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The Three-Headed Titan Chapter 12 (The Blood That Heals)
🕑 Added 2024-12-28 19:39:09 +0000 UTCJon stood at the edge of the Godswood, the cold air biting through his cloak. Snow clung to the ancient heart tree. He leaned on his sword, the blade sunk slightly into the frost-hardened earth. His breath puffed in short, rhythmic bursts, matching the tumult of his thoughts.
"A monster," he whispered, the word hanging in the air like a ghost.
He'd replayed that day over and over in his mind, searching for answers in the hazy blur of blood, rage, and grief. He remembered the golden lightning, the surge of power, and the terrible aftermath. He remembered Wylla's lifeless body and the remains of the wildlings and deserters. But the in-between was a dark void. His body had moved, his strength unleashed, but his mind had not been his own.
The Titan. That's what Ymir had called it in his dreams. A being of immense power, tied to his bloodline, tied to... what? Eldia? What did that even mean? Jon had scoured Winterfell's library for answers, but the books spoke of nothing like what he'd become. No legends, no stories of men who turned into towering giants of flesh and fury.
The unknown gnawed at him like a hungry wolf. If only he'd understood what he was, what he could do, maybe Wylla would still be alive.
Jon clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. He could still see her face in his mind—laughing, teasing, alive. If he'd known then what he could become, would it have made a difference? She might have screamed at the sight of him, recoiled in fear, but she'd be alive. The thought of her calling him a monster cut deep, but not as deep as her absence.
He sighed, running a hand through his dark curls. "I can't change the past."
But the future—that was something he could still grasp. If he could learn to control this power, to harness it, maybe he could protect his family. Maybe he could protect Arya, Robb, Rickon and even Sansa, despite her sharp tongue and constant airs.
But who could he trust?
The thought of telling someone churned his stomach. His father, was a man of honor and reason. But would he understand? Jon doubted it. Honor was a fine thing, but it was blind to the monstrous, to the impossible. And what if his father decided the risk was too great? What if he decided Jon was too dangerous to remain at Winterfell? Would he send Jon away, exiling him like a rabid dog?
And Arya—she'd always looked up to him, trusted him. But what would she see if she knew the truth? Would she still beg him to cook her favorite stew? Would she still call him her magical man, or would she start avoiding him, her wolfish curiosity turned to fear?
Jon didn't know. And that not knowing rooted him in silence.
He glanced back toward the keep, the faint glow of torchlight spilling from its windows. His family was in there, warm and safe, oblivious to the storm raging inside him. He turned away, his mismatched eyes falling on the heart tree. Its face, carved long ago, seemed to stare back at him, solemn and knowing.
"What do I do?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.
The tree offered no answers, only the creak of its branches in the wind.
Jon closed his eyes, his mind slipping back to the dream. Ymir had been there. She'd spoken to him, her words as cryptic as the dreams themselves.
"The blood connects you to two worlds."
What worlds? And why him? He clenched his fists. She had given him nothing but riddles, leaving him to piece together the fragments of his shattered understanding.
Jon exhaled sharply, the breath clouding before him. He couldn't stay in this limbo forever. If he couldn't tell anyone, he'd have to find answers on his own. He needed to understand this Titan power—what it was, how to trigger it, and, most importantly, how to control it.
"If I don't," he muttered, "I'll never forgive myself."
Later
The training yard at Winterfell was alive with the clatter of wooden swords and the crunch of boots on packed snow. Jon and Robb circled each other. Robb's strikes came fast and sharp, his blue eyes gleaming with determination, but Jon flowed like water.
"Is that all you've got?" Jon teased, sidestepping a particularly aggressive lunge. His mismatched eyes—shimmered in the morning light as he danced just out of reach.
Robb grunted, adjusting his stance. "You're quicker than you used to be. Thought you liked fighting fair."
Jon smirked. "What's fair about getting hit?"
Arya's voice rang out from the sidelines, where she perched on a low wall, her legs swinging. "Come on, Robb! Hit him already! Or are you going to let Jon dance circles around you all day?"
Jon chuckled, dodging another strike with ease. Robb pressed forward, but Jon was too fast, slipping past each swing. Despite his growing strength, Jon held back, careful not to let the difference show. It was harder than he'd thought it would be. His body felt alive in a way it never had before, like there was something beneath his skin, waiting to be unleashed.
