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The Three Headed Titan Chapter 3 (New Found Strength)
🕑 Added 2024-11-01 16:11:10 +0000 UTCHello, AMagicWriter here. I'm happy to publish a New Chapter of Three Headed Titan
Jon spent the rest of the day in a fog, his mind drifting repeatedly back to that impossible moment in the kitchen. He moved through his routines—training, eating, even sparring—without any real focus, as if he were watching himself from afar.
During sword practice, Ser Rodrik's shouts barely registered, and Robb's practice sword whacked him several times, breaking his trance and leaving dull aches to accompany his spinning thoughts.
"Your head's in the clouds today, Snow," Theon jeered, leaning on his sword. "Did a serving girl addle your wits?"
Jon grunted, too distracted to even muster his usual retort. His mind was consumed with questions, each one twisting tighter as he replayed the sensation of his wound mending itself.
At supper, Arya tried to engage him, her face scrunched up with concern. "Are you feeling well?" she asked, her grey eyes scrutinizing him as he absently pushed food around on his plate.
"Just tired," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. Another lie, but what could he say? That a cut had healed before his eyes? That he felt a warmth not his own pulse through his hand, leaving him unharmed and stunned? She'd think he was mad, and perhaps he was.
Now, the library offered a chance for answers. Surrounded by towering shelves, he hunted for anything that could make sense of what had happened, his fingers grazing over the spines of dusty tomes and scrolls, searching for words that might unlock this mystery. The dim candlelight cast long, shifting shadows over ancient pages as he skimmed texts about skinchangers, wargs, greenseers, and woods witches.
"The First Men were said to possess abilities beyond our understanding," he read aloud from one passage. "House Stark, in particular, was rumored to have produced skinchangers who could enter the minds of beasts, particularly direwolves."
Interesting, but not quite what he was looking for.
Another book recounted legends of Azor Ahai and his flaming sword. Not that either, Jon thought, feeling the weight of his own blood pounding against his temples. He pored over passages on the supposed immortality of the Great Other and stories of the Children of the Forest, but none offered anything resembling what he'd experienced.
Then he stumbled across a chapter on the priests of R'hllor and their rituals, the pages yellowed and brittle with age. "The resurrection rituals of R'hllor's priests are said to return the dead to life," he read, intrigued. "Though at great cost. The restored often bear marks of their journey—hair white as snow, eyes red as blood, no longer needing to eat or drink, can never sleep again, cannot reproduce and memories fractured like broken glass." But his experience didn't match this description either. I wasn't dead, just... cut.
"Still reading, Jon?" a familiar, gentle voice broke the silence, and Jon looked up, startled. Maester Luwin stood at the end of the row, his kind eyes twinkling in the candlelight. Outside the narrow windows, darkness had fully fallen.
"I lost track of time," Jon admitted sheepishly, closing the book he was reading.
"So I see," Luwin said, smiling. "Your thirst for knowledge does you credit, Jon, but even the most dedicated scholar needs rest." He glanced at the pile of books surrounding him. "Though, if you wish, you may take some of these with you to continue your reading in your chambers. Just ensure they're returned by morning."
"Thank you, Maester," Jon said gratefully, already eyeing the most promising tomes. "I'll take care of them."
"I know you will," Luwin nodded, his fingers grazing the links of his chain. "You've always been gentle with books, unlike some of your siblings." A faint chuckle escaped his lips. "May I ask what has captured your interest so thoroughly? It's rare I find anyone so engrossed in texts about ancient magic."
Jon froze, heart hammering, before forcing a casual tone. "Just curious about the old stories. The ones Old Nan tells about the Age of Heroes."
"Ah," Luwin murmured, touching the Valyrian steel link on his chain thoughtfully. "Magic is a fascinating subject, though it's more the realm of legend than fact these days. Still, it's good to study even the improbable. Knowledge, in all its forms, has value."
Jon nodded, carefully stacking the nine volumes he'd selected. Nine, he noted, a number that felt oddly fitting, almost like fate.
Luwin paused before leaving, his gaze lingering on the stack of books Jon held. "Though I wonder," he said quietly, "if you might find more practical knowledge in the histories of the North. The Stark bloodline, for instance, has many intriguing tales that are well-documented."
Jon's eyes darted up to Luwin's face, catching a glimmer of something unspoken. But the old maester's expression remained gentle, with no hints of anything more.
"Perhaps," Jon replied cautiously. "I'll look into those next."
"Good lad," Luwin patted his shoulder before heading back down the hall. "Off to bed now. The books will still be there tomorrow."
