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The Three Headed Titan Chapter 2 (A Cut with a Knife)
🕑 Added 2024-11-01 16:09:47 +0000 UTCHello, AMagicWriter here. I'm happy to publish a New Chapter of Three Headed Titan
Morning came too quickly, the memory of Jon's unsettling dream lingering at the edge of his mind. He splashed cold water on his face, as if he could wash away the memory of fire, smoke, and that dark, threatening voice. Dreams are just dreams, he reminded himself firmly, even if this one felt different.
Jon made sure to scrub up before heading to break his fast, knowing Lady Stark would take any opportunity to find fault with his appearance. The great hall was already lively with the morning bustle of servants and family. Jon's eyes instinctively drifted to the high table, searching Lady Stark's expression to gauge what kind of morning lay ahead. Today, her usual chilly stare was even icier than usual.
More surprising was the sight of Sansa, sitting unusually silent and barely picking at her food. Her usual bright conversation with Jeyne Poole was absent, her gaze fixed on her plate as she pushed bits of food around in circles.
Jon slid onto the seat beside Robb, keeping his voice low. "What's wrong with Sansa?"
Robb's face clouded slightly, his usual cheer tempered with discomfort. "Mother had...words with her last night."
"About teaching me to dance," Jon said flatly. It wasn't a question.
"Jon—"
"It's fine," Jon cut him off, though his appetite vanished. "I should have known better."
"It's not your fault," Robb replied, a rare edge of frustration in his tone. "The dancing lessons were necessary. Mother's just..." He trailed off, searching for a gentler description of his mother's behavior.
"Being herself?" Jon offered dryly.
"Well, I was going to say 'unreasonable,' but yes, that works."
Before they could continue, Theon dropped onto the bench across from them, grinning broadly as he reached for the bread.
"So, preparing for your grand debut in White Harbor?" Theon drawled. "Try not to shame the family name too badly, Snow."
"I'll do my best to live up to your shining example, Greyjoy," Jon replied blandly, helping himself to some fruit.
Theon smirked, undeterred. "You could never. The ladies of White Harbor won't know what hit them when I arrive. Well, they might have some idea—my reputation does tend to precede me."
"Yes, they'll be sure to hide their valuables and lock up their daughters," Robb quipped.
"You jest, but I've already received three letters from admirers there," Theon said with a smug grin.
"Your right hand writing with different colored inks doesn't count as multiple admirers," Jon said, his tone deadpan, causing Robb to choke on his drink.
From the next table over, Arya's distinct snort of laughter could be heard, followed by Bran's high-pitched giggle.
"Jealous, are you?" Theon retorted, his cheeks tinged red. "You wouldn't know what to do with a woman if one fell into your lap."
"Unlike you, who wouldn't know what to do with a woman unless you paid her first?" Jon raised an eyebrow.
Robb nearly fell off the seat laughing while Theon's face turned crimson.
"At least I know how to talk to them," Theon huffed. "You just stand there looking confused whenever a girl so much as glances at you."
"Better confused than desperate," Jon shrugged.
"I am not desperate—"
"You tried to flirt with Old Nan last week because you were drunk, and she was wearing a new shawl," Robb pointed out.
"I did not!" Theon protested, then hesitated. "Did I?"
"You told her her eyes sparkled like stars in a winter sky," Jon confirmed solemnly.
"And that her white hair reminded you of freshly fallen snow," Robb added with a smirk.
"She threatened to hit you with her knitting needles," Jon finished.
"Gods, no wonder she won't look me in the eye anymore," Theon groaned, dropping his head into his hands. Jon and Robb exchanged grins of triumph.
"Don't worry," Robb said, patting Theon's shoulder. "I'm sure the ladies of White Harbor will be much more receptive to your... unique charms."
"Especially if they're blind. And deaf. And have no sense of smell," Jon added helpfully.
Theon shot them both a mock glare. "You are lucky I won't be coming or they all would run after me. You'll see."
"Oh, we'll see something, alright," Robb chuckled. "Probably you getting slapped by at least three different women."
"Five, minimum," Jon countered with a grin.
Robb's eyes gleamed. "Want to make it interesting? Ten silver stags says he gets slapped by at least four women before the first feast is over."
"Done," Jon said, his grin widening. "Though we should probably set some rules. Does a drink in the face count?"
"Absolutely."
"What about a knee to the—"
"I'm sitting right here!" Theon interrupted indignantly.