He parried Robb's next strike, spinning to the side and tapping him lightly on the back with the flat of his blade. "Point," Jon said, grinning.
Robb huffed, lowering his sword. "You've gotten cocky."
"No, just better," Jon replied, twirling the wooden sword in his hand. "You're the one getting slow."
Arya burst into laughter, clapping her hands. "He's right, Robb. You look like you're fighting with a sack of turnips."
Robb shot her a playful glare. "Why don't you come down here and try, then? See how you do against Jon."
Arya grinned, leaping off the wall. "I would, but I think Septa Mordane would tan my hide if I came back with bruises."
Jon lowered his sword, stepping back to let Robb catch his breath. His brother was strong, determined, but Jon could feel the difference now. Two weeks ago, he might have struggled to match Robb's speed and endurance, but now it was no contest. His body moved faster, reacted quicker, and hit harder than it ever had before.
But he couldn't let anyone see just how much he'd changed. Not fully.
A few days ago, Jon had caught himself lifting a barrel of grain as though it were nothing, a feat that should have taken two men to accomplish. He'd quickly set it down when one of the stable hands came by, brushing it off as a moment of adrenaline. Still, the whispers had started. Arya had even joked about him being half-giant, though her tone was lighthearted.
And then there was the matter of his wounds.
Jon winced as Robb lunged again, his blade catching him lightly on the forearm. It wasn't much—a scratch, really—but Jon immediately stepped back, cradling his arm.
"You all right?" Robb asked, lowering his sword.
"Fine," Jon said quickly, pulling his sleeve down to cover the injury. He couldn't let anyone see.
Arya tilted her head, watching him. "You're not hurt, are you? Looked like Robb barely touched you."
"I'm fine," Jon repeated, his tone firmer. He turned to Robb, forcing a smile. "Let's call it for now. You're getting better, but you'll need more than that to beat me."
Robb snorted, rolling his shoulders. "One of these days, Jon. One of these days."
Arya hopped down, skipping over to Jon with her usual boundless energy. "When are you going to teach me those moves? Septa Mordane says sword fighting isn't proper for girls, but what does she know?"
Jon chuckled, ruffling her hair. "Maybe when you stop skipping your lessons."
She swatted his hand away, grinning. "You sound like Sansa."
The three of them made their way back toward the keep, the sounds of training fading behind them. Jon kept his arm tucked close, the faint warmth of the sealed cut still tingling beneath his sleeve. As they walked, Arya launched into a story about how she'd nearly bested one of the boys in the yard the other day.
But Jon's thoughts were elsewhere.
The strength, the speed, the healing—it's all connected to whatever happened in the forest that day. He could feel it, like a fire smoldering deep inside him, waiting to ignite. And while part of him was afraid of what that meant, another part—the part that remembered Wylla's lifeless body, the wildlings' cruel laughter—wanted to embrace it.
If I can learn to control it, maybe I can make sure nothing like that ever happens again. Maybe I can protect the people I love.
Maybe he could be something more than a bastard.
Midday
Jon sat at his desk, his mismatched eyes scanning the spines of the books piled before him. Dust motes floated in the dim light filtering through the window, settling on the well-worn tomes and scrolls. He rubbed his temple, frustration building. The histories and legends he'd combed through so far had offered little beyond the usual tales of the Age of Heroes and the creatures of the North.
There has to be something, he thought, his fingers tapping impatiently on the desk. Anything that explains what I've become.
His conversation with Maester Luwin played over in his mind. The old man had seemed genuinely perplexed when Jon asked about Titans.
' "Do you mean the Titan of Braavos?" Luwin had asked, tilting his head. "A statue, impressive to be sure, but hardly alive."
Jon had hesitated, not wanting to reveal too much. "No, Maester. I mean... the giants. The ones beyond the Wall."
Luwin had leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "Ah, the giants. Tales of their kind are often exaggerated, you know. It's said they once roamed in great numbers, but now? Rarely seen. Most believe them to be nothing more than legend."
Jon had pressed further. "How tall could they grow? The tallest, I mean."
Luwin had chuckled softly. "Seven meters, perhaps. Though even that seems improbable. The world is full of stories, Jon, and not all of them are true."
The answer had left Jon hollow, and he'd thanked the maester for his time. But as he turned to leave, Luwin had stopped him.
