almost immediately—her green hair unmistakable among the sea of browns and blonds.
She waved enthusiastically, patting the empty space beside her at a table occupied by young nobles from various Northern houses. Jon recognized the Hornwood heir and one of the Tallhart boys, along with several others whose sigils he'd studied in Maester Luwin's lessons.
"Your lady awaits," Robb whispered, giving Jon a gentle nudge. "Don't keep her waiting."
Jon shot his brother a warning look but couldn't suppress a smile as he made his way to Wylla's table. The fear that had plagued him at previous feasts—that he didn't belong, that his presence was merely tolerated—seemed distant now.
"You came!" Wylla's eyes brightened as Jon slid onto the bench beside her. "I thought you might hide with the squires again."
"I promised I would sit with you," Jon replied, surprised by his own confidence.
Jon found himself drawn into conversations that would have intimidated him only days ago. Young Cley Cerwyn wanted to know about Winterfell's training regimen. Daryn Hornwood shared stories of hunting in his family's woodland holdings. Even Harrion Karstark, nearly a man grown at fifteen, asked Jon's opinion on longbows versus crossbows for the upcoming archery competition.
Throughout it all, Wylla remained at his side, occasionally leaning close to whisper explanations or jests that made him choke back laughter. When their hands brushed reaching for the same platter of lemon cakes, neither pulled away immediately.
"You're different tonight," Wylla observed during a lull in the conversation. "More... present."
Jon considered this. "I feel different," he admitted. "Less like a shadow."
Lord Wyman Manderly's booming voice cut through the hall, announcing that the tables would be cleared for dancing. The musicians struck up a northern reel, and noble couples began forming lines in the center of the hall.
"Will you dance with me?" Wylla asked, rising from her seat. The candlelight caught in her hair, giving her the appearance of wearing a crown of emerald fire.
Jon hesitated. He knew the steps—Lady Catelyn had insisted that even Ned Stark's bastard should know proper dancing—but he'd never enjoyed being on display.
Before he could answer, Wylla took his hand and pulled him to his feet. "I'll lead if you forget the steps," she promised with a conspiratorial wink.
To Jon's surprise, the dance came naturally. His body remembered the movements that his mind had tried to forget, and Wylla was a graceful partner who made every turn and step seem effortless. Other dancers became a blur of color and motion as they moved through the patterns of the reel.
When the music ended, Jon found himself breathing hard, not from exertion but from exhilaration. The applause startled him—he'd forgotten they had an audience. Wylla thanked him for the dance and returned to her seat.
"You dance well for a northerner," came a silky voice with a Dornish accent.
Jon turned to find Nymeria Sand standing behind him, dressed in flowing silks of amber and gold that complemented her olive skin. Her dark eyes held a challenge, and her smile carried a hint of secrets.
"Would you honor me with the next dance, Jon Snow?" she asked, extending her hand. "Or should I say Jon Sand?"
"I would be honored, Lady Nymeria," he replied, careful to keep his voice neutral. "Though I maintain that Snow is my proper name."
Nymeria's smile widened. "For now, perhaps."
The musicians began a slower, more formal tune. Jon took Nymeria's hand. Her dancing style was different from Wylla's—more fluid, with subtle movements that weren't part of the traditional steps but somehow enhanced them.
"Why do you insist on calling me Sand?" Jon asked when they were far enough from others not to be overheard.
"Because I know what I see," Nymeria replied cryptically. "Those eyes of yours tell a story, Jon Snow—a story I'm quite familiar with."
"What story?"
Her laugh was like honey poured over steel. "So eager! But this is hardly the place for such discussions." She spun under his arm. "Meet me in the training yard tomorrow after the midday meal. We can speak more freely there."
"I want answers," Jon pressed, surprised by his own boldness.
"And I may have them," Nymeria countered. "But patience is a virtue even in the North, is it not?"
The music ended before Jon could respond. Nymeria curtsied deeply, the movement somehow both respectful and mocking, then melted into the crowd, leaving Jon with more questions than before.
He returned to Wylla, who greeted him with curious eyes.
"What did the Sand Snake want?" she asked, her tone carefully casual.
Jon shook his head. "I'm not entirely sure. But I intend to find out tomorrow."
Wylla took his hand again as the music resumed. "Well, tonight you're dancing with me," she declared, leading him back to the center of the hall.
For the rest of the evening, Jon pushed thoughts of Dorne and mysterious parentage from his mind, losing himself instead in the simple joy of a feast where, for once, he felt like he truly belonged.
.
.
Jon closed the door to his chamber with a weary sigh. The feast had been unexpectedly enjoyable—dancing with Wylla, the easy conversation with the northern nobles, even the enigmatic exchange with Nymeria Sand. But now, alone in his room, exhaustion settled over him like a heavy cloak.
He had just begun unlacing his boots when a familiar blue glow illuminated the chamber walls. Jon looked up to find Master Roku materializing before him.
"You've made remarkable progress with your waterbending, Jon," Roku observed, his deep voice resonating with quiet pride. "Creating a water dagger on your first week of serious practice is no small achievement."
Jon straightened, surprised by the praise. "You saw that?"
"We observe more than you might think," Roku replied with a hint of a smile. "But I must caution you not to neglect your firebending. Balance between the elements is crucial in your training. The flame inside you must be tended regularly, lest it diminish."
