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The Three Headed Titan Chapter 1 (Visions of Death)
🕑 Added 2024-11-01 16:08:12 +0000 UTCHello, AMagicWriter here. I'm happy to publish the first Chapter of Three Headed Titan
Jon's practice sword whistled through the crisp morning air, cutting invisible enemies as steam rose from his skin despite the cold. The heart tree watched silently, its carved face neither approving nor condemning his presence. He preferred training here in the early hours, away from the judging eyes of others, particularly Lady Stark's.
His sword stopped mid-swing as last year's memories invaded his thoughts unbidden. The sound of coughing had filled the halls of Winterfell, servants moving like ghosts through corridors with cloths pressed to their faces. But what haunted him most was Robb's feverish face, usually robust cheeks hollowed by illness.
"You never get sick," Arya had whispered to him that evening, perched on his bed like a little bird. "Never ever. I've watched."
"Everyone gets sick sometimes, little sister," he had replied, though even then he'd known it wasn't true – at least not for him.
"No, you don't. I've seen Robb sick before, and Sansa, and even Father once. But never you." Her gray eyes, so like his own, had sparkled with conviction. "It's like magic."
The memory shifted to later that same week, when Lady Stark had cornered him in the library:
' "Why are you not ill?" she had demanded, her usually composed face twisted with worry and suspicion. "Everyone who has been near my son has fallen ill. Everyone except you."
Jon had stepped back, clutching the book he'd been reading. "My lady, I-"
"You spend every day with him, training in the yard, sharing meals, yet you stand here healthy while my son burns with fever."
"Theon is well too," Jon had protested, hating how defensive he sounded. "He hasn't fallen ill either."
Lady Stark's laugh had been bitter, cutting. "Theon Greyjoy gains nothing if my son dies. But you... if Robb were to die, what might a bastard hope to gain?" '
The accusation had hit him worse than the slap many years ago. Even now, months later, practicing alone in the godswood, Jon's hands tightened on his practice sword until his knuckles went white.
"How dare you?" he had whispered then, trembling with rage and hurt. "How dare you think I would ever-"
"Enough."
His father's voice had cut through the library like ice. Jon had never seen Lord Stark so angry, his gray eyes hard as winter frost as he regarded his wife.
"Father, I-" Jon had started.
"Leave us, Jon."
He had fled, but not before hearing his father's words to Lady Stark: "You will never speak to him like that again. Never."
"My love," Lady Stark had begun, but Lord Stark's voice had grown colder still.
"He is my blood. He would sooner cut off his own hand than harm Robb. You know this, Cat. You know it."
Back in the present, Jon's practice sword struck the ground with enough force to send snow flying. A raven cawed somewhere above, making him start.
"I thought I'd find you here," came Arya's voice behind him. She was bundled in furs, her hair wild as always. "You always come here when you're brooding."
"I don't brood," Jon protested automatically.
"Yes, you do. You're doing it right now." She plopped down on a nearby root, pulling her knees to her chest. "Thinking about last year?"
Jon looked at her sharply. "How did you-"
"Because I was thinking about it too. Sansa mentioned at breakfast how she's sure she's getting a cold, and it reminded me." Arya tilted her head. "You still haven't been sick, you know. Not once."
"Arya..."
"I've been keeping track," she continued, undeterred. "Three years ago, when that stomach illness went through the castle? Everyone was sick, even the kitchen cats. But not you. And last winter, when-"
"Perhaps I'm just healthy," Jon interrupted, not wanting to discuss it.
"Or perhaps you're magical," Arya insisted. "Like the heroes in Old Nan's stories."
"I'm not a hero from a story," Jon said, but he couldn't help smiling at her earnestness. "I'm just... me."
"Maybe that's enough," Arya said quietly. "Maybe being you is exactly what makes you special."
Jon sat beside her, ruffling her hair affectionately. "Nothing special about me, little sister. I'm just a bastard who's good at not catching colds."
"You're more than that," Arya said fiercely. "Mother was wrong, you know. About everything."
Jon's smile faded. "You heard about that?"
"I hear lots of things. People don't notice me much, especially when I'm hiding." She looked at him seriously. "Father was right to be angry. She shouldn't have said those things."
"She was worried about Robb," Jon said, though the words tasted bitter. "Any mother would be."
"That's no excuse," Arya declared. "You love Robb as much as any of us. More than Theon does, even if he is Father's ward."
Jon picked up a stick and drew patterns in the snow. "Sometimes I think it would be easier if I did get sick. Just once. Then maybe she wouldn't..."
