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The Three Headed Titan Chapter 4 (A Beast in the Dark)
🕑 Added 2024-11-01 16:12:15 +0000 UTCHello, AMagicWriter here. I'm happy to publish a New Chapter of Three Headed Titan
The pre-dawn air was crisp and cold as Jon made his way to the training yard, each step crunching over frost-covered ground. The silence was deep, broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves or the distant cry of a raven. The castle lay still under the last shreds of night, the ever-present guards scarce as they changed shifts between night and morning.
Jon paused in the middle of the yard, his mismatched eyes scanning his surroundings to confirm he was alone. Eldian. The word whispered through his mind again, lingering like a ghost he couldn't shake, as persistent as the northern wind. Last night, he was hoping he would meet Ymir again, but instead, he had dreamed of a giant skinless face looking down on him from a wall and people running away in fear.
"Not even Maester Luwin knew," he muttered, recalling the old maester's puzzled look when Jon had casually brought up the term yesterday. "All those books, all that knowledge, and nothing..."
His gaze fell on one of the large wooden barrels near the wall, used to store training weapons. He knew that barrel well; he'd watched it take four men to shift it when full. The strange thought that had been nudging him since his practice with Robb finally demanded action.
"This is madness," he whispered, his breath misting in the cold air. "Complete madness."
He crouched next to the barrel, planting his hands firmly on its rough wooden base. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and tensed his muscles, ready to test his limits.
With a sharp exhale, he lifted.
The barrel rose—barely, but it lifted. His arms trembled with the effort, and he could feel the strain in every muscle, but he was doing it. He was lifting something that should have been impossible for a thirteen-year-old to even budge, even if he was lifting it only a little above ground.
"Seven hells," he gasped as he lowered the barrel back down. His heart thundered, the raw weight of what he'd just done settling over him. As he examined his hands, he noticed small splinters where the rough wood had bitten into his palms. The tiny wounds stung, but even as he watched, wisps of steam rose, and the skin knit itself back together in seconds.
"Right then," he murmured, flexing his hands and feeling the lingering warmth. "That's... that's not normal."
Still shaking, he crossed to the rack and drew one of the practice swords. The familiar weight was oddly comforting. He turned to face one of the training dummies, its ragged form weathered from countless strikes over the years. Usually, he had to hold back when striking the dummy to avoid damaging it—or himself.
Not today.
Jon's first strike slammed into the dummy with a solid thud, making it shudder on its post. The second came sharper, sending splinters flying from the wooden core. With each strike, he moved faster, his body falling into a rhythm. His feet seemed to shift on their own, his muscles flowing with an effortless grace he'd never felt before.
"One, two, three," he muttered under his breath, his focus narrowing. "Strike, parry, thrust."
Each movement was precise, each strike more powerful than the last. The dummy's stuffing began to leak from new gashes, but Jon barely registered it. He was lost in the movement, in the strange, exhilarating strength coursing through his limbs. His body knew exactly where to be, how to adjust to each shift of his weight, each angle of his swing. Every strike felt right, like he was finally using his body to its full potential.
He adjusted his stance, striking with a downward slash that tore through the dummy's arm and sent it spinning. The cold morning air prickled his skin, but he felt none of it. His world narrowed to the thrill of movement, the surge of power that felt both foreign and familiar.
"Faster," he whispered, his breath visible in short bursts. He shifted his weight, bringing the sword down with a controlled sweep that split the dummy's torso wide open. Straw scattered across the yard, fluttering in the frosty air.
The silence that followed was almost eerie. Jon stood, breathing hard, his heartbeat echoing in his ears as he stared at the torn remains of the dummy.
This... this wasn't normal. He'd broken dummies before, sure, but not like this. This wasn't the strength of a thirteen-year-old—or even a grown man. It was something more, something he didn't yet understand.
"Eldian," he whispered again, the name heavy on his tongue. Whatever that word meant, it was changing him in ways he didn't yet understand.
Two Weeks Later
The morning air was filled with the sounds of horses snorting, the occasional jingle of armor, and voices raised as the party readied to depart. Jon adjusted himself in the saddle, his hands steady on the reins, while his eyes tracked his father giving final instructions to those staying behind. He caught sight of Theon's sullen expression and couldn't help but feel a hint of satisfaction. Over the past two weeks, Ser Rodrik had intensified Jon's training, pushing him harder with each passing day. While Ser Rodrik's experience still outmatched Jon's, the old knight had acknowledged that Jon's improvement was "unusually quick." Yet, when Rodrik had mentioned it to Lord Stark, his father had dismissed any concerns, remarking simply that skill could run in the family—"Jon's uncle Brandon wasn't always the fierce man people remember him to be."