Jon frowned, reminded of something that had been bothering him since his encounter with Korys. "Roku... Korys called me something strange today. He called me 'Avatar Jon.' What does that mean? Why did he call me that?"
A flicker of concern passed over Roku's face, so quickly Jon almost missed it.
"Korys spoke with you?" Roku asked carefully.
"Yes, in my chamber after I practiced waterbending. He helped me form a water dagger." Jon leaned forward. "He called me 'Avatar' as if it were a title. What does it mean? Why won't anyone explain?"
The fire spirit's expression turned solemn. "Some knowledge cannot be rushed, Jon Snow. You will understand when you are ready—when your spirit has matured enough to bear the weight of such truths."
Jon felt a flare of irritation at yet another evasion. Always the same answer—wait until you're older, wait until you're ready. Did they think him a child incapable of understanding his own destiny?
'Who is my mother?'
'I'm sorry Jon, but I cannot tell you. Wait until you get older.'
"I'm ready now," Jon insisted, channeling his frustration into determination. He extended his palm upward, focusing on the familiar warmth that had always answered his call in Winterfell. "Watch."
Jon pictured flame dancing above his palm—a small fire, nothing elaborate. He remembered the feeling of his inner energy flowing outward, transforming into heat and light. In Winterfell, the result had been almost instantaneous—a tiny, flickering flame that responded to his breath and will.
But now... nothing.
Jon frowned, staring at his empty palm with confusion. "I don't understand."
He tried again, concentrating harder, willing the fire to manifest. His hand remained stubbornly bare—no flame, not even the faintest wisp of smoke.
"Perhaps you're simply tired," Roku suggested, though his golden eyes had narrowed with concern.
"No, that's not it." Jon made a third attempt, then a fourth, each more desperate than the last. "I could do this easily before. Even when I first began training with you, the fire came when called."
With mounting frustration, Jon closed his eyes, searching for the inner spark that had always been there—the warmth that resided in his core, ready to be channeled outward. To his horror, where once burned a steady ember, he now found only cold emptiness.
"It's gone," Jon whispered, opening his eyes to stare at Roku in alarm. "I can't feel the fire inside anymore. Why can't I firebend?"
Roku moved closer, his transparent form passing through Jon's writing desk. The spirit's expression was troubled, his ancient eyes reflecting confusion that matched Jon's own.
"I don't know," Roku admitted, the simple confession more frightening than any dire warning could have been. "This shouldn't be possible. Once awakened, bending abilities do not simply vanish."
Jon felt a chill that had nothing to do with White Harbor's sea breeze creeping through his window. If even Roku didn't understand what was happening, what hope did Jon have of reclaiming his lost element?
"What does this mean?" Jon asked, his voice barely audible.
Roku's form began to fade, though whether by choice or some unknown force, Jon couldn't tell.
"I must consult with the others," the Fire Avatar said, his voice growing distant. "Continue your training with water and air. And Jon—be careful."
Then he was gone, leaving Jon alone with his failure and a growing sense that something was terribly, inexplicably wrong. Jon quickly looked at the pitcher he had left on the desk. With focus, he watched as a sphere of water started hovering above the pitcher. With more focus, he made it take the shape of a knife, and the exhaustion came to him like a punch. Jon gasped heavily, falling back on his bed, and the knife lost its form and splashed down.
In that moment, Jon felt a little relieved; he could still Waterbend, but why couldn't he Firebend?
.
.
The evening tide brought three ships to White Harbor's bustling docks—a trading galley from Braavos, a fishing vessel returning with its holds full of silver cod, and a small, sleek craft with distinctive red sails that drew curious glances from the stevedores.
As the red-sailed ship moored at the far end of the quay, a solitary figure descended the gangplank. Clad entirely in crimson robes, the woman moved like a dancer. Her hair, darker than freshly spilled blood, cascaded down her back in waves that caught the breeze off the Narrow Sea.
Harbor Master Beron Blackpool, a portly man who had overseen White Harbor's docks for two decades, hurried to meet the unusual arrival. His eyes widened as she turned toward him, revealing a face of such striking beauty it seemed almost unnatural—high cheekbones, full lips painted the color of wine, and eyes that gleamed like molten copper in the fading light.
"Welcome to White Harbor, my lady," Beron managed, finding his voice. "Do you require assistance with your belongings?"
The woman smiled, a gesture that somehow failed to reach those burning eyes. "I travel light, Harbor Master. The Lord of Light provides all I require."
Beron shifted uncomfortably. The Faith of R'hllor had few followers in the North, where most kept to the old gods or the Seven. "And what brings a... priestess of the Red God to our shores? We've had few of your kind visit White Harbor."
"The flames have shown me visions," she replied, her accent marking her as from the eastern continent, though Beron couldn't place it precisely. "Something stirs in the North—ancient powers awakening."
"Powers, my lady?" Beron's discomfort deepened. Talk of strange powers would not be welcome in these parts, especially with the tourney bringing so many noble houses together.
The Red Priestess gazed northward, as if she could see through the stone walls of New Castle to the vast wilderness beyond. "The night is dark and full of terrors, Harbor Master. But fire cleanses all." Her hand brushed the ruby pendant at her throat, which seemed to pulse with inner light. "And I have been sent to ensure this new flame burns in service to the Lord of Light... or not at all."
Without waiting for a response, she glided past Beron, her robes rippling like liquid fire in the last golden rays of sunset. The harbor master stood rooted to the spot, watching her departure with a profound sense of unease he couldn't quite explain.
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