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The snow beyond the Wall stretched endlessly in all directions, a white wasteland that swallowed sound and hope alike. Six figures moved across its surface like dark stains against the pristine landscape.
"There!" Rorrick pointed with a mittened hand toward a brown speck darting between snow drifts. "Little bastard's fast, I'll give 'im that."
The rabbit—no bigger than a man's fist and skinny from the harsh winter—zigzagged desperately through the snow before disappearing over a small ridge. The wildlings watched it vanish.
"Ah, bugger!" Rorrick spat, his red beard bristling with frost. At six feet tall and broad as a tree trunk, he was the undisputed leader of their small band. "That's our supper running away on four legs."
Gendel, a wiry man with gaps where teeth should be, let out a thin, cruel laugh. "What now, eh? Gonna eat snow again tonight?"
"Snow and pine needles," added Harren, scratching at the lice in his greasy hair. "My belly thinks my throat's been cut and I don't even have force to laugh at my own joke ."
All eyes turned to the smallest member of their group—a boy barely old enough to have stubble dotting his gaunt cheeks. At fifteen, Cranag was skinny as a reed, his knees already trembling from cold and exhaustion. His father's ax hung across his back.
"You," Rorrick growled, jabbing a dirty finger at Cranag. "You go catch it."
Cranag's eyes widened. "W-why me?"
"Because you eat the least and you're worth the least," Harren said with a sneer. "Rest of us are too tired running after that rabbit you can't be tired looking at us."
"And because if you don't bring it back," Gendel added, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, "we'll tie you to a tree with your own bootlaces. Naked."
The other wildlings chuckled darkly. Rorrick nodded approvingly. "Aye, we won't kill you outright—that'd be a mercy. We'll leave you for the white walkers to find. Let them drag you back to whatever frozen hell they crawl out of."
"Course, they might not take you right away," Harren mused with false thoughtfulness. "Might leave you there for a day or two first. Let you think about how you let your brothers down like your filthy father ."
The laughter that followed was cold and jagged, like ice breaking. Cranag swallowed hard.
"I... I'll get the rabbit," he stammered.
Cranag stumbled off alone into the whiteness, his worn boots crunching through the snow. Behind him, he could hear the others laughing at him and making comment about his dead father, their voices carrying on the wind as they discussed.
The wind picked up as he crested the ridge, driving snow into his eyes and making him squint. The rabbit's trail was already growing faint—white fur on white ground was nearly impossible to track. He crouched down, scanning desperately for any sign of movement.
There. A flash of white near a cluster of ice-covered rocks.
Cranag crept forward, trying to remember everything his father had taught him about hunting.
A sound behind him made his blood freeze.
Not laughter this time. Not the wind whistling through the rocks.
Something... heavier. Like boulders grinding together.
When he turned, his heart stopped.
A massive white shape rose from behind a snow drift where nothing had been moments before. The polar bear was bigger than any horse Cranag had ever seen, its shoulder reaching nearly to his chest even on all fours.
In its jaws, limp and bloody, dangled the rabbit.
Cranag couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The bear's black eyes fixed on him, and he saw his own death reflected in those empty depths. This close, he could smell it—wet fur and old blood and something else. Something wrong.
The bear dropped the rabbit and let out a sound like a glacier splitting apart—a roar that seemed to shake the very air. Then it charged.
Cranag shut his eyes tight, lifted his spear with hands that shook like leaves, and waited for the massive paws to crush his skull.
Five heartbeats passed. Then another. And another.
Silence.
He cracked one eye open. Then both.
The bear lay motionless in front of him, impaled by a dozen jagged spears of ice that jutted from the ground. Blue-white crystal formations, sharp as steel and thick as his arm, had erupted from the earth like a deadly garden.
Cranag spun left, then right, searching for whoever had saved him. Nothing but snow and wind. Nothing but silence.
Then came another sound—faint at first, but growing clearer.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The sound of ice striking ice. Of crystal chimes in a frozen wind.
He knew that sound. Every wildling beyond the Wall knew that sound.
The White Walkers.
His breath turned to white smoke as panic seized him. Cranag ran, abandoning the rabbit, abandoning his spear.
