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Chapter 6 (Breath of Fire), Chapter 7 (The Road to White Harbor), Chapter 8 (The Call of the Water), Chapter 9 (Kuruk Hates Being Second), Chapter 10 (A Drop of Water), Chapter 11 (What is An Avatar), and Chapter 12 (Jon Snow or Jon Sand) are already available for Patrons.
Jon woke before dawn, his mind still whirling with the discovery of the previous night. Fire. He had created fire from nothing but his own will and energy. The small flame had danced above his palm for only moments before vanishing, but it had been real—tangible heat against his skin, light in the darkness.
He lay in bed, staring at his hands. They looked ordinary enough—calloused from sword practice, a small scar on his right thumb from when he'd cut himself helping Mikken at the forge. Nothing to suggest they could conjure flame.
With a deep breath, Jon concentrated, trying to recapture the feeling from the night before. He pictured fire in his mind, willed heat to gather in his palm. Nothing happened.
"Too tense," he muttered to himself, remembering how his frustration had seemed to trigger the ability. He relaxed his shoulders, exhaled slowly, and tried again.
This time, the faintest wisp of smoke curled from his fingertips, dissipating almost immediately. Jon stared in mixed wonder and alarm. It wasn't much, but it confirmed last night hadn't been a dream or hallucination.
A sudden knock at his door made him jerk upright, hastily shoving his hands under the furs.
"Jon? Are you awake?" Arya's voice called through the door. "Septa Mordane's busy with the Manderly girls, so I'm free until breakfast. I thought we could practice with the bow."
Jon cleared his throat, willing his heartbeat to slow. "I'll be out in a moment, little sister."
"Hurry up! The yard will be crowded once Ser Rodrik starts the morning drills."
He heard her footsteps racing away and exhaled with relief. The last thing he needed was for anyone to catch him experimenting with his newfound... ability? Curse? Jon wasn't sure what to call it yet.
He dressed quickly, pulling on a worn tunic and breeches. As he tugged on his boots, a thought occurred to him: If he could create fire, was it possible he might accidentally burn someone? The idea sent a chill through him despite the morning warmth. He would need to be careful—more careful than ever. With that thought in mind, he put on his clothes and left his chambers to join Arya.
"You're holding too tight," Jon said, adjusting Arya's grip on the bow. "Relax your fingers a bit—that's it."
Arya squinted at the target, her tongue poking out between her teeth in concentration. She released the arrow, which flew straight and embedded itself in the outer ring of the target.
"Better," Jon praised. "Much better than yesterday."
Arya beamed up at him, her face flushed with pride. "Again?"
"Why not? We've still got time before—"
"Before what?" a cheerful voice interrupted. "Before your Lord Father catches his daughter playing with weapons instead of needlework?"
They turned to find Wylla Manderly leaning against the armory door, her green hair pulled back in a simple braid. She wore a riding dress of sea-green, practical enough for movement but still fine enough to mark her station.
"Before we broke our fast," Jon finished, feeling unexpectedly pleased to see her.
Arya studied the newcomer with undisguised curiosity. "You're the one with the green hair. I saw you at the feast."
"You are quite observant." Wylla snorted, earning a look from Arya. "And you're the one who put frogs in your sister's bed," Wylla replied with a grin. "I heard the screaming all the way from the guest house."
Arya's eyes widened with delight. "You're not going to tell Septa Mordane, are you?"
"Tell her what?" Wylla winked. "I simply happened upon Lord Stark's children practicing archery. Nothing unusual about that."
Jon cleared his throat. "Arya, this is Lady Wylla Manderly of White Harbor. Lady Wylla, my sister Arya."
"He is my favorite brother," Arya corrected automatically, then flushed when Jon's expression tightened. "Jon's more my brother than Sansa is my sister sometimes."
Wylla laughed. "I understand completely. My sister Wynafryd is so proper I sometimes wonder if we're related at all."
"Is that why you dyed your hair green?" Arya asked, direct as always. "To annoy her?"
"Arya," Jon admonished, but Wylla waved off his concern.
