Jon looked around, noting how the forest was blanketed in a thin layer of white, the trees draped in delicate frost. It had been over a moon since the last snowfall. The tracks of horse hooves were the only evidence man occupied this place.
"Race you back?" Jon called to his half-brother, a playful grin spreading across his face. The thrill of the challenge surged within him; it had been over an hour since they'd left Winterfell, and he didn't want their father to worry like he had the last time they'd been out too long.
"Wait!" Robb protested, laughter dancing in his voice as he tightened his grip on the reins. But Jon was already off, spurring his horse into a swift gallop, snow flying up in their wake.
With a laugh of his own, Jon called back, "Too late!" The forest opened up around them, the sound of hooves pounding against the snow blending with the rustling of branches above.
And they were off.
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X
Jon and Robb rode back through the gates of Winterfell, their laughter echoing in the cold air as they dismounted, the thrill of their race still coursing through them. The snow crunched beneath their boots as they made their way through the familiar courtyard, the towering walls of the castle looming above them like ancient guardians.
Just then, a guard approached, his breath visible in the frosty air as he addressed Robb. "My Lord, your father requests your presence," he said, his tone respectful.
"Go on ahead," said Jon.
Robb nodded to his brother, "I'll find you later."
With a nod, Robb set off toward the keep, leaving Jon standing at the entrance. As he watched his brother disappear inside. He took a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs, and turned to wander through the castle grounds.
There was a stillness in the air, a quiet that enveloped Winterfell, broken every so often by the chatter between guards or the distant crack of iron from the blacksmith's workshop.
Jon led his horse into the stables, the familiar scent of hay and leather wrapping around him like a warm embrace. Once he finished, he stepped out into the cold, his breath forming small clouds in the air.
As he walked through the courtyard, Jon saw the familiar faces of the guards and castle workers. A new face in Winterfell was a rare sight.
He eventually found himself drawn toward the Godswood. As he entered the grove, the towering weirwood tree stood proud and tall, its pale gnarled roots and branches a testament to its age. Jon approached it, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace wash over as it always made him feel whenever in its presence.
As he looked around, Jon's gaze fell upon a circle of blue flowers sprouted in the snow where his father often sat and polished his Valyrian Steel greatsword, Ice. The sight of them stirred a memory deep within him. They reminded him of Lyanna, Her statue in the catacombs bore the same flowers. He wonders what his aunt would think of him.
Well, supposedly she was similar to Arya, which makes me wonder…
Then, as he sat in contemplation, a voice resonated around him, deep and ethereal, as if the very tree had spoken. "Lay thy hand upon my trunk, and wander forth into the realms thou shalt conquer, for verily, the fate of the realms doth hinge upon thee." The words echoed in the stillness, weaving through the branches and hanging in the air like the last notes of a haunting melody.
Jon's heart raced, and he instinctively turned around, searching for the source of the voice, but he found only the quiet of the godswood. Fear gripped him at that moment,
"Am I going mad?"
The face on the tree started shifting into an unsettling frown, and to his horror, it began to bleed, dark crimson sap oozing from its eyes and mouth. A chill went through his bones but something grawned at him from the back of his mind, almost bewitching him to reach forward and touch the blood from the tree.
With trembling hands, he reached out to touch the sap, his fingers hovering momentarily, and as soon as his skin made contact, the world around him shifted violently. The ground beneath him seemed to vanish, and he was pulled through the tree, the bark stretching and bending around him in a surreal, twisting motion.
Jon stumbled forward, disoriented, and found himself in the same place as he was just moments ago, yet he could tell something was terribly wrong.
The castle walls were now a ruin, its stone walls crumbling and covered in creeping vines, the towers leaning precariously. The air was eerily silent, broken only by the whisper of the wind.
He looked around, his heart pounding in his chest. The blue flowers he had admired earlier were now dead and shrivelled, their blue petals turned to ash. The godswood stood in the center, the weirwood tree looming even larger than before, yet it seemed more like a sick imitation of the tree he knew all too well.
Jon felt despair wash over him, the familiar warmth of Winterfell replaced by an unsettling chill.