"Wouldn't what? Hate you?" Arya snorted. "She'd find another reason. Don't wish yourself ill just to please her, Jon. Being different isn't wrong."
"When did you get so wise?" Jon asked, trying to lighten the mood.
"I've always been wise. You just never noticed because you were too busy brooding."
That startled a laugh out of him. "I don't-"
"Yes, you do," came Robb's voice, and they both turned to see him approaching through the trees. "Gods, but you do love to brood, brother."
Jon stood quickly, brushing snow from his clothes. "I thought you were training with Ser Rodrik this morning."
"I was. But then I saw my favorite sister sneaking off to the godswood, and I thought I'd see what mischief you two were plotting." Robb's smile faded slightly. "Though from your faces, I'd say this isn't about mischief at all."
"We were just talking," Arya said quickly.
"About last year," Robb guessed, and Jon saw understanding dawn in his brother's eyes. "Ah. Mother's words."
Jon looked away. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing," Robb said firmly. "It was wrong, what she said. I told her so myself, after Father did."
This was news to Jon. "You did?"
"Of course I did. You're my brother, Jon. I know you'd never wish me harm." Robb's blue eyes were serious. "And I don't care if you never get sick. Though I must admit, I'm rather jealous of that particular trait."
"See?" Arya said triumphantly. "I told you it was magical."
"It's not magical," Jon protested, but Robb was grinning now.
"Oh, I don't know about that. Seems rather convenient, doesn't it? Never having to drink Maester Luwin's horrible remedies? Never missing training because of a cough?" He clasped Jon's shoulder. "If it is magic, brother, I'd say you got the better end of that bargain."
"You're both idiots," Jon grumbled, but he was fighting a smile now.
"We're your family," Arya said simply. "Being idiots is what family does."
"Speaking of idio--speaking of family," Robb said, "Father's looking for you, Jon. Something about helping him review the winter stores."
Jon nodded, gathering his practice sword. As he turned to go, Robb caught his arm.
"Jon? Whatever Mother said... it doesn't change anything. You're my brother. Always will be."
For a moment, Jon couldn't speak past the lump in his throat. He nodded instead, clasping Robb's arm in return.
As he walked back toward the castle, he could hear Arya pestering Robb about whether he thought Jon might have other magical abilities they hadn't discovered yet. Robb's laughing response made him smile despite himself.
The sunlight filtering through the heart tree's red leaves caught his unique eyes - one as green as summer grass, the other an impossible shade of purple that sometimes made the servants whisper and look away. At thirteen, he was already showing signs of the striking beauty that made some of the older servants uncomfortable, though Jon never understood why they'd sometimes stare at his face with such strange expressions.
As he walked back toward the castle, he passed two servants who quickly averted their eyes. Jon was used to it by now - his face seemed to unsettle people more and more as he grew older, though he couldn't understand why. He'd caught his father watching him sometimes with a strange, almost pained expression, especially when the subject of his perfect health came up.
He could still hear Arya behind him, now trying to convince Robb that Jon's eyes were proof of magical abilities. "Old Nan says mismatched eyes mean the gods marked him special," she was insisting, while Robb laughed good-naturedly.
Lady Stark's voice cut through his thoughts as he entered the courtyard: "Keep your distance from him," she was telling Sansa, who had been watching Jon approach. His stepmother's eyes lingered on his face with that familiar mixture of suspicion and barely concealed hostility before she hurried her daughter away.
Jon squared his shoulders and continued toward the keep. Let them whisper about his eyes, his face, his perfect health. At thirteen, he was learning to wear their suspicions like armor. Besides, as Arya had said - being different wasn't wrong, even if it made others uncomfortable.
Later
Jon knocked on the heavy wooden door of his father's solar, brushing a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to smooth down the stubborn curls that training had left wild. The faint scent of ink and aged parchment seeped from beneath the door, mingling with the smoky warmth of the hearth.
"Enter," came his father's familiar voice.
Pushing the door open, Jon found Lord Stark hunched over his oak desk, quill scratching against parchment. The firelight cast his father's face in stern relief, brows furrowed in concentration, the way they did when Winterfell's weighty responsibilities demanded his full attention. But when he looked up and saw Jon, a faint warmth softened his expression, hinting at the father behind the lord.
"Ah, Jon. Good." Lord Stark set the quill down, a practiced hand folding the letter he'd been working on. Jon caught a fleeting glimpse of a wax seal—a merman riding a large fish—before his father tucked it away carefully.
"Robb said you wanted to see me, Father?" Jon shifted his weight, his mismatched green and purple eyes glinting with quiet curiosity.