"Partly," she admitted. "Though it was mainly to avoid a marriage my grandfather was arranging."
Arya's eyes grew round. "Did it work?"
"Perfectly. The boy's mother was horrified—said I was 'unnatural' and would bear green-haired children." Wylla rolled her eyes. "As if hair dye works that way."
"I'm never getting married," Arya declared firmly. "I'm going to be a knight like Visenya Targaryen."
Jon exchanged an amused glance with Wylla. "Visenya was a warrior queen, not a knight, little sister."
"Same thing," Arya insisted, setting down her bow. "Lady Wylla, do you know how to use a bow properly? Jon says I need to relax my grip, but it feels wrong."
"I'm decent with a bow," Wylla admitted. "Though I suspect your brother is better."
"Show me," Arya demanded, thrusting the bow at Wylla.
Jon expected the Manderly girl to refuse—most highborn ladies would. Instead, Wylla accepted the bow with a confident smile.
"Watch carefully, then," she said, selecting an arrow from the quiver.
Her form was good—better than "decent," Jon noted. She nocked the arrow smoothly, drew the bowstring back to her cheek, and released. The arrow struck two rings from the center.
"See how I hold it?" Wylla demonstrated her grip to an attentive Arya. "Firm enough for control, but not so tight you strain your fingers."
"Can I try again?" Arya asked, practically bouncing with eagerness.
As Arya took another shot under Wylla's guidance, Jon found himself watching them both with a strange feeling in his chest. It was... nice, he decided. Nice to see Arya getting guidance from someone other than himself, especially a highborn lady who didn't scold her for her interests.
"Your turn, Jon," Wylla called, breaking his reverie. "Show us how it's done properly."
Jon accepted the bow, suddenly aware of both girls watching him. He nocked an arrow, focusing on the target rather than his audience. The familiar motion calmed him—draw, aim, release. The arrow flew true, striking the inner ring just shy of the bullseye.
"Well done!" Wylla clapped appreciatively.
"Jon's good at everything," Arya declared with sisterly pride. "Except dancing. He's terrible at dancing."
"I am not," Jon protested, feeling his ears grow warm.
"Are too. I've watched you practicing with Sansa when Septa Mordane made you. You step on her feet every time."
Wylla laughed, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Perhaps Lord Jon simply needs a better partner."
Before Jon could respond, the distant sound of a bell signaled the hour to break their fast.
"We should go," he said, returning the bow to the rack. "Father doesn't like us being late to meals."
Arya groaned but helped gather the scattered arrows. "Will you sit with us at breakfast, Lady Wylla?"
"If your father permits it," Wylla replied. "And please, just call me Wylla. 'Lady' always makes me feel like I'm talking to my mother."
As they walked toward the Great Hall, Arya fell into easy conversation with Wylla, peppering her with questions about White Harbor and why she chose green for her hair.
"Have you ever considered another color?" Arya asked. "Like red, or blue?"
"Blue might be next," Wylla mused. "To match our house colors. Though purple would be more dramatic."
"You should do purple," Arya decided. "Sansa would be scandalized. She thinks hair should only be proper colors."
"And what do you think?" Wylla asked.
Arya considered this seriously. "I think people should look however they want. Hair is just hair."
"Wise words from one so young," Wylla said with a smile. "What about you, Jon? What color should I choose next?"
Jon, who had been content to listen to their chatter, was startled to be included. "I... I don't know much about such things."
"But you must have an opinion," Wylla pressed. "If you could change your hair color, what would you choose?"
The question was so frivolous, so far removed from his usual concerns, that Jon found himself genuinely considering it. "Silver, perhaps," he said finally, thinking of the stories Old Nan told of the Targaryens with their silver-gold hair.
Something flickered in Wylla's eyes—surprise, perhaps. "Silver would be striking," she agreed. "Though difficult to achieve, I imagine."
"Jon would look ridiculous with silver hair," Arya declared, breaking the moment. "His hair should stay exactly as it is."
They had reached the Great Hall, where most of the household was already assembled. Lord and Lady Stark sat at the high table with Lord Manderly and his granddaughters. The Stark children occupied their usual places, with an empty seat beside Arya.