"Yes, and you're ruining our wagering with your presence," Robb told him. "How are we supposed to bet on your humiliation if you're listening?"
"Some friends you are," Theon grumbled, though his lips twitched with suppressed laughter.
"We're the best friends you have," Jon pointed out. "We're the only ones willing to tell you when you're making a fool of yourself."
"Which is often," Robb added, taking a swig of his drink.
"Very often."
"Almost constantly, really."
"It's practically a full-time occupation, keeping track of all your foolishness."
"You should pay us for the service."
"Generous compensation would be appropriate."
Theon paused, a reluctant half-grin twitching at the corner of his mouth, but he kept his pace, settling at a table across the room.
"Good luck with that," Jon and Robb called after him in unison. They could see his shoulders shake with laughter as he disappeared into the crowd.
"He's going to be insufferable when we return, isn't he?" Jon sighed, glancing at Robb.
"Oh, absolutely," Robb nodded. "But at least we'll be gone for a week, so maybe he'll have calmed down by the time we're back."
"Small mercies," Jon agreed, though his eyes drifted toward the end of the high table. He noticed that Sansa was gone, and Lady Stark's frosty demeanor hadn't improved. "I should probably make myself scarce before your mother decides I'm corrupting you with my bastard ways."
"Your bastard ways of eating breakfast? Scandalous indeed."
"You never know. I might be eating it in a particularly baseborn manner."
"Ah yes, holding your spoon with the wrong hand, using the wrong fork for eggs—bringing untold shame upon House Stark with every bite."
"Exactly. I'm surprised she hasn't banished me to the stables yet."
"Don't give her ideas," Robb warned, only half-joking.
Jon chuckled, clapping Robb on the shoulder as he stood. "I'll see you at training later? Unless your delicate feet are still recovering from yesterday's lessons."
"My feet may never recover," Robb lamented, holding his hand to his heart in mock tragedy. "I may be forced to retire from dancing forever."
"A truly tragic loss for the North," Jon said solemnly. "The ladies will be devastated."
"They'll have to console themselves with Theon."
Both shuddered dramatically at the thought, then broke into matching grins.
As Jon left the hall, he caught Arya's eye and winked, drawing a quick smile from her. Some things remained constant, he reminded himself—Theon's ridiculous boasting, Robb's friendship, Arya's unfiltered acceptance. If he focused on those, maybe he could forget about the strange dreams, Lady Stark's icy disdain, and Sansa's quiet punishment for the kindness she'd shown him. Almost.
"Speaking of White Harbor," Robb murmured as he rejoined him in the corridor, "I hear some of the Manderly boys like to challenge visitors to 'prove themselves' in the training yard."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "The Manderlys? Aren't they all supposed to be..." He gestured expansively, imitating the bulk the Manderlys were famed for.
"Fat as whales?" Robb grinned. "Yes, that's the rumor. Too much of that famous White Harbor food."
"And too rich to need to fight," Jon added with a smirk. "When was the last time anyone from House Manderly won a tournament?"
"Well, Lord Wyman has two sons," Robb pointed out. "Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel."
"Both old enough to be our fathers," Jon replied, chuckling. "Unless you're planning to challenge men twice your age?"
"Gods, no! Father would have my head if I picked fights with our hosts. But there must be squires and other noble sons fostering there..."
"Those we could handle," Jon nodded, a glint in his mismatched eyes. "Though let's hope they don't actually want to fight."
"Scared, Snow?" Robb teased.
"Of some pampered port city boys? Hardly," Jon scoffed. "I'm more worried about offending their delicate sensibilities when I knock them into the dirt."
"You'll have to get through me first," Robb reminded him. "I'm still ahead in our sparring matches."
"By one! And the last one didn't count—you cheated."
"Did not!"
"You threw snow in my face!"
"I merely used my surroundings to my advantage," Robb said with an exaggerated air of superiority.
"You don't need to worry about fighting anyone," Arya's voice cut in as she reached them. "Just challenge them to a dance. After seeing you two, they'll run away screaming."
Jon groaned, while Robb clutched his chest in mock offense. "I'll have you know we're quite accomplished dancers now."
"Yes," Arya nodded solemnly. "Like a pair of drunken bears trying to walk on their hind legs."
"I prefer to think of it as two wolves with a particularly good sense of rhythm," Robb sniffed, pretending to be insulted.
"More like two wolves after they've been kicked in the head by a horse," Jon muttered.
"At least you didn't step on anyone's feet in the last hour of practice," Arya added, giving Jon a consoling pat. "That's progress."