Jon had tried to find that desert again, but it was impossible. He had experimented on his healing abilities, but not as much as he would have wished; all he did was cut the skin of his fingers or toes a little, but not much else; it still hurt, and he didn't feel testing how much he could heal by cutting himself even more.
"Try not to miss us too much, Greyjoy," Robb called out with a mischievous grin. "I'm sure the kennels will be good company."
"Better the kennels than having to watch you try to dance, Stark," Theon shot back, though his usual cockiness was dampened by the obvious disappointment of being left behind.
"JON! ROBB!" Arya's voice rang out, and Jon turned to see his little sister hurtling down the steps, her dark hair already escaping its braids despite the early hour. She skidded to a stop in front of them, her face flushed with excitement. "Take me with you! I can hide in one of the supply wagons!"
Jon chuckled, his expression softening. "And have Lady Stark send the entire northern army after us? I think not, little sister."
"I could pretend to be a boy!" Arya insisted, her eyes glinting with determination. "I'm better with a sword than Bran anyway," she added, darting a look behind her as Septa Mordane hurried down the steps after her.
Robb laughed. "The last time you tried pretending to be a boy, you forgot to lower your voice and called Ser Rodrik 'my lady' by accident."
"That was one time!" Arya protested, though her lips twitched with suppressed laughter.
"Besides," Jon added, "someone needs to keep Theon in line while we're gone."
"Oh, I can do that." Arya's eyes gleamed with mischief. "I already put mud in his boots this morning."
"Arya!" Septa Mordane finally caught up, looking scandalized as she glared at the little wolf. "A lady does not—"
"Good thing I'm not a lady then," Arya quipped, dodging as the Septa reached for her, making Robb snort with laughter.
Lord Stark turned his horse around, his expression stern, though amusement glimmered in his eyes. "Are you two ready?"
"Yes, Father," Robb said quickly, then leaned over to Jon and whispered, "Though I'm not sure White Harbor is ready for us."
"Just try not to step on any ladies' feet during the dancing," Jon replied with a smirk. "Lord Manderly might take offense if you cripple his granddaughters."
"I've been practicing," Robb said defensively. "Sort of."
"Oh yes, the practice swords, the dummies, the...barrel?" Jon teased, quirking an eyebrow.
"That barrel was loose!" Jon muttered, remembering the weight-lifting experiment in the yard. Soon, Lady Stark and Sansa came to see them. The two said their words to Lord Stark and Robb, but neither said anything to him. Jon could tell that Sansa wanted to say something to him, but instead, she kept her eyes on the ground.
"MOVE OUT!" Jory's voice cut through the chatter, and the soldiers in their party readied to depart, each one looking stoic and prepared.
"Don't worry, little wolf," Robb called back to Arya as their horses began to move. "We'll bring you back something nice!"
"I don't want something nice!" Arya yelled, crossing her arms. "Bring me a sword!"
Robb grinned, then turned to Sansa, who was standing gracefully beside Lady Stark. "What about you, Sansa? Shall we bring you back a handsome lord?"
Sansa flushed, lowering her gaze with a shy smile. "Just... just bring back stories of the dancing."
As they rode through the gates, Jon could hear Arya's voice floating after them. "And don't let Jon dance with all the pretty girls first, Robb! You know he's the better dancer now!"
Robb groaned, feigning despair. "My own sister thinks my brother is a better dancer than me."
Jon couldn't resist. "Well, she's not wrong."
"Oh, and when did you become such an expert? Practicing with the stable boys?"
"Better than practicing with the hay bales, like you do," Jon countered, unable to hide his grin.
"That was private!" Robb spluttered, almost losing his grip on the reins. "How did you even—?"
"The stable boys told me," Jon replied, his grin widening.
"Traitors, all of them!" Robb declared dramatically, glancing around at the soldiers who were barely stifling their laughter. "Just wait until we get to White Harbor. We'll see who the real dancer is."
"As long as we're not counting the toes you crush," Jon said, nudging his horse forward.
The road stretched out ahead, the walls of Winterfell growing smaller behind them. The familiar sight of the castle in the early morning light filled Jon with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. White Harbor was a mystery to him—a place of feasts and dances, of lords and ladies unlike any he'd ever seen. He had heard stories about the port city, but he wasn't sure what awaited him there.