He reached the ridge where he'd left them, stumbled back down the slope toward their makeshift camp—only to find the snow painted red.
They were all dead.
Rorrick lay on his back, his red beard now crimson with frozen blood. A shard of blue ice, thin as a blade and twice as long as a sword, protruded from his chest. Gendel and Harren were sprawled nearby, their bodies pierced by similar crystalline spears.
The others—Jorik, Munda, and old Styr—were scattered across the camp like discarded dolls, their eyes already clouded with that same terrible frost.
Cranag staggered backward, bile rising in his throat. Then he heard them again.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
He turned slowly, already knowing what he would see.
They stretched to the horizon—thousands of them. White Walkers in armor that seemed carved from winter itself, their pale faces emotionless as carved stone. Behind them came their army: wights with blue eyes and blackened flesh, shambling forward in perfect silence.
And behind him, cutting off any retreat, more still. A wall of death encircling him completely.
Overhead, a crow circled once against the gray sky, its black wings cutting through the falling snow. It cawed—a harsh, mournful sound—then wheeled away toward the south.
Cranag looked up at the departing bird with the last desperate hope of a drowning man. Then the White Walkers closed in, and the screaming began.
-
Far to the south, in a cave, an ancient figure gasped and his milk-white eyes snapped open.
The Three-Eyed Raven's withered hand clutched at the arm of his wooden throne, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. Root and branch had grown through his flesh over the decades, binding him to the great weirwood, but now his body trembled .
The boy. The ice.
The visions crashed through his mind in fragments—crystalline spears erupting from frozen earth, the sound of ten thousand dead feet crunching through snow, and beneath it all, the cold presence that commanded them. Ancient. Patient. Hungry.
"Leaf," he gasped, his voice cracking like autumn branches. "Leaf, where are you?"
Footsteps rustled through the carpet of fallen leaves that covered the cave floor. A small figure emerged from the shadows—one of the Children of the Forest, her cat-like eyes gleaming golden in the dim light that filtered through cracks in the stone ceiling.
"I am here, Last Greenseer," she said, her voice like wind through pine needles. "You cried out in your seeing. What did the sight show you?"
"The Army has been getting more active these days, something has changed," Brynden said looking worried.
"What do you mean? Is it the boy?" Leaf asked with a quiet voice, knowing from Brynden that someone south of the Wall was showing abilities beyond extraordinary.
"I'm not sure. The boy is strange, and he is showing abilities that I have never heard of, and now the white walkers are able to grow ice. I'm not sure what to make of this, but I will need to get more information, tell Coldhands to come here."
Leaf nodded and walked away without saying anything, leaving Brynden alone with his thoughts.
Jon Snow (10)
Jon went very still. "What?"
Wylla glanced around the god's wood, then leaned closer, dropping her voice to a hushed whisper. "I saw you below the water. I saw your eyes glowing white as winter stars. And I saw the sea itself bend to your will." She looked directly at him. "I'm not blind, and I'm not stupid."
"My eyes were... white?" Jon asked quietly, confused. He remembered the power flowing through him, the sense of being both himself and something greater, but he hadn't known about his eyes.
"White as fresh snow," Wylla confirmed, still speaking in hushed tones. "Like they were lit from within by starlight."
Jon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning breeze. None of the spirits had mentioned anything about his eyes changing. What did that mean?
"Why didn't you say anything before?" he asked, matching her quiet tone.
"Because you clearly didn't want to talk about it. And because..." Wylla hesitated, then continued more quietly. "Because I wanted to thank you, everyone else was busy thanking the old gods, drowned gods, or the Seven, and I knew you saved us, not gods, you."
The simple honesty in her voice made Jon's chest tight. Here he'd been agonizing over keeping his secret, and she'd been patiently waiting for him to share it willingly.
"Aren't you afraid?" he asked quietly.
"Of you? Never." Wylla's answer came without hesitation. "Should I be?"
Jon thought about the massive wave he'd controlled, about the ice daggers he could create, about the power that sometimes felt like it might consume him entirely. "I don't know. Sometimes I'm afraid of what I might do."