"Yes." Lord Stark leaned back, the chair creaking under him as he scrutinized Jon. "In two weeks' time, I'll be traveling to White Harbor to discuss some matters with Lord Manderly. Robb will come along, of course, and..." He hesitated, studying Jon's face. "I'd like you to join us."
Jon's eyes widened, one reflecting the daylight from the window while the other seemed to brighten with an inner excitement. Yet his natural caution tempered his enthusiasm.
"Me? But... wouldn't Bran want to go?"
Lord Stark's lips twitched with a glint of amusement. "Bran is four, Jon. The highlight of White Harbor for him would likely be counting every step in the New Castle before falling asleep halfway through."
"He'd probably try to climb them all."
Lord Stark's chuckle filled the room. "Precisely why he's staying here. No, Jon, I think it's time you saw more of the North beyond Winterfell's walls. You're thirteen now. It will be good for you to meet people, learn how to—"
"Hide my face better?" Jon muttered with a touch of irony.
Lord Stark's gaze sharpened slightly. "Jon."
"Sorry," Jon said, looking down. "It's just... what about Lady Stark? Won't she..."
Lord Stark's mouth set into a firm line. "Last I checked, the direwolf sigil on Winterfell's banners belonged to House Stark, not House Tully." His gray eyes held Jon's. "Now, would you like to come to White Harbor with Robb and me?"
A grin broke out across Jon's face, and he nodded, dark curls bouncing with his enthusiasm.
Lord Stark arched an eyebrow. "You look like one of those nodding dog ornaments the merchants bring over from Esoss."
Jon's face flushed, but he beamed. "Sorry, Father. I mean—yes, I'd very much like to come."
"Good." Lord Stark's hand returned to the quill but paused halfway. "Oh, and Jon? While we're there, you'll need to learn to dance."
Jon's happiness faltered, his expression turning to one of horror. "I... what?"
"Dance." Lord Stark's tone was matter-of-fact, his amusement barely hidden. "You know, moving your feet to music without crushing anyone's toes?"
"I know what dancing is," Jon said, scandalized. "But why do I have to learn?"
Lord Stark suppressed a grin. "Because Lord Manderly will host a feast, and his granddaughters will attend. It would be rather rude if the sons of Winterfell's lord couldn't dance with them."
"But I'm not—" Jon began, bewildered.
"You're my son," his father interrupted firmly. "And you'll learn to dance."
Jon slumped against the doorframe, his voice muffled in exasperation. "Couldn't I just fight a bear instead?"
"The bear might prove a better dancer," his father replied, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "At least they can stand on their hind legs without tripping."
"Father!" Jon blurted, scandalized by the jest.
"Off with you now," Lord Stark waved him away, his eyes still glinting with amusement. "And Jon—try not to look so defeated. It's dancing, not a death sentence."
"Same thing," Jon muttered under his breath as he turned to go.
"I heard that."
Jon practically fled the solar, only to barrel straight into Robb, who was waiting eagerly in the hallway.
"Well?" Robb asked, eyes bright with anticipation. "Did Father tell you? About White Harbor?"
"Yes," Jon replied, then groaned. "And about the dancing."
Robb's grin spread wide. "Oh, this is going to be wonderful. You should see your face—you look like someone told you you'll have to kiss Old Nan."
"I'd rather kiss Old Nan than make a fool of myself in front of Lord Manderly's granddaughters," Jon grumbled, running a hand over his face.
"Don't let Lady Manderly hear you say that about her granddaughters," Robb laughed. "Come on, it won't be that bad. I'll help you practice."
Jon eyed him suspiciously. "You know how to dance?"
"Of course!" Robb puffed his chest slightly. "Mother made sure..." he hesitated, his voice trailing off as he realized what he'd implied.
Jon's expression turned sober. "Of course," he repeated, voice subdued. "Lady Stark would make sure her heir knows how to dance properly."
"Jon..." Robb started, reaching a hand out.
"No, it's fine. Really." Jon's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I just... I don't want to embarrass Father."
Robb's gaze softened. "You won't. And look, we've got two weeks. Between me and Sansa—"
Jon's mismatched eyes widened in horror. "Sansa? No. Absolutely not."
"She's actually quite good at teaching—"
"No."
"But—"
"I'd rather dance with the bear."
"What bear?" Arya's voice piped up suddenly as she appeared from behind a column, startling both boys.
"Seven hells, Arya!" Robb clutched his chest. "Where did you come from?"
"I'm everywhere," Arya replied mysteriously, her grin just as mischievous as her sudden appearance. She turned to Jon. "What's this about a bear?"
"Jon has to learn to dance for White Harbor," Robb explained, ignoring Jon's frantic head-shaking.