Robb, oblivious to Jon's nerves, was too busy describing his "secret moves" with all the confidence of a young lord.
"Oh, yes," Jon laughed after Robb nearly slipped off his horse, miming an intricate spin. "That's sure to impress the Manderly girls."
"Careful, Snow," Robb said, settling himself back on his saddle with mock dignity. "Or I'll tell everyone you learned to dance from Old Nan."
"Only if I tell them about your famous hay bale routine," Jon shot back.
As the Kingsroad stretched on, their banter continued, lightening the mood for everyone in their party.
Jon looked over his shoulder at Winterfell, now a distant silhouette.
But then Robb nudged him again, breaking him from his thoughts. "Keep talking, Snow," Robb chuckled, "and you'll be the one dancing solo in front of the entire hall."
One Week Later
The warm breeze ruffled Jon's dark curls as he rode beside Robb, both boys having shed their fur cloaks hours ago. The sun climbed higher, its warmth a rare but welcomed change from Winterfell's chill. They had paused by a small stream, letting their horses drink while the men stretched their legs and took swigs from water skins. The air itself felt moist, and sometimes it felt difficult to breathe.
"If I'm sweating this much now," Jon said, wiping his brow, "the people in King's Landing must melt right off their horses."
"Maybe that's why the Targaryens went mad," Robb mused, grinning. "Too much sun cooking their brains."
"Oh, is that what happened to you, then?" Jon shot back with an unusually snarky smirk. "Too much time in the glass gardens?"
Several of the soldiers stifled their snickers, poorly disguising them as coughs.
"At least I don't look like I'm about to faint from the heat," Robb retorted. "You're as pale as those statues in the crypts."
"Those statues have better dancing form than you," Jon replied smoothly.
Jory, who was checking his horse's saddle, let out a hearty laugh. "The lad's got you there, Lord Robb!"
Robb rolled his eyes and redirected the conversation. "I wonder what Dorne is like. If we're complaining about the heat here, they must be cooked alive down there."
"They wear robes that keep the sun off them," Jon replied, thinking back to Old Nan's stories. "Though I heard they barely wear anything at all in their water gardens."
Robb's eyes widened. "Even the ladies?"
"Especially the ladies," one of the soldiers chimed in, earning himself a stern look from Lord Stark.
"Maybe this is why they say that the Red Viper is always so angry," Jon suggested. "He's too hot to wear proper armor, so he has to poison his weapons instead."
"Speaking of proper armor," Robb said, grinning as he played along, "what do you think they wear at the Wall? Five cloaks? Ten?"
"Ask Uncle Benjen next time he visits," Jon replied, smirking. "Though I heard they stuff their smallclothes with rabbit fur to keep warm."
This earned a round of genuine laughter from the men, some of whom had visited the wall and had been there to see the remembers of the Night's Watch.
"What about Highgarden?" Robb said, shifting his focus as he absentmindedly plucked a wildflower from the ground. "They must have it easy down there, with all those flowers and knights in flowery armor..."
"Careful, Robb," Jon teased. "Sound too interested, and you might find yourself betrothed to a Tyrell. You'll be practicing flower arrangements instead of swordplay."
Robb groaned theatrically. "Mother would have me embroidering roses into my tunics!"
"Might be an improvement over your dancing," Jon quipped, earning a playful shove from Robb.
"Though," Robb said thoughtfully, "I heard the Tyrells throw these massive feasts that last for days. Tables piled so high with food you can barely see the person across from you."
"Explains why their motto is 'Growing Strong,'" Jon replied dryly. "They're probably all too stuffed to fit in their armor."
Even Lord Stark had to turn away to hide a grin at that one.
"And the Westerlands?" Robb continued, a glint of mischief in his eye. "Do you think the Lannisters really shit gold?"
"No," Jon answered with a smirk, "but I bet they have golden chamber pots to shit in."
The soldiers burst out laughing, the carefree moment easing the weariness of travel.
"Boys," Lord Stark called out, though amusement danced in his eyes, "perhaps we should focus more on reaching White Harbor than discussing the entire realm's privy habits."
"Yes, Father," Robb replied, then leaned over to Jon and whispered, "Do you think the Greyjoys have special underwater chamber pots?"
"Is that why they say 'What is dead may never die?'" Jon whispered back, a wicked grin on his face. "Because nothing can survive what they dump in the ocean?"
"Seven hells, Snow," one of the soldiers chuckled, shaking his head. "When did you get so sharp-tongued?"