"Such heartfelt encouragement," Jon replied dryly. "Truly, your faith in us is overwhelming."
"Oh, I have complete faith," Arya grinned, "that you'll both make complete fools of yourselves in White Harbor."
"Is she really our sister, or did someone change her for another, dumber one?" Robb asked Jon, feigning exasperation.
"Too late," Arya said cheerfully. "You're stuck with me. Too bad I can't come with you. I would love to see you two...stomping on the ground."
"Speaking of dancing disasters," Robb turned to Jon, a mischievous gleam in his eye, "maybe that's how we should handle any challenges in White Harbor. Skip the swordplay entirely—just challenge them to a dance-off."
"Yes, because that would be so much less humiliating," Jon rolled his eyes.
"It would certainly be more entertaining," Arya chimed in. "For everyone else, at least."
"Your support is noted, little sister," Robb said, ruffling her hair playfully.
Arya squawked, batting his hand away. "Watch it! I can still blacken your eye if you keep it up."
Robb chuckled, rising from his seat. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Jon and I need to practice our... what did you call it? Our drunken bear impression?"
"For the honor of House Stark," Jon added with mock solemnity.
"The things we do for family," Robb sighed dramatically as they walked out of the hall.
Arya called after them, grinning. "Just try not to break any more toes! Father says we can't afford to cripple any potential allies!"
Later
Jon found solace in the quiet corners of the library, where shelves of ancient tomes and scrolls stood like silent sentinels. Despite what most assumed about him, he cherished reading nearly as much as the thrill of swordplay. Here, the only sounds were the crackle of torches on the stone walls and the faint rustle of pages as he turned them.
In these moments, when he was certain no one was near, he would hum softly or even sing under his breath. It was a habit he'd picked up as a child, one that had brought him comfort until Lady Catelyn had heard him once, her sharp words silencing his songs. "Bastards shouldn't draw attention to themselves," she had told him, cold and final. After that, he saved his voice for times of utter solitude, in the godswood or here among the endless shelves.
Today, he found himself drawn to a section on foreign lands, his curiosity piqued by tales of distant empires and lost civilizations. "A city made entirely of gold," he murmured skeptically, running his finger along the yellowed page that described the Golden Empire of Yi Ti. "And I'm the King Beyond the Wall." Despite his disbelief, he was entranced. The text claimed that Yi Ti's streets were dusted with gold, and its towering spires topped with rubies so large they glowed like flames at dusk.
"If the whole place was made of gold, someone would have melted it down by now," he mused aloud. Catching himself talking to the books again, he muttered, "And now I'm turning into Maester Luwin."
He read on until his stomach growled, reminding him he'd missed the midday meal. The kitchens would be quiet now, and though sneaking food might earn him a sharp rebuke from the cooks, they had never minded his presence. Old Nan had once said it was because he'd caught a family of rats stealing from the larder, but Jon suspected it was also because he was careful to leave no trace of his visit, often lending a hand with kneading bread or chopping vegetables when they were particularly swamped.
As he made his way down the hall, he heard Robb's familiar voice echoing from around a corner.
"There you are! I should have known you'd be hiding with your precious books."
"I wasn't hiding," Jon replied, feigning indignation. "I was reading about Yi Ti."
"Of course you were," Robb chuckled. "While the rest of us mere mortals were practicing our swordwork, you were off learning about... what exactly?"
"A city made of gold," Jon said, shaking his head with a smile.
"Sounds very practical," Robb grinned. "Not at all likely to be stolen or melted down."
"That's exactly what I was thinking," Jon laughed. "Anyway, I'm heading to the kitchens. Want to join me?"
"Are you going to sing while you cook?" Robb teased, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Maybe that lovely ballad about the bear and the maiden fair?"
Jon groaned, feeling his ears redden. "That was one time, and you swore never to mention it again."
"No, I believe I swore not to mention how you were dancing while singing it. The singing itself was never part of the agreement."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't. You love me almost as much as you love your books. And your secret singing."
They reached the kitchens, which were mercifully empty except for a few servants tidying up from the midday meal. They nodded respectfully to Robb, who was already eyeing a basket of freshly baked bread.
"What are you making?" Robb asked, hopping up onto one of the tables.
"Get off there before Cook sees you," Jon warned, arching an eyebrow. "Remember what happened last time?"
Robb winced, rubbing his backside. "That woman has unnaturally good aim with a wooden spoon."