Jon clutched the volumes to his chest, their weight grounding him as he walked through Winterfell's dark, winding corridors. His thumb tingled as he walked, and he nearly dropped the books in his haste to examine it. But the skin remained intact, smooth and unmarked. He flexed his fingers, marveling at how uninjured they looked, the memory of pain and warmth lingering like a half-remembered dream.
Back in his chambers, he arranged the books on his desk, lighting two extra candles for reading. He skimmed each title, the words glinting in the flickering light:
Mysteries of the Known World
Magic of the First Men
Rituals and Rites of Ancient Westeros
A Study of Supernatural Occurrences
The Old Powers of the North
Legends of the Dawn Age
Blood Magic Through the Ages
Death and Life: The Red Rebirth
Garth Greenhand: The Man Who Died One Thousand Times
Jon opened the first book, determined to find some explanation for the strange healing he'd experienced. But the words blurred as exhaustion weighed down his eyelids, and his mind drifted back to the sight of steam rising from his skin, to the moment his flesh seemed to stitch itself back together.
"There has to be an explanation," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Something I'm missing."
He read on, one book after another, finding tales of woods witches with their herbs and songs, red priests with their fiery prayers, even legends of the children of the forest healing with music. But nothing spoke of wounds healing unaided, of flesh repairing itself without even the hint of a scar.
Just as he was about to abandon his search, a line caught his eye in an old, leather-bound volume. He leaned closer, forcing himself to read each word slowly.
"It is written that the blood of the First Men carried powers beyond our understanding, powers that grew stronger the purer the bloodline remained. Some maesters theorize that these abilities may lie dormant for generations, only to emerge unexpectedly..."
Jon's hand went to his thumb, the memory of warmth and healing still fresh in his mind. The Starks were of the First Men, their blood as ancient as the land beneath Winterfell. But he was just a bastard, a Snow, even if he did have Stark blood from his father.
Unless...
He shut the book quickly, shoving the thought away before it could fully form. There was no use speculating about his mother, about why Lord Stark had never spoken of her, about whispers of bloodlines and hidden power. Those paths led nowhere good.
The candlelight flickered as Jon's head nodded forward, eyes growing heavy as he tried to focus on the ancient texts. The words swam before him, and though he fought to stay awake, sleep eventually claimed him.
When he opened his eyes again, everything felt... different.
Gone were the familiar stone walls of Winterfell. Instead, he stood on an endless expanse of sand stretching as far as he could see. This wasn't like any desert he'd read about in Maester Luwin's books. The sky was dark, not with the velvet blackness of night but rather a peculiar twilight, frozen as if held in time. And towering over everything was a tree.
The word "tree" felt inadequate for what he saw. It was as if lightning had been captured and woven into the shape of an enormous weirwood, though there were no red leaves or white bark. This tree was pure light, its branches stretching up and up, disappearing into the dark sky while its roots spread across the horizon like glowing veins in the sand.
"Robb?" Jon called, his voice sounding oddly muffled in the still air. "Arya? Father?"
Silence.
"Seven hells," he muttered, running a hand through his dark curls. "I must be mad. That cut's addled my brain, and now I'm having fever dreams."
Yet, despite his attempt to rationalize, everything felt too vivid, too real. The sand shifted under his boots, cool air prickled his skin, and a strange heaviness settled over him, pressing down with a substance his usual dreams lacked.
Something drew him forward, a silent urging that made his feet move before he could question it. He approached the tree, each step leaving imprints in the sand that lingered for a moment before being swept away by an invisible breeze.
When he reached the glowing roots, Jon hesitated only briefly before reaching out to touch one. The moment his fingers brushed its surface, a rush of images surged through his mind:
Towering figures, colossal beings, trudged across a desolate land. They looked human, yet... wrong. Skinless, their muscles and sinews exposed. Steam rose from their bodies with every movement, their faces, they all seemed sad as their giant feet smashed the ground.
The visions intensified, faster now: mountains taller than any he'd seen, people soaring through the air on strange contraptions, cities gleaming with structures unlike any in the known world, and always, always those skinless giants, lumbering forward like harbingers of doom.
"Jon Snow."
The voice cut through the visions like a blade. Jon spun, his heart hammering, and found himself face-to-face with a woman.
She was beautiful, but unlike any courtly beauty he'd seen. Her hair glowed, radiating the same ethereal light as the tree, and her eyes were bright purple. Her clothing was simple but foreign, familiar yet strange, and her expression was one of sorrow and gentle warmth.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "And what is this place?"
"My name is Ymir," she replied, her voice carrying the same weight as the air around them. "And you, Jon Snow, are something quite remarkable."