"There you are," Lady Catelyn said, her gaze sharpening when she saw Jon and Wylla together. "Arya, you're late again."
"Sorry, Mother," Arya replied, not sounding sorry at all. "We were practicing archery."
Catelyn's lips thinned. "Archery. I see." Her gaze shifted to Wylla. "Lady Wylla, I trust my husband's... son... was not troubling you?"
"Not at all, Lady Stark," Wylla replied smoothly. "In fact, Jon was kind enough to show me the archery range. I've been practicing at home and wanted to compare techniques."
Whether Lady Stark believed this explanation or not, she merely nodded stiffly. "Arya, take your seat. The meal is about to begin."
Arya scurried to her place, but not before whispering to Jon, "Meet us in the godswood after breakfast."
Jon nodded slightly, then made his way to the lower tables where he usually sat with the guards and household staff. To his surprise, Wylla followed him.
"What are you doing?" he asked in a low voice. "Your place is at the high table."
"I know," she replied, then raised her voice. "Grandfather, may I sit with Jon and the others this morning? I'd like to hear more about Northern archery techniques."
Lord Manderly, a massive man whose great girth was matched only by his jovial nature, boomed with laughter. "Of course, child! Make friends wherever you can—that's what I always say."
Lady Stark's expression suggested she did not share Lord Manderly's sentiment, but she said nothing as Wylla triumphantly took a seat beside Jon.
"You shouldn't have done that," Jon murmured as servants began placing platters of food on the tables. "Your grandmother won't be pleased."
"My grandmother died three years ago," Wylla replied, helping herself to a slice of bread. "And Grandfather never denies me anything, especially when I'm making 'valuable Northern connections.'"
Jon wasn't sure how he qualified as a valuable connection, but he didn't pursue the matter. Instead, he found himself drawn into conversation with Wylla and several of the younger guards, discussing the merits of different bow styles.
For once, breakfast passed pleasantly, without the usual weight of Lady Stark's cold gaze on his shoulders.
.
.
"This is the best climbing tree in all of Winterfell," Arya declared, pointing to a gnarled sentinel pine near the edge of the godswood. "Bran and I found it last summer."
After breakfast, Jon had honored his promise to meet Arya, only to find Wylla already with her. The three had retreated to the godswood, where Arya seemed determined to show Wylla every secret spot she and her brothers had discovered over the years.
"It looks... very tall," Wylla observed, craning her neck to see the upper branches. "Do you climb all the way to the top?"
"Bran does," Arya said. "I can barely reach two meters. Jon doesn't climb at all."
"I've climbed," Jon protested. "Just not as high as Bran."
"No one climbs as high as Bran," Arya said proudly. "Mother says he'll give her grey hairs before she's forty."
Wylla circled the tree, eyeing it speculatively. "We don't have trees like this in White Harbor—at least, not in the city proper. The wolfswood is like nothing I've ever seen."
"Have you been beyond the walls?" Arya asked.
Wylla shook her head. "Grandfather would have a fit. He says the woods are full of wolves and wildlings."
"The wolves keep to themselves," Jon said. "And there haven't been wildling raiders this far south in years."
"Could we go?" Wylla asked eagerly. "Just a little way in? I've never been in a proper forest before."
Jon hesitated. The wolfswood wasn't dangerous exactly, especially close to Winterfell, but it wasn't his place to take Lord Manderly's granddaughter traipsing through the wilderness.
"Please, Jon?" Arya added her plea, grey eyes wide. "Just to the old oak. It's not far."
Jon sighed, already knowing he would give in. "Just to the oak, then. No further."
The old oak stood barely a quarter-mile into the wolfswood, close enough to Winterfell's walls that one could still see the towers through the trees. Jon led the way, keeping a watchful eye on both girls as they ventured deeper into the forest.
"It's so quiet," Wylla whispered, as if afraid to disturb the stillness. "But not silent—there's sound everywhere, just... different sounds."
Jon nodded, understanding what she meant. The wolfswood had its own language: the whisper of leaves overhead, the distant call of birds, the occasional crack of a branch as some small animal moved through the undergrowth.