"And an unnaturally hard swing," Jon agreed as he began gathering ingredients. "I'm making those meat pies you like."
"The ones with the pepper and onions?"
"Unless you'd prefer I sing instead?"
"No, no, the pies are fine," Robb said quickly, then added with a grin, "Though I'm sure the kitchen staff would love a performance."
"Keep it up, and you're not getting any pie," Jon threatened, though he was already chopping onions. "Make yourself useful and fetch me some flour."
"I am the heir to Winterfell," Robb replied loftily, crossing his arms. "I don't fetch things."
"Then the heir to Winterfell can starve."
"Tyranny!" Robb declared with mock offense, but he grabbed the flour. "I shall remember this abuse of power when I am Lord of Winterfell."
"Then you'll rule hungry," Jon smirked as he set about mixing the dough.
The two worked side by side, Jon kneading dough while Robb sliced onions and tried not to tear up, grumbling under his breath about the horrors of kitchen duty. They settled into a rhythm, and Jon could feel the lingering tension of the morning fading away.
"So, what else does this book of yours say?" Robb asked after a while. "Are the people in Yi Ti gold as well, or is it just the buildings?"
"Apparently, they wear gold robes embroidered with jewels and feast on the finest foods from across Essos," Jon replied, rolling out the dough. "It sounds like a fairy tale. Imagine trying to eat off plates made of gold. We'd be freezing our fingers off up here before the food even got to our mouths."
"Then I'll stick to plain old metal plates," Robb said with a grin, wiping his flour-covered hands on his tunic. "Though I wouldn't mind seeing a place like that someday. Father says we should know our lands well, but I wouldn't mind knowing what's beyond them, either."
"Maybe one day we'll see it," Jon murmured, though he doubted he would ever travel much beyond Winterfell.
Just then, the kitchen door swung open, and Arya bounded in, grinning as she spotted them. "Ha! I knew I'd find you two hiding in here."
"We're not hiding," Jon replied, shooting her a mock glare. "We're making pies."
"Right. And you're also wearing half of the flour you're using." She poked Robb's arm, leaving a perfect white smudge on his tunic. "Mother will be thrilled."
"Someone's looking to be kicked out of the kitchen," Robb warned, eyeing her playfully.
"Relax," Arya shrugged, plopping down on a stool. "So, who's this golden city for, anyway? Or is that just Jon's excuse for not joining you for swordplay?"
"City of Yi Ti," Jon corrected. "It's made of gold, and the people eat from jewel-encrusted plates. And they're apparently very particular about manners, so maybe you'd fit right in."
Arya snorted. "Oh, sounds dreadful. Give me real plates and a real sword any day."
"That's what I said," Robb chimed in. "Just more proof that I'm the sensible one around here."
"More like you both just lack imagination," Jon retorted with a grin as he placed the finished pies into the oven. "There's a whole world beyond Winterfell. Maybe one day we'll see it for ourselves."
"Together?" Arya asked, her face lighting up with excitement. "Promise?"
Jon and Robb exchanged a look, both of them smiling. "Promise," they replied in unison.
"Jon, can't you be faster?" Robb groaned dramatically, clutching his stomach. "I'm withering away here."
"Faster?" Jon raised an eyebrow as he continued kneading the dough. "What do you expect me to do? Pray to the god of food?"
"Here you are again, using your power over me," Robb retorted an exaggerated look of betrayal on his face. "I always knew you were a traitor."
"What power?" Jon snorted. "I'm just the bastard cook."
"A singing brother cook," Robb corrected him, placing extra emphasis on "brother."
"No pie for you."
"Alright, alright! I take it back!" Robb said quickly, eyes fixed on the tantalizing pies baking in the oven. "You're a wonderfully silent cook who has never sung a note in his life."
Jon chuckled as he dusted his hands with flour. "Your flattery could use some work."
"Unlike your singing," Robb said with a straight face, "which needs no work at all."
Jon reached for a handful of flour and flicked it at Robb, who yelped, brushing the powder from his hair. "Now who's abusing their power?" Robb demanded.
"Still you. I'm just defending my honor."
"Your honor as a secret singer?"
"That's it," Jon said, reaching for more flour, but Robb ducked out of the way just in time.
"Peace! Peace! I yield to your superior... everything," Robb laughed, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Just feed me."
"That's better." Jon nodded with mock regality, returning to his cooking. "Though I notice you're still not helping."
"I brought flour!" Robb pointed out, trying to look innocent.
"And have done nothing since, besides crying over those onions like a little girl," Jon retorted with a smirk.