Robb grinned, nudging Jon playfully. "Oh, he's been saving it all up. Usually, he's just in a corner brooding with those mismatched eyes of his, looking all mysterious."
Jon shot back, "Better than standing in corners practicing my curtsy like some people."
"I was demonstrating what not to do!"
"Sure, just like you were 'demonstrating' how not to fall into the hot springs last week," Jon replied, struggling to keep a straight face.
"Mount up!" Lord Stark's voice called out, cutting through their laughter. "We've still got a few hours of daylight left."
As they mounted their horses, Robb leaned over to Jon with a playful glint in his eye. "Just wait until we get to White Harbor. We'll see who the better dancer is when all the ladies want to dance with the heir to Winterfell."
"They might change their minds when they see your 'demonstration' of how not to dance," Jon replied, smiling fully for once, a rare and genuine grin.
They resumed their journey south, the sun now well above the horizon, casting long shadows as they made their way down the Kingsroad. Every so often, a soldier would chuckle, the banter still fresh in their minds.
"Seven hells," Robb said, wiping his eyes as his laughter subsided. "I'd almost forgotten how much fun it is to get out of Winterfell for a while."
Jon nodded, feeling the same excitement thrumming through him. There was a sense of freedom here on the open road, away from the watchful eyes of Lady Stark, the heavy walls of Winterfell, and the endless whispers about his blood. This was his first time far away from Winterfell. He had been in hunts before to watch, but never this far, and this would be his first time being in another castle.
The day wore on, the light growing softer as they traveled, until the sun dipped low on the horizon.
The crackling fire cast dancing shadows across the gathered faces as Jon helped secure the last tent peg. Despite the soldiers' protests, both he and Robb had insisted on helping make camp.
"My lords, you didn't have to," Jory said, but Jon could see the approval in his eyes.
"If we didn't help," Jon replied with a slight smile, "Robb might have tried cooking again. I'm saving lives, really."
"That rabbit was perfectly fine!" Robb protested, settling down by the fire.
"Aye, if you like your meat both burnt and raw at the same time," one of the older soldiers, Alyn, chuckled.
The men gathered around the fire, passing around wine skins and dried meat. The night air was warmer than Winterfell, but still held enough chill to make the fire welcome.
"Tell us about the Rebellion," Robb eagerly requested, always hungry for war stories.
"Again?" Alyn laughed. "You've heard it all before, my lord."
"Tell us about your first battle," Jon suggested quietly, earning several appreciative nods.
"Now that's a tale worth telling," said Desmond, an older soldier with a graying beard. "Mine was against some Targaryen loyalists near Maidenpool. Pissed myself before the fighting even started."
"You did not!" Robb exclaimed.
"Oh, aye, I did. Ask your lord father," Desmond nodded toward Ned Stark. "He was there, saw me shaking like a leaf in autumn."
Lord Stark's usually stern face softened with the memory. "As I recall, you made up for it by taking down three men yourself."
"Three?" Jon asked, genuinely interested.
"Well, two and a half," Desmond admitted. "The last one was already bleeding out from someone else's work." he added as he was using his knife to sharpen a wooden spear, the tip was quite sharp, Jon was sure it could puncture someone easily if it was thrown with enough strength.
"Still counts," Robb declared magnanimously.
"My first wasn't nearly so grand," Jory added. "Some bandits thought they could raid a village near Torrhen's Square. Turned out they were half-starved and could barely lift their weapons."
"Did you piss yourself too?" Jon asked with uncharacteristic cheek.
"No, but I did throw up afterward," Jory admitted good-naturedly. "Right on my captain's boots."
The stories continued as night deepened, tales of glory mixed with honest admissions of fear and foolishness. Jon found himself more relaxed than he'd been in weeks, the weight of Winterfell's walls lifted from his shoulders.
"It's different out here," he said quietly to Robb. "Feels..."
"Freer," Robb finished, understanding in his eyes.
Suddenly, Jon stiffened. A chill ran down his spine, sharp and cold as a blade of ice. He jumped to his feet, spinning to face the darkness beyond their camp.
"Jon?" Lord Stark's voice cut through the sudden silence. "What is it?"
Jon's mismatched eyes scanned the treeline, searching for... something. His heart was pounding, though he couldn't explain why.
"Someone's watching us," he said, his voice low but certain. "I can feel it."
"Feel it?" Robb started to joke, but fell silent at the expression on Jon's face.
