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The Three-Headed Titan Chapter 13 (The Paths Before a Snow)
🕑 Added 2024-12-28 19:40:33 +0000 UTCThe tavern's warmth was a welcome respite from the biting cold of the autumn night. Wooden beams creaked overhead as patrons laughed and drank, the smell of ale and roasted meat filling the air. Jon watched as Theon surveyed the room with obvious disappointment.
"You look like someone stole your favorite toy," Jon commented, taking a seat at one of the worn wooden tables.
Theon scowled. "Some of us actually know how to enjoy life, Snow. Unlike certain brooding bastards."
"Enough," Robb interjected, signaling for drinks. "We're here to have fun, remember?"
"Oh yes, because nothing says fun like watching Theon sulk about not getting his cock wet tonight," Jon said dryly, earning a laugh from Robb and a deeper scowl from Theon.
"At least I know what to do with mine," Theon started, but Robb's sharp look silenced him before he could finish the taunt. They all knew where that sentence was heading - a cruel joke about Wylla.
The serving girl brought three tankards of ale, and Jon took a long drink. The liquid was bitter and warm, nothing like the refined wines served at Winterfell, but it served its purpose. Soon, the tension began to ease as more drinks followed.
Jon took another drink from his tankard, watching Theon sulk over his ale. "You look like a fish that's just discovered water isn't all there is to the world."
"Better than looking like someone who just found out this world is not a fairy tale," Theon shot back, then winced at his own words. "I didn't mean-"
"Yes, you did," Jon cut him off coldly, his mismatched eyes hardening. "You always mean it, Greyjoy."
Robb intervened quickly, "Both of you, stop. We're here to drink, not fight."
"Tell that to your squid brother," Jon muttered, earning a glare from Theon.
"At least I know how to enjoy life, Snow. When's the last time you did anything besides brood in your room?" Theon leaned forward. "Some say you've taken up needlework, spending so much time alone."
"Some say you've taken up sheep, Greyjoy. Missing the Iron Islands that much?" Jon retorted, his lips twitching slightly.
Robb nearly choked on his drink, caught between laughter and exasperation. "Seven hells, can't you two just-"
"What? Be friends?" Theon snorted. "I'd rather kiss a White Walker."
"That can be arranged," Jon said dryly. "Though the White Walker might object to kissing a kraken."
"Boys," Robb raised his voice slightly, though he was fighting back a smile. "Another round?"
"If it'll help me forget I'm sharing a table with him," Theon jerked his thumb toward Jon, "make it two."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "Careful, Greyjoy. Wouldn't want you getting too drunk and trying to raid the neighbor's chicken coop again."
"At least I don't sing to my sword when I think no one's watching," Theon smirked at Jon.
"Well, at least I don't name my cock like some people," Jon looked pointedly at Theon.
Theon spluttered into his drink while Robb roared with laughter. "I told you that in confidence!" Theon hissed at Robb.
"No, you told everyone in the great hall after six cups of wine," Robb corrected him, wiping tears from his eyes.
The three fell into a comfortable rhythm of jabs and jokes, the alcohol loosening their tongues and easing the usual tensions. Jon found himself actually enjoying Theon's outrageous stories about his adventures in the Iron Islands, while Robb kept them supplied with drinks and occasional peacekeeping interventions.
"Seven hells," Robb exclaimed after his fourth ale, his cheeks flushed. "Look at you two - actually talking without trying to kill each other!"
Jon realized with surprise that he was indeed engaged in an almost friendly conversation with Theon about archery techniques. Even more surprising was how clear-headed he felt despite matching the others drink for drink.
Word spread quickly through the tavern that Robb Stark himself was present. Soon, curious locals surrounded their table, each eager to share a drink with the heir to Winterfell. Robb handled the attention with natural charm.
"To Robb Stark!" someone shouted, raising a tankard.
The night took a different turn when three women entered the tavern, their presence immediately drawing every eye in the room. Their dresses cut just low enough to tantalize while maintaining a veneer of propriety.