Arya's eyes lit up with a gleeful sparkle. "Really? This is better than nameday! Can I watch?"
"No," Jon said firmly.
"Can I help?"
"NO."
"I could be your partner! I'm the right height!" she persisted, standing on her toes for effect.
"Absolutely not."
"I promise I won't laugh... much."
Jon shot Robb a pleading look. "The bear. Please. Find me a bear."
"Stop being such a baby," Arya rolled her eyes. "It's just dancing. Even Hodor can dance."
"Hodor doesn't have to dance with Lord Manderly's granddaughters," Jon pointed out.
"Lucky him," Robb muttered, then quickly added, "I mean, lovely girls, I'm sure."
"Very lovely," came their father's voice from behind them, making all three children jump. "And getting lovelier with every complaint about dancing with them, I see."
"Father!" Jon's face turned scarlet. "I didn't mean... I'm sure they're very..."
"Perhaps we should find that bear after all," Lord Stark mused, his eyes twinkling as he continued down the corridor. "Though I doubt Lord Manderly would appreciate us bringing one to his feast."
As their father disappeared around the corner, Arya burst into laughter.
"It's not funny," Jon protested.
"It's a little funny," Robb conceded. "Come on, brother. Let's go find Sansa before you decide wrestling a shadowcat is preferable to dancing lessons."
"Is that an option?" Jon asked hopefully.
"No," both his siblings said in unison.
As they led him toward the great hall, Jon could have sworn he heard his father's laughter echoing down the corridor. He cast a glance up at the ceiling, sighing in defeat.
"Fine," he conceded. "But if anyone else finds out about this..."
"Don't worry," Arya patted his arm with mock sincerity. "I'm sure your magical powers will help you dance perfectly."
"I don't have magical powers!"
"Then how do you explain never being sick?" Arya challenged, eyes narrowing in dramatic suspicion.
"And those eyes," Robb added with a smirk, one arm slung around Jon's shoulders.
"And the fact that you're the only one who can calm Hodor down when he's upset," Arya continued.
"That's not magic; that's just being kind," Jon protested, shaking his head.
"Magic of kindness then," Arya declared with finality. "Maybe it'll work for dancing too!"
Jon looked over at Robb in exasperation. "The bear?"
"No bear," Robb said firmly, steering him toward the sept. "But if it makes you feel better, I promise to step on Wynafryd Manderly's feet at least once, so you won't be the only one making a fool of yourself."
"My hero," Jon replied dryly, though a reluctant smile crept onto his face.
"That's what brothers are for," Robb grinned. "Now come on, let's find Sansa before you think of any more wild animals to dance with instead."
"I still can't believe this is happening," Jon muttered as they passed through Winterfell's corridors. "And you're far too happy about this," he added accusingly to Arya, who was practically skipping beside them.
"Of course I am!" Arya said with a wicked grin. "Finally, someone else has to suffer through dancing lessons besides me. Though I doubt you'll have Septa Mordane breathing down your neck about 'proper foot placement' and 'maintaining a lady-like posture.'"
Jon raised an eyebrow, his eyes glinting mischievously. "But I thought you hated anything remotely lady-like? Isn't dancing right up there with embroidery and 'sitting pretty' on your list of torments?"
"Oh, I do hate it," Arya agreed cheerfully. "But Mother made sure I at least knew the basics. Something about 'social graces' and 'not embarrassing the family name.'" She mimicked Lady Catelyn's stern voice, and Robb snorted in laughter.
Jon grinned, looking her up and down as if assessing. "I'm trying to picture you in a proper dress, twirling around the dance floor. All elegant and graceful—"
"Finish that sentence, Jon, and brother or not, you'll regret it," Arya warned, though her eyes gleamed with amusement. "You're lucky you're my favorite brother, or you'd already be eating dirt."
"Oh?" Robb feigned a wounded look, hand on his heart. "And what am I, chopped liver?"
Arya pretended to consider this. "Acceptable. I probably wouldn't hurt you... much."
"How generous of you," Robb chuckled. "And Theon?"
"Theon isn't my brother," Arya said flatly. "If he made that joke, he'd be checking his bed for spiders for a month."
As they neared the sept, a group of girls around fourteen or fifteen years old passed by, glancing shyly in Jon's direction before dissolving into giggles.
Jon groaned, attempting to hide behind Robb.
"Oh, look who's popular with the ladies," Robb teased, elbowing Jon. "Maybe one of them could teach you to dance. I'm sure they'd be more than willing to... what was it Father said? Help you 'move your feet to music without stepping on anyone's toes'?"