Jon nearly laughed. "I'm just a bastard," he said, the words a reflex now.
"You are far more than that, Jon. You are a bridge between worlds, a connection that should not exist—and yet, here you stand."
"I don't understand." He fought the urge to back away. "What worlds? What connection?"
"You are an Eldian," she said, as if the term should mean something to him. "Your blood carries the power of two realms—the fire magic of your father's people, the ice magic of your mother's people and the strength of mine."
Jon's mind reeled, trying to process her words. "Is that... is that why I could heal myself? Why there was steam?"
Her lips curved into a faint smile. "That is only the beginning. The paths connect all Eldians, across time and space, and now they connect to you as well."
"But why me?" he asked, feeling a crack in his voice. "Why now?"
Before she could answer, the world around them began to blur and shift, the tree pulsing as if with a heartbeat. Jon felt a pull in his chest, a strange tugging sensation.
"You're waking up," Ymir said, her form fading like mist. "Remember, Jon Snow—you carry the blood of two worlds. Your healing is just the first sign. There will be more, and you must be ready."
"Wait!" Jon called, desperation lacing his voice. "How can I be ready for something I don't understand?"
Her fading voice echoed faintly: "Follow the paths, Jon Snow. They will show you the way."
Jon jerked awake in his chair, his heart racing, his left eye throbbing. The candle beside him had burned out, leaving the room bathed in the faint light of early dawn creeping through his window. The books still lay open before him.
He reached up, touching his left eye, which still tingled strangely. Then he glanced into a small mirror he kept nearby, finding his reflection staring back, his mismatched eyes staring strangely back at him. It felt like two people were looking at him; it felt like his green eye belonged to someone else, not to him.
"Follow the paths," he murmured, testing the words. "But how?"
A raven cawed sharply outside his window, making him jump. The sounds of Winterfell waking began to filter through the walls—servants shuffling about, horses in the yard, the distant clang of the blacksmith's hammer ringing in the morning.
He glanced at the books on his desk, then back at his reflection. He had even more questions now than when he'd started, but at least he had a direction. Ymir had told him he was Eldian, whatever that meant, and that he was bound to something larger than he could imagine.
Later
Jon sat on the edge of his bed, turning the strange dream over in his mind like a puzzle piece that wouldn't quite fit. Ymir's words echoed in his head, haunting and mysterious: "You are an Eldian." The word felt foreign, heavy on his tongue when he whispered it into the silence of his room.
"Eldian," he repeated softly, his voice barely carrying. "What in seven hells is an Eldian?"
His eyes fell to the knife at his belt—the simple one Father had given him on his tenth nameday. The memory was warm, comforting; the blade was plain but strong, the steel clean and true, with a direwolf etched into the pommel. Before he could talk himself out of it, he drew the knife and held it over his thumb.
"This is probably the stupidest thing I've ever done," he muttered. "And I once let Arya convince me to climb the broken tower in the dark."
The cut was quick, a sharp slice that sent a flare of pain through his hand. Blood welled up immediately, dark red droplets pooling and dripping onto the cold stone floor. Jon gritted his teeth, forcing himself to watch, not pull back, even as the sting intensified.
And then, it happened again. Steam rose from the wound, curling upward like mist off the hot springs. The pain ebbed, replaced by a strange warmth. He could only stare as his flesh knit itself back together, leaving smooth, unbroken skin. Only the blood splattered on the floor remained as evidence of the cut.
"Seven hells," he breathed, examining his thumb. He rubbed the spot where he'd cut himself, searching for any sign of tenderness, a hint of the pain that had been there seconds before. But there was nothing. No ache, no scar—just perfect, unmarked skin.
As he stared at his thumb, a memory stirred. Last winter, a fever had swept through Winterfell, leaving Robb bedridden with fever-bright cheeks and a terrible cough that had kept him awake for days. Sansa had succumbed too, though her sickness wasn't as severe. Even Rickon had taken ill, coughing and sniffling. But Jon... he had remained perfectly healthy.
"I've never been sick," he murmured, a revelation dawning on him. "Not once in my life." Everytime Arya called him magical, he had been sure this was just her making jokes, but she had been right without knowing.
No childhood fevers, no sniffles, not even a scrape that didn't heal almost immediately. At the time, Old Nan had called him "sturdy as an ox" and said he was blessed with a strong constitution. But now...
"It's been healing me all along," he realized. "Every time I might have gotten sick, every scrape or bruise... it's been hiding in plain sight."
Jon stood and began pacing his small chamber, the implications rattling through his mind like a storm. Should he tell someone? Father would listen—Lord Stark always listened to his children, even his bastard son. But what could he say?