"If there's ever anything you wish to discuss, something you feel you cannot share with Lord Stark, my door is always open," Luwin had said, his voice gentle but probing. '
Jon had nodded and left, his chest tight with gratitude and anxiety. Now, staring at the useless stack of books, he felt no closer to understanding the truth. Every word seemed to mock him.
His brooding was abruptly interrupted by the sound of his chamber door flying open.
"Jon!" Arya's voice rang out, full of energy as always.
He turned to see her barreling into the room, her face alight with mischief. She was still in her practice clothes, dirt smudged across her cheek and her hair a tangled mess.
"Arya," Jon said, trying to mask his irritation. "Knocking exists, you know."
She ignored him, hopping onto his bed with a grin. "I'm starving. You're the best cook in the castle. Make me something."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "What happened to the kitchens?"
"Bread and stew again," Arya groaned, flopping onto her back dramatically. "It's like they've forgotten what real food tastes like."
Jon couldn't help but laugh at her theatrics. "I'm not your personal chef."
"You might as well be," she shot back, sitting up. "You're better at it than the cooks."
Jon shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "You think flattery's going to get you anywhere?"
Arya leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "It usually works on Sansa."
"Well, I'm not Sansa."
Arya crossed her arms, pouting. "Please, Jon? I'll help clean up afterward. Promise."
Jon sighed, pushing the books aside. He couldn't stay annoyed with her, not when she looked so genuinely hopeful. Besides, he could use the distraction.
"All right," he said, standing. "But you're helping me cook, not just cleaning up."
Arya jumped off the bed, her grin wide. "Deal."
As they made their way to the kitchen, Arya peppered him with questions about recipes and ingredients, her enthusiasm infectious. For a moment, the weight on Jon's shoulders lifted, and he found himself smiling.
Maybe answers can wait a little longer, he thought as Arya pulled him toward the pantry, already debating whether they should make honeycakes or roasted chicken.
Later
The smell of sizzling meat and roasting vegetables filled the small kitchen. Jon stood over the stove, stirring a pot of thick stew, his eyes flicking occasionally toward Arya, who was kneading dough at the counter. Flour dusted her nose and cheeks, but she didn't seem to care, her focus entirely on her task.
"You're actually helping for once," Jon said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I thought you hated being in here."
Arya smirked, not looking up. "Helping you is different. Sansa would faint at the thought of touching raw dough. She'd probably say it's unbecoming of a lady or something equally ridiculous."
Jon chuckled softly. "She's not wrong. You look like you've been wrestling a bag of flour."
Arya stuck her tongue out at him, then wiped her hands on her tunic, unconcerned by the mess. "It's better than sitting through one of Septa Mordane's lessons. At least this is useful."
Jon shook his head, returning to the stew. He couldn't deny it—Arya was nothing like Sansa. Where Sansa worried about etiquette and appearances, Arya embraced the opposite, throwing herself into anything that felt real, unfiltered, and honest. It was one of the things he loved most about her. She didn't care about titles or status, about being proper or refined. She was just Arya.
Arya glanced at him as she worked. "You feeling all right?"
Jon's stirring slowed, his brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean?"
"You haven't smiled much since you got back from White Harbor," Arya said.
Jon stiffened, gripping the spoon tighter. "I'm fine," he said dismissively. "Why are you asking?"
Arya shrugged, rolling out the dough. "Just noticed, is all. You've been... different."
"Drop it," Jon said, his voice firmer than he intended.
"It's because of her, isn't it?" Arya asked after a moment, her voice quieter now. "That Wylla Manderly. She must've been quite a lady."
Jon's chest tightened at the name, the memory of Wylla's laughter and mischievous smile flashing through his mind. He was silent for a long moment, the crackling of the fire the only sound between them.
"She was," Jon said finally, his voice low. "The best one."
Arya didn't press further, and for that, Jon was grateful. She returned to her task, letting the conversation drift into silence. Jon focused on the food, adding spices and tasting the broth until it was just right. He plated the stew and the bread Arya had made, handing it to her with a nod.
"Here," he said. "Enjoy it while it's hot."
Arya grinned, grabbing the plate. "Thanks, Jon. You're the best." She darted out of the kitchen, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
As the door swung shut behind her, Jon leaned against the counter, his mind drifting back to the first time he'd realized something was... different about him.