"But you saved us," Wylla pointed out, her voice still barely above a whisper. "All of us. You could have let us drown and saved only yourself, but you didn't. That tells me everything I need to know about who you are."
Jon glanced around the god's wood again, then made a decision. If she already knew, what was the point of hiding it?
"I can control water," he admitted quietly. "And fire, though that's gone missing lately. And air, to some degree."
Wylla's eyes went wide with excitement, though she kept her voice hushed. "That's incredible! How do you do it? Can you show me? How long have you been able to—"
"Wylla," Jon interrupted softly, "you have to promise me something first."
"Anything."
"Don't tell anyone. No one. Not your sister, not your grandfather, not even..." He hesitated, thinking of all the people who might use this knowledge against him. "Not anyone. Just you and me."
"Of course," Wylla said immediately. "Jon, I would never betray your trust. Never."
"How is this even possible?" she asked, her voice full of wonder but still carefully quiet. "People can't just... control elements. That's not how the world works."
"I don't know," Jon admitted. "It started happening a few months ago. Someone has been... guiding me, but I don't fully understand it myself."
"Someone's teaching you?" Wylla's eyes lit up with curiosity. "Who? Where did they—"
"What are you two whispering about over there?"
Both Jon and Wylla jumped at the sound of Robb's voice. Jon's heart nearly stopped as he saw his brother and Theon approaching, having apparently been watching them from the corner of a nearby tree.
"We were just... talking," Jon said quickly, trying to keep his voice casual while his mind raced for a believable explanation.
"Looked like you were plotting something," Theon said with a smirk. "Very secretive, very suspicious."
"We were discussing..." Jon began, desperately searching for something that would satisfy their curiosity without revealing the truth.
But before he could finish his sentence, Wylla suddenly reached behind her and grabbed something—a wooden bucket that had been sitting in the grass that Jon hadn't noticed.
She flung the contents at him.
Cold water splashed across his chest and face, soaking through his tunic and dripping from his chin. Jon stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, water running down his nose and pooling at his feet.
Robb and Theon burst into laughter immediately.
"Oh, that's perfect!" Robb gasped between laughs. "Jon Snow, mighty warrior, defeated by a girl with a bucket!"
"Look at his face!" Theon wheezed. "He looks like a drowned cat!"
"Piss off," Jon told them irritably, water still dripping from his hair.
The two boys laughed even harder at his response before wandering away, still chuckling and making jokes about Jon's "graceful soaking."
When they were gone, Jon turned to Wylla, who was trying very hard not to laugh herself. "What was that about?"
"You looked panicked," she said with a mischievous grin. "I thought it might be a good distraction. Besides, I thought you could just... you know." She gestured at his soaked clothes. "Fix it?"
Jon glanced around to make sure they were truly alone now. "I'm still learning," he said quietly. "I'm only a novice at this."
But he extended his awareness to the water clinging to his clothes. It responded immediately, though not as smoothly as it might have with more practice. He managed to pull some of the water from his tunic, though he was still quite damp when he finished.
"I'm sorry," Wylla said, suddenly looking concerned as she watched his imperfect attempts. "I've probably ruined your clothes completely. Father will have my head if I've damaged guest garments."
"They'll dry," Jon assured her, though his tunic was still thoroughly wet despite his efforts. "It's just water."
Wylla smiled at him—not her usual mischievous grin, but something softer, more private. "Thank you for trusting me, Jon. I know it wasn't easy."
"Thank you for not running away screaming," Jon replied, wringing water from his sleeves. "Most people would."
"I'm not most people," Wylla said simply.
No, Jon thought, watching her eyes sparkle with secrets and acceptance. You're definitely not.
"Though I have to say," Wylla added with a mischievous grin, "I might have to start calling you Jon Watersnow instead of Jon Snow."
Despite everything, Jon found himself laughing. "Please don't."
"Too late. It's already decided." Wylla's expression grew more serious. "You said you could do fire and air as well, right?"
"Not fire, I can't use it for now," Jon reminded her, still feeling bitter that he could not use Firebending like he used to.
"But you can still do airbending?"
Jon nodded reluctantly. He gestured slightly, and a gentle breeze stirred the grass around them, lifting a few strands of Wylla's hair.