"What is this place?" he murmured, his voice trembling. The air felt heavy with dread, and he took a cautious step forward, the crunch of dead leaves and brittle flowers underfoot sending shivers up his spine.
Snowflakes were coming from the sky in slow, but when Jon caught one in his gloved hand, it was not snow at all. The black flakes crumbled, staining his fingers with soot. Ash. He looked up. The sky was thick with it.
His steps carried him forward, past the shattered remnants of Winterfell's gatehouse. This was where he had left Robb Instead of a bustling area with guards and workers, now, only ash and destroyed stone remained. There were strange sigils carved into the walls, some he knew, ancient banners of the Stark cadet branches, both Greystark and Seastark. There was even the flayed man, the sigil of the Boltons. But the majority of sigils he could not recognise.
A flicker of movement past the gate caught his eye. A lone figure stood clad in battered mail and a rusted helm. Jon took a step closer, wary. "Who goes there?" he called.
The figure turned sharply. A sword rasped free of its sheath. The soldier charged.
Jon barely had time to react. He leapt back, fumbling for the dagger at his belt. The first blow sent a jolt through his arm as he parried. "Stop!" he shouted, dodging another strike. "I don't want to—"
His enemy did not stop. The next swing nearly took Jon's head. He stumbled, the cold biting through his furs. There was no reasoning with this man. He moved like a demon.
Jon lashed out in desperation, his dagger slicing across the soldier's throat. There was no cry, only a long, shuddering exhale. And instead of blood, there was black smoke. The soldier crumpled, his body breaking apart as it struck the ground. Within moments, there was nothing left but dust and a small strand of silver floating in the ash.
Breathing hard, Jon bent to touch it. The moment his fingers felt the strange thing, a strange sensation coursed through him. It was as if ice and fire flooded his veins at once, driving away his fatigue, and sharpening his senses. His breath came easier, his limbs felt lighter, stronger.
He staggered back, staring at his own hands. The silver had vanished, absorbed into his skin.
"What in the seven hells is this?" he whispered.
Was he dreaming? He must be. And yet, the strength in his limbs felt real. The cold on his skin, the weight of the dagger in his grip, the lingering horror of that thing turning to ash before his eyes.
"HELLO, IS THERE ANYBODY OUT HERE?" he cried out, his voice echoing, desperation twisting his heart. Yet deep within his mind, an insidious whisper coiled around his thoughts, foretelling the grim truth: he would find no familiar face in this forsaken place.
Jon steeled himself against the dread, determination igniting a flicker of resolve within him. He strode toward the castle's looming entrance. Everything was wrong; the paintings were not familiar, and old tapestries of ancient battles were missing and replaced by unfamiliar sights.
With each step Jon took further into its bowels, his heart pounded like a drum. Suddenly, a flicker of movement caught his attention, a shadow darting forth with sinister intent. Jon's blood ran cold.
Dispatching the creature, as he understood them to be. Demons who took the shape of soldiers, wretched things. It was a lot easier the second time. The sliver of silver mist that came from his second kill poured into his body, and he felt stronger. He felt... More.
"By the old gods..." was all he could say.
Jon pressed on to the main hall, where he stumbled upon a solitary figure seated in silence. A girl, ethereal and hauntingly beautiful with dark hair. Her red eyes glimmered as they met Jons.
"Ah, thou who tread the veiled path," she intoned, her voice was hauntingly enchanting. "They foretell of one who shall mend the ruin. Long have I waited for thee since the murmurs of thy coming were sung by tongues now silenced."
"Who are you? You're not like the others," Jon ventured, wariness in his words. Nothing here made any sense.
When would he wake up?
"I was once like thee, yet I have forgotten my name, lost to the passage of time. Her gaze met his, "Though I shall not impart my true name, as I cannot" she continued, "I shall go by the Keeper of Fire, as is my duty to thee."
With grace she rose and extended her hand toward him, her fingers beckoning him closer. "Touch my hand," she urged softly.
Jon, heart pounding and curiosity piqued, hesitated but ultimately reached out, his fingertips brushing against hers.
"O Prince Who Was Promised."