'It had been in the kitchen, just like this. He'd been cutting meat, his focus slipping for just a moment. The knife had slipped too, slicing deep into his thumb. The pain had been sharp and immediate, and he'd stared in shock as blood welled up around the cut. But then, something strange had happened.
Steam had risen from the wound, hissing softly. Jon had watched, mesmerized, as the cut sealed itself before his eyes, the skin knitting together as though it had never been harmed. The blood dried almost instantly, leaving behind no trace of the injury. He had flexed his hand, stunned.
No one else had been in the kitchen that day, and Jon hadn't told anyone.'
Jon exhaled, the memory fading. What does it mean? Why me?
The healing, the Titan, the strength—it was all connected somehow. But the Titan was too big, too terrifying to think about controlling right now. His healing, though—maybe that was a place to start. If he could find a way to control it, to understand it, maybe he could begin to unravel the mystery of what he was.
He stared at his hand, turning it over in the firelight. The skin was flawless, unmarked. Small steps, he thought. Control this first. Then maybe the rest won't seem so impossible.
Night
Jon locked the wooden door of his chambers, his heart pounding against his chest. The candle's flame cast dancing shadows on the stone walls as he sat at the edge of his bed, the steel knife gleaming in the dim light. His mismatched eyes fixed on his left palm, studying the lines etched into his skin.
"This is madness," he whispered to himself, but he knew it had to be done. Understanding these abilities might mean the difference between life and death next time. The image of Wylla's lifeless body flashed through his mind, strengthening his resolve.
Taking a deep breath, Jon positioned the knife above his palm. His hand trembled slightly. "Just do it," he muttered through clenched teeth. The blade plunged into his flesh, and he bit back a scream, tasting copper as he bit his tongue.
Steam rose from the wound immediately, like a kettle left too long on the fire. Jon watched, fascinated and frustrated, as the flesh began knitting itself back together. "Stop," he commanded in a harsh whisper. "Stop healing."
The wound continued closing, defying his will. Within seconds, only blood remained as evidence of what he'd done. Jon wiped his palm clean with a cloth he'd prepared, studying the unmarked skin with a mixture of awe and frustration.
"Seven hells," he cursed, falling back onto his bed. "There has to be a way."
.
.
Over the next few weeks, Jon developed a routine. During the day, he'd train with Robb, attend to his duties, and try to act normal despite the growing bags under his eyes. At night, he'd lock himself away and experiment.
One particularly cold night, after a grueling day of training, Jon sat cross-legged on his bed, holding the now-familiar knife.
"Small cut this time," he murmured, drawing the blade across his forearm. The steam rose slower than usual, and he noticed his hands were shaking from exhaustion. The wound, which would normally heal in seconds, took nearly half a minute to close.
A knock at his door made him jump. "Jon?" Robb's voice called out. "Are you awake?"
"One moment!" Jon hastily wiped away the blood and pulled down his sleeve. He opened the door to find his brother's concerned face.
"You look terrible," Robb said bluntly, stepping into the room. "Have you been sleeping at all?"
Jon forced a smile. "Just having trouble sleeping lately. Nothing to worry about."
"Is it about Wylla?" Robb's voice softened. "You know you can talk to me about it."
For a moment, Jon considered telling him everything. About the healing, about the gaps in his memory during the attack, about the strange dreams of the beautiful woman named Ymir. Instead, he shook his head. "I'm fine, truly. Just need time."
After Robb left, Jon resumed his experiments with renewed determination. Night after night, he documented his findings in a small journal hidden beneath his mattress:
"Day 15: Deeper wounds take longer to heal. Exhaustion slows the process significantly.
Day 22: When completely exhausted, healing stops entirely. Must rest to restore the ability.
Day 27: Managed to delay healing for three seconds before it continued. Progress?"
One night, about a month into his experiments, Jon sat examining his latest wound - a shallow cut across his palm. He was exhausted, having pushed himself harder than usual during sword practice.
"Stop," he whispered, focusing all his will on the wound. To his amazement, the steam slowed, then ceased entirely. The wound remained open for several seconds before the healing resumed.
"I did it," he breathed, excitement coursing through him. "I actually did it."
His triumph was short-lived as a wave of dizziness swept over him. He barely made it to his bed before collapsing.