"Incredible," she whispered. "This is incredible, Jon. Do you realize what this means?"
"That I'm some kind of freak?"
"No!" Wylla's response was sharp, almost angry. "That you're special. That you can do things no one else can. That you're..." She searched for words. "That you're like something out of the old stories."
"I don't think they were able to control elements," Jon said dryly under his breath, liking the sight of Wylla smiling at him.
"Jon," Wylla said suddenly, her voice dropping to an excited whisper. "Can I learn to do it too?"
The question caught him completely off guard. "What?"
"Can you teach me? To control water like you do?" Her eyes were bright with hope and determination. "I know I probably can't do what you can, but maybe... maybe I could learn something?"
Jon's mind raced. Everything he'd learned from the blue spirits suggested that bending was extremely rare. He'd read books about history, and nowhere was it ever mentioned that someone could control elements. The closest thing he'd found was the legend that the White Walkers could bring storms of cold when they approached. But, based on everything he knew, the chances were that he was the only one who could bend, or if there were others, they didn't have their own blue people to tell them how to do it.
But then he looked back at her. Wylla was wonderful, brilliant, brave. looking at her eager face, seeing the hope and excitement there, Jon found himself nodding before he could think better of it.
"Yes," he said. "I'll teach you."
What am I doing? a voice in his head demanded. She can't bend. When she fails, when nothing happens, she'll be crushed. And she'll know I lied to her.
But another part of him, the part that was tired of being alone with his secrets, whispered back: Maybe she can. Maybe she was blessed with this as well.
"Really?" Wylla's face lit up like the sunrise. "You'll really teach me?"
"I'll try," Jon said, and meant it. "I don't know if it will work, but I'll try."
I just want a friend, he realized. Someone who knows what I am and doesn't run away. Someone who looks at me like Wylla is looking at me right now—like I'm wonderful instead of dangerous.
"When do we start?" Wylla asked, already looking around the God's wood as if expecting to begin immediately.
"Not now," Jon said quickly. "It's still the middle of the day. But... maybe tonight? After the evening meal?"
"Perfect." Wylla scrambled to her feet, suddenly full of restless energy. "Oh, this is going to be amazing! I can't wait to show Father that I'm not just some delicate flower who needs protecting."
The comment struck something in Jon—the desire to prove oneself, to be more than what others expected. He understood that feeling all too well.
"Wylla," he said, standing as well. "Whatever happens, whatever you can or can't learn... it doesn't change who you are. You're already strong. You don't need magic to prove that."
She smiled at him, soft and genuine. "Thank you, Jon. But I still want to try."
Of course she does, Jon thought, watching her practically vibrate with excitement. And I'll do everything I can to help her succeed.
Even if he had no idea how to teach someone something he barely understood himself.
Even if the little voice in his head kept insisting that he was setting them both up for disappointment.
Maybe anything is possible.
But deep down, he was already dreading the moment when Wylla would try to move water and nothing would happen.
Jon and Wylla walked side by side through the castle gardens, following a winding path that led toward the harbor walls. Wylla chattered excitedly about the lesson to come, her hands gesturing as she spoke, her whole body practically humming with anticipation.
"Do you think I'll be able to make waves like you did?" she asked, for what Jon was certain was the fourth time. "Or maybe just moving water in a cup at first? Oh, what if I can freeze it? That would be useful in summer—imagine having ice whenever you wanted!"
Jon nodded and made appropriate sounds of agreement, but his mind was elsewhere. The initial rush of sharing his secret had faded, replaced by a growing knot of dread in his stomach.
What have I done? he thought miserably. She's so excited, so hopeful, and when nothing happens...
"You're very quiet," Wylla observed, slowing her pace slightly. "Having second thoughts about teaching the delicate flower from White Harbor?"
"No," Jon said quickly. "Just thinking about where to start."
It wasn't entirely a lie. He was thinking about where to start—specifically, how to start explaining to Wylla that he'd made a promise he couldn't keep without destroying the first real friendship he'd ever had.
"Why do boys lie?"