"There it is," Arya announced, pointing ahead to where an ancient oak stood in a small clearing. "Robb says it's older than Winterfell, but I think he's making that up."
The oak was massive, its trunk wider than three men standing side by side. Its branches spread outward like grasping fingers, creating a canopy that dappled the ground below with shifting patterns of sunlight and shadow.
"It's magnificent," Wylla breathed, approaching the tree with reverence. "We have the heart tree in our godswood, but nothing like this."
She pressed her palm against the rough bark, closing her eyes as if listening to something only she could hear. Jon watched her, struck by how at ease she seemed in these Northern surroundings despite her southern upbringing.
"Jon, look!" Arya called, pointing to the upper branches where a nest was just visible. "Is that a raven's nest?"
Jon shaded his eyes, studying the dark shape. "I think it's abandoned—too early for nesting season."
Arya was already halfway up the trunk, using the gnarled bark for handholds. "I'm going to see!"
"Arya, wait—" Jon began, but she was already scrambling upward with the agility of a squirrel.
"She certainly doesn't lack for courage," Wylla observed, coming to stand beside him as they watched Arya's ascent.
"Or recklessness," Jon muttered. "She's always been like this—rushing headlong into everything without a moment's thought."
"I like her," Wylla declared. "She reminds me of myself at that age."
"You're hardly ancient now," Jon pointed out.
Wylla laughed. "True enough. But there's something about being ten that's... freer, somehow. Before you really understand all the rules they expect you to follow."
Jon nodded, thinking of how Arya still railed against the restrictions placed upon her as a girl, while Sansa, only two years older, had already embraced them fully.
"It's empty!" Arya called down from nearly thirty feet above. "Just some old twigs and—oh! There's something shiny!"
"Be careful," Jon called back, tension coiling in his stomach as he watched her reach precariously toward something they couldn't see.
"I've got it!" Arya's triumphant cry was followed by her beginning a much faster descent, half-climbing, half-sliding down the trunk until she dropped the final few feet to land in a crouch before them.
"Look what I found," she said, holding out her prize: a small silver pendant on a broken chain. The pendant was shaped like a trident, its prongs gleaming dully in the filtered sunlight.
"That's a merman's trident," Wylla said, peering at the trinket. "Like House Manderly's sigil."
"It must belong to one of your household," Jon suggested. "Lost during a hunt, perhaps?"
Wylla shook her head. "I don't think so. Look at the style—it's old, much older than anything we'd wear now."
Arya held it up, letting it spin slowly on its chain. "Maybe it belonged to the First Men."
"The First Men didn't use silver like this," Jon corrected gently. "And the Manderlys came north only a thousand years ago."
"Still, it's a strange coincidence," Wylla mused, touching the pendant lightly. "Finding a merman's trident in a tree, just when we Manderlys are visiting."
"You should keep it," Arya decided, pressing the necklace into Wylla's hand. "It's a sign."
"A sign of what?" Jon asked, amused by his sister's sudden superstition.
Arya shrugged. "I don't know. But Old Nan says when you find something unexpected, it's the gods trying to tell you something."
Wylla closed her fingers around the pendant, an unreadable expression crossing her face. "Thank you, Arya. I'll treasure it."
The sound of a distant horn cut through the forest stillness—the signal for midday meal.
"We should head back," Jon said, glancing at the position of the sun. "They'll be looking for us."
As they made their way back toward Winterfell, Arya skipping ahead while Jon and Wylla followed at a more sedate pace, Wylla slipped the broken necklace into her pocket.
"Your sister is a gift," she said softly. "Fierce and kind."
"She is," Jon agreed. "Though Lady Stark fears she'll never make a proper lady."
"There are many ways to be a lady," Wylla replied. "My grandfather says a woman's spirit is like the sea—try to contain it, and you'll only create a storm."
"Your grandfather sounds like an unusual man."
"He is," Wylla agreed with a fond smile. "That's why he's lived so long and grown so fat—he doesn't waste energy fighting against the tides."