"Hey!" came from Arya, clearly unimpressed by the comment.
"I'm providing moral support," Robb said, ignoring Arya's glare, "and protection, in case anyone tries to steal your pies."
"The only one likely to steal them is you," Jon replied, rolling his eyes.
"I would never!" Robb gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I might borrow them indefinitely, but steal? Never."
Jon shook his head as he sprinkled spices over the filling, a small smile tugging at his lips. These were the moments he treasured most—him, Robb, and Arya together, without titles or expectations, just three siblings trading jokes over simple kitchen tasks.
"Do you think they have meat pies in Yi Ti?" Robb asked, watching as Jon carefully sealed each pie.
"Probably made with gold leaf and dragon scales," Jon replied dryly, glancing up with a smirk.
"That sounds uncomfortable to eat," Robb mused.
"About as uncomfortable as living in a city made of gold, I'd imagine."
"You don't think it's real, then?" Robb asked, genuinely curious.
Jon shrugged. "I think people like to make things sound grander than they are. Like those tales of the Thousand Islands where they say the women are ten feet tall and have scales instead of skin."
Robb's eyes widened in mock horror. "You mean they're not? Well, there go my marriage prospects."
Jon chuckled. "I'm sure Theon knows some ten-foot-tall scaled women he could introduce you to."
"Probably claims he's bedded a few," Arya chimed in, rolling her eyes.
They all laughed, knowing well enough of Theon's talent for exaggerating his adventures.
As the rich, savory aroma of the pies began to fill the kitchen, Jon noticed Robb eyeing the oven with thinly veiled longing. "They'll be done soon," he assured him. "Try not to drool on the table."
"I do not drool," Robb said, attempting to look dignified. "I anticipate enthusiastically."
"Oh, is that what we're calling it now?"
Before Robb could respond. "Nothing smells quite like Jon's pies. I could tell they're yours from a field away." Arya chimed in with a little smile.
Robb grinned, nudging Jon. "And how would you know they're Jon's, Arya?"
Arya shot him a look. "Because the kitchen's still standing. If you were cooking, something would be on fire by now."
"That happened once!" Robb protested.
"Three times," Jon corrected with a grin.
"Twice," Robb argued, looking to Arya for backup. "The third time was mostly Theon's fault."
"Which is why you're banned from cooking unsupervised," Arya said with satisfaction. "While Jon here gets to make his pies whenever he wants."
"And sometimes he even shares them," Robb added with a heavy hint, casting Jon an exaggeratedly hopeful look.
Jon pointed his knife at the pair of them. "Not another word about singing, or these pies are going straight to Bran and Rickon."
"Our lips are sealed," Robb said with a solemn nod, though Arya's expression clearly said otherwise.
"Though not about the dancing," Arya whispered to Robb, just loud enough for Jon to hear.
Jon narrowed his eyes and reached for the flour again, and both siblings quickly scrambled out of his reach, laughing. He couldn't help but chuckle himself as he returned to work, knowing that these moments—when he wasn't the bastard of Winterfell but simply their brother.
Once the pies were finally done, Jon carefully removed them from the oven, the golden-brown crusts crackling with steam and the mouthwatering scent filling the room.
Jon handed one to Robb and Arya.
Arya took a huge bite, her face lighting up. "These are amazing," she mumbled through a mouthful of pie. "You should forget about being a warrior and become a chef instead."
"The best chef in all the Seven Kingdoms," Robb agreed, reaching for his second pie. "You could cook for kings."
"Or better yet, cook for us," Arya added, licking her fingers.
Jon snorted, muttering as he gathered up the dishes. "The Night's Watch doesn't need a chef."
"What was that?" Robb asked, raising an eyebrow as he swallowed a mouthful.
"Nothing," Jon replied quickly. "Just said these need more seasoning next time."
They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the kitchen filled with the warmth of freshly baked pies and quiet laughter.
Robb stretched, patting his stomach contentedly. "I could get used to this."
"A Winterfell tradition," Arya announced grandly. "Jon's meat pies."
"Maybe you should make some for the Manderlys," Robb suggested with a wink. "I'm sure they'd be thrilled to have a Stark chef in residence."
"They're rich enough to have chefs aplenty," Jon replied, shaking his head. "Though maybe a little Northern flavor wouldn't hurt them."
"Maybe you'll marry one of those Manderly girls and be a cook and a lord," Arya said with a grin.