The voice came from directly beside his ear, sharp as a blade and twice as cold. Jon stumbled slightly, his head whipping around to see who had spoken, but the path was empty except for him and Wylla.
Wylla noticed his sudden movement. "Are you all right?"
"Actually," Jon said quickly, his heart beginning to race as he recognized Kyoshi's voice, "could you give me a moment? I just... I need to think through something. About the lesson."
Wylla frowned, clearly concerned. "Are you sure you're feeling all right? You look pale."
"I'm fine," Jon insisted. "Just need a moment to clear my head. Could you... maybe go ahead to the harbor? I'll catch up with you in a few minutes."
"Well..." Wylla hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave him. "If you're certain..."
"I am. I promise I'll explain everything when I find you."
After a moment's more hesitation, Wylla nodded. "All right. But don't keep me waiting too long— the Meele will start within three hours, and I don't want you to be late."
Jon managed a weak smile as she walked ahead, her green hair catching the sunlight. When she was out of earshot, he spoke quietly to the empty air.
"Kyoshi?"
Her voice came again, dripping with disapproval. "Thought you saw your conscience, perhaps? Or just the weight of your deception finally settling in?"
Jon continued walking slowly, trying to keep his voice low. "I... didn't want to hurt her feelings."
Kuruk's laugh rang out. "That's what he said! 'I didn't want to hurt her feelings.' And how did that work out, boy?"
"Please," Jon muttered desperately. "Not now. She's going to wonder why I'm talking to myself."
But Kyoshi's voice came back stronger than before, filled with the authority that reminded Jon of his father.
"You know better than anyone, Kuruk, that even spirits can be killed. So shut your mouth while I educate this boy."
The sudden violence in her tone made Jon flinch visibly, even though he was alone on the path now.
Kyoshi continued, her voice now cold and merciless. "Why did you lie to her, Jon Snow? You know that if she fails—as she almost certainly will—it will hurt her far worse than the truth would have. And she'll see you for what you are. A liar."
The words hit Jon like a wave, a very big wave. He knew she was right. He'd known it the moment he'd made the promise, but Wylla's excitement had been so infectious, her hope so bright, that he'd convinced himself maybe, somehow, it would work out.
"I just..." Jon started, then continued quietly, "I wanted a friend. And I thought... if I could teach her something... we'd spend more time together."
The admission came out more honestly than he'd intended. Jon felt heat rise in his cheeks as a single tear slid down his face—not from sadness, exactly, but from the overwhelming loneliness that had been his constant companion for so long. Robb spend time with him, as did Arya, but they were his siblings. Wylla was the first trueborn girl who treated him like he was worthy of something, and he wanted to keep that.
And now I've ruined it before it even began.
Before he could say anything else, Kyoshi's voice came again—but this time, her tone had shifted. The harsh edge was still there, but underneath it was something that might have been understanding.
"Oh, child," she said, and for the first time since Jon had known her, she sounded almost... maternal. "You poor, lonely boy."
The unexpected compassion in her voice only made Jon feel worse. He was supposed to be stronger. Instead, he was a ten-year-old bastard who couldn't even be honest with the first person who'd ever looked at him without pity or suspicion.
"Can you help me?" Jon asked desperately.
"I cannot, Jon. We are spirits now—we can guide you, teach you, speak to you, but we cannot touch the physical world ourselves. We cannot bend elements any more than we can pick up a stone or light a fire."
The crushing disappointment that flooded through Jon nearly brought him to his knees. "Then what am I supposed to do? I promised her. She's so excited, and when nothing happens..."
"You'll have to tell her the truth," Kyoshi said gently. "Before the lesson. It will hurt, but not as much as letting her fail and then explaining why."
"She'll hate me," Jon whispered.
"She might," Kyoshi admitted. "But if she's truly your friend, she'll understand why you wanted to help her."
I have to tell her, he realized. I have to tell her I lied, and she's going to look at me the way everyone else does—like I'm just another disappointing bastard who can't be trusted.
"I'm sorry, Jon," Kyoshi said softly. "I wish I could help you more than this. But sometimes the hardest lessons are the ones we must face alone."
Her presence faded, leaving Jon standing by himself in the garden, dreading the conversation he knew he had to have.