"Shut up," Jon muttered, his cheeks turning crimson.
"They're stupid," Arya declared, scowling after the retreating girls. "All they do is giggle and stare at boys like they're some kind of rare animal in a menagerie."
"Jealous, little sister?" Robb asked, grinning.
"As if!" Arya snorted. "I'd rather kiss a horse."
"Well, there's always the stables," Jon suggested with mock innocence.
Arya smacked his arm. "Just for that, I hope you step on all the Manderly girls' toes."
"You might get your wish," Jon sighed. "I don't understand why they were looking at me like that anyway."
Robb and Arya exchanged amused, knowing looks.
"What?" Jon demanded.
"Nothing," they replied in unison, a bit too quickly.
"Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately, brother?" Robb asked, trying to suppress his laughter. "Between those eyes of yours and that face—"
Jon's hand went to his cheek, suddenly self-conscious. "What's wrong with my face?"
"Nothing's wrong with it," came Jeyne's voice, unexpectedly, from the sept's doorway. "That's rather the point, isn't it?"
"Jeyne, we will talk later. My father said I need to teach Robb how to dance," Sansa interjected with a saccharine smile, and Jeyne gave one last lingering look at Jon before hurrying back inside, casting glances over her shoulder.
"Sansa!" Arya exclaimed. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough to hear about Jon's admirers," Sansa said, her expression prim but with a teasing gleam in her eyes. "Honestly, Jon, you shouldn't look so surprised. Half the serving girls can't stop talking about your eyes, and Jeyne practically swoons whenever she sees you training in the yard."
"She does not!" Jon protested, looking stricken.
"Oh, she absolutely does," Sansa confirmed, her smile widening. "I think her exact words were 'mysterious and brooding.'"
Robb burst into laughter, and Jon's face took on a desperate expression, as if he wished for the ground to swallow him up.
"I do not brood," he muttered under his breath.
"You're brooding right now," Arya helpfully pointed out.
Jon sighed heavily. "Can we please just focus on the dancing?"
"Ah, yes, the dancing," Sansa said, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Don't worry, Jon. By the time I'm done with you, those Manderly girls won't know what hit them."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Jon mumbled as Sansa led them toward a practice room in the sept.
Inside, Sansa clapped her hands with the authority of a teacher. "Now, first things first: Robb, you'll have to be the girl."
Robb's laughter stopped short. "What? Why me?"
"Because you already know the steps, and Arya's too short," Sansa explained, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"Ha!" Arya's face lit up with wicked delight. "Now who's laughing?"
"I am not being the girl," Robb declared, crossing his arms defiantly.
"Would you rather Jon practice with one of his admirers?" Sansa asked sweetly. "I'm sure Jeyne would be more than willing—"
"Fine," Robb grumbled. "But if Theon ever hears about this—"
"He won't," Jon assured him quickly. "Not unless he wants to end up as the latest addition to Arya's spider collection."
Sansa tilted her head thoughtfully. "Speaking of collections, did you see Beth Cassel gathering winter roses earlier? She was asking if you liked them, Jon."
Jon groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. "Seven hells. Can we please just start the dancing lesson?"
"Of course," Sansa said with a serene smile. "Robb, curtsy for Jon."
"I will not—" Robb started to protest.
"Curtsy," Sansa said, her tone taking on a steely edge, "or I'll tell Mother who really put that frog in Septa Mordane's bed."
Robb shot his sister a glare but, with a sigh of defeat, dipped into a clumsy curtsy, causing Arya to burst into laughter.
"Right then," Sansa said briskly. "Jon, bow to your partner."
Jon bowed awkwardly, his cheeks pink as he avoided looking Robb in the eyes.
"Lower," Sansa corrected. "You're greeting a lady, not picking something up off the floor."
"The lady in question being our brother," Arya added with a wicked grin.
"Shut up, Arya," Jon and Robb muttered in unison.
"Now," Sansa continued, undeterred, "place your right hand on Robb's waist—"
"Oh gods," Jon whispered in mortification.
"If your hand goes anywhere near my waist, Snow, I'll tell Theon everything," Robb threatened.
"Tell him what?" came Theon's voice from the doorway, freezing them all in place.
For a moment, there was complete silence. Then Arya, quick as a fox, grabbed Theon's arm, steering him out of the room. "Theon! Just the person I needed! I need help with my bow practice."
Theon's voice trailed off in protest as Arya pulled him down the hall. Jon and Robb exchanged looks.
"We never speak of this," Robb said, his expression dead serious.
"Agreed," Jon replied fervently.