They walked in companionable silence for a moment before Wylla spoke again, her tone more serious. "Jon, may I ask you something?"
A flutter of anxiety passed through him. Had she noticed something strange about him? The incident with the shutters at the feast? His distraction this morning?
"Of course," he replied, keeping his voice neutral.
"The farewell feast tonight—will you be there?"
It wasn't what he'd expected. "I'll be there," Jon said slowly. "Though not at the high table."
Wylla stopped walking, turning to face him directly. "I want you to sit with me at the high table."
Jon stared at her in disbelief. "That's... that's not possible. Lady Stark would never allow it."
"Leave Lady Stark to me," Wylla said with a determined gleam in her eye. "Or rather, to my grandfather. He can be very persuasive."
"Why?" Jon asked, genuinely confused. "Why would you do that?"
Wylla's expression softened. "Because you're my friend, Jon Snow. And friends should sit together at feasts." She tilted her head, studying him. "Unless you'd rather not?"
"No, it's not that," Jon said hastily. "It's just... unusual."
"So is green hair," Wylla replied with a grin. "I've never cared much for usual."
The afternoon passed in a blur of activities. Lord Stark had arranged for a hunt to honor Lord Manderly, and most of the men rode out after the midday meal. Jon, to his surprise, was invited to join them—something that rarely happened when important guests were present.
Lord Manderly himself remained behind, claiming his girth made long rides uncomfortable, but his steward and several of his household knights joined the hunting party. Jon found himself riding alongside Robb and Theon, with Jory Cassel and several other Winterfell guards nearby.
"I hear you've been showing the Manderly girl around," Robb said as they trotted through the wolfswood. "The one with the green hair."
"Wylla," Jon confirmed. "She's... interesting."
Theon snorted. "Interesting is one word for it. Sharp-tongued little viper is another."
"Still bitter she put you in your place, Greyjoy?" Robb laughed. "Father said she's the most refreshing young lady he's met in years."
"Lord Stark said that?" Jon asked, surprised.
Robb nodded. "At breakfast this morning. Said she reminds him of Aunt Lyanna—all fire and no fear."
Jon stored that information away, oddly pleased by the comparison. He had heard stories of his father's sister all his life—her beauty, her wildness, her tragic death. To have Wylla compared to her by Lord Stark himself was no small thing.
The hunt was successful—two deer and a wild boar, enough to ensure the farewell feast would be well supplied. By late afternoon, they returned to Winterfell, where preparations for the evening's festivities were already underway.
Jon barely had time to clean up and change into fresh clothes before it was time to make his way to the Great Hall. He had half-convinced himself that Wylla's plan would come to nothing—that he would take his usual place at the lower tables and watch the highborn guests from afar.
He was therefore stunned when, upon entering the hall, he was intercepted by Lord Manderly himself.
"Young Snow!" the enormous lord boomed, clapping a meaty hand on Jon's shoulder. "There you are, lad. Come, come—you're seated with us tonight."
Jon blinked in confusion. "I... my lord?"
"At the high table, boy," Lord Manderly clarified, already steering Jon toward the dais where the high table stood. "My granddaughter speaks very highly of you—says you've been an excellent guide to Winterfell. The least we can do is have you join us for our farewell meal."
Jon caught sight of Lady Stark's rigid posture and tight-lipped expression as Lord Manderly led him toward the high table. Beside her, Lord Stark watched with a carefully neutral expression, though Jon thought he detected a hint of amusement in his father's eyes.
Wylla, already seated beside her sister Wynafryd, beamed triumphantly as Jon approached. She had dressed for the occasion in a gown of deep teal, embroidered with silver thread in patterns of waves and sea creatures. Her green hair was elaborately braided and coiled atop her head, with several small silver ornaments woven through it.
"Jon!" she called, waving him over. "Your seat is here, between me and Arya."
Indeed, there was an empty chair placed exactly there, as if it had always been intended for him. Jon hesitated, looking to Lord Stark for permission.
His father gave a slight nod. "Take your seat, Jon," he said quietly. "Lord Manderly has requested it."