The first, a redhead with bright green eyes, made straight for Theon. Within moments, she was perched on his lap, giggling at his increasingly outrageous boasts about his prowess with a bow.
The second, a brunette with a knowing smile, chose Robb. She played her part well, acting suitably impressed when others told her she was sitting with the future Lord of Winterfell.
The third approached Jon. She was arguably the most beautiful of the three, with long black hair and eyes the color of honey. Something in her face reminded him painfully of Wylla, though they looked nothing alike.
"Well," she purred, running a finger along his jaw, "aren't you something special? Those eyes... I've never seen anything like them."
"I'm sure you say that to all the men," Jon replied flatly, though he couldn't help but notice how her touch sent an unexpected shiver down his spine.
She laughed, a genuine sound that surprised him. "Usually, yes. But these?" She leaned closer, studying his mismatched eyes. "Purple and green... like something from an old tale. You're truly unique, my brooding warrior."
Before Jon could react, she pressed her lips to his cheek, the kiss lingering longer than necessary. Her perfume surrounded him, sweet and intoxicating, but all it did was remind him of wildflowers in White Harbor, of Wylla's laugh as she dragged him through the woods on another adventure.
"You're not Wylla," he whispered, more to himself than to her, as she moved to kiss his lips.
He pulled back gently but firmly. "You're very beautiful," he said, seeing the flash of disappointment in her eyes, "but I can't."
"Can't? Or won't?" she asked, studying his face with newfound interest.
"Both," Jon replied simply. "I'm sorry."
Jon watched her move away, joining a group of merchants at another table. Across from him, Theon was making a fool of himself, trying to impress his companion with increasingly unlikely tales of his seafaring adventures. Robb caught Jon's eye and raised an eyebrow in question, but Jon just shook his head slightly.
The night continued, filled with laughter and song, but Jon's thoughts kept drifting. To Wylla, to his strange powers, to the mysteries that seemed to multiply with each passing day. Still, he had to admit that Robb had been right about one thing - it felt good to be among the living again, even if only for one night.
As the hour grew late and Robb began showing signs of serious inebriation, Jon knew it was time to head back. He was surprised to find himself still steady on his feet, another strange quirk he'd have to add to his growing list of uncertainties.
"Come on," he said, helping Robb to his feet while Theon struggled to say goodbye to his new friend. "Father will have our heads if we're not back before dawn."
Looking at his brother's flushed face and Theon's exaggerated swagger, Jon couldn't help but smile. For all their differences and the secrets that now stood between them, these moments of normalcy were precious in their own way.
Tomorrow
Jon opened his eyes to early morning light filtering through his window. For a moment, he lay still, expecting the pounding headache and nausea that should follow a night of heavy drinking. Instead, he felt remarkably clear-headed, almost unnaturally so.
Was this why the ale hadn't affected him like it had Robb and Theon? Another peculiarity to add to his growing list of inhuman traits.
"One mystery at a time," he muttered, pushing himself out of bed.
The great hall was relatively empty when Jon arrived. Arya sat at the table, pushing porridge around her bowl while Robb looked like death warmed over, his head resting in his hands.
"Good morning," Jon said, perhaps a bit too cheerfully, earning a groan from his brother.
"Not so loud," Robb mumbled, wincing at the sound of his own voice.
Arya perked up at Jon's arrival. "You went to Winter Town last night! Did you fight anyone? Did you see any criminals? Did you-"
"Arya," Robb pleaded, "mercy."
Jon couldn't help but smile as he sat down, reaching for some bread and honey. "No fights, no criminals. Just your brother making a fool of himself."
"Which one?" Arya asked innocently.
"Both," Jon replied pointing at himself as well, then glanced around the hall. "Speaking of fools, where's Theon?"
Robb managed to lift his head slightly, his eyes bloodshot. "Still in bed. Said something about praying for death before pulling the covers over his head. He said he wished earth would just swallow him whole."
"The earth would spit him right back out," Jon said dryly. "Probably taste too much like fish."