"If you two are quite finished," Sansa sighed, "can we continue? Or would you rather explain to Father why you can't dance at Lord Manderly's feast?"
Jon squared his shoulders, determined. "Fine. Let's do this."
"That's what I want to hear," Sansa said approvingly. "Now, Robb, try to look a bit more ladylike."
"I hate all of you," Robb grumbled, but he straightened his posture, trying his best to appear graceful.
"No, you don't," Arya said cheerfully, returning from her Theon-diversion mission. "Now shut up and dance, dear brothers. This is better than any mummer's show."
Jon tried to lead Robb through the steps, but his feet betrayed him almost immediately, clumsily stepping on Robb's foot for the third time.
"Jon," Sansa's voice rang out, exasperated. "You're leading a dance, not marching into battle."
"Same thing," Jon and Robb muttered in unison before sharing a grin.
Sansa sighed, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Boys, honestly. What are we going to do with you?"
"Send us to the Wall?" Jon suggested, hopeful.
"Nice try," Sansa smirked. "But you're not getting out of this that easily. Now, from the top, and this time, try not to look like you're facing execution."
"There's still time to find that bear," Jon whispered to Robb, who barely stifled a laugh.
"Less talking, more dancing," Sansa commanded. Her tone had a sharpness that reminded them both of their father, and they straightened up instinctively.
And so the dancing lesson continued, with only a few additional bruises to Robb's feet and Jon's pride.
Later, as they continued practicing, Sansa let out a sigh for what felt like the hundredth time. "No, no, no," she groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Jon, you're supposed to glide, not stomp around like you're wearing Hodor's boots."
"I am gliding," Jon insisted, staring down at his feet in concentration.
"And stop looking down!" Sansa commanded. "A proper dancer keeps his head up and maintains eye contact with his partner."
"I'd rather not maintain eye contact with Robb, if it's all the same to you," Jon muttered under his breath.
"Believe me, the feeling's mutual," Robb replied, gritting his teeth as he attempted to hold his 'lady-like' posture. "Seven hells, Jon! Are you trying to cripple me?"
"Maybe if you didn't keep moving—"
"I'm following the steps!" Robb protested. "You're the one who keeps going left when you should be going right!"
"Maybe if Sansa's instructions were clearer—" Jon started defensively.
"My instructions are perfectly clear," Sansa cut in with exasperation. "You're just not listening."
From her perch on a nearby bench, Arya watched the scene with gleeful amusement, though a curious thought nagged at her. Sliding closer to Sansa, she whispered, "Since when do you care so much if Jon can dance or not? You usually just call him 'half-brother' and ignore him."
Sansa's gaze flickered toward Arya before returning to the dancing disaster before her. "He's going to White Harbor as a representative of House Stark," she whispered back. "If he makes a fool of himself, it reflects poorly on our family."
Arya narrowed her eyes. "So you don't actually care about helping Jon. You just care about the family's reputation."
"Of course I care about the family's reputation," Sansa whispered, her tone defensive. "And you should too. Now be quiet, and—oh, for goodness' sake, Jon! You're leading a dance, not wrestling a direwolf!"
Jon, who had managed to tangle both his and Robb's feet together again, shot her a desperate look. "Maybe we could take a break?"
"No breaks," Sansa declared. "Not until you can finish a dance without maiming your partner."
"It's too late for that," Robb groaned, gingerly testing his sore foot. "I'm going to be covered in bruises tomorrow."
"Don't be so dramatic," Sansa rolled her eyes. "Now, let's try it again. And this time, Jon, remember: one-two-three, one-two-three, not one-stumble-crash."
Arya's irritation at Sansa's motives was quickly overwhelmed by the sheer hilarity of watching Jon and Robb try to waltz. Jon looked like he was preparing for combat, his face set in grim determination, while Robb kept attempting to lead despite his assigned "lady" role.
"Stop trying to lead, Robb!" Sansa called.
"I can't help it! He's about to lead us into a wall!"
"I am not—" Jon started defensively, right before narrowly steering them away from a column.
"See?" Robb exclaimed triumphantly.
Sansa put a hand to her chin, tapping thoughtfully. "Perhaps we need a different approach." Her eyes landed on Arya, and a slow smile spread across her face. "Arya, come here."
"What? No!" Arya's eyes went wide in horror.
"Yes," Sansa said, nodding decisively. "You're closer to the height Jon will actually be dancing with. Robb's too tall."
"Thank the gods," Robb muttered, limping away to collapse onto the bench, thoroughly enjoying the reprieve.
"But—" Arya started to protest.
"No buts," Sansa cut her off. "Jon needs to practice with someone closer to the height of the Manderly girls."