"Father, it appears I have magical healing abilities, and a woman in my dreams says I'm something called an Eldian. Also, my green eye sometimes tingles for some reason. Pass the salt?"
A bitter laugh escaped him; it sounded mad, even in his own head.
No, he decided. He would keep this to himself for now, learn more before bringing it to anyone else. He needed to understand what he could do, what limits this power had. "Follow the paths," Ymir had said. But what paths? The only paths he knew were those in Winterfell's godswood, and somehow, he doubted those were what she'd meant.
Jon wiped up the blood from the floor, careful to leave no trace. His mind was racing, tumbling over the pieces of this strange new truth. A healing ability tied to this "Eldian" blood. A dream of glowing trees and giants without skin. And not a single clue what any of it meant.
"One thing at a time," he told himself firmly. "First, learn to control the healing. Then worry about the rest."
A knock at the door made him jump.
"Jon?" Arya's voice called through the wood, impatient. "Are you awake? Ser Rodrik's waiting in the yard for practice."
"Coming!" he called back, hastily hiding the bloodied cloth under his bed.
When he opened the door, Arya peered at him with a raised eyebrow, her grey eyes sharp. "You look... strange. Like you didn't sleep."
Jon forced a smile. "Just stayed up reading," he said, feeling the lie slip out more easily than he'd expected.
Arya's gaze flicked to the books scattered across his desk. "Since when are you interested in magic stories? I thought that was more Sansa's thing."
"Just curious," he replied with a shrug, steering her toward the door. "Come on, we shouldn't keep Ser Rodrik waiting."
As they walked to the training yard, Arya chattered on, mostly about her plans to sneak into archery practice again. Jon's thoughts drifted as he absently rubbed his thumb, still marveling at the absence of any mark, as if he'd never held the knife at all. Ymir's words echoed in his head, filling him with more questions than answers. The tree of light, those monstrous creatures, the strange, ancient sadness in her eyes... Part of him wanted to dismiss it all as a fevered dream, a product of too little sleep and too many wild tales.
But the healing was real. The steam was real. And, somehow, he knew the rest was real too.
"Jon!" Arya's sharp tone snapped him back. "Are you sure you're all right? You keep drifting off."
"I'm fine, little sister," he assured her, reaching out to ruffle her hair. She ducked with a grin and swatted at his hand.
"Well, stop thinking so much. You need to focus if you're going to help me practice my sword fighting."
Jon chuckled, his smile genuine. Whatever was happening to him, whatever these new powers meant, some things remained constant. Arya would always be Arya—fierce, loyal, and demanding as ever.
"As my lady commands," he replied with an exaggerated bow, earning himself a playful punch on the arm.
"I'm not a lady!" she protested, as she always did.
When they entered the training yard, Jon made a decision. He would keep this secret, at least for now, and learn what he could about his abilities on his own. But he wouldn't let it change him, not to his family or anyone else.
He was still Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell—just a bastard who happened to have some unusual qualities.
"Ready yourself, Snow!" Ser Rodrik's voice boomed from across the yard. "Let's see if you're more focused today than yesterday."
Jon grinned, drawing his practice sword and pushing thoughts of steam, paths, and Eldians to the back of his mind. For now, he had a different kind of learning to do, one that involved bruises and sweat.
But later, alone in his chamber, he would experiment again, test his limits, try to piece together what he was becoming. And maybe—if he dared—find his way back to that strange desert, that vast expanse of sand and light, and search for Ymir beneath the glowing tree, hoping she could finally give him the answers he sought.
Until then, he would wait, watch, and learn. He'd kept his desire to join the Night's Watch hidden long enough—this would just be one more secret to add to the growing pile.
.
.
The training yard echoed with the familiar sound of clashing wood as Jon and Robb circled each other, boots scuffing against the packed earth. But something was different today—Jon could feel it in his muscles, in the swift, effortless way his body responded to each movement. It was as if his body had been restrained before, held back somehow, and now he was finally unleashed.
"Come on, Snow," Robb taunted, grinning. "Stop dancing and hit me."
Jon obliged, stepping forward with what he intended to be a straightforward strike. But as his wooden sword connected with Robb's, a sharp crack split the air. Robb's practice sword snapped cleanly in two, the broken half spinning through the air before landing in the mud with a dull thud.
The yard went silent. Robb stared at his broken sword, then up at Jon, blue eyes wide with shock.
"Seven hells, Jon," Robb breathed. "Have you been doing push-ups in secret? Or did you replace your arms while I wasn't looking?"
Jon stared down at his own hands, barely keeping his expression neutral while his mind raced. "I... I've been training extra, that's all," he managed.