Arya giggled while Robb attempted a smile that looked more like a grimace. "You seem... surprisingly well," Robb observed, studying Jon's face. "How much did you drink last night?"
"Same as you," Jon said carefully, focusing on his bread. Another lie to add to the growing pile.
"Impossible," Robb shook his head, immediately regretting the motion. "Look at me, go look at Theon. You should be as miserable as we are."
"Maybe I can just hold my liquor better than a pampered heir to Winterfell," Jon teased, deflecting the question.
Arya leaned forward, her gray eyes bright with curiosity. "Did you really turn down a pretty lady last night? That's what I heard the servants saying."
Jon's smile faded slightly. "You shouldn't listen to servants' gossip, little sister."
"But did you? Was she beautiful? Was she a princess in disguise?"
"She was just a woman in a tavern," Jon said quietly, memories of Wylla threatening to surface. "And yes, I turned her down."
"Because of Wylla?" Arya asked softly, showing that uncanny perception that sometimes made Jon wonder if she could read minds.
Robb looked up sharply, despite his hangover. The great hall seemed to grow quieter, as if the very air was holding its breath.
"Yes," Jon admitted after a moment. "Because of Wylla."
Arya reached across the table and placed her small hand over his. "She would want you to be happy, you know."
Jon looked at his little sister, wondering when she had grown so wise. "Sometimes being happy isn't as simple as we'd like it to be."
"Like when you lock yourself in your room every night?" Arya asked innocently, but her eyes were shrewd. "What do you do in there?"
Jon felt Robb's curious gaze join Arya's. He forced a smile. "Nothing interesting. Just thinking, mostly."
"You think too much," Robb grumbled, returning to his previous position with his head in his hands. "That's your problem."
"And you think too little," Jon countered, grateful for the chance to shift the conversation. "As evidenced by your current state."
"At least I know how to have fun," Robb mumbled into his hands.
"Is that what you call trying to convince the innkeeper's cat it was actually a small lion?" Jon asked, making Arya burst into laughter.
"You did what?" she demanded, eyes wide with delight.
"I did no such thing," Robb protested weakly. "Did I?"
"Oh, you did," Jon assured him. "You also tried to knight it. 'Ser Whiskers of House Purrington,' I believe you called it."
Arya was nearly falling off her bench with laughter now, while Robb looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. Jon watched them both, feeling a genuine smile spread across his face. These moments, these simple interactions with his siblings, helped keep the darker thoughts at bay.
Later
Jon climbed the steps to his father's solar, his mind racing through possible reasons for the summons. Had someone noticed his nightly activities? Had Robb mentioned something about his strange resistance to alcohol?
The heavy wooden door creaked as he entered. Lord Eddard Stark sat behind his desk, dark gray eyes studying his son with a familiar mixture of affection and concern.
"Sit, Jon," his father gestured to the chair across from him. Jon obeyed, noting the way his father seemed to be choosing his words carefully.
"Are you feeling better?" Ned finally asked.
Jon paused, considering the layers in that simple question. Better than when he first returned from White Harbor, hollow-eyed and haunted? Better than when he spent every waking moment trying to understand the strange power within him? Better than when he couldn't close his eyes without seeing Wylla's face?
"I'm... managing," he answered honestly, if not completely.
Ned nodded, accepting the answer for what it was. "I've been thinking about your future."
"My future?" Jon's mismatched eyes narrowed slightly. "What brought this on?"
His father leaned back in his chair, his face taking on that thoughtful expression he wore when making important decisions. "What happened in White Harbor was tragic, but it's made me realize something. You deserve more from this world, Jon."
The words hit Jon like a slap in the face. He stared at his father, trying to process what he was hearing. "I don't understand."
"Being a bastard," Ned said carefully, "has always limited your options. Or rather, we've allowed it to limit your options. While it's true there are no castles for you in the North..." He paused, making sure Jon was following. "That doesn't mean all your roads must lead to the Wall."
Jon shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "Where else could I go? What else could I do? I'm a Snow."