Jon's face flushed, and he focused on the crumbs on his plate. "I think I'll leave the lordly marriages to you, Robb."
Robb laughed, nudging him. "We'll see. If I ever become a lord, I'll be needing a cook. Don't think you'll escape so easily."
"Sounds like a great lord, one who puts his brother to work in the kitchens."
"A lord with excellent taste in food," Robb corrected. "Anyway, think of it: the future Lord of Winterfell served by the best chef in the North. Now that's a family tradition."
Jon laughed, shaking his head as he rose to clear away their plates. Then he remembered his plans to join the Night's Watch when he reached sixteen name days.
He felt a pang of guilt at the lie, but he wasn't ready to tell them about his plans for the Wall. Not yet. He could already picture their reactions—Robb's confusion, the hurt that would flicker in his eyes, and Arya's fury, the way she'd cross her arms and swear she'd go with him. No, it was better to keep this to himself for now.
"More seasoning? They're perfect as they are," Arya declared through a mouthful of pie, but her expression shifted as she caught sight of something behind him. "Oh no, Mother's looking for me. I was supposed to be at my lessons ages ago."
"And I need to speak with Father," Robb added reluctantly, casting Jon a quick, grateful smile. "Thanks for the pies, brother."
Jon watched them leave, feeling the quiet settle back around him as he returned to tidying up. The kitchen had to be spotless when he was done—he'd learned early that crumbs or a dirty countertop could mean trouble, so he worked with brisk, practiced efficiency.
A soft, lilting giggle caught his attention, and he turned to see one of the serving girls lingering at the doorway. Martha? No, maybe Mary? She was older than him, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with auburn hair that shone like red stars, reminding him a little of Sansa's. She gave him a knowing smile, her eyes lingering on him a second longer than expected before she slipped back into the hallway.
Jon felt his cheeks warm, caught off guard by the encounter. He'd noticed her before, of course—who hadn't?—but she'd never looked at him twice. He was so distracted that he didn't notice the knife slipping until—
"Ah! Fuck!" The curse slipped out before he could stop it. He dropped the knife, staring in shock as blood pooled instantly from a deep gash on his thumb. Blood dripped onto the countertop, thick and heavy. He swallowed, stomach twisting. The cut was deep—too deep. He could see white beneath the blood, and a chill washed over him.
Maester Luwin, he thought, trying to steady his breath. I need to—
But before he could finish the thought, a strange warmth spread through his hand. The burning pain dulled, replaced by something warm and pulsing, like fire flickering just under his skin. His eyes widened in disbelief as wisps of steam—actual steam—rose from the wound.
Jon stood frozen, watching as the raw edges of the cut slowly drew together, the flesh knitting itself back into place. The heat intensified for a moment, and then the wound was gone, as if it had never been. No gash, only smooth, unbroken skin. All left was the blood that had escaped his wound while it was still open.
"What in the seven hells?" he whispered, staring at his hand. He turned it this way and that, searching for any sign of the injury. The skin was unmarred, smooth as ever. Even the calluses he'd earned through countless hours in the training yard were still there, unchanged.
He touched the spot where the cut had been, half-expecting it to reopen, but nothing. No pain, no scar. Just the memory of what he'd seen—of what he'd felt.
Jon's mind raced as he grabbed a cloth and wiped away the smeared blood, his hands trembling. He remembered stories he had read—legends of ancient magic, tales of warriors blessed by the gods. But those were just stories, things that happened to heroes of the past, not to bastards cutting their fingers in kitchens.
He glanced around, his pulse thundering in his ears. The kitchen was empty, still and silent as ever. No one had seen... whatever this was. He rubbed his thumb again, half-hoping he'd imagined it. But he hadn't.
Should I tell someone? he wondered. Maester Luwin would know if such a thing was possible. Or maybe Father...
No. No one would believe him. They'd think he was lying, or worse, losing his mind. And yet he knew what he'd seen, felt the warmth of the wound closing, the unnatural sensation of his flesh mending itself.
Jon finished cleaning in a daze, his eyes darting repeatedly to his thumb, to the place where his skin should have still been raw and bleeding. He stuffed the bloodied cloth deep into the kitchen waste bin, hiding any trace of the cut. No one needed to know, and he couldn't risk anyone asking questions he couldn't answer.
As he left the kitchen, he flexed his hand, marveling at the unmarked skin. Whatever had happened, one thing was certain—this wasn't something a bastard boy from the North should be able to do. Like his secret plans for the Wall, this too would remain hidden.