Arya crossed her arms defiantly. "I am not wearing a dress."
"You don't need to wear a dress," Jon said quickly, looking both relieved and desperate. "Just... help me not look like a complete fool?"
Arya glanced at Jon's pleading face, and after a long, dramatic sigh, she relented. "Fine. But if you step on my feet like you did Robb's—"
"I'll let you put spiders in my bed," Jon promised solemnly.
"Deal," Arya grinned, taking her position. "But I'm leading."
"You most certainly are not," Sansa interjected, folding her arms. "Jon needs to learn to lead properly."
"Well, he can't possibly be worse with me than he was with Robb," Arya shrugged, rolling her eyes.
"I'm right here," Robb called out indignantly from his spot on the bench.
"Yes, nursing your war wounds," Jon smirked, glancing at his brother.
"Just dance," Sansa commanded, clapping her hands. Jon quickly placed a hand on Arya's waist while she put hers on his shoulder, both of them looking distinctly uncomfortable.
"This is weird," Arya announced, making a face.
"Incredibly weird," Jon agreed, his brows knitted in concentration as he tried to remember the steps.
"Less talking, more dancing!" Sansa clapped her hands again. "And Jon, remember to—"
"I know, I know. Glide, don't stomp," Jon recited, trying to keep his voice steady. He took a deep breath, focused on his feet, and managed three steps before his boot came down directly onto Arya's toes.
"That's it!" Arya yelped, pulling her foot back and glaring at him. "Spiders it is!"
"It was an accident!" Jon protested, leaping back as Arya aimed a half-hearted kick at his shin.
"Children!" Sansa's voice cracked like a whip, snapping them both back to attention. "This is not helping!"
"Speak for yourself," Robb grinned from his safe position, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. "This is the best entertainment I've had all week."
"Just wait until it's your turn to practice again," Sansa threatened, making Robb's grin fade instantly.
Jon sighed, glancing at Sansa hopefully. "Maybe we should call it a day?"
"Absolutely not," Sansa said firmly, her no-nonsense expression in place. "Not until you can complete one dance without injuring your partner or yourself."
"We're going to be here forever," Arya groaned, rolling her eyes.
"Then I suggest you both start taking this seriously," Sansa replied, smoothing her dress with an air of authority. "Now, from the beginning. And Jon?"
"Yes?"
"If you step on Arya's foot again, I won't stop her from putting spiders in your bed."
"Traitor," Jon muttered under his breath, but he straightened his posture and carefully adjusted his stance, trying not to look as though he was about to march into battle.
"At least you don't have to dance with Theon," Robb offered helpfully.
The mental image made them all pause, then they burst into laughter, Sansa even cracking a reluctant smile.
"Now that would be worth seeing," Arya snickered.
"Don't give Sansa any ideas," Jon warned, only to yelp as Arya deliberately stepped on his foot.
"Sorry," she said sweetly, though her grin was anything but innocent. "I was just practicing my gliding."
Two hours later, Jon and Arya had finally managed to complete a full dance without any major catastrophes. Their movements were still stiff and tentative, but for the first time, no toes had been crushed in at least the last quarter hour.
"Well, that only took about as long as fighting three bears," Jon remarked dryly, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.
"Bears would've been more fun," Arya agreed, stretching her arms out with a dramatic sigh. "At least then we could've stabbed something."
"You two and your obsession with violence," Sansa huffed, though there was a hint of satisfaction in her voice as she watched them complete another turn without a misstep.
"Says the one who's been torturing us for hours," Robb called from the bench, where he'd been alternating between unhelpful commentary and dramatic complaints about his "grievously wounded" feet.
"I'd rather be climbing the Broken Tower with Bran," Robb continued, stretching with a loud groan. "At least if I fell to my death, it'd be quick, unlike this slow torture."
"No one's dying," Sansa rolled her eyes. "Though your dancing might make a few people wish they were dead."
Jon blinked in surprise, exchanging a look with Arya. "Was that a jest from proper Lady Sansa?" he gasped in mock shock. "Quick, Arya, mark the date!"
"Already done," Arya grinned, holding up an imaginary quill. "Right after I marked the date you managed to dance without maiming anyone."
They practiced a bit longer, Sansa finally calling it a day after another half-hour, her teaching tone fading to its usual cool distance as she turned to Jon. "That should be sufficient," she said with a prim nod, not quite looking at him. "Try not to embarrass us too badly in White Harbor."
Jon felt the sting of her formality and kept his face neutral. "Thank you for the lessons, Lady Sansa."