"You're also one of the finest swordsmen of your age I've ever seen," Ned countered. "Better than Robb, though don't tell him I said that." A rare smile crossed his face. "If you wished to stay in Winterfell, you could train as a Master at Arms. Ser Rodrik won't be able to serve forever, and he speaks highly of your abilities."
Jon hadn't considered that possibility. The thought of staying in Winterfell, teaching future generations of Starks, had its appeal. But something in his father's tone suggested there was more.
"But?" Jon prompted.
"But if you don't want to spend your entire life in Winterfell," Ned continued, "there are other paths. The Free Cities are always looking for skilled swordsmen. The Citadel accepts bastards, though I suspect you'd find their lifestyle too... sedentary. Even some of the lesser houses in the South might welcome a Northern-trained warrior into their service."
Jon's mind reeled with possibilities he'd never allowed himself to consider. All his life, he'd seen the Wall as his inevitable destination, a place where birth didn't matter. But now...
"Why are you telling me this now?" he asked.
Ned's expression grew more serious. "Because I've watched you these past two months, Jon. You've changed. Not just from grief, though that's part of it. There's something... different about you. Something that makes me think you might need to find your own path, away from the shadows of Winterfell."
Jon felt his heart rate increase. Had his father noticed something? Had he seen...?
"Also," Ned added, interrupting Jon's spiraling thoughts, "your Uncle Benjen is coming to Winterfell."
"Uncle Benjen?" Jon latched onto the change of subject. "When?"
"Within the fortnight. He's bringing news from the Wall, and..." Ned hesitated. "He's expressed interest in speaking with you."
Jon leaned forward. "About joining the Watch?"
"Perhaps," Ned said carefully. "Or perhaps about other matters. Benjen has... perspectives on life's choices that I think you might benefit from hearing."
They sat in silence for a moment, Jon's mind churning with everything his father had said. The possibility of a life beyond the Wall, beyond Winterfell even, seemed simultaneously liberating and terrifying. Especially now, with his unexplained abilities to consider.
"Father," Jon started, then stopped, unsure how to continue. Part of him wanted to confess everything - the healing, the gaps in his memory, the strange dreams. But the words wouldn't come.
"Yes?" Ned prompted gently.
"Thank you," Jon said instead. "For... for seeing more in me than just a bastard."
Ned's eyes softened. "You've always been more than that, Jon. Perhaps it's time the world saw it too." He paused, then added, "Whatever path you choose, know that you will always have a home here. Being a Snow doesn't change that you're my blood."
Jon nodded, his throat tight with emotion. As he stood to leave, his father's voice stopped him at the door.
"Jon? Whatever's troubling you, whatever's changed... you can talk to me about it. You know that, don't you?"
For a moment, Jon was tempted. But the memory of steam rising from healing wounds, of his inexplicable transformation in the woods, held him back. "I know," he said softly, and left the solar.
As he descended the stairs, his mind raced with new possibilities. A Master at Arms in Winterfell? A sellsword in the Free Cities? Or something else entirely? For the first time since discovering his strange abilities, Jon wondered if they might be more than just a curse.
But first, he needed to speak with Uncle Benjen. Something in his father's tone suggested there was more to this visit than a simple family reunion. And after two months of questions without answers, Jon was ready to grasp at any thread that might lead to understanding.
Two Weeks Later
The morning air was crisp, carrying the promise of another cold day. Jon stood with his siblings in the courtyard. For 7 days now, he had stopped experimenting. So far, he could stop his healing and focus on one wound at a time, but there was nothing beyond that. Everything he had learned so far about his abilities didn't explain how he could turn into a Titan.
Lady Catelyn's glare burned into the back of his head. Jon had long since mastered the art of pretending not to notice; there was no point in giving her any satisfaction.
"Stop fidgeting," Arya whispered beside him, though she was bouncing on her toes with excitement.
"I'm not fidgeting," Jon whispered back, realizing he was indeed adjusting his sword belt for the third time.
"Are too. Is it because of Uncle Benjen? Or because you're trying not to think about whatever you were doing in your room last night?"
Jon stiffened. "What do you mean?"