"Training extra?" Robb turned the broken hilt in his hand, his face a mixture of awe and disbelief. "This is seasoned oak, Jon. Seasoned oak doesn't just snap like a twig."
Ser Rodrik, who had been observing with his usual steely gaze, stepped forward. "Get another sword, Stark," he commanded. "Let's see if that was a fluke."
"Ready?" Robb called, returning with a fresh sword, though he held it a bit more cautiously now.
Jon nodded, settling into his stance, silently telling himself to hold back, to be careful. But as they began again, his movements felt effortless, his body responding with an ease he'd never known before. He was faster, sharper—he could see every gap in Robb's stance, anticipate every shift in his footwork. Every step felt instinctual, as if some new sense guided his every move.
Robb swung high, and Jon sidestepped, his counter flowing naturally, his practice sword tapping Robb's ribs before his foster brother could even react.
"Point," Ser Rodrik called out, his thick brows furrowing.
They reset, and again, Jon found himself moving with unnatural precision. Robb, who was usually his equal or better, couldn't seem to touch him. Every strike was parried, every thrust countered, every move deflected with perfect timing.
"Seven hells," Robb panted after their third match, wiping sweat from his brow, a mix of frustration and amazement in his eyes. "When did you become Arthur Dayne reborn?"
"Just... having a good day," Jon muttered, struggling to sound casual, though his heart raced with alarm. He could feel Ser Rodrik's intense gaze studying him.
"A good day?" Robb let out a breathless laugh. "You're moving like... I don't even know what. Like something out of Old Nan's stories."
"The boy's right," Ser Rodrik interjected, his voice laced with suspicion as he stepped closer. "Your form has improved dramatically, Snow. Almost... unnaturally so."
Jon tightened his grip on his practice sword, swallowing hard as he tried to steady his voice. "I've just been working on my footwork, like you suggested."
"Aye, practice can improve a man's skill," Ser Rodrik said, rubbing his whiskered chin thoughtfully. "But not overnight. And not like this."
"Perhaps Jon's finally showing his true talent," came Theon Greyjoy's mocking voice from the fence, where he'd been watching. "Maybe he's been holding back all these years to make the heir to Winterfell feel better about himself."
"Shut it, Greyjoy," Robb snapped, though his gaze lingered on Jon, concern flickering in his eyes.
"I think that's enough for today," Ser Rodrik announced, his tone brisk. "Snow, I want you here tomorrow morning before the others. We'll test your skills properly."
Jon nodded, relieved for the chance to leave. As he turned, he saw Robb's gaze follow him, concern and a hint of fear clouding his blue eyes.
"Jon," Robb called after him. "Are you sure you're all right?"
Jon hesitated, a part of him aching to confide in Robb, to tell him about the dreams, the strange strength coursing through him, the unnatural speed. But the words caught in his throat.
"I'm fine," he said, forcing a smile. "Just fine."
As he walked away, Theon's voice floated after him, louder than usual. "I bet money that he has been hiding his real talent all this time just to make you feel better Stark..."
Jon quickened his pace, heading toward the solitude of the godswood. His mind raced with questions, with memories of Ymir's haunting words and the disturbing visions of giants and glowing trees. The healing had been strange enough, but this? This was something else entirely.
He reached the godswood, weaving his way through the ancient trees until he stood beneath the heart tree. The carved face seemed to peer down at him, its eyes carved deep and knowing. A small pool lay nearby, its surface calm and dark, reflecting the red leaves and the pale bark. Jon knelt beside it, his gaze drifting to his reflection.
"What am I becoming?" he whispered, the words lost in the silence of the godswood. He reached out, his fingers brushing the surface of the pool, sending ripples across his reflection.
The godswood held its peace, the heart tree watching him with an eerie stillness, offering no answers. He remembered Ymir's cryptic words, her gentle, sad smile, the warning in her voice. "Follow the paths, Jon Snow. They will show you the way."
But what paths? What answers could he find here, with his secrets tangled tighter than ever?
The ripples stilled, and he saw his reflection clearly again—two eyes, mismatched and strange, he always found it odd that he had two mismatched eyes, but since that dream, it felt as if his green eye wasn't his, but it belonged to someone else.
Learn. Control. Understand.
The mysteries of his blood, his new strength, the strange powers lurking within him—all of it demanded answers. He would wait, study, and find his way back to that vast desert and its tree of light, to speak with Ymir again if he could.
He was Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. At least, he had been—until now.
Comments
Hakai
This story seems to entirely depend on plot induced stupidity. Is that going to be a thing going forward?