That was apparently enough to override even Lady Stark's objections, though Jon could feel her cold gaze on him as he made his way around the table to the indicated chair.
"You actually did it," he murmured to Wylla as he sat beside her. "How?"
"I told you—my grandfather never denies me anything," Wylla whispered back, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Especially when I told him how knowledgeable you are about Northern history and customs."
"But I'm not—"
"You are compared to most," Wylla interrupted. "Besides, Grandfather believes in rewarding courtesy. When I told him how kind you'd been to me, he was determined to thank you properly."
Jon was saved from responding by the arrival of the first course: a rich seafood soup that Lord Manderly had apparently brought from White Harbor, complete with exotic spices that filled the hall with an unusual but appetizing aroma.
"From the far east," Lord Manderly explained to Lord Stark. "Our ships bring them from Qarth and beyond. The secret is in the saffron—most expensive spice in the world, but worth every gold dragon."
Beside Jon, Arya made a face at the unfamiliar flavors but gamely continued eating. On his other side, Wylla seemed perfectly at ease, chatting with both him and her sister Wynafryd as if Jon's presence at the high table was the most natural thing in the world.
As the meal progressed through several courses—each more elaborate than the last, showcasing both Northern and coastal specialties—Jon gradually relaxed. No one, apart from Lady Stark, seemed to find his presence unusual. Even Sansa, initially scandalized, had settled into polite conversation with Wynafryd about the latest fashions from White Harbor.
"This is nice," Wylla said quietly during a lull in the conversation. "Having you here, I mean."
Jon glanced at her, surprised by the sincerity in her voice. "It's... different," he admitted. "I'm not used to sitting up here."
"You should be," she said firmly. "You're Lord Stark's son, whatever your last name."
Before Jon could respond, Lord Manderly's booming voice cut through the general conversation.
"Lord Stark! I've been meaning to discuss something with you." The massive lord raised his goblet. "As you know, White Harbor thrives on trade and celebration. In three months' time, we plan to host a tourney to mark the anniversary of our founding—one thousand and fifty years since the Manderlys came north."
A murmur of interest rippled through the hall. Tourneys were rare in the North, more common in the southron kingdoms.
"There will be contests of archery and swordplay," Lord Manderly continued, "as well as a grand melee. Nothing as elaborate as they do in King's Landing, mind you, but a proper Northern celebration."
"It sounds a fine event," Lord Stark replied diplomatically. "White Harbor does your house proud, Lord Manderly."
"Indeed, indeed," the fat lord agreed. "But what would honor us most would be your presence, Lord Stark. You and your family would be our most distinguished guests."
Jon saw Lord Stark's slight hesitation. His father rarely traveled, especially not for something as frivolous as a tourney.
"I'm honored by the invitation," Lord Stark began, clearly preparing a gentle refusal. "However, the demands of governing the North—"
"Can surely wait for a week or two," Lord Manderly interrupted jovially. "Besides, it would be an excellent opportunity for the young ones to see more of the North. Educational, you might say."
To Jon's surprise, Lord Stark seemed to reconsider. His gaze swept across his children—Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and even little Rickon—before settling briefly on Jon himself.
"Perhaps you're right," Lord Stark said finally. "It has been some time since we visited White Harbor. The children would benefit from seeing more of the lands they will one day help govern."
Lady Stark's eyebrows rose in surprise, but she nodded in agreement. "It would be good for them to understand the importance of House Manderly to the North."
"Excellent!" Lord Manderly clapped his hands together in delight. "Then it's settled! The Starks will join us for the tourney. Your sons might even wish to participate in some of the events—the younger divisions, of course."
Robb straightened with interest. "I would be honored to represent Winterfell, my lord."
"As would I," Theon added quickly, not to be outdone.
"And your brother too, perhaps?" Lord Manderly nodded toward Jon. "I hear he's quite skilled with a sword."
An uncomfortable silence fell over the high table. Jon froze, aware of Lady Stark's expression hardening. Even Lord Stark looked uncertain how to respond.
"Jon is an excellent swordsman," Robb said into the silence. "Better than me in some respects."