As they left the sept, Jon groaned, stretching his arms over his head. "Seven hells, I'm more exhausted than after a full day's training. Six hours with a sword is easier than this."
"That's because you actually like the sword," Robb pointed out, throwing a friendly arm around his shoulders. "Though I have to say, your graceful twirling has improved tremendously."
"I do not twirl," Jon grumbled, shoving Robb off with a half-hearted scowl.
"Oh, you definitely twirl," Arya chimed in, walking on his other side. "And very prettily too."
"I hate you both," Jon muttered, though he couldn't keep the smile from creeping onto his face.
As they passed through the courtyard, a group of girls, including Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole, walked by. They took one look at Jon—still flushed from dancing—and burst into a fit of giggles, glancing back as they hurried on, whispering behind their hands.
Jon frowned, running a hand through his unruly dark curls. "I don't understand. What are they always giggling about?"
Robb chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Oh, brother. For someone so observant in the training yard, you can be remarkably blind."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Jon looked at him, bewildered.
"It means you're hopeless," Arya declared with a laugh, elbowing his side. "But we like you anyway."
Jon groaned again, rubbing his face in exasperation. "This dancing business is going to be the end of me."
"At least you'll be able to manage it at the feast," Robb reassured him, grinning. "By the time we're done, you'll be dancing circles around those Manderly girls."
"Let's not go that far," Jon muttered, but he found himself laughing alongside his siblings as they continued back to Winterfell, his dread of White Harbor feeling a little lighter with every step.
Night
That night, Jon tossed and turned in his bed, his mind caught in a swirling, unsettling fog. His dreams felt darker than usual, vivid and intense, carrying him through scenes that blurred reality and nightmare. His consciousness seemed to drift between darkness and flashes of chaotic scenes—people running, terror etched into their faces, screams filling the air like a song for death.
"I will destroy all my enemies."
The voice was familiar and yet not his own, seeming to echo from deep within his mind, but also foreign, as if spoken by a shadowed stranger. The sound was powerful, commanding. Around him, lightning cracked, bathing everything in blinding flashes. Heat and smoke filled his senses as flames rose higher, licking the edges of his vision.
With a strangled gasp, Jon sat up, his chest heaving. The echoes of screams faded, but the sensation of heat, the acrid scent of smoke, and that ominous voice still clung to him. Glancing around, he saw only his familiar chamber, still and silent, cloaked in shadows.
"Just a dream," he whispered to himself, willing his heartbeat to slow. "Just a strange dream."
But as he lay back down, a heaviness settled over him, a nagging sense that this dream was no ordinary one. The voice lingered in his mind like an echo, almost like a memory or a distant warning. It felt too real, as though he had stepped into a different reality—a glimpse of something buried deep within him.
His green eye seemed to catch and reflect every trace of moonlight, gleaming with an unnatural intensity, while his purple eye remained calm. He blinked hard, and when he opened his eyes again, they were both back to their usual state—odd but familiar mismatched hues.
"I'm losing my mind," he muttered, turning onto his side with a feeble attempt at humor. "Too much dancing. Sansa's finally driven me mad with all that twirling."
But despite his words, he couldn't shake the eerie feeling in his chest. The screams, the voice promising destruction, seemed to pulse within him. He thought about waking Robb or finding Arya, but what would he even say? That he'd dreamt of a voice commanding him to destroy his enemies? That he'd felt a heat that wasn't real, smelled smoke that shouldn't exist?
Better to keep it to himself. It was probably just nerves about White Harbor, mixed with the ridiculous dancing lessons and all the talk of Manderly girls. If he kept repeating that to himself, maybe he'd believe it.
As he finally drifted back to sleep, his hand unconsciously rose to touch his green eye, and in the depths of his mind, he swore he could hear a faint rumble of distant thunder, like an echo.
And then he saw something else—an image, hazy but intensely real.
"Do not hurt her!" he heard his own voice scream, though he didn't remember speaking the words. Cold laughter rang all around him. Shadows obscured his vision, but he could hear every sound—footsteps closing in, the clinking of metal.
"Put down your weapon, boy, and we will let her live."
"Alright... here." He felt his arm moving, heard the faint clatter of a sword hitting the ground, then silence.
"Good," a voice hissed in the darkness. "Kill him."
A sharp pain lanced through him as he felt a blade slide into his stomach from behind. The pain was blinding as he heard a sound, the slice of a throat being cut.
"NOOO!" Jon's scream tore through the silence. At that moment, a bolt of lightning struck the ground with a deafening crack, the echo reverberating like a demon awakening from the depths of the earth. A roar filled his ears, mingling with the screams of those around him.
"I will destroy all my enemies."