The soldiers were already moving, hands going to weapons as they scanned the darkness. Lord Stark stood, his gray eyes intent on his son.
"Where, Jon?"
"There," Jon pointed toward a particularly dark patch of forest. "It feels... cold. Like when you walk past the crypts at night, but..."
"But worse," Robb finished, no longer joking as he drew his knife, as he looked at Jon surprised. "Your eyes," Robb said suddenly. "Jon, your eyes..."
"What about them?"
"The purple one... it's glowing."
Jon turned to his brother, a sharp retort ready, but Robb's serious expression stopped him. Before he could respond, a wolf howled in the distance - too close for comfort.
"Well," Jon said, trying to lighten the mood despite his racing heart, "at least it's not as bad as your cooking."
"Only you would joke at a time like this," Robb shook his head, but Jon could see him relax slightly.
"One of us has to keep their wits," Jon replied, though his hand remained on his knife pommel. "And since you lost yours years ago..."
The roar shattered their conversation, a deep, guttural sound that sent a jolt of fear through the camp. Horses reared and whinnied in panic, their eyes rolling white as they strained against their reins. Yellow eyes gleamed from the shadows beyond the firelight, moving closer with a predatory stealth.
"Gods be good," Jory whispered, his voice barely audible as he drew his sword, the steel glinting in the flickering light.
"Robb, Jon, behind us. Now." Lord Eddard Stark's voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. The boys obeyed.
From the darkness, the creature emerged—a bear, but unlike any they had ever seen. It was massive, towering over even the tallest man when on all fours, and when it reared onto its hind legs, it seemed to scrape the very stars. Its fur was as black as a moonless night, matted and bristling, with patches missing to reveal taut, scarred skin beneath. The face was grotesquely elongated, the snout too long, the jaws housing teeth that seemed more like fangs. Saliva dripped from its maw, sizzling as it hit the flames of the scattered firewood.
Several men crossed themselves or muttered prayers. Even Lord Stark, who had faced down men and beasts alike during Robert's Rebellion, felt a chill run down his spine.
"Hold the line!" Ned commanded, positioning himself at the forefront, his sword Ice gleaming with a cold light.
But before any formation could be properly established, the bear charged with a speed that belied its enormous size.
Jon's body moved before his mind could catch up. Acting on instinct, he lunged forward and grabbed a burning log from the fire. The heat seared his palm, but he scarcely felt it. With a surge of strength that surprised even himself, he hurled the flaming wood at the beast. The log struck true, crashing into the bear's face and exploding in a shower of sparks and embers.
The bear let out a deafening roar of pain, rearing back on its hind legs as it clawed at its burning muzzle. The acrid smell of singed fur filled the air.
"FOR WINTERFELL!" The battle cry echoed as they charged, swords and spears glinting.
The beast was a whirlwind of fury. Its massive paw swept out, catching two soldiers and sending them hurtling through the air like rag dolls. One landed with a sickening crunch against a tree; the other lay motionless where he fell. Yet the men pressed on, their blades finding purchase in the bear's thick hide. Blood, dark and viscous, oozed from the wounds, but the creature seemed unfazed.
Still the bear fought. It snapped its jaws, crushing a spear shaft in its teeth as easily as a twig. Its claws raked across three more men, their screams cutting through the chaos.
Jon's gaze locked onto a fallen spear lying on the ground. Without fully understanding why, he sprinted forward. He scooped up the spear, feeling the familiar power. The weapon felt light, almost an extension of his own arm.
"Jon, don't!"
Ignoring the warning, Jon drew back and hurled the spear with all his might. It sliced through the air like a comet, striking the bear squarely in the neck with such force that the shaft drove deep into its flesh. The creature stumbled, a gargled roar escaping its throat as it struggled to remain upright. Blood spurted from the wound, spraying across the trampled grass.
The beast swayed, its strength waning. With a final, shuddering breath, it collapsed to the ground.
Silence enveloped the clearing, broken only by the ragged breaths of the survivors and the distant crackle of dying flames.
"Seven hells," one of the uninjured soldiers whispered. "I've never seen a bear that size."
"The face," another murmured, his eyes wide with lingering terror. "Did you see its face? Too long, too... unnatural."
"Jon." Lord Stark's voice was measured as he approached his son. "That throw... how did you—?"
"I don't know," Jon interjected, his eyes fixed on his hands. "I don't know how I did that."
"The injured! We need help over here!" Jory shouted urgently.