Maybe she'll understand, he told himself. Maybe she'll forgive me for wanting so badly to have a friend that I lied to her.
But as he approached Wylla's waiting figure, the knot in his stomach only grew tighter.
"Jon!" she called out as he drew near. "There you are! I was starting to worry."
Jon looked at her bright, eager face and felt his heart break a little.
"Wylla," he said quietly, "we need to talk."
But before he could continue, Wylla's expression shifted as she glanced toward the castle. "Oh! Actually, Jon, we'll have to postpone our talk. It's time for you to get to the field and prepare for the melee."
Jon blinked, momentarily confused by the sudden change of subject. "What?"
"The young men's melee," Wylla said, taking his arm and gently steering him back toward the castle. "I just saw my sister Wynafryd walking with Robb toward the preparation area. You need to get ready too, or you'll be late."
As they walked, Wylla's excitement seemed to bubble over again. "I cannot wait to start learning after the melee is over," she said, practically bouncing on her toes. "Maybe by tonight I'll be able to make ice cubes for the victory feast!"
The innocent enthusiasm in her voice made Jon's stomach twist with guilt. She has no idea what I'm about to tell her, he thought miserably.
"Wylla, I really need to—"
"Oh, and since you're still only ten, they won't make you wear much armor," she continued, seemingly oblivious to his attempts to speak. "Just some basic protection. Though I still worry about you getting hurt." She glanced at him with genuine concern. "Promise me you'll be careful in there? I know you're skilled, but some of those boys are bigger than you."
"I promise," Jon said automatically, his mind still focused on the conversation he needed to have with her. "But Wylla—"
"Good luck, Jon Snow," she said firmly, squeezing his arm. "I have complete faith that you'll show them all what a true Northern warrior looks like."
Despite his inner turmoil, Jon felt a small warmth spread through his chest at her words. Even knowing what he had to tell her, hearing someone express such confidence in him was... nice.
They reached the edge of a large field where temporary wooden stands had been erected for spectators. Jon could see people already gathering to watch what would apparently be the first youth melee in White Harbor's history, maybe even Westeros.
"Lord Manderly is the first to do something like this," Wylla explained, noticing his curious gaze at the growing crowd. "A melee specifically for boys your age. Most people aren't sure what to expect—some think it's a wonderful idea, others worry it's too dangerous for children."
Jon nodded, though he was only half-listening. His mind kept returning to the confession he needed to make, the disappointment he was about to cause.
Wylla led him to a large wooden building near the field—clearly a temporary structure built specifically for the event. "This is where all the participants are gathering," she explained, pushing open the heavy door.
Inside, Jon was greeted by the sight of perhaps twenty boys ranging from his own age to what looked like thirteen or fourteen. Some were already putting on armor with the help of squires or older relatives, while others sat on benches looking nervous.
Jon immediately spotted Robb near one corner, adjusting leather bracers on his arms. Theon was nearby, looking supremely confident as he tested the weight of a practice sword. There were other boys Jon recognized from various Northern houses, as well as several he didn't know—likely from the visiting families.
One boy in particular caught Jon's attention: a heavyset lad who looked to be about eleven, struggling under the weight of what appeared to be a full suit of plate armor. The boy could barely walk, let alone fight effectively, and Jon wondered why his family had thought such heavy protection was necessary for what was meant to be a relatively safe competition.
"Well," Wylla said, drawing Jon's attention back to her, "this is where I leave you. I'll be watching from the stands, cheering you on."
Before Jon could respond, she rose up on her toes and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "For good luck," she said with a grin, then headed for the door.
"Wylla, wait—" Jon called after her, but she was already gone, leaving him standing in the doorway with his cheek tingling and his heart heavy.
I'll tell her after the melee, he decided reluctantly. I can't ruin her day twice by making her worry about me getting hurt AND telling her I lied about teaching her to bend.
"Jon!" Robb's voice called out. "Over here! They've got armor that should fit you."
With one last glance toward the door where Wylla had disappeared, Jon made his way deeper into the preparation room, trying to push thoughts of crushing disappointments and broken promises to the back of his mind.
For now, he had a melee to survive.
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