Lord Stark cleared his throat. "We shall see, when the time comes, who will represent Winterfell."
It wasn't quite a confirmation that Jon would be included, but neither was it a refusal. Jon kept his eyes on his plate, unwilling to meet anyone's gaze.
Beside him, Wylla squeezed his hand briefly under the table. "You'll come," she whispered. "I'll make sure of it."
Long after the feast had ended, when most of Winterfell lay sleeping, Jon slipped from his bed once more. His mind was too full for sleep—the unexpected honor of sitting at the high table, Lord Manderly's invitation, Wylla's determined friendship. And beneath it all, the lingering mystery of the fire he had conjured.
He made his way to the same storeroom in the First Keep, careful to avoid the night guards on their rounds. Once inside, he lit a small candle and placed it on a shelf, then retrieved a blank piece of parchment he had taken from Maester Luwin's stores earlier that day.
Jon placed the parchment on the floor, then sat cross-legged before it. If he could create fire, even a small flame, he should be able to burn the parchment.
He extended his hand toward the parchment, concentrating as he had the night before. Nothing happened.
Jon closed his eyes, breathing deeply to calm his frustration.
He tried again, focusing on the memory of that feeling—the heat in his palm, the brief flicker of light. Again, nothing.
For nearly an hour, Jon attempted various approaches. He tried different hand positions, different thoughts, even speaking aloud to command the fire to appear. The parchment remained stubbornly unburned.
"Why won't it work?" he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. "I know I did it before."
As if in response to his frustration, a tiny spark appeared above his fingertips, flickering uncertainly before vanishing again.
Jon stared at the spot where it had been, then at the parchment. He wasn't imagining things. The fire was real—he simply couldn't control it yet.
With renewed determination, he tried again, focusing all his concentration on the parchment. This time, he pictured the fire in his mind, imagined the heat flowing down his arm into his hand, gathering at his fingertips.
A small flame sputtered to life above his palm, wavering like a candle in a draft. Jon held his breath, afraid the slightest movement might extinguish it. Slowly, carefully, he lowered his hand until the flame nearly touched the parchment.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, a small brown spot appeared on the parchment, spreading outward as the flame caught the edge. Jon quickly withdrew his hand, watching in astonishment as the fire consumed the parchment, reducing it to ash within moments.
He had done it. There was no denying it now—he had created fire from nothing but his own will.
As the last embers died away, Jon sat back, mind racing with implications. What was happening to him? Was it some kind of magic? Old Nan's stories spoke of skinchangers and greenseers among the First Men, but never of people who could create fire at will.
He was still pondering these questions when a strange warmth filled the room, accompanied by a soft blue light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
"Well done," a voice said from behind him. "Though your technique could use refinement."
Jon whirled around to find himself face to face with a tall, elderly man in elaborate red robes. His long white hair was pulled back from his face, which was distinguished by a pointed beard and penetrating eyes. Like Kyoshi before him, he seemed both present and not present, solid yet somehow transparent.
"Who are you?" Jon demanded, though part of him already knew the answer.
"My name is Roku," the apparition replied with a slight bow. "I am here to help you, as Kyoshi was."
"Help me with what?" Jon asked, rising to his feet. "What's happening to me? Why can I create fire?"
Roku studied him with a thoughtful expression. "You created fire because fire is the element that resonates most strongly with your spirit at this moment. It is the element of power, of desire, of will—and you, Jon Snow, have all three in abundance."
"But Kyoshi showed me air," Jon said, confusion evident in his voice. "She made the air move. She said I could do the same."
"And so you can," Roku agreed. "In time, you will master all four elements—air, water, earth, and fire. But each person's journey is different. For you, fire has awakened first."
"Four elements?" Jon shook his head, trying to make sense of it all. "Who are you people? What do you want from me?"
Roku's expression softened. "We are guides, Jon. Helpers on your path. As for what we want... we want what you want—to understand your purpose, to fulfill your potential."
"And what is my purpose?" Jon asked, frustration evident in his voice. "Everyone speaks in riddles. Kyoshi showed me airbending but wouldn't explain why. Now you appear and talk of four elements as if it should make sense to me."