The camp sprang into action. Men rushed to assist the wounded. Supplies were fetched, fires rekindled for light, and makeshift stretchers assembled from cloaks and spears.
Jon stood rooted to the spot, the enormity of what had happened crashing over him. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Robb, his expression a mix of awe and concern.
"Are you hurt?" Robb asked, his eyes scanning Jon for any sign of injury.
Jon shook his head numbly. "No. I'm fine."
"You saved them," Robb said quietly, coming to stand beside him. "Whatever... however you did it, you saved them."
"Look at its claws," Jon replied, his voice distant. "Each one's the size of a knife. If it had reached the horses..."
"But it didn't," Ned placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Thanks to you."
Jon finally turned to meet his father's gaze. "Father... that strength... it's not natural."
"No," Ned agreed softly. "But neither was that bear. And right now, we have wounded men who need attention. We'll speak of this later."
As they moved to help the injured soldiers, Jon couldn't shake the feeling that the bear's unnatural appearance and his own impossible strength were somehow connected. The word 'Eldian' whispered through his mind again, accompanied by phantom memories of steam and roars far more terrible than any bear's.
Behind them, the massive corpse steamed slightly in the cool night air, though everyone was too busy with the wounded to notice. By morning, it would look significantly smaller than it had in the darkness, but its face would remain disturbingly elongated.
Jon stood apart from the others, flexing his hands as he tried to process what had just happened. He could feel the occasional glances from the soldiers - not fearful, exactly, but wondering. The kind of looks usually reserved for Theon when he did something he didn't expect.
"Snow," called out one of the injured soldiers - Desmond, who was being helped to his feet despite a nasty gash across his ribs. "If you hadn't thrown that spear, half of us would be meeting the old gods tonight."
"You would have killed it anyway," Jon replied quietly, uncomfortable with the attention.
"Aye, maybe," Desmond grimaced as they wrapped his wound. "But how many more of us would it have taken with it? That thing wasn't natural, and neither was that throw of yours - but I'd rather have unnatural help than be unnatural feed for that beast."
Jon glanced at his father, trying to read his expression in the firelight. Lord Stark was helping tend to the wounded, his face giving away nothing, but Jon could sense a conversation brewing behind those gray eyes.
"Mount up!" Ned's voice carried across the clearing. "White Harbor isn't far, and their Maester will have better supplies than what we carry. We ride now."
"In the darkness?" someone questioned.
"Would you rather wait here for that thing's mate?" Jory replied, already helping one of the injured men onto a horse.
As they prepared to leave, Robb sidled up to Jon, who was still staring at the bear's massive corpse.
"Well, brother," Robb said, trying to lighten the mood, "I suppose this means you'll have to dance with all the ladies at White Harbor now. Can't very well turn down the hero who saved Lord Stark's men from a monster bear."
"Robb..."
"Though maybe leave out the part about the impossible spear throw," Robb continued, checking Jon's saddle straps. "Just say you heroically stabbed it while doing a perfect dancing spin. The ladies love that sort of thing."
Despite himself, Jon felt a small smile tugging at his lips. "You're not... worried?"
"About what? That my brother is stronger than he looks? That he can throw spears better than the king's guards?" Robb shrugged. "I'm more worried about how I'm going to compete with your new heroic reputation. Maybe I should find a bear to fight too."
"Please don't," Jon replied, finally mounting his horse. "One monster bear is enough for tonight."
"Besides," Robb added, mounting his own steed, "whatever's happening with you, we'll figure it out. We always do. Remember when we were eight and you accidentally set that hay bale on fire?"
"That was you with the torch."
"Details," Robb waved dismissively. "The point is, we handled it then, we'll handle this now. Though preferably with less shouting from Old Nan this time."
The party began moving through the darkness, the injured supported by their companions. Jon found himself riding closer to his father than usual, waiting for the questions he knew would come. But Lord Stark merely reached over and squeezed his shoulder once, firmly.
"Whatever strength you have, Jon," Ned said quietly, so only his son could hear, "you used it to protect others. Remember that."
The rest of the ride was conducted in relative silence, broken only by the occasional grunt of pain from the wounded and Robb's periodic attempts to lift spirits with increasingly outlandish tales of what he'd tell the ladies of White Harbor about their bear encounter.
"Maybe we should say it was dancing too," Robb suggested at one point. "A massive bear that challenged us to a dance competition, but got angry when Jon proved to be the better dancer."
"Shut up, Stark," Jon replied, but he was smiling now, the tension finally starting to ease from his shoulders.