"I heard noises. Were you practicing cooking again? Can you make those honey cakes tomorrow?"
Jon relaxed slightly. "Maybe. If you promise to stop eavesdropping at my door."
"I wasn't eavesdropping! I was... strategically gathering information."
"Who taught you that phrase?"
"Theon. He says it's what clever people call spying."
"Since when is Theon clever?"
Their whispered conversation was interrupted by the sound of hooves on cobblestones. Six riders in black entered the courtyard, their cloaks billowing in the wind. Jon recognized his uncle immediately - Benjen Stark had the same long face as his father, though his features were sharper, more weathered by the harsh conditions at the Wall.
"Ned!" Benjen called out, dismounting with the ease of a man half his age. The brothers embraced, and Jon noticed how his father seemed to relax slightly in his brother's presence.
"You look well, Ben," Ned said, stepping back to study his brother's face.
"The Wall agrees with me," Benjen grinned, then turned to Lady Catelyn. "My lady, you grow more beautiful each time I visit."
"You grow more silver-tongued, goodbrother," Catelyn replied with a small smile, though Jon noticed how quickly her eyes darted to him and away again.
Benjen moved down the line of Stark children. "Robb, you've grown. Soon you'll be taller than your father." He ruffled Sansa's hair, making her protest. "A proper lady now, I see." To Arya: "Still causing trouble?" Which earned him a proud grin. He lifted Bran up, spinning him around. "Getting too heavy for this!" And finally crouched to Rickon's level. "And who might this wild thing be?"
"I'm Rickon!" the youngest Stark declared. "I'm four!"
"Four? Impossible. You were just born yesterday!"
Finally, Benjen turned to Jon, and his smile softened. "Come here, my boy." He pulled Jon into a tight embrace, and Jon caught a whiff of leather, pine, and something colder - the smell of the Wall itself, perhaps.
"It's good to see you, Uncle Benjen," Jon said as they separated.
Benjen studied him intently, and Jon wondered if his uncle could see the changes in him - not just the physical ones.
"Those eyes of yours," Benjen mused. "They seem different somehow. Brighter."
Jon tensed slightly. "Just the light, probably."
"Hmm." Benjen's gaze lingered a moment longer before he turned to address the whole family. "I bring news from the Wall, but first, I wouldn't say no to some of that famous Winterfell ale. The ride was long, and my throat is as dry as a septon's sermons."
"Of course," Ned gestured toward the great hall. "We have much to discuss."
As they moved inside, Benjen fell into step beside Jon. "On your father's letters, he said you had an... eventful few months."
Jon's chest tightened. "You could say that."
"We'll talk later," Benjen said quietly. "There are questions I need to ask."
Before Jon could respond, Arya tugged at Benjen's cloak. "Did you fight any wildlings? Did you see any giants? Jon killed a giant bear, did you hear about that?"
"A giant bear?" Benjen raised an eyebrow at Jon. "No, I hadn't heard that tale."
"It wasn't that impressive," Jon mumbled.
"Not impressive?" Robb joined in. "The spear went straight through its neck! Even Father said he'd never seen anything like it."
"Speaking of impressive things," Arya continued, "Jon can cook now! He makes the best honey cakes in Winterfell."
"A warrior and a cook?" Benjen laughed. "My, my, nephew. You've been busy."
"He sings too!" Arya added helpfully. "But only when he thinks no one's listening."
"Arya!" Jon felt his face heat up.
"What? It's true! I heard you yesterday. What was that song about the maiden and the-"
"Look!" Jon interrupted desperately. "Why don't you go annoy Septa Mordana."
Benjen watched the exchange with obvious amusement. "Singing, cooking, and slaying bears. You've changed, Jon Snow."
You have no idea, Jon thought, but said only, "We all change, Uncle."
"Indeed we do," Benjen's voice turned serious. "Indeed we do." He clapped Jon on the shoulder. "Come find me after the feast tonight. We have much to discuss, you and I."
As his uncle walked ahead to join Ned, Jon couldn't shake the feeling that this visit would bring more changes.