"Patience," Roku counseled. "Some questions can only be answered when you are ready to hear them. For now, know this: the power you possess is ancient and sacred. It is a gift, but also a responsibility."
Jon sighed, recognizing he would get no direct answers. "Fine. Then at least show me how to control this... fire. I don't want to accidentally burn down Winterfell."
Roku smiled, seemingly pleased by the practical request. "A wise concern. Very well, I will teach you the basics of firebending control."
For the next hour, Roku guided Jon through several exercises—breathing techniques to regulate his inner heat, meditation to focus his energy, simple movements to direct the fire's flow.
"Firebending comes from the breath, not the muscles," Roku explained as Jon practiced a sequence of movements. "The breath becomes energy in the body. The energy extends past your limbs and becomes fire."
Jon followed the instructions, finding that with proper technique, he could create small, controlled flames more consistently.
"Why fire?" he asked during a brief rest. "Why not air, like Kyoshi tried to teach me?"
Roku considered the question. "The elements manifest differently for each person, influenced by their nature and circumstances. Fire is the element of drive and determination. Perhaps recent events have awakened these qualities in you."
Jon thought of Wylla's friendship, of sitting at the high table, of the possibility of traveling to White Harbor. Things he would never have imagined possible a week ago.
"Will I still learn airbending?" he asked.
"In time," Roku assured him. "For now, focus on controlling your firebending. Practice the breathing exercises daily, but be cautious. Fire is the most dangerous element—it consumes everything in its path if left unchecked."
Jon nodded, understanding the warning. "And will you return? To teach me more?"
"When you need guidance, we will be there," Roku said, his form already beginning to fade. "Remember, Jon Snow—fire is life, not just destruction. In the right hands, it brings warmth and light to darkness."
As Roku vanished completely, his final words lingered in the air: "Trust in yourself. The path ahead is long, but you will not walk it alone."
Jon remained in the storeroom for some time afterward, practicing the techniques Roku had taught him. By the time he finally returned to his bed, dawn was breaking over Winterfell's walls.
The Manderlys departed Winterfell the following morning, their procession of carriages and mounted guards assembling in the courtyard shortly after breakfast. Jon stood with the Stark children as Lord Stark and Lady Stark exchanged formal farewells with Lord Manderly.
"Remember, three months hence!" Lord Manderly boomed as he prepared to mount his specially reinforced horse. "We'll expect all of you in White Harbor for the tourney!"
"We shall be there," Lord Stark promised, clasping the larger man's arm in farewell.
As the adults continued their goodbyes, Wylla broke away from her sister and grandfather to approach the Stark children. She hugged Arya, who returned the embrace fiercely, then exchanged polite nods with Sansa and Bran.
When she reached Jon, she gave him a hug, not caring what the others thought.
"Thank you for showing me Winterfell," she said, loud enough for others to hear. Then, lowering her voice, she added, "And for being my friend."
"Safe travels," Jon replied. "I hope we meet again."
"We will," Wylla said with certainty. "At the tourney, if not before. You'll be there, Jon Snow. I'll make sure of it."
She pressed something into his hand—a small object wrapped in a scrap of cloth. Before he could inquire about it, she was being called back to her family's carriage.
Jon watched as the Manderly procession departed through Winterfell's gates, Wylla's green hair visible through the carriage window until they turned onto the King's Road.
Only when they had vanished from sight did he unwrap the small parcel Wylla had given him. Inside was the silver merman pendant Arya had found in the oak tree, its chain mended with a length of green silk thread.
Attached was a small note in an untidy but legible hand:
For luck. Don't lose it—I expect to see it when you come to White Harbor. Friends keep their promises.
-Your friend, Wylla
Jon smiled, tucking the pendant and note into his pocket. Three months until the tourney. Three months to master the strange fire that now lived within him.
Three months until he would see Wylla Manderly again.
As he turned back toward Winterfell, Jon felt something he hadn't experienced in a long time: anticipation for the future, and the strange, warm certainty that something extraordinary had begun.
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