The next morning, Arya found him at breakfast, poking at his porridge with obvious concern. "You look like you've been fighting giants," she said, sliding onto the bench beside him.
"Maybe I have," Jon replied with a weak smile. "In my dreams."
"Speaking of dreams," Arya lowered her voice, "I heard you talking in your sleep last night. Who's Ymir?"
Jon's spoon clattered against his bowl. "What?"
"I was passing by your room. You were saying something about Ymir and titans. What's a titan anyway?"
"Just nonsense from an old story," Jon lied smoothly, though his heart was racing. "Nothing important."
That night, Jon made a new entry in his journal:
"Day 31: Finally managed to stop healing temporarily. Requires intense concentration and comes at a great cost to my energy."
.
.
The fire in Jon's chamber crackled softly, the only sound in the otherwise still room. He sat at his desk, absentmindedly tracing the edge of his palm with a finger. His thoughts swirled as they often did these days, consumed by the mysteries of his healing and the larger, more terrifying question of what he had become.
Two months, he thought. Two months since White Harbor, one month since I first stopped the healing. Progress, but still not enough.
The corner of his mouth twitched in frustration. Stopping the healing had been a monumental step, but it was far from mastery. He could now hold it off for up to fifteen seconds—a significant improvement—but he was acutely aware of how much further he needed to go. And then there was the new discovery: the ability to focus his healing.
It had happened accidentally during one of his late-night experiments. Two cuts on his arm. Normally, they would both heal at the same pace, taking about twelve seconds. But that night, in his exhaustion, he had focused on one cut, willing it to heal faster, ignoring the other entirely. To his shock, the prioritized wound had closed in just two seconds, leaving the other to linger untouched until he let the healing resume.
It's like steering a river, he thought. You can't stop the flow, but you can guide it.
This newfound control gave him hope, but it also left him restless. The healing was one thing, but the transformation—the Titan—remained elusive.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his door creaking open. Jon looked up to see Robb stride in, his face lit with excitement.
"Whatever it is, no," Jon said preemptively, though he couldn't help but smile at his brother's enthusiasm.
"You haven't even heard what I'm going to say!" Robb protested, dropping onto Jon's bed with familiar ease.
"Let me guess - you've convinced father to let you lead the next hunting party?" Jon raised an eyebrow.
"Better. You, me, and Theon are going to Winter Town tonight."
Jon's smile faded. "Ah. So that's your grand plan? Take the brooding bastard to a brothel?"
"You need to stop isolating yourself," Robb said, his voice growing serious. "It's been two months, Jon. Wylla wouldn't-"
"Don't." Jon's voice carried an edge sharp enough to cut. "Don't tell me what she would or wouldn't want."
Robb sighed, running a hand through his auburn hair. "I'm not trying to... gods, Jon, I just want my brother back. The one who used to laugh, who'd help me play pranks on Theon, who'd sneak extra desserts to Arya."
Jon's expression softened slightly. He knew Robb meant well, but the thought of seeking comfort in a stranger's arms felt like a betrayal. Besides, how could he explain that he spent his nights cutting himself open to understand powers he couldn't even comprehend?
"I appreciate the thought, truly," Jon said carefully. "But I don't think a night at the brothel is what I need right now."
"Then what do you need?" Robb asked, frustration creeping into his voice. "Because whatever you're doing isn't working. You barely sleep, you hardly eat, and when you think no one's looking, you stare at your hands like they might turn into dragon claws."
Jon nearly flinched at how close that observation hit to the truth. If Robb only knew what those hands were capable of...
"I need time," Jon said finally. "And space to figure things out on my own."
"You've had two months of space," Robb countered. "Sometimes the best way to move forward is to stop thinking so much and just... live a little."
Jon looked at his brother's earnest face and felt a familiar pang of guilt. How many times had he wanted to tell Robb everything? About the healing, about the transformation he could barely remember, about the beautiful woman in his dreams who spoke of things he didn't understand?
"One drink," Jon found himself saying. "No brothel, just one drink at the tavern. Will that satisfy your brotherly duties?"
Robb's face lit up. "It's a start. Though Theon will be disappointed about the brothel part."
"Theon's always disappointed about something," Jon replied dryly, earning a laugh from his brother.
As Robb left to inform Theon of the change in plans. One drink wouldn't hurt, he supposed. And maybe, just maybe, an evening away from his obsessive practicing might help clear his head.
